hey, that was fun, remixing. sure, the poems come out a tad bit forced, but wtf, i liked the exercise. i hope the dude dun mind... or sue, for that matter... muhahaha..
****
husbandless.remix.
So
he is dead.
Finally he is only
a newspaper clipping
that would yellow
and settle
like dust into her routine.
At least now
over the next few years
she could rewrite him
entirely into myth
where she could be his only
heroine, chief priestess
of his worship,
loyally
tending to his altar,
his 15 centimetres of
dead space, and totally
insensitive
to everything
she once
believed of him.
****
listeningto: bic runga's beautiful collision - aaaah, i always liked a small chick....
Friday, September 30, 2005
Thursday, September 29, 2005
gaston. + remix.
i met up with cy, sheo, intestinals, and cy’s protégé, gaston at baker’s inn on sun, for cakes & coffee. gaston, protégé in question, despite his loud (i would have used boorish, but i think i’m worse) character, writes poetry that is remarkably different from his personality. from what little i have read, it is formal (in a very tasteful manner), quiet and explosive when required, and the boy is just 19! ok ok, fine i know, actually age has nothing to do with it, but i keep cringing at the memory that i was writing crap at 19.
anyways, gaston was recently one of the five chosen to be tormented at the golden point prize thingy. i must agree, it was in pretty bad taste; to have 5 poets seated in front of everyone and then to proceed to unceremoniously dump 2 after the announcements.
why such desperation for attendees?
unfortunately for gaston, he was one of the 2. (aaron lee was the other, [no? yes?] which was rather surprising, considering he writes pretty good stuff.) Actually, i would, at least, have attempted to understand what they were thinking if the winning script was superior stuff, but i really (x100) feel that this one was definitely, not it.
the life reporter, kristina tom puts it quite aptly: banal.
but he has his fans. and they see the merit. i must say, even though i really do not feel for the poem, (or the others in the series that i have read) i am pretty fond of his scene.
being even more banal: read bo liao, i have remixed it. ☺
****
walk. remixed.
Apa holds my boy’s hand
as they paddle their feet
across the start of the sea.
My son believes
he could staple each wave
to the sand with just a stomp
of his precious foot.
I know my father’s reaction to this;
his now laborious chuckles
will soon drum the air.
It won’t be long now
when my son’s grip shall rival,
then exceed his,
and I will have to be there, to watch
his weaken, droop,
hoping that I could staple
his existence to us
just by hanging on to his hand.
*****
i know, topic-wise this really isn’t exactly the same. i thought his original ambition was a tad too grand to be fulfilled by what he came up with, and i think this part of the scene is much more precious to write about. note, i don’t think this is better, i am just saying this is how i would have done it, given the scene.
anyway, that was a fun-filled taxi ride, thank god i could ride the jam out. back to work. (boring, boring, borin!)
anyways, gaston was recently one of the five chosen to be tormented at the golden point prize thingy. i must agree, it was in pretty bad taste; to have 5 poets seated in front of everyone and then to proceed to unceremoniously dump 2 after the announcements.
why such desperation for attendees?
unfortunately for gaston, he was one of the 2. (aaron lee was the other, [no? yes?] which was rather surprising, considering he writes pretty good stuff.) Actually, i would, at least, have attempted to understand what they were thinking if the winning script was superior stuff, but i really (x100) feel that this one was definitely, not it.
the life reporter, kristina tom puts it quite aptly: banal.
but he has his fans. and they see the merit. i must say, even though i really do not feel for the poem, (or the others in the series that i have read) i am pretty fond of his scene.
being even more banal: read bo liao, i have remixed it. ☺
****
walk. remixed.
Apa holds my boy’s hand
as they paddle their feet
across the start of the sea.
My son believes
he could staple each wave
to the sand with just a stomp
of his precious foot.
I know my father’s reaction to this;
his now laborious chuckles
will soon drum the air.
It won’t be long now
when my son’s grip shall rival,
then exceed his,
and I will have to be there, to watch
his weaken, droop,
hoping that I could staple
his existence to us
just by hanging on to his hand.
*****
i know, topic-wise this really isn’t exactly the same. i thought his original ambition was a tad too grand to be fulfilled by what he came up with, and i think this part of the scene is much more precious to write about. note, i don’t think this is better, i am just saying this is how i would have done it, given the scene.
anyway, that was a fun-filled taxi ride, thank god i could ride the jam out. back to work. (boring, boring, borin!)
b.
oh god. how is it when i stay up late i start thinking about her? i wrote something for her some time back and kept tinkering at it, i doubt i might ever complete it but somehow playing with it keeps me happy.
For B.
Because I will be needing you
some time tomorrow,
or
five minutes from just now,
when this phone would have been making
only the softest of sounds,
a small thing at first
and then explode
into the beast
with an urgency
that only I could have dreamt up.
I’ll jump, fly, break everything to
choke it
and it would have been
you
on another end, too far away from here,
gifting me
only the sound of your breath.
Because you know,
the smallest measure of your silence
is more than enough
to subdue me.
B, I would swear to you right now,
with finger blood and all the
multiple crossing of hearts,
exactly the way you taught me;
that the next girl I go out with,
buy flowers for, sleep with,
in short,
my next miscellaneous love,
will bear that exact virus
of your smile.
She will bind her hair
the way you do it,
and cut it short on a whim.
Seek my opinion on buying skirts,
and ignore it anyway.
Laugh at everything I make fun at
and cry only because of me.
For B.
Because I will be needing you
some time tomorrow,
or
five minutes from just now,
when this phone would have been making
only the softest of sounds,
a small thing at first
and then explode
into the beast
with an urgency
that only I could have dreamt up.
I’ll jump, fly, break everything to
choke it
and it would have been
you
on another end, too far away from here,
gifting me
only the sound of your breath.
Because you know,
the smallest measure of your silence
is more than enough
to subdue me.
B, I would swear to you right now,
with finger blood and all the
multiple crossing of hearts,
exactly the way you taught me;
that the next girl I go out with,
buy flowers for, sleep with,
in short,
my next miscellaneous love,
will bear that exact virus
of your smile.
She will bind her hair
the way you do it,
and cut it short on a whim.
Seek my opinion on buying skirts,
and ignore it anyway.
Laugh at everything I make fun at
and cry only because of me.
grass burners.
feeling low, due to resident fever, so thought i put up some poetry.. ok, maybe just 2..
unus.
have been growing pretty fond of this one. think i'll expand on it...
*****
Burning Grass
You were fired,
some kid with matches, a careless smoker,
God dealing with boredom,
emptied the trees of their marrow
chased the grass at their feet
white with fear
and browned the sparrow chicks
till the sweetness of their meat
soaks the air.
Nearby, the lone vegetarian stall
wins praises
on the purity of their greens.
****
duo.
this one was in qlrs some time back. same theme.
****
We Live Here
We live here.
On the eleventh floor of the hundredth twenty-fifth block,
behind the first black door next to the second grey lift.
The one marked by the crucifix,
jesus with the dust,
the only one we salvaged from the old place
purely
as a counter against our neighbours’ talismans.
One, nailed to their door like ours and
the rest loose on their money plant,
fluttering for attention,
trying to convert the wind.
Like everyone else, we’ve never introduced ourselves,
or shook their hands, or said anything beyond
the slightest hint of a reluctant smile
but imagine that the joss they burn on the altar outside,
to their furious God, bearded and well-armed,
equally coated in dust like ours,
will one day burn us all down.
****
listeningto: nothing. giving brain a rest, fearful that my resident fever might develop into u-know-wat.
reading: simic's selected early poems. i like his style, very frank miller dark knight thingy with the marijauna feel. groovy.
unus.
have been growing pretty fond of this one. think i'll expand on it...
*****
Burning Grass
You were fired,
some kid with matches, a careless smoker,
God dealing with boredom,
emptied the trees of their marrow
chased the grass at their feet
white with fear
and browned the sparrow chicks
till the sweetness of their meat
soaks the air.
Nearby, the lone vegetarian stall
wins praises
on the purity of their greens.
****
duo.
this one was in qlrs some time back. same theme.
****
We Live Here
We live here.
On the eleventh floor of the hundredth twenty-fifth block,
behind the first black door next to the second grey lift.
The one marked by the crucifix,
jesus with the dust,
the only one we salvaged from the old place
purely
as a counter against our neighbours’ talismans.
One, nailed to their door like ours and
the rest loose on their money plant,
fluttering for attention,
trying to convert the wind.
Like everyone else, we’ve never introduced ourselves,
or shook their hands, or said anything beyond
the slightest hint of a reluctant smile
but imagine that the joss they burn on the altar outside,
to their furious God, bearded and well-armed,
equally coated in dust like ours,
will one day burn us all down.
****
listeningto: nothing. giving brain a rest, fearful that my resident fever might develop into u-know-wat.
reading: simic's selected early poems. i like his style, very frank miller dark knight thingy with the marijauna feel. groovy.
Monday, September 26, 2005
poems.
reworked this one recently so feeling a little proud with what i've done to it.
Matching Talismans
Stepped out of Sunday Mass
onto the road and
straight into his temple.
Told the taxi driver
“take me home.”
but he wanted to introduce me to his idols,
personally.
His Buddhas are strung up like pork,
clinging to his rear view mirror
while clay fairies play
false instruments behind my back.
Impatient,
I asked for his strongest talisman
as a match-up with mine.
He handed over a picture
from beside the speed dial.
“This gets me home safe.”
Two boys beamed at me in matching singlets,
they couldn’t have be more than seven.
Quietly, I returned it to him
with no stronger gods to offer.
***
listening to: aimee mann on repeat - starting to wear on me...
Matching Talismans
Stepped out of Sunday Mass
onto the road and
straight into his temple.
Told the taxi driver
“take me home.”
but he wanted to introduce me to his idols,
personally.
His Buddhas are strung up like pork,
clinging to his rear view mirror
while clay fairies play
false instruments behind my back.
Impatient,
I asked for his strongest talisman
as a match-up with mine.
He handed over a picture
from beside the speed dial.
“This gets me home safe.”
Two boys beamed at me in matching singlets,
they couldn’t have be more than seven.
Quietly, I returned it to him
with no stronger gods to offer.
***
listening to: aimee mann on repeat - starting to wear on me...
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