William Dennis

Parsley’s green sprigs—
that’s how I know what time of year it is.  Spring stirs
my sluggish blood; that’s how I know how near it is.
That limpid bell
the dove sighs with, I close my eyes to hear; one dove
rings all this summer air, which shows how clear it is. 
So lush the season, 
I can hear corn growing in the field; the height
of summer tips me off how sweet an ear it is.
Triploid watermelon—
a seedless accident of birth; but twice
as green and triple sweet, and proud how queer it is.
In vain I grow
my crop in autumn, standing lush and green; every
jealous eye is drawn, aware how dear it is.
The garden’s death
in winter throws it back upon its bones; revealing
inessential green for what veneer it is.
Bill grew to love
the land, and slowly learned that it loves him; astonishing
that this is love and how sincere it is.


WILLIAM DENNIS encountered ghazal on a trip to Delhi, and has been fascinated by the form, its atmosphere and its history for years.  His work has appeared previously on The Ghazal Page and in Contemporary Ghazals, R. W. Watkins, editor.  He has a two books of ghazal, available at Amazon in electronic format: Better Than Truth—Not Quite Translations, after Ghalib and Foreign Language—Exploring the Ghazal in English.