Quotes about henna
What Bells & Sex Have To Do With Each Other, A Mythic Rendering From Ancient Texts & Dreams, circa 1981
'The bells, I say, the bells outbreak their towers...
- Hart Crane, from 'The Broken Tower'
For Marianne Annur
...I will tell you of Fatima.
She is the bell,
The tintinabulum,
The veil and the will.
Then take me to her.
You can have the tapestry of streets,
The bowls of tint.
Shade the surface black
And she will emerge
The river,
[...] Read more
poem by Warren Falcon
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In Praise Of Henna
A KOKILA called from a henna-spray:
Lira! liree! Lira! liree!
Hasten, maidens, hasten away
To gather the leaves of the henna-tree.
Send your pitchers afloat on the tide,
Gather the leaves ere the dawn be old,
Grind them in mortars of amber and gold,
The fresh green leaves of the henna-tree.
A kokila called from a henna-spray:
Lira! liree! Lira! liree!
Hasten maidens, hasten away
To gather the leaves of the henna-tree.
The tilka's red for the brow of a bride,
And betel-nut's red for lips that are sweet;
But, for lily-like fingers and feet,
The red, the red of the henna-tree.
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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Na Tian Piet's Sha'er Of The Late Sultan Abu Bakar Of Johor
In the name of God, let his word begin:
Praise be to God, let praises clear ring;
May our Lord, Jesus Christ's[8] blessings
Guide my pen through these poetizings!
This sha'er is an entirely new composition
Composed by myself, no fear of imitation.
It's Allah's name, I will keep calling out
While creating this poem to avoid confusion.
This story I'm relating at the present moment
I copy not, nor is it by other hands wrought;
Nothing whatsoever is here laid out
That hereunder is not clearly put forth.
Not that I am able to create with much ease,
To all that's to come I'm yet not accustomed;
Why, this sha'er at this time is being composed
Only to console my heart which is heavily laden.
[...] Read more
poem by T. Wignesan
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Paint my eyes in flowers
paint my hands in dragons
paint my back in windings
paint my arms in lightening
paint my neck in anks
my forehead intricate lines
paint my shoulder butterflies
paint my heart in henna
in henna of red in henna of black
body paint my heart
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Paint body art beautiful
her majesty the hand
with nail graffiti polish
pain in henna red
paint in henna black
paint paint my heart
paint body art faithful
faithful to the strokes
paint in strokes divine
paint in strokes of red
paint in strokes of black
paint paint my heart
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-17
Marudaani(Henna, Lawsonia inermis)
Inconspicuous on a tiny branchlet a tiny angel
Yet conspicuous with bunchy angels around special
Wing and winged her stamen and sepal four ordinal
Where from, you guess, is she nascent original
Marudaani..droplet of heavenly perfume she is
Most intense and inviting is her sacred redolence
Mirrored flawless in her leafy guard glabrous
What for, you guess, is she born much wondrous
Marudaani..all patterned with a loving heart
Flowery, flowery velvetty nature to impart
All her care of scented nursing fine and smart
How then, you guess, you're drowsy by Henna's floret
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Now Returned Home
Beyond the narrows of the Inner Hebrides
We sailed the cold angry sea toward Barra, where Heaval mountain
Lifts like a mast. There were few people on the steamer, it was late in the
year; I noticed most an old shepherd,
Two wise-eyed dogs wove anxious circles around his feet, and a thin-armed
girl
Who cherished what seemed a doll, wrapping it against the sea-wind. When
it moved I said to my wife 'She'll smother it.'
And she to the girl: 'Is your baby cold? You'd better run down out of the
wind and uncover its face.'
She raised the shawl and said 'He is two weeks old. His mother died in
Glasgow in the hospital
Where he was born. She was my sister.' I looked ahead at the bleak island,
gray stones, ruined castle,
A few gaunt houses under the high and comfortless mountain; my wife
looked at the sickly babe,
And said 'There's a good doctor in Barra? It will soon be winter.' 'Ah,'
she answered, 'Barra'd be heaven for him,
The poor wee thing, there's Heaval to break the wind. We live on a wee
island yonder away,
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Colors Passing Through Us
Purple as tulips in May, mauve
into lush velvet, purple
as the stain blackberries leave
on the lips, on the hands,
the purple of ripe grapes
sunlit and warm as flesh.
Every day I will give you a color,
like a new flower in a bud vase
on your desk. Every day
I will paint you, as women
color each other with henna
on hands and on feet.
Red as henna, as cinnamon,
as coals after the fire is banked,
the cardinal in the feeder,
the roses tumbling on the arbor
their weight bending the wood
the red of the syrup I make from petals.
[...] Read more
poem by Marge Piercy
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Don Juan: Canto The Third
Hail, Muse! et cetera.--We left Juan sleeping,
Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast,
And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping,
And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest
To feel the poison through her spirit creeping,
Or know who rested there, a foe to rest,
Had soil'd the current of her sinless years,
And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears!
Oh, Love! what is it in this world of ours
Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah, why
With cypress branches hast thou Wreathed thy bowers,
And made thy best interpreter a sigh?
As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers,
And place them on their breast- but place to die-
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.
In her first passion woman loves her lover,
In all the others all she loves is love,
[...] Read more
Canto the Third
I
Hail, Muse! et cetera.—We left Juan sleeping,
Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast,
And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping,
And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest
To feel the poison through her spirit creeping,
Or know who rested there, a foe to rest,
Had soil'd the current of her sinless years,
And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears!
II
Oh, Love! what is it in this world of ours
Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah, why
With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers,
And made thy best interpreter a sigh?
As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers,
And place them on their breast—but place to die—
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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