Three Ghazals

by Jeffrey Burghauser (June 2020)

The Poet, Doris Lindo Lewis, 1930





“What shall I my lady give?” Your trembling.

“Tell me what a person’s for.” For trembling.


“When did you last know what anguish signified?”

When the stars were neither still nor trembling.


Yours must be the hand that keeps score, trembling.




Smelling smoke and hearing all the din between.


Loci for my frantic heart to spin between.


Here’s the model. Here’s her painted counterpart.

There’s an acre of sequential kin between.


A dense, chthonic cladogram of tin between.


Show me pairs among the ocean’s fabulous

Sinews only fit to fit a fin between.


Thoughtful Poet, promise that your words be so

Mason’d that you cannot fit a sin between.





Damson plums are slowly stewed in rosewater.

Darkness offers a divine cuisine of pain.


Poet, you’ve survéyed the whole of History

From this Mughal-crimson mezzanine of pain.




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