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Naomi  Lowinsky

Ghazal of Our Times


The mountain is backlit   a blue-green daydream   removed from the news   of our times
Adrift in the geologic   stoned on forever     Mountain is muse   beyond time

In my dream it’s 1913     Jung’s having visions of blood   soon to suffuse   his times
I wake to wonder     What would he see   in the witches brew   of our times?

The dead do the cooking    in my dream     My used-to-be brother-in-law   my mother 
fry onions for the stew    We’ve got this    You go work on the ghazal     Better use of your time

Our children are on strike against us   for we’re complicit   in the rape of the earth 
Suffering solastalgia   they’re on TV   at City Hall   chanting blues   for the end of time

Repeat after me   I am not a robot   though we’re bundled and sold   by Facebook
shown glimpses of glamour   to distract us from horror   at the corruption   the abuse   
                                                                                                                                    of our times

You’ve wandered away   to the land of the sick   in the company of a woman in black
[This is a nightmare]     She turns to me     You’re not about to lose him     There’s still time

Mooncakes celebrate    the full autumn moon    they celebrate revolution
Be water   be a great wave   O people of Hong Kong     Jujitsu’s the way    of our times

The dream says   Carry your faerie child   your changeling   over the mountain
Such a tiny spark   Tom Thumb in a cup   eternal amuse   of my lifetime

The Lady of the Labyrinth   swirls through the air   her willow wand   a wild commotion
Everything moves   meanders   spirals   transmuting what beshrews    our times

The Messiah   is at my gate   insists I read his palm     Strong heart line     Broken lifeline    
Faith wrestles fate   Naomi     It’s the story of the Jews   of all peoples     We must suffer 
                                                                                                                                        our times

Ghazal of Craft

A ghazal is a dwelling   full of windows    looks out at the village    looks inward   in reverie
                                                                                                                                        your craft
A ghazal is a camel   carries you across the desert   to the oasis   where poetry is   your craft

Ginsberg said “First thought   Best thought”     Not when you’re making a ghazal
You’re in and out of the fire   transmuting image   into melody     How’s that for craft?

Why would you want to squeeze your flow   into the girdle of a form   you never inherited?
The ghazal wallah cries   rhythm   rhyme   refrain   gather your chaos   in filigree craft

We built this house together   in a dream     Obama laid the floor beams   solid   strong 
You raised the walls   we put in all these windows   a jubilee of craft


The forest wanders into the house   seeks protection   from greed and the axe
The trees are pale   not enough sun   Call in the Faerie Queen   We need Her Craft


Light a candle   rub Ganesha’s belly   pray that a love child   be born in our land   
Blood drips   from the hanging tree     O child of ethnic ambiguity   save our craft

Our dream house is ripped   from the land   tossed on high seas   we cling to each other  
Obama Obama   did you waterproof the floor beams?    Did you foresee   what’s required   
                                                                                                                                    of our craft?

Free   white   and twenty-one     He guns his privilege   down to the border
Has himself one long   jerk-off   blast     High Capacity   Power Craft

In the terrified heart   of El Paso   citizens queue up to give blood     What’s a ghazal
                                                                                                                               but the shriek   of a cornered gazelle   or the mother at Walmart   who takes a bullet  to save her baby
                                                                                                              from assault weapon craft
What’s the use of a dream   in this nightmare?   The Slasher-in-Chief   rules the air waves
                                                                                                                                  runs his knife  across the throat   of the body politic    We’re hostage   to his know-nothing   fury
                                                                                                        Never underestimate his craft

My name is Seesaw   I’m hot pink   make children laugh   on both sides   of the border    
Never underestimate   the power of play    conjuring joy   where there was agony     
                                                                                                                        Now there’s a craft


tiffany jolowicz Monday on Michigan Island, Yesterday, the Day Before, Two Thousand Years
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