For what in me is different from raw earth, let’s say, my soul;
and call what joins me to my faint and failing man-clay, soul.
Tragedy, like jest, will never wear the same mask twice,
let's call the part of me that’s part of change and replay, soul.
Wound about our wounds, left lovers wear some borrowed stuff,
forever there but never mine to give away, my soul.
As men pick flowers for their wives, which grew to please the bees,
let's call this urge, which from dry weeds evokes bouquet, my soul.
Works fade and fracture, lose their point or turn repurposed ruins;
genes passed thru ages with one message to convey, my soul.
I've stammered, soul, and, spirit ages in my club-tongued way;
misprision stutters personality today—my soul.
Life in death is paradox you never will resolve, Bill;
no faith, just hope— remembrance—for which you can not pray, your soul.
William Dennis has been attempting ghazal for sixteen years, as a way of engaging with great writers and the soul of the East. In turn, he feels it fitting that his own cultural heritage be injected into the mix, making ghazal universal in practice as well as in principle. As well as previous publication in The Ghazal Page, his ghazal have appeared recently in CONTEMPORARY GHAZALS, R.W. Watkins, editor.