"attar" poems
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
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
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—
5.8k
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—
5.7k
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.
4.3k
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!
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
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—
2.4k
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*
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
Were a rose to know the gift of its own fragrance,
it would surely die… fulfilled.
Sweet attar of its sigh
lulls open the red petals of my own empty heart
who could behold such hollowness
without imaging all it can hold
’tis recompense for the rose, I draw deeply…
and die beautifully.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
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
Apr 1, 2012
Apr 1, 2012 at 3:47 AM UTC
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._
Jun 21, 2022
Jun 21, 2022 at 9:53 AM UTC
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.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
*Holding her hand , walking on the streets.
Realizing the life in those skipped heartbeats.
Exuding the attar, she dulled my senses.
Tremulous tattered talks due to spooking menaces.
Then she talked in her asthenic voice.
And suddenly everything was just background noise.
All I could do was , stare in her eyes.
And I glimpsed into her soul beyond visible lies.
She was the configuration of pain and hope.
Inside, she was in a scrimmage and clinging with a mope.
Zealously & tenacious , inside , she was a fighter.
I hankered to describe her beauty in my words, as a writer.
But to describe such aesthetical effigy I constellated nothing, not even a single word.
I was stupefyingly stuck , like a fallen wingless bird*.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 6:00 PM UTC
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.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
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 fucking
in ashes on their knees *******
not praying but swallowing then the robes
left to burn from the ash the field left to grow
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 1:15 PM UTC
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.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
A glance,
A smile,
A hint of attar.
A word.
A touch.
My heart thumps.
A sidereal excursion
And I cannot wait until tomorrow.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 2:00 PM UTC
I sit and i stare ,
i glow those thousand flares ,
in the silence with aroma of piece ,
build up by the attar in ferns .
i flew and i fear ,
i cry as i share ,
with the awe of the shade and sky above .
on the edges of night ,
sitting in the verge of the fear ,
when sun is never definit
and the coal inside had smoked up the dark ,
burning it all with a silence in chords ,
like chimneys .
when eternal darkness has it's way to the thoughts ,
end up having those large breaths in fog ,
lasts too long never to fade away .
now i am that weak and that weary ,
that falls on the slurry ,
on and on for the thousand times ,
smile as i lose then start ,
laugh once in all ,
with the wierd clinging in veins ,
as i make free fall . ,
smile as if there'll be no more edges ahead .
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
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.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 1:42 PM UTC
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.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 6:40 PM UTC
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
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 4:02 AM UTC
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.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
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.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 1:52 PM UTC
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)
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 6:29 AM UTC