A Taste of Something Exotic

100 down, 265 to go. (And yes, I'll get around to the 5 I'm missing soon.)


I heard this today on a poetry podcast hosted by Curtis Fox, who seems to have impeccable taste, timing and judgment about poetry. 


I had heard of ghazals, a 12th-century poetic form from the Islamic tradition, but had never read one until today. Agha Shahid Ali, the author, wrote only in English and was very influenced by English-speaking poets, but just as influenced by Indian, Arabic and Kashmiri verses.


But this poem is a dense web of allusions, references and sly hints. The couplets are designed to be very different in mood, tone, approach and voice, but all be united by some kind of subject matter. I'd say this accomplishes that nicely. I'll be reading much more of this gentleman's work - anybody who can meld Elijah, Mohammed, Jezebel, Jesus, Omar Khayyam and Herman Melville all into one poem earns my respect.

Tonight

Agha Shahid Ali

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar 
—Laurence Hope
Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight?
Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight?


Those “Fabrics of Cashmere—“ ”to make Me beautiful—“
“Trinket”—to gem—“Me to adorn—How tell”—tonight?


I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates—
A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.


God’s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar—
All the archangels—their wings frozen—fell tonight.


Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken
Only we can convert the infidel tonight.


Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexities
multiply me at once under your spell tonight.


He’s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven.
He’s left open—for God—the doors of Hell tonight.


In the heart’s veined temple, all statues have been smashed
No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight


God, limit these punishments, there’s still Judgment Day—
I’m a mere sinner, I’m no infidel tonight.


Executioners near the woman at the window.
Damn you, Elijah, I’ll bless Jezebel tonight.


The hunt is over, and I hear the Call to Prayer
fade into that of the wounded gazelle tonight.


My rivals for your love—you’ve invited them all?
This is mere insult, this is no farewell tonight.


And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee—
God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.