For National Poetry Month, I’m sharing poems each day, one that I’ve written followed by whatever one from three sites that share a poem a day that strikes my fancy that day.

Yesterday’s poem from me was one that used a repeating line in each stanza, a variation on a villanelle, although not really. Today’s poem is another experiment in form, maybe a variation of the ghazal, although again not really.

Also looking at this now, more than 20 years after I wrote it, I am not sure of the origin of the two names in the title. I also seem to be mixing up Hindu and Muslim mythologies (an “ugly American” poem maybe, but I don’t think that was my intent) and can’t find reference now to either name from the title of the poem online. So while this poem might be a failed experiment, to me, it still speaks to something mysterious, even if overall I don’t think the poem succeeds. It still was an interesting experiment. It is probably best viewed in desktop and sometimes lansdcape on your browser of choice.

Bajeerah and Gazalla

weaved the world
	one day in their loom,
the tapestry of their lives like a shroud
	they covered themselves in.
The names ineffable were spoken,
	written in the text, the tomes of
men, women and children. Listen close,
	their tale is your tale, without
fail is ancient like the Bhagavad Gita,
	comes from the pages of the Q'ran:
if I knew the words of the Prophet better,
	I would quote to you, my children,
but like movie lines long forgotten, so
	have I forgotten what I haven't read,
you understand, my dilemma. What dilemma
	enters the world when you enter
the world with such a name: your names,
	what do they mean? Mine is
strength, honor, virtue, I have been told;
	is yours swiftness like
the gazelle, something to do with The Haj?
	What sublime mysteries a name
contains: when one sees it on the written page,
	the subtext is lost. Context
is everything, the form in newspaper lingo
	is a pyramid in structure, 
inverted, falling into itself, into
	the vortices which are your names,
words that shift in their meanings. Form is
	the thing: what content is missing,
the form shapes in its image, two
	goddess images reflect
back upon themselves like two foreign-sounding
	names to these ears, these lips.
Speak the word, the word is all of us,
	is none of us today, but tomorrow
will become a new paradigm we can
	create out of our own images
like the images of two women in a pond,
	both young, exotic, mythical
in nature, until they all but lose the intent
	originally intended. Bajeerah,
Gazalla, forgive me for using your names in vain.

Note: I’m posting late today because I worked at the library earlier. None of the poems from the other websites “spoke to me” today so I’m not sharing any other poems.