The LanguageHat digged this little masterpiece out of Google's cache.

SAMOVAR LOVE COMPENDIUM

I love the word samovar, and I love
to break it into syllables, "samo"
meaning self, "vari" burn. Quickly
I return to Buddhist monks, saffron
fire lapping their saffron robes,
as though it was all for art. A sweeper
arrives later, handpicks the last grains,
and a procession follows, white roses
and flutes, leading to a cold room--
ashes stored in clear crystal jars.

I love the word samovar, and I love
how it rhymes with czar, conjuring Nicholas
in captivity, hours before his death,
stupid and taciturn, clutching the arm
of a chair, chewing the end of a cigar.
And his son, the hemophyliac, who
one morning, pretending to be
of peasant stock, placed a rock of sugar
between his jaws and waited hours
for his young nurse and her poisoned cup.

I love the word samovar, and I love
the diplomat, my uncle, who brought us one
from Moscow--"The best thing the Russians
make. This, and nuclear bombs!" From
his balcony in Alexandria, his hands clasping
a warm mug, he watches the street, thinks of
a wife, ashes scattered in Sinai, another
in Jakarta, sons in Denmark, daughter
in Madras. Then he sighs--too proud
to call them home, to tired to depart.

I love the word samovar and I love
hats, skull caps my mother brought
from Mecca, one I wore rising at dawn
to pray, a fedora a lover bought me
because my face matched the dreary green,
and the one you hid under all summer,
the times I needed to touch your hair
but tucked my hand in my pocket instead.
It's hard to love your hiding, my hesitancy,
and the words that die unsaid.

I love the word samovar, and I love
fajitas, the way they're served, the meat
crackling, the hot plate's snake-like hiss.
And I love reading Qais, Laila's Fool,
who wrote line after soppy line knowing
she'll never be his. And I love the times,
my bones giddy, my feet a crooked dance,
I turn to you and recite his lines
"Come close, dear love,
eat from my sizzling heart!"

-- Khaled Mattawa