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?"

Friday, 22 June 2018

Cy Twombly & Consciousness as a Device

The Rose III. Cy Twombly.

Unknowingly, and painstakingly,
she fell underwater and called for help-
she fell out of breath and under tremor
and could not feel her feet-
and only heard dampened echo
from the surrounding street.
In the music, she says, she felt a familiar voice.
She felt a familiar story,
she felt familiar.
She familiarized the pain -
to know how to feel
to make sense of feelings
making sense of herself.

She calibrated, big words,
calculated, big lives,
and summed up verses
that could not sum her up.
She collected all the hands,
all the mirrors,
and the surrounding water.
She felt afloat
her feet afloat
and could not surrender.
Some red lights are brighter
than others, she says,
I see that mine are brighter,
she says,
so I held her hands in a yellow
and stopped her music as she plays,
them, in a temperamental memorandum,
in all a tantrum,
she fell out of breath and found an anthem,
underwater,
unknowingly.

I wrote to an old friend to ask if this would ever make sense, make sense? she says,
makes perfect sense to me.
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