Better Than Truth
after Ghalib
By William Dennis
(Page5)
A Real MacherI have lots of brass; maybe, but I won’t hang at your door; Door-knob, yes, door-post and door-nail, but door-knocker, no more. Constant comment can hardly help but unsettle my lees; It’s less and less when you put me to your lips that I please. Why is someone always standing between me and the lamp? Though I can’t see or be seen, I, too, bear our Maker’s stamp. I need help, maybe a lawyer more than a therapist; I did not know there could be a sentence of death for this. Now I see why I always precede my reputation: My words lack gold, my tongue silver and I consolation. Y’re a man of substance, F.W., a real Macher; Days are gone when you wondered what luck might seize your knocker. |
Deaf at WorkI tell my heart from broken stone by swelling where it hurts; Pretend that you’re some mason, who grows deaf to noise at work. On your statue, I’m your pigeon; on your corner, I’m your boy; You chase me off from everywhere that I find any joy. Tears should streak my dusty cheeks – she spares this bed that drought lies in The scouring of that beauty’s flood, caught up in one hair-pin. Life-endangering your looks, life-engendering your glances; My face serves as your mirror, in which you take your chances. And as far as grief and suffering go, life and death are one; At first we suffer in our sins, then for them when we’re done. The world – her looking glass – gives her confidence to spare me Embarrassments of lust – a woman’s kind of gallantry. Youth is beauty, wealth and truth – I have only decorum; Lines too weak to bridge the gap, I leave in memoriam. No, not just heretic Sunday, she’s faithless all the week; Quiet your heart to save your soul--heaven awaits the meek. Little work will come to a halt, if Bill should meet his end; Then who would scream, "God damn!" or cry, "My heart will miss it’s friend!" |
If With the BirdsNow, I’ll get up and find me some place where no one goes; With none to speak of good or ill, and live on beans in rows. I’ll tent the sky on poles of smoke and close my door of air; My neighbors there will all be birds, who’ll speak, like me, no prose. If sickness falls from cloudy skies, unassisted I’ll lay down; And when I’d die, then none could say, if with the birds I rose. |
Ungrateful FrogUngrateful frog, two kings, by God, and you requested both! The fairest maiden’s like in gold, yet Midas swore an oath! At one time they’d have buried me by crossroads near your home, New lovers would have found your lane by sighting from my stone. Our barman, Saki, wets the cup, but never yields the bottle; The pride he takes in what he gives lets him pour so little. O, please, love, speak my mind for me, as I am not so free, To my faithless messenger, who would not speak to you for me. In pantomime I’ll act that part first played by Romeo, Who seized on means to toss grief off and end the bloody show. In the middle of the path of life, we take pity on One clouds above the narrow road will not cease to beckon. Not here, not there, he’s never anywhere he ought to be. Dear Bill gets in Rapunzel’s hair, as anyone may see. |
Nothing ComesTo my impulsive hand, nothing comes; To dot my smooth horizon, nothing comes. At life’s end one expects to find death; And days should end in sleep, but nothing comes. My heart used to be good for a laugh; When I cadge a smile now, nothing comes. Contrition makes a prayer rise straight, I know; But when feeling out of sight, nothing comes. Blame cats or the Tower of Babel; When my jaw drops like this, nothing comes. The bitterness of almonds goes unseen; On this sweetness of breath, nothing comes. I neither sit, stand nor genuflect; To this stranger’s mirror, nothing comes. I have a sickle; death has a scythe. Ready though I may be, nothing comes. Why jostle for space in the temple, Bill? Like shame to your face, nothing comes. |
Better Than TruthHypochondriac heart, what have you won? And what do you think ought to be done? When I turn on my smile, she turns off; Lord, tell me, is it something I’ve done? I have, at least, as much tongue as a shoe; Are you too straight-laced to ask and have done? Defending the Invulnerable, You’ll shake my faith before you’re done. What lies behind this pile of curls; And can’t you see what a glance has done? Where do flower stalls go for their stock? What’s in the weather that gets all this done? Pilate and you knew better than truth, Better than trueness, all said and done. Jesus could only dream up one rule: "Do unto others as you would have done." Smoke by day and fire by night– for you; Surely devotions are one thing I’ve done. Like shedding two cells down an alley, Bill, it’s not a big deal when it’s done. |
Written on Your Cupwith thanks to John Dowland
The press of night frees warming bile to wet my cup; Alone at dawn, head-down, only the candle stands up. I see nothing of you, hear naught, with nothing to speak; At last, that unity: no wine, no hope, no cup! A whiskey-stripped voice that ruins itself beautifully; O, poor, listening heart--you, too, may give up. Hung, beaten with that pulse, in the hollow of that throat, Any brass would scorn dead gold, trapped in crown and cup. Saki hosts the placid eye and unseen hand of thought With draughts, the lees of which, such drinkers all drink up. Saki, servant of servants, beautiful enemy, Pours out your wit in song and drowns your peace in a cup. Look: how night in the Emperor’s palace is stained With chance pollen and petals its hem’s fringe sweeps up. Here, clear notes shape motion; there, fluid gesture sings; Our Host indebts our hearing and floods our vision’s cup. But dry! The gates have shut that filled this hall with joy; Sinew trembles, muscle shrinks, and nerve has withered up. Blackened with the heat, the wick which witnessed parting Stands solitary, bent, no wax left in its cup. Arrived here from some better place, Bill, vanity Alone, or slander, would call yours words you just picked up. **Refrain** This call, "Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again," This, O, budding tasters, is written on your cup. "Sometimes in the shell, the Orient’s pearls we find;" Show no disdain for us, whose hearts have softened up. |
Brim-Full AgainToo long, friend, since friendship slapped my table, too long; Too long since your face grew flushed with mine, much too long. My outcaste eyelash brushed together again This great heap of bits, broken from my heart by wrong. Again propriety’s gloved hand guides my elbow; I fear I may not throw myself on any grave again. Tears, again, you know, are my saline solution; These salt wounds serve a heart as do strings the cello. Again, fashion dictates your lips be painted red; My sticky-handed heart is quite the cosmetician. Again I’ve lead my mended, china ego forth For your foot’s shod endorsement on that heirloom’s head. Crafty desire, once again, pins its sign up crooked; Taking bids on heart and soul at discounts to their worth. I feel your letter’s warmth again, there in my pocket; My hand keeps sneaking touches, feeling what you said. Eyes lust has lit grow seeing and, again, grow blind; Searching through worn clothes, at any patch of skin, they quit. Again her sharp eyes find that in me they want to pierce; Which looks can do...and do! Somehow, I scarcely mind. Though no face nears, fresh longing tastes again fresh lips; A toast to drunks from Tulipstan, for whom I’ve waited years! I want to fib again on security phones; Through keyholes, I want to come to intimate grips. Then again, my bones ache for such lonely leisure, That, waking, I can dream of what only dreams have shown. Again, to reassure a bead of water, don’t touch; I am brim-full, Bill, of stuff that drowns out pleasure. |
Spring Is BornAgain, spring rakes glowing crocus out of cold ground; Stars spark a growing moon in the clouds around. Look, dwellers in the green folds of this land, Such richness in the weave by which we’re bound! Turning earth beneath a ploughman’s feet displays More beauty than astronomers have found. Thrown back upon itself by winter frost, Green annexes the air on spring’s rebound. The poet’s pheasant-eyed narcissus pecks At buds nearby, when other blooms abound. Air caresses the throat, like swallowing; Another breath is more than will stay down. Let flowers flounce their skirts, Bill, bees wear gold– Spring is born! Don’t cry that birds make too much sound. |