I won the first prize for my poem, "what type of poem am I?" worth won $ 60.
OpenMicPoetry.com Theme: Deception
”What type of poem am I?” by Bhuwan Thapaliya
“ What type of poem am I?”
I am formless as the clouds,
and as elegiac as the silence,
in the itinerary of the noise.
I am not a classic
written by the author, “God.”
The rhythm of my verses are supplied
by the parable of their tears.
I am not in me
though I abide in me.
I am but a color,
whose colors have worn away.
May be I was written with
an ethical effect of the modern art.
Or may be I was not written
but just replicated from their life.
I wish I could read the critics mind.
Is it true that a poem cannot read anybody?
But I loathe the way they recite me
pretending to understand me.
My be I am,
the monologue of my rhymes.
Or may be I am,
the literature of my own life.
However much they hate me,
I am that poetry they cannot write.
I am the phantom of the world
crawling with a rose in the hand
through the boulevard of the thorns.
However much they praise me,
I am only a drop of verse
drawn up by the time
to become the formless clouds
in the wilderness of the literary sky.
O Poet! O my maker!
“What type of poem am I?”
O strangers! O my readers!
”What type of poem am I?”
I wish I could read me
and discern my spirit.
Is it true that a poem
cannot read a poem?
“ Am I a poem?”
or am I just a rhymed hoax.
Out of greed for the
joys of the immortality.
This cyclic curiosity goes on eternally.
I am lost in a synthesis between
the dualism of my readers
and the monism of my maker.
No one knows what its like to be a poem.
No one knows how vague is its core.
There is nothing as genuine as me.
There is nothing as deceptive as me.
Inspirational poetry, written from the heart and soul. Verses that are well-suited for reading on a rainy day and that are guaranteed to bring a smile to your face.
The songs and art in this book are about our collective emergence after the pandemic and trauma of the last few years - comprised of 5 collections: World as Refuge, Where We Live, In Our Hands, Rhythms of Change and What We See & Sow.
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