Rest In Peace

A Little Experiment

2012-02-01T19:31:00.004+08:00

Going to conduct a little experiment.

I will not post any comment in my facebook for the whole month of February. I wonder if I have the willpower to resist the temptation to post. Hmm.

Chief Seattle's Letter

2007-07-07T15:05:00.000+08:00

"The President in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. But how can you buy or sell the sky? the land? The idea is strange to us. If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?

Every part of the earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every meadow, every humming insect. All are holy in the memory and experience of my people.

We know the sap which courses through the trees as we know the blood that courses through our veins. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The bear, the deer, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the dew in the meadow, the body heat of the pony, and man all belong to the same family.

The shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water, but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you our land, you must remember that it is sacred. Each glossy reflection in the clear waters of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The water's murmur is the voice of my father's father.

The rivers are our brothers. They quench our thirst. They carry our canoes and feed our children. So you must give the rivers the kindness that you would give any brother.

If we sell you our land, remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life that it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also received his last sigh. The wind also gives our children the spirit of life. So if we sell our land, you must keep it apart and sacred, as a place where man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow flowers.

Will you teach your children what we have taught our children? That the earth is our mother? What befalls the earth befalls all the sons of the earth.

This we know: the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. All things are connected like the blood that unites us all. Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.

One thing we know: our God is also your God. The earth is precious to him and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its creator.

Your destiny is a mystery to us. What will happen when the buffalo are all slaughtered? The wild horses tamed? What will happen when the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the scent of many men and the view of the ripe hills is blotted with talking wires? Where will the thicket be? Gone! Where will the eagle be? Gone! And what is to say goodbye to the swift pony and then hunt? The end of living and the beginning of survival.

When the last red man has vanished with this wilderness, and his memory is only the shadow of a cloud moving across the prairie, will these shores and forests still be here? Will there be any of the spirit of my people left?

We love this earth as a newborn loves its mother's heartbeat. So, if we sell you our land, love it as we have loved it. Care for it, as we have cared for it. Hold in your mind the memory of the land as it is when you receive it. Preserve the land for all children, and love it, as God loves us.

As we are part of the land, you too are part of the land. This earth is precious to us. It is also precious to you.

One thing we know - there is only one God. No man, be he Red man or White man, can be apart. We are all brothers after all."

Image taken from www.unitedearth.com.au

Psychological Test

2007-01-19T02:09:00.001+08:00

I got this psychological test via email many years ago from one of my ex-colleagues. I don’t have the original test with me but it goes something like this – "You are in the middle of a jungle. You start off with the following five animals i.e. a monkey, a fox, a lion, a rabbit and a wolf. To escape the jungle you have to abandon them one by one along your journey. Please state, in order, starting from the first animal you decided to abandon and why."

Please don't look at the answer without taking the test.

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Have you taken the test?
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Are you sure?
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Okay I believe you. :)

The purpose of this test is to find out who will abandon the rabbit last and for what reason. And the reason I am looking for is you keep the rabbit as long as possible because you want to protect it from harm. (Since the rest of the animals are able to defend themselves better compare to the rabbit.)

For most people, including me, we start with the rabbit and maybe end with the lion or wolf for practical reason. It makes perfect sense - get rid of those that are useless and keep those that we think will be useful to us. Always ask what others can do for me. Who wants to carry extra burdens anyway? Thus the logical thing to do is keep the lion or the wolf to protect us and say bye bye to the rabbit first because it is simply, useless. And if it is unable to defend itself in the jungle, well just too bad, not my problem.

On a personal note, when I took this test many years ago I was so ashamed of myself. It was really a wake up call. And till this day I constantly remind myself – Remember the rabbit.

Can you fall?

2006-09-20T00:21:00.000+08:00

“In other words,” he continued, “you can’t ride. That’s a drawback. I’ll have to teach you as we go along. If you can’t ride, can you fall?”

“I suppose anyone can fall,” said Shasta.

“I mean can you fall and get up again without crying and mount again and fall again and yet not be afraid of falling?”

“I – I’ll try,” said Shasta.

C. S. LEWIS, The Horse and His Boy

Ten Rules for a Happy Marriage

2006-08-23T14:40:00.000+08:00

Never both be angry at the same time.

Never yell at each other unless the house is on fire.

If one of you has to win an argument, let it be your mate.

If you have it criticize, do it lovingly.

Never bring up mistakes of the past.

Neglect the whole world rather than each other.

Never go to sleep with an argument unsettled.

At least one everyday try to say one kind or complimentary thing to your life’s partner.

When you have done something wrong, be ready to admit it and ask for forgiveness.

It takes two to make a quarrel, and the one in the wrong is the one who does the must talking.

Who is our High Mouse?

2006-08-13T01:15:00.000+08:00

“I have sometimes wondered, friend,” said Aslan, “whether you do not think too much about your honour.”

“Highest of all High Kings,” said Reepicheep, “permit me to remind you that a very small size has been bestowed on us Mice, and if we did not guard our dignity, some (who weigh worth by inches) would allow themselves very unsuitable pleasantries at our expense. That is why I have been at some pains to make it known that no one who does not wish to feel this sword as near his heart as I can reach talk in my presence about Traps or Toasted Cheese or Candles: no, sir – not the tallest fool in Narnia!” Here he glared very fiercely up at Wimbleweather, but the Giant, who was always a stage being everyone else, had not yet discovered what was being talked about down at his feet, and so missed the point.

“Why have your followers all drawn their swords, may I ask?” said Aslan.

“May it please your High Majesty,” said the second Mouse, whose name was Peepiceek, “we are all waiting to cut off our own tails if our Chief must go without his. We will not bear the shame of wearing an honour which is denied to the High Mouse.”

C. S. LEWIS, Prince Caspian

Happy Birthday Singapore

2006-08-09T15:49:00.000+08:00

Suing and “the law” should be used as the court of the last resort, not the first. A litigious culture is unhealthy for the society, destroys trust, gives terrible modeling, and at best results in compromise.

STEPHEN R. COVEY, The 8th Habit From Effectiveness to Greatness

Pain, Pain, Go Away!

2006-06-21T17:25:00.000+08:00

I was admitted to NUH for the past few days due to gastric infection, or something like that lah. Actually it started off even earlier i.e. more than a week ago with severe diarrhea followed by vomiting. After consulting two different doctors without any sign of improvement, my condition worsen a few days ago and I have to call an ambulance to get me to the hospital. The pain was killing me and I was just too weak to walk.

It was really an “unforgettable” experience although I know this isn’t going to be my last time. I have a history of gastric problem since young.

Anyway, all I want now is to be able to consume solid food again since for the past 2-3 days I have not eatean anything solid . Miss my char siew rice. :(

(The antibiotics given to me were really huge. May all the bad and good bacteria that were killed in this unfortunate event rest in peace.)

F for Friendster

2006-05-09T18:42:00.001+08:00

I’ve recently joined Friendster as a member.

No I am not looking for old classmates or ex-colleagues although I might in the near future but my main mission is to look for people who write poems or are interested in poetry.

And you know what, I am pleasantly surprise to find so many of them just in Singapore alone. Although most of their poems are journal entries but that is a good start. The seed is buried nice and cozy waiting to bloom.

I am so excited and have been inviting a few of them to visit DPS (S). I really hope friendster won’t ban me for spamming. I am keeping my fingers crossed.

I rest my case

2006-04-25T19:39:00.000+08:00

I simply do not understand why would anyone self-published a “poetry” book when he hasn’t got the slightest clue how good poems should be written. I am referring to “Rhapsody of a Singapore Muse” by Sim Kian Kok.

To be fair I read every single one of the poems and was so traumatized by the attempt that I couldn’t sleep last night. Still trying to make some senses out of it I flipped through the pages hoping to find any hidden clues that might help to justify its existence.

My wife who was trying to get some sleeps, was of course equally pissed by my “Why? Why? Why?”

“Why should you care if he writes bad poetry?” she snapped.

I tried explaining to her that I am not laughing at the author but instead I pity him. He is in my opinion making a fool out of himself. Once he realized his mistakes it will be too late to recall all these books. He will not have the courage to write again and that will be a pity because I can see that he is very passion about it. In fact I even suggested writing him a letter.

“But what if he doesn’t care? What if he just wants to have a book to call his own? Who are you to tell him he is wrong?”

“But … but …”

What the heck. She has a point and I rest my case.

(Note: It is dangerous arguing with your wife especially if she still has the strength to kick you off the bed after work)

When getting too hard might not be a good thing

2006-04-05T19:09:00.002+08:00

Doctor: What’s the problem?

Me: Er… this (pointing to it), it is swelling.

Doctor: Hmm. Let me take a closer look.

Me: Okay … Ouch! Not so hard. It is quite painful.

Doctor: How long have you been having this problem?

Me: Since last Thursday I guess.

Doctor: So recently have you taken any medications for it?

Me: Er… no but I did apply some oil lotion to ease the pain.

Doctor: I see. So how often do you wash it?

Me: Huh? You mean I have to wash it?

Doctor: Of course you have to wash it! But unfortunately most people are simply too lazy!

Me: Erm ... is my condition bad?

Doctor: Don't worry, let me wash it for you now.

Me: You mean now? Here?

Doctor: You may feel slightly uncomfortable, but you will soon enjoy it.

Me: Well okay, you are the doc.

(The doctor proceeds to wash it for me)

Doctor: Feeling comfortable?

Me: Er… okay I guess….

Doctor: Right, now I am going to increase the pressure and if you feel uncomfortable you must let me know and I’ll stop.

Me: Okay.

(After a few minutes of washing)

Doctor: Ah … see ... they are coming out, all these white stuffs are the reason for your problem.

Me: Ohhhhhhh …… Ahhhhhhh ….. Wow I am beginning to like this washing thing .... Ohhhhhh ....

Doctor: Help me to hold the tray. I don’t want to dirty the floor. And take this towel and wipe yourself, your pant is wet.

(After more washing …)

Doctor: Hmm… there are still plenty of dead skin cells in your right ear. Your left ear looks fine to me but you right ear is in terrible shape. I suspect some of the dead skin cells have fungus growing on them and have hardened after years of negligent. The problem now is they have attached themselves firmly to your skin and are not responding well to my washing treatment.

Me: So what am I supposed to do now?

Doctor: Don’t worry, I will give you some lotion to soften them and I will see you again this coming Friday.

Me: Okay, if you say so.

Doctor: That will be $50 for the treatment. Please collect your lotion at the counter.

Me: Huh? What? Sorry doc but I am having hearing problem but did you mention $20? Thanks doc, you are so kind. Bye bye. (Give him my sweetest smile)

Want to give it a try?

Temporary Impotence

2006-01-21T17:37:00.000+08:00

It has only been six days i.e. less than a week since I started work in my new workplace on 16 January 2006, Monday. But I feel like I’ve been stuck here for more than a month. Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

The must scary part is I have no mood for sex during these few days. I am not even sure if it is still in working condition. Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!

A New Start

2006-01-10T16:38:00.000+08:00

I will be reporting to my new workplace on 16 January 2006, Monday. For the past few days I have been busy clearing and documenting my works for a smooth handover to my colleagues. Although I am looking forward to my new posting but I if I tell you I am not worry I would be lying. Everything will be new for me, new colleagues, new boss, new responsibilities, new office culture, etc.

Well since this is the beginning of a new year, let’s have a great new start!

Freshly Chopped

2005-11-25T23:22:00.001+08:00

Within an hour
two more frogs
are going to
die.

My wife has just
expressed
her craving
for their
legs.

I must go now.
It is unwise to keep
a hungry woman
waiting.

She expects
them to be
fresh.

Some changes

2005-11-13T02:13:00.000+08:00

Dear friends, starting today topics on Poetry and Psychology will be posted in my new blog i.e. Age of Insanity.

So if you notice that I have not been posting in this blog, most likely is it because I am posting in the new one.

Thank you. :)

I Hate Crowded Places

2005-10-29T01:38:00.000+08:00

I hate crowded places.

That is why if I can help it, I won’t step my foot in Orchard Road. But today I haven’t got a choice. I need to get some gift vouchers from Kinokuniya. They are prizes for the recent poetry-writing competition.

If I tell you 8 out of 10 times I got lost in Orchard Road will you believe me? You better believe it my friends.

Today for some funny reasons I though Kinokuniya is at The Heeren. I’ve been there a few times, but why did I have this silly thought in my head I haven’t got a clue.

Anyway I spent some times searching for the bookshop in The Heeren before realizing I was at the wrong place. The branch I am looking for is at Takashimaya. But silly me once out of The Heeren I headed towards the wrong direction, i.e. away from Takashimaya.

It took me almost an hour to get to my destination.

I hate crowded places.

Just follow me guys! Kinokuniya is just ahead … I think.

Confucian Ethics

2005-10-27T00:08:00.000+08:00

Confucius or Kong Fuzi meaning “Kong, the master” was born in a state called Lu in China, in 551 B.C. His teachings were generally known as “Confucian ethics.” After his death, other teachers of Confucian ethics continued to develop the master’s teachings. You can easily find information concerning his teaching in the Internet, threrefore I am not going into detail here. I am also not going to discuss its role in present-day Singapore because it is not my intention to attack/defend the virtues of Confucius ethics.

However, let me share some of my favourite Confucian quotes/principles with you.

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“When we see men of worth, we should think of equaling them. When we see unworthy men, we should turn inwards and examine ourselves.” (Analects IV: 17)

“The man of perfect virtue wishing to be established himself seeks also to establish others; wishing to be enlarged himself, he seeks also to enlarge others.” (Analects VI: 28)

“To be fond of something is better than merely to know it, and to find joy in it is better than to be fond of it.” (Analects VI: 20)

“Some are born with knowledge; some know by studying and some acquire knowledge after a painful feeling of being ignorant.” (Doctrine of the Mean)

“Without friends, studying alone would result only in loneliness and limited knowledge.” (Book of Rites)

“Know what you know and also know what you know not; that is true knowledge.” (Analects 11: 17)

The Book of Mencius describes a sage as being “the same in kind as other man” and yet “standing far above the crowd”. (Mencius 2A: 2)

Wang Yangming believed that self-realisation cannot be taught. The students must first have their own will to undertake this process. (Confucian Ethics, p41)

“Confucius himself strove to become a sage all his life, even though in the eyes of others he seemed one already. Indeed, people who think they are already perfect in character and knowledge and need no further improvement are already imperfect just because they think this way.” (Confucian Ethics, p53)

“I once spent all day thinking without taking food and all night thinking without going to bed, but I found that I gained nothing from it. It would have been better for me to have spent the time in learning.” (Analects XV: 31)

“What is meant by making the Wills sincere is to avoid self-deception.” (The Great Learning VI)

“There is no greater joy for me than to find an examination that I am true to myself.” (Mencius VIIA : 4)

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Interesting? To make it more interesting, allow me to change a few words, rephrase a few sentences and we have this.

Confucius reading the latest issue from QLRS

In the Attic

2005-10-23T00:32:00.000+08:00

Just want to share this poem with you.

In the Attic

Even though we know now
your clothes will never
be needed, we keep them,
upstairs in a locked trunk.

Sometimes I kneel there,
holding them, trying to relive
time you wore them, to remember
the actual shape of arm and wrist.

My hands push down between
hollow, invisible sleeves,
hesitate, then lift
patterns of memory:

a green holiday, a red christening,
all your unfinished lives
fading through dark summers,
entering my head as dust.

By Andrew Motion

Taken from The Penguin Book of Contemporary British Poetry.

2005-10-21T01:22:00.000+08:00

One of my Mentors used to tell me,

I can teach you the craft of poetry writing but self-realization cannot be taught. You may master the necessary tools to write a good poem but without the proper mindset, you will never improve. You must first have the will to undertake the process. Are you willing to leave your ego outside the door? Some are born with knowledge; but most know by studying. We acquired knowlwdge only after a painful feeling of being ignorant.

Remember, no one can claim to know so much that he/she can afford to stop learning. Poetry writing is a ceaseless process; there is always more to learn. Poets who think they are already perfect and need no further improvement are already imperfect just because they think this way.

Most aspiring poets lack humility. We are often tempted to deceive others and ourselves about our own abilities. The result is that our real abilities are badly affected. We become over-confident and complacent. Avoid self-deception. Be true to yourself.

For a start do not spend all day worrying about writing. You will gain nothing from it. It would have been better for you to spend the time reading good poems and learning their crafts. When you read poems of worth, you should think of equaling them. When you see unworthy poems, you should remind yourself not to commit similar mistakes.

When you think you are ready, feel free to write what you know and also write what you know not. Most of the time poets started off with very vague ideas. It is like visiting a new place for the first time. Each new poem offers a new experience. But you can also write about things that you know. You can write about falling in love, death, suicidal thoughts, etc. The trick is to write in such a way that your poems stand far above the crowd.

However, you must also find joy in writing. To be fond of poetry is better than merely to know it, and to find joy in it is better than to be fond of it.

To establish yourself as a poet, you must also seek to establish others. To improve yourself, you need friends. They act like a refining tool, shaping and polishing your poems. Friends are important.

Writing is a lonely process. But for learning, you have a choice.

Thank you Teacher, may you rest in peace.
(To Mr KFZ)

2005-10-17T01:40:00.000+08:00

This year 7th International Zen Conference was recently held at Suntec City, Singapore. It attracted as many as 1000 participants from all over the world. Unfortunately I am unable to attend due to some last minute commitments. I am really looking forward to the next round.

Since I am at this topic, here is a short story taken from The Magic of Metaphor by Nick Owen.

One day there was an earthquake that shook the entire Zen temple. Parts of it even collapsed. Many of the monks were terrified. When the earthquake stopped the teacher said, “Now you have had the opportunity to see how Zen man behaves in a crisis situation. You may have noticed that I did not panic. I was quite aware of what was happening and what to do. I led you all to the kitchen, the strongest part of the temple. It was a good decision, because you see we have all survived without any injuries. However, despite my self-control and composure, I did feel a little bit tense, which you may have deduced from the fact that I drank a large glass of water, something I never do under ordinary circumstances.”

One of the monks smiled, but didn’t say anything.

“What are you laughing at?” asked the teacher.

“That wasn’t water,” the monk replied, “it was a large glass of soy sauce.”

When Negro Teeth Speak

2005-10-10T00:37:00.004+08:00

Can anyone kindly enlighten me what this poem is about? Even after reading it several times I am still unsure of its message. Is it about clashes of cultures or about being vegetarian? What is the meaning of “Up with tomatoes” or “Up the vegetables”? Why the repetition of “Up with tomatoes” in L5, L20, L39 and L58? What is the significant? And the title “When Negro Teeth Speak” what’s so special about the teeth? Why not simply "When Negro Speak?" I am totally lost. :(

When Negro Teeth Speak

Everyone thinks me a cannibal
But you know how people talk

Everyone sees my red gums but who
Has white ones
Up with tomatoes

Everyone says fewer tourists will come
Now
But you know
We aren’t in America and anyway everyone
Is broke

Everyone says it’s my fault and is afraid
But look
My teeth are white not red
I haven’t eaten anyone

People are wicked and say I gobble
The tourists roasted
Or perhaps grilled
Roasted or grilled I asked them
They fell silent and looked fearfully at my gums
Up with tomatoes

Everyone knows an arable country has agriculture
Up with vegetables

Everyone maintain that vegetables
Don’t nourish the grower well
And that I am well-grown for an undeveloped man
Miserable vermin living on tourists
Down with my teeth

Everyone suddenly surrounded me
Fettered
Thrown down prostrated
At the feet of justice

Cannibal or not cannibal
Speak up
Ah you think yourself clever
And try to look proud

Now we’ll see you get what’s coming to you
What is your last word
Poor condemned man

I shouted up with tomatoes

The men were cruel and the women curious you see
There was one in the peering circle
Who with her voice rattling like the lid of a casserole
Screamed
Yelped
Open him up
I’m sure papa is still inside

The knives being blunt
Which is understandable among vegetarians
Like the Westerners
They grabbed a Gillette blade
And patiently
Crisss
Crasss
Floccc
They opened my belly

A plantation of tomatoes was growing there
Irrigated by streams of palm wine
Up with tomatoes

By Ouologuem Yambo

What is it about?

2005-09-20T21:10:00.000+08:00

I’ve been blogging since May 2005, not very long. But I still think it is about time I seriously give it a thought on the purpose of having this blog. Let me start with what this blog is not about.

Definitely

It is not about Poetry.
It is not about Psychology.
It is not about Politics.
It is not about Philosophy.
It is not about Book/Movie Reviews.
It is not even supposed to be funny.

So what is it about? Hmm… I guess

It is about friendship.
It is about writing.
It is about improving my English.
It is about sharing.
It is about understanding.
It is about keeping a part of me alive.

So why do you blog?

It is about love baby, it is about love.

Have I met you before?

2005-09-17T02:30:00.000+08:00

I am no guru or wise man who lives on top of high mountain, away from Internet, Burger King, Harry Potter, etc.

But I can still give you good advice such as “Do not bully/ill-treat/terrorize/take advantage of newcomers. You may not know when you will meet them again."

Take for example on Thursday night at my ex-colleague’s wedding. Sharing the same table with me were two young chaps. At first I had no idea who they were, they looked kind of familiar but that was it. But they remembered me, oh boy and very clearly too.

One of them told me,

“Remember several years ago I called your organization to see if you have any vacancies and you told me there were plenty in your department and asked me to bring a few friends along?”

“Hmm… I said that? Okay, and then what happened?”

“And then,” he continued. “I bought two of my friends along and it turned out there was only ONE vacancy?”

“Oh…er…”

“Yes, but luckily you managed to find two more vacancies in the other departments.”

Phew...

On another occasion, not long after I have shifted to my new house in Senja, I had a fever and decided to see a doctor. Because I was new to the area, I did not have any particular doctor in mind. So I went to this clinic just a few bus-stops away from my house. As I stepped into the doctor’s room, I couldn’t help feeling I’ve met this doctor somewhere before.

“You are Corporal XXX from XXX camp right?”

“Er, I guess so, and you are?”

“Don’t you remember? I am Ah Hock (not his real name) from Ah Pang’s batch (again not his real name). Remember Platoon 10, Section 2? I have even done a few guard duties with you when you were guard commander?”

Oh no, guard duties? That sounds bad, guard commanders used to give those guards a hard time during guard duties. OMG, that was more than 10 years ago. Quick think, must think hard, have I ever asked him to run around the flagpole carrying his rifle above his head? Have I ever asked him to do push-ups before every meal or to sign extra duties? Damn I can’t remember anything about him.

Before I could answered his question he continued,

“You were a great guard commander, I’ve enjoyed doing guard duties with you. So how’s life?”

Another phew.

But just in case, I visited another doctor who simply asked me to sit down, open my mouth said “Ahhhh”, took my temperature, and asked me to pay at the counter. No chitchat, no “Oh I remember you!” just the way I like it.

Who? Me? Er, I think you got the wrong person my friend.

The Attack of the Aedes Mosquitoes!

2005-09-14T00:58:00.000+08:00

My country is currently under attack by these flying monsters!

The dengue figures have been on the rise. So far the figure has gone beyond 9,000 and is fast approaching the 10, 000 mark. Although my area isn’t affected yet, but mosquitoes have wings you know. I am quite worried with the current tread.

In fact I am so worried that I had a bad dream yesterday night.

I dreamt that somewhere in Singapore, someone was mass breeding infected aedes mosquitoes. Just as I was about to call the police he spotted me and wasted no time sending his blood-sucking pets after my arse. Of course, I woke up just in time to escape their kisses of death. Phew.

Seriously, is it possible to mass breed infected aedes mosquitoes and used them as biological weapon? Just look at the figures, one mosquito needs only a drop of water to produce hundred of eggs. One bite from this miniature vampire transmits thousands of dengue viruses in your blood. And most frightening of all, one in fifty dengue cases may be fatal. Based on the latest figure i.e. 9, 000 cases, 180 Singaporean might be dying. In fact, eight people had dead since this year from the epidemic. The whole nation might soon come to a standstill! Gosh!

Terrorists breeding mosquitoes in Singapore? Nay impossible.

One mean flying blood-sucking son-of-a-bitch at work

Er, go ask your daddy

2005-09-11T00:11:00.000+08:00

The mysterious Mr Wang posted a very interesting article in his blog a few days ago.

From the various comments it gathered, it seems there are quite a few gay poets in Singapore. Is it because gay poets have the hardware of a man and software of a woman thus having the best of both worlds, or maybe they are able to utilize both sides of their brains more efficiently?

One thing for sure, John Keats wasn’t gay, he was too in love with Fanny Brawne to be gay. I don’t think Shelly was gay either, so were William Wordsworth and Wilfred Owen. But does anyone know if William Shakespeare was gay?

Most non-gay poet dreads to be labeled as gay. Even Alvin Pang in his humorous article which he wrote a few years ago said,

“Mention that you're a poet and your manhood is immediately in question.”

Whether the poet is a gay doesn’t bother me. I am only concern with the quality of his poems. But I do hope they write more on other topics rather than their sexual adventures. Here we have this rare instance where poems choose its readers. Not everybody, especially male readers are comfortable with reading vivid descriptions of a man humping another man. Beside, how should I answer if my twelve years nephew shows me one of Cyril’s poems such as this and asks me to explain what it is about?

Me a gay, didn’t you guys watch the movie “Shakespeare In Love?”

Weddings In September

2005-09-08T01:42:00.000+08:00

I will be attending three weddings this month, originally it was four, but the fourth wedding was cancelled due to “unforeseen” circumstances.

In Singapore especially among the Chinese, it is considered inauspicious to held weddings during the Seventh Lunar Month a.k.a. the Festival of the Hungry Ghosts. This year it stretches from 5 August 2005 to 3 September 2005. According to Chinese folklore, during this period the gate of Hell opens and its inhabitants are free to roam the world of the living, sort of like going for a vacation.

Surly you do not want uninvited guests to your wedding right? You might have to prepare a few more tables especially for them. But tell me which one of your guests would want to sit beside such tables?

Of course the younger generation, especially Christians, do not believe in such things. However, unless your parents and in-laws share the same sentiment, it is unwise to go against their wish. You do not want to piss off your in-laws so soon, trust me.

The weddings will be held at,

Hotel New Otani Singapore
for Jac on 11 September 2005

Marina Mandarin Singapore
for MF on 15 September 2005

Pan Pacific Singapore
for WC a.k.a. Tweety Bird on 18 September 2005

Congratulations to the three lovely couples! :)

Mt. Vernon, at Qing Ming

2005-09-06T01:20:00.000+08:00

Selected Poems from DPS (S) #03

Mt. Vernon, at Qing Ming

It seems like only yesterday
that we lost them
the memories are so fresh

We lit the candles and the incense
rearranged the fruits and food
and with clasped hands
bowed to loved ones long gone
remembering sweet secrets we shared
and licked by hungry flames
paper offerings
their ashes fluttered
like unfulfilled dreams
and shifting in the wind
with the smoke and the chatter
a hint of frangipani

It seems like only yesterday
that we lost them
the portraits are so new.

By dsnake1 a.k.a. krait

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My friend dsnake1 has recently got his own blog. And not forgetting he is also the owner of Totally Useless Stuff .

Keep up the good work dsnake1! :)

With you may the force be! (Talking like that I love)

Unlikely Muses

2005-09-03T20:12:00.000+08:00

I bet you have been receiving spam in your email/blog right?

Usually I won’t even bother to read them. Most of them were about “How to enlarge your penis”, “How to clear your debts,” etc, which I am not at all interested since I don’t own anybody monies, maybe expect the government, and I am very satisfied with my size, thank you very much.

But surprise, surprise, it seems someone managed too find inspirations from them.

Here is the full story (can’t do a link, you need a password to view the article) from Chicago Tribune News.

-----------------------------------------------------------
Poets turn to Web for exposure, find unlikely muses.

This weekend's poetry fest in Lincoln Square will feature wit on spam and other funky stuff

By Deborah Horan
Tribune staff reporter
Published August 26, 2005

Larry O. Dean didn't get mad at spam.

He got poetry.

Whenever spam invaded his e-mail inbox, the Chicago elementary school poetry teacher wrote down the e-mail's title and used it for poetic inspiration.

The result: poems titled "I ate chocolate and lost 20 lbs.," "Claim money you never knew you had," and "Stop paying too much."

"They don't irritate me," Dean said of the spam. "I think they're funny. I started writing the subject lines down and highlighted the best ones for poems."

Dean eventually penned enough spam-inspired poems to publish a thin book of poetry last year entitled "From: Larry O. Dean; Subject: I am Spam (Poems)."

"It was much easier to do than I expected," Dean said. "It sells itself. People laugh even before they read the poem."

E-mails aren't Dean's only computer-based source of inspiration. He regularly searches Google with strange combinations of words to get the creative juices flowing, he said. He maintains a Web site. And he estimates that his poems are more often read online than in books.

The Internet, in fact, has been a boon to poets and poetry, a source of inspiration and a venue that has saved the genre from the relative obscurity of small presses and barroom poetry slams, Dean said. Where they once vied to get their voice heard in anthologies, they now can rely on cyberspace to get exposure.

"It helps get you out there," Dean said. "The whole idea of the Internet as a portal has been very helpful."

Lee Groban, an Evanston poet who also maintains a Web site, agrees: "It's given me some exposure here and there," Groban said.

Of course, poetry in person is still preferred, they said.

Dean and Groban plan to read some of their work at the 2005 Chicago Poetry Fest, a two-day poetry extravaganza this Saturday at Giddings Plaza, 4700 N. Lincoln Ave., and Sunday on Bloomingdale Avenue between Western and Artesian Avenues.

The outdoor festival will feature more than 60 poets, who will each recite poems for 10 minutes, said C. J. Laity, the event organizer.

Laity e-mailed more than 1,000 poets inviting them to submit their work and then chose 64 entrants to showcase their poetry at the festival. He organized the annual event for eight years as part of the Bucktown Arts Festival until 2002, when he had a falling out with the organizers over which poets to feature, he said.

Since then, he has held the festival at several other venues, including Lincoln Square. This year, he added a second-day block party on Bloomingdale, where 33 of the poets are scheduled to read their work, including Dean and Groban.

Dean's 10 minutes at the microphone will include poems that describe satirical slices of life, poems such as "Be your own boss," included in the "I Am Spam" collection.

In it, Dean writes:

"Develop a plan of action/ and handpick your team/ comprised of you/ and you and you/ you're in charge/ of research and development."

Groban, too, will be kept to a 10-minute performance--a possible source of difficulty for a poet whose claim to fame is a 5,000-page poem called Cure for Insomnia.

The poem, a rambling opus made into an 85-hour documentary, made the Guinness World Records in 1987 as the longest movie ever made. It still holds the record, according to the Guinness World Records, 2005 .

Groban said it took him two years to film the movie, which featured him reading the poem--a compilation of royal titles of princes and kings around the globe.

The poem hasn't always been well-received by audiences, he said.

"I tried reading two pages of it [once]," Groban said. "Some people in the audience freaked out when I flipped over the page to read the other page.

"Now I don't usually read excerpts of this to crowds unless someone makes a special request."

On Sunday, he plans to read a poem inspired by his many rides on the CTA instead, he said.

The title: Body Odor.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe I should give it a try, err, I mean the poetry part.

Congratulation Gilbert!

2005-09-01T15:56:00.002+08:00

Great news! Mr Gilbert Koh has won this year Golden Point Awards in the English language poetry category! This call for a celebration!!!

Poetry and Drinks don’t mixed. But what the hell, cheers Gilbert! :)

To be honest ...

2005-08-31T21:07:00.000+08:00

... I have not really given it any serious thoughts until recently. But frankly, how do you distinguish between poetry and prose? Take the following piece for example,

When lives are at stake,
would you risk
not reporting it?
If you see anything
or anyone suspicious,
inform our staff
or call 999.
And don’t leave
your belongings unattended.
We all have a part to play
in keeping Singapore
Safe.

Do you consider it a poem? It is actually a copy of the notice put up at various MRT stations to remind commuters to stay alert. I chopped it up and arranged it to look like a poem. Okay, okay, this is not really a good example.

But what about this?

And then comes Spring.
The sun is bright,
the water sparkles,
and the lobsters are active again,
swimming about, eating
like kings, and vying
for a place in your
Butter-browned top-sliced
frankfurter bun.

Would you categorize it as poetry? Better than the previous one right? In fact it is a passage taken from one of the articles in “It must’ve been something I ate” by Jeffrey Steingarten. Again, I’ve chopped it up and try to pass it off as a poem. Oh boy I really love chopping up prose. Chop! Chop! Chop! *evil grin*

Basically, there are two things I look out for in a piece of writing before I decide whether it is a poetry or prose. Firstly is the existence of poetic devices such as meter, rhyme, imagery, metaphor, compression, etc. Secondly is its overall effect on me. I need to be delighted, to be surprised, and if you could stun me with it, heck that's even better; I will not hesitate to give you an A Plus. :)

To quote Emily Dicknson,

“If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire ever can warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way[s] I know it. Is there any other way?”

To illustrate the second point, two poems immediately come into my mind. Coincidentally both are very short poems. One is a haiku by Taniguchi Buson -

The piercing chill I feel:
my dead wife's comb, in our bedroom,
under my heel . . .

And the other poem is Accident by Gilbert Koh, a local poet I greatly respect.

Gilbert once told me,

“A poem has to show me something that I wasn't aware of; or it has to show me something that I was aware of, but in a way I'd never thought of before. If I don't discover anything new in a poem, then it doesn't work for me. It's not a poem to me.”

I have no problem with that. But what if instead of a poem, it is a prose that “show me something that I wasn't aware of; or it has to show me something that I was aware of, but in a way I'd never thought of before. If I don't discover anything new …” can I still consider it a poem? In fact many articles written by Mr Wang in his blog "Did Mister Wang Say So?" meet the above requirements, but they are definitely not poetry.

Maybe as suggested by Gilbert,

“And if it is a good piece, does it really matter whether it is more correctly classified as prose or poetry?”

Well sorry Gilbert, but it does matters to me because I am the stubborn type. :)

For example, both boiled and un-boiled water quench my thirst buut I still need to know what one I am drinking. Althugh the boundary between poetry and prose remind obscure but there is still hope; as Joan Houlihan in her reply to Fred Moramarco said

“While I agree that it is basically impossible to successfully and fully define a poem, I maintain that it is possible to define a non-poem – by its lack of poetic conventions.”

In my opinion, if you write a prose using poetic devices, if you insist, you can call it a prose poem. On the other hand, if you write a poem in the manners as if you are writing a prose, it will remain a prose, nothing but a prose.

Prose and Poetry

2005-08-29T02:09:00.000+08:00

How do you tell the various differences between prose and poetry? Well, this article offers some good suggestions/examples.

Doctor Madness

2005-08-28T23:29:00.000+08:00

Nothing to do with poetry, just want to share these funny lines with you guys. :)

The patient was in his usual state of good health until his airplane ran out of gas and crashed.

Patient has left his white blood cells at another hospital.

The patient is tearful and crying constantly. She also appears to be depressed.

Examination of genitalia reveals that he is circus sized.

By the time he was admitted, his rapid heart had stopped and he was feeling better.

On the second day the knee was better and on the third day it had completely disappeared.

Patient has chest pain if she lies on her left side for over a year.

Patient has two teenage children, but no other abnormalities.

She has had no rigours or shaking chills, but her husband states she was very hot in bed last night.

When she fainted, her eyes rolled around the room.

Taken from Eats, Shites & Leaves – Crap English & how to use it by A. Parody

I Thought My Father Was God

2005-08-25T14:01:00.001+08:00

I Thought My Father Was God edited & introduced by Paul Auster is a collection of 180 personal, true-life accounts from people of all ages, backgrounds, and walks of life. Some are funny, some are mysterious, and some are highly emotional, etc.

One particular story caught my attention, mainly because its title is quite similar to a poem I’ve written a few months ago. But most importantly, I have always against the idea of paying your children to help out in the house chores. In my opinion, you are not teaching them the right values.

A Plate of Peas

My grandmother died when I was a small boy, and my grandmother started staying wih us for about six months every year. She lived in a room that doubled as my father’s office, which we referred to as “the back room.” She carried with her a powerful aroma. I don’t know what kind of perfume she used, but it was the double-barrel, ninety-proof, knockdown, render-the-victim-unconscious, moose-killing variety. She kept it in a huge atomizer and applied it frequently and liberally. It was almost impossible to go into her room and remain breathing for any length of time. When she would leave the house to go spend six months with my Aunt Lillian, my mother and sisters would throw open all the windows, strip the bed, and take out the curtain and rugs. Then they would spend several days washing and airing things out, trying frantically to make the pungent odor go away.

This, then, was my grandmother at that time of the infamous pea incident.

It took place at the Biltmore Hotel, which, to my eight-year-old mind, was just about the fanciest place to eat in all of Providence. My grandmother, my mother and I were having lunch after a morning spent shopping. I grandly ordered a Salisbury steak, confident in the knowledge that beneath that fancy name was a good old hamburger with gravy. When brought to the table, it was accompanied by a plate of peas.

I do not like peas now. I did not like peas then. I have always hated peas. It is a complete mystery to me why anyone would voluntarily eat peas. I did not eat them at home. I did not eat them at restaurants. And I certainly was not about to eat them now.
“Eat your peas,” my grandmother said.
“Mother,” said my mother in her warning voice. “He doesn’t like peas. Leave him alone.”

My grandmother did not reply, but there was a glint in her eyes and a grim set to her jaw that signaled she was not going to be thwarted. She leaned in my direction, looked me in the eyes, and uttered the fateful words that changed my life:
“I’ll pay you five dollars if you eat those peas.”

I had absolutely no idea of the impending doom that was heading my way like a giant wrecking ball. I only knew that five dollars was an enormous, nearly unimaginable amount of money, and as awful as peas were, only one plate of them stood between me and the possession of that five dollars. I began to force the wretched things down my throat.

My mother was lived. My grandmother had that self-satisfied look of someone who had been thrown down an unbeatable trump card. “I can do what I want, Ellen, and you can’t stop me.” My mother glared at her mother. She glared at me. No one can glare like my mother. If there were a glaring Olympics, she would undoubtedly win the gold medal.

I of course, kept shoving peas down my throat. The glares made me nervous, and every single pea made me want to throw up, but the magical image of that five dollars floated before me, and I finally gagged down every last one of them. My grandmother handed me the five dollars with a flourish. My mother continued to glare in silence. And the episode ended. Or so I thought.

My grandmother left for Aunt Lillian’s a few weeks later. That night, at dinner, my mother served two of my all-time favorite foods, meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Along with them came a big, steaming bowl of peas. She offered me some peas, and I, in the very last moments of my innocent youth, declined. My mother fixed me with a cold eye as she heaped a huge pile of peas onto my plate. Then came the words that were to haunt me for years.

“You ate them for money. You can eat them for love.”

What possible argument could I muster against that? There was none. Did I eat the peas? You bet I did. I ate them that day and every other time they were served thereafter. The five dollars were quickly spent. My grandmother passed away a few years later. But the legacy of the peas lived on, as it lives on to this day. If I so much as curl my lip when they are served (because, after all, I still hate the horrid little things), my mother repeats the dreaded words one more time:

“You ate them for money,” she says. “You can eat them for love."

By Rick Beyer

Well ...

I like peas, cute chubby little fellows sitting perfectly still on the plate ready to be eaten. What’s wrong with peas?

Simply irresistible!

I love playing with them when I was a kid, pretending they were little green Martians coming to invade Earth, and I would squash them with a fork. Yummy. But nowadays I seldom have the opportunities to do that. My wife doesn’t like it. She says she is from Venues and gently reminds me I am from Mars. Sigh.

We have read your manuscript ...

2005-08-17T00:32:00.000+08:00

Chinese Economic Journal to British Writer

We have read your manuscript with boundless delight. If we were to publish your paper, it would be impossible for us to publish any work of a lower standard. And as it is unthinkable that we shall see its equal in the next thousand years, we are, to our regret, compelled to return your divine composition and beg you a thousand times to overlook our short sight and timidity.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Boundless delight indeed! Are there any better ways of rejecting a submission? I wonder what was the British writer’s reaction when he read that? :)

Taken from "How They Said It: Wise and Witty Letters from the Famous & Infamous."

The Poet

2005-08-11T21:43:00.001+08:00

The Return (February 2004 – March 2005)

Warning: This poem is full of clichés and abstractions. Do not try this at home.

The poem #10

The Poet

Perhaps you might have seen him before
Out alone on the street
Easing his way among faceless crowds
Touching every alternate lamp-posts
Indifferent to his surroundings
Creating poems in his head

Voices unheard by others
Echoing the craving Muse within
Retreating to his private haven, gladly
Surrenders his sanity in exchange for
Endless poetic verse

The story behind this poem

This is my last poem in “The Return” phase. Actually I don’t want to post this because I wrote it as an exercise in another online poetry forum. By the way, this is an acrostic poem. :)

The Void Deck Rhapsody

2005-08-08T01:23:00.000+08:00

Selected Poems from DPS (S) #02

The Void Deck Rhapsody

Sometimes the neighbor’s dog
Barks at the thundering rain
Like a bone
Strung away, unreachable.

The cats in my precinct
Yodel like the maker
Of pungent
Swiss cheese
Mice run around in gallant
Cheerfulness.

The old lady, wrinkled like
Her preserved cabbage,
Peels out rinds of money
For a piece of limp fish.
Her eyes swimming with
Memories
Of her dead son.

I glance into the
Naïve mind of
The newsstand,
Filled to the brim
Yet empty in the profit bowl.

A maze of myriad colors
Form a formal parade
Organic matter
Welcoming
Their new recruits.

Threads of deep wounds
And the scars of happiness
Are like a stuffed capon
Hard and unyielding
Fallen foe.

By LazerLordz

Another Singaporean in PFFA

2005-08-06T02:33:00.000+08:00

Let me see among PFFA’s 28,252 members I know Jee Leong is a Singaporean who is based in US (I don’t think he is coming back to Singapore), and recently there is Rui. He has just posted a poem
here.

And guess what, Rui is a blogger too. :)

A Must Have For Aspiring Poets!

2005-08-05T14:53:00.000+08:00

The Poet's Companion: A Guide to the Pleasures of Writing Poetry

If you want to improve your writing skills, die die you must get your hands on this book! I bought my copy last month @Kinokuniya, worth every single cent. I will be sharing some of the poems and advices from this book in my future postings.

---> Media: Paperback
---> Author: Kim Addonizio, Dorianne Laux
---> Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
---> Release date: 20 October, 1997

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Comments from other readers

For adult writers...

Although I don't doubt this is a great book for writing poetry- I thought I would mention that it is for adults. I read the reviews and ordered the book for my 14 year old who loves to write poetry- thinking the reviews made it sound perfect. The content does include adult topics, sexual language, and some language. Just thought others may find this helpful to know. I sent it back, as it was not appropriate for my daughter

The best there is...

I have read a large number of poetry textbooks, workbooks, courses, and reference books, and this book is the best I have ever read on the subject. It was clearly written, with a lot of useful information, and truly great exercises.

Almost Stopped Before I Started: So Glad I Didn't!

I almost ruled out reading this book when I read the author's (to me) bold statement on page 225: "Can you write a poem in 20 minutes? We seriously doubt it."

Being, at times, a very fast poet, I *gasped* when I read that assertion! (Don't ask me how I got to page 225 before I read the rest of the book but nonetheless, it stuck out to me!)

I kept at it, though, and found my way through the original assessment and into many of the glorious exercises, the truth in words that I so resonate with such as "We don't believe in writer's block. We believe there are times when you are empty and times when you are full."

The section on Metrical poetry is truly magical - I enjoyed learning about how Free-Verse as a form blossomed as well.

There are also many, many valuable resources in the appendices such as Books on Poetry and Writing, Finding Markets for Your Poetry and More Resources for Writers.

Finally, this book is chock full of exercises so that you can continue picking it up and revisit, use, revisit, use some more, revisit over and over again. Definitely worth the investment AND I am so glad I didn't toss it all because of one difference in opinion.

How to have a Friend

2005-08-04T02:07:00.000+08:00

I find this quote very interesting,

“The only way to have a friend is to be one.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 – 1882)

Wow, this make being a friend sound so simple i.e. if you want to have a friend, you first need to be one.

I admit I haven’t got a single clue if others considered me as being a good friend. I can’t go around asking them, do you think I am a good friend right? I will never do this sort of thing. Maybe I should design a questionnaire for them to evaluate my performance as a friend. Just in case they are not too keen about it, I shall announced, “All completed questionnaire might win you some fabulous prizes in the Lucky Draw!” I think that should do the trick. Really, how does one know that he/she is doing fine?

Since we are on this topic, I would like to share this letter with you

Mark Twain to W.D. Howells, October 4, 1907

To the Editor,

Sir to you, I would like to know what kind of a goddam government this is that discriminates between two common carriers and makes a goddam railroad charge everybody equal & lets a goddam man charge any goddam price he wants for his goddam opera box.

W D Howells
Tuxedo Park Oct 4
(goddam it!)

Howells, it is an outrage the way the government is acting so I sent this complaint to N.Y. Times with your name signed because it would have more weight. Mark.

(Taken from How They Said It: Wise and Witty Letters from the Famous & Infamous)

What a friend!

Looking for Tan Yi-Ling

2005-08-01T01:44:00.000+08:00

Tablet of Stone
Written at Mount Vernon Crematorium

Coming to this lush green
Serenity, tucked away from the
Noise of city traffic, seeking
Telepathy, a reunion of
Minds, with those long dead –
Whose souls now reside amongst
The ashes in allocated cubicles,
Sealed with marble slabs – from
The living world – rows and
Rows lined with tablets of
Stone. One tablet, it seemed, was
Different from the rest. The
Visage of a little girl – Smiling –
Adorned its hard, smooth surface of an
Unearthly chill. Where flowers might
Have stood, a pink, fluffy soft toy
Sat accompanied by two plastic
Sticks of colourful lollipops, perhaps
The evidence of recent communion? In this
Dim, concrete structure built to house
The dead – an economical Mausoleum of
Sorts – comforting to find that the
Warmth of the living penetrates and
Punctures this otherwise eternal
Silence.

Tan Yi-Ling

This poem was taken from “First Words: A Selection of Works by Young Writers in Singapore.”

Since then I have been trying to find out more about her and her poems, sadly without success. If you have any information about her, please let me know. I would love to read the rest of her poems.

Thanks. :)

Jalan Bukit Merah

2005-07-28T01:12:00.000+08:00

Selected Poem from DPS (S) #01

Jalan Bukit Merah

Panties on bamboo poles
like battle flags
Lifts eternally reeking
of urine and sweat

The dusty stairs are stained
with vomit of heroin.
The graffiti on the walls
speaks for all.

Packs of young punks with nothing to do, except
smoking, bragging and cursing their blues.
"Shall we lay a girl or two, bum?"
"No joe, go home get your parang."

Some poor bastard gonna lose an arm or two.

By dsnake1 posted on 10 May 2005

Without the letter "e".

2005-07-20T01:25:00.000+08:00

Ever thought of writing a short poem without the letter "e"? Don’t have to be too serious, have fun. :)

Here are some of the examples from DPS (S) –

81

As forlorn moon in a wayward sky falls,
a solitary shadow across unlit park cuts.
in shabby garb, bag in hand.
anguish in his drifting orbs.
sanctuary a cold husk,
family shuns infirmity.
dismal thoughts,
castaway.

By True_Xerion

----------------------------------------

Wash my sin

Fluid pours out quickly,
as a cloud unlocks it’s tap.
A child runs out and plays,
unafraid of catching a chill.

Can I go back to that day,
and undo my sin?
This harsh rain cannot purify,
nor wash blood off my hands.

Fluid pours our quickly,
right out of a liquor glass.
My salvation for tonight,
And for tomorrow too.

By SingaporeMacross

----------------------------------------

Untitled

Moon shining in twililght,
Not a star in sight,
Isolation.

Gazing out into nothing,
Too much on my mind,
Insomnia.

Plush toy in my bossom,
Oblivious to my pain,
Ignorant.

Visions of him in sin city,
Along with illicit company,
Immorality.

Fibs and bulls told too many,
Soon lost its coaxing,
Insouciant.

By tare

-----------------------------------------

Dark

at my corridor
door 2 a.m.
thought i saw things
unholy

a shadow
gliding
at a lift landing

as a dog howls,
distant
its cry primordial, pining

is it

a malignant spirit
that Kallang lady
watching?

rabid hounds bark again
now a cat joins in
night sounds cutting
through
humid
air,
painful
tinny.

as i walk into a warm room
to a hot bath
to wash away
night's dark...

By dsnake1

--------------------------------------

Untitled

I am trying hard,
oh!so hard to craft
this little ditty about
joy
ambition
sobs
and Kodak flops.

And also to sound-off ,
about a girl
who sat with yours truly
through
dastardly film
that burnt an unhappy gap
in my urban assault kit.

By LazerLordz

--------------------------------------

Young Knight

I hunt, high dragons
with mighty wings
and knock
nasty mountain trolls
with iron fists.
I kill clumsy giants
that snatch humans for lunch
And vicious villains
that rob country folks for fun.
But just a light kiss
from you my fair
I turn soft
and blush.

By Dead Poet (me lah ;p)

Like a Fish out of the Water

2005-07-17T22:47:00.000+08:00

I posted the following comment at this blog a few days ago. Soon after that, I was pleasantly surprised to receive an email from the blog’s owner – Amy. She was really encouraging and gave me some great advices.

I really appreciate her gesture.

Thanks Amy. :)

-----------------------------------------------

“The best way is to keep writing, do workshops, and read a lot of poetry.”

“My opinion is that we should always dig for what is honest--you know it when you hit it. If you right what is true, the rest will take care of itself.”

Hi Amy,For the past couple of months, my mind was in a total blank. I trembled with fear whenever I tried to write a line or a word. I kept telling myself, my poems have to be something special, something unique, etc.

In the end I wrote nothing. :(

I used to come up with 5 – 6 poems in a month. Although they are filled with clichés and abstractions but they are all dear to me because they are part of my learning process. Now I can’t even write a single line. I am feeling desperate, like a fish out of the water gasping for breath.

Thanks to this post, now I need to do some serious thinking. :)

Learn How to Fucking Spell

2005-07-07T00:29:00.000+08:00

Recently in PFFA, one new member posted his/her first poem in the “C&C’ forum, a bad decision, he/she should have posted it in the “General Poetry” forum instead. Moreover the posted poem wasn’t really that good. (You have to reach certain standard to post in “C&C) In fact, it was filled with bad grammar, poor spelling, forced rhyme, etc. (Just like mine)

I expected it will be torn to pieces within the next few hours. And true enough, it attracted the “attack” from the most ruthless super moderator known in PFFA’s history. He told this particular poster to “Learn how to fucking spell.” Yes, I am uncomfortable with the word “fucking” appearing in a poetry forum especially if it was made by a moderator. You can fuck here and fuck there in your blog, many “famous" bloggers do that, but please avoid using it in a poetry forum. (However I don’t mind words like “fuck” or “fucking” in poems provided they are there for good reason.)

Actually harsh criticisms are expected in PFFA. It is one of the main reasons why PFFA is so popular to those are prepared to leave their pride outside the door. We stick with PFFA despite knowing our poems might received comments such as, “This is a worthless piece of crap!”, “Do you read poetry?”, “What you've written is the lowest common denominator of poetry … for the love of poetry, stop writing.”, etc. These comments are heart-breakers, but they make you think, make you want to prove them wrong, make you want to improve. I usually took a few deep breaths before clicking the “Submit” button.

Despite the risk of being treated like the village idiot, PFFA is STILL one of the best online poetry forums around. I do understand the frustrations of running an online poetry forum, since I am a moderator myself. I also admire their determination to maintain the “no nonsense” image of PFFA. However, using vulgarities in my opinion is totally out of line. “Learn how to spell” will be sufficient, please leave the fucking in the bedroom.

Just for info, that particular poem has been moved to the “General Poetry” forum.

My Hero - John Keats (1795 - 1821)

2005-06-30T00:36:00.000+08:00

Portrait of John Keats by William Hilton, after Joseph Severn (National Portrait Gallery, London)

A Brief Biography

John Keats was born in Finsbury Pavement near London on October 31st, 1795. The first son of a stable-keeper, he had a sister and three brothers, one of whom died in infancy (Edward, died in infancy, April 28, 1801). When John was eight years old, his father, Thomas Keats, was killed in a riding accident (Fell from his horse as he rode home at night from Southgate on April 16, 1804). In the same year his mother, Frances Jennings Keats married again, but little later separated from her husband (William Rawlings) and took her children, John and his sister Fanny and bothers George and Tom, to live with her mother at Edmonton, near London. John attended a good school where he became well acquainted with ancient and contemporary literature.

At school Keats read widely. He was educated at the progressive Clarke's School in Enfield, where he began a translation of the Aeneid. Keats, who was barely five feet tall, was not known at school for his enthusiasm for books, but his fighting. "My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it," he wrote.

In February 1810 his mother died of tuberculosis, leaving the children to their grandmother. John Keats was only fourteen. After his mother’s death, the old lady put them under the care of two guardians, two London merchants, Richard Abbey and John Rowland Sandell, to whom she made over a respectable amount of money for the benefit of the orphans. Abbey, a prosperous tea broker, assumed the bulk of this responsibility, while Sandell played only a minor role.

Under the authority of the guardians, at the age of fifteen, 1811, Abbey withdrew him from the Clarke School, Enfield, to apprentice with an apothecary-surgeon and study medicine in a London hospital. While studying for the licence, he completed his translation of Aeneid. Edmund Spenser's Faerie Queene impressed him deeply and his first poem, written in 1814, was 'Lines in Imitation of Spenser.'

In 1814, before completion of his apprenticeship, John left his master after a quarrel, becoming a hospital student in London. Although he became a licensed apothecary in 1816, but he never practiced his profession, deciding instead to write poetry. Under the guidance of his friend Cowden Clarke he devoted himself increasingly to literature. In London he had met Leigh Hunt, the editor of the leading liberal magazine of the day, The Examiner.

He introduced Keats to other young Romantics, including Percy B. Shelley, William Wordsworth and Benjamin Robert Haydon. In May 1816, Hunt helped him published his sonnet, "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer" and 'O Solitude' in the magazine. The group's influence enabled Keats to see his first volume, Poems (about thirty poems and sonnets) published in 1817.

Shelley, who was fond of Keats, had advised him to develop a more substantial body of work before publishing it. Keats, who was not as fond of Shelley, did not follow his advice. Sales were poor. After receiving scarce, negative feedback, Keats travelled to the Isle of Wight on his own in spring of 1817. In the late summer he went to Oxford together with a newly-made friend, Benjamin Bailey.

In the following winter, George Keats married and moved to America, leaving the consumptuous brother Tom to John's care. He spent the spring with his brother Tom and friends at Shankin. It was about this time Keats started to use his letters as the vehicle of his thoughts of poetry. They mixed the everyday events of his own life with comments with his correspondence.

Apart from helping Tom against consumption, Keats worked on his poem "Endymion" his first long poem appeared when he was 21. It told in 4000 lines of the love of the moon goddess Cynthia for the young shepherd Endymion.

Two of the most influential critical magazines of the time, the Quarterly Review and Blackwood's Magazine, attacked the collection. Calling the romantic verse of Hunt's literary circle "the Cockney school of poetry," Blackwood's declared Endymion to be nonsense and recommended that Keats give up poetry. Shelley, who privately disliked Endymion but recognized Keats's genius, wrote a more favorable review, but it was never published. Shelley also exaggerated the effect that the criticism had on Keats, attributing his declining health over the following years to a spirit broken by the negative reviews.

Miniature portrait of Fanny Brawne

Just before its publication, John Keats went on a hiking tour to Scotland and Ireland with his friend Charles Brown (summer of 1818.). First signs of his own fatal disease forced him to return prematurely, where he found his brother seriously ill from tuberculosis and his poem harshly criticized.

In December 1818 Tom Keats died. John moved to Hampstead Heath, were he lived in the house of Charles Brown. While in Scotland with Keats, Brown had lent his house to a Mrs Brawne and her sixteen-year-old daughter Fanny. Since the ladies where still living in London, Keats soon made their acquaintance and fell in love with the beautiful, fashionable girl, Fanny Brawne.

That same autumn in 1818, Keats contracted tuberculosis. In the winter of 1818-19 he worked mainly on Hyperion and The Eve of St Agnes. The fragmentary Eve of St Mark was composed during a visit to his friend Charles Wentworth Dilke's parents and relatives in Sussex.

In 1819 Keats finished Lamia, and wrote another version of Hyperion, called The Fall of Hyperion (unpublished until 1856). His famous poem 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' was inspired by a Wedgwood copy of a Roman copy of a Greek vase. Josiah Wedgwood's copy was purchased by Sir William Hamilton, who sold it to the duchess of Portland. She denoted the vase to the British Museum in 1784.

In July 1820, he published his third and best volume of poetry, Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems. The three title poems, dealing with mythical and legendary themes of ancient, medieval, and Renaissance times, are rich in imagery and phrasing.

The volume also contains the unfinished "Hyperion," and three poems considered among the finest in the English language, "Ode on a Grecian Urn," "Ode on Melancholy," and "Ode to a Nightingale." The book received enthusiastic praise from Hunt, Shelley, Charles Lamb, and others, and in August, Frances Jeffrey, influential editor of the Edinburgh Review, wrote a review praising both the new book and Endymion.

The fragment "Hyperion" was considered by Keats's contemporaries to be his greatest achievement, but by that time he had reached an advanced stage of his disease and was too ill to be encouraged. He could not enjoy the positive resonance on the publication of the volume "Lamia, Isabella &c.", including his most celebrated odes.

His poems were marked with sadness partly because he was too poor to marry Fanny Brawne. Keats broke off his engagement and began what he called a "posthumous existence." However he continued to correspondence with Fanny Brawne and—when he could no longer bear to write to her directly—her mother.

In the late summer of 1820, Keats was ordered by his doctors to avoid the English winter and move to Italy. Keats had been experiencing ill health and it was thought that the warmer air of Italy would help cure him. His friend the painter, Joseph Severn accompanied him south - first to Naples, and then to Rome. His health improved momentarily, only to collapse finally.

Keats died in Rome of tuberculosis on February 23rd, 1821. John Keats was only 26 years old when he died.

He was buried on the Protestant Cemetery, near the grave of Caius Cestius. On his desire, the following lines were engraved on his tombstone: "Here lies one whose name was writ in water."

Note: Keats did not invent his own epitaph, but remembered words from the play Philaster, or Love Lies-Ableeding, written by Beaumont and Fletcher in 1611. "All your better deeds / Shall be in water writ," one of the characters says. Keats told his friend Joseph Severn that he wanted on his grave just the line, "Here lies one whose name was writ in water."

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So who is your favourite poet? :)

Tuberculosis – Murderer of John Keats

2005-06-30T00:23:00.001+08:00

‘Young grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies …’ The poet who wrote these words, John Keats, was only twenty-four when he first coughed up blood. When Keats came home feverish one night, the friend he was staying with urged him to go to bed at once. No sooner did he lie down than he gave a hacking cough that brought with it the unmistakable taste of blood. The candle he lit confirmed his expectations: it revealed a bright red spot on his pillow. ‘That drop of blood is my death-warrant,’ Keats said calmly to his friend; ‘I must die.’

Frightened, his friend ran out into the cold February night for a doctor in the first many attempts to save young Keats over the next year. But all attempts were useless. Tuberculosis germs could have been hiding in Keats’s lungs since childhood; by the time the disease revealed itself, leaving its red signature on his pillow, the battle was already lost.

Keats knew this all too well: as a boy of fourteen, he had cared for his mother when she lay dying of tuberculosis. He allowed no one else to cook her meals, and sat with her through the night in a room with the doors and windows shut tight against drafts. When he was twenty-three, he did the same for his youngest brother. In those long hours, Keats both breathed in countless numbers of Mycobacterium tuberculosis, the germ that cause the disease, and learned firsthand the details of how he himself would die.

It has been estimated that in Keats’s day, the beginning of the nineteenth century, one quarter of all Europeans died young of tuberculosis. At that time, the creative were considered especially vulnerable; one could hardly claim to be an artist without a bloody handkerchief. The poet Lord Byron, who did not have the disease, once went as far as to wish he would die of tuberculosis because, he said, the ladies would all say, ‘Look at that poor Byron, how interesting he looks in dying!’

Of course, once Byron was dead, the ladies would not matter, but pat of the allure of tuberculosis was that dying went on for years: the thin, flushed, and even feverish look was considered romantic, and one was not always too sick to enjoy being so perceived. But this slow, creeping death is also what has made tuberculosis so terrible. Like its relative leprosy, tuberculosis reproduced much more slowly than most germs. This made it difficult to diagnose, concealed the fact that it was contagious, and made it hard to study in the laboratory.

Tuberculosis is stealthy: after it enters a body, the germ will wait as long as it takes, ten days or fifty years, for the moment the host is weak enough to attack. When tuberculosis does attack, the infected person feels tired, gradually more and more so, but does not know why. Tuberculosis gives no outward sign of its presence until too late. Before we learned how to probe the body for evidence of the disease with X rays and skin tests, the bright red spot of coughed-up blood was the first definitive sigh, and by then tuberculosis was well established.

Today, five decades after a cure for the disease was found, tuberculosis, known as TB for short, kills more people than any other single germ. It is the largest single cause of death from infectious disease in the United States. Worldwide, three million people die from it each year; over eight million become infected.

In little more than the time it take you to read this sentence, another person will die of TB.

From Invisible Enemies: Stories of Infectious Disease by Jeanette Farrell

This Morning: Comments from PFFA

2005-06-24T14:19:00.000+08:00

This is crazy. I’ve just posted “This Morning” in Poetry Free-for-all, an online poetry workshop known for its harsh but frank critics. (Especially the regulars and moderators)

Took me a lot of courage to post one of my old poems there. (Actually not just my old poems lah.) I will update this post a few days later.

I really love that site.

---------------------------------------------------------

Updated on 27 June 2005

This Morning

Looking at you
from the corner
of my eyes,
I wonder what
you are dreaming.
You look so peaceful
like a baby, but
a baby that will never
bear my surname.
I am afraid
I won’t be here
when you open
your eyes.
As I tiptoe
out of the room,
I wonder
what my wife is doing now.

Okay, I don’t think there are any new comments coming in. The following are some of the selected few. (You can view the rest at PFFA) :)

by John Boddie,

“This reads like prose - a series of declarative sentences broken into arbitrarily short lines. The short lines are at odds with the more liesurely phrasing. I suppose that it's supposed to be a portrait of a man and a young mistress. The significance of the man's leaving the room quietly is obscure. There's very little here for the reader to work with.”

by Lukethedrifter,

“You're telling how you feel but not really making me feel anything. I read and wonder what I've gained by reading this. What makes this a unique thought beyond all the others? I can't even really picture the baby sleeping. How old is it? How is it's sleep? so on and so on. Why are you wondering what your wife is doing if you're going to leave?”

and lastly,

by sefton,

“I liked a number of elements; the spareness, the movement through the scene, and some of the line breaks. There are a couple of things to address, and a couple of ways to go with this.

One is to flesh out the poem, using each of the lines above essentially as base for a longer line. And perhaps another theme/element can be added as you flesh out; it takes away from the soft kick at the end, but more about the life/nature/situation of the narrator or the girl (or boy) in question, and how that relates to their affair, might be interesting.

Another is to tighten what you have even further. Mostly, I see a few places where the line breaks seem too clever by half:

Looking at you
from the corner
of my eyes,

I liked these, for example, though a small part of me feels like L3 is a casualty of the break that sets off L2 and makes it interesting.

I wonder what
you are dreaming.

This is one that seems too clever by half. On the page, the second line here seems interesting in relation to what surrounds it, but then again, the first line here doesn't say much at all, and is nearly repeated later in the poem. This might be a case where adding some specifics (what is he wondering?) might help.

like a baby, but
a baby that will never
bear my surname.

I think these are also ineffective breaks--it's really one idea and feels like it should sit on one line, two at the most.

As I tiptoe
out of the room,
I wonder
what my wife is doing now.

And here, I don't see the reason L1 and L2 are separate lines. L3 is set off interestingly, as it can refer to what precedes or follows it, but then again the break at wonder/what seems awkward--maybe reframing as an active question (what is my wife doing now?) might help.

Anyway, I did like this, and I hope these comments help.

Thanks for posting.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

You can really learn a lot from these guys. :)

Shredded

2005-06-23T02:48:00.002+08:00

The Return (February 2004 – March 2005)

Warning: This poem is full of clichés and abstractions. Do not try this at home.

The poem #09

Shredded

Shredded papers
in a basket,
beside a shredding machine,
beside another
empty seat. Who
will notice them?

The story behind this poem

This poem is actually about unemployment. At that point, one of my good friends was fired from his company that he had been working for the past 10 years. Reason being the company was in the process of restructuring and suddenly my friend’s job became redundant. His service was no longer required. As simple as that.

I am still experimenting with short poems.

To My Dear Children

2005-06-17T01:45:00.001+08:00

I will be returning Poems to Read: A New Favourite Poem Project Anthology tomorrow. You can borrow it from Choa Chu Kang Community Library @Lot 1. But before I do that I would like to share this poem with you.

To My Dear Children

This book by any yet unread,
I leave for you when I am dead,
That being gone, here you may find
What was your living mother’s mind.
Make use of what I leave in love,
And God shall bless you from above.

Anne Bradstreet (1612 – 1672)

There are hardly any images in this poem.

It uses simple words.

There isn’t any particular line that leaves a deep impression on me.

I can’t smell, touch, or visualize anything from the poem.

But if you read it aloud, it sounds great! And the meaning behind this poem is one of the main reasons why I write poetry – to pass my love, my thoughts, my feelings, etc. to my children and the generations to come.

I love this piece. :)

My Graduation Ceremony

2005-06-12T12:29:00.000+08:00

I’ve decided.

I will not be attending the SIM Open University Centre (SIM – OUC) Graduation Ceremony.

Why? Let me see,

1) It will be held on 15 July 2005, Friday @10.00am – 1pm. Why is it held on a Friday morning? I will have to apply leave to attend. Nope, not going to do that, I am running out of annual leave.

2) I need to pay for my guests at $15 nett per guest. No money.

3) I am required to collect my graduation gowns at Creative District Pte Ltd. No time.

4) “The deposit of $250/- must be paid by cash or local cheque at the time of collection of gown.” No money again.

5) “Please note that all gowns returned after 1 August 2005 (Monday) would have to be sent for dry cleaning at your own expense.” Do I have to pay for everything?

6) “If the gown is returned after 8 August 2005 (Monday), the deposit of $250/- will be forfeited.” Don’t want to take the risk, $250 is a lot of money you know.

7) I am just too lazy. ;P

Free Verse, Blank Verse, etc.

2005-06-11T16:41:00.000+08:00

Two weeks ago I “pm” Donna, one of the several moderators in PFFA regarding the differences between free verse and blank verse. I think her reply makes good sense, so I am posting it here to share with you guys. :)

My question:

“Hello Donna,

It is me again. I need to clarify something and I am not sure whom to turn to. You are the first person that comes to my mind. Hope you don’t mind.

I really need to get this straight, is the following correct?

Poems,

Without meter, without rhyme = free verse
With meter, with rhyme = Most traditional forms, such as sonnets, etc
With meter, without rhyme = blank verse
Without meter, with rhyme = Bad poems

Thanks.”

Her reply:

“To answer your questions, here are some definitions to consider:

Without meter, without rhyme = free verse

Free Verse – Poetry without any set meter; lines may break either when the unit of syntax is complete or midway through the syntactic unit (phrase, clause or sentence). [From Mary Kinzie's A Poet's Guide to Poetry]

Free Verse – A fluid form which conforms to no set rules of traditional versification. The free in free verse refers to the freedom from fixed patterns of meter and rhyme, but writers of free verse employ familiar poetic devices such as assonance, alliteration, imagery, caesure, figures of speech etc., and their rhythmic effects are dependent on the syllabic cadences emerging from the context. The term is often used in its French language form, vers libre. [From Bob's Byway of Poetic Terms]

With meter, with rhyme = Most traditional forms, such as sonnets, etc

Most traditional forms have a set metrical and rhyme pattern. The pattern is determined by the form, with some variations allowed.

With meter, without rhyme = blank verse

Blank Verse – Unrhymed iambic pentameter lines (five iambs per line), with occasional--and necessary--enjambment. The "blank" denoted absence of rhyme. [From Mary Kinzie's A Poet's Guide to Poetry]

Blank Verse – Poetry written without rhymes, but which retains a set metrical pattern, usually iambic pentameter (five iambic feet per line) in English verse. Since it is a very flexible form, the writer not being hampered in the expression of thought or syntactic structure by the need to rhyme, it is used extensively in narrative and dramatic poetry. In lyric poetry, blank verse is adaptable to lengthy descriptive and meditative poems.

Sidelight – Blank verse and free verse are often misunderstood or confused. A good way to remember the difference is to think of the word blank as meaning that the ends of the lines where rhymes would normally appear are "blank," i.e., devoid of rhyme; the free in free verse refers to the freedom from fixed patterns of traditional versification.[From Bob's Byway of Poetic Terms]

Now, want to confuse things by adding Free Blank Verse into the mix?

Free Blank Verse – Verse that still exhibits the length and alternation of weak with strong syllables prominent in Blank Verse, but with significant loosening of the iambic pentameter model. [From Mary Kinzie's A Poet's Guide to Poetry]

Without meter, with rhyme = Bad poems

Rhyme usually goes hand in hand with meter; however, there are successful poems written using slant rhymes, internal rhymes, etc. But, yes, as a rule, most beginners tend to concentrate on the rhyme scheme without meter and sacrifice the poem to a poorly constructed rhyme scheme."

Interesting right? But for a start I am not going into meter. Not yet. I am still unable to differentiate stressed and unstressed syllables. :(

This Morning

2005-06-09T01:21:00.001+08:00

The Return (February 2004 – March 2005)

Warning: This poem is full of clichés and abstractions. Do not try this at home.

The poem #08

This Morning

Looking at you
from the corner
of my eyes,
I wonder
what you are dreaming.
You look so peaceful
like a baby, but
a baby that will never
bear my surname.
I am afraid
I won’t be here
when you open
your eyes.
I tiptoe
out of the room
and wonder
what my wife is doing now.

The story behind this poem

Sorry to disappoint you guys, this is not based on an actual event.

Inspiration

This was one of my early attempts in writing free verse. I was experimenting with short lines, as I wanted to see their effects. The conclusion is I prefer longer lines. Unless they are very well written, poems with short lines are not my cup of tea.

The Last Ride

2005-06-07T00:35:00.002+08:00

The Return (February 2004 – March 2005)

Warning: This poem is full of clichés and abstractions. Do not try this at home.

The poem #07

The Last Ride

I will accompany you my love
For the roller coaster ride
Heights scare me to death my love
But for you I am willing to try
So forget me not my love
When the ride comes to an end
Don’t cry for me my love
If I die at the coaster ride

The story behind this poem

Okay, I admit. I am afraid of height. I remember during one of our first few dates, my wife suggested taking the Viking Ride at East Coast Park (Is that damn thing still there?)

In order to impress her, I agreed. Bad decision! Really, it was terrible, I thought I am going to die. I don’t want to die a virgin! :(

*sob*

Inspiration

I was experimenting with repetition here. For some reasons, I like this poem very much. :)

The next step

The next time my wife suggests “Shall we try something really exciting?" Instead of replying “My dear, do you want me to die?” I am going to read this poem to her. :)

Who dare to say I am not romantic?!!!

Strolling Along The Forest Path

2005-06-05T01:43:00.001+08:00

The Return (February 2004 – March 2005)

Warning: This poem is full of clichés and abstractions. Do not try this at home.

The poem #06

Strolling Along The Forest Path

Strolling along the forest path
I chanced upon a curious sight
Just beside a winding river
Two rocks lay side by side

Like two young runaway lovers
Madly in love with each other
Lock in an everlasting kiss
TWO rocks lay side by side

Their souls cleansed by summer rain
Mind polished by wandering sand
Love created by Divine Hands
TWO ROCKS lay side by side

Their features so humanlike
Their emotions so intense
I was truly enchanted by them
TWO ROCKS LAY side by side

But beneath the hard cold surface
Invisible to mortals’ eyes
Beat two hearts of undying love
TWO ROCKS LAY SIDE by side

I imagine their wedding place
Where upon the lovers resides
Deep within this magical land
TWO ROCKS LAY SIDE BY side

A haven of breathless beauty
Of gentle breeze and endless stream
Where beasts and humans roam freely
TWO ROCKS LAY SIDE BY SIDE

Still weaving my web of fantasy
I stumbled forward and hurt my knee
Forgotten along the river bank
TWO STUPID ROCKS LAY SIDE BY SIDE!

The story behind this poem

No story for this one, just one of my daydreams.

Inspiration

Look mum, no punctuations!

At this point, I didn’t realize poetry is an oral art and not a vision art. I was also still living in the world of bad rhyme, abstracts and clichés. That goes the same for my next 3 – 4 poems.

Your Highness, O Your Highness

2005-06-04T01:11:00.001+08:00

At the beginning, I was totally lost. I have not read or wrote any poems for the past 10 – 12 years, what am I going to write about now? My first love again? I don’t think so. Guess what, I wrote about a colleague of mine. Heh heh.

My first poem after the long break looks more like part of a play to me. (For those who have read this poem before in DPS (S), this is actually the original draft)

The poems that I wrote during February 2004 – March 2005, i.e. “The Return”, were also full of clichés and abstractions. It was only during April 2005 that I began to realize I have been writing poor poetry for the past one year. So please bear with me for the time being.

The Return (February 2004 – March 2005)

Warning: This poem is full of clichés and abstractions. Do not try this at home.

The poem #05

Your Highness, O Your Highness

Fool:
Your Highness, O Your Highness,
so elegant, charming and pure.
More precious than the rarest pearl,
a blessing to us all.
But Your Highness, O Your Highness,
now why do you look so sad?
With ash-like lips and lifeless eyes,
this silence is driving us mad.

Queen:
Since you want to know the truth,
come closer and I will tell you why.
For I may be mighty and high,
but loneliness I can’t disguise.
I long for someone to hold my hands,
and to hug me when I am feeling down.
We will watch sunset at golden beach,
and ride horses on palace ground.

Fool:
Your Highness, O Your Highness,
I know I am just a fool.
But what kind of qualities must one has,
in order to be with you?

Queen:
He must be handsome, tall and dark;
with mystical smile that melts my heart.
He must be dashing, and full of charms;
a knight in armour, protecting me from harms.
He must be humorous, gentle and wise;
and will love me forever, till the day I die.

Fool:
Your Highness, O Your Highness,
pray let me speak my mind.
Such a man is truly rare,
and may be quite hard to find.

Queen:
But that is not all I am looking for,
there are many more on my list.
If I cannot find a man that fit,
then none shall be my King!

Fool:
Your Highness if I may speak again,
Time will not wait for mortal being.
As long as he loves you and loves you true,
Such man will fit to be our King.

Queen:
Say no more, O fool of mine,
you know not the women's ways.
If I cannot find such a man,
I will rather lock my love away.

Time:
But I wait for no mortal being,
nor Fool, nor King, nor Queen.
But I wait for no mortal being,
nor Fool, nor King, nor Queen.

The story behind this poem

When poems started to pour in slowly at DPS (S), I panicked. As the founding moderator of a poetry forum, I need to post some of my poems. But I really have no idea what to write. OMG, what am I going to do?

Then one day while discussing the topic of BGR with a lady colleague during lunch, I got my first inspiration – I decided to write about her. Heh. (I’ve even shown her this poem. She really likes it … I think)

Inspiration

For my first poem, I just wanted it to be fun. I wasn’t looking at serious writing. I just want to get my creative juice flowing again, nothing more.

After Graduation

2005-06-03T01:37:00.001+08:00

The Early Years (1990 – 1991)

Warning: This poem is full of clichés and abstractions. Do not try this at home.

The poem #04

After Graduation

I remember during my school days, I used to have many fabulous friends.
Those days were always almost full of funs, childish pranks and laughter.
But once we graduated, things no longer remain the same. Some
decided to go oversea for further studies while most worked
or joined the army. Sometimes I still called them
out for a little chat. But most were
always not at home, or just simply
too busy. And the rest of
them claimed that only after
a year or so
they could not
really remembered
me.

The story behind this poem

I was a sad lonely boy. A lonely soul in the mist of strangers…

Okay let’s cut the poetic crap. In reality I wasn’t very popular in school so I am not at all surprise that none of my “friends” wanted to “keep in touch” with me after graduating. But when the night is young, and the full moon struggles to rise beyond the grasp of the twisted braches that threaten to pull her back into their abyss… I still think of them... (Hey, what the heck was that all about?)

Inspiration

This is a good example of writing a bad prose, breaks it into various lines, and declares it a poem. This is terrible!!! I was obsessed with the idea of writing a poem that ends with “me.” Don’t ask me why, I don’t have a clue. (-_-!!!

Anyway, I find it fun to break away from rhymes, form, etc. I didn’t realize I was attempting to write free verse. Nope. Never heard of free verse before, just wanted to write a poem that ends with me. (Crazy right?)

And yes, in each lines there is one word lesser than the following line. Nope, never heard of meter or syllabus either. Alright, alright I admit I wasn’t really paying attention during Literature class, my Literature teacher not pretty mah.

(Word of Wisdom: Do not tell your Literature teacher you have a blog especially if you've announced to the whole world that she is not pretty. She may writes a very nasty poem about you, and worst got it published.)

Those foolish nights

2005-06-01T00:24:00.001+08:00

The Early Years (1990 – 1991)

Warning: This poem is full of clichés and abstractions. Do not try this at home.

The poem #03

Those foolish nights

I fell in love with a lady,
a real beauty in my eyes.
But sadly she loved another,
and her heart will never be mine.

How I long to see her,
and have her by my side.
How I long to hold her,
the lady of my delight.

So foolishly I waited,
under the cold distant sky.
Though I knew she will never come,
but still I had to try.

I sang to my faithful shadow,
as I waited alone in vain,
a song about a sad love story
a song of desire and pain.

Why was I so crazy?
I really do not know,
but I was a foolish young man then,
and that was so long ago.

The story behind this poem

I used to wait for this girl every night at a park near her house. I knew that occasionally between 7 – 10pm, she would bring her dog out for a walk there. So I waited…and waited…and waited… Sometimes I was lucky and managed to catch a glimpse of her. Most of the time, I wasn’t so lucky. During one of those nights, I wrote this poem. No, I was not a stalker, just a foolish young man. *blush*

Inspiration

This is my first love poem I guess. (Woah, a hyperbaton!)

Can you see the snowy hills?

2005-05-30T10:39:00.001+08:00

The Early Years (1990 - 1991)

Warning: This poem is full of clichés and abstractions. Do not try this at home.

The poem #02

Can you see the snowy hills?

Can you see the snowy hills,
and the beauty of the flowery field?
Can you see the silvery stream,
and the virgin forest that is evergreen?

See the children having fun,
and the innocence looks upon their blissful faces.
Yes you can, but no I can’t.

Can you hear the hissing geese,
and the whispering of the gentle breeze?
Can you hear the buzzing bees,
and songs of nightingales upon the rustling trees?

Hear the children having fun,
and the laughter with their childhood friends.
Yes you can, but no I can’t.

The story behind this poem

If I am not mistaken, this was my second poem after “Just for you.” Even now I still don’t understand why youngsters love to blast their music so loudly. What is so cool about damaging your hearing? Please take good care of yourself. Stop spending so much time surfing the Internet. Stop watching so much useless TV programmes. Throw your MP3 Player away; better still give it to me. Heh. ;p

On a more serious note, another purpose of this poem is to tell those able-bodied children to treasure what they have. Imagine you are in the narrator’s shoes.

Inspiration

I was obsessed with clichés/abstracts during those days. Clichés/abstracts such as “flowery field”, “silvery stream”, etc, sound so poetic to me. I was also experimenting with sound and now I know there is a term for such technique i.e. alliteration.

I don’t think I will be making any major changes to this poem either. Let’s keep it this way shall we?

Just for you

2005-05-29T16:42:00.001+08:00

Bad news! I've decided to post my old poems here. Back in those days I thought clichés and abstractions were great. I thought as long as it rhymes, it is a poem. I thought all I need to do is to write a prose, breaks it into pieces and you have a poem. No sweat. Those were happy days. Sigh. :(

Frankly I am not really proud of them as poems but I am sure proud of them as part of my learning process. Basically they can be classified into three categories; The Early Years (1990 – 1991), The Return (2004 – March 2005), and The Awakening (After March 2005)

So get your vomit-bag ready, sit tight and off we go!

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The Early Years (1990 – 1991)

Warning: This poem is full of clichés and abstractions. Do not try this at home.

The poem #01

Just for you

Life is full of Joys and Pains,
In every heart a dream remains,
Should sad memories ever haunt your mind,
Always remember I'm by your side.

Believe in yourself, have Faith in God,
Over the mountains against all odds,
Every sunrise is a bright new day,
Yesterday's tears will never stay.

The story behind this poem

This is my first attempt at poetry. It is written for a very special girl, sorry wrong guess, not my wife. I was very crazy about her during my pre-university days. She was like a goddess and I was well, a mere mortal. What was I thinking? Nothing much I guess, just madly in love with her. Crazy young man back then.

(Word of Wisdom: Do not tell your wife/girlfriend you have a blog especially if you've decided to post poems dedicated to other girls there. Not good for your health.)

Inspiration

I didn’t even realize there is a term for this kind of poem, i.e. an acrostic poem.