Ghazal for Doha: A Blog Poem

Apologies for the late post. I started to write a rant for this week’s blog post about the tax reform that was passed late at night by the Senate Republicans, about the direction that I saw the US heading, and about how I was glad to be outside of the US during the remainder of the Trump presidency. However, I quickly soured on this topic.

 

Instead, I chose to write a ghazal. For those of you unfamiliar with a ghazal, here is more information about the form. Since Qatar’s National Day is December 18th, it seemed apt that I write something in the spirit of the day, so I poured my energy into a poem rather than polemics.

 

It’s been a while since I wrote a poem, maybe 20 years? Not since my creative writing days at the University of Wisconsin – Madison. Writing a 20-line poem took me two to three times longer than writing my average blog post, which is usually about 1200 words. Moreover, the poem still feels raw, like something I rushed through the proper incubation period. 

 

Still, weekly blogging requires weekly blog posts!

 

If you are interested in reading other, better ghazals, please check out “Cast-Iron Ghazal” or “WWE“. (Note: I have a soft spot in my heart for poems that reference professional wrestling.) Enjoy!

Three years of my life I was willing to trade                                                

for money and escape, for the lure of Doha—                                             

 

A chance to stroll Al Corniche at night, to watch the

flashing neon lights of the dhows moored in Doha.

 

So all that I owned, hastily, I gave away                                                      

my decades of trinkets—bargained for Doha                                               

 

Like a rash vendor in the alley of a souq.

“I give you best price. Better deal not in Doha!”

 

Still, not all that I loved would freely fit into

four check-in bags: some things could not come to Doha.

 

A son off to college, the other in high school—                                           

Would they hate me for disappearing to Doha?

 

Worried, one son asked, “Dad, you will come back someday?”

I promised, and they promised to visit Doha.

 

That left you. Was there a plan for us too? Or was

I meant to mourn under the moonlight of Doha?

 

In your last message, after I told you I was leaving,

no spilled feelings, over my exit to Doha: