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Hebakuchahen

Hebakuchahen mu
bhala kabitie
bhulijai ejae
jetejauthi achhi
chhanda tala laya
sabda bakya byakarana
bhulijai mu kie kana
kahidebaku chhahen
mora ethakara ei sinhasana
mora ei mati akasha
alua pani pabana.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Jarata

1

Anka kasidelabelaku samaste ascharya
emiti phala baharila kemiti
jaha kaunasi sankyare chidunain.
sakala bipadaku taulilabelaku
bhari paduchhi a rajya
khuna jani guna uthuchhi ubuki.
Sara dipahara aaha chu chu karibaku
kie achhi bahara.

Netrutwa neba kana ede sahaja
mati pachi panka gandheilejai phute padma.
Bishada samayare sahi sambhali
rahiparile prakatibe Rama
juadu jemiti pabana bahuchhi
bahuthau chhada nain niti niyama.

Pratiti muhurtare jadi kichhi kichhi sikhuchha tebe jiinchha
samayara aahwana swikara kari aabhijana aarambha kale
hata paantaku aasijiba bijaya.

Bijay!
kahara bijaya?
satyara sindura phatibabele
jie thia hoithiba nischala tahara
kie uchha nischha kie
satrukie kiemitra
bachhabichara kichhi na thiba.

2

kana kemiti karibi mote pachara nain
kemiti udeibi aakasha chutuki phutai
kie kana karibe kemiti karibe
sabu jojana sarichhi
hebaki badalai kara kapala kostthi.
Janma mora bhala lagi
kebe karinain anista chinta kaharahele.
Jaha karichhi a jae sabu para lagi
mothi para aapana bheda e nain.

Samadrustire dekhichhi sabhinki
galikandi buleichhi panira siara kati kati.
Jaichhi jebe sakhinka melare
swapna dekhichhi matira aakashara
Taranakshyaramane olehhi aasichhanti sabhinka munhare
phutiuthichhi hasa.

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poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Kena kana (Kosli poem)

Kenke jimi ho aaru karmi kana
e kame paemi kenu kete dam
Khaemi kana aaru rahemi kena
Kie achhe kena ho Kana thik kana bhul
Kahemi kentakari aaru janba kie
Han baluchha ki nein.

Kana heichhe and tume karuchha kana
Kie chhinhichhe kahake
Baigan gachhe phaluchhe bhendi
Kie dekhichhe kanje nachhuche
Pusha kukur kie janichhe aaru nachhuchhe
pahanpahanu ni janikari kichhu.

Bat achhe ken inu
Baharikari palabar kaje
Khujuchhen saj je kahemi
muin achhen a amka kan hauchhu ga
Aaru helebi kana kariparbu ken ketebele.

Where what

Where shall I go
What shall I do
What shall I get from where
Where is my share.

Who is where
Who is there to say
Right and wrong
And how he will say
Who knows yes or noes.

What has happened
What are you doing
Who recognized what
Lady finger is there
In brinjal tree
Who has seen the dance
Who has seen the pet dog
In the early morning.

Where is the path
To go out
I am in search of time
To say O so and so
What are you doing and
What shall you do me
See I am here as before.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Manthara

Ajira Surya bhinna
na janila na thekhila
na bujhila lokaku swapna
swapna au dukha
dukha au shoka
shoka au hahakara.

Tume jana
au tumadei mu jane
ketebele kouthi ki karya.
Mu jane kichhi bi nuhein
ethi akarana
karyakarana bhitare
samparka jodila belaku
pratiti sttanare
rahi rahi jauchhi tumara adachinha
dekhila lokaku dishuchhi
na dekhila lokaku sunya.

tume tebe kana
kana tuma saha mora samparka
hei hei kahu kahu
jauchhi au kuadaku
jie mora kahuchhi
tume tara
jie mora kahucchi tume tathu dura
ascharya a sarata sara sansara.

2

Ate sigra samaya chali jauchi kichi jani heu ni
samanya swana tie bhali sukhila hada khande pai
lobha karuchhi. Sinhaku dekhi bhabuchhi
Mothu chadei nebaku Aasuchhiki?
Ki nirbodhata mote grasuchhi
Mu mora badai karuchhi aau sei
badhaira analare nije dagdha hoichhi.

Jaha kichhi bhabithili, hela kana
Kana bhabithili hela kana
sakara aau nirakaraku kouthi kana
Rakhihela?
Yabade kana rahila?

Mora sara mothiki bahidi Aasiba
Kalpana na thila.
Aau amiti sabu sabu a kasangare hataru

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poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Jibaloka

Alaga alaga rasta achhi
Alaga alaga lokanka pain
Alaga alaga lokejaanti
Alaga laga udesyare.

Tumara udesya kana mu jani nain
Mora udesya thik kahibaku Thibi mu
sabubele amiti nain.

Panire jauchhi aau jauchhi pabanare
Hei disuchi dekhiba dekhi pariba balaku.

Kie kahila e a prarthana
Kie kahila e a karuna
Kie kahila yathu bahariba aau kana kana
kie kahila e ye jou kahila gala
ya rasta kemiti kana
jaichi kuaade pachariba.

Rasta jae ni re kahila jane
Aau uthila aau puni kahila
Rastare jae jiba loka a ka.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Tadaka

Samudaya janapad katha bhabibasile
tumara khola hata nirtesha karuchhi mo adaku
sandeha nahi, thik thik kari chaliba puni
ethakara sabu karmakarmani.
Mu pumi athi thia
aithu utari nebaku punu tumaku.. agaku.
Mu jane khanda pajei na rakhile
pasteibaku padiba pare
daha daha ninare luhaku tatei
garama rakhibaku heba natakara sesa jae.
A natakara sesha kouthi
Mu ta kebala gotae dala a natakara
chera jai rahichhi sata samudra bhitare
cheraku na upadibajae
tume kana swastire niswasa mari pariba.

2

Satyaku aaghata karu karu
satyatara pramana paili jetebele
Mati aakasha aaskasa mati
Pabana Aani aalua bhitare
Phenti hoigale surya chandra
Tara graha nashkra jete jouthi dhile
samaste akasangare mu bari hoi padili
Madhyannara andhara Bhali
Kanla surlokara sandhyare tumasamnare!

Kahapain kahara srusti
Mo pain tumara na tu pain mora
Kahara gurutwa kete mapiba kie
kouthire?
Desa jatira hita pain phul thikra
Pharak janiba pain ethiki mora
Aasiba, Aau tumara bi.
Sabu jani bijhi tume murki hasa deuchha
mote dekhi dekhi ki janibe rushi
Tuma mo bhitere chalithiba
a lila khela, a hasa khusi aaharnishi.

Khali gyana khali dyana nuhe jibana
gyana dhyanare karma na misile
nuhen sapurna.
Tenu tume mote padheichha
risimininku kriyasila kareibaku
tenu tum mate padheichha
utha utha kahi debaku rusimuniku
kichhi kara, jouthire satya santira
rakhya heba, Dyan dhara tapasya
Aahuri tibra heba

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poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Rati

a rati
au a ratire
ame alaga alaga.
a rati akathikare.
kahanti samaste?
sabukatha samastankar
bhula hoipare
akasangare.

kana kie kahila
kahakunei kana samashya
jananain kahaku.
ame ethi jete jie
karuchun kama jaha
artha achhi ki na achhi
samaya rahe sthira.

au kie kana bujhila
kauthiru kau prasanga
kana baharila
kie janila.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Delhi or Dilli kahara?

Dilli or Delhi kahara?
Kie se jie mana karuchhi dilli jubaku?
Dilli kana bharata bhitare?
Dilli chhadi kie jiba kouthiku?
Dilli ku nei ate katha kahinki?

Pratiti lokara adhikara rahichhi dillire
Dil rahichhi cillire
Dil o dilli ba delhiku chhadi kehi rahiparibeni
Kaunasi dala sasaka mana karibe kemiti
Mu dilhi pain rahichhi
Deli mo pain achhi.

Mora pitrupita sabu mate delli deichhanti
Mu mate sasa karuchhi mora mangala pain
Kie tume mte manakariba pain dilliku
Dilliru palli mora
Mu mukta bharatara bharatiya nagarika
Mora hurdaya dilli
Palli mora ghara.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Tapasya

Ethakara a golapgachha hela kian kata?
Kian pashki kuadu aasi basila dandapindare?
Uttaraku apeshkya na kari mu baharili kacheri
Bhala khabara jouthi na thae kebe kaha pain.

Dosi aau nirdosh bhitare pharak thae na mothi
Mo pain kacharagada kichi kamara nuhen semiti.
Bipada sahita mora dosti maobadi aatankabadi
Mora padosi kebe kaha sahita kou kamare hata
Milaiba katha jane bhalakari.

Desabhakti gita sabu mora priya
Nara bhitare akelachalo
Sarejahanse achha kahikahi
Badira mati lagain mathare.

Tara ru tara buliba bala mu
Gharabali paanta kemiti mate
Aau ghare rahanta kemiti shanti
Mu mora khojuthain aau aau
Sujoga dekhi kemiti jaanti
Helamatre tikie pahanti.

Kahaku kbe krini aapatti
Mu mora chhai dhari thain mothi
Katagolapa gachhare phute mora phula
pashkhi aasila aau na aasi bi subhe
Mate gita jou gita pain mora a tapasya.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Bharata kahara

India that is bharat kahara
we the people of india karuchhe
kama kaha pain
kie kahaku kana dele
paila kana kie kahathu.

aryabarta bharata rahila kauthi
khojibaku jai pherichhi ki kie
amara sahamti amara sanhati
amara bhasa amara sahitya sanskruti
amathu kie neuchhi chhadai.

ame samajbadi ame sarbabhouma
eita nuhen ki bhrama
bharatara sadharana lokatie
paichhi kebe byaktira sammana
achhi ki chintare chetanare biswasare dharma.

kuade gala samajika arthanaitika
rajanaitika au au jete jete nyaya
amara bana giri lata nadi hrada samudra
pasu pashki sampada kuade gala kuha.

kebe heba ame au bharatiya
kebe heba ame au amara.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Paili kuha

Jaha mo pakhare achhi
Kahibi ta bisayare kichhi
Dekhaibi seita tumaku
Ghanta chakata kari pacharibi
Dekhata rahichhi ki kouthi kichhi aau.

Jaha janichha kahuchha Manoj sahu
Thik na janichha nuhen
Apekhyshare achhi samaya
Kemiti kebe prayoga kariba sesabu
Sabu prani trupta hebe jemiti.

Bijulithu aahuri tibra gatire
Jauthilabele tume mu ethi dekhauchhi pani
Aau patharara khela jouthi phuti jauchhi
Malliphula jete prakarara mati achhi
Se sabura upare.

Bishtadi jaha sabu thila gorubazarare
Ghusuri sapha kalani se sabu
Sua aasi basilani dekha heiti
Palasa gachhadalare nua nua
Kanli uthuthiba patranka bhitare.

Kemiti kahiba aau kemti kahiba aasibaku
Deri karuchhanti surya
Eithi jete jaha achhi hei nia deuchhi
Paiba nischaya sethire sukha
Paili boli khali kaha.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Mo Ghare(Odia poem)

Desha bulibara nain mora
Achhi nijaku bulibara
Khola aakash tale.

Aakasharu khasuthiba upagraha
Aakhi rakhichhi mo badire
Aau mu rahichhi ghare.

Eka thile ghare laganta dara
Mo sahita achha tume
Aau bi annyamane.

Mo byatita aau jeunmane
Khaibe ethakara khadyapaniya
Mate nain jana.

Mu achhi mothi aau
achhi mo sahita e dharitri
Aau mo ghare aaloka bharti.

Dam achhi ta rahibaku heba chhup
Urmi thau ki na thau
Manakale aasipara tume.

Satarka na helekhalakhamara bhaya
na cherara na dalara
Jabodi dharibaku bi nain kichhi kouthi.

Hansa bhelire basichhi kau ta
Heba i heba sarbanasha jemiti heu
Aau jiba sarbaswa ghara sahita.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Janhatola

kie na chahen
tolibaku janha
kie na jane
khasuchi goda talaku
kie na kare
pratiraskha nijara
kie na mare
swayang nija hatare.

anekakatha emiti
rahijae baki
sarijae mahabharata.
kie mala kie hajila
maraguli nain phursad
kahathi esabu ganibaku.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Temora - Book III

ARGUMENT.

Morning coming on, Fingal, after a speech to his people, devolved the command on Gaul, the son of Morni; it being the custom of the times, that the king should not engage, till the necessity of affairs required his superior valor and conduct. The king and Ossian retire to the hill of Cormul, which overlooked the field of battle. The bards sing the war-song. The general conflict is described. Gaul, the son of Morni, distinguishes himself; kills Tur-lathon, chief of Moruth, and other chiefs of lesser name. On the other hand, Foldath, who commanded the Irish army (for Cathmor, after the example of Fingal, kept himself from battle,) fights gallantly; kills Connal, chief of Dun-lora, and advances to engage Gaul himself. Gaul, in the mean time, being wounded in the hand, by a random arrow, is covered by Fillan the son of Fingal, who performs prodigies of valor. Night comes on. The horn of Fingal recalls his army. The bards meet them with a congratulatory song, in which the praises of Gaul and Fillan are particularly celebrated. The chiefs sit down at a feast; Fingal misses Connal. The episode of Connal and Duth-caron is introduced; which throws further light on the ancient history of Ireland. Carril is despatched to raise the tomb of Connal. The action of this book takes up the second day from the opening of the poem.

"Who is that at blue-streaming Lubar? Who, by the bending hill of roes? Tall he leans on an oak torn from high, by nightly winds. Who but Comhal's son, brightening in the last of his fields? His gray hair is on the breeze. He half unsheathes the sword of Luno. His eyes are turned to Moi-lena, to the dark moving of foes. Dost thou hear the voice of the king? it is like the bursting of a stream in the desert, when it comes, between its echoing rocks, to the blasted field of the sun!

Wide-skirted comes down the foe! Sons of woody Selma, arise! Be ye like the rocks of our land, in whose brown sides are the rolling of streams. A beam of joy comes on my soul. I see the foe mighty before me. It is when he is feeble, that the sighs of Fingal are heard: lest death should come without renown, and darkness dwell on his tomb. Who shall lead the war, against the host of Alnecma? It is only when danger grows, that my sword shalt shine. Such was the custom, heretofore, of Trenmor the ruler of winds! and thus descended to battle the blue-shielded Trathal!"

The chiefs bend towards the king. Each darkly seems to claim the war. They tell, by halves, their mighty deeds. They turn their eyes on Erin. But far before the rest the son of Morni stands. Silent he stands, for who had not heard of the battles of Gaul They rose within his soul. His hand, in secret, seized the sword. The sword which he brought from Strumon, when the strength of Morni failed. On his spear leans Fillan of Selma, in the wandering of his locks. Thrice he raises his eyes to Fingal: his voice thrice fails him as he speaks. My brother could not boast of battles: at once he strides away. Bent over a distant stream he stands: the tear hangs in his eye. He strikes, at times, the thistle's head, with his inverted spear. Nor is he unseen of Fingal. Sidelong he beholds his son. He beholds him with bursting joy; and turns, amid his crowded soul. In silence turns the king towards Mora of woods. He hides the big tear with his locks. At length his voice is heard.

"First of the sons of Morni! Thou rock that defiest the storm! Lead thou my battle for the race of low-laid Cormac. No boy's staff is thy spear: no harmless beam of light thy sword. Son of Morni of steeds, behold the foe! Destroy! Fillan, observe the chief! He is not calm in strife: nor burns he, heedless in battle. My son, observe the chief! He is strong as Lubar's stream, but never foams and roars. High on cloudy Mora, Fingal shall behold the war. Stand, Ossian, near thy father, by the falling stream. Raise the voice, O bards! Selma, move beneath the sound. It is my latter field. Clothe it over with light."

As the sudden rising of winds; or distant rolling of troubled seas, when some dark ghost in wrath heaves the billows over an isle: an isle the seat of mist on the deep, for many dark-brown years! So terrible is the sound of the host, wide moving over the field. Gaul is tall before them. The streams glitter within his strides. The bards raise the song by his side. He strikes his shield between. On the skirts of the blast the tuneful voices rise.

"On Crona," said the bards, "there bursts a stream by night. It swells in its own dark course, till morning's early beam. Then comes it white from the hill, with the rocks and their hundred groves. Far be my steps from Crona. Death is tumbling there. Be ye a stream from Mora, sons of cloudy Morven!

"Who rises, from his car, on Clutha? The hills are troubled before the king! The dark woods echo round, and lighten at his steel. See him amidst the foe, like Colgach's sportful ghost: when he scatters the clouds and rides the eddying winds! It is Morni of bounding steeds! Be like thy father, O Gaul!

"Selma is opened wide. Bards take the trembling harps. Ten youths bear the oak of the feast. A distant sunbeam marks the hill. The dusky waves of the blast fly over the fields of grass. Why art thou silent, O Selma? The king returns with all his fame. Did not the battle roar? yet peaceful is his brow! It roared, and Fingal overcame. Be like thy father, O Fillan!"

They move beneath the song. High wave their arms, as rushy fields beneath autumnal winds. On Mora stands the king in arms. Mist flies round his buckler abroad; as aloft it hung on a bough, on Cormul's mossy rock. In silence I stood by Fingal, and turned my eyes on Cromla's wood: lest I should behold the host, and rush amid my swelling soul. My foot is forward on the heath. I glittered, tall in steel: like the falling stream of Tromo, which nightly winds bind over with ice. The boy sees it on high gleaming to the early beam: towards it he turns his ear, wonders why it is so silent.

Nor bent over a stream is Cathmor, like a youth in a peaceful field. Wide he drew forward the war, a dark and troubled wave. But when he beheld Fingal on Mora, his generous pride arose. "Shall the chief of Atha fight, and no king in the field? Foldath, lead my people forth, thou art a beam of fire."

Forth issues Foldath of Moma, like a cloud, the robe of ghosts. He drew his sword, a flame from his side. He bade the battle move. The tribes, like ridgy waves, dark pour their strength around. Haughty is his stride before them. His red eye rolls in wrath. He calls Cormul, chief of Dun-ratho; and his words were heard.

"Cormul, thou beholdest that path. It winds green behind the foe. Place thy people there; lest Selma should escape from my sword. Bards of green-valleyed Erin, let no voice of yours arise. The sons of Morven must fall without song. They are the foes of Cairbar. Hereafter shall the traveller meet their dark, thick mist, on Lena, where it wanders with their ghosts, beside the reedy lake. Never shall they rise, without song, to the dwelling of winds."

Cormul darkened as he went. Behind him rushed his tribe. They sunk beyond the rock. Gaul spoke to Fillan of Selma; as his eye pursued the course of the dark-eyed chief of Dun-ratho. "Thou beholdest the steps of Cormul! Let thine arm be strong! When he is low, son of Fingal, remember Gaul in war. Here I fall forward into baffle, amid the ridge of shields!"

The sign of death ascends: the dreadful sound of Morni's shield. Gaul pours his voice between. Fingal rises on Mora. He saw them from wing to wing, bending at once in strife. Gleaming on his own dark hill, stood Cathmor, of streamy Atha. The kings were like two spirits of heaven, standing each on his gloomy cloud: when they pour abroad the winds, and lift the roaring seas. The blue tumbling of waves is before them, marked with the paths of whales. They themselves are calm and bright. The gale lifts slowly their locks of mist.

What beam of light hangs high in air? What beam but Morni's dreadful sword? Death is strewed on thy paths, O Gaul! Thou foldest them together in thy rage. Like a young oak falls Tur-lathon, with his branches round him. His high-bosomed spouse stretches her white arms, in dreams, to the returning chief, as she sleeps by gurgling Moruth, in her disordered locks. It is his ghost, Oichoma. The chief is lowly laid. Hearken not to the winds for Tur-lathon's echoing shield. It is pierced, by his streams. Its sound is passed away.

Not peaceful is the hand of Foldath. He winds his course in blood. Connal met him in fight. They mixed their clanging steel. Why should mine eyes behold them? Connal, thy locks are gray! Thou wert the friend of strangers, at the moss-covered rock of Dun-Ion. When the skies were rolled together: then thy feast was spread. The stranger heard the winds without; and rejoiced at thy burning oak. Why, son of Duth-caron, art thou laid in blood? the blasted tree bends above thee. Thy shield lies broken near. Thy blood mixes with the stream, thou breaker of the shields!

Ossian took the spear, in his wrath. But Gaul rushed forward on Foldath. The feeble pass by his side: his rage is turned on Moma's chief. Now they had raised their deathful spears: unseen an arrow came. it pierced the hand of Gaul. His steel fell sounding to earth. Young Fillan came, with Cormul's shield! lie stretched it large before the chief. Foldath sent his shouts abroad, and kindled all the field: as a blast that lifts the wide-winged flame over Lumon's echoing groves.

"Son of blue-eyed Clatho," said Gaul, "O Fillan! thou art a beam from heaven; that, coming on the troubled deep, binds up the tempest's wing. Cormul is fallen before thee. Early art thou in the fame of thy fathers. Rush not too far, my hero. I cannot lift the spear to aid. I stand harmless in battle: but my voice shall be poured abroad. The sons of Selma shall hear, and remember my former deeds."

His terrible voice rose on the wind. The host bends forward in fight. Often had they heard him at Strumon, when he called them to the chase of the hinds. He stands tall amid the war, as an oak in the skins of a storm, which now is clothed on high, in mist: then shows its broad waving head. The musing hunter lifts his eye, from his own rushy field!

My soul pursues thee, O Fillan! through the path of thy fame. Thou rollest the foe before thee. Now Foldath, perhaps, may fly: but night comes down with its clouds. Cathmor's horn is heard on high. The sons of Selma hear the voice of Fingal, from Mora's gathered mist. The bards pour their song, like den, on the returning war.

"Who comes from Strumon," they said, "amid her wandering locks? She is mournful in her steps, and lifts her blue eyes towards Erin. Why art thou sad, Evir-choma? Who is like thy chief in renown? He descended dreadful to battle; he returns, like a light from a cloud. He raised the sword in wrath: they shrunk before blue-shielded Gaul!

"Joy, like the rustling gale, comes on the soul of the king. He remembers the battles of old; the days wherein his fathers fought. The days of old return on Fingal's mind, as he beholds the renown of his sons. As the sun rejoices, from his cloud, over the tree his beams have raised, as it shades its lonely head on the heath; so joyful is the king over Fillan!

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poem by James Macpherson
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Rajaki

Kanhu bujhibi mu kete pani kouthi
kete pabana muthei kie dhaunchi kuade
kana puni rakhijauchhi katakare.
Saru bhitare maru thiba katha kie janiba
janithile bi kahiba kiana
kahiki hana khaiba kiana
chahata chikana dushuchha ta
gadi chalichhi thik
badalokanka bada katha
kahibini kemiti
tupuru tupuruku praghata kale
pralaya emiti.

Abhaba katha

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Se tarata

Delanain kichhi a rati mate
Aau chaligala aasithila joubate.
Rati galaparebi kian se tarata
sethi semiti rahichhi kejani!
Jane mu mora mora jaiparibi
dekhi dekhi mo bata mi aau
kahiparibi tarataku thare achhuta
jiropawar bulb pari sethi.
Kie kaha katha sune?
Tara kanei rahiba mo kathaku
aau kahiba saante hela sunili
jibe ni mate chhadi ta!
mu galabele kholi jae mo chhapala aau mu
tanka suna ghara badi pain jibaku
mana kare na aau jain
jain hataku kichhi aasena mora.
mu mora semiti padurahe saradina
phatibara thile phate pahada
nai uchhule kula langhe
pabana piti hue munuga gachhare
ethi sethi semiti sabuthi.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Get Busy

Shake that thing miss kana kana
Shake that thing miss annabella
Shake that thing yan donna donna
Jodi and rebecca
Woman get busy, just shake that booty non-stop
When the beat drops
Just keep swinging it
Get jiggy
Get crunked up
Percolate anything you want to call it
Oscillate you hip and dont take pity
Me want fi see you get live pon the riddim when me ride
And me lyrics a provide electricity
Gal nobody can tell you nuttin
Can you done know your destiny
Yo sexy ladies want par with us
In a the car with us
Them nah war with us
In a the club them want flex with us
To get next to us
Them cah vex with us
From the day me born jah ignite me flame gal a call me name and its me fame
Its all good girl turn me on
til a early morn
Lets get it on
Lets get it on til a early morning
Girl its all good just turn me on
Woman dont sweat it, dont get agitate just gwaan rotate
Can anything you want you know you must get it
From you name a mentuin
Dont ease the tension just run the program gals wan pet it
Just have a good time
Gal free up unu mind caw nobody can dis you man wont let it can
You a the number one gal
Wave you hand
Make them see you wedding band
[chorus]
Yo sexy ladies want par with us
In a the car with us
Them nah war with us
In a the club them want flex with us
To get next to us
Them cah vex with us
From the day me born jah ignite me flame gal a call me name and its me fame
Its all good girl turn me on
til a early morn
Lets get it on
Lets get it on til a early morning
Girl its all good just turn me on
Woman get busy , just shake that booty non-stop

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song performed by Sean Paul
Added by Lucian Velea
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Conlath And Cuthona

ARGUMENT.

Conlath was the youngest of Morni's sons, and brother to the celebrated Gaul. He was in love with Cuthona, the daughter of Rumar, when Toscar, the son of Kenfena, accompanied by Fercuth his friend, arrived from Ireland, at Mora, where Conlath dwelt. He was hospitably received, and according to the custom of the times, feasted three days with Conlath. On the fourth he set sail, and coasting the island of waves, one of the Hebrides, be saw Cuthona hunting, fell in love with her, and carried her away, by force, in his ship. He was forced, by stress of weather, into I-thona, a desert isle. In the mean time Conlath hearing of the rape, sailed after him, and found him on the point of sailing for the coast of Ireland. They fought: and they and their followers fell by mutual wounds. Cuthona did not long survive: for she died of grief the third day after. Fingal hearing of their unfortunate death, sent Stormal the son of Moran to bury them, but forgot to send a bard to sing the funeral song over their tombs. The ghost of Conlath comes long after to Ossian, to entreat him to transmit to posterity, his and Cuthona's fame. For it was the opinion of the times, that the souls of the deceased were not happy, till their elegies were composed by a bard.

Did not Ossian hear a voice? or is it the sound of days that are no more? Often does the memory of former times come, like the evening sun, on my soul. The noise of the chase is renewed. In thought, I lift the spear. But Ossian did hear a voice! Who art thou, son of night? The children of the feeble are asleep. The midnight wind is in my hall. Perhaps it is the shield of Fingal that echoes to the blast. It hangs in Ossian's hall. He feels it sometimes with his hands. Yes, I hear thee, my friend! Long has thy voice been absent from mine ear! What brings thee, on thy cloud, to Ossian, son of generous Morni! Are the friends of the aged near thee? Where is Oscar, son of fame? He was often near thee, O Conlath, when the sound of battle arose.

Ghost of Conlath: Sleeps the sweet voice of Cona, in the midst of his rustling hall? Sleeps Ossian in his hall, and his friends without their fame? The sea rolls round dark I-thona. Our tombs are not seen in our isle. How long shall our fame be unheard, son of resounding Selma?

Ossian: O that mine eyes could behold thee! Thou sittest, dim on thy cloud! Art thou like the mist of Lano? An half-extinguished meteor of fire? Of what are the skirts of thy robe? Of what is thine airy bow? He is gone on his blast like the shade of a wandering cloud. Come from thy wall, O harp! Let me hear thy sound. Let the light of memory rise on I-thona! Let me behold again my, friends! And Ossian does behold his friends, on the dark-blue isle. The cave of Thona appears, with its mossy rocks and bending trees. A stream roars at its mouth. Toscar bends over its course. Fercuth is sad by his side. Cuthona sits at a distance and weeps. Does the wind of the waves deceive me? Or do I hear them speak?

Toscar: The night was stormy. From their hills the groaning oaks came down. The sea darkly tumbled beneath the blast. The roaring waves climbed against our rocks. The lightning came often and showed the blasted fern. Fercuth! I saw the ghost who embroiled the night. Silent he stood, on that bank. His robe of mist flew on the wind. I could behold his tears. An aged man he seemed, and full of thought!

Fercuth: It was thy father, O Toscar. He foresees some death among his race. Such was his appearance on Cromla before the great Maronnan fell. Erin of hills of grass! how pleasant are thy vales! Silence is near thy blue streams. The sun is on thy fields. Soft is the sound of the harp in Seláma. Lovely the cry of th hunter on Cromla. But we are in dark I-thona, surrounded by the storm. The billows lift their white heads above our rocks. We tremble amidst the night.

Toscar: Whither is the soul of battle fled, Fercuth, with locks of age? I have seen thee undaunted in danger: thine eyes burning with joy in the light. Whither is the soul of battle fled? Our fathers never feared. Go; view the settling sea: the stormy wind is laid. The billows still tremble on the deep. They seem to fear the blast. Go; view the settling sea. Morning is gray on our rocks. The sun will look soon from his east; in all his pride of light! I lifted up my sails with joy before the halls of generous Conlath. My course was by a desert isle: where Cuthona pursued the deer. I saw her, like that beam of the sun that issues from the cloud. Her hair was on her heaving breast. She, bending forward, drew the bow. Her white arm seemed, behind her, like the snow of Cromla. Come to my soul, I said, huntress of the desert isle! But she wastes her time in tears. She thinks of the generous Conlath. Where can I find thy peace, Cuthona, lovely maid?

Cuthona: A distant steep bends over the sea, with aged trees and mossy rocks. The billow rolls at its feet. On its side is the dwelling of roes. The people call it Mora. There the towers of my love arise. There Conlath looks over the sea for his only love. The daughters of the chase returned. He beheld their downcast eyes. "Where is the daughter of Rumar?" But they answered not. My peace dwells on Mora, son of the distant land!

Toscar: Cuthona shall return to her peace: to the towers of generous Conlath. He is the friend of Toscar! I have feasted in his halls! Rise, ye gentle breezes of Erin. Stretch my sails towards Mora's shores. Cuthona shall rest on Mora; but the days of Toscar must be sad. I shall sit in my cave in the field of the sun. The blast will rustle in my trees, I shall think it is Cuthona's voice. But she is distant far, in the halls of the mighty Conlath!

Cuthona: Ha! what cloud is that? It carries the ghost of my fathers. I see the skirts of their robes, like gray and watery mist. When shall I fall, O Rumar? Sad Cuthona foresees her death. Will not Conlath behold me, before I enter the narrow house?

Ossian: He shall behold thee, O maid! He comes along the heaving sea. The death of Toscar is dark on his spear. A wound is in his side! He is pale at the cave of Thona. He shows his ghastly wound. Where art thou with thy tears, Cuthona? The chief of Mora dies. The vision grows dim on my mind. I behold the chiefs no more! But, O ye bards of future times, remember the fall of Conlath with tears. He fell before his day. Sadness darkened in his hall. His mother looked to his shield on the wall, and it was bloody. She knew that her hero fell. Her sorrow was heard on Mora. Art thou pale on thy rock, Cuthona, beside the fallen chiefs? Night comes, and day returns, but none appears to raise their tomb. Thou frightenest the screaming fowls away. Thy tears for ever flow. Thou art pale as a watery cloud, that rises from a lake.

The sons of green Selma came. They found Cuthona cold. They raised a tomb over the heroes. She rests at the side of Conlath! Come not to my dreams, O Conlath! Thou hast received thy fame. Be thy voice far distant from my hail; that sleep may descend at night. O that I could forget my friends; till my footsteps should cease to be seen; till I come among them with joy! and lay my aged limbs in the narrow house!

poem by James Macpherson
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Surpanaka

Tumaku kie mora karichhi
tume mora uhanta.
mora sabu chalabaji
dhara padigala tumathi
naka kana katidei
lakhya kala mora gatibidhi.
Anya adhyaya aarambha hela aethu
jetejie thile jouthi matile
agnire jhasa dela pari patanga.

Tume kendrare thai

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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November chillness

November chillness

As the cold wind flows in
her memories enters mind.
Thinking of her, enjoying this crazy love
freezes the november chillness.

Body is somewhere and mind is somewhere
mind not responding to november chillness
is frozen by her memories.
the slow speech of her, the elegant looks
ha frozen my mind

hey akasha mallige, i stare at you and wait for january
to see you in full bloom.
I don't know when is my january
but enjoy her memories freezing my mind.

As the cold wind of november flows,
memories of her fragrance and
the sweetness in her voice makes
mind foolish in this love.

hey akasha mallige when is my january?

(pem written on november)
(akasha mallige is a jasmine)

poem by Venkatesh Nagaraj
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Temora - Book V1

ARGUMENT

This book opens with a speech of Fingal, who sees Cathmor descending to the assistance of his flying army. The king despatches Ossian to the relief of Fillan. He himself retires behind the rock of Cormul, to avoid the sight of the engagement between his son and Cathmor. Ossian advances. The descent of Cathmor described. He rallies the army, renews the battle, and, before Ossian could arrive, engages Fillan himself. Upon the approach of Ossian, the combat between the two heroes ceases. Ossian and Cathmor prepare to fight, but night coming on pre vents them. Ossian returns to the place where Cathmor and Fillan fought. He finds Fillan mortally wounded, and leaning against a rock. Their discourse. Fillan dies, his body is laid, by Ossian, in a neighboring cave. The Caledonian army return to Fingal. He questions them about his son, and understanding that he was killed, retires, in silence, to the rock of Cormul. Upon the retreat of the army of Fingal, the Fir-bolg advance. Cathmor finds Bran, one of the dogs of Fingal, lying on the shield of Fillan, before the entrance of the cave, where the body of that hero lay. His reflection thereupon. He returns, in a melancholy mood, to his army. Malthos endeavors to comfort him, by the example of his father, Borbar-duthul. Cathmor retires to rest. The song of Sul-malla concludes the book, which ends about the middle of the third night from the opening of the poem.

"Cathmor rises on his hill! Shall Fingal take the sword of Luna? But what shall become of thy fame, son of white-bosomed Clatho? Turn not thine eyes from Fingal, fair daughter of Inis-tore. I shall not quench thy early beam. It shines along my soul. Rise, wood-skirted Mora, rise between the war and me! Why should Fingal behold the strife, lest his dark -haired warrior should fall? Amidst the song, O Carril, pour the sound of the trembling harp! Here are the voices of rocks! and there the bright tumbling of waters. Father of Oscar! lift the spear! defend the young in arms. Conceal thy steps from Fillan. He must not know that I doubt his steel. No cloud of mine shall rise, my son, upon thy soul of fire!"

He sunk behind his rock, amid the sound of Carril's song. Brightening in my growing soul, I took the spear of Temora. I saw, along Moi-lena, the wild tumbling of battle; the strife of death, in gleaming rows, disjointed and broken round. Fillan is a beam of fire. From wing to wing is his wasteful course. The ridges of war melt before him. They are rolled, in smoke, from the fields!

Now is the coming forth of Cathmor, in the armor of kings! Dark waves the eagle's wing, above his helmet of fire. Unconcerned are his steps, as if they were to the chase of Erin. He raises, at times, his terrible voice. Erin, abashed, gathers round. Their souls return back, like a stream. They wonder at the steps of their fear. He rose, like the beam of the morning, on a haunted heath: the traveller looks back, with bending eye, on the field of dreadful forms! Sudden from the rock of Moi-lena, are Sul-malla's trembling steps. An oak takes the spear from her hand. Half bent she looses the lance. But then are her eyes on the king, from amid her wandering locks! No friendly strife is before thee! No light contending of bows, as when the youth of Inis-huna come forth beneath the eye of Conmor!

As the rock of Runo, which takes the passing clouds as they fly, seems growing, in gathered darkness, over the streamy heath; so seems the chief of Atha taller, as gather his people around. As different blasts fly over the sea, each behind its dark-blue wave; so Cathmor's words, on every side, pour his warriors forth. Nor silent on his hill is Fillan. He mixes his words with his echoing shield. An eagle be seemed, with sounding wings, calling the wind to his rock, when he sees the coming forth of the roes, on Lutha's rushy field!

Now they bend forward in battle. Death's hundred voices arise. The kings, on either side, were like fires on the souls of the host. Ossian bounded along. High rocks and trees rush tall between the war and me. But I hear the noise of steel, between my clanging arms. Rising, gleaming on the hill, I behold the backward steps of hosts: their backward steps on either side, and wildly-looking eyes. The chiefs were met in dreadful fight! The two blue-shielded kings! Tall and dark, through gleams of steel, are seen the striving heroes! I rush. My fears for Fillan fly, burning, across my soul!

I come. Nor Cathmor flies; nor yet comes on; he sidelong stalks along. An icy rock, cold, tall, he seems. I call forth all my steel. Silent awhile we stride, on either side of a rushing stream: then, sudden turning, all at once, we raise our pointed spears. We raise our spears, but night comes down. It is dark and silent round; but where the distant steps of hosts are sounding over the heath.

I come to the place where Fillan fought. Nor voice nor sound is there. A broken helmet lies on earth, a buckler cleft in twain. Where, Fillan, where art thou, young chief of echoing Morven? He hears me, leaning on a rock, which bends its gray head over the stream. He hears; but sullen, dark he stands. At length. I saw the hero.

"Why standest thou, robed in darkness, son of woody Selma! Bright is thy path, my brother in this dark-brown field! Long has been thy strife in battle! Now the horn of Fingal is heard. Ascend to the cloud of thy father, to his hill of feasts. In the evening mists he sits, and hears the sound of Carril's harp. Carry joy to the aged, young breaker of the shields!"

"Can the vanquished carry joy? Ossian, no shield is mine! It lies broken on the field. The eagle-wing of my helmet is torn. It is when foes fly before them, that fathers delight in their sons. But their sighs burst forth, in secret, when their young warriors yield. No: Fillan shall not behold the king! Why should the hero mourn?"

"Son of blue-eyed Clatho! O Fillan, awake not my soul! Wert thou not a burning fire before him? Shall he not rejoice? Such fame belongs not to Ossian; yet is the king still a sun to me. He looks on my steps with joy. Shadows never rise on his face. Ascend, O Fillan, to Mora! His feast is spread in the folds of mist."

"Ossian! give me that broken shield: those feathers that are rolled in the wind. Place them near to Fillan, that less of his fame may fall. Ossian, I begin to fail. Lay me in that hollow rock. Raise no stone above, lest one should ask about my fame. I am fallen in the first of my fields, fallen without renown. Let thy voice alone send joy to my flying soul. Why should the bard know where dwells the lost beam of Clatho?"

"Is thy spirit on the eddying winds, O Fillan, young breaker of shields. Joy pursue my hero, through his folded clouds. The forms of thy fathers, O Fillan, bend to receive their son! I behold the spreading of their fire on Mora: the blue-rolling of their wreaths. Joy meet thee, my brother! But we are dark and sad! I behold the foe round the aged. I behold the wasting away of his fame. Thou art left alone in the field, O gray-haired king of Selma!"

I laid him in the hollow rock, at the roar of the nightly stream. One red star looked in on the hero. Winds lift, at times, his locks. I listen. No sound is heard. The warrior slept! as lightning on a cloud, a thought came rushing along my soul. My eyes roll in fire: my stride was in the clang of steel. "I will find thee, king of Erin! in the gathering of thy thousands find thee. Why should that cloud escape, that quenched our early beam? Kindle your meteors on your hills, my fathers. Light my daring steps. I will consume in wrath. — But should not I return? The king is without a son, gray-haired among his foes! His arm is not as in the days of old. His fame grows dim in Erin. Let me not behold him, laid low in his latter field — But can I return to the king? Will he not ask about his son?" Thou oughtest to defend young Fillan." — Ossian will meet the foe! Green Erin, thy sounding tread is pleasant to my ear. I rush on thy ridgy host, to shun the eyes of Fingal. I hear the voice of the king, on Mora's misty top! He calls his two sons! I come, my father, in my grief. I come like an eagle, which the flame of night met in the desert, and spoiled of half his wings!

Distant, round the king, on Mora, the broken ridges of Morven are rolled. They turned their eyes: each darkly bends, on his own ashen spear. Silent stood the king in the midst. Thought on thought rolled over his soul: as waves on a secret mountain lake, each with its back of foam. He looked; no son appeared, with his long-beaming spear. The sighs rose, crowding, from his soul; but he concealed his grief. At length I stood beneath an oak. No voice of mine was heard.! What could I say to Fingal in this hour of wo? His words rose, at length, in the midst: the people shrunk backward as he spoke.

"Where is the son of Selma; he who led in war? I behold not his steps, among my people, returning from the field. Fell the young bounding roe, who was so stately on my hills? He fell! for ye are silent. The shield of war is cleft in twain. Let his armor be near to Fingal; and the sword of dark-brown Luno. I am waked on my hills; with morning I descend to war!"

High on Cormul's rock, an oak is flaming to the wind. The gray skirts of mist are rolled around; thither strode the king in his wrath. Distant from the host he always lay, when battle burnt within his soul. On two spears hung his shield on high; the gleaming sign of death! that shield, which he was wont to strike, by night, before he rushed to war. It was then his warriors knew when the king was to lead in strife; for never was his buckler heard, till the wrath of Fingal arose. Unequal were his steps on high, as ho shone on the beam of the oak; he was dreadful as the form of the spirit of night, when he clothes, on his wild gestures with mist, and, issuing forth, on the troubled ocean, mounts the car of winds.

Nor settled, from the storm, is Erin's sea of war! they glitter, beneath the moon, and, low humming, still roll on the field. Alone are the steps of Cathmor, before them on the heath: he hangs forward, with all his arms, on Morven's flying host. Now had he come to the mossy cave, where Fillan lay in night. One tree was bent above! the stream, which glittered over the rock. There shone to the moon the broken shield of Clatho's son; and near it, on grass, lay hairy-footed Bran. He had missed the chief on Mora, and searched him along the wind. He thought that the blue-eyed hunter slept; he lay upon his shield. No blast came over the heath unknown to bounding Bran.

Cathmor saw the white-breasted dog; he saw the broken shield. Darkness is blown back on his soul; he remembers the falling away of the people. They came, a stream; are rolled away; another race succeeds. But some mark the fields, as they pass, with their own mighty names. The heath, through dark brown years, is theirs; some blue stream winds to their fame. Of these be the chief of Atha, when he lays him down on earth. Often may the voice of future times meet Cathmor in the air; when he strides from wind to wind, or folds himself in the wing of a storm.

Green Erin gathered round the king to hear the voice of his power. Their joyful faces bend unequal, forward, in the light of the oak. They who were terrible, were removed; Lubar winds again in their host. Cathmor was that beam from heaven, which shone when his people were dark. He was honored in the midst. Their souls arose with ardor around! The king alone no gladness showed; no stranger he to war!

"Why is the king so sad?" said Malthos, eagle-eyed. "Remains there a foe at Lubar t Lives there among them who can lift the spear? Not so peaceful was thy father, Borbar-duthul, king of spears. His rage was a fire that always burned: his joy over fallen foes was great. Three days feasted the gray-haired hero, when he heard that Calmar fell: Calmar who aided the race of Ullin, from Lara of the streams. Often did he feel, with his hands, the steel which they said had pierced his foe. He felt it with his hands, for Borbar-duthul's eyes had failed. Yet was the king a sun to his friends; a gale to lift their branches round. Joy was around him in his halls: he loved the sons of Bolga. His name remains in Atha, like the awful memory of ghosts whose presence was terrible; but they blew the storm away. Now let the voices of Erin raise the soul of the king; he that shone when war was dark, and laid the mighty low. Fonar, from that gray-browed rock pour the tale of other times: pour it on wide-skirted Erin, as it settles round.

"To me," said Cathmor, "no song shall rise; nor Fonar sit on the rock of Lubar. The mighty there are laid low. Disturb not their rushing ghosts. Far, Malthos, far remove the sound of Erin's song. I rejoice not over the foe, when he ceases to lift the spear. With morning we pour our strength abroad. Fingal is wakened on his echoing hill."

Like waves, blown back by sudden winds, Erin retired, at the voice of the king. Deep, rolled into the field of night, they spread their humming tribes. Beneath his own tree, at intervals, each bard sat down with his harp. They raised the song, and touched the string: each to the chief he loved. Before a burning oak Sul-malla touched, at times, the harp. She touched the harp, and heard, between, the breezes in her hair. In darkness near lay the king of Atha, beneath an aged tree. The beam of the oak was turned from him; he saw the maid, but was not seen. His soul poured forth, in secret, when he beheld her fearful eye. "But battle is before thee, son of Borbar-duthul."

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poem by James Macpherson
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