Lady Macbeth washed her hands
cleaner than Pontius Pilate
with a new improved, bio-enzyme
oxy-bursting, 99.9% germ-scouring
recommended by dermato-logists
scented with rose attar
oils from Arabia
and spermaceti soothing
unguents from long dead whales.

She’s going to the nail bar
for a manicure and application
of semi-permanent, diamond-
tipped, acrylic base-coated
in red blood enamel.

She’ll scratch
and etch rich tattoos
on her husband’s back
with every ******, he will shudder
with pain and delight
He’ll soon forget long, dark nights
bewitched by ghosts and ambition.

© M.L. Emmett

675

Essential Oils—are wrung—
The Attar from the Rose
Be not expressed by Suns—alone—
It is the gift of Screws—

The General Rose—decay—
But this—in Lady’s Drawer
Make Summer—When the Lady lie
In Ceaseless Rosemary—

Part I
The night, no moon in the sky
The wind, full force as to fly
The cold, as to numb the blood
The trees, shadows the vision flood
The night, dark blue in the water
The wind, of rose is the howled attar
The cold, close to freezing the lake
The trees, static dormant to a shake
The night, solitary is the dark
The wind, momentary is its mark
The cold, nearly settled is the doubt
The trees, silent is their spout

The night, the wind, the cold, the trees

A Swan glides with an asynchronous thread
Feathers in the umbra, the heart partly dead
He has lost his dearest, his alluring arch
Spring isn't coming, no September or March
Once there was another swan
To make the lake shimmer with dawn
Their courtship was the core of the pond
A rare gem of opal coloured their bond
Unlike gems, though, be crushed love can
And it was time's deed right there and then
She now is in a new safe haven
And left was him with an egg of a raven

In the midst of this midnight dreary
The Swan was forlorn and weary
But the clouds of metal became of cotton
The grey marsh sudden, was brief forgotten
A shred of light, two lions glowed
Their manes of fire their passion showed
"What a scene" the Swan had thought
"That's the fervor my heart had sought
Forever bound by a curse of ice
I am void and there's no price
To unlock me from the eternal dream
And let me find my lion gleam"

Still, the sky is yet so white
And the past gloom cannot him fright
At his right the Swan stare
Intrigued by the unceasing flare
A piglet and a spider, what a scene
Why are they ringed by a sheen?
In the night, they play like friends
Fight, discuss and make amends
A web of favours and support
Parades of gratitude are never short
"Oh, is it fondness what I am lacking?
Is this why I am ever cracking?"

Now the display is certainly over
And the Swan hopes to find his clover
No more than ever he is so keen
To live anew and be serene
The night enjoys the happy mood
And let the moon stop its brood
The clouds, at once, no more than mist
An ethereal cast, will this be a tryst?
The moon glitz on a past reflection
A female black swan of mystic complexion
An owl hoots afar and is dismissed
As the hero sings after being kissed:

"Where have you been, my dove?
Why did you leave, my love?
I was so lost in here
Without your voice to hear

Without you to kiss me
Without you to bliss me
I was just a shadow
Missing the rain and the rainbow

But now I can see life
And each thing is so rife
I will give you my heart
So we won't fall apart"

Part II
Night, the moon is sublime
Wind, tame like no other time
Cold, feeble against heart's motion
Trees, mere pawns in this ocean
Yet silence cannot much contain
The disturbing growls of owl disdain
It thrives with strength, to fill the lake
To **** the love and pleasure take
The Swan, still, has just eyes... no ears
So to halt death from ousting his tears
Joy runs his body with iron vigor
His love denies dearth of such rigor

The courtship swims with celestial sync
In an opal ballet of black and white ink
Lastly, his arch the Swan can complete
With a dubious promise of endless heat:
"Our past is antiquity and shall be erased
The future, fertile, a wish to be chased
Let us embrace and with nature be one
Me and you, the rest will be none.
Though, I will only expect your happy devotion
No fear, no sadness, no other emotion
You are my minion, and mine in exclusive
Is this what you craved in your hope elusive?"

The Swan is soon hesitant of the deal
His novel grasp masks her appeal:
"Your words of ice burn down my feathers
Your crooked intentions prevent us together
I was foolish in you to trust my belief
Your offer won't stop my desert, my grief
Love can't ever be monochromatic
Yes, there are moments one's ecstatic
But endless joy is not the way
It will prevent freedom and will me betray
The value of love is shallow without anguish of partition
The bones of love are brittle without a conflict's remission"

The eyes of the black swan fumes in red
The clouds, the moonlight they shred
A tempest thunders over the misty lake
Out of the haze, the bird is now a snake:
"Your faith is missplaced in a callow profile
Your passt came closse to you beguile
You think your luck in love issn't departed
But you are full of sself-pity, fainthearted
Honesst love iss the piercer of my power
And IF you find it, I will to you cower
Yet you have nothing; you're dessperate for ssomeone
Had welcomed the deal, you wouldn't be undone"

The water spreads cold with every heartbeat
The quick rime sings Swan's defeat
The snake reveals its fangs of ink dark
And bites the Swan, a sanguine red mark
All seems lost to this tragic hero
A heart's betrayal in the absolute zero
Until a hoot echoes through the trees
And the bird finally the owl sees
With claws of steel, the snake it slashes
In response, lightning flashes
It breaks the ice and the reptile sears
The Swan is now saved, but not from his fears

A boy wakes up in a nice little room
With a painting of the lake and a flower in bloom
A bee buzzes around about the place  
And in the White Rose, lends with grace
Both make a sound akin to a chatter
They seem happy with their talking matter
The angered boy, annoyed by the insect,
Into the painting, the bee he projects
With a new aspect thrown away
He burns down reality's display
And when a dove finds its way out
The man its wings brake and his out route

1466

One of the ones that Midas touched
Who failed to touch us all
Was that confiding Prodigal
The reeling Oriole—

So drunk he disavows it
With badinage divine—
So dazzling we mistake him
For an alighting Mine—

A Pleader—a Dissembler—
An Epicure—a Thief—
Betimes an Oratorio—
An Ecstasy in chief—

The Jesuit of Orchards
He cheats as he enchants
Of an entire Attar
For his decamping wants—

The splendor of a Burmah
The Meteor of Birds,
Departing like a Pageant
Of Ballads and of Bards—

I never thought that Jason sought
For any Golden Fleece
But then I am a rural man
With thoughts that make for Peace—

But if there were a Jason,
Tradition bear with me
Behold his lost Aggrandizement
Upon the Apple Tree—

On the beach I sat on a rock, staring out to sea.
The day was sunny and warm, though blowing a gentle breeze.
There were only a few people there on the beach.
They were engrossed with having fun, and ignored me.
Further along the beach, in a striped top, was a girl.
She walked to the edge of the sea, and watched the incoming tide.

I idly watched the girl who was watching the incoming tide.
Her long hair, unbound, was teased by the gentle breeze.
She stood there motionless, just an ordinary girl,
Gazing at the relentless waves rolling in from the sea.
Although there were other people scattered on the beach,
None of them had any attraction in any way for me.

I was spending time alone, there on that beach,
Watching the slow encroachment of the incoming tide.
As the sun moved overhead, stronger became the breeze,
Making breaking white tops on the waves on the sea.
Reaching into her pocket, a camera was produced by the girl,
Who slowly started filming the scene, turning and facing me.

I watched the girl, standing there, with her back to the sea.
Was she secretly filming me while pretending to film the beach?
She was bare-foot, and as I watched, her feet were wettened by the tide.
The wind had moved round and from her to me now blew the breeze.
I thought I could detect a subtle scent wafting from the girl.
“Attar of Roses”, my favourite fragrance, drifted across to me.

Then, as I sat and watched, further turned the girl.
Having turned fully around, she stood again with her back to the beach.
Then, she seemed to realise, she was surrounded by sea,
And gradually she became aware of the incoming tide.
Once again, she slowly turned, hair blown in her face by the breeze,
And her face, framed by her hair, was now facing to me.

Then, camera swinging from a hand, she walked up the beach.
The panorama that I saw, had now lost some appeal for me.
The sun was slowly sinking down, and colder blew the breeze.
The waves were getting stronger, on the incoming tide.
I decided it was time that I ended my sojourn by the sea,
And I could still smell “Attar of Roses”, a memento of the ephemeral girl.

*Grahame Upham
9th May 2014

1546

Sweet Pirate of the heart,
Not Pirate of the Sea,
What wrecketh thee?
Some spice’s Mutiny—
Some Attar’s perfidy?
Confide in me.

Creeping administration slithers along,
The fascist past comes back...
The winged-devil fiddling his song,
For the corporations are his attack!

And even though they know it is wrong,
The greedy-ones will never turn back.
Risking all with the angering throng,
Congress tightens the noose with their acts!

That dark orchestra revolution in the night,
A sweet attar-tune their honey.
And no one best stand up to their might,
When they're all lechering for money!

Saturday.
He fondles his roses
as little Beth walks by,
holding her mommy’s hand.
When mother and daughter
are up the street a bit,
he palpates petals,
lets thorn press into his crotch.

He is that nice old retired preacher
from the middle of the block.
He babysits Beth while her mommy
goes to the gym.

His predilections are private...
secret...
No one knows.
No one knows but little Beth...

and all the little girls before her.

448

This was a Poet—It is That
Distills amazing sense
From ordinary Meanings—
And Attar so immense

From the familiar species
That perished by the Door—
We wonder it was not Ourselves
Arrested it—before—

Of Pictures, the Discloser—
The Poet—it is He—
Entitles Us—by Contrast—
To ceaseless Poverty—

Of portion—so unconscious—
The Robbing—could not harm—
Himself—to Him—a Fortune—
Exterior—to Time—

and so they fell …
Tears as pearly quaver
Salty in their pas de deux from her realize
A can-can polka in strip tease of soul bare
How vibrant, albeit transient in masquerade, their desire
A dance of miniscule quandary in micro adventure
Frilly knickered, in slivers of the truth
In folly, a spent of friendship abandoned
Curtsey now, in diversity of no embrace, why?
…for our lives are but a piecemeal of conversation
Random etymology in lesson
A three penny opera with no beg your pardon
The once bemused attar of forget me nots
Their fragrance now heavy in the air
…and the diminutive whys, wander rhetorically, in and out
of the bungle bungles of reality… because they can-can

Black valley—
a sheath of dark attar
under the fullest moon. I find so beautiful
in it’s darkening as my spirit’s rind.
Extruded by a forceful wind call,—
hoping to run into that, solely being innocence.
But is it black; liken to a colour that seems so
unclean? Washing bare hands twice; but I can’t wash what I am.

A dark masterpiece,—pretty as many flowers I am,
I am this dark flower. I shine brightest in the dark.

Saturday.
He fondles his roses
as little Beth walks by,
holding her mommy’s hand.
When mother and daughter
are up the street a bit,
he palpates petals,
lets thorn press into his crotch.

He is that nice old retired preacher
from the middle of the block.
He babysits Beth while her mommy
goes to the gym.

His predilections are private...
secret...
No one knows.
No one knows but little Beth...

and all the little girls before her.
Not everyone is who they seem
and evil can live forever hidden.

Love's letters clattered in currents
Winds curled to stillness,
in a talus of potpourri,
Season totem, a cluster of hope,
waiting
For one match pulled and struck,
To scare the ghosts from the pyre.
In a choke of smoke
from sweet attar,
Loves heat fans
the embers within
the hearts own fire.

So many words
wrenched from mouth
and wrought from hand
Contortions,
twisted spoken grip,
we strip the evergreen needles
from the bough
and let them fall from the fist,
Sprinkling fir
To the earth as grist.

Had not a sentence stretched from
pulsing ink well
by plume to parchment, or
from warm breath of lip’s beseech
What then of our night would say,
And of our day to listen.

If we do not dare with deeds to fly
Then the falling never ends,
And poem, eternal, ne'er to begin
Loves expression, not its desire,
Is the cachet
to which both life and death aspire.

The smoke, the billows, fires flare and winds; strange noises that perplex,

the scented attar waffles through and the bubbling of the brew,

all of this in rit-u-al, we find in the witches kylix.

Who does she send to Charon’s boat to cross great river Styx?

After she’s been boiling them, in the peculiar witch’s kylix...

The onlookers strain at the fantail feathers of a hazy orangish moon,

all the animals and hidden watchers are captured by a swoon,

for something carried in the smoke makes everything betwixt,

and no one knows exactly what, is in the witches kylix?

Some saw smoke against a clear night, while lesser ones caught a smell,

watery mouths, sweet tasty smells, so tantalizing, lead them to a boiling hell.

Who thinks to ask, who begs a question, an old woman and cauldron in the sticks?

Who cooks at night out in the dark with just an iron kylix?

Her eyes reflect when you show yourself, you shudder at the thought,

a predator, hunter on the prowl, perhaps you is what she sought?

That evil star-shine is the signal for you know what is this game,

but the hunger pangs and roiling stomach nearly double you in pain.

You ignore the bones of many sizes, as wolves whimper in the distance,

and you realize to late it seems that you are her subsistence,

-bubbling in the witch’s kylix.

This one is blackened dark as pitch; two handles shaped each like a six,

and you inside cooking quickly, a classic witches kylix!

Beg the night, pray to the moon, slap your face and make it quick,

or you’ll be caught by the swoon and end up in the witches kylix.

was growing to the south of the town
      every spring the men would go down
marching in their robes to burn each stalk
   but the fire would enter their walk
       they rid themselves of the leaden weight
of their robes      the mens wild gait
was pagan   animalistic
their whole life had been running from this
   easy in those robes      but now   naked
they touched each others bodies      taken
with the attar of the fire      *******
in ashes      on their knees   *******
not praying   but swallowing      then the robes
   left to burn      from the ash   the field left to grow

Rain-scented perfume, this
Aromatic smell of rain-soaked earth
Monsoon-infused, centuries-old.

A man turns his head towards the laughter
As he crushes a batch of ancient clay.
Knowingly his attention returns to his family.

It is the smell of the baked, parched soil
When the first rains arrive after the drought
Which concerns the artisan of scented oils.

The enticing fragrance fills the air
With each precious drop of heavy syrup
Eked from the ages, eked from eternity.

Captured in the tiny bottle, power-filled.
The process has survived the fall of civilizations
And empires and conquerors.

It is said to have healing powers.
Aged like the land and its ancient people,
Deep and rich, the liquor of the essence of time.

It must come from this land, this people.

A glance,
A smile,
A hint of attar.
A word.
A touch.
My heart thumps.
A sidereal excursion
And I cannot wait until tomorrow.

One need only tilt life's prism to
Feel the grey muzzle buried into the crook of an arm,
See the faceless sunflowers reach toward the light,
Inhale at tresses swung, and the release of attar,
Smile at papers strewn on a rainy Sunday morning,
Blush at a hand outstretched in anticipation,
And to close one’s eyes at the memory of a friend.

Like the ancient Elms of Eden
And the Pines fo Central Park
Like the Age old Oaks of England
That in winer shed their bark.

Like the flowers in the garden
And the leaves upon the trees
Or the grass that fills the yard, and
The blossoms drawing bees.

Like the spices in the kitchen
And the attar in perfume
Or the paint upon the canvas
That decorates the room.

Every year you grow more graceful
Each year your beauty grows
Every year I am more grateful
For your head, down to your toes.

He was born in Mecca, Saudi Arabia in 570AD
He was to be the last prophet decreed by Allah even before Adam,
He was the last Messenger of Allah.
He did not belong to one caste,city or religion,
But, to all humanity,
He had the largest followers.
He had been blessed with Al-kauthar-abundance,
He had also been blessed with the most powerful miracles-------
The splitting of the moon in two,
Proof to the pagans of his prophethood.
The miracles of the Quran,
And the night journey of Isra-wal-Miraj,
Whereby  he was only prophet who saw Allah with his physical eyes.
Even in his physical form he was
unique,
His sacred body never cast a shadow,
He was always taller than the tallest person who stood beside him,
He could see behind and in front of him,
He never yawned,
His sweat smelled of Kasturi Musk,the most fragrant attar in the world,
He could see in the dark without light.
Plants and animals talked to him,
A fly never sat on him.
Allah communicated with him in every form of wahi,
The Angel of Death sought his permission to take his soul.
He brought Islam,
The religion chosen by Allah,
Which Hussain kept alive till today by sacrificing his head and his family.
The religious,social and political tenets he established according to the Quran was Islam's foundation.
The Quran was revealed to him by Allah,
He received his first verbal revelation in the cave called Hira.
He is the most beloved of Allah,
He will be the first human being to be resurrected on the Day Of Judgement.
MILAD-UN-NABI MUBARAK

Hafiz of Shiraj
Kept a fast to be with the Creator,
Not till Attar handed him the cup of nectar,
And lo Hafiz of Shiraj
Beheld lover of lovers, the Creator of All.

(by: Khan, BA)

Pine embellished by Cassiopeia arched over prone morning.  Meadowlark laughed, cougars stalked shadows, crow deputies.  Bent creek carried silt of spring, sigh of cedar.  Cold mist, feathered cloak marked him of eagle and raven.  He took part night, river’s depth in bent cedar boxes along grease trails over walls called cordillera.  Distantly ships put into several bays.  Raven gave up tricking salmon people, at Rose Spit called out first, men.  Who had invented dance now demanded war.  What speech there was was lament. Undone morning weeps bloodied.   Anger-melted gold fills insatiable mouths, shames what night cannot hide.  No more hand set to house front, no more ashlar of jasper. Night casts her spears, we have not even time to die.  Flee hands which reach from river, children ghost small starving birds.  Rejoice in crow’s carrion cruelty, Owl devour those we cannot smother in our desperate escape.
                               Look up beaten, complaining, supreme.  Reconstruction begins in this torpor, a boredom purring heart cannot abolish.  Inebriated with the impossible, go past mission outpost’s Gide and a Kempis to the lineage house of men.  Hegel whispers I never did believe.  Attar extend gender-inflected zero.  In the wrong season glisten with sugary neoprene. Belong to at least two countries, Land of Goshen sours.  Break into Quechua, haunt cruel Saturdays, look for amigo.  Wheat field marries into lion’s eye.  Ayacucho fanfares enclose the wind.  White-breasted, black-winged, displace requiem.  Recover lost chives, cottonwood’s inerrant perfume, shooting stars on the other side of the river. When mountain burns, Eyes-Are-In-Festival yields turquoise.  Let him palmer drink iris dry.  Sky falls, camas blooms, then this morning white tail flicker in low aspen, chickadee dee dee dee, chickadee dee dee dee.

Oh pretty blossom.
You'll rule. over years.
and not only for
a decade or millennium.
Independent of seasons.
You'll bloom. round the clock.
Only let me wrap you.
in your petals. for once.

Shed your thorns. for while.
My love. It hurts.
I'll water and bruise the wounds.
Let me wrap you.
in your petals. fallen down.

No worm will come near. now.
Neither this wind will annihilate.
Your beauty, attar will stay. forever.
Let me wrap you.
in your petals. once again.

I turn the towering  wave to quartz
I pin the painted.butterfly
And freeze the arching rainbow in
the dark-room of my Inner Eye

For not in meadows or the wood
nor strolling 'neath the breathing bower
It is in memory that I
distill the attar of the flower

The living lily wilts and dies
the evening fades and sunsets pass
and instants flutter from my grasp
as gold dust through an hour glass

And while the tuberose Is sweet
its scent is sweeter still, I find,
When wandering hidden byways in
the sunken gardens of my mind

Here through the prism of my dreams
My daylight visions crystallise.
Like relics trawled from turbid seas
now all is clearer to my eyes.

A hawk-eyed wizard snapped her up
and plumped her in an ivory tower,
So she'd have time to till her brain
and make it tassel like a flower

The tower rose in an Orphic wood
where gold dust showered though knotted trees,
And faerie-antlered stags would strut
while pollen drifted on the breeze

And when he'd tired of all his tricks
the sorcerer would meet her there,
He'd steal beneath the carven tower
then shinny up her golden hair

But he was not the only man
who fell beneath Rapunzel's spell,
A lad who lived beyond the wood
would come to visit her as well
                      2
It pained the boy to see her trapped
This rara avis in her cage,
with such a sweet and youthful face
and yet so jaded for her age

It seemed whenever they conversed
she used some arcane Latin word,
Or lapidary axiom
the like of which he'd never heard

And when the girl would talk about
his Dionysian turpitude,
He'd wonder if he should rejoice
or if the girl was being rude

These men, you see,she'd tired of them
their lure, like gilt  would rub away,
And soon they'd start to irk her as
they clomped around with feet of clay

And though the lad beyond the wood
had picturesquely windswept hair,
She'd feel each time he came to call
as if a storm had broken there


So then one day she took a blade
as he was climbing to her room,
And cut right through her finespun locks
like threads of gold upon a loom

The poor boy tumbled down to earth
and whimpered for a little while,
As she just stood there in her tower
and fixed him with a twisted smile

                    3

Now, free again, she took her paints
of saffron, cinnabar and gold,
and made her jewel-bright manuscripts
like cloistered nuns from days of old

Her boudoir came to life once more
as gold-tailed sapphires stirred the air,
While orchids sprouted up the walls
and tigers sauntered everywhere

And later, when her books were shut
as day was blazing to a close,
Their essence hung there rich and sweet
as attar of the damask rose
            
                  Nox
But once the night-time fell and all,
except her creaking room,was still.
outside the mists were creeping in
that brought with them an eerie chill

Her covers now seemed winding sheets
beneath the opalescent moon
Or folds upon some effigy
supine atop a marble tomb

And then soft snowflakes came, and fell
like lilies on the sleeping wood,
and seemed to seep into her heart
for love had gone away for good

Rapunzel saw at once that she,
had missed these years the scented air
And wandered blinkered as a horse
through catacombs of dank despair

And so, as iif transfixed, beneath
the icy moon's hypnotic glow
She ****** herself down from her tower
and crashed upon the ice below
                  
Then gazing calmly at the stars
as life began to ebb away
she thought about the windswept boy
and knew they'd meet again one day




                      FINIS