Siddharth Penmetcha: Favorites

Oct 2016 Siddharth Penmetcha

Rapunzoll

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

© copyright

NOTE: i've noticed people sharing this to other sites without having spoken to me about it beforehand, I do not give permission for this and all poems are copyright, keep this in mind.

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my mother never actually said this to me, but i figure i'll probably end up saying it one day if i have children.

it's pessimistic yes, but i know there are exceptions. please don't take to heart. it's more a criticism of myself than all poets. :)

#love #heartbreak #poetry #sad #depression #heart #pain #lost #thoughts #you

Apr 2015 Siddharth Penmetcha

Untitled

Apr 2015 Siddharth Penmetcha

Allison Zimmerman

Untitled

A little girl, lonely and lost, draws pictures in the sand
Suddenly, a shadow of a little boy falls across her hand
His awkward smile brings him to her
His gentle words weld together
Until they draw in the sand, side by side
Laughing and smiling with care and with pride

But the girl is still lonely, the girl is still lost
The price of her heart comes with a cost
A single confession, on a white screen
Such a thing she could never have foreseen

The little girl tells a tale of sadness and woe
The little boy sits and listens to her lowest low
And then he has his own tale to tell
Of how an angel almost fell

A not-so-little girl, lonely and lost, draws pictures in the sand
Next to a not-so-little boy, with a quivering hand
The hand she takes and folds into her own
At last, she knows, she is not alone

#love

Nov 2014 Siddharth Penmetcha

Philosophy

Nov 2014 Siddharth Penmetcha

Amitav Radiance

Philosophy

When you are full of yourself, then you are nothing, empty yourself and absorb the nothingness, you will be eternal

#self #spirituality #realization #awareness #consciousness #awakening

Oct 2014 Siddharth Penmetcha

Child of Goa

Oct 2014 Siddharth Penmetcha

NuurSeraph

Child of Goa

The village by the sea
an homage to simplicity
a rare treasure
of true community
a place paused in time

Climbing coconut trees
Wells song with water
for drinking, cooking
to bathe and be clean
A corner of the coast
let it all hang out
a beach side hippy retreat
where nightly bonfires
burned in celebration
yearning for a freedom
not found in their former
home
The Masquerade called
the US of A

My god parents raised me true
my Madrine and Padrine
speaking Konkani
being
free
loved
nurtured
so pure
the essence surreal

A child of Goa
I will always be
girl in the sands with
her head in the clouds
I will always be
a child of India
no matter where
I find my earthly home
I will always know
from whence
I truly came

Dedicated to my Godparents

Oct 2014 Siddharth Penmetcha

A Poet Is

Oct 2014 Siddharth Penmetcha

LittleFreeBird

A Poet Is

A piece of you
Reflecting back
The bitter words in your mouth
Too raw to speak
A poet is
Someone in pain
And someone in love
Someone who looks at the world
Through a kaleidoscope
Who takes a magnifying glass to each
And every
Word you say
And lets them imprint on their heart
A poet is
A star gazer
A dreamer
A chaser of
The improbable
But hopes anyway
A poet is
Tissue paper skin
A heart of glass
And a soul of titanium

A poet is
A sharp tongue
And a gentle kiss
She is a sob
He is a sigh
A poet is
The sun at midnight
Bright and
Burning
Hot
Alive
But cloaked in a darkness
They cannot shake
The brightest day
And the darkest night
A poet is
The human experience
A paradox
An oxymoron
So complicatedly
Simple

A poet is
A lover
Who refuses
To stop wearing their heart on their sleeve
No matter how much it bleeds
But rolls them up
So you can’t see
The blood stains

A poet
Is Poetry

Sep 2014 Siddharth Penmetcha

where wild flowers grow

Sep 2014 Siddharth Penmetcha

irinia

where wild flowers grow

my town
where wild flowers grow
between tram tracks.
there was a time when
it was hardly morning,
no bridge into daylight.

walls had ears,
neighbors had eyes
whispering behind the curtains
there was an emptiness in the guts
of the city
and poetry locked in the drawers,
Borges was read under the blankets
while Dostoievski was a comforter:
demons were embedded.

yeah, people were clapping and smiling
watching the nub of history, numb
they had a life to live,
what can you say?

one day the radio
burst on in the streets
some were shivering in the attic
"we are free", they said
"we are free",
came the echo in trance

"shhhhh"! said others,
let us wipe the blood
don't disturb the sacrificed
so we can sleep
without dreams

it's Thursday in my town
streets are weary
and our souls are
slowly expanding

Thank you, Eliot, for this choice! I am glad that this poem was chosen for the Daily Poem because for me it is a reminder that people died for freedom and struggled against oppression in times when "Cruelty knits a snare,/And spreads his baits with care", as the poet says. (William Blake, The Human Abstract)