Long Phial Poems
Long Phial Poems. Below are the most popular long Phial by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Phial poems by poem length and keyword.
EVIDENCE
See here, this object that I found
Surely belongs to you
You may shake your head and look away
Yet I can tell that you recognise it
Now your face reddens
And I am ever more certain it is yours
Something of great significance
To you especially, I think
Take it, hold out your hand
Let me please return it to you
Merely a small blue glass phial
Containing the residue of some liquid
With which you are familiar, no doubt
A lethal weapon in your armoury
Poison makes no sound, except an escaping sigh
That you must have heard so many times
Go now, I shall hold this a secret between us
For one day I may have use of your skill
All words and wonder, wobbling copper green
Foam and guano floating
In the sea cave’s lee
A flock of gannets raucous on a rocky pile
And the ever-growing echo as the men came by
Climbed from the boat
And dragged it from the water
Bare feet on painful pebbles relieved by sand
And, at the back of the cave, they dug on their knees
Scooping with their hands
A tiny purple phial was found, ancient and Phoenician
The granite stopper plucked
And, instead of a salty seaweed smell,
An oozing, resinous scent
From the darkness of consciousness
A rose and orange essence
Though not exactly a smell
Rather a panorama of far-off painted and planted secret messages
Kiss-kept by a woman
The tinkle of her bangles upon her wrists and ankles still
Echoed in the cave as if the lady was there
Her glancing eye gripped one cold
The press of her heel as she posed before dance
The burst of laughter with friends
Admiring her pencilled eyebrows and plum-blushed lips
Hips and elbows endearingly tipped
She leant forward and whispered into the traveller’s ear,
All words and wonder:
“Find me some ambergris and bring it to Arabia
Find me some ambergris to perfume my breasts
Find me some ambergris and bring it to my tent.”
Reflection in a Phial
I look at my hands they are brown as a farmer`s, this pleases me,
although, I have no land to plough, a tractor or a mule,
a workman`s sturdy hand; all socialists should have hands that
have harvested potatoes or carrots.
I flex my muscles of my upper arms, see a faint movement
like a mouse moving under thawing spring snow.
Glorious vanity I used to do hundred press- ups, a day in the hope
to look strong and furious. I think of sex sadly I wasn`t any good
at it, after the act, I looked for a book to read.
The squalid side of life has always mystified me, why does
a person chooses a path that leads moral disgrace and ruin?
I have always been lazy, strenuous effort will not touch me,
but I would like to pull up a few more carrots
A dying man was gasping for air
He asked a nurse if she had some to spare
She breathed into a little phial
And with a smile upon her dial
She said how much will you pay
My phial of breath may save your day
A quiet voice from way up high
Spoke to the nurse and asked her why
She had wanted payment for her breath
When her patient was so near death
Suddenly, she heard a sound
Of soothing music all around
She looked at the dying man's face
And noticed that there was no trace
Of worry lines or wrinkles there,
He seemed to rise from his bed
A cosy pillow lay under his head
The nurse was awe-struck and gave a scream
Praying to awaken from this dream
Still holding her phial of breath.
A STUDY IN VIOLET
This treasure house of objets d’art
Littered with plots and storylines
A room encrusted with jewels of history
Inviolate – and undisturbed.
Over there, a military tunic
Blue – and in such fine condition.
Pale lapels perhaps too remote or innocent
Of its vile ‘let them have it’ past.
Here, an abandoned symphony
Black notes pebbledash the page.
Written for that ancient violin, no…
Viol. Late Belle Epoch I think.
That leather book I recognise
An ancient asset register.
And with such work of reference
Identify - a little more.
A philtre or monk’s cure perhaps.
Or poison, used to sway an empire.
Something forensic science may analyse
This phial – let it keep its secret.
Here, a scroll. Homeric tragedy?
Greek, according to the words.
Those old strange symbols, faded now
A ‘Phi’ or letter ‘P’ – I’m sure.
I cannot touch nor be considered
A robber, loose in a dusty tomb.
Caught in the torchlight, gold in hand
Say ‘Fie!’ – or let him go.
This treasure is too much for anyone
To really own. To hide away.
Bequeathed to me but never really mine.
Something Auntie Violet always knew.
I reached for a vessel, a delicate glass,
A translucent phial of noble class,
Beside an old ewer and sacred water-urn,
When I stumbled on a canister—a fatal turn!
I attempted to smite, to strike with fury,
To save my clear flask from a clumsy jury,
Instead came a clash and a thunderous impact,
As my elbow met clay in a violent contact!
The floor began to shudder, to rock to the core,
As six crystal phials went crashing to the floor.
They started to clatter, resonate, and vibrate,
Shattering asunder at an alarming rate!
My cat began to totter, to wobble in fright,
As I delivered a thump in the mid-afternoon light.
This scene served to vex, to gall my poor soul,
And throw my calm mind into chaos whole.
It threatened to disquiet, to stir inner unrest,
Standing in opposition to my peaceful quest.
My anger collided in strife with the room,
As ceramic and glass met their shattering doom.
And yet, in the wreckage, I chose to surrender,
To yield to the grace of a silence so tender.
I pacified the storm, hushed the raging spirit within,
And lulled my poor mind past the terrible din.
We started to chime, to dwell in sweet concord,
As I swept up the pieces that lay on the board.
To gladden the heart and succor the weary,
I sat in profound stillness, no longer so dreary—
Laying down my broom armor, embracing the peace,
And letting all kitchen-based violence cease!
Reflection in a Phial
I look at my hands, they are as brown as a farmer`s, this pleases me,
although I have no land to plough, a tractor or a mule, or
a workman`s sturdy hand; all socialists should have hands that
have harvested potatoes or carrots.
I flex the muscles in my upper arms and see a faint movement
like a mouse moving under thawing spring snow.
Glorious vanity, I used to do a hundred press-ups a day in the hope
of looking intense and furious. I think of sex sadly. I wasn`t any good
at it. After the act, I looked for a book to read.
The squalid side of life has always mystified me. Why does
a person choose a path that leads to moral disgrace and ruin?
I have always been lazy; strenuous effort will not touch me,
but I would like to pull up a few more carrots.
Volga – 4
to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little
is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub
will enter into the circuit-house
and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island
Volga - 5
coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind the rice-rain
from the cirrus
the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality
the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid
is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving
manuscript of the basement of a well
the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected
in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat vehemently
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs
they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song
to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required
notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen
here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well
on its one page lies the faulty crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …
within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken
if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land
let us have one game more