Saturday, January 19, 2013

What is love (19/1/2013)


What is love if 
all I get are taps and arms around the shoulders
yet can never get my basic biography right

What is love if
there is no space to be with myself
suffocates and over-protects

What is love if
my understanding remains intellectual
and I fumble when we gaze

What is love if
it comes in a storm, hurricanes
and leaves a wreck of thoughts behind

What is love if
when rain falls at night
I fall asleep in tears

dreaming of a phantom pair of hands
holding myself together

only to wake up and never being able
to see his face.

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

(Re)lapse (25/12/2012)


blanketed in dust and darkness
pixels and colours were cold winds
that blew them all away

shards glistened like stars
saw his face in every fragment
picked them up with her hands
and they bled over his cheeks

now flushed red and alive

picked up another, yet another
cut herself a little more
reeling in the pleasure of pain
of a lapse in time, then a relapse

of memories...

her heart and trembling hands
could no longer withstand the loss
they beckoned her eyes to weep

every teardrop shattered
the stars and images that were welling up
slid into the fresh and burning scars
stitched the soul within

and he was buried deeper in dust and darkness.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Bloom (10/10/2012)

In the brown still waters
where no sunlight passes through
a lotus flower blooms brilliantly
against them all.

Lament (8/10/2012)

“Life is short”
a one in too many has said
again-
(and we make a kill for it)

Losing ourselves in so many moments
we stop once in a while
rummaging, searching
(where did they go?)

To the burdens we add that
weigh ourselves onto the ground
to the numbers, facts and figures
the things and the great expectations-
(stability)

the very things that kill us all
in a life that is already short
(and we ask, “where did they go?”)

Waves of the past (8/9/2012)

When memories from long ago
long long ago
ebbs back into consciousness
in the lens of the present self
they only serve as aches

When aches gather
the heart grows heavy and weary
every step is a journey
that never seem to end

Swimming across the earth
beckoning the sun to cleanse all sins
when eyes close
they swim back to us
and never leave...

Exploration #44/part 5 (July 2012)


The Big Push

He was idling by the sea
his entire weight pressed
on the miniscule particles of sand

and it is the big push downwards
that coerces sand into hardy glass

He ran towards the sea
he swam and his legs became cramped

it was the big push of the waves
towards the jaws of death
that coerced him to fight for his life

Now he was on the sands once more
and it is the big push of his lungs
that coerced him a breath of air
and another, and another

It was the big push of inspiration
that coerced him back home
and pen the day into words.

Exploration #44/part 4 (July 2012)


Alphabet Soup

my mum mAde soup for me today
"the Best you ever had", she ClaimeD
thEre were lots oF letters swimminG around
in tHe bowl It made me dizzy
I had to reach for that Jar of Kisses from my secret Love
to Make everythiNg all Okay
she added Pepper and i Quickly sneezed
dRipping SubsTances into my soUp
which Varied the taste Without me realising it
until the siXth spoonful-
I then spat out spitefullY and screamed "geeZ!!!"

Exploration #44/part 3 (July 2012)

Seven Gothic Tales


I. A riot of colours

His hair was a shock of violet
decked in an indigo-coloured shirt
his veins were blue and coarse

He was lying motionless on the green grass
foaming with yellow
against the orange sky

red was everywhere

The forest ahead was
turning black with darkness
and the pure white doves- they flew away

(away, away, away)

II. She

She woke up to the sound of silence
sunlight was peeping through the stained-glass windows
the pile of dust rose from the dead and twirled towards light
but her eyes remained tightly shut.
  
She woke up to the sound of hunger
the searing heat burning her skin
the pile of dust twirled and scattered with great force
but still her eyes remained tightly shut.

She woke up to the sound of the owls and crickets
the cool moonbeams kissing her pale face
the pile of dust began to settle down and rest
and her eyes that remained tightly shut

began to open...

III. Sleepwalking

I saw him only once
his silhouette against
the silver moon

He was on the plains ahead
sitting on top of a horse
wielding and waving his sword

towards me

(Come, he gestured)

I started walking forward
and forward
there was a desire I could not resist
and so I ran

(Run to me, he gestured)

With a loud crack I was jolted awake
only to find myself
stepping on a pile of bones and a sword

dripping red
with confusion.

IV. Dreams of the walking dead

They were walking
across graves
to the towns
into the shops and houses

They felt no sadness
no blinding anger
much less happiness;
only hunger

Occasionally
they would close their eyes
and dream of pain
and heartbeats

Nothing would satiate
their eternal hunger
more than the fulfilment
of truly living again.

V. Delusions

She began to sing the lullaby
in a minor key and chuckled at her ingenuity
(He held her tighter in her arms)

She looked into the sockets
and smiled back sweetly
(he looked right back at her and gave a heartbreaking smile)
  
She kissed the bones to sleep
and said "Good night, good night"
("good night", he said)

"I'm with you always"
(and his silence meant consent)

VI. Apparitions

Vampires were dancing in the sun
they were glittering like diamonds

Monsters frolicked in the pool
they were big and proud

 White figures leaped in the air
they ran like the wind

And in a blink
the room was dark once more.

VII. The End

It was a bright and sunny day
the world was full of colours
left behind by the boy who a riot of colours

Today began
with another boy who was preparing
for the same end

at the far end of the rainbow that arched across the sky

He longed for the girl who would never again awake
a life cut short by a man on the horse against the silver moon

He was the dream of the dead: of pain and endless heartbeats
he was sick of the girl in that house who talked and kissed bones
and his apparitions became his only joy and sign of life

and so he watched the pure white doves fly away
the forest turn black
red was everywhere and against the orange sky
the foams were yellow
as he laid on the green grass

veins turned blue and coarse
and he was decked in an indigo-coloured shirt
his hair a shock of purple

and he was away,away,away...

Exploration #44/part 2 (July 2012)


No Time to Cry

She was writhing
at the glare of her own light
and in the blindness
tears tried to douse the fire
she could not control

At daylight
all colours were lost
shapes and lines disappeared
she was already in the tunnel
where was the end?

Shadows followed her everywhere
they plastered their hands on her eyes
fumbling, falling
so with stained tears she
mapped the ground for her way out

Till a hand sat softly on her head
holding back her tears he whispered to her heart:
"it's okay..."

When he put the flames back into her eyes
her heart and her soul
they both could see the end
it was still far, she thought.
Apparently not, he thought.

There was no more time to cry
a step closer was eventually a step further
from each other
so he clasped her hands
and the tears that would threaten to fall

When the end was near he could not
speak anymore (would not speak)
when they walked out of the tunnel
he disappeared.
There was no time to cry.

No more hands to catch those tears
or even hold them back
there were no imprints of his palm
resting on her hair
only the warmth in her memory...

The sun was out for good.

Exploration #44/part 1 (July 2012)

The following series of poems with the seemingly random titles stem from this particular exploration task I decided to try out after El gave me this book: How To Be an Explorer of the World- portable life museum by Keri Smith. Just thought I would try it out for fun!

(p.s: thanks el for that interesting book! I really liked it!:D)

EXPLORATION #44
...ALTERNATE: CREATE POEMS
BASED ON THE TITLE OF BOOKS

The 5 titles of books that I came across at the Serangoon Public Library:
1. Beethoven was one-sixteenth black and other stories by Nadine Gordimer
2.No Time to Cry by Lurlene McDaniel
3. Seven Gothic Tales by Isak Dinesen
4. Alphabet Soup by Johnson Tammy
5. The Big Push by Erika Wittekind

***

Beethoven was one-sixteenth black

She said
"once upon a time
blacks wanted to be white
and now
whites want to be black
it's the same secret"

We yearn to be
the people we are not
live the life we have never lived

"Beethoven was one-sixteenth black"
so the radio announced

If he knew what jazz was like
would he be all fired up
angry even
because he was one-sixteenth black
and never got to live with jazz?

I was born in the wrong time-
was there ever a right time for
existence and
non-existence?

Is being one-sixteenth black
the key to deafness and thus
greatness?

We yearn to be
the people we are not
live the life we have never lived.

"It's the same secret."