YOU full of the
love and the light, lucky
creature, having swallowed
the SEA – mother of pearl,
the world is definitely
YOURS to conquer,
dart into the oyster! before it
slams SHUT and seaweed
sneaks all over your EYELIDS.
Hello there! After attending the Singapore Writers’ Festival, I bought two books [LONTAR] and also Equatorial Calm, a lovely anthology.
Haikus penned by the coolest poets ever (But Why Is David Wong Hsien Ming’s Accent Great AF?), poetry transcending languages (three tongues, guys! English, Japanese and Mandarin). What/A/Steal . Really glad I got the title page signed, too 😉
My inspiration was of course the Daily Post, but also Equatorial Calm and the very exciting concept of a Haiku – that encouraged me to try my hand(re:INTENSELY EXPERIMENT) at breaking out of my usual…er, style (can it be called that?) of weaving words and
a thought or two, into a poem.
Please enjoy ❤ and biggie thanksie to Lynette Tan because of this :’) Oh, tears of joy.
We are close yet so
far apart. How is it that
our footsteps imprint on the sand,
on the beach. Longer than
the time we have left, and that
says a lot. Because wind tends to
blow all the sand grains around,
a foot, no foot, left behind. Smooth
surface, sand grains coming together,
falling seamlessly, afoot,
for tiny crabs to crawl.
We leave our own marks on paper,
on the corners of your favorite
chapbook, dampening pretty pages
with tears and while I think that your tears
fall from a very pretty face,
I still wish you wouldn’t cry on my
You loved to read from a book,
you like the paper between your fingers
and the black ink right before your
eyes, but nowadays even reading
glasses can’t help you. Fragmented, you’d cry,
it’s all fragmented and I don’t like the world
I am seeing! Oh dear,
I have never loved the world I have been living
in; perhaps I should have been born somewhere,
else – but you always told me to
stop with the nonsense! be thankful for
the life you have. In your company, I am actually
glad I wriggled out of your womb.
I, You. We don’t come together nicely,
our skin doesn’t coalesce like how I,
foetus, embryo, egg, non-existent, grain
of a being, used to nestle in your protection. Under
your care we fit together for nine months,
flesh and skin running along
the same seam. 9 months, 36 weeks, eighteen
days, all multiples of three. Although we’re
a family of two, I know I’ll miss you
enough for three. Baby steps, we shall take,
to prolong the time we have left…
you close your eyes
and I wish you hadn’t.
i’m back! after a ton of exams and a
bout of inspiration, i am finally OMG [writing grind, that is] 🙂
I’ve recently gotten a copy of LONTAR, #7! It’s great and I’d recommend it to anyone who feels a little down in the dumps :).
I poke at mother’s steaming dumplings (laid on one of those fancy china plates)
with a pair of chopsticks. She then scolds me for my improper use of the chopsticks;
my cloddish grip,
the way my dumpling-prodding is unsightly. Apparently, I am
never to use chopsticks like this again.
Mother iterates this like the chiding I have earnt is parable;
Unwittingly, I cut into her hemming and hawing,
brutishly, unanchored – like how I held the chopsticks.
Then why don’t I just eat the dumplings with a fork?
Her response is short and punchy, like what poetry websites want
in contributors’ submissions’;
How dare you
say that? Then don’t eat dumplings, don’t eat dinner – eat air with a fork!
My face crumples,
but I go on to tell my children How dare you when I realize that my
my cloddish grip
has been passed onto them. Sigh.
I am fourteen years old, easing into the Asian-way of things – fumbling throubh various steamboats and lo heis on Chinese New Year.
This clumsiness is an annual affair.
Taste-tester 1: Overflowing sinks
These days there is nothing I want to actually do, except for
mope around like the saddest animal alive, ravaged,
hair bloodied and sticking to my back like cold prickle. The heat is
definitely overwhelming, creating red haze and decorating my
nose and forehead and gaps between my fingers with beads of sweat..
…Every time I pick up the scoop with its silver
surface and its mint handle, I watch the chocolate dribble down its edges and feel the
freeze of ice cream trickle down my wrist before I actually
spoon it into my mouth. The brown colour leaves streaks into the whiteness of my clothes
and I am reminded of how my actions dirtied others who probably
who get stained way too easily, anyway…
I tell myself to wake up from my stupid songs and silly daydreams but the hurt of reality slices into me far too deep; and
... I find myself hesitating,
halting, tears slipping warmly down my cheeks like the open faucet of a sink;
I will not try, today, although I want to, because it doesn’t matter if I get
strong when all the doctors hear is a weak heart-beat inside of me. Instead, I leave
speak to anyone who will listen; telling them that I’m not strong enough to turn the tap
off so I’ll just leave it running, and wait for the sink to overflow.
My sincerest apologies.
I wrote a little paragraph of poetry to keep myself going – I must live out the blissful holiday-days slowly but sweetly, savouring each bit like ice cream melting beneath my teeth, on top of my tongue.
P.S please leave your truthful feedback in the comments, or drop me an email at firstname.lastname@example.org to talk more!
Please let the sun bathe me today, I think, throwing up the bed-sheets, searching for my elastic hair-band under my pillow. Please let it.
I feel tired, with all the rain
slipping into my soul and watering dark corners
where scraggly weeds grow.
I am drowsy, sickened hearing the continuous
thrums of the voices chanting in cacophony,
in symphony, in harmony, in the most dreadful of
melodies, telling me to hurry up
get on with life there is little time to waste i told you would
regret not waking up early, regret not eating lesser for lunch,
regret not studying for that test, regret not packing your ruler in your pencil case,
regret not accepting help when hands were extended to you,
regret yelling at your mother, your father,
your brother, your dog,
I am angry; boiling rage simmers within me and
licks of it escape via nostrils and ear-holes and dilated pupils,
flashes of red and smoke unfurling from my fingers and words as
heavy and as hot as coal volley out of my mouth;
broken lips, broken lips —
I chap my own lips and scratch my own throat with curses and with
sarcasm as harsh as the
glare of the sun.
I regret. I sink into an oblivion that threatens to swallow me whole,
oh dear, mom please help I’m sorry dad I should never have said that
God I didn’t mean to stick my middle finger up to Heaven. I really
And I regret, please. In my teary rage and depression,
all I saw was grey slates and red skies and blossoming guilt
blooming in front of my eyes
like some kind of ugly flower.
I just wanted sunshine to hammer into my soul
and screw it into my brain
and feel it deep in my heart and my rib-cage amidst the thumping of life processes;
I just wanted to feel the sunshine.
Whenever I catch myself weeping wearily of the good ol’ past, I tell myself that I have reason to: This moping about sweet childhood days usually occurs during the weeks of rigorous, hellish end of year examinations.
But today, I’ll look at childhood in a different light.
The claws of childhood sink deep
into the flesh of my arm, like pincers
of a red crab I once saw on the shores when I was six, seven,
unwilling to let go of my arm. The bitterness of childhood days
seeps into the solid resolve I had built up; it dilutes the sweetness of celebrating
I am catapulted into the past once again-
the prickling sensation of the past creeping up on me,
delving into my being like a shimmering second skin, blatantly
and so cognizantly forcing itself into me. The feeling is akin to that
of the time when I was two and had lost my first two front-teeth;
single-negatives : the pain of losing them, the blossoming happiness symbolizing
now I just cry in double-negatives, carrying both the pain
in my shoulders,
the pain in my head,
the painful bite of growing up
hurting more than it ever did.
Poem written in response to the Daily Post’s Prompt