Tag Archives: poet

Confessions of a Poet

I may sound wise,
but I’m not always so.
I may seem evolved,
but I have pitfalls too.

My best love songs,
don’t make me romantic.
They enthral me sometimes,
but don’t always give a kick.

A beautiful poem doesn’t
make me a perfect person.
For in the ocean of my flaws,
it’s just a wave of perfection.

I have my moments,
I have my quirks,
I get hurt too and
behave like a jerk.

I am as human
as human can be.
But when poetry comes,
it’s not just me.

Although it may seem like
it’s coming ‘from’ me,
the real truth is that,
it’s coming ‘through’ me.

I learn as much
in the process of writing
as you all do
in the moment of reading.

I sometimes don’t practise
the wisdom of my own writing.
For I often falter, slip and fall
before I get up and get going.

But when I fall below the line,
I’m aware of the missed track.
My writing becomes my mirror
that I can’t face, until I’m back.

My poems become my beacon
that draws me out of the dark;
when I’m finally out in the sun,
they sing merrily like a lark.

Life is Great

Life is always great
It’s we who are afraid
Give yourself wings to fly
You will see a change
Which no one else can create

It’s fascinating to live
But it’s pampering to die
Live with your passion
Show your democracy to fly
That’s how you survive

Loads of enormous courage
Not necessary be required
Little things put together
This is what we live
And this gives reason to strive

Let’s not run
Let us all fly
As scenery
Can be more beautiful
Up from the sky

Don’t give up
It’s not the end
The twist of the story
We can see
When the road will bend

06.04.2016
© Sha Azam Siddiqui
#Azamsuniversepoetry

Life is a Myth

LIFE IS A MYTH

Life is a mystery
With untold stories
People live life
With blind eyes

Life is here
It’s everywhere
If you see
Life surrounds us
With incredible delight

Still we run
Looking for life
But we forget
To see within
Where actually
Life resides

We live here
Where we have to show
And to complete that
Everywhere we vow

Live is living
With our own existence
Life without pride
It’s how we live
And we have decide

Let’s make this world
A beautiful place to live
A place worth living
For that love everyone
And learn act of giving

23.03.2016
(c) Sha Azam Siddiqui – All rights reserved
#Azamsuniversepoetry

(Arturo, Lucca, Miguel, Frederick, Marco, Cruz, Pedro and Ivan were playing cards and chess. Lucca, Cruz and Miguel started to smoke clay pipes.)

”Nice angled bowl with a coat of arms, ” said Lucca. ”Yes, ” said Cruz
While smoking and relaxing, ”where did you buy them, Lucca? ”
”This one is made in Holland- a way to liberate your muse.”
”Give new life to a broken heart, ” said Miguel, ” It’s like Sambuca, ”

Laughed Lucca, ” Ivan, how could you avoid the army as a serf? ”
”As a yeoman having my own land, I had an accident, ”
Cruz asked him, ’’Did you receive some support from a dwarf? ”
”I broke my left leg when I fell from my horse- a strange event.”

”Interesting! ” said Marco. ”You became a rich merchant
In the Ottoman Empire.” ”Yes, I sold my land, ” smiled Ivan.
”You could go to Moscow, ” ”I didn’t want to be a servant.
I was a middleman in the fur trade, ” ”Let’s enliven

This game with some wine! ” ” These cards are unique, ” said Pedro.
”This rare pictorial pack is made in London, ” said Marco.
Lucca told Cruz, ”If you need new cards, I’ll give you pronto.”
”Give me the most immoral hand, ” laughed Cruz, ”come in, Fargo! ”

(Fargo entered to bring the wine, which was served using glasses. Ibrahim brought dried fruits, nuts, biscuits and small cakes. The women had spent over an hour dressing for this meeting because it was customary for the women to change their entire outfit for any event on that ship. Rosa, Geraldine and Erica were doing some needlework. Carla, Chiara and Pedra were reading some expensive books. Chiara chose to read a book written by Elena Piscopia, Carla was reading some philosophy by Mary Astell and Pedra liked the books written by Aphra Behn. Francesca started to paint and Bella was trying to play ‘’Capriccio stravagante’’ by the Italian composer Carlo Farina using her violin.)

Francesca said, ” The violin replaced the viol, ”
”The music written for it established its identity, ”
Said Rosa, ”I like the opera ‘L’Orfeo’ and its tale.”
”Through polyphony, Monteverdi has supremacy.”

Francesca continued, ”Chiara, what are you reading? ”
”A book about Christ written by the monk Laspergio and late
Translated by Elena Piscopia, a nun being
The first woman that graduated with a doctorate.”

Carla said, ”Francesca, what are you painting in that blue? ”
” I’m not Caravaggio, still I paint a medusa, ”
Carla replied, ”You used amazing hues, and it’s sweet in view! ”
Chiara said, ”It’s an image of the port of Siracusa! ”

(Francesca embraced Chiara.)

”It’s so lovely to see you together; you are good friends, ”
Said Geraldine while finishing her work, ”do you have children? ”
”I’ve married Arturo six years ago; now, our love ascends
After his long widowhood; Francesca is his daughter.”

Chiara took Geraldine’s hand with a noble gesture.
She told her that Arturo lost a fortune three months ago,
And this trip was offered by Lucca to change their life’s texture.
”Maybe Francesca painted to petrify the time’s flow.”

”Francesca is the sweetest child I’ve ever seen until now.
She’s adorable in this purity of her mind.
She’s shining like a star belonging to Ursa Major Plough,
And I love Arturo even in affairs he is so blind.”

(Arturo and Marco were the last passengers who left the room while talking. Arturo ended the conversation.)

‘’ Russia is a force needing an expansion quite quickly
But, unfortunately, her friends are not really her friends.
Pushing Russia, who is an honest power, clearly
Will turn the destiny of the whole world into dead ends.’’

 

Carla was a beautiful woman liking to dress in green.
Sometimes strong and other time weak, she needed to face the life.
Inside her, there was a child hoping to push the life scene
Into its own condition and the things into their right strife.

Her husband, Pedro, was very wise and precise -a strong man
Needing to gain stability while turning back from New Spain
To rebuild the life and to go forth on a new plan.
Their children and parents waited for them to come home again.

(Geraldine and Carla were talking on the deck. Carla started to confess.)

‘’Her name is Beatrice and he loved her for a while needing
To leave the family for a new meaning in this world.
I loved him secretly while her scent I was breathing.
I understood that I’ve lost him when our love became a sword.

I knew I was a mother in this combination of three,
And, sometimes, I thought that Beatrice should never exist,
And, other time, I wanted to leave everything to be free,
Or to end my life because it was so hard to resist.

I’ve tried to talk with her and the situation to explain,
But she laughed while telling me that Pedro is her lover.
I understood her laugh and that my efforts were in vain.
I was ill when we traveled to New Spain to recover.”

‘’ Carla, the things are not always as they seem to be.
You’ll overpass this moment because you’re a strong mother.
You must take care because nothing goes well as long as he
Doesn’t assume the responsibility of a father.’’

Bella and Miguel liked to live in their own world of two.
They had a house in Barcelona, and they traveled to see
The world; they stayed months in India to throw backward a new view.
Marco and Rosa wanted their spirits to be free.

They were turning home after living three years in New Spain.
Carla and Pedra traveled with their husbands who were twins.
Rosa convinced them that in that place their strength is spent in vain.
Life became a music coming from the water violins.

Carla said, ”the education helps the women make
Right choices in marriage.” Bella replied, ”What’s a marriage?
It’s not only a consecration in a church, an awake,
But it’s a contract, an act no one can disparage.”

Miguel said, ”it’s a transition from a moral conscience
To a pure concept of consciousness.” ”You start to see it
As itself, ” replied Pedro, ” to eat the bitter consequence.”
”It’s tied to the moral identity when love is in a fit, ”

Replied Bella. ‘ It has a Cartesian nature, ”
Said Carla explaining why love comes after the wedding.
”Then, the moral sensibility shapes it to our feature, ”
Replied Bella.Miguel smiled, ” tenderly in our bedding.”

” The disparity in intelligence leads to misery, ”
Said Carla, ”the marriage must be based on a lasting friendship
Rather than on an attraction experiencing agony.”
Pedro said, ” when love is distorted into a sword to rip.”

Miguel said, ” the marriage that is not consecrated
In a church has the same legal validity.”
” The lovers may marry secretly, but it’s complicated, ”
Said Carla, ”and it’s hard for the women of the nobility

To make an independent living.” Pedro started to grin,
” To secure a husband is an attitude having a great importance.”
”She’s an object of thought, ” said Miguel while touching Carla’s skin.
Pedro said, ”it happens only when we seek love in abundance.”

Carla said, ” the women’s career options beyond the mother
Are none; they cannot have the same opportunity as the men.”
Pedro replied, ” your impracticable thoughts make the father
Leave the family.” ” He’s not allowed to come back again.”

Miguel said, ”She’s allowed to express her sexuality.”
Carla said, ” it depends on how the woman perceives this thought.”
Bella started to play music to inspire some human morality
While using the violin to imitate- the cats’ sounds brought to naught.

(to be continued…)
mast-983904_1920
Poem by Marieta Maglas

When God Would Become Poetry?

Poets are the wordsmith born with golden quill.

Around universe, below sky, above earth they coil.

They embrace everything with innate imaginations

And ensue with some endearing amalgamations.

They inhale passion and exhale words and keep alive

This meditation they exercise all the while.

Words are their soul mates and feelings their ink.

They tirelessly compose lyrics for a unique sync.

 

Poets live in rhythm and imbibe rhymes.

They recluse all imbalances as soothing chimes.

Poets scribble their thoughts on the mirror of heart

Where life get reflected as beautiful portrait.

Poet writes and recites in a loop as daily indulgence

And poetry escape for a sweet blend in silence.

When a poet compose poetry in brimming worship

There poetry become God through divine courtship.

 

Wondering! When God would become poetry..

How would the entire vista get envisaged?

Would spring bloom as Eden on every flower

So butterflies and honey bees have eternal buffet?

Would Moon rays come down on the strings of night

to have eternal romantic ballet with ocean waves?

Would earth emit petrichor from its supple bosom

to sprinkle perfume on vast meadows with dewy love?

 

Would breeze sing Ballads of Shakespeare

for mountain peaks to enjoy serenity of nature?

Would rainbow woos sky to transpire into a canvas

to have the immortal sketches of Leonardo da Vinci?

Would all stones on earth crave and get carved

to be the pristine statuettes of Michelangelo?

Would passing clouds compose sonatas

that matches with Beethoven’s brilliance?

 

Pondering when God would become poetry!

What poet on this earth be called?

Would they be renamed as God Smith

who have written ancient scriptures with signet?

Or would they be the creations on the hands of Creator

who seamlessly erase all illusions of bifurcations

So life around appears and perceives like an amazing

Motion poetry on allusion laden God!

 

© Maaya Dev

The Canary

Many a soul flown

Disappearing into lands unknown

The canary all lone

Sings of his beloved gone

 

Day after day

Night after night

Waiting to play

With the gleaming light

The Canary-

Basking in the warmth of May

Reminisces the Spring night!

 

Love!

Where have you hidden?

In darkish coves

Or places forbidden..!

 

Warm embraces cold

Not heard is the flap

Memories turn old

Forgotten is the cheerful clap

The Canary ponders

If only death could fill the gap…..

 

The Sun sets..

It takes a nap

The Sun rises..

 

What’s next…………………………………?

Unserved

Is it logical

if I exhale lustrous fumes

when the new harvests have

already been adding gold.

 

The salt added in small

proportions will be a dish better sold!

 

Is it logical

if I dance in heavenly pours

when the plumules eager have

already been sprouting praise.

 

The salt added in small

proportions will be a dish better sold!

 

Is it logical

if I sprinkle colours to painted glades

when the moths in Spring have

already been conducting plays.

 

The salt added in small

proportions will be a dish better sold!

 

Is it?

Or…

Is it not?

My dish lies unserved

The awaiting dot…

The Gypsy

O’ mystical mystery!

In your asymmetrical symmetry, many a clue derives shape

The strings of Apollo play in gasps

The gypsy watches, rims agape.

 

Those founts teased by pecks silvery

Desires he too a drop to pen

Desires he too a drop to quench

You, an innocent verse turned ballad juvenile

The gypsy waits to drench.

 

Shivers in noon, shivers in moon

O’ mystical mystery!

To your shanty mellow, do invite soon

Beneath the ray laden gem in the night half crescent,

The gypsy begins to croon.

 

Amidst the penman’s bliss; a few letters amiss

Where lost are you?

What marks the pain?

Is it the cycle with patterns mobile?

Or is it the equilibrium-

The stagnant call ‘Rain’.

 

O’ mystical mystery!

In your asymmetrical symmetry, many a clue derives shape

The gypsy figures the canvas

Emotion, none but a conjuror’s trick

The show, its staged

The gypsy watches, rims agape.

I strive to write

I strive to write
Light
Like feather
Words that
The wings of eyes
Can carry
To the sky of heart
In just a blink
Of lashes
I do my best
To avoid
The stink
Of stale flowers
And
Tedious curves
Of
Old vacant valleys
I am like a
Like a tireless stream
Of poetry, whispering
Small yet fresh drops
Of words
To pebbles and Rocks
Of minds on my way to destiny
I strive to move on
Without fail
My journey
Is my destiny

Flight of a Write

I wish to write
On a kite
And fly it above the clouds
White and bright
I will pull the string
Till my fingers bleed
And fell apart
I hope by then
It will reach the
Part of
space
Where Gods reside
Gods must be busy
It won’t take them much
Of their time
To read my rhyme
It will have just three letters
Y’m I