Junctions
Selected Published Works
By William Dennis
Selected Published Works
By William Dennis
Author's Note:
The ghazal which follow appeared in 2016, courtesy of Eastern Structures No.1, R.W. Watkins, editor.
Multiple poems also appear in The International Journal of English Language Ghazals, The Ghazal Page.
Those in the know realize that ghazal are written in couplets (sher), with a single rhyme, which is followed by a repeated word or even a phrase. I thought to break up the somewhat repetitive effect of the ghazal, as seen on the page, by re-dividing the couplets into three, slightly irregular lines. Sometimes, this also allows emphasis to be placed on a certain word, assisting the reader's understanding.
The ghazal which follow appeared in 2016, courtesy of Eastern Structures No.1, R.W. Watkins, editor.
Multiple poems also appear in The International Journal of English Language Ghazals, The Ghazal Page.
Those in the know realize that ghazal are written in couplets (sher), with a single rhyme, which is followed by a repeated word or even a phrase. I thought to break up the somewhat repetitive effect of the ghazal, as seen on the page, by re-dividing the couplets into three, slightly irregular lines. Sometimes, this also allows emphasis to be placed on a certain word, assisting the reader's understanding.
Now, Though, I’m GladWhen cloud deck breaks
to let October maples glow, I’m glad; I know November sees all forests bare, now, though, I’m glad. I've clung to youth; to wealth, to happiness and truth I’d cling. Perversely though, where I can change the status quo, I’m glad. Larger, lighter, lifting my thoughts, the full-filled heart; but how I practice love—those days I dodge great woe, I’m glad. I’ve heard a life well organized is something to desire; when I can line my troubles in a finite row, I’m glad. A banker’s interest and my own run together never; but when you come collect a kiss you say I owe, I’m glad. Years roll past and we stoop more beneath fresh disappointments; but when I bend to meet you under mistletoe, I’m glad. While I pay wisdom’s bill in strength, still, not much changes hands; that we are yesterday, and yet there is tomorrow, I’m glad. (first appeared in Eastern Structures (2016) No. I, R.W. Watkins, ed.)
|
A Curse At My Age
Having the health
my children cannot find—a curse at my age; and having happiness they never know is worse at my age. And, sympathetic fool, I sicken at the sight of suffering; dare I believe shared illness somehow less adverse…, at my age? My strength is weak to run ahead of love, preventing harm; however fond, what folly to pretend reverse at my age. I spend my love, in sickness and in health, on wife and children; it’s still not possible to empty out care’s purse at my age. My wallet wears to loving holes; meanwhile, the moth is active. Faint hope, strong sympathy, are all I may disburse at my age. |
You, Old WomanLove’s little moisture is
one source I have of few, old woman; my thirst grown old is only ever quenched by you, old woman; Imagination here goes dry and memory near dies; we move together with love’s habit for our glue, old woman. Our parchment faces peer into the parching stream of years, but we go forward as of old, if not as new, old woman We look weak and old-- dry camels in from desert dust, the young think water is a thing we never knew, old woman. Slender, strong, describe our love, like faith for the devout, but differing-- though nigh incredible, it’s true, old woman. |
I Never NoticedThanks, she’s such a big,
strong, gorgeous woman, I never noticed; sure, she’d be glad to be reminded by whomsoever noticed. She does resemble lower forms on evolution’s tree; she looks a bit like you, I don’t know if you ever noticed. She whups the best, and has a life-time, all-time stellar record; and she has ethnic roots, which you, you being clever, noticed And I can fairly say, speaking as an atheist, she ornaments her faith, modestly, whenever noticed. What price to be serene, a need to rise and rise above; it gives the lie: celebrity loves press, however noticed. |
I’ll Call My SoulI’ll call this crumbly earth,
that rolls to cover hills, my soul; I call the stars I came from, and which await me still, my soul. Long patience--entropy unwinding at its steady pace; while against that, impatience of the binding will--my soul. It’s been a while, but sometimes I have wings--when I’m a bird. You have them now, among the forms that you fulfill, my soul. I’m not this body now, not just, nor later some another; let’s call this drop that's both the stream and churning mill my soul. I watch the stars, my fellow men, and gaze upon my wife; among the flowers, our favorite is the daffodil, my soul. Out-striding light, the globe of thought expands to guess my limit; just half in fun, I’ll name what crosses every sill my soul. |
No More NowOh, God, I’ve played the dark
apostle all these years—no more now; since all my preaching sought was truth, not pity’s tears—no more now. The darker side of love, refining envy to resentment—I’ll greet those brave enough to love with jealous jeers no more now. My hunger for the taste of words that never passed my lips, too late I see could only have been eased through ears no more now. It’s not that indignation is inherently a vice; I hope ulterior disgruntlement appears no more now. You’ve had the knack of reckless interfering all your life, Bill; concerning risk then, let us hear your undue fears no more now. also published in The Ghazal Page (2016) |
Say, SoulFor what in me is different
from raw earth, let’s say, my soul; and call what joins me to my faint and failing man-clay, soul. Tragedy, like jest, will never wear the same mask twice: let's call the part of me that’s part of change and replay, soul. Wound about our wounds, left lovers wear some borrowed stuff, forever there but never mine to give away, my soul As men pick flowers for their wives, which grew to please the bees, let's call this urge, which from dry weeds evokes bouquet, my soul. Works fade and fracture, lose their point or turn repurposed ruins; genes passed thru ages with one message to convey, my soul. I've stammered, soul, and, spirit ages in my club-tongued way; misprision stutters personality today—my soul. Life in death is paradox you never will resolve, Bill; no faith, just hope-- remembrance—for which you cannot pray, your soul. also published in The Ghazal Page (2016) |
What Time of Year It IsParsley’s green sprigs;
that’s how I know what time of year it is. Spring stirs my sluggish blood; that’s how I know how near it is. That limpid bell the dove sighs with, I close my eyes to hear; one dove rings all this summer air, which shows how clear it is. So lush the season, I can hear corn growing in the field; the height of summer tips me off how sweet an ear it is. Triploid watermelon-- seedless accident of birth; but twice as green and triple sweet, and proud how queer it is. In vain I grow my crop in autumn, standing lush and green; every jealous eye is drawn, aware how dear it is. The garden’s death in winter throws it back upon its bones; revealing inessential green for what veneer it is. Bill grew to love the land, and slowly learned that it loves him; astonishing that this is love and how sincere it is. also published in The Ghazal Page (2015) |
What Mine Comes InLike woman’s love, how many shapes
the fruiting vine comes in; fools argue over form, to me what matters is what mine comes in. I’ve pruned in frost, manured in rain and weeded in hot sun; thus paradox-- I coarsen more as I refine—comes in! This slope is bare of beauty, still stone and clay at end of May, ignored by butterflies and love till columbine comes in. Many flowers fighting— all are weeds; they choke themselves. The gardening hand is where intelligent design comes in. I croon to plants to coax their fruit, but this one blooms so sweet my begging voice can’t help it when a little whine comes in. Delicious shapes would not have been enough to make Bill guzzle all those ancient, crusty bottles finest wine comes in. also published in The Ghazal Page (2015) |
Something Spring is Consolation ForI know less why I grieve than what I feel elation for,
but winter stands for something spring is consolation for. Our grief, a poet might describe; I can only say-- it’s that we've made our years of love in compensation for. Turn and look at what together we have come to be; we grew together—that’s worth enduring all privation for. I thirst for drink, for food I hunger, but find satisfaction; love, you are what my life is all one long starvation for. The Baptist and the Prophet called to others when God called; and Bill, the bond with her is what you have vocation for. also published in The Ghazal Page (2015) |
Exploding in the SkyOur telescopes found something
great exploding in the sky— the myth of God the incarnate, decoding in the sky While warming toward the sun evokes God’s love in even me, feel soul and soul-mate in time’s stream, eroding in the sky. What fell long days to earth bore scarce the malice to explain my many secret cruelties, corroding in the sky. How tempting it seemed, once, to see in species’ evolution a mold for spirit’s progress, now imploding in the sky. Your modern Marys fear our abstract age in literal bones, and close their eyes in prayer against forebodings in the sky. But what replaces feeling as the basis for your faith in love and nature, truth and justice, floating in the sky? Great Jove resolves back into thunder, and devils to Iagos; the crowd remains, though actors are eloping in the sky. Angels, devils, gods and God have paid their bills and gone; what’s left, not great nor fair—mankind, groping in the sky. also published in The Ghazal Page (2016) |
Bear WaterDig to plant, set seed
of beans and marigold—bear water; be strong to hoe, but delicate to stir the mold—bear water. Know you’re sowing hungers in your children when you plant; know a thing that’s bought with sweat is never sold—bear water. Plant black-eyed Susan seed in spring, set peony roots in fall; call what you nourish through the gladdened eye your soul—bear water. Learn reverence, kneel to mattock-out the running root of weeds; pursue the plunging thistle in its endless hole—bear water. The bee bears pollen to the peony pried open by the ant; rough clods and hickory handles help you learn your role—bear water. The best work you can do will bring your forehead near the earth, though standing strong and straight may be your sought-for goal—bear water. also published in The Ghazal Page (2015) |
Back ThenI said, lets share a kiss,
we’d shared a straw back then; love was a catchy germ, not theory, but fixed law back then. A lifetime later, love’s old jokes draw forth a high pitched sound; your startled cry was always drowned by my guffaw back then. How you have changed, my empty purse-- like me, now, you’re all wrinkles; smooth youth’s loose strings let any loving hand withdraw back then. When young we felt we spoke with muscular sophistication, for I was, heap big brave, and you, my little squaw, back then. St. Valentine, if love does clarify the vision, fear it; love never squinted hard enough to see your flaw back then. Young promise ages to predictions.., wish.., then breath on air; my fondest recollections now were only jaw back then. Years later, I see what you were to me—you were my mirror; in your reflective eyes I used to stare with awe back then. Ice crystalizes all, though useless—brittle, hard and bright; but it was tyrant summer, we never longed for thaw back then. And we made many arch proposals, solemn propositions—bills that you would veto or that I’d withdraw back then. also published in The Ghazal Page (2015) |
Name a Weed And we call any plant
without a name a weed! My nameless neighbors' lawns all lack one thing the same, a weed. A cultivated public savors labels for each plant; the name for plants like me, not raised in some cold frame—a weed. Drought tolerant, viridian and shiny in full leaf: Toxicodendron, though poison ivy’s claim to fame—a weed! With chickweed, ragweed, sumpweed, bindweed, sneezeweed, and creeping charlie, there’s always someone lower down to take the blame—a weed. I did grow quite invasive, given lover's rank to pull; a wave of love’s transforming wand, and I became a weed. Henbit's sought by chicken’s beaks, and duckweed by ducks' bills; I linger, wondering, if anyone, will come to claim a weed? also published in The Ghazal Page (2015) |
Paid Late or Never“The infliction of cruelty with a good conscience is a delight to moralists--
that is why they invented hell.” Bertrand Russell We sober suits,
who take our pleasure, we invented hell; because good conscience is our treasure, we invented hell. Since we don’t like to call it cruelty, just morality, to even up our moral ledger, we invented hell. For fear the latest fashion does not mean that we are better, lest down-and-out resemble leisure, we invented hell. We hate to call mere carelessness what wickedness we see; preferring sinner to transgressor, we invented hell. Blame cast on women is that they’re enticing, that’s their fault; because they’re such laid-back aggressors, we invented hell. Anger is the easy thing to feel about an addict; as pity drops too slow to measure, we invented hell. As there’s no profit in my plight, nor Bill’s predicament—love’s wounds, old debt, paid late or never—we invented hell. Also published on The Ghazal Page (2016) |