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pure white innocence
charmed the world with pale beauty.
envy lit the pyre
B D Caissie Aug 24
Your smouldering stare kindled a fire.
My safeguard went up in smoke.
We two, engulfed ourselves in the flames of desire.
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T­his poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "शिव स्वरूपं" published in pratilipi on (Dec. 2017) Can be read through the link ==>> https://bit.ly/2P4j7vE
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That face of Lord Shiva is most beautiful in which he holds Ganga in his hairs
The Moon feels blessed by beautifying the head of Shiva as a glittering crown

The Serpants also became jewellery by themselves and decorated his blue neck
Shiva holds the trident on one hand and plays the Damroo from the other one

He has seated himself on a mat of Tiger Skin and rubbed pyre ash on his body
He has left elephant and the horses and decided to travel on an old Bull Nandi

By such an amazing face form, he is always ready for the welfare of devotees
The cruel and wicked have always been afraid of his eldritch face and form.

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Shiva (See Line 1): A God (The Destroyer) in Hindu Mythology
Ganga (See Line 1): The Holy river whose flow and speed is controlled by the coiled hairs (Jatas) of Lord Shiiva
Damroo(See Line 4): A sort of musical instrument ( Pellet Drum )
Nandi((See Line 6)): A bull in Indian mythology who is the vehicle of Lord Shiva
The Mesmerizing Face of God Shiva
Tender leaves of spring,
have been roasted by the dry-wind.
They rustle now and then,
dancing in the spring's dusk!

Hopeful green turned brown,
they continue to rustle,
like those tired men in the fields
whose tanned body glimmer with the soiled trickle!

The brown leaves rustle their glory,
they will once dry and shed.
The sweat being the anomaly,
that shed and then dry !

The once lush-green trunk stand naked,
onto the bed of their own body.
like that very pyre arranged,
the wood and body mixing as one!
Sonia Thomas Nov 2018
There are days that my heart can't take how much pain women are having to carry in their hearts all the **** time. We hold the scars close, digging at them behind closed doors and discussing it in hushed tones.

Our homes are not ours. They're a minefield of memories we'd rather bury with our own walking carcasses.

Then maybe, we'll set ourselves on fire in the hope that maybe, just maybe, we'll be respected in death like Sati.

And then they'll say, "What a brave life she led!"

Or maybe something to the effect of, "Maybe we should have heard her screaming before she even walked into the pyre."
PoserPersona Aug 2018
Gaze on that woman by the train.
With curves like gunpowder
that will shoot fireworks again.
As her and I once were.

Since then, of women, I've abstained.
My chest is a pyre
to the damsel I couldn't retain;
fondness that won’t expire.


You say I could never attain
and imply I'm a liar!?
Or you think either me insane
or least she's miswired?

The evidence on my brain -
melancholy, ire -
the despondent husk that remains,
need you more enquire?


...True, of her, no displays of pain;
eyes that jolt not tire,
poker voice tipping no disdain,
legs that feed desire!

For her, gone love is not a chain
hidden by attire
or flushed down a forgotten drain.
It merely retired.

Love like hers was the wind and rain
to my earth and fire.
"My woman says that she prefers to marry no one
over me, not even if Jupiter himself should seek her.
She says (these things), but what a woman says to her desirous lover
is fitting to write on the wind and on fast-flowing water."
Poem 70 - Catullus
Brandon Conway Aug 2018

This depressive choreography
                                     of flames
                                     f     i      k     r     n
                                         l    c      e     i     g
consumed in the geography
                                 of bodies
                                 b   i   c   k   e   r   i   n   g
                              
Tongue's embers  licking  
                  the innocent cheek
words like poniards
                     P   R   I   C   K   I   N   G
leaving this dance at its
                                                          piqu­e

Now left  a  s m o u l d e r i n g
             soloist on the stage
                            a dance so sobering
                                     watch this fire's rampage

burn his own pyre
              I gave into the rage
burn his own desire
             another illegible page
tossed to fuel the bellowing fire
              the end of our golden age

Anthony Mayfield Jun 2018
Burning glory,
Of such I’ve never seen.
Warmth,
Of which I’ve only dreamed.
Such light,
To shine upon the sins.
Thick smoke,
To choke the loss to win.
Who wins?
They win.
White ash,
To remind of your decay.

Crows fly,
Their carrion play.
They clap,
A murderous parade.
They bleed,
Yet they don’t so who’s to say?
I say,
You say.
Who wins?
They win.
A pause.

The next day is still.
Marrow,
***** upon the hill.
Who knows,
What happened on that day?
The monument,
To remind the price to pay.
We’ll pay.
They’ll pay.
I say,
You say.
Who wins?
They win.
They always win.
They want to watch us fail and suffer in the midst of our own mistakes. They have pyres waiting for all of us.
Harri Jun 2018
I have never been afraid of fire.
Which is good, I think,
Because when I am with you
I feel like I might go up in flames.
You have consumed me more thoroughly
Than a pyre would, love.
And I have never been so happy to burn.
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