"nard" poems
Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of ******
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
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The moon came into the forge
in her bustle of flowering nard.
The little boy stares at her, stares.
The boy is starting hard.
In the shaken air
the moon moves her arms,
and shows lubricious and pure,
her ******* of hard tin.
"Moon, moon, moon, run!
If the gypsies come,
they will use your heart
to make white necklaces and rings."
"Let me dance, my little one.
When the gypsies come,
they'll find you on the anvil
with your lively eyes closed tight."
"Moon, moon, moon, run!
I can feelheir horses come."
"Let me by, my little one,
don't step on me, all starched and white!"
Closer comes the horseman,
drumming on the plain.
The boy is in the forge;
his eyes are closed.
Through the olive grove
comes the gypsies, dream and bronze,
their heads held high,
their hooded eyes.
Oh, how the night owl calls,
calling, calling from its tree!
The moon is climbing through the sky
with the child by the hand.
They are crying in the forge,
all the gypsies, shouting, crying.
The air is viewing all, views all.
The air is at the viewing.
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Over the horizon, lost in confusion,
came the sad night, pregnant with stars.
I, like the bearded mage of the tales,
knew the language of stones and flowers.
I learned the secrets of melancholy,
told by cypresses, nettles and ivy;
I knew the dream from lips of nard,
sang serene songs with the irises.
In the old forest, filled with its blackness,
all of them showed me the souls they have;
the pines, drunk on aroma and sound;
the old olives, burdened with knowledge;
the dead poplars, nests for the ants;
the moss, snowy with white violets.
All spoke tenderly to my heart
trembling in threads of rustling silk
where water involves motionless things,
like a web of eternal harmony.
The roses there were sounding the lyre,
oaks weaving the gold of legends,
and amidst their virile sadness
the junipers spoke of rustic fears.
I knew all the passion of woodland;
rhythms of leaves, rhythms of stars.
But tell me, oh cedars, if my heart
will sleep in the arms of perfect light!
I know the lyre you prophesy, roses:
fashioned of strings from my dead life.
Tell me what pool I might leave it in,
as former passions are left behind!
I know the mystery you sing of, cypress;
I am your brother of night and pain;
we hold inside us a tangle of nests,
you of nightingales, I of sadness!
I know your endless enchantment, old olive tree,
yielding us blood you extract from the Earth,
like you, I extract with my feelings
the sacred oil
held by ideas!
You all overwhelm me with songs;
I ask only for my uncertain one;
none of you will quell the anxieties
of this chaste fire
that burns in my breast.
O laurel divine, with soul inaccessible,
always so silent,
filled with nobility!
Pour in my ears your divine history,
all your wisdom, profound and sincere!
Tree that produces fruits of the silence,
maestro of kisses and mage of orchestras,
formed from Daphne's roseate flesh
with Apollo's potent sap in your veins!
O high priest of ancient knowledge!
O solemn mute, closed to lament!
All your forest brothers speak to me;
only you, harsh one, scorn my song!
Perhaps, oh maestro of rhythm, you muse
on the pointlessness of the poet's sad weeping.
Perhaps your leaves, flecking by the moonlight,
forgo all the illusions of spring.
The delicate tenderness of evening,
that covered the path with black dew,
holding out a vast canopy to night,
came solemnly, pregnant with stars.
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SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my Lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
And enamour'd do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her;
And from her arch'd brows such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touch'd it?
Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
Have you felt the wool of ******
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
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For my embalming, Julia, do but this;
Give thou my lips but their supremest kiss,
Or else transfuse thy breath into the chest
Where my small relics must for ever rest;
That breath the balm, the myrrh, the nard shall be,
To give an incorruption unto me.
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So I took her to the river
believing she was a maiden,
but she already had a husband.
It was on St. James night
and almost as if I was obliged to.
The lanterns went out
and the crickets lightened up.
In the farthest street corners
I touched her sleeping *******
and they opened to me suddenly
like spikes of hyacinth.
The starch of her petticoat
sounded in my ears
like a piece of silk
rent by ten knives.
Without silver light on their foilage
the trees had grown larger
and a horizon of dogs
barked very far from the river.
Past the blackberries,
the reeds and the hawthorne
underneath her cluster of hair
I made a hollow in the earth
I took off my tie,
she too off her dress.
I, my belt with the revolver.
She, her four bodices.
Nor nard nor mother-o-pearl
have skin so fine,
nor does glass with silver
shine with such brillance.
Her thighs slipped away from me
like startled fish,
half full of fire,
half full of cold.
That night I ran
on the best of roads
mounted on a nacre mare
without bridle stirrups.
As a man, I won't repeat
the tings she said to me.
The light of understanding
has made me more discreet.
Smeared with sand and kisses
I took her away from the river.
The sowrds of the liles
battled with the air.
I behaved like what I am,
like a proper gypsy.
I gave her a large sewing basket,
of straw-colored satin,
but I did not fall in love
for although she had a husband
she told me she as a maiden
when I took her to the river.
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^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^^^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
{[a parachute of words to soften death
(the impact governed by an ancient rule)]
for falling slower, to allow the gaze to linger
on a beingscape of prophets, sages, and of fools,
to entertain a fantasy, a whim
or a kernal sign of epistemic limn}:
\| /
feline-dolphin friendliness to bring,
to sing of paws and fins, to fashion songs..
cut playful, caring, interspecies lens.
sprouting karmic stems at every step
with toe-gems on a koan-grounded path
on which the memories of art abound--
to measure wrath, to nard with wisdom salves
the holon vast of intra-earthling givenness
and arm the doom'ed nous with lethe-wards:
a Helm of melodies to dim the sound
of nether-chords in taunting reaper's lure;
pantheonic Plate to temper tangent blows
of glowing smoulders, darkest passion throws;
Wings of flame in kind caressing pleasure
licking high incurvate spinal moan... alone...
the tone is sure, for underworldly psalm
and biding sweep of time, aeon after aeon, eternal bone on bone,
in gales of fated nescience, the moment dawns
careening, skirrs my aether-self of lighted
purpose drawn, and telic web of wanings on...
_
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 11:32 PM UTC
Goodnight anthropocentrism—
Mitochondria swim in your stardust
But Contraverse awakens on the
Frontiers of the Valerian Kingdom
At the gnarled staff of the Oil Sage
Taking root between the Earth’s furrows
Springing forth fountains of sweetest Nard
The Jewel of Jatamansi emerges glistening green
In it the eye of the beholder finds the
Seeds of a once forbidden dream
Germinating in the juices of this Gem
Out of it the silent roar of a thousand fields pressing
Aromatic oceans through bursting buds
Of Lavender pagodas rapturously trumpeting forth
Framed by stacks of soft sweet musky Sage
Broad and leathery like elephant’s ears
Curtained with a soft cascade of Orange blossom snow
The sweet kiss of Neroli on your brow
Imbibing the senses with paralyzing pungency
Tangling tendrils to heartstrings
And pulling us beneath Rosewater pools
Floating breathlessly ensconced in a dream
Primordial songs whispering wordlessly,
“Wake whenever you’re ready . . .”
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
Introduction
Burning pages
Blood-red sky
Rage of angels
Days gone by
The Chosen one, with eyes of searing flames
Is opening the book of Living Names....
I
The turning pages tell of lives gone by,
Furled by the one whose eyes are blinding flames;
Hot ashes flutter to the blood-red sky,
Like burning souls of undeserving names.
Where justice fails in life, death compensates:
Rare Mercy brings the angel who redeems,
While cruelty brings down avenging fates,
Even if conscience sleeps throughout our dreams.
The one with eyes of flame sees everything,
His Book of Living Names is always fair;
Yet every page frail as a fledgeling's wing -
Tread carefully if your name is not there.
There are but two volumes: one leads to light,
The other leads to Hell, without respite.
II
He sat in shadows, working through the night;
A scribe writing in words of ****** red,
While brass lanterns imparted sickly light,
As nightmare voices raged inside his head.
And all the names of those forever doomed,
Of future deaths and those of ancient past,
Were on the page, committed and entombed
In holy blood, scarlet and colour-fast.
All those whom God shall cast into the flames,
Unworthy of Heaven's forgiving grace
Are ever here, in this Book of Dead Names -
Named, numbered souls, each one bereft of face.
Thus, all enjoying notoriety
Shall be vanquished in anonymity.
III
Place copper coins over these weary eyes,
Gather my gold around me in the tomb,
Pray overlook transgression, all my lies,
Cradle me unto death, as from the womb.
Bury my silver at my lifeless feet,
Burn sandalwood, utter my name in prayer,
Drench me with nard and hyssop, bittersweet,
Remember me with lilies in my hair.
Pray write me in the Book of Living Names,
God turn thy face from my iniquity;
Spare me the flail, the pit of raging flames,
But let the quiet waters carry me.
Float me upon the Styx when I am gone;
Erase me from the Necronomicon.
NOTES:
This was inspired by some of the startling imagery in The Book of Revelation from the Bible.
Sep 2, 2009
Sep 2, 2009 at 11:47 AM UTC
--Proverbs xxiv. 11, 12.
1.
I have done I know not what,--what have I done?
My brother's blood, my brother's soul, doth cry:
And I find no defence, find no reply,
No courage more to run this race I run
Not knowing what I have done, have left undone;
Ah me, these awful unknown hours that fly
Fruitless it may be, fleeting fruitless by
Rank with death-savor underneath the sun.
For what avails it that I did not know
The deed I did? what profits me the plea
That had I known I had not wronged him so?
Lord Jesus Christ, my God, him pity Thou;
Lord, if it may be, pity also me:
In judgment pity, and in death, and now.
2.
Thou Who hast borne all burdens, bear our load,
Bear Thou our load whatever load it be;
Our guilt, our shame, our helpless misery,
Bear Thou Who only canst, O God my God.
Seek us and find us, for we cannot Thee
Or seek or find or hold or cleave unto:
We cannot do or undo; Lord, undo
Our self-undoing, for Thine is the key
Of all we are not though we might have been.
Dear Lord, if ever mercy moved Thy mind,
If so be love of us can move Thee yet,
If still the nail-prints in Thy Hands are seen,
Remember us,--yea, how shouldst Thou forget?
Remember us for good, and seek, and find.
3.
Each soul I might have succored, may have slain,
All souls shall face me at the last Appeal,
That great last moment poised for woe or weal,
That final moment for man's bliss or bane.
Vanity of vanities, yea all is vain
Which then will not avail or help or heal:
Disfeatured faces, worn-out knees that kneel,
Will more avail than strength or beauty then.
Lord, by Thy Passion,--when Thy Face was marred
In sight of earth and hell tumultuous,
And Thy heart failed in Thee like melting wax,
And Thy Blood dropped more precious than the nard,--
Lord, for Thy sake, not ours, supply our lacks,
For Thine own sake, not ours, Christ, pity us.
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**
You have ravished my heart,
my sister my bride,
you have ravished my heart
with a glance of your eyes.
with one jewel of your necklace.
How sweet is your love , my sister, my bride!
how much better is your love than wine.
and the fragrance of your oils than any spice!
Your lips distill nectar, my bride.
honey and milk are under your tongue.
the scent of your garments is likethe scent of Lebanon.
A garden locked is my sister , my bride.
a garden locked a fountain sealed.
Your channel is an orchard of pomegranates.
with all choicest fruits,
henna with nard.
nard and saffron, calamus
and cinnamon
with all trees of
frankincense.
myrrh and aloes,
with all chief spices -
a garden fountain , a well of
living water.
and flowing streams from Lebanon.
**
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
VII.
Ô myrrhe ! ô cinname !
Nard cher aux époux !
Baume ! éther ! dictame !
De l'eau, de la flamme,
Parfums les plus doux !
Prés que l'onde arrose !
Vapeurs de l'autel !
Lèvres de la rose
Où l'abeille pose
Sa bouche de miel !
Jasmin ! asphodèle !
Encensoirs flottants !
Branche verte et frêle
Où fait l'hirondelle
Son nid au printemps !
Lis que fait éclore
Le frais arrosoir !
Ambre que Dieu dore !
Souffle de l'aurore,
Haleine du soir !
Parfum de la sève
Dans les bois mouvants !
Odeur de la grève
Qui la nuit s'élève
Sur l'aile des vents !
Fleurs dont la chapelle
Se fait un trésor !
Flamme solennelle,
Fumée éternelle
Des sept lampes d'or !
Tiges qu'a brisées
Le tranchant du fer !
Urnes embrasées !
Esprits des rosées
Qui flottez dans l'air !
Fêtes réjouies
D'encens et de bruits !
Senteurs inouïes !
Fleurs épanouies
Au souffle des nuits !
Odeurs immortelles
Que les Ariel,
Archanges fidèles,
Prennent sur leurs ailes
En venant du ciel !
Ô couche première
Du premier époux !
De la terre entière,
Des champs de lumière
Parfums les plus doux !
Dans l'auguste sphère,
Parfums, qu'êtes-vous,
Près de la prière
Qui dans la poussière
S'épanche à genoux !
Près du cri d'une âme
Qui fond en sanglots,
Implore et réclame,
Et s'exhale en flamme,
Et se verse à flots !
Près de l'humble offrande
D'un enfant de lin
Dont l'extase est grande
Et qui recommande son père orphelin !
Bouche qui soupire,
Mais sans murmurer !
Ineffable lyre !
Voix qui fait sourire et qui fait pleurer !
Mai 1830.
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Am G Cmaj7 E
In the kingdom of Fenrey, a tale is told
Am G Cm7 E
of tyrannical king, who ruled the kingdom of old
Am G Cm7 E
Nard was his name, and warfare was his game
Am G Cm7 E
sent so many of his people to death, its such a shame
E G E Am
But, Nard is dead, his people rejoice
E G E
he lost his head, he didn't have any choice
Am G Cm7 E
Late one winter night, in the palace of the king
Am G Cm7 E
Nard's son Prince Zard, slipped into his room and beheaded him
Am G Cm7 E
Oh look there goes Nard's head, rolling down the stairs
Am G Cm7 E
and It comes as no surprise, that no one cares.
E G E Am
That Nard is dead, his people rejoice
E G E
he lost his head, he didn't have any choice
Vocal solo, with Verse chords, for eight measures,
(one verse length)
E G E Am
But, Nard is dead, his people rejoice
E G E
he lost his head, he didn't have any choice
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 10:26 AM UTC
**
I compare you my love ,
to a mare among Pharaoh's
chariots.
Your cheeks are comely with ornaments.
your neck with strings of jewels.
We will make you ornaments of gold.
studded with silver.
While the king ws on his couch.
my nard gave forth its fragrance.
My beloved is to me a bag of myrrh.
that lies between my *******
My beloved is to me a
cluster of henna blossoms
in the vineyards of En-gedi.
Ah, you are beautiful,my love.
ah, you are beautiful ;
your eyes are doves,
Ah, you are beautiful my beloved,
truly lovely.
Our couch is green;
the beams of our house are cedar.
our rafter are pine.
**
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
I compare you my love ,
to a mare among Pharaoh's
chariots.
Your cheeks are comely with ornaments.
your neck with strings of jewels.
We will make you ornaments of gold.
studded with silver.
While the king ws on his couch.
my nard gave forth its fragrance.
My beloved is to me a bag of myrrh.
that lies between my *******
My beloved is to me a
cluster of henna blossoms
in the vineyards of En-gedi.
Ah, you are beautiful,my love.
ah, you are beautiful ;
your eyes are doves,
Ah, you are beautiful my beloved,
truly lovely.
Our couch is green;
the beams of our house are cedar.
our rafter are pine.
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Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 6:57 AM UTC