"chemist" poems
Oh master of chemistry
What wonders you devise
Some make us happy
Some save our lives
Sterile lab coat
In a white sterile cell
You toil all hours
To create the newest pill
We never acknowledge
Your struggle and strife
For the chemical wonders
That are part of our life.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
Writing a poem.
There are lots of things that contribute to the outcome, the poem.
-Certain words hold a hard to describe sensation to them, they're made to evoke some feelings and also give a sense of unique kind of rhythm. Had the writer used a synonym, it wouldn't have the same impact on the reader. He's like mysterious chemist adding proper ingredients to his mixture to make it work perfectly.
-The way a writer constructs the poem leads to rhythm as well, how he decides to start a new verse that divides a sentence, the way he locates words - or even blank spaces - on the surface of sheet - the field of his performance - it all contributes to the creation of imagery. Therefore, we can see that creating a poem isn't just writing words. It's how you put them together, too. A poem that's being created, sometimes slightly wanders away from the realm of plain writing - and goes beyond.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
The energy is strong between us,
I can feel it.
I like physics.
Cause' the chemistry between us,
No chemist could comprehend.
I can feel the energy we share as we stand and hold hands.
My heart dance to every melody you speak,
My flesh reacts making my heart skips a beat.
You're my chemistry and
I'm into you.
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
We're standing outside in a cold, blistered wind,
for a quick pull of smoke and the chemicals within?
A quick rush of joy, euphoric train wreck,
a cure made illegal for a chemist's blank cheque.
Plant matter burning, charring my lungs,
an irritated throat and a cough soon to come.
Pass it to a friend and beg them to be quick
so I can burn my lungs again - let my blood run thick.
Serotonin chained and forced to make me feel good,
yet a non-addictive substance, apt misunderstood.
Less harmful than tobacco, alcohol still worse,
a sadly brainwashed nation where impression's pre-rehearsed.
Generations plagued with loud misguided cries.
They say it makes you stupid, another heartless lie.
We'll strap a gas mask to a monkey, and force it THC.
Forget about the oxygen... I wonder what we'll see?
It seems their brain cells died - it has to be the drug!
Government made a discovery? They ought to be less smug.
But back to my friend, and I in the cold,
forced to be hidden from long outdated scold.
Celebrating beauties in the world that were forgotten,
we're told it's overrated, like fine Egyptian cotton?
I know from experience that this has to be divine:
it could not exist if the sun could not shine.
The wind has stopped blowing, the rain takes it's place,
to feel divine beauty of liquid touching face.
It is something natural, and comes from within,
wow, I'm still standing in a cold blistered wind.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 10:48 AM UTC
.
*Links in the chemist chain
laced in a double helix
defy the laws of the universe,
and the atavistic resurgence
creates isotopes of dream passion.
Elements conspire in panic
with a symmetry of casual chaos
that mimics an atomic bomb,
destroying its own creator
in a cruel parody of birth paradox.
Arresting the Iris of Dissolution
with cuffed anxiety drowning
in a pond of helium ore,
carelessly drifting on acid flesh,
coagulating in a soup of memory.*
And the paradigm shifts again,
reality unfocussed clears, strains,
revealing your shuddering form,
next to me, keeping me warm.
Lids flicker and you open your eyes,
shining, smiling in cute surprise.
Moving my finger up to my lips
whilst I gently untangle our hips.
*Do you remember this night?
Last night, tonight, tomorrow night?
Time begins to slowly rewind,
on the night you blew my mind.*
My essence is filled with your heart,
a love I have yet to discover.
Whilst you wander between the stars,
my universe starts to recover.
So please don't break this silence now.
Please don't shatter this moment long,
I want this post ****** memory to remain
in the morning when you have gone.
© Pagan Paul (04/11/17)
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
Dinner table,
Bowls of light,
Stage fright, lilies,
No appetite,
Dark absences nibbling
Right through my eyes
Like black rabbits pulled
Out of Truman Show skies,
Provoking the question
From those sat up front –
Is this a trick you’re pulling -
Is this one of your stunts?
But no amount of smiling
Will do –
Nod all you like.
They’re onto you.
Christmas Eve,
Sister’s house,
Black eye,
Ulcerated mouth.
Divinely tickled-
By Miss World!
A pinecone and mistletoe
Christmas hurled
Down en suite toilets
Porcelain pink,
My face makes love
To the bathroom sink.
The most squalid Little Lord
In the county, me,
Summer blooms hold
No charms for me,
So I try to apply my
Favourite smile
And travel a few more
Country miles
To a chemist that doesn’t
Know my face.
I browse a bit
(Condoms, spectacles case)
Then I try to
Convince the pharmacist
That I need two
Bottles of
Gee’s Linctus.
The cruelest boyfriend
I ever had
Gives head to a toilet roll
And his fingerpads
Are bordello yellow
From greased nicotine,
This ******* in Primrose
Exhales smoke in a stream,
And I try to remember what
Buttercup said,
His baby’s breath whispers
Wilt in my head,
Something about purity
Something about loss
Something about cleanliness
Something about God
Something about something
That I should tick off as regrettable,
But one flower can make everything
So *******
Forgettable.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
1063
Ashes denote that Fire was—
Revere the Grayest Pile
For the Departed Creature’s sake
That hovered there awhile—
Fire exists the first in light
And then consolidates
Only the Chemist can disclose
Into what Carbonates.
4.2k
Shema (“Listen”)
by Primo Levi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You who live secure
in your comfortable homes,
who return each evening to find
warm food and a hearty welcome ...
Consider: is this a “man”
who slogs through mud,
who has never known peace,
who fights for scraps of bread,
who lives at another man's whim,
who at his "yes" or "no" lies dead.
Consider: is this a “woman”
shorn bald and bereft of a name
because she lacks the strength to remember,
her eyes as void and her womb as frigid
as a winter frog's?
Consider that such horrors have indeed been!
I commend these words to you.
Engrave them in your hearts
when you lounge in your beds
and again when you rise,
when you venture outside.
Rehearse them to your children,
or may your houses softly crumble
and disease render you equally as humble
so that even your offspring avert their eyes.
Primo Michele Levi (1919-1987) was an Italian Jewish chemist, writer and Holocaust survivor. He was the author of two novels and several collections of short stories, essays, and poems, but is best known for If This Is a Man, his account of the year he spent as a prisoner in the Auschwitz concentration camp in Nazi-occupied Poland. It has been described as one of the best books by one of the most important writers of the twentieth century. His unique work The Periodic Table was shortlisted as one of the greatest scientific books ever written, by the Royal Institution of Great Britain. Levi's autobiographical book about his liberation from Auschwitz, The Truce, became a movie with the same name in 1997. Keywords: Holocaust, poem, Italian, translation, man, mud, woman, bald, nameless, houses, homes, bread, eyes, womb, empty, void, frigid, lifeless, horror, horrors, hearts, write, etch, engrave, inscribe, children, offspring, disease, avert, reject
Mar 14, 2020
Mar 14, 2020 at 4:58 AM UTC
Oh twisted stimulus,
****** of the soul,
you flood me with colour.
I spill out across the world,
being everywhere,
existing nowhere.
Once I've emptied,
I am void.
Incorporeal and numb.
Like mist in gale,
I am rushed,
into endless sky.
Notorious chemical,
beautiful chemist,
I am lost in your constellation.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She had her own signature scent,
A lasting aroma, that lingers in every corner of her home
As the strong winds picked up the scent,
and move it quite a distance.
She carefully prepare the mixture from the earth
Cuss ,kuss grass, Jasmine, rose buds and roots,
Before she prepare the mixtures with that special touch
Like a fine wine from the winery,
“One more drop of Rosemary oil, she would say
This would make the scent last for eternity,
Old Granddad he would make silly jokes,
His word usages, madam chemist, a witch with a spoon,
But in the end, she would always made a special potion for him
We would carefully select the flaky mahogany woods shaving,
with combinations of fresh vanilla leaves with extracting oil with oils
Those homemade perfumes from flowers had lots of potential.
Granddad hand craft the wooded bottle stoppers with his chisel,
It was a joy to watch, the old Irish typhoon working and smoking his pipe
Old Alan baffler was Nana nickname for him
She would scold and speak harshly to us
for touching the those colorful luring bottles
“Don’t open those bottles, you malicious children
Else a witch would appear: She would often say,
For me, my nana was an old chemist,
with old decade’s wooden sticks.
Preparing the mixtures like a fine wine,
I am forever grateful for those memories
I should have follow in her footsteps,
Her secret potions, her gift,
Is worth millions of dollars today
Looking back on yesteryears , good parenting
and good memories
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
wrap them legs around my neck,
wrap my arms around your body, wanna keep u safe and curess your body. touch you like nobody else can,
pleasing you is always the plan nobody will ever get it or understand.
A boy and man are very different,
Only a real one will know the difference. I like the mix things up like a chemist. The chemistry be so strong .
Eat it like my last meal,
When it comes to you I always need a refill. Some say too much of anything isn't good but there's no such thing of having too much of you. baby I just can't get enough of you I want more and more of you.
I thought you knew . Ya blow my mind like some nicotine. It feels like a dream it can't be real . Talk to me baby let me know how u feel . You talk , I'll just listen. your beauty runs deeper than water in the ocean.
I wanna feel on you like some lotion. Mositurize your heart . Feed your appetite. Drink your juices. whatever this is I can't or don't wanna lose it.
Don't run I wanna taste you until you *** Dripping like sweat , you know you're the best. I'm blessed .
Dec 1, 2020
Dec 1, 2020 at 4:06 PM UTC
My hands are trembling more than usual,
so I have altered my coffee to a camomile tea.
I administer everything as if it were medicine;
a chemist punctuating his day with
guilty cigarettes and vague homoeopathy.
*It's all ******** I know-
but whatever gets you through the day...*
In the season of advent, my fingers are bitten
down to the quick; throat seared with
half-functioning lighters and fragile matches;
I can scarcely operate either in this state.
The fairy-lights turn the high-street to a runway.
*But all I see are charity shops
interceded with bookies and coffee houses.*
This home-town exists to keep up my interest
in finding some purpose. A path to eventual escape
from all of these old bonds and ties,
pinning me down with memories of ***
and all of the street-names I have learned by rote.
*I'm treading water here-
living in the comfort of a sink-hole.*
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
I SAW a telegram handed a two hundred pound man at a desk. And the little scrap of paper charged the air like a set of crystals in a chemist's tube to a whispering pinch of salt.
Cross my heart, the two hundred pound man had just cracked a joke about a new hat he got his wife, when the messenger boy slipped in and asked him to sign. He gave the boy a nickel, tore the envelope and read.
Then he yelled "Good God," jumped for his hat and raincoat, ran for the elevator and took a taxi to a railroad depot.
As I say, it was like a set of crystals in a chemist's tube and a whispering pinch of salt.
I wonder what Diogenes who lived in a tub in the sun would have commented on the affair.
I know a shoemaker who works in a cellar slamming half-soles onto shoes, and when I told him, he said: "I pay my bills, I love my wife, and I am not afraid of anybody."
2.2k
The ninth beatitude
Blessed are the transformed
and the transformers
For they shall know gratitude.
Hair attitudes are our beatitudes
How can I not love my hair
Short, cropped. *****
Long, cascading locks
Braids falling adoringly
Embracing cheekbones of
Historical beauty.
Hair diva's
Divinity, defying gravity...Black hair
Submitting to heat, or the nimble.
Fingers of scientist, chemist who
Are born to a life dedicated to
Beautification of her sisters and daughters
None since Madam C.J. Walker has had
This talent in abundance.
She put her wrist in the twist.
And the "aid" in the braid… new wave
Whose passion is to adore what
She's put into you; She is the true
“goddess of hair”
You are In good hands as
She dares you to move, or
bat an eyelash less
She bashes you, or threatens
to abort the mission Leaving you to
Your own device-Her advice is to become
at one with her- Become putty in her hands.
Her hands plant, plaiting love and patience
into every wrung…Moms,
And Hair Magicians, growing hands
That loom, weave and condition;
Grooming reluctant ducklings.
Into graceful swans
Grooming you for greatness.
(To my best friend)
https://scontent-ord1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xfp1/v/t1.0-9/11026273_1641865029363011_1932455644687694397_n.jpg?oh=2c95a0eb069b5f996f26494e277bd734&oe;=56C6FF8B
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
When I was born,
From all the seas of strength Fate filled a chalice,
Saying, This be thy portion, child; this chalice,
Less than a lily's, thou shalt daily draw
From my great arteries; nor less, nor more.
All substances the cunning chemist Time
Melts down into that liquor of my life,
Friends, foes, joys, fortunes, beauty, and disgust,
And whether I am angry or content,
Indebted or insulted, loved or hurt,
All he distils into sidereal wine,
And brims my little cup; heedless, alas!
Of all he sheds how little it will hold,
How much runs over on the desert sands.
If a new muse draw me with splendid ray,
And I uplift myself into her heaven,
The needs of the first sight absorb my blood,
And all the following hours of the day
Drag a ridiculous age.
To-day, when friends approach, and every hour
Brings book or starbright scroll of genius,
The tiny cup will hold not a bead more,
And all the costly liquor runs to waste,
Nor gives the jealous time one diamond drop
So to be husbanded for poorer days.
Why need I volumes, if one word suffice?
Why need I galleries, when a pupil's draught
After the master's sketch, fills and o'erfills
My apprehension? Why should I roam,
Who cannot circumnavigate the sea
Of thoughts and things at home, but still adjourn
The nearest matters to another moon?
Why see new men
Who have not understood the old?
1.9k
Wake up some days like I must be dreanin
Feinnin for a state a mind
That gives life meaning,
Submerged in reasoning,
Drowned by thinking
I see the white light
Or am I dreaming
Am I feeling this way for no reason?
Subconsciously bleeding
Sharing my thoughts like I’m seeding
An open book who’s reading
A case against life I’m pleading
In the game I’m seasoned
But if it’s the truth I’m speaking
Tell me if I’m dreaming,
Tell me if you see them
The haters the fakers the tyrants
Promoting convictions and violence
My people on the Earth are dying
Because these demons in disguise stay lying
I’m trying **** right trying to cease the pain and the crying
Mothers tears who fear their children’s death is near
I’m clear in what saying so don’t get my words twisted
Like I be having distorted visions
, Never That,
My dreams are vivid my lyrics descriptive
I’m not saying I’m gifted
But this truth will make you question religion
Will make aggressive from timid
God said we are all made in his image
Minus mutations from Chemist
Our genes don’t flex like gymnast
This world’s stress is our limit
Without artificial stress we can live it
Live life like back in the Garden of Eden
Like children at play hope hasn't gone away
Conscience fleeting today,
Emotions peeling away
Drinking whiskey straight
I guess this is the way
I guess this is the place
Life just whisking away
Who’ll miss me anyways?
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
i wish i were a chemist,
so that i could hypothesize
& limit my attempts &
my experiments in futility
so that maybe, I could
tell you that your mere
presence was a catalyst
to my volatile elements
provoking reactions,
left & right, endless
explosions in my head
& mostly, in my chest
or that you tasted like a
antidote to the mundane
bringing me back from
this quiet complacence
i could drink your tonic,
swallow your smoke,
& devour your scraps
like a starving bulimic
or how your poison
made me slip, drip like
mercury, through your
skillful & soft fingertips
like sodium, this persistent
salt that refuses to quit
from my veins, a reserve
remains after the detox
or why i would oscilliate
between the alkaline &
the acidic, never quite
stabilizing at a safe degree
if i had know all this,
i would not have played
alchemist, concocting
a worthless elixir of life
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
I told her marriage was an institution.
She went mental.
I consoled myself with shooting the tortoise.
It was for the best.
There was no way it would win the greyhound derby.
She was beyond reason.
I was bringing it out of its shell.
I sort of laughed uncontrollably.
She didn’t.
She actually was trying to bring it out of its shell.
I suggested mad passionate love.
She wanted chocolates.
How about a toffee crisp and a fumble.
How about you dropping dead.
Who would pick up your pills if I dropped dead.
I would pick up my own pills.
What, you don’t know what day of the week it was last Thursday.
I was in love last Thursday.
Not with me.
No, with the pet shop owner
You do know he’s married.
He was leaving her for me.
He’s married to a bloke.
They’re both leaving their wives for me.
Is this about the tortoise.
What tortoise.
Never mind, let's get married.
Just now.
Yes, we can get married in the chemist shop
Somehow that makes sense.
What about children.
You could get them at the supermarket.
Three for two.
They hide them behind the screens now.
Children.
No silly, the alcohol I think.
They don’t hide the chocolates.
Did you really shoot the tortoise.
Yes, but the bullet bounced off its shell.
That’s good.
Not really, the pet shop owner was holding it.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 12:32 PM UTC
Daniel?
A piggish snort. Crusted eyes crack open like the wings of a beetle. Ragged nails scrape against the red-worn desert of an adolescent jawbone. A fishlipped yawn.
Ugh. What?
What did you call that plant thing again?
Jesus, James. Waxwood. It's a reddish bark. Oozes this cloudy stuff if you crush it.
Oh. Yeah, of course. Sorry.
**Ambient silence. Raindrops fill with rotting organic sediment and fall into the leaves around the
clapboard tollbooth. A zealous fist of ivy tightens its tattered fingers across rheumatic windowpanes.**
Dan?
Mm?
Why don't you like to talk about Clifftown?
Ambient silence. Raindrops. Ivy.
I’ll tell you why I don’t like to talk about Clifftown.
Go on.
Sigh.
I was born there. Before all this happened, it was this small village where onions grew. Not many people lived there. There was... Christ. A church, a chemist, a library and a few houses. The biggest house was this tall yellow clapboard place, which was on the cliff by the sea. This kid who lived there. He wasn’t -
A thud as a gesticulating knuckle rasps against splintered pine.
*-Ow, **** - didn’t look human. His head was big and soft like a berry, and his eyes were wide and wet and creepy, and he never spoke. It was like he was empty.*
What’d you say his name was again?
Never did.
A dusty rubbing noise as the fluid is forced out of a cheekbone.
Leviticus Croker. He died when he fell from a low salt cliff into the sea or something. Can’t remember.
**** I’m sorry.
Don’t be. I hated him.
A lump of pressed asphalt sends a clouded multitude of motes spinning and passes screaming through the glass pane of the sunwards window. A chuckle.
That was a year ago. They had to blame somebody.
Oh. Right.
An eyelid raised in revelation traps a mote against the skin stretched taut across a young skull.
Right. ****
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
Horrible horrible horrible
You are horrible
And so am I.
Is my condition curable?
What apothecary of extra brilliant kindness
Has the magic remedy?
Can I get it from the chemist?
Does the wizard has it?
Or will he absorb in the forest-flavoured mist?
I can't think anymore
The night is here
Morpheus is knocking on my door
I'll let him in my boudoir
And read him Charles Baudelaire
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 3:04 AM UTC
I never lost my virginity
At the age of 19
To a boy who promised
That it will not hurt
I never bled
I never bit my lips
I never cried
I never slept with a writer,
Musician, chemist,
An engineer or even a *********
I never tried a pregnancy test kit
I am not scared
Of those two red lines
I never loved my best friend
Or those strangers
Who painfully ripped my body
I love those stains
Of a long forgotten past
Embedded on crumpled sheets
I was never molested
When I was 5 or so
It was just a game
I never cursed that night
I never hated my brother
I want men to crave for me
I never wanted their affection
I don’t want to ******* **** them
On streets in the middle of the night
With cat calls
I am not depressed
I love my scars
I never took ******
Just to sleep at night
Or wept in the middle of nowhere
I am a strong woman
I am not damaged
I ******* hate this life
It’s too beautiful for someone like me
This is not a poem
Of a broken girl
I am okay.
I wanna live.
I am not a liar.
A happy girl
Wrote this
Waiting for her prince charming
To free this damsel in distress
From the tower of anguish
And to live happily ever after
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 3:29 AM UTC