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Pipe Poetry
Poetry, literature and music have been huge influences in my life. I actually self publish my own literature through mail order.
I know it’s kinda corny, but I was inspired to write a poem using a bunch of the cool tobacco names from The Country Squire. Honestly didn’t intend it to be that way when I first started. Then I mentioned White Rose and it wrote itself from there
I know it’s kinda corny, but I was inspired to write a poem using a bunch of the cool tobacco names from The Country Squire. Honestly didn’t intend it to be that way when I first started. Then I mentioned White Rose and it wrote itself from there
Young Squire
Perfumed music notes linger
through open cellar doors
Standing on cakes of Flake
Stained, ancient colored floor
White Rose and velvet
A sweet, leisurely science
Black arrows pierce my heart
Awake the sleeping giant
Green dragons make mischief
Like the villains on Baker Street
Brought bound in rusty shackles
Before the County Seat
Hung my soul out to dry
Summer sins in the Breeze
Feathers falling like tears
Of the Choctaw senior chief
Comments
That happens sometimes. Like you are constipated and then you take something medicinal and all of a sudden you have diarrhea.
http://forum.thispipelife.com/discussion/1017/pipe-haiku/p1
I am super stoked to get that LLP!
https://olie-sylvester-906n.squarespace.com/pipe-poetry/
There was a salty old fisherman lost among the raging sea
Quoting scripture as he clutched his pipe and rosary beads
Waves crash all around like a wall
Of translucent blue wonder
Troubles are a millstone around
His neck, ready to go asunder
where did you come across that book?
Pipe smoking has become an art form to me.
A beautiful briar is the canvas and your lighter is a brush.
Long broad strokes across the leafy landscape create a forest fire of pleasure to the senses.
Short bursts keep the coloring bright as the essence of tranquility captures me inside this fleeting, present moment.
Both taken from the attached, part of the PDF Pipe Smoking Library discussion/folder
Also see https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14887
The Canted Briar Tales
Thursday, April 5, 2018 by Daniel Bumgardner
Spring is upon us at last, and what better reminder than Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, whose prologue celebrates and symbolizes spring? We couldn't help but wonder, however, how it would read if Chaucer had included pipe smoking. But fear not — we decided to render a version in the language of pipes.
The Canted Briar Tales
When that April, with her sweet commute
The draught of March hath pierced through the Root,
And steeped every brain in such elixir,
Of which virtue catalyzed is clarity of picture;
When Nicotiana puffs with her breath sweet,
Fired within the burl of heath
The tinder pops, like a standing drum
Alas, the course of stress is run,
And supple plumes sing notes so soft,
That nightly senses hang aloft —
(So pleasant is the liminal phase)
That reserved blends will soon be praised
(And rested briars awake for the season)
To ignite these mixtures after full repletion
And especially, from fragrant Syria and Cyprus
To Virginia they travel, some with Lakeland's guidance,
The holy bliss of spring's harbor they seek
To give peace to their spirits, and strength to the weak.
And as it would happen, I happened to search
For a certain pipe last seen on its perch.
Ready to wander down to the cellar,
The canted briar was nowhere, from what I could tell, or
Perhaps the night I last enjoyed it
My fingers grew feeble, and unknowing, deployed it
And somewhere amidst the subterrain of my couch
My pipe has befriended an outgoing mouse,
Or maybe the briar will find its way back
Its chamber beckoning from the tableside rack,
And if it so happens to be vanished for good
I'll not weep for its absence, though it dampens the mood,
For I hope that it brings a similar glee
To its newfound companion as it brought to me,
I'll jar up those memories, make space at the top,
And let time run its course, 'til it chooses to stop.
While lighting my pipe I singed my nose ...
dropped the bowl in my lap, and burned my hose.
https://www.google.com/search?q=pipe+poetry
An Ode to the Pipe Tool
Oh blessed pipe tool,
Thy utility unmatched,
The pipe smoker’s friend.
You came from afar,
Born in the land of the Czech,
And purchased online.
You’re three tools in one,
A tamper, a pick, and spoon,
Each serves their purpose.
The tamper is true,
Guiding burnt tobacco down,
Flat into the bowl.
Like a shepherd’s staff,
You stomp the wayward ashes,
Protecting my clothes.
Unyielding pick,
Guard of the straight and narrow,
Setting errors straight.
Plunging in embers,
You stir the ash in the bowl,
Correcting the draw.
When the ash is low,
The spoon will heed the call,
To clear the dottle.
Once the pipe goes cold,
You scrape the bowl clean of ash,
And foul odor.
My humble pipe tool,
Covered in speckled pipe soot,
Your badge of honor.
You stay by my side,
As I puff my evening pipe,
Like a sentinel.
Without your service,
I’d scorch my fingers no doubt,
And holes in my shirt.
Though small in stature,
You prove your worth every smoke,
A friend for pipe men.
Pipe & Tobacco Poetry
https://pipesmagazine.com/blog/category/pipe-tobacco-poetry/