Gawdeepah by Sheena

Faved!: Robert W. Service's The Passing of the Year

2012-01-05T17:42:00.000+08:00


My glass is filled, my pipe is lit,
     My den is all a cosy glow;
And snug before the fire I sit,
     And wait to feel the old year go.
I dedicate to solemn thought
     Amid my too-unthinking days,
This sober moment, sadly fraught
     With much of blame, with little praise.

Old Year! upon the Stage of Time
     You stand to bow your last adieu;
A moment, and the prompter's chime
     Will ring the curtain down on you.
Your mien is sad, your step is slow;
     You falter as a Sage in pain;
Yet turn, Old Year, before you go,
     And face your audience again.

That sphinx-like face, remote, austere,
     Let us all read, whate'er the cost:
O Maiden! why that bitter tear?
     Is it for dear one you have lost?
Is it for fond illusion gone?
     For trusted lover proved untrue?
O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan
     What hath the Old Year meant to you?

And you, O neighbour on my right
     So sleek, so prosperously clad!
What see you in that aged wight
     That makes your smile so gay and glad?
What opportunity unmissed?
     What golden gain, what pride of place?
What splendid hope?  O Optimist!
     What read you in that withered face?

And You, deep shrinking in the gloom,
     What find you in that filmy gaze?
What menace of a tragic doom?
     What dark, condemning yesterdays?
What urge to crime, what evil done?
     What cold, confronting shape of fear?
O haggard, haunted, hidden One
     What see you in the dying year?

And so from face to face I flit,
     The countless eyes that stare and stare;
Some are with approbation lit,
     And some are shadowed with despair.
Some show a smile and some a frown;
     Some joy and hope, some pain and woe:
Enough!  Oh, ring the curtain down!
     Old weary year! it's time to go.

My pipe is out, my glass is dry;
     My fire is almost ashes too;
But once again, before you go,
     And I prepare to meet the New:
Old Year! a parting word that's true,
     For we've been comrades, you and I --
I thank God for each day of you;
     There! bless you now!  Old Year, good-bye!

Something is Coming Up...

2011-12-08T20:29:00.001+08:00

Tiny World of Possibilities

2011-11-23T17:12:00.001+08:00

I am posting this up from my little white phone. If it looks alright, imagine the poems I can post up from anywhere! Life and its infinite possibilities and little pleasures of life.

In the meantime, I'd like to apologise for my silence. It has been a hectic month. Full of conflicts. Can't wait to post up a poem I've been working on for quite sometime! Love you all loads.

Love and Light,
Sheena

Faved!: Anushka Anastasia Solomon's Thirteen Ways of Looking at Malaysia

2011-11-07T16:38:00.001+08:00

(Image courtesy of: link)

Inspired by Wallace Stevens’ poem Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Blackbird

Between us

The only moving thing

Was the world’s averted Conscience

The blackbirds in Malaysia warble

one heretical song all day long.

Am and pm, they intone, Allah,

We are the bumiputera

III

Under their heels, Among The Believers

the silk saris of Sanskrit and the songs of God

in the flat world joust for liberty

the five Pandava brothers are

our remnant

In the melodious red riches of our blood

Tanah tumpahnya darahku

In the meticulous study of the word, and

the Vedas, God runs like notes on a river

We are not the only ones

Tanah tumpahnya darahku

Among the believers

under the shadows of vast trees

looking up! I am both Draupadi

and the woman at the well; now

No man can confiscate that!

We are not the only ones trod underfoot

Theirs are not the only mouths

Opened to sing

Or shut under green umbrellas

Tanah tumpah nya darahku

VII

We are not the only ones

sons and daughters of the earth

The progeny of birth

Heirs to our homeland

VIII

Once in innocence

Our unclean lips puckered

Under the sun. That was

When we believed we

belonged to nations and to men

I sang the song of nativity

until my tongue like cut ribbons

Fell to the ground. Still. The river

runs nubile, singing…

tanah tumpahnya darahku

In the silence that came after

In the year of the palindrome

I rocked backwards and forwards

In my heart

Then one day writing in my cell at noon

As the two hands of the clock came

To rest one on top of the other

I uttered a prayer

XII

That left the circle like blackbirds

shot out of the poisoned tip

Of the lying pens that looped

us like galley slaves

Hung like question marks

in our own throats

XIII

To find such welcome in the embrace

of a true God, and mothers of God

who will not permit halving the body

of believers………………

Here in the emptiness of space

In an interior castle

Bereft of the supremacist race

I belong to no one

Here the blackbirds sing

Here I lift my head

Here I hear God. Here I hear God.

Here I know there is no God but God

And this God showers roses on

Blackbirds rising to sing their litany

Tanah tumpahnya darahku

Faved!: William Jay Smith's The World Below the Window

2011-11-07T12:57:00.000+08:00

(Image courtesy of: link)

The World Below the Window

by William Jay Smith

The geraniums I left last night on the windowsill,

To the best of my knowledge now, are out there still,

And will be there as long as I think they will.

And will be there as long as I think that I

Can throw the window open on the sky,

A touch of geranium pink in the tail of my eye;

As long as I think I see, past leaves green-growing,

Barges moving down a river, water flowing,

Fulfillment in the thought of thought outgoing,

Fulfillment in the sight of sight replying,

Of sound in the sound of small birds southward flying,

In life life-giving, and in death undying.

Faved!: Margaret Atwood's Variation on the Word Sleep

2011-10-28T11:01:00.003+08:00

(Image courtesy of: link)

I would like to watch you sleeping,

which may not happen,

I would like to watch you,

sleeping. I would like to sleep

with you, to enter

your sleep as its smooth dark wave

slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent

wavering forest of bluegreen leaves

with its watery sun & three moons

towards the cave where you must descend,

towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver

branch, the small white flower, the one

word that will protect you

from the grief at the center

of your dream, from the grief

at the center. I would like to follow

you up the long stairway

again & become

the boat that would row you back

carefully, a flame

to where your body lies

beside me, and you enter

it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air

that inhabits you for a moment

only. I woul like to be that unnoticed

& that necessary.

in two cupped hands

Rave! : Newspaper Blackout

2011-10-28T10:56:00.000+08:00

(Image courtesy of: link)

This is just BRILLIANT. I am going through pages and pages of the website because they are mentally edible. I wish I had known about this earlier for me to introduce it to my students and probably turn it into a class project for my Poetry class. It would have been so fun to see how fresh minds flutter at the thought (and the during the process) of creating something new by redacting words from newspaper articles. In fact, as someone who abstains from reading the local newspapers (too much sex, violence and dirty politics), this is the best excuse to return to it!

Yes. I am deliriously excited right now.

For those who don't understand or know what it is all about, allow me to legally quote the guy who found fame via redacted texts i.e. Austin Kleon (the author of Newspaper Blackout). Yup, that's him in the picture up there:

It all started with a book.

This site is a companion to the book, Newspaper Blackout, a collection of poems made by redacting newspapers with a permanent marker...

Now it’s your turn. This site is a place where I encourage folks to try out the method and share their own poems. Here’s how it’s done:

Get a copy of Newspaper Blackout or check out the “how-to” tag for tips on how to make a blackout poem.

Grab a marker and a newspaper and make your poem...

Now, before you start redacting texts like a kid in a candy store, check out several examples submitted by people from all over the world below (all rights belong to them, naturally) and if you want more, head over to the website and start reading ravenously, away.

Newspaper Blackout Horoscope by Austin Kleon

“She Has,” a blackout by Paul Soupiset

Blackout by Mayannee

A Newspaper Blackout by Mayannee

Caught on Cam: BENL Family Day

2011-10-28T10:53:00.002+08:00

Found this picture in my phone and would love to share it with you. Please don't be distracted by my failed attempt at looking cool (LOL) and have a look instead at my life as an educator, surrounded by beloved students. *smiles*

Faved!: Tina Brown Celona's Potentially Interesting & Secretly Devastating

2011-10-28T10:25:00.000+08:00

(Image courtesy of: link)

is never to give away your secrets

though people will guess

and say you write like the following poets

e.e. cummings Wallace Stevens Richard Brautigan

Ted Berrigan Frank O'Hara

though you'd prefer to be compared to

the Old Possum

and to me you sound a bit like Robert Creeley

who once was embarrassed by me at a party

he died a few years later.

It's easier to talk to you on the phone

after Nebraska which sounds

wonderful when you say it

even with loathing

and "formally innovative"

and "hybrid forms"

and the human being you are looking for

in my poem

because what are we but our words

in the end and what

are poems but perceptions

and who do YOU want to fuck

and how much do you want it

and what are you willing to do

to get what you want and how can you be satisfied

with what you have. Utterly sufficient

to be apart and how you will never say love

before October and I don't mind

or even know what I mean when I say it

whether what defines it is intensity or duration

of feeling or preordained by fate

which pushes us together and draws us apart

the one human voice speaking in all of our poems

what it felt like to be alive

and being in love is most alive

whether it's with the world or you or

poetry. In every aspect

no one resembles anyone

and can you become a poet just by trying

or do you have to go to an impressive school

and how poems are dangerous

when there are real people in them

and nothing is really new but only to you

and you are the most powerful pronoun

Jom! : Extra Terrestrial by Poet's Passport

2011-10-13T13:50:00.001+08:00

(Image courtesy of: linked)

Hello Beautiful People!

Get your dosage of poetry this week from the ever sophisticated Poet's Passport folks in Cyberjaya. This time, they have decided to go all X-Files on us and features performances centering on the theme of extraterrestrial. Sounds too fun not to pass up? Hell yes, people. Hella yeah.

The Details

Extraterrestrial : We come in peace…love and poetry!

Whether earthlings or extraterrestrials, the elements of attraction between the two are the world of difference that sets them apart. This Poet’s Passport session is set to embark on a different journey. When we mean different, we mean out of this world! Think aliens, UFO, Star Wars , Star Trek; heck the whole nine yards!

Get inspired from things that are enchanting and ever changing, go as far as your imagination can take you; revisit your favourite sci-fi films, drop by neighbouring planets, or take walks on the moon.

Venue: Krish Restaurant, Cyberjaya

Date: Friday, October 14th, 2011

Time: 8.00pm -11:00pm

FB: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=230385630351421

Faved!: Tomas Tranströmer

2011-10-13T13:36:00.000+08:00

The Nobel committees stated that the decision was made due to his "condensed, translucent images ... fresh access to reality." I have no reason not to agree with their decision.

Thus, to celebrate Tranströmer (who received the Nobel Prize in Literature), here are four of his many mystical and haunting poems translated from his Swedish mother tongue to English. Enjoy!

(Image courtesy of: linked)

After a Death

Once there was a shock

that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.

It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.

It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.

One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun

through brush where a few leaves hang on.

They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.

Names swallowed by the cold.

It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat

but often the shadow seems more real than the body.

The samurai looks insignificant

beside his armor of black dragon scales.

April and Silence

Spring lies deserted.

The velvet-dark ditch

crawls by my side without reflections.

All that shines

are yellow flowers.

I’m carried in my shadow

like a violin in its black case.

The only thing I want to say

gleams out of reach

like the silver

in a pawnshop.

Landscape with Suns

The sun emerges from behind the house

stands in the middle of the street

and breathes on us

with its red wind.

Innsbruck I must leave you.

But tomorrow

there will be a glowing sun

in the gray, half-dead forest

where we must work and live.

Midwinter

A blue light

radiates from my clothing.

Midwinter.

Clattering tambourines of ice.

I close my eyes.

There is a silent world

there is a crack

where the dead

are smuggled across the border.

Faved!: Marianne Boruch's Human Atlas

2011-10-05T13:33:00.002+08:00

(Image courtesy of: link)

Because the body really
is Mars, is Earth or Venus or the saddest downsized
Pluto, can be booked, bound, mapped then.
Or rendered like something off the bone, fat just under
the animal skin, to lard,
cheaper, quicker than butter, like stillness
belies restlessness, like every yes
was or will be not, never, no,

none of that.

A full section in such a book
keeps the skeleton quiet. (So untroubled to be specific, to say
femur, rib, half-minute of splendor,
to stare like that
stops time...) Or slick pages and pages given over
to slow the blood, remake muscle, to un-secret
that most mysterious lymph, its arsenal
of glands under the arm, at groin, at neck, awful
ghost lightning in it. Inscrutable.

Complete: because

the whole body ends, remember?
But each ending
goes on and on. Complete: because some
minor genius with a pencil, with ink, with drastic color
makes that arm you've known for years
raw, inside out, near wanton run of red vessel and nerve,
once a sin to look, weirdly now,
what should be hidden. Oh, it's garish

equals austere.

Compute. Does not compute. Tell me.
Then tell me who that
me is, or the
you understood, the any of us, our precious
everything we ever, layer upon
bright layer.

This Got Me Smiling

2011-09-28T12:08:00.000+08:00

"Golden Tree" by Martin Brooks from Ninian Doff on Vimeo.

Faved!: Stanley Kunitz's The Layers

2011-09-27T17:07:00.002+08:00

(Image courtesy of: link)

The Layers

by Stanley Kunitz

I have walked through many lives,

some of them my own,

and I am not who I was,

though some principle of being

abides, from which I struggle

not to stray.

When I look behind,

as I am compelled to look

before I can gather strength

to proceed on my journey,

I see the milestones dwindling

toward the horizon

and the slow fires trailing

from the abandoned camp-sites,

over which scavenger angels

wheel on heavy wings.

Oh, I have made myself a tribe

out of my true affections,

and my tribe is scattered!

How shall the heart be reconciled

to its feast of losses?

In a rising wind

the manic dust of my friends,

those who fell along the way,

bitterly stings my face.

Yet I turn, I turn,

exulting somewhat,

with my will intact to go

wherever I need to go,

and every stone on the road

precious to me.

In my darkest night,

when the moon was covered

and I roamed through wreckage,

a nimbus-clouded voice

directed me:

"Live in the layers,

not on the litter."

Though I lack the art

to decipher it,

no doubt the next chapter

in my book of transformations

is already written.

I am not done with my changes.

Something on My Mind

2011-09-27T16:57:00.003+08:00

(Image courtesy of: link)

Penyair, Abu Firas al-‘Amiri yang dikenali dengan Majd al-‘Arab, pernah berkata:

“Berpisahlah, nescaya kau dapati ganti orang yang kau tinggalkan. Mengembaralah di bumi, nescaya kau temui petunjuk dalam perjalanan itu. Singa jika tidak meninggalkan hutannya, tidak akan garang. Anak panah jika tidak meninggalkan busarnya tidak akan mengena sasaran.”

(Fawat al-Fawayat 3/87, Beirut: Dar al-Sadir)

Naked / Karachi

2011-09-26T10:45:00.004+08:00

(Image courtesy of: link)

[First performed at Wayang Kata, Annexe Gallery. Can't believe I forgot to post this up!]

"Honestly, are my breasts really too big for this dress?"

Excuse me

Forgive me

I do not mean to pry

but what are you

really looking at now?

Is it me

or is it this body

that I thought

I've managed to hide

quite successfully?

But if I did,

then why are you

still looking

at me?

If you say

it is none of my business,

Which of course it is

Especially when your eyes are

and have been measuring me

from the top of my head

to the end of my feet

but obviously focusing

on everything

there is

in between

10 inches in diameter

4 inches in height

Suppleness: acceptable

Wetness: easy to excite

Yeah, she's alright

So there you are: sitting

while here I am

pressed against the wall:

lonely.

In front of these plastic chairs

formed in a tight unit

a death squad,

is how I see it

With a thousand smirks

besmirching me

and a million black eyes

unnerving me

and this endless stream of

"I am going to hit that"

thoughts shot

all over

I can feel

your thoughts

physically

undressing

naked.

Jom! : Mix Nuts by Poetry Cafe KL

2011-09-26T10:12:00.003+08:00

(Image courtesy of: link)

Hello Beautiful People!

This October 7th, there are several things going on in KL but I'll highlight two poetry events just because I'll do whatever I can to promote poetry in this part of the world. Biased, much? :P So, the cool cats from Poetry Cafe KL will be hosting the first gig, which is story telling event / performance camp for anybody who is interested to perform. Check out the details right here:

The Details

... all musicians, poets, dancers, improvise groups, performing artist, able and disable... pls join us and lets share our knowledge and exchange positive energy.

Please register by messaging the cafe or add your name to the event's FB page wall here!

Theme: "A Rough Guide To..."

This special event is also to raise some funds fors Reboot The Roots(NGO group from Batu Arang formally known as Fallen Leaves) entrance by donation.

Please help spread the word to performers who wants to express themselves in this space during the first Friday 8pm every month. Solo or group act, are both welcomed.

Sms or call - Happea @ 0126981368, Jappea @ 0123157001 or Appea @ 0176996923, to book a slot and to list down their act.

Venue: PODs The Backpackers Home

Date: Friday, October 7, 2011

Time: 8.00pm -11:00pm

FB: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=257492034273553

Faved!: Dorothea Lasky's People as universe

2011-09-23T13:27:00.003+08:00

(Image courtesy of: link)

People start tragedies then blame the world

It wasn't the world's fault I'm afraid

That they started

The mess I couldn't clean up

People as universe

People die, too

People as dark grey sky, the lights poke

Yellow dots of blue and silver

What is the field where the people live

What human tragedy could not stop this mess

People are the universe

When I enter a room I cheer the chatter of a thousand men

When I touch one heart, it spills its sky right out

What snow of hearts spill out

But leave no reminder?

And how do I feel? I am alone

I was always alone

Dead person in a peopled universe, with flowers

Dead grass in a simple universe

With people

The animals of the everlasting like clear blue stars and planets

The heart of the evermore a thick blue plate

Held up against an infinite light

Jom! : 100 Thousand Poets for Change (Msia Edition)

2011-09-23T12:12:00.004+08:00

(Image courtesy of: link)

Hello beautiful people!

Something frickin huge is happening tomorrow and I am super excited. I am so excited that I am smacking my head and wondering why I didn't make time to post about this sooner. My bad. Apologies.

Anyway, tomorrow is the 100 Thousand Poets for Change global event. On the same day, there will be poetry events happening all over the world with a clear message of wanting a better future for us all. I love the idea. Sure it is idealistic and a bit too optimistic for some of us 'cynics' to stomach but you know what? It's good to dream and wanting a better future for those after us. I say, go ahead, dream and have hopes and this is why I am STOKED that Malaysia will be part of this massive poetic movement as well!

Thanks to the initiative of Jamal Raslan (fellow slammer, brother in verse) and the major support coming from WakaLab, a poetry event will be held in Bangsar for all to attend. Of course, it is FREE. Fugg yeah. If you've been wanting to see poets in actions, THIS IS THE GIG TO GO TO. Was that enough emphasis on my behalf? More than 20 poets will be performing, showcasing both the old and the young, the published and the newbies, the slammers and the writers. It's INSANE. Members of poetry collectives will also be there so this is the chance to get to know one another.

Okay, enough of me dorking away with my poetic passion. Here are the details. I'll just see you there. Psst psst, I am performing as well :D

The Details

This event is the KL edition of the largest worldwide poetry event this year, and maybe even in history. And KL is proud to be part of that.

Brought to you by Michael Rothenberg & the folks at www.100tpc.org, with local support from Wakalab, this event hopes to bring all poetry circles & collectives & groups around KL together & showcase the evolution & progress of KL poetry over the past few years, in view to create a more self-sustaining & progressive poetry scene & community in KL.

We will feature poets from poetry collectives such as Poetry Cafe KL, Poetry Underground, Poet's Passport, The Socialites, Bohemian Cafe & Frinjan. Not just that, we will also showcase closet poets who've never performed or read their stuff in public ever before. And that's just the appetizer. We will also feature poets who have been published, be it on print or online, be it self or publisher. We will also feature published writers as well.

So free yourself up on the 2nd Saturday from now & just kick back enjoy some kick-ass poetry - both the written word & the spoken word.

FEATURED POETS

- Thato Ntshabele

- Elaine Foster

- Uthaya Sankar S.B

- Gabriel

- Hazlan Zakaria

- Michelle Lee

- KG Krishnan

- Sheena Baharuddin

- Satya Puspitaputri

- Meliza Rani

- Ellynita

- Manisha JM

- Yusuf Martin

- Dato' Shan

- Afi Noor

- Marine Docinha

- Illya Sumanto

- Aleya Ariana

- Adam Kasturi

- Nzilani Simu

- Sheralynn Veronica

- Azalia Suhaimi

- Tulile Siyumbwa

- Liyana Dizzy

- Azhar Ibrahim

FEATURED COLLECTIVES

- Poetry Cafe KL

- Poetry Underground

- Northern Writers

- Poet's Passport, LUCT & MMU

- The Socialites, Taylor's University College

- Bohemian Cafe, Help University College

- Frinjan

- Nottingham University Art's & Cultural Club

SPONSORS & PATRONS

- Wakalab (http://wakalab.com/)

Venue : e-Media office, Balai Berita, 31, Jalan Riong, 59100 KL

Date : 24th September 2011, Saturday

Time : 4:00pm – 6:30pm

FB : http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=156127084474968

Faved!: Catherine Wagner's Everyone in the room is a representative of the world at large

2011-09-08T00:03:00.001+08:00

(linked)

Things mean, and I can’t tell them not to.

Things they moralize, to meet

my expectation, because I want advice

on how to live. The seaweed says:

This is a river; I am river-weed.

Which of these/my clumps do you want me to be (say)?

The closest one. That more animated brown one

rolls and unrolls its lengths of hair

and makes me feel unwell.

You quieter green clump, why don’t you speak.

Then

A most beautiful bright blue bird

knifed down the stream

and veered left at the oak,

where the stream bends. A

male bird. He says: I am the

excellent wanderer

flashing above

the stream,

a blue muscle that centers past

and future

a blue muscle roping future in

as past behind me cedes

blue muscle flying future into past

blue muscle flashes future

instantaneous wingbeat pasts.

Under the bird, forest and water. Above

the bird, forest and cloud.

The twig trails in the water.

Twig-end disappears, twig resurrects

in reflection and continues down,

leads back to the tree, the undertree

that lives on the top of the water.

If I penetrate (look beneath) the water, the twig end

dangles and the forest

disappears.

The bird was a flying fist

It smashed up nothing

I pursued it round the corner,

a blue punch

my violence goes on out along the stream.

Faved!: Tim Seible's Ode to My Hands

2011-08-18T21:01:00.002+08:00

(linked)

Five-legged pocket spiders, knuckled

starfish, grabbers of forks, why

do I forget that you love me:

your willingness to button my shirts,

tie my shoes—even scratch my head!

which throbs like a traffic jam, each thought

leaning on its horn. I see you

waiting anyplace always

at the ends of my arms—for the doctor,

for the movie to begin, for

freedom—so silent, such

patience! testing the world

with your bold myopia: faithful,

ready to reach out at my

softest suggestion, to fly up

like two birds when I speak, two

brown thrashers brandishing verbs

like twigs in your beaks, lifting

my speech the way pepper springs

the tongue from slumber. O!

If only they knew the unrestrained

innocence of your intentions,

each finger a cappella, singing

a song that rings like rain

before it falls—that never falls!

Such harmony: the bass thumb, the

pinkie's soprano, the three tenors

in between: kind quintet x 2

rowing my heart like a little boat

upon whose wooden seat I sit

strummed by Sorrow. Or maybe

I misread you completely

and you are dreaming a tangerine, one

particular hot tamale, a fabulous

banana! to peel suggestively,

like thigh-high stockings: grinning

as only hands can grin

down the legs—caramel, cocoa,

black-bean black, vanilla—such lubricious

dimensions, such public secrets!

Women sailing the streets

with God's breath at their backs.

Think of it! No! Yes:

let my brain sweat, make my

veins whimper: without you, my five-hearted

fiends, my five-headed hydras, what

of my mischievous history? The possibilities

suddenly impossible—feelings

not felt, rememberings un-

remembered—all the touches

untouched: the gallant strain

of a pilfered ant, tiny muscles

flexed with fight, the gritty

sidewalk slapped after a slip, the pulled

weed, the plucked flower—a buttercup!

held beneath Dawn's chin—the purest kiss,

the caught grasshopper's kick, honey,

chalk, charcoal, the solos teased

from guitar. Once, I played

viola for a year and never stopped

to thank you—my two angry sisters,

my two hungry men—but you knew

I just wanted to know

what the strings would say

concerning my soul, my whelming

solipsism: this perpetual solstice

where one + one = everything

and two hands teach a dawdler

the palpable alchemy

of an unreasonable world.

Faved!: Shane Koyczan's The Crickets Have Arthritis

2011-08-10T15:47:00.004+08:00

This prose like poem, to me, is as close to perfection as possible. Love how he begins it, love how he ends it and in between, injects you with laughter and tears. It's crazy. Check out the poem and once you're done, watch a video of him performing the very same poem right here.

(linked)

It doesn’t matter why I was there, where the air is sterile and the sheets sting. It doesn’t matter that I was hooked up to this thing that buzzed and beeped every time my heart leaped like a man who’s faith tells him God’s hands are big enough to catch an airplane, or a world. It doesn’t matter that I was curled up like a fist protesting death, or that every breath was either hard labour or hard time, or that I’m either always too hot or too cold. Doesn’t matter because my hospital roommate wears star wars pyjamas, and he’s 9 years old. His name is Louis, and I don’t have to ask what he’s got. The bald head with the skin and bones frame speaks volumes. The Gameboy and the feather pillow booms like they’re trying to make him feel at home because he’s going to be here awhile. I manage a smile the first time I see him and it feels like the biggest lie I have ever told, so I hold my breath, ‘cause I’m thinking any minute now he’s going to call me on it. I hold my breath because I’m scared of a 57 pound boy hooked up to a machine because he’s been watching me and maybe I’ve got him pegged all wrong, like maybe he’s bionic or some shit. So I look away like just I made eye contact with a gang member who’s got a rap sheet the length of a lecture on dumb mistakes politicians have made. I look away like he’s going to give me my life back the moment I’ve got something to trade. I damn near pull out my pack and say

“Cigarette?”

But my fear subsides in the moment I realize Louis is all show and tell. He’s got everything from a shotgun shell to a crowfoot and he can put them all in context. Like,

“See, this is from a shooting range”

and

“See, this is from a weird girl”.

I watch his hands curl around a cuff-link and a tie-tack and realize that every nick-nack is a treasure and every treasure has a story, and every time I think I can’t handle more he hits me with another story. He says

“See, this is from my father”

“See, this is from my brother”

“See, this is from that weird girl”

“See, this is from my mother”

Took me about two days to figure out that weird girl is his sister, it took him about two hours today after she left for him to figure out he missed her. They visit every day, and stay well past visiting hours because for them that term doesn’t apply. But when they do leave, Louis and I are left alone. And he says

“The worst part about being sick is that you get all the free ice cream you ask for.”

And he says

“The worst part about that is realizing there is nothing more they can do for you.”

And there is no easy way of asking, and I know what he’s going to say but maybe he just needs to say it, so I ask him anyway.

“Are you scared?”

Louis doesn’t even lower his voice when he says

“Fuck yeah.”

I listen to a 9 year old boy say the word fuck like he was a 30 year old man with a nose-bleed being lowered into a shark tank, he’s got a right to it. And if it takes this kid a curse word to help him get through it, then I want to teach him to swear like the devil’s sitting there taking notes with a pen and a pad. But before I can forget that Louis is 9 years old he says

“Please don’t tell my dad.”

He asks me if I believe in angels. And before I realize I don’t have the heart to tell him, I tell him

“Not lately.”

and I just lay there waiting for him to hate me. But he doesn’t know how to, so he never does. Louis loves like a man who lived in a time before God gave religion to men and left it to them to figure out what hate was. He never greets me with silence, only smiles and a patience I’ve never seen in someone who knows they’re dying. And I’m trying so hard not to remind him I’ll be out of here in a couple days, smoking cigarettes and taking my life for granted. And he’ll still be planted in this bed like a flower that refuses to grow. I’ve been with him for 5 days and all I really know is that Louis loves to pull feathers out of his pillow then watch them float to the ground. Almost as if he’s the philosopher inside of the scientist ready to say

“It’s gravity that’s been getting us down.”

The truth is: there is not enough miracles to go around, kid. And there’s too many people petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket. And for every answered prayer, there’s a cricket with arthritis. And the only reason we can’t find answers is because the search party didn’t invite us, and Louis, right now the crickets have arthritis. So there is no music, no symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, as if ripping halos into melodies that can keep a rhythm with the way our hearts beat. So we must meet silence with the same level of noise that the parents of dying 9 year old boys make when they take liberties in talking with heaven. We must shout until we shatter in our own vibrations, then let our lives echo and grow, echo and grow, grow distant. Distant enough to know that as far as our efforts go, we don’t always get a reply.

But I swear to whatever God I can find in the time I have left, I’m going to remember you kid. I’m going to tell your story as often as every story you told me. And every time I tell it I’ll say

“See, there’s bravery in this world. There’s 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but every breath we breathe has to be given back. A 9 year old boy taught me that.”

So hold your breath, the same way you’d hold a pen when writing Thank You letters on your skin to every tree that gave you that breath to hold. And then let it go, as if you understand something about getting old and having to give back. Let it go like a laugh attack in the middle of really good sex, the black eye will be worth it. Because what is your night worth without a story to tell? And why wield a word like worth if you’ve got nothing to sell? People drop pennies down a wishing well, so the cost of a desire is equal to that of a thought. But if you’ve got expectations, expect others have bought your exact same dream for the price of a ‘hard work, hang in, hold on’ mentality. Like, I accept any challenge so challenge me. Like, I brought a knife to this gun fight, but the other night I mugged a mountain so bring that shit, I’ve had practise. Louis and I cracked this world wide open and found that the prize inside is we never lied to ourselves, never told ourselves that we’d be easy or undemanding. So we sing in our own vibration, and dare angels to eavesdrop and stop midflight to pluck feathers from their wings and write demands that God’s hands take the time to catch you. So that even if God doesn’t, it wasn’t because we didn’t try.

I don’t often believe in angels, but on the day I left, Louis pulled a feather from his pillow and said

“This is for you.”

I half expected him to say

“See, this is the first one I grew.”

Travelogue: Kangding Love Song

2011-08-10T14:00:00.008+08:00

Was I being purposely jiwang? Nope. This is in fact the reason why many tourists (especially Chinese tourists) flock to Kangding (also known as Dardo in Tibetan), a medium sized town in the Ganzi Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture of China, located around 7 hours from Chengdu. Apparently, the lyrics to this old Sichuan folk song reveal such a place of beauty that people decided to stop listening and start travelling.

Now, for one to travel to Tibet, there are specific hurdles to overcome like getting an official TTB (Tibet Travel Permit), having a like-able face with a convincing I-Am-Not-A-Free-Tibet-Supporter smile etc. Rule of thumb is simple though: it depends on the current news. If there are demos/clashes between Tibet & China, then you probably gotta sacrifice your first born before you can enter the place. When we were there, there were news of travellers blocked even from entering Kangding. Why, you ask?

Truth is, Kangding is the closest you can get to experiencing Tibet. Native Tibetans make up half of the city's population and there is a strong Tibetan feel to this place. No wonder there is an equally strong presence of the Chinese military as well. Hence, the tension. But don't let politics get in the way between you and the exquisite beauty of this place. Another note: It's true that Kangding is fast turning into another soul-less tourist spot but all you gotta do is just travel a little bit further and you're back in the arms of Mother Nature. Here's a tip or two on what to do after you squeezed through the blockades. If there are any lah.

Drink in the geographical beauty of this place. If you're taking the 7 hour bus trip from Chengdu, that's pretty much you can do unless if the driver puts on a nice movie... Anyway, China is an amazing country with its diversity of natural landscape but this mountainous view had me ooh-aahing like a Hogwarts kid in Weasley Wizard Wheezes joke shop.

Ahh, Kangding Town Center. There are two things you'll notice here: 1. They look cold. 2, There are soldiers hanging around too. Here's the truth about Kangding i.e. it is always cold here so pack your clothes well, and that you can't help but notice the military presence. Here in the town square, the locals do their own version of Make Love, Not War: They dance almost EVERY single evening. Join them if you can.

I always have this fascination with beautiful tribal cultures and in Kangding, I could secretly fulfill my love for the Tibetan culture and old people. Here, three local grandmas chill at the town square, oblivious to nerdy me. Yeehaw.

If you're done with the urban setting of Kangding and want to remind yourself why you're here in the first place, don't forget to visit one of the many Tibetan monasteries/temples around. There's an air of tranquility I can't describe there. True happiness does not seem that far away from grasp...

as demonstrated by my sis Sarah! Yes, true happiness may be in the form of snow for first timers like us! Considering the high altitude and snow capped mountains as background, surrounding oneself with snow did not appear that hard after all. It was amazing.

You can arrange this trip (the foot of the Gongga Mountain area) with your guest house. We stayed at Zhilam Hostel, which is the best guest house I have stayed so far and they were kind enough to let us Asians (and one Brit) loose in a strange strange land. Oh, tea never taste so good until you have it here with half of your ass freezing. Bliss.

Stay true to your Asian roots by taking a picture of a yak or with you standing beside it, pretending to be cute. Such random pictures only prove that you don't have yaks in your country so you have ALL the right to squeal when you see one. I squealed especially because when there are yaks, there will definitely be...

Butter tea!! Score! Butter tea is the official drink for Tibetans and although the name suggests a drink that is rich & buttery, truth is it is salty and light (butter here is a reference to the yak butter added into the mix). Apparently it is the best cure for altitude sickness too. We had this meal at a long standing Tibetan cafe. Turns out my momo dumpling tasted better than the ones we had in Kangding. *kembang*

I forgot the name of the place but do go to this Cafe if you're there. The food is cheap and good, it is managed by local Tibetans and only mostly Tibetans eat here. I'd like to believe that the money you're spending is going straight into their pockets rather than Mighty China. They need it more, that is for sure.

Last but not least, I'd say just let go of yourself in Kangding. The place is a testament to Divine genius. You can't help but be spiritual in this kind of places. Meditate, smile at strangers or just sit there and contemplate on things. It's bound to make your heart swell. Seriously, what is better than that?

......

Maybe you can learn how to sing the Kangding Love Song? (I can't help myself. Teehee)

High upon the mountain side
Floats a cloud so white
There lies peaceful Kang Ding town
Bathed in silver moonlight

Moonlight shines bright
Over Kang Ding town, oh

Lovely maid with a smile so sweet
Li the wood cutter’s daughter
Gheng the blacksmith eldest’s son
Came through moonlight to court her

Moonlight shines bright
Over Kang Ding town, oh
Came through moonlight to court her

He fell in love with her smile so sweet
And her pleasing ways, oh
She could cook and she could sew
Care for him all of his days, oh

Moonlight shines bright
Over Kang Ding town, oh
Care for him all of his days, oh

Lovely maidens of the world
I cannot but love you
Gentlemen folk of the world
They cannot but woe you

Moonlight shines bright
Over Kang Ding town, oh
They cannot but woe you

Moonlight shines bright
Over Kang Ding town, oh

Travelogue: Chengdu Ching-A-Ling

2011-08-09T22:45:00.004+08:00

Unknown to most (unnecessary dramatic element here), I have been travelling and it would be most unfortunate if I don't post up several pictures for the pleasure of my beautiful blog readers. Seeing the world is one of the best ways to open up our minds and I pray to God that I'll continue doing this for a long time coming.

Oh yeah, so the destination here is Chengdu in the Sichuan region of China. I've been eyeing Chengdu as it is one of the gateway to the Himalayas. Tibet is pretty close and I've always wanted to roll around in Tibet, eat momo dumplings and get high on butter tea... so when my family decided to escape to Chengdu, I did my best to plan the most out of it. So here's a simple guide on what to do if you accidentally apparated to Chengdu.

This is the equivalent of doing the peace sign in front of the KLCC Twin Towers (or any landmark, really). You gotta go to Tianfu Square where Chairman Mao stands, beckoning many to take pictures with the exact gesture. At least, I did.

Alolololo. One can't help but coo helplessly at the sight of these overweight, lazy, stinky furballs that eat lying down. Did no one teach these pandas at the Chengdu Panda Breeding Research Center proper eating manners? Of course not. That's why we find them terribly adorable. Awwww.

If you are a shopaholic who is attending your 7-step course, I ask you NOT to go Chunxi Road. This road offers 700 stores with so many discounts, you'll not be able to remember your 1st step anymore. For those who suck at shopping (like me), best to let your imagination fly free.

No wonder China produces so many philosophers, writers and poets. Here lies the secret: a park, free time and lotsa tea. The People's Park is Chengdu's playground for aspiring writers or those wanting to pakto (date) with their loved ones.

Ahh. Nothing better than to spend your evening watching Sichuan Opera. They offer a variety of performances i.e. music, theatre, dance and the ever popular face changing opera. A must do. I repeat, a must do.

Who cares if you are a tourist when you are at Jinli Street? Even locals pay the tourist price at this famous place. I warn you, it's not cheap but the experience of being there compensates the wallet pain. But if you refuse to take out moolah, maybe you can do this *points below*

Watch shadow puppets dance to contemporary pop tunes! It's quite weird but for the first 5 minutes as you watch the puppets dance to a Britney Spears song, you'll find yourself moving as well. Trust me, your hips won't lie.

How can we not eat when we are in the Sichuan region? The food here is lovely and spicy, the perfect combo for my family. Try the wajib dish in Chengdu i.e. Sichuan Hot Pot. Was it spicy? Yes. Was it lovely? Yes. Are we happy? Hell Yes!

You would expect flying monks fooling around when you step into Wenshu Monastery but alas, they were busy praying. Anyway, this place is gorgeous and you get to see the locals practising their religion. Ok, fine, I was only looking at the cute monks. Guilty as charged.

But where is the momo dumplings? Where's butter tea? Where is Tibet? A-hah, while you wait for the next post to come up, please enjoy this picture of my family and I. Yes, that is how we really look like.

Faved!: CAConrad's Confetti Allegiance: Love Letter to Jim Brodey

2011-08-09T22:21:00.004+08:00

(linked)

This is my first time reading CA Conrad and I am honestly lost. This is of course, not a bad thing. Whenever I'm lost, I get this feeling that is a combination of despair and hope. A mash of panic and excitement. I used to believe that when I read a poem, I need to be able to understand it. To make it comprehensible so that it's worth something. But now, not anymore. I'll read a poem, any random ones that are kind enough to find me, and just immerse myself in it.

This is what I am experiencing as I read his poem. I have no idea what it is about. I have no idea what it's supposed to mean. If there is a wisdom to it. What I know is that I love it. Now, Blogger can't seem to retain the original appearance of the poem so I'll just include the first part of it i.e. Confetti Allegiance. This is the (Soma)tic Poetry Exercise that comes before the actual product/poem "Love Letter to Jim Brodey" (Click on the poem to read what he wrote after his (Soma)tic poetry exercise)

Is there a deceased poet who was alive in your lifetime but you never met, and you wish you had met? A poet you would LOVE to correspond with, but it's too late? Take notes about this missed opportunity. What is your favorite poem by this poet? Write it on unlined paper by hand (no typing). If we were gods we wouldn't need to invent beautiful poems, and that's why our lives are more interesting, and that's why the gods are always meddling in our affairs out of boredom. It's like the fascination the rich have with the poor, as Alice Notley says, "the poor are more interesting than others, almost uniformly." This poem was written by a human poet, and we humans love our poets, if we have any sense. Does something strike flint in you from the process of engaging your body to write this poem you know and love? Notes, notes, take notes.

The poet for me in doing this exercise is Jim Brodey and his poem "Little Light," which he wrote in the bathtub while listening to the music of Eric Dolphy, masturbating in the middle of the poem, "while the soot-tinted noise of too-full streets echoes / and I pick up the quietly diminishing soap & do / myself again." Take your handwritten version of the poem and cut it into tiny confetti. Heat olive oil in a frying pan and toss the confetti poem in. Add garlic, onion, parsnip, whatever you want, pepper it, salt it, serve it over noodles or rice. Eat the delicious poem with a nice glass of red wine, pausing to read it out loud and toast the poet, "MANY APOLOGIES FOR NOT TOASTING YOU WHEN YOU WERE ALIVE!" Take notes while slowly chewing the poem. Chew slowly so your saliva breaks the poem down before it slides into your belly to feed your blood and cells of your body. Gather your notes, write your poem.

Don't ask me what (Soma)tic Poetry Exercise is. I am still trying to understand it myself. The best I can do is to point you to certain links that might help you love this bigger than life poet more and more. I know I do :)