I am I.
I am personal.
I am subjective, intimate, private, particular,
confessional.
All that happens
happens to me.
The landscape I describe
is myself...
If you're interested
in birds, trees, rivers,
try reference books,
don't read my poems.
I'm no indexed birds,
tree or river,
just a registered Self.
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Lines by Shirley Lim
The more is brought to light, the darker the breeding ground.
Proverb is the twitch of atrophy.
Poets bless the muse of insomnia at all times of the day.
Write it. Bolt it down with steel.
The paralytic style: never say a plain word when a rare one will do; never say a rare word when a plain one will do; never say a particular when another particular will do.
Proverb is the twitch of atrophy.
Poets bless the muse of insomnia at all times of the day.
Write it. Bolt it down with steel.
The paralytic style: never say a plain word when a rare one will do; never say a rare word when a plain one will do; never say a particular when another particular will do.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
What is it to Write? by Felix Cheong
It is not a vacation
from your life
when you weary of meetings and rain,
waiting for the bus
and cursing your luck.
It is a vocation
that curses your life
and can't wait for luck
but must meet head-on
the bus weary and rain.
It is not to scribble
a granted sky
by a tree
in the evening park
with your dog running free.
It is to run the dog inside,
scribble the evening
into the sky and park
your tree between the granted and the free.
from your life
when you weary of meetings and rain,
waiting for the bus
and cursing your luck.
It is a vocation
that curses your life
and can't wait for luck
but must meet head-on
the bus weary and rain.
It is not to scribble
a granted sky
by a tree
in the evening park
with your dog running free.
It is to run the dog inside,
scribble the evening
into the sky and park
your tree between the granted and the free.
This Poem is Dangerous by Elma Mitchell
This poem is dangerous: it should not be left
Within the reach of children, or even of adults
Who might swallow it whole, with possibly
Undesirable side-effects. If you come across
An unattended, unidentified poem
In a public place, do not attempt to tackle it
Yourself. Send it (preferably, in a sealed container)
To the nearest centre of learning, where it will be rendered
Harmless, by experts. Even the simplest poem
May destroy your immunity to human emotions.
All poems must carry a Government warning. Words
Can seriously affect your heart.
Within the reach of children, or even of adults
Who might swallow it whole, with possibly
Undesirable side-effects. If you come across
An unattended, unidentified poem
In a public place, do not attempt to tackle it
Yourself. Send it (preferably, in a sealed container)
To the nearest centre of learning, where it will be rendered
Harmless, by experts. Even the simplest poem
May destroy your immunity to human emotions.
All poems must carry a Government warning. Words
Can seriously affect your heart.
Sifter by Naomi Shihab Nye
When our English teacher gave
our first writing invitation of the year,
Become a kitchen implement
in 2 descriptive paragraphs, I did not think
butcher knife or frying pan,
I thought immediately
of soft flour showering through the little holes
of the sifter and the sifter’s pleasing circular
swishing sound, and wrote it down.
Rhoda became a teaspoon,
Roberto a funnel,
Jim a muffin tin
and Forrest a soup pot.
We read our paragraphs out loud.
Abby was a blender. Everyone laughed
and acted giddy but the more we thought about it,
we were all everything, in the whole kitchen,
drawers and drainers,
singing teapot and grapefruit spoon
with serrated edges, we were all the
empty cup, the tray.
This, said our teacher, is the beauty of metaphor.
It opens doors.
What I could not know then
was how being a sifter
would help me all year long.
When bad days came
I would close my eyes and feel them passing
through the tiny holes.
When good days came
I would try to contain them gently
the way flour remains
in Time, time. I was a sweet sifter in time
and no one ever knew.
our first writing invitation of the year,
Become a kitchen implement
in 2 descriptive paragraphs, I did not think
butcher knife or frying pan,
I thought immediately
of soft flour showering through the little holes
of the sifter and the sifter’s pleasing circular
swishing sound, and wrote it down.
Rhoda became a teaspoon,
Roberto a funnel,
Jim a muffin tin
and Forrest a soup pot.
We read our paragraphs out loud.
Abby was a blender. Everyone laughed
and acted giddy but the more we thought about it,
we were all everything, in the whole kitchen,
drawers and drainers,
singing teapot and grapefruit spoon
with serrated edges, we were all the
empty cup, the tray.
This, said our teacher, is the beauty of metaphor.
It opens doors.
What I could not know then
was how being a sifter
would help me all year long.
When bad days came
I would close my eyes and feel them passing
through the tiny holes.
When good days came
I would try to contain them gently
the way flour remains
in Time, time. I was a sweet sifter in time
and no one ever knew.
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