Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt asks for a ghazal today . . . first she describes this poetic form, and then says: “Now try writing your own ghazal that takes the form of a love song – however you want to define that. Observe the conventions of the repeated word, including your own name (or a reference to yourself) and having the stanzas present independent thoughts along a single theme – a meditation, not a story.”
Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “It's that time again; time for another Two-for-Tuesday prompt.
For the second Two-for-Tuesday prompt: 1) Write a love poem, and/or . . . 2) Write an anti-love poem.”
Melded all three prompts today: a ghazal that talks about both "love" and "anti-love." I also added the ghazal characteristic Maureen didn't mention: the rhyme sound immediately before the repeated word at line breaks, here a long I (ī, pronounced "eye").
Love Song
And so, everyone’s eternal question: what do I love?
And its eternal converse as well, what don’t I love?
I appreciate all foods, tastes — sweet, sour, salty,
bitter, savory — but not escargot, my first anti-love.
I cherish many genres of music, ’60s rock and roll,
for one: Santana, Quicksilver, Cream . . . try Love!
On the other hand, I gotta tell ya, except for Heart,
I’m not crazy about ’80s rock . . . a bit of anti-love.
My love life now came through music: playing guitar
onstage, I saw a lovely head of white hair—why, love!
She often says, “Vince, you are the love of my life.”
Renee, love of my life, you’re also the life of my love!
—Draft by Vince Gotera [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
Vince and Renee cosplaying
Redshirt from Star Trek (TNG)
and Tsuru from One Piece
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Alan's poem is a formal experiment on the ghazal form, also melding the prompts: ghazal, love, anti-love.
Ghazal for the Goddamned Cat
Awakened by gagging I hope is a hairball
and certain it’s likely a bad patch more terrible
than that, long before the sun rises and I
can brew me some coffee, a songbird’s first warble
an hour away, there it is on the carpet
to be tidied up, a portent so horrible
of troubles to come. Crouching on all fours,
retching profanity crude but nonverbal
as tuxedo mollie named Millie just watches, I
clean up the mess, and I feed her. She’ll garble
a yowl that will not wake the women who love her.
At night while they cozy and drink something herbal,
they coo and assure me the cat really loves me,
so I keep my peace, tolerate that damned furball.
—Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
The ghazal repeated word is, in Alan's poem, a partial word, and the couplets are not separate and discrete. Very interesting.
Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks!
Ingat, everyone. ヅ |
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2 comments:
LOVE it!
As I told Vince, I take some liberties with the rhyme because my accent lets me, and I'm thinking about how this one will sound read aloud.
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