Eileen R. Tabios is a poet working in multiple genres and in-between. She also loves books by writing, reading, publishing, critiquing, romancing and advocating for them. This blog will feature her bibliophilic activities with posts on current book engagements and links to her books and projects related to books.

Monday, December 10, 2018


Sometimes I try poetic forms new to me. Sometimes, they click for me and sometimes they don't. One that didn't click was the ghazal (which is not to say it's not a lovely form). But recent unpacking of items from long-term storage elicited the one ghazal I've ever written ... and I thank Central Coast Poetry Shows for publishing it by making me their featured poet today on their Facebook page--"Day 584 Poetry." The ghazal (to date) is not the \ form for me but, as I say in the poem's last line:

"O Beloved! I was the wrong dame!"

Since the poem is on Facebook, I replicate poem here for those of you not traversing FB (the long lines just continue on to next line):


while floating on the Seine, noon light lingering, south side of Notre Dame
feet up on starboard, tide gentle, memory searching for a red-haired dame

where grey rocks polka-dot Pacific Grove, breathing space at the Seven Collars Inn
overlooking an aqua sea, flecks of white tissuing chin, nibbles piled on a giggling dame

at the Monterey Fish Grotto overlooking “The Point” where the Allegheny and Monongahela
join like thighs in Pittsburgh (the sommelier bleary-eyed), biding his breath with a wide-hipped dame

on a smelly dock creaking in Beach Bay Harbor, Maine, savoring streetside lobster rolls
$7-$8 per sandwich—“heaven cheap at that price”—colliding tongues with a succulent dame

over Calistoga or Arcadia National Park—“don’t matter where”—to ride a hang glider
and hear from the open cockpit a high-pitched susurrus like bliss cried out by a childhood dame

with Susan on her porch—“I smell her perfume to this very day”—wheat napping beyond the horizon
“How did I come to be denied the scent of jasmine permeating the hair on that low-lidded dame?”

Or on a slatted bench in Stag’s Leap courtyard with a glass of chardonnay, then cabernet
where Richard outlined this poem, no hiccups in his stride though I, Eileen, was the wrong dame—

Oh, Beloved! I was the wrong dame!

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