I Hear Not

I hear not

eating my heart out I hear not

a squeak inside out

safe to say I hear not

fear or tears

a ship I hear not

set to sail out far

a body I hear not

but a stone grounded

a flap of wing I hear not

but the still of night long

P.S.: This is gibberish trying to pass itself off as poetry. No, nothing to do with the poet.

A Case for Hope

nothing too fine, too hot

to grab, snatch at

hands suddenly grow

coat of stone, metal, 

only one light in the eye

microscopic hope,

burnt, so be it

- Des, 9 Aug 22.

I want to say, "I am fine, I am fine." till I believe it. I have no idea how long it will take. A lifetime? So at the end, it does not matter, I guess. There is no present, only hope, which is for the future to bear. And speaking of the future, it is a path that you can only imagine to be full of twists and turns. It is real, yet unknown; these scare me. You may think it is a convenient, easy way out to place hope, be it how little, on the future. But what else can we look forward to?

Some Poems

I guess I have to keep writing what I want to write, and eventually turning it to what I want to read. Still, it is always a work in progress. 

Glue

It is often that I have nothing

to give. Yet you stick

with me. If love is your

glue, beat it. Yet I have

spoken too soon: no spit

can dissolve your dip,

making you a bottle

of it. I know, for I have

put a finger in it

which only keeps

pulling me 

deep.

P.S.: Like I said, I only write what I want to write, or read.

I have been writing quite a bit of haikus recently, or poems in that form.

Sometimes the sky steals

the silence of a stone to

return flowers' tears.

Untitled

Untitled

I am here now.

         Don't ask where 

I will be tomorrow,

         even the next

moment. Everything 

         will turn

to ashes. Flesh 

         will turn

cold. Don't even

         mention

the sun, a still burning

        star. Now

the only consolation:

        how little

I know, how it all

        doesn't matter.     

Better Days

Writing vulgar graffiti

in the sky. Afternoon sunlight

cuts the Sunday clothes

like a silver scissors

into shreds. There are

better days - a Punchinello

agrees. Entangled puppet strings

Twist to tighten, wrap 

themselves around

its neck.

smile

river sky bright, falls

slient this day

valley of peace

you go in a glint

of silver

high up in white

you smile

school of warmth

like fishes, swims

to every ground. 

Breathe

 "I cannot breathe, until now." - that is what I like to say to a woman. I have been drowning. Forever. The dark of water. It is my only world and mine alone. When others talk, I only hear mumbles. So I close my eyes. To try to listen more closely. Still, only mumbles. My world rolls on. Under depth and depth of water. Sinking and sinking. I like to say, "You lift me, to a surface. Save me." It is more than gratitude. So I would want to do the same to you - save you. Do you want to take my hand to a higher place, to breathe in abundance, to see the world not only in darkness? A darkness that has been borrowed from the night, only less restful, and I know so well.

P.S.: This is my version of Prose Poetry. Will the brightness come to me, when the dark ink ends its trip across this white ocean?

Black Carrot Cake

In a poem, is where

you name what is not

a cake, a cake.

Picking a classy silver

fork (or what you think it) 

through it, a treasure hunter

asks: Now, where is the

carrot? Where is it

buried? In a poem, a carrot

is always buried, waiting

for rabbits to turn

into readers.

A existentialist comes to say:

There is no meaning in this;

what is a carrot cake

without carrot? Or will this be

what remained of us 

inside - all greasy black;

but wait, there is still

a few yolky yellow

strips shining. What remains then

is our brightness?

 

Because You Are A Fire Alarm

Because You Are A Fire Alarm

when you make a sound, my pulse
races, taking the feet with it. 

Everything rushes to flush

my mind. I try to slow 

my lips, hoping you will

slow down too. But now

I know -  you only want

others' absence.

In life's monotone

you only tread softly

the line of caution. 

Hammer

hammer

a wall will prompt action
or inaction - it all

depends on the seer

it is only as silent

as thick as night

if only you reach out,

air turns to stone

stone turns to air - 

the mind is a hammer.

====

There is something about putting words on print, as opposed to ink on paper. I was still editing this piece as I typed. Like they say, writing poetry is about editing, editing, editing - three times sound about right, but Mary Oliver says it takes about over forty-five drafts before a single, published poem is born, in actual practice. Of course, at times, you can get lucky. But mostly, it is pure, hard work facing a monitor or a notebook.     

Wings

wings

hide them under my bed

fly in it only with eyes

closed, light breath

sweeps feet off

barren ground.

hide them between pages

fly in them over hills, seas

with eyes opened, words

sweep feet off

barren ground.

Des

 

 

Coloured Clouds

 Coloured Clouds

Sneezy wrinkled clouds
today blue and felt.

Harsh journey of water

they lisp in awe of a belter.

They will raise again to the sky,

nod to the wind as a sign,

warm to their vacation as flags,

before sniffling calmly till flat. 

Postdated: 31 Oct 20

Stop

Stop

She finally tears her
mouth trying

to talk. Red star-

fish fidgets since

its escape from

the slient deep.

Our heads are kites

flying among white

clouds. All we 

hear are echoes

of line running like

scars in trunk after

trunk, gleaming after

rain, too deep

to stop.

P.S.: After re-reading this (I forgot how many times), I realised how readers may not understand what I intended from line 10 onwards. This is like my contribution to the Me Too movement, but triggered by local university students in media limelight for the wrong reason. 

Sink

Sink

Everybody is light
as feather, walks

in the air as sweet

perfume.

Only one anchor sinks

to pull me under knees breathless,

turn the world all blue, blurry.

Glittering dust twirling

is your words fluttering

like dreams. I hear drums

bubbles play, from 

my lips.

P.S.: Not "wild" enough, too "safe", if you know what I mean.

what is the colour of my horses?

what is the colour of my horses?

they are white or grey in the sky,

bathe in golden sun, or roar

into great distance,

at times silently they stroll in a mist,

lost or maybe not, black as night,

at others, blue or green, they race

onto shore.

- Written on 3 Aug 2018

This is probably my personal favourite.

Beautiful Inference

One should not grieve over not understanding the thoughts of others, but the making of one's own mind. What a shame not to meet the real self. What a shame not to develop your self to its very true nature. It is like poetry. Everything in your mind or its nature can be explained in plain words, or by beautiful inference, which every human will understand, feel every strain of it. After all, we are all the same inside. Reach out today, tomorrow, inwards and outwards. 

you feel what is not

there, but there; isn't it all

beautiful sadness?

Trees

Trees

Softly we sleep under a white

blanket the moon flaps.

We breathe just as soft,

afraid of waking the birds

like thoughts in our heads.

I Write No Poetry Today

The impossible task of finally meeting ourselves, not in mirror or lake-face, when we know not of who we are, what we are made of. Perhaps because we are always changing, or the perspective we hold of our little world is always changing, little by little. And because of the iota in change and the slow passing of time, we lose patience with ourselves. We can't open our ears to ourselves all the time. There is just too much noise outside our body, besides ourselves. Now, can you really hear me? I can't blame you if you can't. Not just because you may not be reading this rant, but because even I can't hear myself clearly. Words are comforting, but utimately, inevitably, barriers. True and real feelings need to be felt, not heard or written.

to myself

like the wind these words
will caress your cheeks
bring relief with tears
as salty as the choppy sea
opening your chest
drowning out all
the other noise
to draw us
closer

I write no poetry today. Or it has deserted me. But it is okay. It will be back. Someday. Or maybe not.

The Beginning...

Today officially marks the beginning of a half-month away from office work. Yesterday, we had some real fun at work with a skeleton strength of eight colleagues, Hitler's Young included. And the keys to our joy were simple: good food (or what is considered as much at work: fast food, generally), jokes, casual colloquies, glimpses of impending days stuck at home. Hitler's Young was candid, to say the least. Coming from me, that is an understatement. To put things in perspective: a colleague once teased me, enthroned her as my "Goddess" - and she was not far from the truth. To a certain extent, my "Goddess" has the knack in motivating me. Take for example, she was asking, out of the blue, if I have continued my runs during this pandemic, and if I do so with a face-mask. And there, I was triggered to go for a long run after work, close to half past eight onward. To be fair to myself, I had planned for a run way beforehand. But her inquisitions drove me further than the route I intended - which is a good thing, no matter how you look at it. I guess it does not take a lot to feel appreciated, especially by someone you have high regards for.

One other reason for entering a blank space here is to write about my mental state, or rather, to reassure myself, during this pandemic. Again, one has to be positive during this trying period. It is worth repeating this, to seal this in my mind. And Hitler's Young also seemed positive yesterday. If not what have we got? I have to ask. I also need to tell myself: Covid-19 is here for the long-run; we got to prepare to live with it. Like a marathon, endurance and persistence despite the odds are keys. Occasionally you need to let your hair down - so I write, read, run. These make up my coping mechanism in a mental crisis. I am glad to have befriended these companions over the years. In a way, I have consciously built a clear relationship with each of them. I have worked hard with each of them. And yes, I would go for a swim right after the circuit breaker, if allowed. Then, I will be right back at the beginning of my renewed life, the one that I painstakingly dug out from hell of depression. That time, I was thirty.    

Recently, the friend, who I mentioned in my previous post had asked for my blog's URL, confessed via Whatsapp messages, how he fell into depression during the initial days of the circuit breaker, as he worked from home. Apparently, it was not his first encounter with that monster in the head, having did so earlier in his schooling days, and obviously survived. I was afraid to ask: what was your coping mechanism back then? Surely you should be able to draw strength from that bad experience? I got no answers from him - I didn't even have to ask. You have to understand: men, in general, are not in touch with their feelings. They have problems expressing their feelings clearly. To say the truth, I found this trait prevalent particularly in this friend. He is also not one to think deeply about life, or at least, it seems to me. I count myself lucky in these instances. My writing saves me.  

There, I am glad that I did this, back to the beginning...

Wrote this 3 years ago:

At 30

No time to mourn on

Dead possibilities; start
A new life alone.

Sun

Sun

I am a piece of history
torn out of my mother's belly
I cut a rut on the sea
a boat alone to see
how far it takes to slop
to reach a sun atop.

P.S.: I was lost. But is this the way?