Tattoo on the heart before tattoo on the body. Prayer without actions is dead. Action proceeds from a heart of prayer.
The following couplet seems to be the heart of this Ghazal.
Who listens to Ishmael? Even now he cries out: Abraham, throw away your knives, recite a psalm in Arabic.
I will forgo the back story of Abraham, Sarah, Hagar, Ishmael and Isaac, since you can either read it in the Bible or look it up on Wikipedia (the internet equivalent). Abraham’s son, Ishmael, is Abraham’s unloved, outcast “redheaded stepchild” who’s own children ultimately become the Islamic Arabs.
The repetition of the word, “Arabic,” shows the reader how tightly this language is tied to their history, culture and religion.
The structure of couplets and refrain, gives this style of poetry a paradoxical Form trapped inside of Flexibility and not vice versa. It’s a kind of turning the kingdom on its head.
Ali uses Abraham’s and Ishmael’s names respectively, as symbols or personifications of Israel and Palestine and the historical relationship between them.
The fact that Ishmael is asking Abraham to throw away his knives, shows Ali’s use of brilliantly terse irony by using Ishmael’s voice to call out to Abraham (rather than Isaac) to put away his knives. The reason this is ironic is because it was Isaac (the favored son), not Ishmael, who was under the knife in order to prove Abraham’s faithfulness to God. Yet in light of the near past and present day actions of the modern Israeli state, their response toward Palestine puts Ishmael, not Isaac, under the not so proverbial knife (err… gun… err… bulldozer…). An interesting thing to think about is how symbolically, putting Isaac under the knife could represent, self examination. But then what is the present day symbolism of putting Ishmael under the knife of sacrifice? Why or for what purpose is Ishmael being sacrificed? What is the opposite of self examination? Judgment? Persecution? Projection of one’s undealt with, inner demons? Domination? Manifest destiny? Etc, etc.
The power of the symbolism of the last line which reads, “recite a psalm in Arabic,” can only be experienced by understanding how directly tied, Hebrew and Arabic are to their respective cultures and religions. Thus Ali ends the couplet with a plea for two polarized religions/nations to find common ground in culture and religion, through using language as a looking glass for sociological imagination.
This question is a hard one and a thin line to walk, but how much power and in how many instances can be found the manipulation of the role of victim for personal gain? Let the dead past bury their dead.
—
Ghazal by Agba Shahid Ali (Imaginary Writing p. 331)
The only language of loss left in the world is Arabic—
These words were said to me in a language not Arabic.
Ancestors, you’ve left me a plot in the family graveyard—
Why must I look, in your eyes, for prayers in Arabic?
Majnoon, his clothes ripped, still weeps for Laila.
Oh, this is the madness of the desert, his crazy Arabic.
Who listens to Ishmael? Even now he cries out:
Abraham, throw away your knives, recite a psalm in Arabic.
From exile, Mahmoud Darwish writes to the world:
You’ll all pass between the fleeting words of Arabic.
The sky is stunned, it’s become a ceiling of stone.
I tell you it must weep. So kneel, pray for rain in Arabic.
At an exhibition of Mughal miniatures, such delicate calligraphy:
Kashmiri paisleys tied into the golden hair of Arabic!
The Koran prophesied a fire of men and stones.
Well, it’s all now come true, as it was said in Arabic.
When Lorca died, they left the balconies open and saw:
His qasidas braided, on the horizon, into knots of Arabic.
Memory is no longer confused, it has a homeland—
Say Shammas: Territorialize each confusion in a graceful Arabic.
Where there were homes in Deir Yassein, you’ll see dense forests—
That village was razed. There’s no sign of Arabic.
I too, Oh Amichai, saw the dresses of beautiful women.
And everything else, just like you, in Death, Hebrew, and Arabic.
They ask me to tell them what “Shahid” means –
Listen: it means “The Beloved” in Persian, “Witness” in Arabic.
Ghazal byAgba Shahid Ali
Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar
–Lawrence Hope
Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight
before you agonize him farewell tonight?
Pale hands that once loved me beside the Shalimar:
Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight?
Those “Fabrics of Cashmere”–to make Me beautiful–
“Trinket”–to gem–”Me to adorn– How tell–tonight.”
I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates–
A refuge from Belief seeks a cell tonight.
Executioners near the woman at the window.
Damn you, Elijah, I’ll bless Jezebel tonight.
Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken,
Only we can convert the infidel tonight.
Has God’s vintage loneliness turned to vinegar?
He’s poured rust into the Sacred Well tonight.
In the heart’s veined temple all statues have been smashed.
No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight.
He’s freed some fire ice, in pity for Heaven,
He’s left open–for God–the doors of Hell tonight.
And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee–
God sobs into my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.
The symbols of politics are pointed to by reference to bronze statues, war and gunfire, endlessly running round and round an old idea, a direct reference to history and a foreboding sense of doom.
Punctuation gives some lines a strong punch or shock, maybe like the temperature of a park bench in the dead of winter. In other places where Collins uses enjambment between stanzas give the entire poem a flow or continuity.
The story line goes like this…
It is late in the afternoon of our present age. We are little children running around a nameless bronze statue of a dead statesman or system, personifying inanimate objects and ideals. We are pulling imaginary triggers firing full of emotion and intent, but in the end we are simply (naive at best) impotent warriors making vain threats to states and systems that we are either unable to change or might possibly have no need to do so. For what if we simply do not resist evil what is the worst that could happen? We are creating an enemy out of symbols and memories of our world’s former selves, running in circles head down for hours, imitating a literal threat of gunfire. We are like this little child in our ability to alter history. In our powerlessness to alter the status quo, our very resistance to real or perceived evil creates its power over us which ironically persists the karmic cycle of endless war and strife.
But maybe writers and poets can strive to be prophets or mystics living in such bright a light that the light and heat of the sun is like the cool glow of the moon, enabling them to see the silhouettes of vultures circling above the near future site of our cultural death. These vultures are both architypal and specific, either way they can smell the opportunity of our demise and line up to pick our bones of life and flesh. Who but the writers and poets and artists will warn us of this threat?
—
Boy Shooting at a Statue by Billy Collins
It was late afternoon,
the beginning of winter, a light snow,
and I was the only one in the small park
to witness the lone boy running
in circles around the base of a bronze statue.
I could not read the carved name
of the statesman who loomed above,
one hand on his cold hip,
but as the boy ran, head down
he would point a finger at the statue
and pull an imaginary trigger
imitating the sounds of rapid gunfire.
Evening thickened, the mercury sank,
but the boy kept running in the circle
of his footprints in the snow
shooting blindly into the air.
History will never find a way to end,
I thought, as I left the park by the north gate
and walked slowly home
returning to the station of my desk
where the sheets of paper I wrote on
were like pieces of glass
through which I could see
hundreds of dark birds circling in the sky below.
When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer by Walt Whitman (Crossroads, p. 316)
When I heard the learn’d astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure
Them,
When I was sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much
Applause I the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wandered off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Looked up in perfect silence at the stars.
—
On When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer by Walt Whitman
Human nature and more accurately, the empirical nature of modern western man believes that a full factual, literal or journalistic understanding of the mechanics of a thing, person or phenomenon will render in fullness the exact likeness of that said thing, person or phenomenon. But in the poem, “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer,” Whitman argues a much more ancient case. That truth that is symbolic or sacramental holds just as much legitimacy if not more than its empirical sibling. That is, no matter how exhausting the scientific examination of a human experience, the resulting explanation will never be able to capture its essence, mystery and majesty of that experience of life. That the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Or to use another dead metaphor, it is missing the forest for the trees.
So in many cases a dogged adherence to empiricism can turn us into “truth” sniffing bloodhounds with our heads to the ground, missing the experience of our other and extra senses. Whitman references this specifically in the final “stanza” when he states, “How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick, / Till rising and gliding out I wandered off by myself, / In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, / Looked up in perfect silence at the stars.” Whitman realizes that for all the astronomer’s empirical brilliance, he couldn’t explain why the night sky touches a person in such a deep majestic way. This knowledge was of a deeper initiation. The initiation of a poet.
In regards to punctuation he uses commas at the end of almost every line which adds dramatic emphasis to his statements.
In the poem, To My Brother Miguel, Cesar Vallejo speaks in memory of his departed brother. The poem’s first person perspective helps to draw the reader into the heart and body of the poet. The poem does not specify whether Vallejo’s brother has died or simply run away and cut communication with the family, the mood of the poem (sad, winsome and dreamy) reminds me of how a person might speak fondly of a dead relative. Either way one can tell that the impact of his departure has produced at least a figurative, even if not literal death.
—
To My Brother Miguel (in memoriam) by Cesar Vallejo
Brother, today I am on the bench by the house
where you leave a bottomless loss.
I remember how we would play
at this time of the day and how Mama
would lovingly chide us, “Now children.”
Now I hide
as before, from all these evening
prayers and hope you will not find me
in the living room, the entryway, the corridors.
Later you hide, and I can’t find you.
I remember how we made each other cry
Brother—in that game.
Miguel, you disappeared
one night in August, nearly at dawn
but instead of laughing as you hid yourself,
you were anguished
And your twin heart of these extinguished
afternoons is weary of not finding you. Already
shadow falls on the spirit.
Listen, brother, don’t be too late
showing up. Or Mama will fret.
A Fence by Carl Sandburg
Now the stone house on the lake front is finished and the workmen
are beginning the fence.
The palings are made of iron bars with steel points that can stab the
life out of any man who falls on them.
As a fence, it is a masterpiece, and will shut off the rabble and all
vagabonds and hungry men and all wandering children look-
ing for a place to play.
Passing through the bars and over the steel points will go nothing
except Death and the Rain and Tomorrow.
–
“As a fence, it is a masterpiece, and will shut off the rabble and all” – In this line one can see the use of commas to show the irony of calling a fence a masterpiece, both because a fence is usually a common place object and because of the moral and social implication of erecting such a structure as described in this poem. / vagabonds and hungry men and all wandering children look- / ing for a place to play.
The physical structure of the poem also mirrors the fence as described in the poem, “The palings are made of iron bars with steel points that can stab the / life out of any man who falls on them.” All the lines run congruous without separation between the stanzas giving the appearance of bars of a fence. The first line of each stanza pierces the flow of text like the “palings” that jut from the flow of bars “stab[ing] the life out of any man.”
Only the stabbing first lines of each stanza are capitalized. This accentuates the imagery of the stabbing point of each paling. The capital letters act as little arrow heads on the end of the tines.
(rhythm, form, line break, voice)
Look at the birds. Even flying
is born
out of nothing. The first sky
is inside you, open
at either end of day.
The work of wings
was always freedom, fastening
one heart to every falling thing.
–
Lee uses line breaks to give the poem a sparse open rhythm like the sky itself. Like looking up into the sky and seeing birds or small flocks dotting the sky, instead you see words and small phrases dotting the page and air in which the poem is heard. The line breaks also draw attention to these specific phrases so that while not only in context of the sentence do they communicate, but standing alone they offer an additional or complimentary layer of meaning.
–
One Heart by Li-Young Lee (Vintage Book of Contemporary Poetry, p. 584)
Look at the birds. Even flying
is born
out of nothing. The first sky
is inside you, open
at either end of day.
The work of wings
was always freedom, fastening
one heart to every falling thing.
Of E and of the claw hammer
You bought yesterday, its head
Tasting of light oil, the juice
Of dead striving–the haft
Of ash, for all its urethane varnish, is
Polished by body salts.
–
I like the above stanzas because it hints at the vanity of life, striving, accomplishment, modern advancement and technology.
“Tasting of light oil, the juice / Of dead striving” – Oil is the byproduct of decayed plants remains. The left over life blood of something that once strove for life. It is also the life blood or fuel of modern civilization’s striving to build something of itself, which for all of its upward mobility, seems to produce nothing but death in it’s wake. Our civilization seems to use oil in such a way that it becomes a “vanity of vanities.”
“the haft / Of ash, for all its urethane varnish, is/ Polished by body salts.” – A “haft / Of ash” or handle points to the futility that is inherent in the striving of mankind. A handle indicates a point of control, leverage or power over something, usually either a tool or a weapon. But what good is it to have an handle on ash, the crumbling remains of something that once lived but now no longer. If “ash” is perceived as death itself then this could be viewed in the sense of a weapon or in an ironic sense. Because who can put a handle on death itself? Death is by definition the complete loss of control whether voluntarily or not. And yet we continue to polish this handle of delusion by pouring our body sweat into our supposed accomplishments.
Anyway that’s my take on those lines.
—
The Haunted Ruin By Robert Pinsky Posted Thursday, June 11, 1998, at 3:30 AM ET Even your computer is a haunted ruin, as your Blood leaves something of itself, warming The tool in your hand. From far off, down the billion corridors Of the semiconductor, military Pipes grieve at the junctures. This too smells of the body, its heated Polymers smell of breast milk And worry-sweat. Hum of so many cycles in current, voltage Of the past. Sing, wires. Feel, hand. Eyes, Watch and form Legs and bellies of characters: Beak and eye of A. Serpentine hiss S of the foregoers, claw-tines Of E and of the claw hammer You bought yesterday, its head Tasting of light oil, the juice Of dead striving--the haft Of ash, for all its urethane varnish, is Polished by body salts. Pull, clawhead. Hold, shaft. Steel face, Strike and relieve me. Voice Of the maker locked in the baritone Whine of the handsaw working. Lost, lingerer like the dead souls of Wilno, revenant. Machine-soul.
“Effortlessly at height hangs his still eye.” The phrase, “height hangs,” is an example of alliteration.
“Steady as a hallucination in the streaming air.”, is the only direct simile I can find in this poem (as defined by the usage of “like” or “as”) but there are plenty of examples of Metaphor.
“And rain hacks my head to the bone, the hawk hangs / The diamond point of will that polestars / The sea drowner’s endurance: and I,” all three of these seem to show enjambment. “Morsel in the earth’s mouth,” uses metaphor to describe how the speaker feels in relation to the earth. “…strain towards the master- / Fulcrum of violence where the hawk hangs still,” uses metaphor to describe the sky (in which the hawk resides) as the still point of a fulcrum from which the violence upon the speaker is being dealt.
Also personification is used in describing the earth as having a mouth. “That maybe in his own time meets the weather” In this line and those following in the final stanza, the speaker’s voice seems to invoke a sense of either envy or just a sober realization of the frailty of all creatures, even powerfully aloof ones. We will all have to face our downfall at some point. But due to the speaker’s point of view as a “sea drowner” and his description of the hawk as both a hanger of a polestar of endurance and will power and having “wings (that) hold all creation in a weightless quiet,” a combination of envy, reverence and awe would seem to be better words to describe his emotion to his own circumstances in relation to that of the hawk. He definitely wants the freedom, power and peace that the hawk seemingly possesses.
The Hawk in the Rain by Ted Hughes (Imaginative Writing, page 31)
I drown in the drumming ploughland, I drag up
Heel after heel from the swallowing of the earth’s mouth,
From clay that clutches my each step to the ankle
With the habit of the dogged grave, but the hawk
Effortlessly at height hangs his still eye.
His wings hold all creation in a weightless quiet,
Steady as a hallucination in the streaming air.
While banging wind kills these stubborn hedges,
Thumbs my eyes, throws my breath, tackles my heart,
And rain hacks my head to the bone, the hawk hangs
The diamond point of will that polestars
The sea drowner’s endurance: and I,
Bloodily grabbed dazed last-moment-counting
Morsel in the earth’s mouth, strain towards the master-
Fulcrum of violence where the hawk hangs still,
That maybe in his own time meets the weather
Coming from the wrong way, suffers the air, hurled upside down,
Fall from his eye, the ponderous shires crash on him,
The horizon traps him; the round angelic eye
Smashed, mix his heart’s blood with the mire of the land.
(Five Haiku in response to another human’s unfathomable loss)
Shatters life in two
He was my Son goddamn it!
After shatters Now
My Being Shatters
I am annihilated
Screams in Heaven felt
Do not accept this
My soul Rages like a Bull
I would destroy this!
Do not resist me
All will fall to my Sorrow
This Earth is lay waste
“Give up now,” you say
But my Pain emaciates
Life, Love: Meaningless
-jfs
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