"champa" poems
Tight, wet, heat
Sweetly encompassing cold blown glass
No *** shops on this end of town
Impatient
Head shop will have to do
Sensual, low clouds of Nag Champa swirling
I looked at many until I found the right one
Just knew
My deepest...depths clenching with need
It may not be the best thing
But it gets the job done
******* myself doesn't take nearly as long as I would like
So I touch softly, dragging out the insufferable torment
To crescendo into a blazing glory
A Phoenix on third degree fire
Pulsing
To the staccato beat of my lonely heart
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
spoon fed my keepsakes as nothing blots the sun so much
you teach me how to cringe in spun sugar. the nape of your
neck.
gleefully, we usurp the thicket of our mild dementia. sullen
joy equipped. a sumptuous dirge curdles the myth, your fins
***
as troubadours, we malinger in the pith of our blunt fruit. crust
removed from our daily bread. our basket of basilisks, bathe
in stone.
duel wielding our gazebos... we bivouac in our ambivalence, by
turns we move. you tip toadstools as i milk maidens for their
candelabras.
our palominos run. we do
violence to timpani and click mice.
pc
drifting in the cyberwocky. we transit the binary auto-bond
and paste
whats
clip.
blue thumbs thread cranberry noose. our ***** nods off. fronds
of juniper and cannabis slap the window pane. throughwhich
a *** mouse pounced on frond’s sway.
startled, we move the furniture of our eastern proclivities.
for thine is the kingdom
of our discontent !
swing-shift lap-dogs, trundle west of the east village. smell
of ****** and nag champa. idiots sting.
idiots braid zodiacs with greasy fingers. [ indeed ]
and
you
preach from your gut...
( your left breast marvelous with taint) and saltwater taffy.
we
laugh again-
at things we have
and now
only
harbor ghosts
where the rain
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
this is the new
intimacy.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:03 AM UTC
Walls are melting
your ceilings third eye criss-crosses for eons before my eyes
and somewhere through the Nag Champa haze
I found your pulsating soul calling my name
without words our bodies meld into one another
My soul vibrating with your touch
my dead weight body coming alive with your kiss
our serpent tongues desperate for flesh
our ripened fruit ready for one another to grab a bite
My soul is whole
My flesh is flushed
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
This things are made for idling
transparent in their quotidian splendor:
A Buddha statue at the receptionist desk
golden skin, red robes
welcoming all yogis with its gaze
eyelids closed
The candle, a guardian of an aim
an intention that moves within a flame
over the palms of the wooden hands
Incense smoke dance softly around the entrance
like a dream seen from wakefulness
immersive enhancer of the humor
filling the place with soft calmness
Nag champa smell
and serious air
The bamboo doors
from Monday to Sunday
open the way to Indian sounds
and the voices of blooming teachers
guide the way
until shavasana
when practitioners become gently moving statues
and glowing air goes
breathing in and breathing out
daily efforts and daily hopes.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
Sunbeams crack through the tall trees
Birds chirping along the window seals
Wind chimes tunes fills the quiet room
Nag champa wafts in the air
Mat laid flat
Squats and stretches
Eyes closed
In-hale
Ex-hale
Mind in the body
Heavenly flow
Frequency modulated
Easeness
Awareness
Serenity
Bliss
Peace
Silence
Power
© Sonia Ettyang
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 4:37 AM UTC
#*
Whispering monsoon breeze
Goes swish swish between the trees
Makes a good recce of the place
Green and proper the trees
Some laden with fruits, it’s pleased
Tickles the magpies hid amongst the leaves
Ruffles the sparrow pecking at the seeds
Waves at the clouds and the crows passing by
Giggles at the trembling basil leaves
The touch me nots, wiggle at the very thought
The champa flowers that slowly bloom
Heady the fragrance, wafts through the rooms
The swift monsoon breeze,
Whispers between the trees
Agile in its ways, soon leaves for another place*#
Jun 29, 2020
Jun 29, 2020 at 12:21 PM UTC
the krishnachura and the champa
both of them
have the only-one unsheathed afternoon
both of them
have the same-one broken harmonium
how long more the eyes of terracotta
would roam in the sun
the uneven fate-line
is written on the green slate
the sound of the vocal chord is also eloquent
as if it were some bare trees of wood-apple
around the swimming
there are some scattered scrapes of slippers
the colour of whose straps
is blue
and some tales of the faded sky
i return home with the night of
phosphorus
i return with those waves of the
mid-night that have no translation
i lay them in order
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 9:03 PM UTC
The fairies of chaitra
lie on the un–wrinkled bed
with their backside up
in the hearsay of the air
once the woods of tamarisks
once the hill of paraffin
it appears there is no interruption
to this circus
the toy-telephones
hang from the cloud to cloud
from that carnival
take birth many kanthali-champa
the surgeon comes calmly
to the secret of darning
all localities are totally maddened
by the flow tide of the exudation
observing all those happenings
the half-broken wave
does awake on the sofa-set
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 9:07 PM UTC
The East Wing of my I Ching
is newfangled
with fish scales and nag champa
and an Aries to wrangle.
My tea leafs sparkle
like dew on a cobweb
dawn corona.
And the licorice Night -
just a trance
for headlights to
dance too.
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 12:06 AM UTC
not in the usual way with
bent knee and bowed head
but with nag champa and cd inserts, with
deep reds,
plastic costume jewelry beading and safety pinned rips.
it was post cards and cigarette ash
with Kroger's box dye in
rusted orange.
staining our fingernails. didn't matter. we painted them in
neon green and chunky glitter. we stayed up late and wandered
laughter like a shattered diamond breaking into a million stars and thrown out over such a welcoming ivory towered
night sky.
and itallian food households with those noodles in jars.
looking up.
it was Billy Corgan telling us he'd
sing along.
it was memories that aren't even mine. cut in my eyes.
it was blunt bobs and pixie haircuts. it was cut necklines and walking on air. giant chain necklaces and whispered chap-lipped secrets.
endless folds and bottomless love
in a deliciously musty floral hat box.
you're just low end in
loving apathy.
and i'm absent in my own life.
it was an interruption so unspeakably painful.
doesn't seem so hard to revisit.
but i can't.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 6:20 PM UTC
frankly the frankincense is funky
and the sweet jasmine burns my nostrils
jamaican vanilla is ungodly overpowering
and the desert sage smells like an ***
mountain violet makes me violently ill
and aspen rose blows
give me a stick of Nag Champa any day –
green tea and cinnamon don’t have any weight
while sunset on the lilly is far too heavy
my mind can’t reconcile mint
and fruity candy flavors are for children of yuppies
I can’t stand being inundated with gardenias
and I don’t even eat fresh baked bread,
no, just give me a stick of Nag Champa –
moonlight in Senora is not a smell
morning dew on the Rockies is faint at best
I am pretty sure patchouli is **** water and cat ***
amber is petrified tree sap
and who wants to sniff dragon’s blood
nah, just give me a stick of Nag Champa –
I knew an egyptian once, and his musk stunk
and voodoo is a cultish religion
harmony should not even be on a shelf
lavender citronella might slow mosquitos,
but should we be breathing in pesticides?
I will never go ‘round a mulberry bush
and my history with ****** keeps me from trying
an ***** scent…
I would rather a nice stick of Nag Chanmpa
anytime –
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
Happiness is
a cool breeze blowing
in an open window,
a burning stick of nag champa,
the strumming sitar playing backdrop,
an unrolled sticky-mat
& me flopped over
in downward
facing-dog.
That's what happiness is,
pure and simple.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
Once in India,
I locked myself
in a white room
decorated only with
a bamboo-mat
& a ceiling fan.
There was an incense burner
& a hole in the ground
in there, too.
I torched nag champa
incessantly,
visited the hole often
& chanted to
the sun & the moon
to find myself.
It's so strange how
I can't remember
a ****** thing
about that pilgrimage,
'cept I made it
back home safely
with my clothing
smelling
like sweet ****
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC
I'm going to torch up some nag champa,
turn the lights down low
and indulge in some ashtanga.
Join me.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
Rilke whispers to me…sedentary body of rush…heat pushes
out from the head…throat desires chianti and kalamata
open book, eyes look…words creating doorways
empty landscape. behind her mind prisoners break free, slam gates
mossy, tendril-vined romantic escapes. the time to absorb is over
the well is full…scribble, scrawl so fast...body relaxed
making music with the fast clack, clack of her old Olympia
chair thrown back, mad dash to each bookshelf and book stash
hunting for a line to feed her burning imagination…Nag Champa
flowery smoke signals inspire ancient thought…burns down slow
slower still...ashes rot…distant voices creep closer…the black ribbon is drying
words begin to resist the page…door opens...silence is crashed
beautiful stanzas fragment…slash...love enters and permeates every room~
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
spoiled milk and wilted flowers dried up like tobacco
and all the air musty the litter and entropy of it pulls at your
attention. roaches and moths and junebugs tapping against
the glass or skittering
across your floor, climbing up the walls and into a corner
eyeing me probing the air with its antennae.
oil caked on the glass thoughts in my head
spurting red broken bones and shredded muscle
deliciously sinewy.
flush it down. inhale and head rush legs weak smile written across my face as my mind
recoils in terror and confusion
the world waves and warms. it shines.
nag champa blackwood currents and shisha
oily anticipation. just a few hours now and there will be reprieve
i can go back and heal from this confusing binge.
skies are blue. helicopters hover their way over the city and suburbs.
the tower spins its light. floating and warmed I wander back home.
the dreams might be hellish
sleep might not come at all
the time it takes to readjust is staggering.
yellows shades and water and lots of ****.
now to disappear completely. leave the damage.
not a trace of yourself though.
run a massive burn
and then escape unnoticed.
sayonara.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
Oh nag champa
How thy soft silk perfume sure doth carpet me..
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
soft scent of Nag Champa
mingles delicately with Patchouli
I close my eyes and breath deep
the fragrances of my dearest
finding myself floating on waves of pheromone
my body contorts and folds
with each passing air current
smoke in a sunlight ray
unpredictable in its consistency
moving without effort
I land gently…
looking up from my resting place
two clear pools reflect
my own brown eyes piercing
my heart swells
my hands sweat
this is what love feels like –
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
A beauty of yellow Indian Tulip
With a graceful shape of Rose Chestnut
Filled with Cypress Vine of Jungle Flame lips
And the Golden Champa skin
Shining like a Scarlet Mallow
Curly black hair like Elephant Creepers
Was in a colourful dress of Peacock Flowers
Alluring eyes of Blue Water Lily
With a face glowing like the Beauty Of The Night
A hair crown of Oleander
Necklace of Winter Jasmine
And Periwinkle earnings
Fragrance of Kunda was hypnotising
Making her man, the Gallant Soldier dissolve in her !
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
Nag champa burning
Down dogs climbing high mountains
My inner spirit
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 4:48 AM UTC
early morning sunrise
sitting on my favorite pillow
lush royal purple with golden braid
nag champa incense burning
a slight breeze, smoke swirling
tibetan singing bowls
and my prayer beads
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC
Reliving last night because living today hurts too much
Tidying the remnants of what was
Utter ecstasy and pure bliss
Time spent with brilliant people
Vigorous dancing using every muscle to the max
The dream of a hedonistic socialite was lived
And every moment felt like it counted
Today it’s as if we were gifted
But now have all the wrapping to tidy up
No amount of Detol could put it right
Nag Champa only masks the pollution
And Happy Hippy can only wash away the accessories
The engravings of disgrace remain felt
We need a deep clean
But exhausted our energies on the mess
We’re stewing in our own filth wishing for some pro-activity
It’s like picking up grains of sand with a pair of tweezers
But the sand is glitter, feathers and ash
And the sea is beer, cocktail and jelly
Reliving the memories takes the edge off
Because the pain of today is justified
Words can’t speak the pleasure experienced
And the pleasure is relived as we reminisce
This day of suffering will end
But will retain the happiest of joyful memories
Unforgettable and never to be cleaned away
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
The lazy fan drifts
over me like her gentle fingertips,
nag champa wafts the chamber
& I am mesmerized
by her sensual image
floating above me
in her full spirit.
A queen of the Kama sutra,
I drive her skyward,
pinpoint her cosmic place
deeply
& tremble in waves,
a slave to her,
completely
in nirvana.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
Sweet melodies
swirl around me
like nag champa
in my stronghold,
this sacred place,
keeping me serene,
under the glow-stars
which never twinkle.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC