"distil" poems
Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
Daffodil bulbs instead of *****
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,
He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
. . . . .
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;
The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.
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Upon this Primrose hill,
Where, if Heav’n would distil
A shower of rain, each several drop might go
To his own primrose, and grow manna so;
And where their form and their infinity
Make a terrestrial Galaxy,
As the small stars do in the sky:
I walk to find a true Love; and I see
That ’tis not a mere woman that is she,
But must or more or less than woman be.
Yet know I not which flower
I wish; a six, or four;
For should my true-Love less than woman be
She were scarce any thing; and then, should she
Be more than woman she would get above
All thought of *** and think to move
My heart to study her, and not to love;
Both these were monsters; since there must reside
Falsehood in woman, I could more abide
She were by art than Nature falsified.
Live primrose then, and thrive
With thy true number five;
And woman, whom this flower doth represent,
With this mysterious number be content;
Ten is the farthest number; if half ten
Belong unto each woman, then
Each woman may take half us men;
Or if this will not serve their turn, since all
Numbers are odd or even, and they fall
First into this, five, woman may take us all.
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Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin *** help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that *** staw a sow,
Or fricassee *** mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro ****** flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
I am no expert,
no expert at all
But when I am compelled
to write a poem
the compulsion comes
from a pure wish
to distil a thought,
to communicate,
to ride language ********
across the open spaces
of my brain
But you would lasso me,
corral me,
shut the barn doors on me
and the lowing, braying herd
for some self appointed *****
to cast judgement
So that the best possible outcome
is that I step on the faces of others
on my way to institutionalised,
establishment-approved freedom
Well,
**** you
and the horse
you wish you could have ridden in on.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
When the chill of earth black-breasted is uplifted at the
glance
Of the red sun million-crested, and the forest blossoms
dance
With the light that stirs and lustres of the dawn, and with
the bloom
Of the wind’s cheek as it clusters from the hidden valley’s
gloom :
Then I walk in woodland spaces, musing on the solemn
ways
Of the immemorial places shut behind the starry rays
Of the East and all its splendour, of the West and all its peace;
And the stubborn lights grow tender, and the hard sounds
hush and cease.
In the wheel of heaven revolving, mysteries of death and
birth,
In the wonb of time dissolving, shape anew a heaven and
earth
Ever changing, ever growing, ever dwindling, ever dear,
Ever worth the passion glowing to distil a doubtful tear.
These are with me, these are of me, these approve me,
these obey,
Choose me, move me, fear me, love me, master of the
night and day.
These are real, these illusion : I am of them, false or frail,
True or lasting, all is fusion in the spirit’s shadow-veil,
Till the knowledge -Lotus flowering hides the world
beneath its stem;
Neither I, nor nor God life-showering, find a counterpart in
them.
As a spirit in a vision shows a countenance in fear,
Laughs the looker to derision, only comes to disappear,
Gods and mortals, mind and matter, in the glowing bud
dissever :
Vein from vein they rend and shatter, and are nothingness
for ever.
In the blessed, the enlightened, perfect eyes these visions
pass,
Pass and cease, poor shadows frightened,
leave no stain
upon the glass.
One last stroke, O heart- free master, one last certain
calm of will,
And the maker of Disaster shall be strcken and grow
still.
Burn thou to the core of matter, to the spirit’s utmost
flame,
Consciousness and sense to shatter, ruin sight and form
and name!
Shatter, lake-reflected spectre; lake, rise up in mist to
sun;
Sun, dissolve in showers of nectar, and the Master’s
work is done.
Nectar perfume gently stealing, masterful and sweet and
strong,
Cleanse the world with light of healing in the ancient
House of Wrong !
Free a million mortals on the wheel of
being
tossed !
Open wide the mystic portals, and be altogether lost!
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*It is the Sabbath, and I am pleased to fulfill this high mitzvah and lead you to Paradise. It is the Sabbath and Shekinah Queen floating over you waiting to take you. It is the Sabbath and your beautiful ******* distil in my mouth honey of your secrets.
Tent of all Mysteries is your magnificent body. Your skin is my scroll and your follicles as the letters that God wrote on your magnificente skin and your belly adorned with my kisses. Hieroglyphs are your tattoos, sphinxes puzzles, the codices of the angelic scribe, the Angel of the Face, keeper of all secrets.
Destil out the liquor of your illuminated Vergel and feeds my world, like dew dripping morning. It is the Shabbat and your river flows now from your Eden to water my spirit. I hijacks thoughts your perfume. It incense aroma of your garden.
It's the Shabbat and already prophesies thy mouth the voices of Celestial Academy, whispering in my ear your high pleasures at the apex of your ****** revealing your messiah, your hidden light, creator of all my miracles.
It is the Sabbath and your Tantra connects the earth and the heavens, as a mystic linhame fabric with your esoteric moans. It's the Shabbat and you are the my highest mitzvah, the most sacred precept.*
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 10:44 AM UTC
You are a tulip seen to-day,
But, dearest, of so short a stay
That where you grew scarce man can say.
You are a lovely July-flower,
Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower
Will force you hence, and in an hour.
You are a sparkling rose i’ th’ bud,
Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood
Can show where you or grew or stood.
You are a full-spread, fair-set vine,
And can with tendrils love entwine,
Yet dried ere you distil your wine.
You are like balm enclosèd well
In amber or some crystal shell,
Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.
You are a dainty violet,
Yet wither’d ere you can be set
Within the virgin’s coronet.
You are the queen all flowers among;
But die you must, fair maid, ere long,
As he, the maker of this song.
2k
16
I would distil a cup,
And bear to all my friends,
Drinking to her no more astir,
By beck, or burn, or moor!
1.9k
*"You are Beer-sheva, the garden of the seven lights, and I desire to dwell in you forever." Your lips recite sparks of light clothed in mystical words, your body is an esoteric tent, and the wise meet to observe you. Your golden skin, a scroll where the angels write the desires and the care of the heavens.Your beautiful ******* are divine sphinxes that hide the honey of Wisdom.Who will be worthy of you to feed? On what lips will you distil the sweet and sublime honey that flow That I may be worthy to drink of your honey, and that my mouth have merit to prove the waters of your fountain, for you are the Shrine of the Divine, the dwelling place of the Holy Presence in this world.You are Beer-sheva, The garden of seven lights and I eternally desire to dwell in you. " Sipra Shefatai Tevuna (Lips of Sublime Understanding)*
Deepak Sankara Veda
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 7:31 AM UTC
What other woman could be loved like you,
Or how of you should love possess his fill?
After the fulness of all rapture, still,—
As at the end of some deep avenue
A tender glamour of day,—there comes to view
Far in your eyes a yet more hungering thrill,—
Such fire as Love’s soul-winnowing hands distil
Even from his inmost arc of light and dew.
And as the traveller triumphs with the sun,
Glorying in heat’s mid-height, yet startide brings
Wonder new-born, and still fresh transport springs
From limpid lambent hours of day begun;—
Even so, through eyes and voice, your soul doth move
My soul with changeful light of infinite love.
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Some poets have degrees,
Be they Bachelors or Phds.
But a poet, a poet is really qualified by experience,
And the ability to distil language to the dance of written form,
To transpose observations into song.
Etching stretches of moments too short,
Into something long enough to match the longing for it.
Weaving yearning with touches of genius,
Abstracting epiphanies from cracks in the pavement,
Extending the halls of learning by
Stencilling truths onto toilet walls,
So that even to **** is to experience the profound.
A poet is one who can make meaning out of madness,
Pluck obscurities from the air, exposing the bindings of being,
Or explain how words, in their whirling make the world go round.
But a poet, a poet does not understand that ache inside,
That ache that drives them to write, to whisper and to yell
Words, metaphors and similies, in the constant attempt
To quantify that special kind of hell,
That haunts them, as ravings in their head,
That inspiration that is their constant torment.
And sometimes, sometimes its heaven instead,
But that’s when it’s hardest to write
Because suffering, when transformed to stanzas,
Is somehow easier to ignite
Than that intangible something we call joy.
For something as simple as a smile
Cannot be matched by any extravaganza
Of words no matter how we try.
But a poet, a poet will spend lifetimes trying
To describe that very sensation, that fleeting
Sense of something greater than oneself, greater,
Even than the offerings left in ink at the poet’s
Altar of a page.
And sometimes it will be so hard, this attempt to transcribe
Emotion into a form decipherable to others
That the poet will feel only rage,
And exhaustion,
Till even the point of the pen begins to expire
But a poet, a poet, even in the pits of despair,
Does not retire,
For there, lingering somewhere
Above in the air, is a glimmer of truth
Just waiting to be shared.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
The heavy smoke of war lay across the world it was laced with carnage and had the sounds of screaming
Shells and the screams of the dying men but as it continued its drift at the far edges a cloud and mist
Began to diminish the former and distil a brighter future there was the timid glory sounding the
Harking tribute of childlike memories the power of innocence to diffuse the base and inhumane
To spill across these scathing pages an ethereal presence that was empowering of good that
Could and did straddle time and space with magnificence drawing from exploration and history
That beheld the worst but mined the hidden gold to enrich the world it knew secrets that
Exposed the damnable lies that bankrupted former empires we were created to be conquers
Our mettle is an amalgamation of weak flesh but inherit in the confused and reciprocating
Action ultimately a flash of inspiration leaps from the spirit the dead end near sighted flesh was
At the wall of limitation now we stand at the zenith of the universe at its ever increasing of it
Self this inestimable spring of well being floods the low plains we ford these rich waters
Immediately our impoverished cares taste and smell the high and great call of hope we
Instinctively open our heart and mind as a great sail we find our self in the envious position as a
Seafarer our very sinew is awakened to promise and opportunity we have left far behind the
Naysayers we see gifts of beauty spread everywhere where all before was drear now victory is
Courting us to rise to even higher heights boldness infuses our demeanor we now throw off
Yesterdays doubting with eyes that are no longer dim we see with clearest vision and with
Steeled determination former days of being wistful vagabonds is forever forfeited we have the
Right and the might that Lincoln addressed his generation we align ourselves with the high
Ideals of past warriors and martyrs know this our enemies whatever your culture or ideals you
Have come among a stalwart people and the foundations of our forefathers will defeat you the
Same as others who came with inferior and demonized religions know this truth will and has
Made us free look well to yourselves continue and your destruction is guaranteed check the
Harbinger winds and save your selves from the only outcome that will befall you which is
Destruction
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted!
The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn,
In wonder and in scorn!
Thou weepest days of innocence departed;
Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move
The Lord to pity and love.
The greatest of thy follies is forgiven,
Even for the least of all the tears that shine
On that pale cheek of thine.
Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from heaven,
Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise
Holy, and pure, and wise.
It is not much that to the fragrant blossom
The ragged brier should change; the bitter fir
Distil Arabian myrrh!
Nor that, upon the wintry desert's *****
The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain
Bear home the abundant grain.
But come and see the bleak and barren mountains
Thick to their tops with roses: come and see
Leaves on the dry dead tree:
The perished plant, set out by living fountains,
Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise,
For ever, towards the skies.
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Jij bent een man om gekust te worden, steeds weer in mijn gedachten.
You are a man to be kissed, over and over in my thoughts.
Zoals het gezang in het zachte, een blijk is van de zachte aard van diens ziel.
Like the singing in the quiet thoughts, is proof of a gentle soul.
Soms is een taal die niet van jou is, het meest dierbare en meest gekoesterde, dat men er een teken in kan zien, een leven te beleven op afstanden verder dan tijd zelf.
Sometimes a language that doesn’t belong to you is the most dear and most cherished, that one can take sign, to experience life in distances beyond time itself.
Someone who takes love on the inside, and is pulled
from pleasure, only to distil it in oneself. It is given that
the humour that one feels in only the thoughts, similar
to ones being, of hope, and giving of time,
and life, how can you be so careless?
To caress that face of time itself, and it takes away
from the love, and maybe one shapes these figures to see
how the plays and scene of life has, it escapes the trained
head and goes out to endless spaces.
These kisses are not meant to extract fairness and
lay a waste. Only to instil on you my vision and a way
to show gratitude to gentleness emanating from smiles, from
painted lips, pitch dark eyes and your sun crinkled skin.
Whether you’re granted a vision of this vocabulary
or are taken from its meanings. To show you my
internal love, which is beyond all material planes, and pervades
this desire to teach on a lesson learned.
© 2009
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 3:10 AM UTC
currents unseen
compress space
distil life's
drive
laser beam sharp
hidden lest robbed
chained yet
free
ego crushed
constrained
causing
breaks
confetti dreams
take wings
orb's disparate
parts
inhabit one frame
fragmented scope
splintered tones
link
eternal sentience shines
born of toxic fumes
from other beings'
waste
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
Trapped
Buried in pain restless in fitful
restrict to lone upon oneself
as the smoke is prudent distil
surrounding the dark thistle
of night so unassertive by cold
Chill
Cold no comfort to hold shivery
glacial is the fear so sombre marrow
distant in the stare seldom by hurt
trapped in the guard of one sorrow
sadness in vary the emotions dark
Aura
Dark the room is gloomy so drab
murky with the prudent smoke
lingering the surrounding mortar
house of trapped by the thrived
soul do ache for tender parity
Oxygen
Trapped
By Deb Harman ©
Dark Poetry
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
Just pieces that stand out from the whole
Bits and pieces the connections that are the out flow of rich blessings your’ in route to a certain
Destination and just a side ward glance affords you a touch stone a home and the walk and
Foliage evokes a familiar resonating heartfelt wonder it captures the essence of place somewhere
You know in the past it doesn’t have to be crystal clear the emotion already has spun its golden
Strands they distil from a question delights not totally defined but where free association is the
Trigger effect sometimes you come across an item that has been discarded instantly it speaks
Of a precious part of your past a pair of old worn out shoes can bring thoughts of many I
Remember they had shoes just like that and your mind is off in joy recalling many times that
Were very special it’s like one part of our mind has a museum component there are treasures
Unique gifts that have been placed there they hold and tell a story that is precious and will never
Be destroyed in them are the residual elements of sights and sounds you stand before this show
Being played a simple plastic bat recalls one who was your dearest friend he is gone now but in
This piece he Arises his features had for a time become obscure now with full clarity you carry
On a Conversation it’s like he has never left you pull the past glories out of their hiding place
From a Beloved familiar face you have reclaimed what the thief of time took without any mercy
You run and chase more than just a ball you’re pursuing a friend with the fullness of heart that
Carries a Deep wound for a brief moment all is well every haunted chill is dispelled replaced
With A Warmth and desire to be somewhere back in time I think they call them the good old
Days This Writing comes from a selfish place just like these memories have hurt in them
Sometimes Pain Over rides life this is one way to get lost and find relief
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 5:07 AM UTC
Three lost loves
Not in order or severity but this one took the greatest toll like the poplar Dear John letters of world war two I suffered the same fate. The worst was I didn’t count I wasn’t worth the wait I fought forest fires the kind that populate terrifying dreams. I served God and country with honor she tossed it a side without a backward glance I guess she had to catch the next dance.
Nancy spoken of in another piece I wrote about her brother that died I didn’t give it to her then by chance I found she suffered the same fate as her brother. Now I carry the message like a paper made of wind that can’t be grasped with fleshly hand it is her twin she is ever receding but can’t hear my pleading. This pain soothed by one stand out moment she existed the car on a snowy day Elvis was on the radio somehow his voice made it even more poignant. She slipped on the ice her face glowing pink from the cold how many emotions can you experience I found out many she was sad forlorn helpless frightened betrayed beautiful with the touch of anger that transformed her from human to divine.
The third the most enduring from childhood till now I have loved her to say otherwise would be a lie love if real is forever. I wrote this for her memorized it then quoted it to her that was the day I found out what the power of words can do to another person physically. I called it sight beyond the crucible.
You will see how hard the job is.
All I have to do is distil the magic
From nights sweet secret shroud
Dispel the darkness fill the displaced
Space with light enter the inner sanctuary
of innocence sift its essence steal away with its
wonder invite the world to look at my treasure.
The vision that walked in human form.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 2:45 PM UTC
The orchestra of my organs distil upon
my soul, purest obscurity.
shards linger awaiting the intervals of
perpetual synchronicity.
Then they submerge on dove white innocence
watching feathers weep into my soul.
My essence now feverish as veins of desecration
now stem the flow of my inner peace, now dismal.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
Had you been born,
my Tibetan bowl and whale song
would have been deafened by
dawn-struck alarm clocks
and ***** down my album sleeve.
Had you been born,
I would be toiling dishonest fields
for an honest go at living.
I would be sober for an evening
and wake with habitual ease.
Had you been born,
none of these words would be written
and poetry could only reside
in the spelling of your name
and your clumsy, childish gait.
Had you been born,
you would have stolen all love,
to the point I would hate myself
and only find fractions of it
in the women I would meet.
Had you been born,
I would have learned how to speak
in assertive tones
to regiment your mind,
to distil you from violence.
Had you been born,
I would now be an adult
with no margin for error,
no time for a future,
but with the promise of a home.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
i scatter breadcrumbs pre-dawn as
your light draws into
this empty hemisphere: full of
life, lack of the
sweetness dwelling behind eyelid's
closure i
was awake to monitor the slivered
rim, the same stars as glow
soft around your engorging pupils.
gutterwork about fingertip traces.
i can almost see
your ghost. no smoke entices
my lips, not yet. i've
no need to any longer sing
of meaningless vices. i've
got bigger things hefting
weight over my shoulders. i'm
running short of endlessness.
yet, from the guts of this library
some lie dissolves.
my body vanishes through painted
concourse. the finer points scatter.
the big picture rushes to shake
hands, to distil spine. between
us, there ain't nothin' new
anywhere. so, i throw back
some mineral-heavy water to
wade back out of the ocean:
a slow headache, a continual loss
i drown myself in. i could
get outta here and increasingly want to.
increasingly want (well, this part is easy).
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
[The words of Jesus to His followers in His sermon on the Mount of Olives:] “Ye are the light of the world.” (Matthew 5:14)
Illuminate this night, You say we will,
But only if our chambers get a fill
Of Spirit-oil, our eyes be single, true,
And holy light of God infuse us through,
Despite our darkness, doubt, our lack of skill.
We cannot force this sunshine to distil,
To brighten gloaming, take away the chill.
So Heaven orders Light to dark imbue.
Illuminate this night.
Now Treasure stocking up this earthen till,
You gut our ******* old-man mercy-kill.
Our new-man vital, Holy revenue
Eternal, shining, paying out our due
And then some; overflow of Life now spill:
Illuminate this night.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 2:04 PM UTC
if I could distil every fantasy Id ever dreamed
condense my desires from reams into mere chapters
take every vision of you Id ever seen
making reel after reel of memories captured
maybe then I could relax again
knowing having them
made you mine forever after
whatever happens next
you pass every test I could administer regardless
A plus
Flawless
please consider this my application
to recommence relations accordingly
sincerely yours
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 6:41 PM UTC
Grafting trees is the process of taking a piece of one tree and incorporating it into another tree so it can grow and flourish with the rest of that tree.
While this isn't natural for trees it is for me.
You can't count the rings of my trunk because that would involve ******
You can see all the grafts from my roots to the newest buds.
Every fork as my life grows in different directions.
Strong trunks like my best friend who gave me the love of martial arts and tequila.
The woman who pushed me to grow faster and higher than I thought I could.
The career that's turned me into the everyday hero I always wanted to be.
As well as severed and dead branches.
The branch that tried to give me enough rope to hang myself.
The poisoned branch that still burns the roots.
The clean cut from the scion never meant to be.
And despite all of this the tree still grows.
As we enter spring the buds of new life, new love, new adventures are taking form.
Coffee berries to distil in intoxicating form.
Purple flowers that glitter is the evening sun and smell like pure magic.
Avocados that fuel short walks and long talks.
Even this poem is budding into a less terrible form.
While the trees grow in cycles I constantly grow.
Where this story ends nobody knows.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC