Friday, 2 November 2018

Smart Mouth

Cy Twombly.

The pleasures of being
hasn't nestled into rest;
for all fire plays
and numb toil
had failed in sleep -

In dark turmoil
does logic gone to rust;
for all things gold
will turn to dust.

Hear my pray,
beseech my need;
for every time it plays
it nips its tougue to bleed.

In every torture
there lies commanding drums;
for much like pleasure
the fools all sleep in slums.

If like this -
heaven reaches
for many hours of day;
I think it might've had too much to say.

So sit back your braided thought
and come what may the speech;
the sounds that click and clock
will melt in time we preach.

Sit silent, lie still,
for autumn dreams tomorrow;
because life in painting
has nightmares promised in sorrow.

[NaPoWriMo 2018]

Tuesday, 24 July 2018

Grey Matter

Untitled (Bacchus). Cy Twombly.

My fingers drag across the keyboard
like missed devil tongue on silk sin
and felt the strangle of my thoughts
that grew days too old and too soon
to emit a dark burden
that is unfamiliar;
I couldn't taste the new chili
the sun brought down 
I only felt my sweat cursing 
at the back of my knees. 
my palms have never dried this much.

Structured poems? What are they,
I laugh, like horrid jungle fear
with eyes bloodshot and busted;
Structured poems, I learn,
I fail, I come alive, 
I dance with the fainted possession
of waterworks that reek my bed.

I landed on my knees 
wondering if I'd die like this
one day too old or too soon.

Tuesday, 26 June 2018

On Writing and Conversation

I digest most of my experiences with close attention to feeling. Whether it's breaking a glass to the kitchen floor or a quiet serene drive, I usually think of all sorts of poetry. My biggest problem (and blessing) is having words pop up in my mind like entrusted from God himself to be written down, at least in scribble, what great madness and purification they can become. But in contrary to that, most of my mistakes are the exact opposite: dwelling in them and how they sound as I mix up a chicken marinade, lean against the kitchen counter and let syllables fidget among each other in my mind, and eventually, and miserably, letting them fade out like a missed train. 

Rhiannon McGavin - Sonnet 78

I quite love writing, and I understand that my poems are mostly conversations with myself. I do however write about or for other people indirectly but it fascinates me all the time how I can also divert them back to myself like a mirror. My writing developed merely as self-reflection in the first place (as of now, and probably for a long time) when I could not organize my thoughts and turned out to be quite an indecisive person. Although I still do have trouble choosing what or where to eat, I have turned out to decide on words to use for my poems quite carefully, with close attention to feeling.

It may be a mistake, however, to write with an emotional drive - quite a dangerous one too. As of now I do feel too much and think too much, but have always refused to be cautious. If you have read some of my poems, you would notice that they are flawed in such that they are carelessly constructed or just a huge mess that I reckon is also a beauty in it's own way (I always use this excuse). I do admit that I love everything about the unedited, the raw and "first thought, best thought" product, but as a result, I fail to tweak my poems before publishing them. I'm not so sure which is better - having what's best was never the essence of writing poetry anyway. 

I do get jealous of other writers. And whenever I do, I read more of their writing aloud and realize how much I fumble with their words. I think it's because my voice never laid claim to vocalize another poet. From then I learned that each poet is their own poem, and in that case, I had no reason to be envious of others. It's because God gave them words for them, and God gave words to me - for me. 

This is the part of the conversation where I go, "Wait, what was I trying to say again?"

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