| Billie Dee: Ghazals for Randy |
| Traditional ghazals written by California poet Billie Dee. Links to an essay and other sources on the ghazal form. Frequently updated. |
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| Between Extinctions The sabre-tooth cat purls to her cubs from the other side of the mirror. Tar pits roil below calm waters -- another side of the mirror. Thistles and briars prick bare flesh, too many wounds to count. The masochist's grin is upside down -- slit-eyed before the mirror. It's simple, the system for escape: knot the bedding, vault chain link. Night guards are busy chopping their coke -- white bride of the mirror. Elephant ear, banana flower, the undergrowth crawls and shudders. Mandibles, legs, compound eyes -- fire ants fried with a mirror. One minute the heat is Farenheit, the next it's Centigrade. Our faces grow weary by degrees -- we can't abide the mirror. Dracula glides across the floor, into the dying night. We glare at the moon with blood-flecked eyes -- terrified of mirrors. Liposuction, augmentation, tattoos removed by laser. Wigs look good while the cancer dies -- Billie, don't hide from the mirror. Ghazal After Cavafy The Aegean Sea dazzled -- a shimmer in the eye, but didn't compare with the deep azure of her eyes. That summer I wore just a bathing suit and flip-flops. The water at first seemed tame, assuring to the eye. A fleet of small fishing boats crisscrossed the afternoon. God, there she is again -- reflecting sky: her pure eyes. Tried to hide my goofy smile -- she seemed not to notice. I watched from a corner of the tavern (unsure eyes). I hardly recall that August spent in the islands, but... -- what? are these tears? or just a blurring of the eyes? Moon Ghazal Never write a poem about the moon; it's exhausted. -- Charles Harper Web Never write about the moon -- the moon's exhausted night. Inky-fingered sky, a dozen moon poems crossed out each night. Never wash a baby in moonlight -- the basin's reflection is cursed. Blood moon, mud moon, cuaght-between-the-tides moon, dross of the night. Since Lorce stole the moon and hid it in a bowl of figs, we gave up on love -- our feelings dulled by the lost-moon night. Never with for money on the faith of the moon -- dirty- dollar, broken-coin-of-edam moon embossed on midnight. Curse your family nightly by the light of the moon -- scowling-sister, drooling-aunt, mother's-shriveled-breast moon lodged in the night. Never try to think in the shadow of the moon -- reason is a wet, ragged banner flapping in the moon-washed night. Billie, never trust an orange moon -- the moon's a warped guitar, a serenade played backward, naken song lost in the night. Booze Ghazal Twilight and the day crew sidles up to the rail. Bar boys start strutting -- twenty-one tricks a night. Camels or Marlboros -- then choose your lager. Ennui of the day gives to ennui of the night. The eyes squeeze shut, the head throbs deep -- first margarita brain-freeze of the night. A clock strikes two, you're nearly out of gin -- tonic's a poor tonic for the violating night. How to balance sunset against the rage of dawn -- the same (same!) problem, Bill, every damn night. Difficult Breathing At the helium opera arias rise from their beakers and float across the stage. The oboe claws at the ice in its throat. My lips are broken, the bridge of my nose feels thick. The sky is not a reflecting pool but the top of my head floats away. The sun is less, the moon more. At the lake we light a flotilla of waxed paper lamps -- to guide the souls of the drowned. Should I bleach my teeth, wrap my ears in bunting rags? Nothing seems to anchor me. Always, this feeling of floating. The ink stains on my fingers signifiy despair. Sacred texts float face down in the slaughter-house brine. Billie, turn the page. Myth of the Lower Plains We were young then, brash as red Oklahoma earth. Saddle savvy, reins in hand, we rode the curve of Earth. Each morning we unleashed our hair: feral locks flying in the solar wind, abrading the stones, the earth. The knobs of our spines plumed with sparks, frogs braced for storm in the shadows we cast across the earth. Nightingales sheltered in the thickets of our thighs; we wrestled to subdue the greedy cunt of Earth. The wind from our lungs stirred the tops of monstrous trees: O, bellows of the Earth! We plowed the plains with the wishbones of dinosaurs until dust filled the bills of birds with earth. |
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