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Poems

Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
In Lalitpur, a small city,
a poem in
and of itself,
near to the capital city,
Kathmandu,
in the magic
word-world of
Nepal.

Who in the world is Simrik?

Girl, 15, apologetic,
with the heart of a deer.
who unlike most
kindly requests your criticism.

Ok, here is my criticism.

Your writes are a shotgun blast.
It cannot be that fifteen years
has been granted
a simple eloquence
that writes and feeds
tastes of visions
of a spiced life
far away, but
close by.

winding roads
and the trees,
the train station,
train tracks,
jeeps for taxis.
the market at night.
a few bookstores i wanted
to enter but couldn't/didn't
benches at chowrasta,
aloo chat.
penang momo,
the "aum sweet aum" poster
they had there.
pretty girls in chowrasta.
so well-dressed.


at fifteen I could not
see so well, see so fine.
not I.

i have fallen for boys, and i have fallen for men.
i don't know if it'd still be falling if i only ever
fell for pieces of them. and as for you, you were no
exception. my eyes never knew the ridges on
your body as soft as icing on a cake, or the
veins in your arms and they've only read
your words, your tastes, in pixels, but i
fell anyway, briefly. the heart is a muscle
the size of a fist, an ***** that has nothing to
grow and fit into. you never really know where
exactly in your chest it really is or if it's the right size.
there'll be growing pains in your ventricles and
dislocation to your spine or your stomach to tell you
of that before the cardiologist, and when you find the
cure or place it back to where it was, you'll have
stories written like prescription notes.


One time, when I was fifteen,
(For I have been
fifteen
many times),
I knew that
I didn't know
how to express
the potpourri
of what
was inside
of me,
the desire was
compelling,
the skills lacking,
for I lived in amidst a
family of writers, critics, historians,
and saw the birthmark of my incapabilities
embarrassed rosy red on my face every morning.

my incapabilities.

not Simrik.
oh no.

here's blood clotting where i got bit by a leech at a
monastery, from after the day i told you we needed to drop
to being friends from lovers. deserved it, totally. you had
blisters on your knees, from the day i sent you back.


you said i still had your heart with me.
when i reach the sea in 12 days,
i'll return with the crevices on them
mended with the pieces of
toughest seashells i can find,
wrapped in a sheet of prayer flag
i tore from the monastery,
so that when you place it back
between your ribs,
you'll have prayers
and the sound of the sea
flowing in your veins.


At fifteen, I read Camus
and the sport pages.
At fifteen, I peeked  
at my neighbor's *******
dreamt blonde dreams.
what I knew
was
what I did not know.

so here is my criticism.

you remind me now, this day,
of what
I still do not know
nor can ever hope
to capture as well
as you.
PostScript:

Dear God,
Pray explain to this child, this, baby,
her blessing is that she has the spine of a poet, blood heated by
wisdom and composure.
Remind her daily that her gift is copper colored words that will rust well over time, as she soldiers on in this world, bringing the beauty of words into this world.
NML
Basko  Nov 2013
simrik is with me
Basko Nov 2013
Where is Simrik?
she's with me
In the kisses i give
the air i breathe

Where is Simrik.
shes in the flowers i pick
in the streets of lalitpur town
brick by brick

In the sloppy kisses
in my cheeks
under the trees
next to the creek
thats where is simrik
she's under my skin
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2015
~~~~

I am seventeen already.

With a chameleon where my
heart should be, curled up,
safe and sound as I look for
something to punctuate
the expansion of my universe
of a being with. My mother,
she taps at windows in the
dark between my temples
and God says 'let there be
light', only to prove and
disprove, prove and
disprove, prove and
disprove his/her
existence over and
over again. And I,
mindful, soulless,
wait on the comfort
of volcanoes to be seen,
to be heard, to be felt."


*Simrik
To better understand, see this as a response to:

"my life is just a draft for now (for Simrik)"

~~~


are you seventeen yet?

have the berries and the shells
stained impossibly
your youthful heart permanent,
have you matured and learned
to end sentences
in question marks?

surely certainty and
alack, its absence,
haunts
all your waking poems,
wonder does your mother know
what she has purloined in you
from her withins?

so young, so much love
oil spilling,
do you wonder about
the depth of the field
you are drilling, extracting -
is the soft supple supply
endless?

life so far is but a draft

take copious notes
for the best is yet
and I await patiently
the novella of your
adventures

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1055094/my-life-is-just-a-draft-for-now-for-simrik/

she,
already a poetic superstar,
perhaps needs no introduction,
nonetheless read her nine poems!
with admiration,
signed,
her fan