"muslin" poems
The day on a high
reaches the peak
over the pyramid.
Shrouded in twilight
now tucked in light
pushes the envelope.
The whole panache of stars
came out in the pitch dark.
The North Star is on the way
oh do me a favour
I will tell you why.
Veil the angle of dawn
in the black shades of the night.
There are dark caves
even inside the pyramid
scientists, trained eyes
yet to tread on that way.
Put on it only an instance of your kohl
the daylight is already a burnt mole.
Light in the wrap in the night
your muslin veiled silken moonlight
is enough to find the tuberose’s earth.
If the tucked away sun crops up
once again over the morning’s rose petals.
Again it will dive deep into the angle
after an angle in the black hole of the night.
A far cry from the glowing firefly
eyeing blindfolded behind the moon
perfectly beyond every looking star.
Until the master arts in silk black finds the true pencil
not in visualising but catching the views of the sunrise
through the lens of the rose pollens’ kohl-eyes.
Dec 19, 2021
Dec 19, 2021 at 1:48 AM UTC
The eye of the hurricane
Swept through a country side
Not batting an eye
All those in it's path perish
A mosque, a person, a Muslin
Another, another, another
Until 49 were gunned down
Killed
Executed
And many more injured
Scarred forever
in·dis·crim·i·nate·ly
A finger on a trigger
Held steady
Unmercifully
Picking targets
To cries and screams
With no regard for life
Only for the shooter
To make a name for himself
His message board
His manifesto
His hate of immigrants
Muslims
Leaving in it's path
Bloodshed
A country's darkest day
His infamy
Who is this individual
The eye of the hurricane
Sitting in the middle
Teetering to the right
An extremist
Category of the worst kind
A patch of ******
Sitting in his landscape
Of his sunken mind
Incarceration
Laughing, laughing, laughing
Today, today, today
And this was his trigger
His devil
His dialogue
Today he spoke
Another, another, another
To cries
That echo
Forever
Long after the hurricane
Loses its tail
This makes me sick
I look up in the sky and ask why
Logan Robertson
3/15/2019
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 7:23 PM UTC
The curtain frays at the edges
Unwinds, disobedient
Only to reveal
No bed (where one should be)
Dainty white muslin
Conflicted, floats
Away from the pane
More like a halo (than a shroud)
Here, in the cage of your mind,
Lies a mandolin
Hollow (with no music in its heart)
Towards another window
Its brother may lie
Born of nothing (but of itself)
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 7:51 PM UTC
*Mist told me in her vaporous touch
"Let me dress you in my fine muslin clothes,
though you may find it a cold comfort
my love will endure till sun drives me away"
And sun, strode in donning his warm golden gown,
splashing his sunny voice, he announces,
"Purple, red, golden yellow, as time moves,
choices you have, folks, till i go back with my stock,
mine are silk, the purest for you to luxuriate
unlike with others, my love for planet earth,
is something never fully told, whoever does it "
Ah, then comes the lady clad in sensual black,
with her one powerful color that makes,
none stand out in the line, all are equal in her bed,
dress she gives you have to accept,no choice there,
somnambulist deem it a privilege wearing it,
those ones that vanish, seek out her winged dress.*
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
Lo, another Ramadan dawn breaks,
millions more feelings of solemnity fill the air.
The time to bid farewell is upon us,
a moment both heavy and sacred.
O blissful Ramadan, brimming with purity and reflection,
when hearts and homes open wide, embracing all.
Prepare to leave, adorned with the beauty of Allah’s bounty:
Your movement like déjà vu moonlight,
your grace as delicate as the finest Muslin.
Let every rose from the garden encircle you,
a garland of farewell.
In the golden hour of dusk,
when Iftar and Suhur beautifully intertwine,
the sweetness of the evening fills the air, nourishing souls.
With a nectar of kindness, bid adieu to every friend of nature
their essence lingers in memory,
sweet as the moments spent in devotion and joy.
'Alvida' - a farewell not of forever
but of waiting until we meet again.
Draw the last stroke of parting on the canvas of the sky,
leaving a promise beneath the rainbow.
Parting with the crescent moon, hearts overflow with hope
O Ramadan, until we welcome you again,
let the essence of your purity and peace remain with us.
Farewell, O holy month
Your parting leaves behind a trail of light,
guiding us until your return.
Mar 31, 2024
Mar 31, 2024 at 6:54 PM UTC
278
A shady friend—for Torrid days—
Is easier to find—
Than one of higher temperature
For Frigid—hour of Mind—
The Vane a little to the East—
Scares Muslin souls—away—
If Broadcloth Hearts are firmer—
Than those of Organdy—
Who is to blame? The Weaver?
Ah, the bewildering thread!
The Tapestries of Paradise
So notelessly—are made!
2.8k
well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
In the sordid caste
of flowers, the wild
rise on their stems
for a name,
and rupture into light
through the copse of partridge berry
distances tumble over the wet colours,
like mauve tongues
along the thighs of an eventual sunrise,
that comes moaning free
of the unforgiving dark,
in the wet jazz soliloquies of light
and suddenly, through the lips
of Septembers lovely grind,
to bind the Summers cunning wounds,
your hands reach far into the blue hordes
of wildflower,
and redolent fevers, kindled
by some hummingbirds blurred
and exquisite agitation, you
are the body of my confession
and South
marks the same
unfathomable distance home,
over the prairie
that tonight grants calm,
in the balm of C minor,
a mute, sibilant liquid dream of rain
soothes, my voice grows hoarse
and stills, though from the hush of willows,
rasps the vast reservoir of wind,
as the jay, a blue throb in the holly, casts
my hue in lush cascades of desperate, abandoned braids
lift the fevers muslin depths
and these unaccompanied words, sing
a sonata
proverbs in petty sounds
spill from a cracked jaw
and a parched throat,
in the Sabbath of the heart
heaven never thought to map
this distance and its jubilee
over wildflowers, I bear
your name to stay the mauve hour
of devout crickets,
crouched in the rain,
dying in the thick falsetto of mist
and the sordid hum of birds, dim
in their hollow cote,
and sudden blue, sudden blue,
how I adore you....
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
O Bani Thani
I grow thin, wanting you;
O you of the drooping eyes and long neck
O Bani Thani, O sublime poetess and singer
who walks gracefully through the halls of Kishangarh
I hear
you are in my stepmother’s service;
and the songs you sing
though they are most sublime
they lure me into unholy thoughts, O Bani Thani
as do your drooping eyes, your lips curved into a smile
You walk head high always, they say
and you look directly ahead even when I am nigh
and yet that too invites me to wander over the landscape of your face
your drooping eyes, your drooping eyes
the eyebrow like a bow, the bow of Rajput warriors
whose arrows pierce with vigour
the elongated face, O Bani Thani
your elongated face and nose and curls of hair
that flow to your waist
and that visage and seduction all graced in muslin odhni
O Bani Thani
I hear your voice, I hear your songs
and your poems are recited here by the men even in the streets –
O but do you hear mine, do you hear my poems of
love, lust and thoughts unholy?
O do you hear my poems of pain and longing? –
all arising, all arising, O Bani Thani
everything in my manhood aroused
as I see you walk by, as I hear you sing
as I hear you play on your instruments
O Bani Thani, Bani Thani –
sing to me, sing to me:
*What is my end, what is my fate
in this my love and longing for you?*
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 5:59 AM UTC
the letter always bled for her for her eyes (brown as those old bottles in the medicine cabinet) bleeding words like teardrops yet without spilling onto the green tile floor those words always pure only staining the paper glossy black ink blood like muslin stuck to an old wound those words always strong yet blurred, obscure words only a scholar would find obscene
happy are those who die because they have returned to those first crumbs of dirt that fed us to that first hole to that soft black and smell of coal
2.5k
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly;
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at ‘The Traveller’s Rest,’
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.
This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.
2.3k
A smile is knowing
The dark crease of a well-arched spine
The dewy white lotus petals
The sad title of concubine
The blue glass so plainly beautiful
With its cold smooth sides
A blown vase that sits precious
Atop a dead deer's stretched hide
The hallowed slope of a portruding illiac
And the decadent crust of a sweet fruit pie
On a black vinyl stage floor
In a room filled with echoing cries
The reverberance loud and hollow
With ears ringing opened wide
The bends of her young tendons
In her ropey pale limbs
They flex and harshly twitch
How a scared and hooked fish swims
The cyclic orbits of planets and lifetimes
A ballerina's pirouette spins
Now the tarlatan and muslin gets torn to shreds
And the blinding stage lights quickly dim
The wet heat of a hungry tongue
Slaps upon her sweating skin
The audience simply does nothing
Just like the tall plant stalks of the green motel
Or the muddy vines in swamps in Rwanda
Or white wallpaper in the locked rooms of certain hells
The diseases that squirm in tainted waters
Of Liberia's ***** wells
The missing limbs of wartime amputees
Reflected in the golden glint of spent brass shells
Amidst the screams of
NO
STOP
NO
It yells the words
GO
GOD
GO
Through the grinning lips of the manifest destiny
And the arms of Khmer Rouge's killings
Its legs are formed from the many faces of lynch mobs
Its hands are hewn of American prison facilities and county jails
It's dripping deadly doses of fentanyl in local ****** shipments
And ****** dancers
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 8:20 PM UTC
Dusk
The flowers unfurl their petals
Towards the dark Night sky
The roses smile up at the Moon
Which shines happily upon the sleeping world
The breezes blow the muslin curtains
Which hang at my open bedroom window
And the shadows of the Moon
Flicker across my room, the floor, and me
The sounds of Night come softly
Through my window and hush me
To sleep like a lullaby of music
Which sends me into a world of dreams
And such is the enchanting Night
With it's glorious Moon
Which watches over all
While they sleep at Night
Dawn
Sun rays come dancing through my room
And greet me with brightness and joy
And the smell of flowers
Come blowing through my bedroom on the breeze
The sky is a painting of beauty
And of colour
Pastel clouds of pink float through the
Blue watercolour sky
And the song of birds wake the
Sleepy world with an anthem of praise
And of life and sunshine
Such beauty is beyond my words
Silhouettes of pine trees and furrs
With the back ground of God's sunrise
Make such a lovely picture of too much beauty. . .
That would take such a long time to describe
With pen, ink and paper while relaxing in the caressing breeze
~Hilda~
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
Part I
Windows flung open and the breeze stirs
The yellowed muslin curtains
And on the windowsill lies our precious Feline Beauty
As she basks in the warm sunshine
Birds warble and chirp as if to sing her to sleep
The rest of the cats are out walking on the sandy shore
Playfully they pounce on sand covered sticks and palm leaves
And sweetly play the hours away
Later on in the evening they come
Up to the house for their long sought meal
Little noses eagerly waiting for the dish to be set on the floor
And little cries escape "Meow"
Pretty soon it's bedtime
And the naughtiness begins
Spools of thread unraveled
And the rest swing on the blinds
~Marian~
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC
If Superman farts
And
His cape is set afloat
Then it is appropriate
For Indians to sing
The retro Bollywood
Peppy number:
***"Hawa Mein Udta Jaaye
Tera Laal Dupatta Malmal Ka
** Tera Laal Dupatta Malmal Ka!
** Ji! ** Ji!"***
As the song means:
***"It flutters in the wind,
Your red muslin scarf,
Oh your red muslin scarf!
Oh yeah! Oh yeah!!"***
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
The rain fell, delicate as muslin
heavenly threads, coming undone
From pearly gates of paradise.
Weaving fluid intricacies underneath
The grainy sands, grooved with drops
And canopies laden with silken film
dewy, with crystal orbs suspended
a diamond mosaic radiant
Under the ashen clouds.
Crystalline drops clung
Onto ends of leaf blades
Forming a grand chandelier
Hundreds hung
On slender boughs
And the tree stood with
an embellished crown
Bedecked with clear dew
Jun 8, 2020
Jun 8, 2020 at 1:33 PM UTC
He has given a luxurious twist to the dying art of weaving and popularised the use of Khadi. Award-winning textile designer Gaurang Shah is more than happy that the Indian fashion industry has welcomed handlooms. “As a textile designer, I would like to say the Indian fashion industry has embraced handlooms with lot of admiration and helped revive our ancient traditions of weaving art, like the jamdani weaves, that we use in creating our fashion pieces,” Shah told IANS.
“It also reinforced its unparalleled beauty around the world,” he added. The designer says that one must acknowledge the passion and intense amount of production hours every weaver at the looms puts to bring out timeless pieces of handlooms.
“The fashion industry did contribute to bring them back into vogue in recent years,” he said. Shah showcased his latest collection of 40 garments titled Muslin at Lakme’s Fashion Week Summer/Resort 2017. His anthology for the gala was inspired by romance of nature.
Giving details about his range, he said: “Our collection incorporates weaves and techniques from West Bengal, Andhra Pradesh, Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh and Rajasthan. The amazing all-in-whites collections integrate gorgeous Mughal motifs and geometric patterns on Khadi, chikankari embroidery and Parsi gara.”
The designer’s collection involved 50 weavers working relentlessly for over six months. Shah, whose handloom creation made its way to the 69th Cannes Film Festival when Deepshikha Deshmukh, producer of Aishwarya Rai Bachchan starrer “Sarbjit”, stepped out in an ensemble featuring Paithani and Kanjeevaram details, says that handlooms are a glorious heritage of India and it is important to preserve and help the artists’ community grow.
“I would like to add that a few years ago this beautiful art was fading away. Thanks to persistent effort and motivation from label like ours, followed by the efforts of our Prime Minister Narendra Modi, that pushed Indian handlooms to higher level of acceptance,” he said.
Shah began his journey in the textile world with just two weavers and today the label works with 700 weavers, and the number is still growing.
“The biggest contribution we as a designer can make is to keep our artisans motivated and also help them gain confidence that it is a highly profitable profession,” said the designer, who has styled the stars like Vidya Balan, Sonam Kapoor and Kirron Kher.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 10:00 PM UTC
Sara L Russell, 28/2/14, 00:30
Given time
the inner eye of memory sees with softer reverie,
as through a muslin curtain; softly veiled and far away -
and how temptingly tranquil seem the waters of the past.
Given time
lost minutes lengthen into hours, to long-remembered days,
lost words that needed saying fall like petals in the rain
Turning slowly in the air until they fade to dust at last.
Given time
a distant haunting melody's translated into sighs
birdsong at morning lilting like a glimmering of streams;
and moments of reflection spill too swiftly through our hands.
Given time
dry leaves fly through the chilly air and scatter in the sky
summer will have her finery returned from green to gold,
and snow will cover everything, like time's relentless sands.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 7:37 PM UTC
When the Israelites return to the Golan Heights
And ancient blazing comets cross the planet fly
The Muslin Empire will rise from the saltwater’s bed
Dark and dying will be the flickering stars
From black oil oceans, he shall be birthed
Nurtured on the hearth of power and coin
Disguised in the words of Christianity
Weapons from every nation he calls forth
Deaths flag shall be the victor in the last war
The Muslim Empire will rise
From the depths of the Dead sea's floor
Blood against blood
Man, against man
Till on this earth, humans are no more
All Rights Reserved. @ Copyright Tammy M. Darby April 14, 2019.
All Material Stored in Author Base
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 12:57 PM UTC
Wassell with cleft mouth
saw beyond you
pale hand in blue light,
cannot stay here.
Dietrich he would not die for you,
he sees Angels elsewhere.
He'll rather unfurl their muslin robes
under dappled silhouette,
swelling the Danube.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
Mermaid, the moon in my cloudy sky on dark nights,
I treated you like the most precious gift from the Ameer,
in my ****** life, though I spent just one night with you and fell in love,
I adore you more then my sweetheart of long years,
I remained loyal to you, a dancing girl, more than to my dear wife,
in lonely nights my heart pined for just you, nobody else
I wept bitter tears hoping that you'd somehow hear my sobs,
most hardened stone, your heart was, you never reacted
I heaped praises on you, bought you expensive gifts
lavished perfumes from the most exclusive perfumeries
I waited in the most breathtaking oasis,days on with camels
to take you far and be with you ditching all other loves of my life
my heart on embers, I forgot how respected I was, what was my status,
I became a lowly beggar of your love, in your presence
my eyes lost their glow, got sunken in the cavities making
me look pitiable, my dress was shredded in many places,
my body became emaciated, I made a living only by singing
paeans to women of easy virtue, just to buy as much things
that pleases you, make you jump up in joy, as soon as you see it.
You drink the best wine, would wear the rarest of lingeries
that peeped out of the muslin dress, I gifted you
still my love, you weren't pleased you looked daggers at me
without any regret, and asked to bring more gold and silver,
it's the life of a slave I happily lived, I know so well
I composed poems on voluptuous mistresses of men of royal linage,
and collected pieces of gold and silver for my labor
with that I made bejeweled ornaments for your lovely body.
Mermaid, you are a wonder, you walk on two legs,
yet swim in deep waters with others, whom you don't even mention,
I only dream of you and wait endlessly here, all the same contented.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
Tall old oak trees,
Swaying-dancing in the sweetly blowing breeze,
Their branches close to my Mamma's bedroom window;
The breezes caress the dancing flowers in the meadow.
Grandma's dear hands once kneeding bread,
And Grandfather's strong hands patting my Mamma on the head,
Breezes blowing the yellow muslin curtains at the window pane;
And sweet lilacs, and many other flowers are bordering the lane.
The perfume of flowers drifting from the window into that pretty house,
Where cats would always catch a darting mouse,
And wisteria blooms twisting their mighty branches around the tall trees;
Which sway back and forth in the breeze.
~Marian~
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC