10 Best Famous Burners Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Burners poems. This is a select list of the best famous Burners poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Burners poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of burners poems.

• All Famous Burners Poems

 He's gone. She can't believe it, can't go on. She's going to give up painting. So she paints Her final canvas, total-turn-off
Black. One long
Obsidian goodbye. A charcoal-burner's Smirnoff, The mirror of Loch Ness Reflecting the monster back to its own eye.
But something's wrong. Those mad Black-body particles don't sing Her story of despair, the steel and
Garnet spindle
Of the storm.
This black has everything its own sweet way, Where's the I'd-like-to-kill-You conflict? Try once more, but this time add
A curve to all that straight. And opposition White. She paints black first. A grindstone belly Hammering a smaller shape
Beneath a snake
Of in-betweening light. "I feel like this. I hope that you do, too, Black crater. Screw you. Kiss" And sees a voodoo flicker, where two worlds nearly touch
And miss. That flash, where white
Lets black get close, that dagger of not-quite contact,
Catspaw panic, quiver on the wheat
Field before thunder -
There. That's it. That's her own self, in paint, Splitting what she was from what she is. As if everything that separates, unites.

Copyright
from Voodoo Shop (Chatto, 2002), copyright © Ruth Padel 2002, used by permission of the author and the publisher

 If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
And leave the yellow bark dust
On your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
You could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to you hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
--your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in the water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
you climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume

and knew

what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
Peeler's wife. Smell me.

 The run of Billabong-go-dry 
Is just beyond Lime Burner's Gap; 
Its waterhole and tank supply 
Is excellent -- upon the map. 
But lacking nature's liquid drench, 
The station staff are wont to try 
With "Bob-in Sweeps" their thirst to quench, 
Or nearly quench, at Bong-go-dry. 
The parson made five-yearly rounds 
That soil of arid souls to delve, 
He wrote, "I'll come for seven pounds, 
Or I could stop away for twelve." 
But lack of lucre brought about 
The pusillanimous reply: 
"Our luxuries are all cut out, 
You'll have to go to Bong-go-dry." 

Now rabbit skins were very high -- 
There'd been a kind of rabbit rush -- 
And what with traps and sticks they'd shy, 
The station blacks were very flush, 
And each was taught his churchman's job, 
"When that one parson's plate comes roun' 
No good you put in sprat or bob, 
Too quick you put in harp-a-crown." 

The parson's word was duly kept, 
He came and did his bit of speak; 
The boss remarked he hadn't slept 
So sound and well for many a week. 
But Gilgai Jack and Monkey Jaw 
Regarded preaching as a crime 
Against good taste; they said, "What for 
That one chap yabber all the time?" 

Proceedings ceased: the boss's hat 
Was raked from underneath his chair; 
The coloured congregation sat 
And waited with expectant air. 
At last from one far-distant seat 
Where Gilgai's Mary'd been asleep, 
There came a kind of plaintive bleat, 
"Say, boss! Who won the harp-crown sweep?"