Best Distil Poems
I wished to ascend,
so I called a friend,
who knew of such things
and how to grow wings.
‘God’s abode’s within’,
he said, ‘so begin,
by simply choosing,
head and heart, fusing’.
‘Each impulse distil,
aligned with His will’.
So I set out thus,
aboard God’s love bus.
I reached heaven’s gate
and there chose to wait,
for the gate was locked,
so I stood there docked.
A voice then affirmed
that I’d have discerned,
the gate’s my ego,
which I must forgo.
Once there’s no blockage
and no desires rage,
cleansed of every sin,
I may then walk in.
I cowered in fear,
for my life was dear.
What’s left, if I die?
Is heaven, a lie?
Conscience egged me on,
ego shorn, reborn,
the false dropped away;
I saw then God’s play!
I was living light,
shining day and night.
The gate was but thought,
fears, ego begot.
The manifest world,
but intent unfurled,
to know all are one,
each being God’s son.
Life’s a lucid dream,
where thought forms do stream.
To exit this game,
simply take God’s name.
The rot’s sunk in deep.
How long will we sleep?
There’s no gate, dear friend.
Vaporise! Ascend!
23-June-2022
One In Five Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Syllables: HMS
Good poetry is like an Old Master
Crafted with expert skill imbued with soul
No abstracted throwaway disaster
Or a bland undistinguished casserole
Of poor ingredients cooked up faster
And deposited in the toilet bowl
No, it should stimulate the appetite
And explode in the mind like dynamite
Good poetry should stand the test of time
Like great art it should make your spirit soar
Made memorable by structure and by rhyme
Utilizing simile, metaphor
Allegory and precise words that chime
Never should its contents the reader bore
Linking thoughts and ideas that one can quote
More than just a run-of-mill anecdote
Good poetry conveys thoughts in a way
That prose cannot - however full of wit
As a good photo brilliant in its way
Rarely reveals the person who took it
But a crafted poem - like a Monet
Should bear its creator’s mark and transmit
A recognition of the poet’s style
Whether it’s limited or versatile
Good poetry is like a single malt
Aged in a golden sherry cask of oak
With which a connoisseur can find no fault
Redolent of heather and peaty smoke
So, any poets worthy of their salt
Should let thoughts marinate, mature and soak
And distil them once, twice or even thrice
Before serving neat sans water or ice
He sits with his head upon his hands
His eyes are red
And water that glued the sands
Sun sucked, slithered from the sandy bed
His thoughts are the hourglass
Grains of meaning mincing away
His castle was the sheltered pass
Tomorrow in today decay.
The officer who came to the door
Polite as an exterior of class
Knocked his ego to the floor
Set his emotions to tinder like grass
Dry as the cinders of his life:
It was she who picked up the knife
She who wanted out as wife
So many things unspoken, so much rife
And he cannot own that argument again
He lost in the public sphere
While he was at the war enduring pain
Treason was a shift of change here.
The officer asked him if he had somewhere
To go ... leaving the house his hands built
He wandered through the cold night air
Racked by conscience alternating guilt.
Then here ... to sit and muse alone
Rejecting interventions of the court
To share what was his own
He relinguished property and support
Except from the sweet distil of fruit
And wanders between the staggering eye
Victim of an altered truth
Forgotten mortal under infallible sky.
Thoughts melt and distil under a green/blue flame,
Swirling down, separated out and mixed.
If you’ve seen it, it’s broken;
If you’ve heard it, it’s shredded;
If you’ve read it, it’s rewritten.
It's really quite unlikely to be fixed.
You’re cutting up holiday snaps
and pasting them onto card.
And you’re scrambling madly
to hide the mess on the floor
As your mum yells for cleanliness
From behind your bedroom door.
3001 puzzle pieces and you’re jamming them together,
No wonder your imagination is at the end of its tether.
You’ve got two pieces that are sun-kissed clouds
“What comes… what comes next?”
You’ve got two roots in the soil
“What comes… what comes next?”
Your mother is sitting in the hall
With a scarf tied round her neck,
Her back pressed up against the wall
As she deals the jigsaw deck.
3001 pieces in her hands,
Mixed with childhood drawings
And grains of sand.
She lays out seven in a line,
Which you place between the two and two.
“Oh, but that and that won’t rhyme!”
“Don’t you think that this one will just do?”
And your father’s disapproving in the kitchen,
“You don’t need no occult nonsense,
Or a system to order out your brain”
He just stands there “focussed”
Over a pot on a blue/green flame,
Subconsciously mumbling while stooped,
“Look here Son, look, I’m making poa-tery soup.”
But you would never tell him that,
Just like you’ll never be finished, ever.
No-one ever is
Even if they know they’re doing it or not.
My grandfather died last week,
The sourest stuck-in-a-rut-of-a-man
That you’re ever going to meet.
The diagnosing doctors were in for a treat.
They said that there was something wrong there,
Something wrong with his brain,
That there was something strange there
Fundamentally, main.
They said that he died - after scans - in a cubicle stall,
When his brain haemorrhaged and cracked open,
And jigsaw pieces piled up against the wall.
Sans ego, who are we
“All that is, is God-consciousness ~
Dance divine, in sheer playfulness “
____________________________
Presupposing separation from God,
we thus eclipse the light by our own hand,
playing mind games until heart’s lust has thawed,
whereupon soul’s freed, right here where we stand.
We’re here on earth, to imbibe love by touch,
suspending judgment and narrow belief,
letting go of ritualistic crutch,
making room within, granting soul relief.
Let love distil each and every action,
before it’s release as thought, word or deed,
mindfully calming ego’s reaction,
which is self-serving, spawning fear and greed.
Strange is this God-search game of hide and seek
His abode’s in our heart ~ take a sneak peek
23-June-2022
a creative impulse
on the spur
of the moment
with
spontaneous
drops
to
distil
as
a painting with words
an invitation
to stroll within
behind the veil
share &participate
with
another’s mind.
(Bal-e-Jibril-151) Javed Iqbal Ke Naam:
(On receiving first letter of Javed Iqbal(Late Son of Dr Allama Iqbal) in London)
https://youtu.be/jGv1lCDjHEk
Senior Justice Javed Iqbal (5 October 1924 – 3 October 2015) was a Pakistani philosopher and senior justice of the Supreme Court of Pakistan. He was internationally known for his acclaimed publications on philosophy of law and modern Islamic philosophy in international and national journals.
He was the son of the poet-philosopher Dr. Muhammad Allama Iqbal, who inspired the Pakistan Movement. Javed authored various books on Pakistan's nationalism movement and political ideology. Apart from philosophy, Javed had a prolific career in the Judiciary of Pakistan and was a former Chief Justice of the Lahore High Court before being elevated to the Supreme Court. He received the Hilal-i-Imtiaz Award in 2004.
1.Diyar-e-Ishq Mein Apna Maqam Paida Kar
Naya Zamana, Naye Subah-o-Sham Paida Kar
Build in love’s empire your hearth and your home;
Build Time a new, a new dawn, a new eve!
2.Khuda Agar Dil-e-Fitrat Shanas De Tujh Ko
Sakoot-e-Lala-o-Gul Se Kalaam Paida Kar
Your speech, if God give you the friendship of Nature,
From the rose and tulip’s long silence weave.
3.Utha Na Sheesha Garan-e-Farang Ke Ehsan
Sifal-e-Hind Se Meena-o-Jaam Paida Kar
No gifts of the Franks’ clever glass-bowers ask!
From India’s own clay mould your cup and your flask.
4.Main Shakh-e-Taak Hun, Meri Ghazal Hai Mera Samar
Mere Samar Se Mai-e-Lala Faam Paida Kar
My songs are the grapes on the spray of my vine;
Distil from their clusters the poppy-red wine!
5.Mera Tareeq Ameeri Nahin, Faqeeri Hai
Khudi Na Baich, Ghareebi Mein Naam Paida Kar!
The way of the hermit, not fortune, is mine;
Sell not your soul! In a beggar’s rags shine.
Kalam e Iqbal(Answer to First Letter of Son of Dr. Allama Iqbal By Himself).
Translated by Aliza Kashmala Kiran.
It takes a long time
To figure out if things went right
To find out if you did what was best
If you passed all those unknown test
An perfect life doesn't exist
Parenthood involves to many variables
Of which you cannot control
It is not easy raising a child
From preconception through to life
It is a hazardous journey
That is often thankless
With pitfalls everywhere
With no knowledge of how
Parent and child will interact
It is a game of trial and error
The books and classes you attend
Only generalize
The reality of birth upends
All perceived and expectant sureties
Navigating the pains of birth
The tantrums of toddler-hood
The blasé attitude of teenage
And the un-forgetfulness of adulthood
Is not a relaxing journey
Both sides will often end up worst for wear
Bundles of joy can become
Vessels that distil all unsure steps
A learning process involves
Souring minds exposed
To overpowering parenting
Or insufficient love
Nurturing the person who now hates
Can only make one sad
Time doesn’t play fair
It doesn’t allow a rethink
Or a reliving of the past
So wrongs can be made right
Life is tough when you raise the next generation
You expect happiness but reality
Never quite hits the target of perfection
Is it best to just love and hope
Things won’t destroy you
And the child that looks up you?
The stream.
Sunlight Flicks through branch and falls
On shady copse and tree lined halls.
To scatter bright on dreaming stream,
Which flows amongst the woodland scene.
Then on to twist through leafy glade
And out into the light - Parade.
It chatters on through cobbled brook
And Bubbles up from rocky nook.
Over silver fish and dancing fly,
Where waving fingered branches lie.
Thenceforth to a place where the water slows,
A gentle pond amongst the meadows.
It's waters clear and sleepy calm,
Serenaded by a Buntings psalm.
Which flutters in and gently feeds,
Then darts between the cotton reeds.
To its nest with tiny hearts that beat,
In a place where shade and sunlight meet.
This summer haze where all is still
Does joy into my heart distil.
I sit and watch the ripples run,
Rise and fall, reflect the sun.
At banks of sedge they slowly play
A rhythmic dance then fade away.
Listen carefully: those are bells ringing.
To whom are they calling?
From where come the peals?
Here in the wild countryside
the pale-yellow cowslips
dance a lonely jig
to the tune of the wayward breeze,
dispersing their melliferous fragrance,
gracing us with their herbal remedies.
And still the bells peal!
Do they toll for me?
Reminding me of my needs?
Shall I gather the cowslips?
What shall I do with weeds?
There see them grow in the vale
or along the riverbanks
where waters rush headlong,
zigzagging through the silvery alleys,
making their way to the far off sea.
And the bells still peal!
The cowslips sway in the breeze.
I stand still devoid of fantasy,
empty of coherent dreams.
What will I gain from cowslips?
except distil it in my cellar
and enjoy its narcotic sips?
Still do the bells toll?
Why? What for?
My heart knows, of course.
I find a shade, I kneel, I pray.
Let the bells toll.
I've heard as cowslips bend their heads.
They
placed
a flower
upon
a grave
read
his
soliloquy
aloud
a few
poetic
petals
to distil
a
lifetime
into
a
single
drop
and
then
sadly
forgot
The word of God is our teacher
coming down just like the rain
watering our crop over it all
evenly spread never being in vain
God speaks from heaven above
seeking to distil it as the dew
through His authorative inspired word
drinking all His truth His people grew
We are like grass being so tender
receive the rain so gently spread
just like God’s living active truth
affecting our heart tenderly read
Showers pour upon the herbs
watering deeply down at it’s root
all for God’s glory to be shown
so it’ll sprout forth with good fruit
(‘May my teaching drop as the crain, my speech distil as the dew, like gentle rain upon the tender grass and like showers upon the herb.’ Deuteronomy ch. 32 v.2)
The morning is fair and without compare;
desire to escape commotion in motion.
With apologies to Frost, but I’m lost
in sylvan idyll; my thoughts to distil.
I should have turned left or maybe the cleft
ignored as the bend designates the end.
Peering into the void I can’t avoid
the nagging feeling that the sheep bleating
as they’re trudging through the mud, chewing cuds
on the road most travelled and levelled,
would’ve been easier terrain – not bane
of thorns and thistles. As temper bristles,
thoughts turn mutinous. Incongruously
I’ll save either way for another day.
Poetic form: Lannet sonnet
poeticsonline.com/glossary/lannet/
Refined smells of life ripening sunlight
Distil the dawn with sharp visions to reinvigorate
I’m seen through eyes in the tall grass
Drinking life from fresh air's revitalising glass
Crops rippling in the breeze like buoyant spirits
Rise like a live stage performance through the mist
Thick like a page out of this day’s publication
To a new chapter lifted to the blue sky with anticipation
Nourishing the majestic oak with new waters from upstream
To naturally continue their meander of living a dream
A memory of tears washed empty of all yesterdays
Enters my garden like a crisp straw of ambiance
And when the quiet of night does come, it’ll be swift
From leaves to humus on a wind's sudden shift
For I’m on life’s assembly line – death’s bucket list
Warmth slips over my abandoned remains like a red sunset
07-31-2015
Make it special ~ each breath we take
Distil thought, word and deed
Make tranquil mind, calm as a lake
Succumbing not to greed
Here now, choose to go in
Magnetise void within
Let bliss winds graze our skin
Our earth vessel
Make it special
26-April-2022
Quietus