"censer" poems
the church used my burning soul to light the candles for every service / my innocence floated away with the smoke from the censer / the past and present clashed like cymbals / and it hurt my ears.
time ran down the slippery slope of the hourglass / my vocal cords struggled to come together / oxygen left the air / and my flame was nearly extinguished.
so no / I will not give a cent / because I was the donation shared amongst everyone else / even as I burned.
no more.
Apr 16, 2022
Apr 16, 2022 at 7:16 PM UTC
I am weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-place.
Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady’s side.
Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,
A Forester’s son may not eat off gold.
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?
Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.
Ah, if she is working the arras bright
I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.
Perchance she is hunting of the deer,
How could you follow o’er hill and mere?
Ah, if she is riding with the court,
I might run beside her and wind the morte.
Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,
(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)
Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,
I might swing the censer and ring the bell.
Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,
The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.
But who are these knights in bright array?
Is it a pageant the rich folks play?
‘T is the King of England from over sea,
Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.
But why does the curfew toll sae low?
And why do the mourners walk a-row?
O ‘t is Hugh of Amiens my sister’s son
Who is lying stark, for his day is done.
Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,
It is no strong man who lies on the bier.
O ‘t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,
I knew she would die at the autumn fall.
Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,
Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.
O ‘t is none of our kith and none of our kin,
(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)
But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting sweet,
‘Elle est morte, la Marguerite.’
Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,
And let the dead folk bury their dead.
O mother, you know I loved her true:
O mother, hath one grave room for two?
2.2k
When burning spices mingle with the prayer
of heavenly voices, holy scents arise,
and toward the East are turned my open eyes
to look on Christ's ascension painted there.
The censer’s smoke swirls up as embers flare
an offering of Earth’s treasures toward the skies,
while, sweetly sung, a hymn that glorifies
the Holy Spirit fills the fragrant air.
This adoration rises to the ceiling,
and lingers there in humankind’s defense.
My lips, and now this church, are cleansed by coal
that burns in tongs and censer’s bowl revealing
that sweet as odor spilled by lit incense
is grace poured out upon my errant soul.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
To the tune of "Intoxicated Under the Shadow of Flowers"
Light mists and heavy clouds,
melancholy the long dreary day.
In the golden censer
the burning incense is dying away.
It is again time
for the lovely Double-Ninth Festival;
The coolness of midnight
penetrates my screen of sheer silk
and chills my pillow of jade.
After drinking wine at twilight
under the chrysanthemum hedge,
My sleeves are perfumed
by the fragrance of the plants.
Oh, I cannot say it is not endearing,
Only, when the west wind stirs the curtain,
I see that I am more gracile
than the yellow flowers.
1.8k
I feel like you're slipping through my open fingers, our relationship falling like a handful of sand and no matter how fast or hard I clench my fist you find the little cracks to fall through
They say that when kids reach late teens, they fight, and grow distant, they grow to resent their parents and relationships fail, but I feel like I'm something new, our relationship isn't disappearing, you aren't fading into the distance, instead you are transforming into something new and I'm no longer your little girl.
Early today we went to the mall, and as we sat and ate lunch you said the strangest thing. You started talking about your job and about your feelings, treating me like an adult at last. The way I had always wanted you to talk to me my whole life. Like I was a friend and you could confide in me, because I still can't talk to you about the devastation I've encountered, but you finally understand that though I am still small my eyes hold wisdom and the gibberish you think I hear, comes like a melody in comprehensible packages. The codes you have come untangled to my ears, because I too have experienced your codes.
As a little girl I waited begging into my pillow that you would treat me this way, that you would talk to me like a friend. But the other day you did, and something was missing. I missed the way that you used to talk to me with your eyes shining carefully watching your words. The way that you would censer your topics as if I didn't understand the truth.
And now that you do this, that you talk to me like a new found friend you met at work, I miss being your little girl. I see the shinning eyes as your talk to my younger brother, and I miss the days you looked at me with that little kid look. Because now you see me with eyes of an equal, because I'm not your little girl anymore, because our mother daughter relationship has slipped through my fingers and the love you showed like chocolate kissing placed on the pillow of your every action, have been given to another and now my mother is slipping away.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
You, yew and ewe.
New, knew and gnu.
Two, too and to.
Do, dew and doo.
Your, you’re, ewer and yore.
Sower, sewer and even sore.
Pin, pen
Win, wen.
Tin, ten.
Bin, been.
For, four, and fore.
Poor, pour and pore.
Bear, bare and bayer.
There, their and they’re.
Sure, sewer, shore and shower.
Censor, censure, sensor, censer.
Din, den.
Kin, ken.
Win, wen.
Yin, yen.
Shoulda, coulda and woulda,
Wanna, hafta and hadda.
Pitchers painted of pitchers
Ree-lutters instead of realtors.
Pertecting you with protection.
Prescribing you a perscription.
A different kind of differnse,
For instance, gimme a frinstance.
Pin, pen
Win, wen.
Tin, ten.
Bin, been.
Din, den.
Kin, ken.
Win, wen.
Yin, yen.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
Thou know’st, my Julia, that it is thy turn
This morning’s incense to prepare and burn.
The chaplet and Inarculum here be,
With the white vestures, all attending thee.
This day the queen-priest thou art made, t’ appease
Love for our very many trespasses.
One chief transgression is, among the rest,
Because with flowers her temple was not dressed;
The next, because her altars did not shine
With daily fires; the last, neglect of wine;
For which her wrath is gone forth to consume
Us all, unless preserv’d by thy perfume.
Take then thy censer, put in fire, and thus,
O pious priestess! make a peace for us.
For our neglect, Love did our death decree
That we escape. Redemption comes by thee.
1.3k
the city smelled like frankincense this morning
stepping out into a world of
startling reminiscence
of childhoods spent chanting in churches
and calling out to Papa, Papa!
Come save us!
Come save us from ourselves!
the city smelled like frankincense this morning
like a whole world made holy
streets paved with sacred resin
sewers leaking holy vapors
warm fogs wafting down from
some invisible censer
to smother us all in glory
the city smelled like frankincense this morning
oh so familiar tangy-pine aroma of magick
and mystery and mastery
and gold glinting with candles' light
burnt offerings sacrificed
as to make the very air sacred
with graceful gifts to gods
the city smelled like frankincense this morning
potent and penetrating and permeating
into and through and all around
clinging and saturating, dizzying and cloying
turning the world as a dervish reeling
in a rush of divine dance
inspired to the light of one true mind
the city smelled like frankincense this morning
and when I breathed it in I knew
I could read the sign
I knew which way to go
I knew what I had been waiting for
and why I had been wanting
I knew
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
Mount shifted-like ghouls
Risen in the dark sky's eminence
Where, there, soaring souls
Of a centre crown circumference
From out the waning moon
And of the warm nights of June --
(When the solace of the days to me
Were that of false Destiny),
Whereas I, too, worn the ring of Albatross
From pass unmitigated loss
Of a pulchritudinous lover
Whom the saintly cherubs uncover
The lacy-lilac flower of yore
Which lies, a warrior's life, no more.
Oh, quaff thy drugs in never regretting
For war as this that's worth forgetting;
Whether holy angels in these skies
Or daunted demons in disguise
As revenants, stern and severe,
Silently fume the censer here
Where the fallen brave flown to Avalon
From the dreaded dirge of Babylon
Lies fully somewhere within
As a chrysalis, a beautiful kin,
Oh somewhere within,
Somewhere within
Lies fully within
The lacy-lilac flower of yore
Which lies, a warrior's life, no more.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 9:03 PM UTC
In the reliquary there is the censer, and the book.
In the reliquary, which is the fields and
the little hidden place known only to you,
there is also a plant with plush green leaves, hung
from rotted twine, going yellow and ancient
in the native light. The word is a rebuke and the
plant is the rebuke of the word,
and the water that kept the plant
green and lovely is vanishing
and the plant can only be used when
it is rid of it.
Buy them by the carton and smoke them
so when he sticks his fat head out of Heaven
we can catch his beard on fire.
Draw his fat head as if it is magnificent:
draw it next to the lamb reposed
and the crossword in the children's Sunday pamphlet.
Remain quiet. Read instead about
the flight of the Jews and their wanderings.
There is smoke in Exodus. There is smoke in Leviticus.
There is smoke in every cell of your body
and if you are burned you will rise.
Remain quiet. The silence is a wall
you can crush with a fist until you recognize yourself in it;
a sanctuary is any four walls that contain peace;
white panels hide the baptismal and are the only way out:
we recognize our end in the quiet, warm water.
It gets in your ears like water does. When
the saints speak or the doves cluck you can only hear
choking, like a storm drain ******* at leaves. What color
is the water that is not the River Jordan: clear unto the tile.
What color are his eyes that are not
the River Jordan? What color are his eyes when
he looks at you bowing and scraping
in the closet with the believer in a spaghetti strap top
she cannot wear to school? What color?
The hand on the bell is profane so the sound of the bell is profane;
better to hold what is already ruined and ruin it further
says the land that was given
to the men who **** it,
and the stars misconceived
smile at those going North
and are silent in cities.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 8:00 PM UTC
How many ends in and of themselves
constitute a fill that is yours?
Abreacted claimant...many airs
light at the feet.
I Am with you, I Am you upon this
All-encompassed fold.
Our knees stupefied by weight...
gone weak--gone strong, time and
out of so again.
As a priest walking up the aisle,
censer oscillating the concrescence
of attending souls.
Sniffing for the emblazoned churchyard...
known paces out of doors--the sky
falling down and granting pace no more...
of we, figured in the delving core,
cored out...The Great Scattering.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
He sat on the old board fence, his chair of state
All spiffy in his Sunday-pressed khakis
Though he wasn't much for going to church
And his Other Hat, still a farmer’s hat
With his teeth and his workworn, sunburnt hand
(The other hand somehow mislaid in France)
He played the paper and ‘baccy and tag
Into a censer of sacred sweet smoke
And all us little boys watched him in awe
And hoped for the bag with its little string draw
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 10:33 AM UTC
Visions I see in my sleep
Dreams, you've planted inside my oceans
A debate between ink and nightmares
Overdosing on your pills and potions
Soothe, my mind my aching bones
Soothe, gently with madness with the-
Purity of yours, breaking me to build me
Flaying me alive, as it soothes my mind
Your innocent mumbles
My ears’ favorite song
The smoke of my last cigarette
Swaying over my favorite song
Your angelic smell is-
My daily perfume, my daily bliss
That your wear every moon-rise-
Upon your dress, upon my chest
Under the shivering white leaves
Of winter, under the superior sun
Of summer, we’ll both melt down
Next to your white heart, I’ll live
Next to your weak leaves, I'll fall
By your vanilla blossoms, I'll rise again
On the smell of your chocolate cosmos
I’ll live, by your spring’s censer
We’ll live through the sun’s explosion
Through my condensed blood
By my melted flesh
I’ll live, next to your soft warm hair
Madness, living by your eyes
Scripted, upon your eyelids
Artistically, upon your iconic skin
Stitches and scars, drawn upon your heart
Upon your bones I lay my head
Through your heart I crawl to sleep
To watch the night stars
Craving your eyes, and you, my heart
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
Maundy Thursday – Mass of the Last Supper
“Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang”
-Shakespeare
The air is thurified – the incense given
Our Lord upon His birth is fumed at last;
The censer’s chains, clanking like manacles
Offend against the silence at the end of Mass
Supper is concluded; the servants strip
The Table bare of all the Seder service:
Cups, linens, and dishes, leaving in the dark
An Altar bare, prepared for sacrifice
In Gethsemane the flowered air is sweet
But iron-heeled caligae offend the night
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 11:11 PM UTC
It was all a dream
I used to be in sin up to my knee
Guilty of one, you're Guilty of all
Every Saturday repent with each prayer and call
Jesus as my Rock pray till I drop
Frankincense and Myrrh, in the censer of Pap
Way back when the faith I lacked
I thought I'd fade to black
My body is His Church
Remember Readin Luke, The Word The Word
I never thought His gospel was ever truly heard
So He showed me His divine light and gave me my sight
Time to spread what I heard, from the Spirit descended as bird
Born sinless in her, the world turns us to sinner
Remember we must be like children if heaven we hope to enter
Peace in the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit
Those with the ears, let them hear it
I'm born again like He foresaw I would
Through the sacrifice of His Son's blood,
He's All Good.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
I recollect the whole thing as clearly as if I had awoke with the sun,
Dispensing with any alarm, fully awake and engaged.
I am on a gurney being wheeled slowly down a hospital hallway
(For it is clear to that workaday hustle and bustle
Is no longer of concern to me)
Which is all silence,
Save for the squeak and bump of my carriage’s wheels
As it crosses from tile to tile,
And the sheet which covers me is seemingly made of gauze,
For I can, as I pass by one to the next,
See clearly inside each of the rooms,
The tableaus being what you might expect in such a place:
A young man and small child
Fluttering about a mother and her newborn,
A middle-aged woman reading aloud
(But softly, almost mechanically)
To an ancient and clearly unheeding man,
Another woman, aged and frail to the point of being insubstantial,
Dabbing at her eyes with a frayed, damp tissue,
Exiting a room as an orderly closes the blinds.
At this point the scenes become incongruous, almost surreal,
As if another director has suddenly assumed control of the film;
There is a room where a Marlowe-esque priest,
All harlequin-outfitted and codpiece-clad,
Bumbles drunkenly about the room,
Banging his censer against the walls as he speaks in tongues.
But just as suddenly the settings become gentle, pastoral:
In one room there are no walls at all,
Only a quiet valley with dirt roads and small streams
And the sound, disembodied but palpable and oddly familiar,
Of bells tolling faintly and melodiously in the distance,
While in the next there is nothing save
A young woman with angels bending over her.
At this point, I have clearly reached my final destination,
And I expect to find a chilly and spartan space,
Harshly lit and sparsely furnished with metallic chairs and tables,
So I am caught unawares for what awaits through the doors:
Light, just light making everything below it a toy world.
The dream abruptly ends, as they are wont to do,
But it seems I found it oddly comforting,
And it is that which makes me so apprehensive.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 10:33 AM UTC
“Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang”
-Shakespeare
The air is thurified – the incense given
Our Lord upon His birth is fumed at last;
The censer’s chains, clanking like manacles
Offend against the silence at the end of Mass
Supper is concluded; the servants strip
The Table bare of all the Seder service:
Cups, linens, and dishes, leaving in the dark
An Altar bare, prepared for sacrifice
In Gethsemane the flowered air is sweet
But iron-heeled caligae offend the night
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
They are vibrant in the stem
While life spreads in them
Feelings!, drops and condemn
In such a drop falling like a gem
I wonder what reminds of them!
While hands made their diadem!
With flowers evaporates like a censer
In such steam goes wild and denser
Till the scents swirl went intenser
Then more questions!, still no answer!
What do you expect from a cancer!
A waster dancer!, perked romancer!
Author/ Aladdin Aures H.
May 11, 2023
May 11, 2023 at 12:25 PM UTC