Sunday, September 11, 2016

untitled

untitled

night paints a dark picture
even stars refuse
to be part of

still moist it drips into a cup
heart opens with emptiness

I write to fill with words 
that pretend to be big
 
but they are too heavy
dragged across the brittle
floor of the heart

screeching like chalk
on blackboard that others
mistake for crickets

P.S.: Have not been writing much and never been more unsure about poetry - what is it again?

Saturday, August 27, 2016

Night / Clouds

Night

Did I ever tell you
How I went all crazy?
Not you?
How many nights
I couldn't sleep.
Your face might
Be hidden
In heavy, pillow shadow
A moon lightened,
Handing out all the shy
Beauty of night breathing
In your sleepless sighs.

Clouds

Women are soft
Clouds of the sky
Holding up stars
As eyes. When they
Cry, the whole world
Cries even in the
Brightest sunshine.
And when they change
No man can perceive
What comes next.
They have learnt
To move on
Slowly at times.

P.S.: Love these two pieces. Of course, my judgment is clouded.

Sunday, July 17, 2016

Saturday's Poetry Fever

Clouds

In the dark father lights
A cigarette to blow his smoke
Out the bedroom window
Into clouds, but night
Has already fallen
And his thoughts lose
Their way.
 
How to Make a Lie Beautiful

Say you love her
Again, again, and
Again,
 
Everyday
For the rest
Of her life.

Then you will
Mean it.

P.S.: Completing two poems in one day is a rarity.

On a Saturday Night
 
You have no one to blind you
With love. Which is a good thing
I am sure.
 
Too good to be true: A re-run
Of an old movie you have always wanted
To watch, but never get to
Because you have no one you want
To watch with.
 
You know Saturday is just the start
Of another weekend, nothing
To throw yourself into wet pillow
About. Except of course, you miss
A pillow fight. The one that
Sparks laughter before
Stealing titbits of soft
Intimacy.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

In the Age Old Game of Love

Just before a work day started, I scribbled something on my note pad, half-poem, half-prose, or whatever you choose to call it, and lost the draft after. It was something about being rejected goods, me, that is, in the age old game of love.

I was never much a high-achiever, being more laidback, the stroller who smells the flowers, instead of reaching for the stars. This is reflected in my income earning, although, I am more than comfortable in my financial state. Perhaps it was all in the moment, but I would never know, when something small happened to trigger the memory of that draft. There was a slight dip in esteem. For not being seen an attractive proposition for the ladies in the age old game of love.

Months later, I was to, out of the blue, come to another point in my life. Or perhaps, it was there all along inside, only to raise up over the grinding of time.

It was through a conversation with a rather close friend, who has made a habit of airing grievances about his wife. True to my philosophy, I've always advised him to compromise in the name of love. "Love is giving unconditionally. Love is sacrifice," I preached, a café my church. My point was since his wife is able to accept all his flaws in her sacrifice, can't he accept hers? It was then that I realised, despite all my flaws - and I have no small amount! -  it is just that I have not meet the one who love me enough, who make that sacrifice. The reason wanes for that instance of low esteem. It is only imperative to remind myself, at this point of writing, to continuously improve myself as a person. On another hand, it is perhaps myself who is not willing to make that sacrifice. I know, it all seems so elemental. But to practice what one preaches is two different matters. So this is food for my thought.  

Saturday, June 04, 2016

These Days

Foreword

A poem sits me
down, pours a cup
of soul or two.
Now drunk, divided
between two unknowns:
The world outside
and inside.

===

Helper

Going to the market
used to be a breeze.

Of course, there were
the occasional arguments,

how a domestic helper
would come handy,

how your age-battered legs
ached.

Now a helper helps me
on my way

to forget how our arguments were
won or lost, how your legs

ached.

===
 
Stop Running

We can't
stop running.

Our hearts
thud, thud
thud

Our eyes
roll, roll
roll.

Until the first
time you
come before
me.

==

Untitled

Slow clouds push
me softly off the ground
to ride with the wind.
Horse's mane is my imagination
fluttering in the light
of day unblinking, staring
at my dreams.

==

P.S.: These are born of productive days, or days I have put aside for writing these craps, or poems, or whatever you may choose to call them.

Wednesday, June 01, 2016

Some Poetry

To Explain My Silence

Given a mic I would
shout out: "Oh, how
lonely I feel!"
Nobody would
understand.

Fandi

Mother always said
To always listen to my

Teacher. My teacher
Once told me :"There is

Only one Fandi"
I listened and understood:

“So I cannot be a
Fandi”

==

When I close my eyes

the darkness is my flaw,
my extension, my pool.

It is only mine
to make wrong, to keep,
to dive; no other
can see how deep, how empty,
as it waits to fall
once and never again.

Submerged,
a body is cold,
closer to death,
without a body
to hold.

==
Clearly

The wind only speaks clearly
when morning arrives, brings
its meaning to light. Trees
are moved and birds chatter
in excitement; I no longer
hear myself as clearly
as when the dark cave
of night echoes.

==

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

...Yet Rather Biographical.

World's End on 30 March 2016, 2000 HRS

Is this the way the world ends?
I think as I walk out of the bright room
littered with minute black twigs.
Maybe it is
 
the faceless, hip-tattooed young lady
with her back to me smoking
by the litter bin. A white screen
unclear for a night sky. Burning
smell and need to see a mirror
drive me to the toilet.

I should have cried, but I don't.
The world shrinks like my head.
I have no inner scream left for the rest
of the year. Two trumpets blow
in place of ears. My hairdresser
must be on a row
with her boyfriend.
 
P.S.: Written in jest...yet rather biographical.
 
Untitled

Our house stays empty
Always. Maybe it is the photos
Framing your smiles worn
like badges, those little mirrors
of memories.

Nowadays I breathe harder trying

to remember the air I used
to live in. The flowers that you insisted
on the dressing table, the jasmine freshness
of your shampooed hair on the bed
wave after wave beating on the cold shore
of my still eyes in the dark.
 
P.S.: Totally fictitious...yet rather biographical.