Best Divan Poems
On her velvet, aquamarine divan,
With poetic thoughts, so sylvan.
At peace with midnight’s universe.
The starlit sky, understands her verse.
How near to God, in heart, is she.
Her feathered, poetic quill, sings of eternity!
1/6/2023
I leave the auction sick, my mettle frayed
A ghost, I fear, in oil clutched near my side
No doubt, a ghost for which I've dearly paid!
How best to next proceed, I must decide
The painting I have bought portrays a man
laid out upon a bed as if he sleeps
A woman stands beside the low divan
Offhand, I'd guess a mistress that he keeps
I recognize the bloke who's laying prone
A classless dog and local alley cat
His past and family folk remain unknown
but those with whom he spoke called him "Merat"
I peer more closely at the racy scene;
Beside Merat, a pool of crimson red
The woman's face is cool, if not serene,
quite out of place, considering the bed!
I take my time in staring at the girl,
and make an observation I can't bear
my hands begin to shake, the air to swirl,
for that's my naked wife who's painted there!
As I trudge home, it's hell that fills my head
and passing by a doorsill with a bin,
I tell myself it's I who will be dead
if I don't shove the dreadful painting in
My mind is blank as I bypass the stairs
and free from fear of my assassin wife,
I steer my thoughts past murder and affairs,
then pull her near and thank her for my life
In chilly sensation held
Wrapped within warm quilt
I could almost feel my balmy
Breath condense through the
Air
With the odor of my favorite
Scents swarming through my
Hair
I sit with passion, my divan positioned
My posture upright, my thoughts
Engaged
My room lit just right
My table perfectly placed
I focus, I think
I stare
Glasses on, books on the
Right pages… pens, pencils,
Some papers to solve upon
Then tear…
Mahammad Fuzuli (1494-1556)
Mahammad Fuzuli, the poet-philosopher, is one of the founders of the divan genre in the history of Azerbaijani and Turkish literature. He wrote his works in three languages (Turkish, Arabic, Persian) in the genres of ghazal, qasida, musaddas, tarkib-band, tarji-band and rubai.
The poem "Leyli and Majnun", which is regarded as the peak of his creativity, is among the rare pearls of Azerbaijani, Eastern and world poetry. The opera of the same name written by Uzeyir Hajibeyli, the famous Azerbaijani composer and playwright, on the basis of the masterpiece of Fuzuli, is considered to be the First Opera of the Muslim East.
Moreover, “Fuzuli Cantata” was written by the well-known composer Jahangir Jahangirov in 1959, based on the ghazal “My love has tired me of my life – will she not tire of cruelty?”. The ghazal, translated by the British-American historian Bernard Lewis into English, has been included in his book “Music of a Distant Drum: Classical Arabic, Persian, Turkish, and Hebrew Poems”.
My love has tired me of my life – will she not tire of cruelty?
My sigh has set the spheres on fire-will not the candle of my
passion burn?
On those faint and fail for her, my love bestows a healing drug
Why does she give none to me; does she not think that I am
sick?
I hid my pain from her. They said tell it to your love.
And if I tell that faithless one - I do not know, will she believe,
or will she not?
In the night of separation, my soul burns, my eyes weep blood.
My cries awaken: does my black fate never wake?
Against the rose of your cheek, red tears stream from my eyes.
Dear lover, this is the time of roses, will not these flowing waters cloud?
It was not I who turned to you but you who drove my sense away.
When the fool who blames me sees you, will he not be put to shame?
Fuzuli is a crazy lover and a byword among folk.
Ask then what kind of love is this – of such a love does he not hire?
Did I not tell you, ‘Do not leave, for I am your friend’?
For in this mirage of nothingness I am the Fountainhead of Life!
Even if in anger you leave Me for a hundred thousand years,
in the end you will return, for I am your true Goal!
Did I not tell you, ‘Be not content with worldly form’?
For I am the fashioner of the tabernacle of your contentment!
Did I not tell you, ‘I am the Sea and you are but a single fish’?
Do not be tempted ashore, for I am your Crystal Sea!
Did I not tell you, ‘Do not fly like a bird to the snare’?
Come to Me, for I am the very Power of your flight!
Did I not tell you, ‘They will rob you and leave you numb with cold’?
But I am the Fire and the Warmth and Heat of your desire!
Did I not tell you, ‘They will taint your character,
until you forget that I am your Source of Purity’?
Did I not tell you, ‘Do not question how I direct your affairs’?
For I am the Creator without directions.
If you heart is a lamp, let it lead you to your true path.
And if you are godly, know that I am your Lord!’
Mevlana, Divan-i Shams, Ghazal 1725
Into a garden sprayed by night's rain,
Jen slouches under a dim lamplight
as the wind gushes on her divan
sweeping pages of a long era,
jotted down through crystal-clear memoirs
from her flawless hand, still radiant...
while tendrils of a past causes
her eyes to melt in glass of evening.
She pauses between emblazoned lines,
a web of saga transports her musings
in a village where life detailed the pain
and glory of unwanted wartime;
the smoky air turning fruits into molds
as land raids wheezed without children’s sounds.
Quietly, Jen folds the sepia-book
to find beauty in her lit garden,
while cloudburst fades like distant remains...
then, washing the leaves of yesteryears,
she breathes in solace: a woman freed
by putting a name to her past angst,
ready for rain’s music of tamed sleep.
.............
Poem In Paradise Contest
Sponsor: Isaiah Zerbst
7/21/2014
(For a blind man…)
Sighted vision is a mystery.
Whether sitting on the divan,
Busily washing a dishpan,
Or sitting outside getting a tan.
Jon, them thin hands see.
Whether using salt and not cayenne,
I declare you amaze me, man.
You work and live industriously.
I remain your biggest fan.
Jon, them thin hands see.
Whether riding in a sedan
Or walking on the street,
You always greet the folks you meet.
Friendship never does retreat.
Independently living my dear friend.
Jon, them thin hands see.
© April 11, 2011
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for PS Member Congest: Anagrammatically Speaking
Sponsored by: nikko palmario
I dance upon you
and your spirit I lift
in to my heart.
I dance upon you all
I dance where I can
in between the headstones
on grasses of divan,
where once you’re feet laid
where your love ones
shed their last evanescent tear.
I dance through
the small hours of night
and the longest time of day,
I dance, I dance, I dance
this my humble homage to you all
you whom served your era well,
you made the masters
with your skill your energy,
you fought their bloody wars
your enterprise kept them rich
but only of an earthly kind.
Oh yes when I dance
I dance and I remember you all,
so to you that spread your seed
ever so well
to give another generation life,
I dance!!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
What say you when a pig bathe in a muddy muck?
When he rolls merrily like 'tis panacea to his strain?
Don't you gawk at the amazing shuck
Could be to you 'tis a flaunt to his inert brain.
But how honey he embraces the muck-
When the sizzling lust for food slaps!
'Tis where he tanks up the lack
'Tis a divan for his daily naps
He rolls in it with sheer fun and joy,
Swaps spit with inner pathogens
To him's as sweet as the delicacy of soy
And dirt seems excite no antigens
But fools we the lookers
Who hate the act but love the actor
We're the daytime chaplains an' night's hookers
Musing the worthier and fudging the obvious factor
Don't we rear 'em and keep them?
And butcher 'em for pork?
And for sale don't we adulate 'em like gem?
Then why dub 'em berk?
With us is the knowledge and power-
To keep and care for these pigs
We can give 'em genial scour
And see 'em as moral prigs
NB: Exclusively for pig lovers.
Try to understand the natural meaning of this poem
The rain clouds gather outside and
I see his umbrella bouncing over the hedge.
I hear him enter the gate with case in hand;
He slowly closes the gate and heads for the door.
A light knock reverberates into the library,
I hear the door close and his soft voice say,
“Good evening ma’am, I’m here for a tuning”.
She takes his coat and he heads for the gold leaf piano.
He removes mother’s lace carefully from atop,
He neatly sets it on the maroon divan.
He opens his case of tools with ease,
No rush does he have in his bones.
Like clock work, I know what he’s doing,
Without stepping foot out of the library.
He repeatedly strikes the keys in tune.
Using his trusty rubber mute.
After an hour or so I hear the case close,
He gently puts mother’s lace back.
He pops his fingers and gives it a try.
He tickles the ivories with frailness.
He plays from mother’s hymnal book.
His fragile fingers play the song,
‘Power in the blood’ as he hums along.
I love when he comes to revive the piano.
I hear him politely tell the maid he’s all done,
She hands him his coat with check, the door softly closes.
The rusty gate shuts as the umbrella bounces,
Over the hedge and he fades away from my view.
85
Feedback comes to those who apply and post and expect to receive the same
when you place a silver dollar in your mouth you scratch it with your teeth to see if
it is real a man bites down upon it and then looks and frowns or looks and
smiles upon the quarter he has found not silver or even golden but just metal of
some kind its zinc and copper mixes made in Betty Crocker's Kitchens. She has
a tray of circles all lain out upon her divine divan the tails side up for luck she got
this from the JESUS man who tossed his penny in an arc and tried to hit a mark
a line drawn in the sand and made his feet go march to live a different plan a
lifetime being mended his only love he found she makes the things he feels
inside brand new. She stirs her better batter up with a long and spindly spatula
she marks each coin with edges with the cheese garter greater. She takes the
grater to the table and turns each coin by hand she makes four of them for every
dollar in this land. They asked her who is on the image of the coin she laughed
and dimpled smiling she said it must be Dollar Bill. The George Washington
Dollar is the image used for the quarter he gets to be on two. When yew become
the President Of America you can be their two. She stamps the quartered dollars
on the side that just says heads with the handy dandy stamper set she got from
her Uncle Jed for Christmas Past. She turns the coins at last and makes the tails
with her old eagle eye she uses her new leather set to scritch and scratch the
bird the lines formed from habit of making millions in a set in just one day she
filled the Island of Manhattan with 24 additional sets they said they needed them
to buy Manhattan again the previous treaty had run out from the statue of
limitations set back in Washington against the law must be obeyed by every
man. When eye am making a bus ride and eye find a lot of pennies eye ignore
them when eye find a quarter eye do a little more than dance in place eye jig eye
jog eye trip on every log in my haste to find three more it costs one dollar just to
Board the Tran. Betty declined to speak just to the press for she is very shy she
said she knoes now who the image is on the flip side of her coin and eye did not
keep a dry eye when she smiled at me and said without a tremor or a miss it is
Washington, D. C.
Injustice is the legacy of man
It is the tainted ground on which he stands
Do not put your trust in earthling man
Why, he cannot wield his mundane lifespan
So what do we do with our earthy divan
This copious globe of purpose and plan
When all the media flaxen flames do fan,
And there is no trusting a robed clergyman
When half the country hates a family man
His replacement backed by the Ku Klux Klan
We cannot put our trust in earthling man
So put your faith in the Higher Helmsman
A serpent lies writhing on our divan,
we see now how denial might begin.
Hissing at all who would foil his vile plan,
our fatal flaw is not delving right in.
Climate Change is much more a twisty tact:
coiled thoughts like stone turrets in ivy.
If nations can't accept a real fact -
it's hard to turn this round, from what I see.
Setting science so very far aside,
deft doubters like letting sleeping snakes lie.
Skeptics scurry for a safe space to hide,
afraid to give the truth one honest try.
This then, becomes a crippling contrivance:
ever still stronger, steadfast defiance.
4/24/22 103 Words
A knitted quilt lays on my bed's divan
Needled by Grandma, generations ago
Its wool fiber pliant and wide enough
To keep the family cuddled in bonfire eves
Sheltering me now, her heirloom's gift.
C Contest
Inclined on the divan with a book, in my room, I was all alone,
Wrapped in a quilt tucked around my feet, the wind’s moan….
In the cold gusty afternoon sun – casting its timid rays.
The howling squall…blowing outside my window in a daze ,
My skin tingling……as sharp molecule of air brushed against my face …..
And last night it was raining too, in solitude!
With no one around in sight that I could allude………
No one to talk to as I twisted in my loneliness,
Thoughts as waves spun in my mind’s ocean;
There’s a late night straggler on a tipsy motion,
Is he too feeling the same solitude alone in his stroll....
The desire for solitude casting a shadow on my soul!
Our dreams had looked momentarily so bright,
Hopes of a future held so much more in anticipation.
Time we spent were mere memories, lost in isolation,
Insecurities felt to the very core as time eats away the bliss
And between now and then searching for profound solitude amiss~
A glass of red Merlot wine ousting the gloom to the furthest alife…….
Relishing a melody of a single sigh sings me back to life,
Last night I cried out mutely beset by fears of sweet pain
In the silent night where no sound shows face, I choose to listen;
For the sake of untying this ribbon of fear, for hearing a sound,
Besides silence my conscience urges me from roaming around;
In solitude, I woke up in the morning to a collage of memories,
Reading a book out loud - my voice shaking, collecting bits and pieces~
As the heroine longed for togetherness - in an isolated crowd-
To be loved in a relaxing rhythm - in solitude…!!