Better Than Truth
after Ghalib
By William Dennis
(Page 3)
The User’s LifeLove-lies-bleeding in the bed frees its seed in autumn’s dew; Shame lies in the hand, scored despoiling this prickly thorn’s pride. Ashen gloves of afternoon yield to stiff black evening dress; Tear-drop, compare: what has propriety done to the heart? The user’s life was more harmful than using would have been; Spirit used to use spirit to spirit two spirits away. In principle, the promise of the heart is made at birth; Carrying an anvil makes the blacksmith a faithful man. Night-brightener..., camp-comforter..., warm Heaven, glance this way; As luck would have, the shadow of the times is...interesting. |
Forgetting HardIf vireo and hawk wear red, their calls are not the same; In every voice we verify that spring may make its claim. Men learn their art because of art no big-eyed women learn; And would not pause, to meet, to be at once both halt and lame. These happy-hour amateurs, with seat belts on their bar stools! But I need more forgetting than one daily hour can frame. Forgetting hard, I drop my head down on the broken juke-box; On you, in hours of sinful prayer, my turning thought takes aim. I mean, no matter the number punched, you still get the same: All parched on memory’s salted knots, then drunk in worship’s name. |
Lunar RuinGranted, this is love caused by the moon; May you gain repute for lunar ruin. Let this rock not jut alone at sea; Let there be at least a shipwreck soon. Why does the kite embarrass the dove? To spare your feelings, see me alone. I am also a foe, but not yours; What if the cuckoo sings a sweet tune? Crimson leaf-boats sail but twice their length, In that time out-facing all typhoon. For what am I doing obeisance? Without some sign, my faith stays a wound. At your every ikon I will kneel; You hum inattention’s well-known tune. Bill! Your puppy wars continue on; If your life grows night, imagine noon. |
The Left Knows NotHot Hand! The left knows not how the right hand even does it; That I should ever trace that shape with hand or eye or wit! Joy’s approach throws such heat, abandon the flammable heart; Aqua regia consumes the flask on which its name is writ. The fawn, O Lord, may not rebuke a jackal’s insolence; Her own audacity acts upon her to inhibit. Passion’s proclivity to make moan, worn to bitch, bitch, bitch; My heart races where the load, lifted, offers rest a bit. Will, the brightness of my beam warns off lonely wanderers; No one dares approach to know what burns that I am lit. |
My Poor KindOn a good day the keeper in my camp might think to be kind; But propriety, facing all our yesterdays, declines. She lacks patience to examine my compliment collection; As I explain, even the phone cord begins to unwind. Long experience, she knows men lie, and how, and does not ask; And weak with guilty shame, I dare no more to speak my mind. Patting down my wide lapels, I feel it missing, O my heart; My mind has lost the end of yarn love once held for it to wind. Without the vaulting, though that depends on motions of the skies, Not enough still stands between such love and my poor kind. |
Sound and Light‘S long, love..., since you clicked my rim, Since my toast, "To cherubim!" Again my bellows breath blows sparks; Sound and light, a homonym. Heart, that fox, and eye, that hound, Yield at last to the same whim. Draw again that halted breath: Dark window, dark hair...all dim. Going fishing without bait, Just to reflect at the rim. |
Just for FailureJust think, I’m shunned for love, that sociable disease; The more I seek your pleasure, the less, it seems, I please. From hatchling tank to hatchery pool after pool, My body becomes someone’s pleasure with ease. Do not scratch at the Kremlin door, seeking loved ones; They were the first to be locked in, and with their own keys. Moon-tides ran out and back incontinently once; Jogging memory still runs through my diaries. Master Bill, I would not reform just for failure; I beg at fiscally conservative charities. |
Chequered BoardOn desire’s chequered board you’re new, two moves to mate; Plotting attacks on affection, fearing gambits of hate. To witness virtues of omission, keep your eye on me; And for good deeds of commission, hear what I relate. She who waits my table kills all other appetite; The singer’s voice stuns my ear to lyricists’ debate. From our bedside, carpet corners used to seem the palm Or lap of gardener or florist, much pleased to wait. O, the space she moves in and the tunings of the harp: One, springtime for the eye; one, the ear’s full summer state. The morning after, in the room dear friends were dearer in, Dead butts in flat dregs keep company in a cold grate. Consumed last night with grief for the end of our union, Spiritless bottles remain till dropped back in their crate. |
My Grateful HeartPressing purple night yields sleep like wine no more, Up, now! Dreaming mornings is not your destined chore. I am infamous as rubbish at my lover’s door, With no gusto for the wind to lend wings as before. Mark on my grateful heart the course of her graceful foot; Each print unparches something blossom at my core. Whose father is lust is drawn to deceit and beauty, Dishonoring ascetics who love what they adore. Sight grows too glancing to penetrate your beauty; A kid skipping empty from mountain height to shore. |
Meaning’s Magic’s Treasure
In your shadow cedar and cypress will gather As you sway in the grove, so great is your stature. Pride is justified in the chokings of sorrow, As each sigh swells how we know the heart’s measure. Where the alchemist eye casts its glamour by chance, A mirror may flash like the silver screen’s mentor. Secret sparks keep my hidden, votive heart a hearth; What might be worked in that flame’s still useless fervor? Any wheat you winnow from this basket of tares, Move back, a miracle: meaning’s magic’s treasure. |