Three Ghazals

by Jeffrey Burghauser (March 2020)

The Violinist at the Window, Henri Matisse, 1918

 

[1]

 

Am I speaking to or through my violin?

Look at me, my love. Are you my violin?

 

Resistances, accounted for, were equalized.

In the Maker’s hands there grew my violin.

 

Shredded, boiled skin shall glue my violin.

 

“Such receptive, confidential, earnest grace!

With what ease she loves me!” “Who?” “My violin.”

 

Breath, exhaled, may warm a moiety of air.

Lesser things are known to skew my violin.

 

Tamburlaine had burnt his lover’s place of death.

What devotion isn’t due my violin?                   

 

 

[2]

 

Years are deftly cut, and sold by weight,

And they turn upon a spit at night.

 

Taproots into which I bit at night.

 

Here’s the bus. You’ll bring your camera.

Monumental guilt is lit at night.

 

 

[3]

 

Pour your gentle wine on them.

Rinse away the brine on them.

 

May they be at ease with Time,

Knowing its design on them.

 

Their bewildered questions are

Fixed on you, and mine on them.

 

Poet, formless are their woes.

Make your song a spine for them.

 

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Real Poems, is available on Amazon and his website is www.jeffreyburghauser.com.

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