Don't Muzzle the Ghazal

Tornadoes & Cricket

It's been too long since I posted here. Now that we're past the first of the year, and I'm (almost!) ready to begin a new semester, perhaps I can post more regularly and more frequently.

A week ago, we had unusually warm weather here. My wife and I went to southern Kansas and northern Oklahoma to visit family and friends. It was shirt-sleeve weather. Some days before, we had some snow and ice. Right now, the weather is more seasonable.

We walked on the Oklahoma State University campus and enjoyed watching an informal cricket game played by a group of Indian students. Like sandlot baseball, the game was clearly more for fun than for serious competition.

a pickup cricket game
on a warm Saturday in winter:
the wicket a domed lid
from a trash can
"Walla! Walla!

(I think I caught the encouraging cheer correctly.)

We returned to the Ozarks on Sunday. Monday night we were under tornado warnings from around 5:00 PM until after midnight. The sirens blew frequently after about 10:00 PM. The only shelter we have is a small closet under a stairway. Every time the sirens sounded, Rose, the dog, and I went into the closet. Our house dates back to the American Civil War — 145 years. Union cavalry officers were billeted in our house back then.

taking shelter
in an old closet
we breath dust
from an officer's coat

The storms extended from Tulsa, Oklahoma to Rolla, Missouri, a distance of about 290 miles. We didn't suffer any damage, but further southwest there was serious property damage and a few deaths. We listened to a radio station from Camdenton, Missouri. The announcer talked on the telephone with several trained weather spotters: Baily, Meatman, Donny, Router, Rev are the names I remember. These folks called in from various locations, including interstate overpasses from which they could see the storms roaring up Interstate 44.

Could You Stand a Poetry Stand?

It's an icy, snowy Saturday afternoon in the Ozarks, not bitterly cold but below freezing. Putting off some work, I poked around on the Internet and found "Poetry Stand," by Douglas Goetsch, in the Autumn 2007 issue of The American Scholar. Goetsch writes about a poetry field trip he took a group of students on, when he was teaching poetry at the New Jersey Governor’s School of the Arts.

Goetsch had the students run a poetry stand in Princeton, before the gates into the campus. Anyone could come to the stand and request a poem in any form about any topic. The students used scouts to bring some "customers" to the stand (there was no charge for the poems), but many people approached voluntarily. It would seem that if you offer people poetry that relates to their concerns, some of them will take you up on the offer.

I recommend Goetsch's article because it raises issues of poetry and the general public, of the attitude of poets toward "ordinary" people. His work with the students went a long way, apparently, to dismantle their initial perception of themselves as strange and wonderful and other people, non-poets, as dull and boring. Is the poet really a winged being from another realm, someone excruciatingly special, or is the poet a human much like others, but with the talents and training to voice human experiences in meaningful and moving ways? The statement of the opposites is mine, but I believe they reflect "Poetry Stand" accurately.

Goetsch sees poets as humans who can articulate human experiences into poetry. He is thoroughly focused on craft. I pretty much agree, with the qualification that there are as many ways of being a poet as there are of being human. And perhaps the phrasing is misleading: if "being a poet" means that one is a person who can write poems, that's fine; if "being a poet" means one is a person who is strange and wonderful and unlike the ordinary — well, ultimately, all of us are strange and wonderful, not just those who designate themselves as such.

December Update

Even though it's still November — Thanksgiving in the Ozarks, good smells from the kitchen, the grandkids' puppy playing with frozen leaves in the backyard — even though it's November for eight more days, I am thinking about, planning for, December.

In the last post, I announced the poets that will be in the December issue. Add to their number, Conrad Geller. Four poets — Bill Batcher, Conrad Geller, Steffen Horstmann, Cathryn Shea — and seven ghazals.

An while you're reading, let me remind you of the "clouds and rain" radif challenge. I do have some entries, with more promised, but suprise me, okay?

Thanksgiving morning, the household awakens to wind and snow;
My grandchildren's puppy dances with leaves in wind and snow.

An isolated ghazal couplet ("sher") is called a fard, at least regarding Ghalib's poetry. The link goes to my 2004 Ghazal Blog, where "fard" is briefly defined. (I wouldn't stand by the main proposal in that post, by the way.)

December Descending

I almost wrote "December rising," to play on a familiar phrase, but then, December doesn't rise, at least until the solstice, when Light begins to press Dark's hand back to the tabletop in their eternal arm-wrestling bout, never a conclusion until the sun goes out or the planet stops spinning.

Now that I spit that, I want to tell you that the December issue of The Ghazal Page is shaping up. It will have silk wraps, dust, bread, and teeth, all in ghazals by Bill Batcher, Steffen Horstmann, and Cathryn Shea. Bill and Steffen have appeared in TGP before; Cathy is a welcome newcomer.

My postings here have become irregular. I hope to remedy that without falling (any further!) into banality. I will put up a note about each issue as I am preparing it; perhaps even more than one note.

There's another topic on the way, as well, by the end of the week, I hope. December is imminent, but we denizens of the USA have a holiday to deal with first. Family drama at its finest, its worst, most boring, most delightful. I'm looking forward to some snow. A big woop! woop! for December and the solstice to come.

From Arabic to Persian to German to English

One thing that has been missing in the discussion of the ghazal in English is a clear, objective account of its history. Now, on a small scale, David Jalajel has supplied that history. His account is relatively brief but satisfyingly detailed, answering many questions and, inevitably, raising others. His "short history" is well-sourced, with a bibliography that provides entry points even for those of us who are monoglot in English.

One question that I've found an answer to in David's essay: Is the ghazal defined more as a form (genre) or as a theme?

In its origins in Arabian poetry, the ghazal was formally the same as other Arabian poems and characterized by the theme of "dalliance." Ghazal is variously defined as talking, or flirting, with women, or as longing, and came thematically to be the expression of romantic, erotic, or mystic longing.

Read a few of the poems on The Ghazal Page and you'll soon see a much wider variety of themes. The discussion--not to say, controversy--about the ghazal's entry into English poetry has focused on form, a topic that David covers very well in the last part of his short history. Having the privilege of publishing this essay, I naturally endorse it. I hope that you will read it and discover your own response.

Please take some time to read the half-dozen new ghazals in the November issue of The Ghazal Page; and don't forget the "clouds and rain" radif challenge.

"The Road Goes Ever On"

Tolkien and Kerouac? Why not: the 1960s generation of college students and hippies made The Lord of the Rings a major phenomenon by devouring the illicit Ace edition. A few years before, their elder siblings were reading Kerouac. Tolkien's Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings are both major road novels, leading to dangers, exploits, and exultations that Kerouac's late 1940s characters couldn't know.

R. W. Watkins posted a short comment on "On the Electronic Road" and mentioned is piece on Kerouac on "Outside Writers."  He gives a good discussion of some of the less-known aspects of Kerouac's influence, achievements, and lapses. Rob mentions  Kerouac's right-wing attitude toward the end of his life. That's implicit as early as On the Road, where he rails against Communism. I believe it was William Buckley who listed Keroauc along with T. S. Eliot and others as conservative writers. Those ideological boxes are too confining, of course, for any reasonably good writer.

Would Frodo or Bilbo have hopped freight with Jack? Only if it moved them closer to completing their missions. Kerouac's mission was of a different order.

Rob and some of his commenters mention Kerouac's poetry. Against a strong wind of opinion (including Denise Levertov, whose poetry I admire greatly), I really like Kerouac's poetry, from Mexico City Blues through the various other collections that have surfaced. There's a lightness, a zaniness, a freedom in what he does that continues to appeal to me. He also has a sharp eye for the telling detail.

And that's not mentioning his skill with haiku or the haibun embedded in some of his novels.

At the end, I don't care about labels such as "beat," "hippy," "great writer," "right-winger," "left-winger," and all the other notations of the sorry mind. If you don't like anything Kerouac wrote, adore his every scribble, or simply don't care, literary reputations wax and wine, are completely lost and rediscovered by happenstance. Life's too short to fight the battles many of us choose.

I like Tolkien's poetry too.

On the Electronic Road: 50 Years of Kerouac

My idea is to post here at least once a week, but it's been two weeks. I plead business, but then that's not a very good excuse, really, for not doing an hour's work. (Not work: these entries are a privilege and a pleasure, not a task, not a chore.) I was having some trouble coming up with a topic, all I could think of were things I couldn't yet write about. And then . . .

. . . then I picked up the new Library of America volume of Jack Kerouac's "road" novels. This fall, as you may well know, is the 50th anniversary of the publication of On the Road. The volume, Road Novels 19757-1960 includes On the Road, The Dharma Bums, The Subterraneans, Tristessa, Lonesome Traveler, and selections from Kerouac's journals, 1949-1954. The first three of these books I read when they were first published, and read, and read, and reread. Talked about, fantasized around, and shared with friends.

Kerouac despised the commercial trivialization of the beats, the term "beatnik," and the simple-minded criticism he received. He refused to be the spokesman for a generation of hoodlums (paraphrased from my leaky memory). Yet his writing had an enormous effect on many people, including me. I was in high school when On the Road was published. I doubt I did anything subsequently that I wouldn't have done without Kerouac's book, but I did it in a different context, with a different attitude. His writing encouraged my developing interest in Buddhism, jazz, and poetry.

A grove of locust trees in November in east-central Kansas. (Honey locust trees, with long sharp thorns but a good firm bed of leaves under them. A moonlight night, a night filled with stars. The boy under the trees, stiffly cross-legged, can recognize Orion, the dippers. He's come here fresh from reading Dharma Bums, ready to meditate. Enlightenment escapes him, as it has ever after. On returning to the lit and warm house, he does, however, scribble some verses. Kerouac has focused for him an excitement that is coded somewhere in his constitution. A pattern, a direction otherwise unavailable in rural Kansas.

I found Dharma Bums in a wonderful bookstore in Topeka, the state capitol. I don't remember the name of the store, but it was of a kind that hardly exists any more. Not a chain, not large, but crowded with books, fiction by Borges, issues of The Evergreen Review. My journeys on the road were to the closest cities of any size — Topeka, Manhattan, Emporia — seeking literary and aesthetic stimulation that the small towns ("pop. 600") just didn't have.

Well, I've wandered, and been unfair to those small small towns. In those days, I bought Plato, Thoreau, and Bertrand Russell from revolving racks in drugstores where they were displayed with romances, cowboy stories, and detective novels. Something for another entry, I guess.

I'm slowly reading On the Road. Kerouac's enthusiasm for America is delightful, his descriptions blaze with colors just like the roman candles he so famously mentioned. This novel is very well-written.

Louis Menand wrote a fine piece on Kerouac, "Drive, He Wrote," in the October 1, 2007 issue of The New Yorker. (Yes, his title riffs on Robert Creeley's best-known poem.) I recommend this piece.

Who Said That?

Voice and persona are related issues: in a poem, who is speaking? Is it the poet? Is the poet speaking as him or her self? That is, is the poem autobiographical?

I leave fiction aside for this post, although the same points apply to fiction and even to much nonfiction.

This topic comes up now because of the poem that opens the October issue of The Ghazal Page "After Persian Ghazals Are Explained to an Arab Poetaster." This poem satirizes two attitudes: the person who dogmatically asserts that the Persian ghazal is the "only" ghazal form and the Arab poetaster (dabbler in verse) who can't believe that attitude yet produces a Persian ghazal to refute it. Ever since I first read this poem, I assumed David Jalajel is speaking as the Arab poetaster, but he tells me that he identifies more with the proponent of the Persian form.

Satire is tough — not so much if the satirist doesn't care what the target of the satire feels. Neither David nor I, though, want to offend anyone who is an advocate of the strict Persian form, nor do we want to start a feud between the two approaches to the ghazal. (That raises the question of how many approaches there are — I hope we see many!)

Ezra Pound was one of the early modern proponents of the persona in poetry, one of his early volumes being titled Personae. The confessional poets (Robert Lowell, John Berryman, others) and the Beats (notably Allen Ginsburg) resisted the domination of the persona idea, that the poet spoke through a mask, a fictional self, rather than as his or her self.

I prefer to invite numerous possibilities: the ghazal is a form fit for both the distanced, more intellectual persona poem, and the more immediate, personal confessional or Beat poem. (Among the many possibilities.)

"Who said that?" Who, indeed?

Poetic Seasoning

What is poetic about a hot, humid July morning?

Not much. The dog enjoys it though, poking her head into the flower bed, hoping to surprise the very small rabbit who hides there (sometimes). Since the dog is on a leash, the rabbit is safe — safe and knows it, hopping only a few feet further away from the dog and then sitting motionless.

Is it poetic to arrive at work (after a 15 minute walk) wet with sweat?

I hear my long-ago English teachers, all the way into college, rebuking me for using a vulgar word like "sweat"; I remember showing one a poem in which I used "guts" — she thought "intestines" to be much more poetic.

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I wrote that fragment in mid-July; now it's almost the end of September in a different season, at least at this latitude. Fall has long been my favorite season. Since I grew up on a farm, in ranching country, the seasons and weather have always been important. Rainy weather meant my work was limited to regular chores and emergencies. When school started in the fall, my summer of hoeing crops, making hay, harvesting wheat was over. Always a compulsive reading, I enjoyed gifts of leisure time from the weather and structured study in school. (Well, the structured study not so much.)

As you may know, seasons are essential to traditional Japanese haiku — to the point that there is an accepted vocabulary of "season words" and almanacs listing them with examples. American poet and editor, William Higginson compiled two related books on season words from around the world: Haiku World: an International Poetry Almanac, Kodansha International (1996) and The Seasons: Poetry of the  Natural World, Kodansha International (1996). Each of these volumes has excellent poems and very useful  information.

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It's a warm, clear September morning. I walk our dog along the edge of a small parking lot, with a railroad running along its north edge. The right of way and grassy areas are thick with crown vetch, assorted grasses (Timothy & Johnson mostly), and moss thistle, an invasive plant not native to the Ozarks. I'm charged with the joy of autumn, its resonance in my life. (I fell in love with my wife in autumn, which is the best part of it for me.) What does all this have to do with ghazals? The seasons are not, to my knowledge, a traditional part of the ghazal, but perhaps there are ghazal poets, like me, who write with a continuous awareness of season and weather. If so, and if you have ghazals that use seasons and weather thematically, I'd love to see them. Send them!

A Radif Challenge

First, here's a book recommendation; the challenge is based on an article in it. Reorientations/Arabic and Persian Poetry. Edited by Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych and published by Indiana University Press in 1994. David Jalajel recommended this book to me largely because of the article, "The Rise and Fall of a Persian Refrain," by Franklin D. Lewis. In this article, Lewis traces the rise in popularity of the radif "fire and water" ("atash u ab"). Lewis describes how poets used a radif in a number of poems, showing their skill and wit. Eventually, of course, a specific radif declines in use.

Lewis's article suggested a challenge to me; the challenge is to write a ghazal using a set radif.

I will provide a radif and challenge poets to use it in a Persian-style ghazals of five to twelve shers. Then I will choose several submitted ghazals using the refrain and publish them in the April 2008 Issue of The Ghazal Page.

• Deadline: February 14, 2008
• Radif: clouds and rain
• Format: a Persian ghazal with five to twelve shers
• Limit: no more than three ghazals per poet
• Prize: publication of any accepted poems in The Ghazal Page
• Submission: Use the link below to submit a ghazal if you wish

use this link to submit a ghazal

This challenge will also appear on The Ghazal Page soon and, if you're in my mailing list, your should see it in your email box soon. I hope to see so many good "clouds and rain" ghazals that I can use them in a double issue.