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Poems On / About FIRE  12/22/2014 8:13:17 PM
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The Pan Of Sorrows

I will give you the grain of tears,
Roast my sorrows in your pan,
O, tender of the fire.

Tender of the fire, branch of magnolia,
Roast my sorrows in your pan.

I am late already,
The shadows are fading,
The cattle have returned,
From the forest.
The birds have raised their clamor.
Roast my sorrows in your pan,
Tender of the fire.

Hurry, be quick,
I have far to go,
To the place
Where my companions have gone.
I have heard the road to that town is difficult
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

When my turn comes,
Your bale of kindling is damp.
Why has your earthen pan
Become flaccid?
What has gone wrong with your fire?
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

Mine is just a handful of grains,
Roast them, and let me go on my way,
Don't leave them raw,
Roast them well.
I beg you, bring an end to this wrangling,
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

The wind has dropped,
Its mournful weeping ended.
A sweet heat
Is rising in the stars.
My breaths are like a marriage procession
Whose bridegroom is displeased.
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
O tender of the fire.

Tender of the fire, branch of magnolia,
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
Shiv Kumar Batalvi

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A Garbage Poem With Chracters From PH

Miss lyn paul has a bad day as some gangsters snatch a golden chain from her neck. she chases them and the story begins.....

lyn paul came running she came with a gun
seeing her angry as hell, all the bad boys did run
she was enraged like a lion and her eyes were fuming red

as she was angry she then lit up a fire
she burn down a house where lived mr nair
made of wood was his huge old ancient bed

i heard galloping of the horses, as i saw mr bri
he stopped his pony when he heard me cry
his mouth agape as he saw the fire blaze

he took out his cell and dialed a number
instead of firemen he called a plumber
in front of our eyes we could see the fire raise

with all his valor he dialed again
but to our surprise it started to rain
rain from cloud made us dance as we did salsa

we waited for the rain to put off the fire
saw a lady coming close she spoke a satire
she scolded us bad and her name was miss valsa

she said you two, you should be inside
bri looked at me, again his mouth opened wide
she had a heart of a soldier, that lady was so damn brave

with a blanket that draped her from head to toe
we called her our friend, and fire our foe
when we looked at her we felt so small and naive

she went inside, all we could do was stare
cause sights like these were few and rare
to have a friend like her, lucky was mr nair

next to come there was rachel nichol
she prayed to the sun to summon a soul
a soul that knew how to put off the evil fire

as we started to talk we saw miss shazia batool
she was witty as she drowned a small pipe in a pool
and from that pipe she drenched mr nairs grand home

everything looked fine, everything looked good
the house started cooling, that was made of wood
miss shajia then spoke, her voice had a sweet tone

seeing everyone helping, bri said that’s enough
he said to me, now let’s get tough
he said again, it was our time to shine

he took out his pen as he started to write
seeing him waste his time, I started to fight
but still he said everything would be just fine

after sometime he spoke what he wrote
laughed a bird from the tree and a black and white goat
the fire lost its fuel as he heard bri's serenade

soon the fire was off, mr nair was fine
all hugged him tight, as we stood in a line
everybody was happy to see the fire fade
kanav justa

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I Saw Them (The Bamiyan Buddhas)

I saw them silently, all but silently, gathering,
Gathering on,
To fire,
Yes to fire, fire on the Buddhas,
The Bamiyan Buddhas
In Afghanstan.

The men in the loose pyjamas and the shirt
With a turban around the head,
Bearded and stout and hurly-burly
With the mortars over their shoulders
Firing on,
Firing on the Buddhas

And the Buddhas Buddhas, the statues of peace
Calm and quiet,
In their own composure,
Cliff-hewn, stone-chiselled, tall and heavy,
Sculptured and cut through,
Standing aloft to view all that.

They coming in hordes, the Talibans,
With mortars, shells, axes and hammers
To demolish the Buddhas, wipe them out,
The age-old relics and mementoes
By firing, shelling, bombarding and hammering,
Shelling and bombarding heavily to wipe out.

Buddhas Buddhas, peace radiating, calm taking over,
Seated on the lotus of meditation,
Lost in his sadhna under a peepul tree,
Losing and losing himself,
Blessing with his hand,
Let us be into the shelter of his.

Lo, Buddhas calling, it’s enough, cool yourself, calm down,
Lose not your temper,
Take refuge into me,
Have the peace of mind, the peace of soul
And he counselling, blessing
And asking to be in his shelter!

The Buddhas, Buddhas of peace,
Peace Cosmic, Peace Divine,
Calling them, calling them,
Asking to halt the firing,
But they firing with the stuttering rifles,
Shelling and bombarding the Buddhas.

I mean the Talibans, the people turbaned
And rugged,
Firing with the stuttering guns thundering,
Bombarding, shelling heavily
To wipe out the historical relics,
Pre-dating the advent.

But the Buddhas silent, all silent,
The cliff-hewn and chiselled Buddhas,
Sculpted out of tall rocks,
Archeological, architectural and archival,
But they in their aggressive mood of their own
To gun down the statues.

O Taliban, what are you doing,
Demolish not the statues, the statues of peace,
Shell them not,
They are Peace, Peace Divine,
Play not with,
Now it’s enough, silence your guns!

If disturb you, lest you be disturbed,
If disturb you peace,
You will sleep no more, no more,
You will sleep no more,
Losing all your sleep and rest,
You will no more!

And I hearing, Mundamal, I stood by, paused on hearing your call,
Who is it, who is it,
But when will you halt,
When will you come to a stop from all this,
When will you, Mundamal,
From all your bad deeds and misgivings?
Bijay Kant Dubey

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Fire and Sinbad

Whose fire is that surrounding us
As the torches surround a naked witch ?
Is it Hell's fire or Magi's fire?
Is it yearning's fire or Al-Bassos fire ?
During the travels of my great illusion
I tore up the dot of love.
In it I found the blank space as white as death
Or as black as the sun of a killed feast.
The letter is my heart's orchard and my blood's apple.
The letter is my master,
My blind old man who rolls me
From one mountain to another
From one desert to another
From a drowning boat to another burning
With wonderful beauty.
The drum is my blood.
The sea is my brother.
The travel is my sister.
The fire is my mother.
The letter is my sweetheart.
But who are you
You who keep screaming all the time: 'Help! Help! '
Are you my son or my father?
Miserable is Sinbad
For he fights boredom and death.
As for me, I have to fight boredom,
Death and fire.
Yes, I have to eat fire every morning.
And cling to a drowning letter
To reach a land drowning every night
And floating every morning
Like Sinbad who became bored with himself
And with his home address.
Adeeb Kamal Ad-Deen

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