tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234198012012-02-01T04:29:03.670+08:00A blog by poetry lovers from Malaysia to sembang-sembang and mamak on all things poetic.dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.comBlogger1101100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-77722113000890140062010-02-25T15:17:00.004+08:002010-02-25T15:26:16.221+08:00

Text by Leon Wing Poem by Ciaran Carson THE TAG round your wrist bore a number your name and D.O.B. two weeks after two stone less the day you came home it slipped off no need to snip * Whose wrist is it the tag is around? Who is the poet talking to, directly, who is having a tag around ‘your’ wrist? Normally anybody having such a tag around his/her wrist might be a child, or a baby. This

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-7242780608871341992010-01-28T13:59:00.005+08:002010-02-25T15:19:44.876+08:00

Text by Leon Wing Poem by Ann Struthers Not Knowing Why Adolescent white pelicans squawk, rustle, flap their wings, lift off in a ragged spiral at imaginary danger. What danger on this island in the middle of Marble Lake? They’re off to feel the lift of wind under their iridescent wings, because they were born to fly, because they have nothing else to do, because wind and water are their

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-64563341431025459032009-12-07T13:52:00.001+08:002009-12-08T09:07:59.059+08:00

Text by Leon Wing Poem by Wendy Cope A Christmas Poem At Christmas little children sing and merry bells jingle, The cold winter air makes our hands and faces tingle And happy families go to church and cheerily they mingle And the whole business is unbelievably dreadful, if you're single. *** It's December and it’s more than two weeks away till Christmas.  What more germane than to have a

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-29204391057124067792009-11-18T10:56:00.000+08:002009-11-18T10:56:58.130+08:00

Here's a take, or, at least, an informal but very interesting, interpretation of Rae Armantrout's poem New, by somebody called Steven Fama (no profile available). Rae Armantrout is one of the finalists for the US National Book Award. New If yellow is the new black, the new you is a cartoon spokesman who blows his lines around bumptious 3-D Hondas, apologizes often, and remains cheerful.

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-6696165681856200782009-10-22T09:33:00.000+08:002009-10-22T09:33:22.063+08:00

Here's a very good analysis of a poem by one American poet Harryette Mullen. She just won the Academy of American Poets Fellowship 2009.  Take a look at how ROBIN TREMBLAY-MCGAW, at X POETICS, interprets these lines: Night moon star sun down gown. Night moan stir sin dawn gown.

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-90278794686133862282009-09-30T09:45:00.005+08:002009-09-30T10:09:10.075+08:00

Text by Leon Wing Poem by Cecilia Woloch The Pick I watched him swinging the pick in the sun, breaking the concrete steps into chunks of rock, and the rocks into dust, and the dust into earth again. I must have sat for a very long time on the split rail fence, just watching him. My father’s body glistened with sweat, his arms flew like dark wings over his head. He was turning the backyard

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-26004308138407171572009-08-21T15:26:00.009+08:002009-08-22T10:39:40.979+08:00

Text by Leon WingPoem by By Alexandra TeagueLanguage LessonsThe carpet in the kindergarten roomwas alphabet blocks; all of us fidgetingon bright, primary letters. On the shelfsat that week's inflatable sound. The "th"was shaped like a tooth. We sangabout brushing up and down, practicedexhaling while touching our tonguesto our teeth. Next week, a puffy Ulike an upside-down umbrella; the restof the

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-56885630466151662762009-06-29T11:24:00.009+08:002009-06-29T17:20:08.254+08:00

Text by Leon WingPoem by Joseph StroudNight in DayThe night never wants to end, to give itself overto light. So it traps itself in things: obsidian, crows.Even on summer solstice, the day of light's greattriumph, where fields of sunflowers guzzle in the sun--we break open the watermelon and spit outblack seeds, bits of night glistening on the grass.***Here, in the East, now, it’s humidity, at

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-40514070354157260342009-06-17T14:59:00.006+08:002009-06-18T09:38:05.919+08:00

Text by Leon WingPoem by Kevin GriffithSpinningI hold my two-year-old sonunder his arms and start to twirl.His feet sway away from meand the day becomes a blur.Everything I own is flying into space:yard toys, sandbox, tools,garage and house,and, finally, the years of my life.When we stop, my son is a grown man,and I am very old. We staggerback into each other's armsone last time, two lost

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-48824935564870931332009-05-06T13:17:00.006+08:002009-06-18T09:51:24.998+08:00

Text by Leon WingPoem by Bill HolmEarbudEarbud--a tiny marble sheathed in foamto wear like an interior earring so youcan enjoy private noises wherever you go,protected from any sudden silence.Only check your batteries, then copya thousand secret songs and storieson the tiny pod you carry in your pocket.You are safe now from other noises madeby other people, other machines, by chance,noises you

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-11891812081027944312009-04-08T15:34:00.009+08:002009-04-08T15:57:19.415+08:00

Text by Leon WingPoem by Sharon Olds, from The Unswept Room, published in 2002 by Jonathan Cape, UKThe TendingMy parents did not consider it, for me,yet I can see myself in the woods of some otherworld, with the aborted. It is early evening,the air is ashen as if from funeral-homechimneys, and there are beginnings of peoplealmost growing—but not changing—on stalks,some in cloaks, or lady’

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-275555951483325252009-04-03T13:31:00.007+08:002009-04-04T08:24:29.282+08:00

Text by Leon WingPoem by Gerald Flemingfrom Swimmer Climbing onto Shore,Sixteen Rivers Press, San Francisco, 2005Long MarriageYou're worried, so you wake her& you talk into the dark:Do you think I have cancer, yousay, or Were there wormsin that meat, or Do you thinkour son is OK, and it'swonderful, really--almostceremonial as you feelthe vessel of your worry passmiraculously from you to her--Gee,

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-24309528545390668812009-03-24T15:53:00.010+08:002009-03-25T09:00:39.511+08:00

Text by Hazlan ZakariaPoem by Jack GilbertPoetry Is A Kind Of Lying Poetry is a kind of lying,necessarily. To profit the poetor beauty. But also inthat truth may be told only so.Those who, admirably, refuseto falsify (as those who will notrisk pretensions) are excludedfrom saying even so much.Degas said he didn't paintwhat he saw, but whatwould enable them to seethe thing he had.I find this poem

Baronhawkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12786638449770573689noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-90085998807657552842009-03-23T14:17:00.012+08:002009-03-25T09:10:37.482+08:00

Text by Leon WingPoem by Robin RobertsonCat, FailingA figment, a thumbedmaquette of a cat, someditched plaything, somethingbrought in from outside:his white fur stiff and grey,coming apart at the seams.I study the muzzleof perished rubber, one eareaten away, his sour bodylumped like a bean-bagleaking thinlyinto a grim towel. I sitand watch the lightdegrade in his eyes.He tries and failsto climb

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-54566677403859966402009-02-19T11:21:00.018+08:002009-02-21T17:51:55.254+08:00

Text by Leon WingPoem by Oliver de la PazA scene from the play God's Ear by Jenny SchwartzWhat the Ear SaidNothing to hear in that hollow. Not boats,not the cadence of boats and their oars.Not wood and water and the ferryto island in a storm, not rain. Notthe repetition of rain and the often lovedsound of trees. Or the sea.Or the open mouth receiving. Not the leanof the grief-struck against an

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-63025610629987224682009-01-21T13:51:00.010+08:002009-01-22T17:03:38.831+08:00

Posting by Leon WingPoem by Simon Perchik This heat still underfootreminds you how the sunwould come to your grave's edgewith flowers, with a skywhose season now is lostand the listeningthat goes on forever.You can tell from the silenceI'm standing close, my footmarksstopped—for a while we are both dead.Who but you would think about daylighthow colors tire so easily herebiding their time,

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-25222256071434359452008-12-31T18:48:00.003+08:002009-01-05T23:24:02.043+08:00

is a bar outside of Bethlehem, PA, where once your gin glass is filled, it stays filled, like the clear, inexhaustible stuff of the cosmos, and every swig begins another big bang. Even the vermouth grows from a single dewdrop and swirls into another solar system, matter never being destroyed, only . . . etcetera, etcetera. So many universes down the smoky bar, each held by its own little drunken

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-44655962142814610182008-12-12T14:33:00.012+08:002008-12-13T12:45:37.763+08:00

Thing Languageby Jack SpicerThis ocean, humiliating in its disguisesTougher than anything.No one listens to poetry. The oceanDoes not mean to be listened to. A dropOr crash of water. It meansNothing.ItIs bread and butterPepper and salt. The deathThat young men hope for. AimlesslyIt pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. NoOne listens to poetry.-----Does anybody, nowadays, really listen to a

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-80019910088664152008-11-27T15:02:00.008+08:002008-12-12T17:32:17.356+08:00

MASTER OF DISGUISESby Charles SimicSurely he walks among us unrecognized:Some barber, store clerk, delivery man,Pharmacist, hairdresser, bodybuilder,Exotic dancer, gem cutter, dog walker,The blind beggar singing, Oh Lord, remember me,Some window decorator starting a fake fireIn a fake fireplace while mother and father watchFrom the couch with their frozen smilesAs the street empties and the time

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-64854692720416730252008-11-13T11:33:00.008+08:002008-11-13T13:53:50.148+08:00

How lovely when a piece of poetry surprises us by appearing in a place where we wouldn't expect to find it.This poem was "on the menu", so to speak at Ketut Suardana and Janet de Deefe's Casa Luna restaurant in Ubud, Bali. Janet as many as you will know is also the director of the Ubud Writer's and Readers Festival, so it shouldn't come as a surprise that she tries to slip a little poetry into

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-48068465763515427622008-11-10T13:20:00.016+08:002008-11-11T17:34:14.418+08:00

Gay bar in EnglandTHE BARMAN'S FANTASYby John McCullough4 am and the big mouths are scrappingwith spluttered innuendoes.My best reply’s deadpan: a thrust scoop,the rattle of ice in the bucket –scant relief for tongues made sourby thoughts of desolate flats.But the black tranny with her constellationof diamante hasn’t finished,stares into a Carling’s brassy depthsand finds, she announces, two

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-91251091474541038112008-10-27T14:04:00.009+08:002008-10-31T02:04:19.645+08:00

Purringby Coleman BarksThe internet says science is not surehow cats purr, probablya vibration of the whole larynx,unlike what we do when we talk.Less likely, a blood vesselmoving across the chest wall.As a child I tried to make every cat I metpurr. That was one of the early miracles,the stroking to perfection.Here is something I have never heard:a feline purrs in two conditions,when deeply

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-38329977977936550672008-10-11T23:27:00.006+08:002008-10-11T23:38:24.488+08:00

Here is yet one more life that we see only from outside from the outside not in itself but later in signs of its going a reminder in the spring daylight it happened when we were not noticing and so close to us that we might not have been here disregarded as we were see where we have walked the earth has risen again out of its darkness where it has been recognized without being seen known by touch

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-33464157744218987202008-09-28T09:59:00.010+08:002008-10-17T22:06:35.155+08:00

(In memory of Paul Newman, who died in 2008, at 83)This Is Not an Elegyby Catherine PierceAt sixteen, I was illegal and brilliant,my fingernails chewed to half-moons.I took off my clothes in a late Marchfield. I had secret car wrecks,secret hysteria. I opened my mouthto swallow stars. In backseatsI learned the alchemy of guilt, lust,and distance. I was unformed and total.I swore like a sailor.

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-72665750489274339742008-09-13T06:52:00.004+08:002008-09-16T22:48:42.046+08:00

In a very general sense, poets tend to use language in two ways: the artful or the natural. Either they transmute their thoughts through metaphor, striking imagery, or unusual syntax into something rich and strange; or they pack their meaning into what Wordsworth famously called the language really used by men (and women). On the one hand, Wallace Stevens, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and Jorie Graham;

Madcap Machinisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04200610128000905675noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-40449169380371822982008-09-04T00:00:00.005+08:002008-09-04T00:09:01.223+08:00

I want a red dress.I want it flimsy and cheap,I want it too tight, I want to wear ituntil someone tears it off me.I want it sleeveless and backless,this dress, so no one has to guesswhat’s underneath. I want to walk downthe street past Thrifty’s and the hardware storewith all those keys glittering in the window,past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-olddonuts in their cafe, past the Guerra

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-24890267342764201322008-08-25T15:06:00.006+08:002008-10-31T02:06:40.619+08:00

Tiananmen by James FentonTianamenIs broad and cleanAnd you can’t tellWhere the dead have beenAnd you can’t tellWhat happened thenAnd you can’t speakOf Tianamen.You must not speak.You must not think.You must not dipYour brush in ink.You must not sayWhat happened then,What happened there.What happened thereIn Tiananmen.The cruel menAre old and deafReady to killBut short of breathAnd they will

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-63251229797268003762008-08-17T23:22:00.009+08:002008-08-25T00:41:08.296+08:00

"The Windows"/ / ˘ / / ˘ ˘ / ˘ /Lord, how can man preach thy eternal word? A/ ˘ ˘ / ˘ / ˘ /He is a brittle crazy glass; B/ ˘ ˘ / ˘ / ˘ / ˘ /Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford A˘ / ˘ / ˘ / ˘ /This glorious and transcendent place, B˘ / ˘ / ˘ / ˘ /To be a window, through thy grace. B˘ / ˘ / ˘ / ˘ / ˘ / ˘But when thou dost anneal in glass thy story, C/ ˘ ˘ / ˘ / ˘ /Making thy life to shine within

Nicholas Wonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04291690836462512145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-62632737295947732222008-08-04T13:37:00.005+08:002008-12-09T17:06:23.822+08:00

Last WordBy Richard MurphyHer voice is a mist on the phoneFar away and precariousAs a tree whose roots clingTo rocks overhanging a cliffAs she threatens to hang up.Years pass into dustWith drills, hammers and sawsRemodelling an old houseWhose walls of silenceKeep a granite hold on my loss.Now that she’ll never intrudeOn my rock garden concordFar away through a static mistI hear in her

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-50056466511540116902008-08-02T09:42:00.006+08:002008-08-25T01:08:16.826+08:00

For this new issue of Elarti:2, now out, Amri Rohayat commissioned a few pieces of work from me, one of which is an essay on appreciating poetry. Here's an extract, in which I talked about David Harsent's poem Filofax:Filofaxby David HarsentThe entire township, heading north in cars, in trucks, on bikes, on foot,some with next to nothing, some choosing to cart(as it might be) armchair, armoire,

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-83316297890848162332008-07-30T13:23:00.005+08:002008-12-09T17:06:24.034+08:00

Home to RoostBy Kay RyanThe chickensare circling andblotting out theday. The sun isbright, but thechickens are inthe way. Yes,the sky is darkwith chickens,dense with them.They turn andthen they turnagain. Theseare the chickensyou let looseone at a timeand small-various breeds.Now they havecome hometo roost — allthe same kindat the same speed.We see “chickens” “circling” around and around. Most of

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-55003208499764078982008-07-22T13:31:00.009+08:002008-12-09T17:06:24.186+08:00

Mary at the Tattoo Shopby Marcus Jackson She counted her moneybefore we went in,avenue beside us anxiouswith Friday-evening traffic.Both fourteen, we shared a Newport,its manila butt salty to our lips.Inside, from a huge bookof designs and letter styles,she chose to get “MARY”in a black, Old English scripton the back of her neck.The guy who ran the shopleaned over her for forty minuteswith a

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-2470071955184448602008-04-30T22:18:00.015+08:002008-05-02T04:17:49.992+08:00

The second KL Poetry Slam, themed "Green", was held at the Loft at Zouk, on the 26 April 2008.The Slam posed an interesting topic and theme to the poets with a wide swathe territory for them to explore, though not much is made of this with only a few avenues explored. Most slammers simply referenced the colour or the usual glimpses of green-eyed envy in their poetry rather than actually

Baronhawkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12786638449770573689noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-33863404366210847632008-04-28T21:14:00.017+08:002008-05-02T03:32:22.444+08:00

It has been a whirlwind week, choc-ful of whirlwind experiences. A slice of life on the literary fast lane, a meandering gander unto the poetical plateau. All in all a rather draining and tiring week, but one that is most endearing and shall be remembered fondly by yours truly.Through the good offices of the British Council, Malaysian poets and educators alike have been given the opportunity to

Baronhawkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12786638449770573689noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-11341745276094329862007-07-31T13:53:00.001+08:002008-05-02T03:38:18.023+08:00

I haven’t been reading much poetry lately, and have instead immersed myself completely in dry, heavy but very thought-provoking literary criticism and philosophical treatise for my Masters research, so putting up this write-up is sort of a welcome break and relief. A Cortege of Daughters A quite ordinary funeral; the corpseunknown to the priest. The twenty-third psalm.The readings

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-47368158906995934142007-07-23T18:17:00.000+08:002007-07-23T18:58:46.402+08:00

PONTIANAKBy Bee Bee TanWhen we died,I finally gave birth.It was then the villagers called mePontianak, roaming vampire.My baby on my hip,I ride the wind;farmwives and children quiver.When the sky is wrung greyand heavy clouds hang low,it is my day to runthrough the village by the river.My baby whines.We are blood hungry, thirsty.Leaves whirl in wind,and long nipah palms clash.From the throes of

sharanyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938588081989205992noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-67668977742468158272007-07-16T11:19:00.000+08:002008-12-09T17:06:24.445+08:00

DEAR COLLEAGUEby Alasdair GrayCongratulations! Our whole department is glad you are dead. Great dedicationto material output, inner liasonneeds breaks from time to time and dissolutionseems just the break you need. Should you returnto planning and development the situationwill certainly be reviewed but rest assuredwe manage without you. Fear not!We remain.This very humorous piece is taken from

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-84863787931679288622007-06-27T02:22:00.000+08:002008-12-09T17:06:24.958+08:00

city of the mindby childlike fantasies andworries exhaustedof my mendacious mindat nothing laughingand for the flower crying'cause it diesnot knowing how to save itso nothing remains for thisfickle mind of mine butto forget now and hereafter— as it did before —and thus continue on its ownto rhymelulled by the sea like a fishlanguidly—by Paola BrunaThis poem is taken from the Venetian poet Paola

Madcap Machinisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04200610128000905675noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-41668825746022315642007-06-20T13:05:00.000+08:002007-06-28T12:46:26.207+08:00

"Very Like A Whale"by Ogden NashOne thing that literature would be greatly the better forWould be a more restricted employment by the authors of simile andmetaphor.Authors of all races, be they Greeks, Romans, Teutons or Celts,Can't seem just to say that anything is the thing it is but have togo out of their way to say that it is like something else.What does it mean when we are toldThat that

sharanyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938588081989205992noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-13632619755189546502007-06-12T11:57:00.000+08:002007-06-28T12:51:31.257+08:00

Let me first begin by apologising for how belated this post is, and for the irregularity of updates on this blog over these past weeks. Again, busyness has come into the picture, and as they say, things get harder in the second year, especially with energies flagging; plus this time round, I am embarking on my Masters, on a topic I’m not too confident of pulling off (that’s also the reason why I’

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-69877144923292486192007-05-30T13:13:00.000+08:002008-12-09T17:06:25.115+08:00

FunBy Selima HillShe wanted fun.What she gets is tartan,the classics, and a little wholesome food;what she gets is toothpaste,and the lodger,who thanks You for inventing thighs, O Lord.This is taken from Selima Hill’s 2001 Whitbread Poetry Award-winning collection Bunny.Read by itself, without reading the rest of the collection, Fun won’t make much of an impact, yet. All the poems are connected

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-91616554743358571092007-05-16T22:51:00.000+08:002008-12-09T17:06:25.242+08:00

Somewhere on the other side of this wide nightand the distance between us. I am thinking of you.The room is turning slowly away from the moon. This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and sayit is sad? In one of the tenses I singingan impossible song of desire that you cannot hear. La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imaginethe dark hills I would have to cross to reach you. For I am in

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-22348043856667212112007-05-08T11:26:00.000+08:002007-06-28T12:54:08.158+08:00

At the stoplight waiting for the lightnine a.m. downtown San Franciscoa bright yellow garbage truckwith two garbagemen in red plastic blazersstanding on the back stoopone on each side hanging onand looking down intoan elegant open Mercedeswith an elegant couple in itThe manin a hip three-piece linen suitwith shoulder-length blond hair and sunglassedThe young blond woman so casually coifedwith

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-18628727015158530672007-04-26T11:39:00.001+08:002008-12-09T17:06:25.382+08:00

A Rough Guideby Mark HaddonBe polite at the reception desk.Not all the knives are in the museum.The waitresses know that a nice boyis formed the same way as a deckchair.Pay for the beer and send flowers.Introduce yourself as Richard.Do not refer to what somebody did at a particular time in the past.Remember, every Friday we used to gofor a walk. I walked. You walked.Everything in the past is

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-60368802643754629672007-04-17T22:09:00.000+08:002008-12-09T17:06:25.560+08:00

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,And spills the upper boulders in the sun,And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.The work of hunters is another thing:I have come after them and made repairWhere they have left not one stone on a stone,But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,No one has seen

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-16482644919996112562007-04-03T00:01:00.000+08:002007-04-04T00:03:46.427+08:00

Through the urging of friends, I found myself at my first Poetry Slam last Saturday organised by one of our puisi-poesy members, and to top it off, I was asked to be one of the five judges (Oh no!). This is the first Poetry Slam ever in Malaysia, and to help us along to kickstart things were new friends from Singapore, Chris Mooney-Singh, his wife and their team from Word Forward. A poetry

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-35904114957731197492007-03-26T22:04:00.000+08:002007-04-02T07:30:41.076+08:00

I wanted to post Craig Raine's A Martian Sends a Postcard Home at first, having remembered that it was the first poem my literature teacher brought into class for Practical Criticism. A substantial part of the lesson was spent puzzling over idiosyncratic metaphors, characteristic of Martian poetry. But for now I urgently need to share this poem - the poem that kept me alive throughout my luckless

Nicholas Wonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04291690836462512145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-33642913653575040852007-03-19T17:55:00.000+08:002007-03-19T18:19:30.798+08:00

Well, I don’t want to begin with cliché in speaking of how time flies and how in a blink of an eye, a year has both come and gone for this blog… Alas, I am the least poetic among the others here in expressing these things. Words often fail me quite routinely. Perhaps that is why I am not a poet. But, words in the hands of poets become delectable morsels that twirl in one’s mouth, explosions

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-27457289346950300922007-03-13T16:48:00.000+08:002008-12-09T17:06:25.814+08:00

Automatic DoorsBy Paul FarleyWhen I see some kids springing the gallery doorsI lament the great revolvers. As we entera new era of doors, I can rememberthe thrill involved, the stately, dumb inertiaat first, before they’d give, a slow surrenderto four heaving kids, storing our power,a glass and darkwood turbine, now whatevereffort we put in, the doors would answeras they gathered speed, until

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-3302420036355134622007-03-11T22:53:00.000+08:002008-12-09T17:06:25.948+08:00

of woman tornby Suheir Hammaddid her skin smellof zaatar her hair ofexploded almondsbetween the olive treesher father lit the match brothers poured the flammablethe women they watched the women they tuckedtheir sex away underskirts under secretsin this world ofmen and molotovsfamily pride laidbetween her thighshonor in her pantiesand no oslo accordor camp david signingcould free her sexfrom its

sharanyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938588081989205992noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-67359499442054476212007-03-06T16:08:00.000+08:002008-12-09T17:06:26.022+08:00

I love desire, the state of want and thought of how to get; building a kingdom in a soul requires desire. I love the things I've sought- you in your beltless bathrobe, tongues of cash that loll from my billfold- and love what I want: clothes, houses, redemption. Can a new mauve suit equal God? Oh no, desire is ranked. To lose a loved pen is not

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-20322028246209765842007-02-23T08:00:00.000+08:002008-12-09T17:06:26.205+08:00

After Reading a Child'sGuide to Modern Physics (1961)If all a top physicist knowsAbout the Truth be true,Then, for all the so-and-so's,Futility and grime,Our common world contains,We have a better timeThan the Greater Nebulae do,Or the atoms in our brains.Marriage is rarely blissBut, surely it would be worseAs particles to peltAt thousands of miles per secAbout a universeWherein a lover's

Madcap Machinisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04200610128000905675noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-39668820657432749772007-02-14T00:00:00.000+08:002007-04-02T07:38:12.786+08:00

Personally, Valentine's Day does not figure much in my calendar, but how could Puisi-Poesy let this day pass in silence? Being single and not having particularly romantic thoughts for anyone today I thought that I'd dedicate a post for our beloved poets and you the reader:"À Une Passante"The deafening road around me roared.Tall, slim, in deep mourning, making majestic grief,A woman passed,

Madcap Machinisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04200610128000905675noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-29135585622032551902007-02-06T09:14:00.000+08:002008-12-09T17:06:26.430+08:00

Singh Song!by Daljit Nagrai run just one ov my daddy’s shopsfrom 9 o’clock to 9 o’clockand he vunt me not to hav a breakbut ven nobody in, i do di lock —cos up di stairs is my newly bridevee share in chapattivee share in di chutneyafter vee hav made luvlike vee rowing through Putney —ven i return vid my pinnie untieddi shoppers always point and cry:hey Singh, ver yoo bin?yor lemons are limesyor

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-54816323506209115052007-01-31T09:15:00.000+08:002007-06-28T12:52:52.148+08:00

ArrivalWhen I saw your father then. Before you birthed.I saw a boulder, broad chest, waveringAwkward as his skin, stretched and crackedLosing his old self.I saw his words become weighed.His life mission sharpening like a pencil.I saw him testing father. He would roll itAround like hot liquid and squint under its burn.As you stretched in your mothers tummy,So he stretched. He shed parts to

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-66759051154846738832007-01-16T11:06:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:01:44.605+08:00

What makes a poem a poem? The short piece by Michael Ondaatje below, if put together in a paragraph, reads very much like prose. If so, what distinguishes poetry from prose, or rather in this particular example, what elevates a piece of prose to poetry? Is it merely the arrangement of lines, i.e. its form and rhythm? A number of us have discussed and debated this question in relation to prose

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-87087169363324431892007-01-09T11:47:00.000+08:002008-12-09T17:06:26.762+08:00

The CatchBy Robin RobertsonThe tick you hearis the heart valve’s catch,holding back the wrongtraffic of blood;this click is the notch in a runof iron, and love is a ratchetthat slides only one wayand cannot return.This poem is collected in Swithering, the winner of the 2006 Forward Prize for Poetry.The Catch starts with a little sound, and Robertson spins this out in two sentences, which

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1167783543331465282007-01-03T08:18:00.000+08:002007-04-02T07:45:31.469+08:00

jollymerryhollyberryjollyberrymerryhollyhappyhollyjollyjellyjellybellybellymerryhollyheppyjollyMerrymarryJerrymerryHarryhoppyBarryheppyJarrybobbyheppyberryjorryjorryjollymoppyjellyMullymerryJerryjollybellyboppyjorryhoppyhollymoppyBarrymerryJarryhappyhappyboppyboppyjollyjollymerrymerrymerrymerrymerrymerryChrisammerryasaChrismerryasMERRYCHRYSANTHEMUM by Edwin Morgan______________________________

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1167754813135492242007-01-02T23:16:00.000+08:002007-02-01T03:50:27.447+08:00

It's the new year. We all had our disappointments, our ups and downs in 2006, and some of us might even sigh relief for the horrible things that we can forget and leave behind, to start anew and hope for better things in 2007. Among such new year wishes like going to the gym regularly to keep fit, the poet Ruth Padel, in an article "Turn over a new leaf" in The Guardian (30th Deecember 2006),

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1166754266148437112006-12-22T10:16:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:06:31.251+08:00

(Guest blogged by Giant Sotong)Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred."Forward, the Light Brigade!"Charge for the guns!" he said:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred."Forward, the Light Brigade!"Was there a man dismay'd?Not tho' the soldier knewSomeone had blunder'd:Their's not to make reply,Their's not to reason why,Their's but to

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1166458473449288812006-12-19T00:11:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:00:48.219+08:00

Hereintimations of deathhangheavy in the airEverywherethere is the stenchof decay and despairThe riverstrangled byexigenciesof industrialisationis dying….and nobody caresThe fishin the riverpoisoned byprogress’s vomitare dying….and nobody caresThe birdsthat feed on the fishin the riverpoisoned byprogress’s excrementare dying….and nobody caresAnd soa once-proud villagesustainedfor centuriesby the

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1165908624812669822006-12-12T15:29:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:05:02.639+08:00

Wilderness by Patti SmithDo animals make a human crywhen their loved one staggersfowled dragged downthe blue veined riverDoes the female wailmiming the wolf of sufferingdo lilies trumpet the pupplucked for skin and skeinDo animals cry like humansas I having lost youyowled flaggedcurled in a ballThis is howwe beat the icy fieldshoeless and empty handedhardly human at allNegotiating a wildernesswe

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1165245632555659732006-12-04T23:20:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:04:08.737+08:00

I am not yet born; O hear me.Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or theclub-footed ghoul come near me.I am not yet born, console me.I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me, on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.I am not yet born; provide meWith water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talkto me,

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1165017688914858762006-12-02T07:48:00.001+08:002008-05-17T18:18:20.177+08:00

Here is another one of those “is this poetry?!” posts. *grin*Today I will share two poems by Kevin McFadden which first appeared in an online poetry journal, Archipelago (Volume 6, No. 1). There are a great many things to say about these poems, and especially to comment on what the poet says about them in an interview in the following issue of the journal. Then, there is the connection with

Madcap Machinisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04200610128000905675noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1164627046411531862006-11-27T19:29:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:16:50.568+08:00

WHEN I CUT MY HAIRwhen I cut my hairat thirty-fiveGrandma said she'd forgive mefor cutting itwithout her permissionbut I cried out everytimeI touched my headyears from thenand Grandma deadit came back to me last night whenyou said you wanted it allyour rich body grounding me safethe touch of your hairtook me outI saw pigeon feathersred wooland furand it wrapped mewith the startled pastso

sharanyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938588081989205992noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1164043533460990112006-11-21T00:30:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:08:35.751+08:00

Firstly, let me apologise to any of our regular readers who might have felt disappointed by the absence of two weekly posts during the course of this month. We seek your understanding, as with the case of future leaves of absence. In truth, most of us have been busy lately, and it's tough juggling everything. I have been occupied myself and was tempted not to post this week, but seeing that there

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1162864310840593222006-11-07T08:44:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:03:01.455+08:00

The following night, they went back to the love motel on the farthest side of town from where they lived to order the bubur ayam. Fucking came second on the agenda, because technically they could do it everywhere now that they were so nowhere yet everywhere, if you get the drift; besides, it had been, after all, five years.The bubur ayam was 14,000 rupiah a portion, relatively cheap for indoor

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1161610838882602072006-10-23T21:23:00.000+08:002007-04-02T07:47:55.677+08:00

In conjunction of Divali and Aidil Fitri, I thought I would just post this poem by Jalalud'din Rumi as a short meditation during this joyous and meaningful time of prayers and celebrations. :)That Lives in Us If you put your hands on this oar with me, they will never harm another, and they will come to find they hold everything you want

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1161514963046696892006-10-22T18:53:00.000+08:002006-10-23T21:51:08.773+08:00

In a truly Malaysian fashion, we would like to wish all Hindus a Happy Deepavali, and all Muslims a Happy Aidilfitri!May the joyous occasion of celebration and sharing, the reflective time of prayers remind us all of the humanity we share and the responsibility we have to make this a better world!

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1161067913800926822006-10-17T14:51:00.001+08:002009-06-24T08:20:09.876+08:00

Lovesongby Ted HughesHe loved her and she loved himHis kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried toHe had no other appetiteShe bit him she gnawed him she suckedShe wanted him complete inside herSafe and sure forever and everTheir little cries fluttered into the curtainsHer eyes wanted nothing to get awayHer looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbowsHe gripped her hard so that

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1160435247925422252006-10-10T06:17:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:13:19.376+08:00

God, what am I But a pale copy Of the true ascetics? A lesson in humility.Only under such heat, such thirst, Does the soul realise, The body is just a mirage. Forgive me, God, for Crossing the dates on the calendar, Numbering thirty days of abstinence; For observing how much Temptation surrounds me.The tap's mouth glistens, even though It is only my eye that has polished it. And it is only my

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1159933149304208242006-10-04T11:37:00.000+08:002007-07-23T19:59:03.858+08:00

THE WORDBy Dorianne LauxYou called it screwing, what we did nightson the rug in front of the mirror, drapedover the edge of a hotel bed, on balconiesoverlooking the dark hearts of fir treesor a city of flickering lights. You'dwhisper that word into my earas if it were a thing you could taste --a sliver of fish, a swirl of chocolateon the tongue. I knew onlythe rough exuberant consonantof fucking,

sharanyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938588081989205992noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1159328261634836182006-09-27T11:16:00.000+08:002007-04-02T07:47:55.678+08:00

Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1158719194850140842006-09-20T10:24:00.000+08:002007-06-28T12:54:55.241+08:00

DragonfliesBy Frances LevistonWatching these dragonfliescouple in the air, or watching them try,the slender red wandsof their bodies tappedend to end like fingertips, then faltering wideon the currents of what feels to mea fairly calm day,I think of delicate clumsinesseslovers who have not yet mentionedlove aloud enact,the shy hands they extendthen retract, the luscious fumbled chaseamong small

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1158043659697211572006-09-12T14:38:00.000+08:002006-09-18T02:21:10.806+08:00

The first time I drank ginI thought it must be hair tonic.My brother swiped the bottlefrom a guy whose father owneda drug store that sold boozein those ancient, honorable dayswhen we acknowledged the stuffwas a drug. Three of us passedthe bottle around, each tastingwith disbelief. People paidfor this? People had to haveit, the way we had to havethe women we never got near.(Actually they were

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1157310052924008932006-09-04T00:19:00.000+08:002007-04-02T07:43:21.691+08:00

It was a happy coincidence when Dreamer Idiot shared Wislawa Szymborska's Some Like Poetry last week, and the lines "Poetry – / but what sort of thing is poetry?" appeared, I was in the midst of exploring the answers to the same question!Indeed, what is a poem? Recently, I read a collection of essays by Edward Hirsch at poetryfoundation.org. In Metaphor: A Poet is a Nightingale, Hirsch posits

Madcap Machinisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04200610128000905675noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1157171957085149672006-09-02T12:30:00.000+08:002006-09-02T12:39:17.100+08:00

We are delighted to share in the joy of our fellow contributor, Sharanya Manivannan who has since had some of her poems published by the online poetry journal Softblow. Read her deeply feminine and sensuous pieces here [link].

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1156823815284779852006-08-29T11:50:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:09:24.792+08:00

Some –not all, that is.Not even the majority of all, but the minority.Not counting school, where one must,or the poets themselves,there’d be maybe two such people in a thousand.Like –but one also likes chicken-noodle soup,one likes compliments and the color blue,one likes an old scarf,one likes to prove one’s point,one likes to pet a dog.Poetry –but what sort of thing is poetry?Many a shaky

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1156823419613491912006-08-29T11:46:00.000+08:002006-08-29T12:26:22.776+08:00

Carrie Etter has a blog of her own! and some of her other peoms can be found online here [link]. (Thanks Machinist for the tip up and Leon for introducing her poem "Divorce" in the first place :)

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1156234050338721032006-08-22T16:07:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:10:04.768+08:00

Divorceby Carrie EtterForced to apologisefor the dirty sheets, he looksproud in his shame.I left that bed years agoand have returned to collecta forgotten book, a favourite blanket.He knew the names of trees betterthan makes of cars, but neither well.He remembers which sisterI like least and askshow she is doing.First off, this poem is found in the latest issue of the British Council-sponsored

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1155865037985899822006-08-18T09:28:00.000+08:002006-08-25T14:15:20.106+08:00

Take bread away from me, if you wish,take air away, butdo not take from me your laughter.Do not take away the rose,the lance flower that you pluck,the water that suddenlybursts forth in joy,the sudden waveof silver born in you.My struggle is harsh and I come backwith eyes tiredat times from having seenthe unchanging earth,but when your laughter entersit rises to the sky seeking meand it opens

Shamala S. Palaniappannoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1155486370799908632006-08-13T22:42:00.000+08:002007-04-02T07:51:53.927+08:00

Kerrenga di dalam buloh,Serahi berisi air mawar.Datang hasrat dalam tuboh,Tuan seorang jadi penawar.________________________________________________Now I'm the first to post up a Malay poem on this blog!It is of course a pantun, a form familiar to local readers, but not very well known elsewhere. (I had an American friend who was interested in exploring and using Eastern poetic forms, especially

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1155020228252726362006-08-08T15:15:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:15:25.071+08:00

"You Bring Out The Mexican In Me"by Sandra CisnerosYou bring out the Mexican in me.The hunkered thick dark spiral.The core of a heart howl.The bitter bile.The tequila l�ágrimas on Saturday allthrough next weekend Sunday.You are the one I'd let go the other loves for,surrender my one-woman house.Allow you red wine in bed,even with my vintage lace linens.Maybe. Maybe.For you.You bring out the

sharanyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938588081989205992noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1154373978306911962006-08-01T03:16:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:11:11.795+08:00

Since this poem is context specific, here’s a bit of background information. Hong Lim Park is a public park in Singapore with a Speaker’s Corner. To read more, click here, and search under Singapore.Hong Lim Parka fat man standsannounces an opinionas if it matteredin the hot sunthe trees yawn andalmost sighthe retirees wishthey had theirpark backby Gilbert KohNote: First published electronically

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1153789253365605432006-07-25T08:59:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:14:15.852+08:00

Noon doze,Wall cool againstMy feet(by Basho)Yet another translated poem from me, this time from the East. This is only three lines, and is so, so short. This is a haiku.Most of us probably know something about haikus, that they are a Japanese poetical form, usually rendered (for people reading or writing in English, at least) in 17 syllables, cut into three lines of 5-7-5. But did you know, or

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1153215102104185812006-07-18T17:18:00.001+08:002008-10-31T02:03:23.848+08:00

'Twas on a lofty vase's side,Where China's gayest art had dyedThe azure flowers that blow,Demurest of the tabby kind,The pensive Selima, reclined,Gazed on the lake below.Her conscious tail her joy declared;The fair round face, the snowy beard,The velvet of her paws,Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,She saw; and purred applause.Still had she gazed; but 'midst

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1151548770222655792006-07-16T11:25:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:19:38.689+08:00

Consider the majestic eagle, the 'nobility of the feathered society', soaring high among the clouds, searching — with eyes capable of spotting a rabbit from miles away or a fish beneath the water — and swooping to meet the ground to snatch its prey with his 'crooked hands'... and consider Lord Alfred Tennyson's brilliant poem:The Eagle (A Fragment)He clasps the crag with crooked hands;Close to

Madcap Machinisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04200610128000905675noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1152721689745983732006-07-12T23:44:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:35:10.686+08:00

Vachana 820by BasavaThe richwill make temples for Siva.What shall I,a poor man,do?My legs are pillars,the body the shrine,the head a cupolaof gold.Listen, O lord of the meeting rivers,things standing shall fall,but the moving ever shall stay.- translated from the Kannada by A.K. Ramanujan in Speaking of Siva (Penguin Classics)~~~I chose this poem not only because I have found it deeply moving for

sharanyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938588081989205992noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1151945332823288702006-07-04T00:43:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:34:20.731+08:00

As Superman Returns to the big screen, I thought of putting up this poem, having read it some years back as part of an introductory course to poetry.Superman Sounds DepressedNothing could have prepared me for this lifein which all hinges on me,where it’s only me and my past now leftto reassure the world. The trouble isthey forget me fast and start countingon krill, or thinking they

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1151464406956379842006-06-28T11:13:00.000+08:002007-04-02T07:20:19.261+08:00

Did you know that the late and great Pope John Paul II actually wrote poetry in his 20's? I found a few, and I'm giving my own interpretation of one short piece titled Actor. The Pope, then writing as Karol Wojtyla, was also a stage actor.Actor by Karol WojtylaSo many grew round me, through me,from my self, as it were.I became a channel, unleashing a forcecalled man.Did not the others crowding in

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1151123312822732982006-06-24T12:14:00.000+08:002006-06-24T12:28:32.833+08:00

We started this blog four months ago on a trial basis to see how it would develop and we have been enjoying it so far. At the same time, we are grateful to you, our dear readers for visiting our blog, and would like to solicit your opinion and feedback on the blog. Some of the things we would like to find out would be:What do you like / dislike about our blog?Are the write-ups interesting,

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1150451521487054762006-06-16T17:46:00.000+08:002007-04-02T07:50:54.507+08:00

At evening, sitting on this terrace,When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of CarraraDeparts, and the world is taken by surprise ...When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowingBrown hills surrounding ...When under the arches of the Ponte VecchioA green light enters against stream, flush from the west,Against the current of obscure Arno ...Look up, and

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1149806603161514372006-06-09T06:35:00.000+08:002007-04-02T07:49:46.262+08:00

Who stole sleep from baby's eyes? I must know.Clasping her pitcher to her waist mother went to fetchwater from the village near by.It was noon. The children's playtime was over;the ducks in the pond were silent.The shepherd boy lay asleep under the shadow of thebanyan tree.The crane stood grave and still in the swamp near themango grove.In the meanwhile the sleep-stealer came and, snatchingsleep

Shamala S. Palaniappannoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1149564049952617512006-06-06T11:18:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:18:40.620+08:00

A poem should be palpable and muteLike a globed fruit,DumbAs old medallions to the thumb,Silent as the sleeve-worn stoneOf casement ledges where the moss has grown —A poem should be wordlessLike a flight of birds.*A poem should be motionless in timeAs the moon climbs,Leaving, as the moon releasesTwig by twig the night-entangled trees,Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,Memory by memory

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1148951517572160742006-05-30T09:11:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:20:24.946+08:00

Troopers dead in a trench and a river of ratsTopers dead in a bar and a flood of reflectionsLovers dead in a bed and a shift of maggotsSnipers dead in the trees and a cowl of crowsTravellers dead on the bridge and a gaggle of gawpersOldsters dead on a porch and downpour of fliesDeserters dead in a pitch and a raft of chiggersForagers dead in a field and a jostle of foxesChildren dead at their

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1148345117954765542006-05-23T07:43:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:36:04.918+08:00

i had an uncle namedSol who was a born failure andnearly everybody said he should have goneinto vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol couldsing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself whichmay or may not account for the fact that my UncleSol indulged in that possibly most inexcusableof all to use a highfalootin phraseluxuries that is or towit farming and beit needlesslyaddedmy Uncle

bibliobibulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16456636355933524132noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1148076857690546962006-05-20T06:12:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:21:16.088+08:00

That night your great guns, unawares,Shook all our coffins as we lay,And broke the chancel window-squares,We thought it was the Judgment-dayAnd sat upright. While drearisomeArose the howl of wakened hounds,The mouse let fall the altar-crumb,The worms drew back into the mounds,The glebe-cow drooled. Till God called, “No,It's gunnery practice out at sea.Just as before you went below,The world is as

Madcap Machinisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04200610128000905675noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1147754878967432772006-05-16T12:46:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:38:00.880+08:00

snoozing in front of Seinfeld on the beige on beige reclinerhis belly folds after yearsof american chop suey, hamburgers and MichelobNothinghe really wanted to eatwas ever on the shelvesof Iandolli's or the Big DI think of that manwho cried three times in my lifeonce when appamma diedonce when our dog died& once when I sent hima 99-cent package of tamarind candy& he called me long distance after

sharanyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938588081989205992noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1147147077077300362006-05-09T11:32:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:22:16.988+08:00

IThe winter evening settles downWith smell of steaks in passageways.Six o'clock.The burnt-out ends of smoky days.And now a gusty shower wrapsThe grimy scrapsOf withered leaves about your feetAnd newspapers from vacant lots;The showers beatOn broken blinds and chimney-pots,And at the corner of the streetA lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.And then the lighting of the lamps.IIThe morning comes to

dreameridiothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14124953269206273794noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23419801.post-1146535457758094632006-05-02T10:04:00.000+08:002007-06-28T13:33:06.210+08:00

By Muriel SparkThat scarecrow standing in the fieldis dress-designed as if to moveall passers-by to tearsof sorrow for his turnip face,his battered hat, his open armsflapping in someone else’s shirt,his rigid, orthopedic sticksastride someone else’s jeans,one leg of which is short, one long.He stands alone, he stands alone.Two weeks ago, on April 13, at the age of 88, in Florence, Italy, Dame

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com15