Magic (for Lynette)

And when your foot presses on the pedal
And your fingers hang onto that last chord
It’s magic

The Swan
(Camille-Saint-Saens, 1835-1921)

The swan arches its long curved neck
Over the ebony and ivory keys
She graces the silver surface
Sliding smooth fingers that skim across
The bottom, braided with shining pebbles.
As fluid hands mould quavers into minims
The tips of her wings trace ripples on moonlight
Gradual crescendo resonates richly, when
Beating her wings, she stretches to the sky
Flying over the highest octaves
As falling feathers of stiff snow melt, upon
Fingers endlessly weaving, her haunting theme.

Note: Experimented with this new idea. Was inspired by the piano piece The Swan, and yet the piece had so much emotional connection to the bird itself, with its otherworldly eloquence. :) So I painting the odd lines with imagery about the swan, and the alternate lines after that with the image of the pianist. Hence they kinda merge together at the end. THIS IS VERY HARD K. Some of it may seem a little unnatural, but I hope you manage to extract the beauty within which I so desperately wish to share.

loving you

I’d never fallen much in love with you
simply fallen into
the sway of smooth jazz, crooning
the trick of moonlight, igniting
the illusion
of loving you.

old flame

like a newborn soft, 嫩 shoot
poking through a dusty film of cracked earth,
a sole island emerges
amongst floating champagne icebergs.

charred wick stands smothered
ambers withstanding,
lively flame flickering,
dancing, twisting, turning.

ring of cobalt round the base
illuminates burning passion
smoky touch of how I feel
when I’m with you.

-

your warmth settles on my skin
and seeps into my veins
disintegrating tense

warmth that spreads wider than you think
though casting shadows in cracks
all mirrors of your deep, little black heart.

for Michael J.

as I look upon the all-knowing box
I wonder what is on your mind
are you but a man, winged, or satisfied?
you may have left, but
saturday fever has never died.

I can imagine you
stifling gilded laughter - in sympathy
whilst hearing your name, spilling tears
from every continent, age and memory.

Plans

I had plans to take you away
Lovingly, rashly, unabashedly
O
V
Elope, to the furthest reaches of Northwest China but
D
You wouldn’t, didn’t, want to leave the
O
Umbrella, behind.

you are perfection

you are perfection
encased
in ice.

I want to gaze at
your reflection
for eternity.

tilted, leaves
that never fail to
steal the light.

smoky tendrils
snaking upward to
caress violets.

seeds, half ripe
split open from
their pods.

but dull my senses
slow my reflexes
melt my defenses

is what you’re
doing
to me

faded splotches
of lutescent
kissed wither

rough flinted edges
discoloured
dust gathered.

within fences
you stood apart
from me

forever encased
in ice and in
perfection.

Note: while listening to Hey Eugene - Pink Martini, & Bird Gerhl - Antony and the Johnsons

I wonder why

I wonder why
most people tell
bedtime stories.

if I had a child to lull
into cloudy dreams and
fickle fantasies

I’d tell no tale
sweeter or shorter
than a poem.



a story,
can only begin with
‘once upon a time’
and end with
‘happily ever after’
a fine recipe
to make a tired child
snore.

but a poem
ah a poem
has the soft lilt of voice
the tenderness of words
the rush of tension
and the power of pause.

a poem,
ah a poem
draws you tightly
painting portraits in your mind
stirs your feelings,
tugs your heartstrings.

if I were a child,
I’d
snuggle up to you
quietly,
listen
intently,
breathing
gently,
to fall into dreams
never to wake from

imagination.

the Mantelpiece

its funny how a mantelpiece
can tell you so much more
than an autobiography.

a delicate china plate
carefully crafted
by coarse hands
in a sweatshop in Shanghai.

a rosewood ukulele
strings curled, round elderly posture
hunched, soulfully strumming,
in Hawaii (summer holidays 1982.)

a miniature toy car
with peeling paint
smooth hands of youth on the wheel
steering towards that transformative accident.

soldier poised,
musket ready,
aggressive and ready to fire straight
into the hearts of loved ones.

an enormous handmade
personal plaque
for the most loving daddy,
happy birthday.

and a timepiece
etched insignias
roman numerals
dust,
and black intricacies.

the hands have long stopped ticking
(since 1994)
but every piece
worth a memoir
is right there
on that mantelpiece.

Comments: Gah I don't really like this one. It's a BEAUTIFUL object of inspiration to write about and I was just so tired and uninspired I totally didn't do it justice. ): Oh well. A toast to improvement!

Serenity

Somehow there is Serenity,
in the perpetual rumble of red necked motorcycles
while you lie on the precipice of consciousness
So safe to slip into
with the knowledge that
the rest of the world is still
Alive

Off

Silence is off balance, now.
White lizard never off tandem
To off-load passengers
An offer us ingrates
Off ten (,) do not consider.

Secrets that are mine, and yours

the city is never asleep.
it rushes past
so quickly

i know why they call you
restless, now
iridescent eyes that won't stop
blinking,
twinkling,
winking

now i feel that i
am absolutely still
listening, as a friend would,
to you talk

notice its the
indigo shadow, overhung
that brings out the best of us
a mine of
gold, rubies
and occasionally, diamonds.

Writing Exercises

Writing Exercise 1

I don't remember
The days I spent as a young child
Overseas with the *Golden Oldies,
At the time still ripe and relatively young
Sightseeing with more than eyes
But you need hands
The warmth of intertwining hands
Palms face to face
Lines running, crisscrossing
Wherever they meet
What am I saying
I am saying I don't remember
But I do
Only that these things are inconsequential in nature

I don't remember
The places I've been to
And I don't know
How fortunate I am.
They go: "Oh!
Your mother tells me you've been to
Cairns, and London, and **Glastonbury."
Er is the response strung by spiders
When they know not what convincing tale to weave.

And often the phrase
"I don't remember"
Comes with regrets
Because, why don't you remember?
Chides my left brain.
You've experienced it.
Now it's wasted.
But perhaps
If we don't remember
And we simply speculate
There is imagination.
And that speckle of creativity
Might well flow
Stronger and hotter
Like a stream of molten lava
And melt the iron lock
Which holds our memories captive.

Oh if we do
How wonderful it is to remember!
But how blessed it is not to remember
Old age need not be a factor
I am not old
But sometimes I think I am old
Because
I don't remember.
I don't remember
I don't
I

*parents
**not sure if it is an actual place

Writing Exercise 2

Neon.
Those neon advertising signs
Of an un-airconditioned restaurant
Selling prawn noodles.
The family was there
*Uncle Alvin, Ah Ee, Ah Ma, Ah Gong, Noah, Nathan, Naomi, Mummy,
Daddy and me
I have listed all of them from my fingers
I need not count but I know they're all there

After we eat I go to the pier
It is night time
And a thousand stars were twinkling
Or maybe just my imagination of cliches because
In Singapore, the stars are never as bright or as many
Poets would like to think.
The waters were black and the waves were roiling
Some skipped pebbles
But I wouldn't dare.

And us, the cousins and I
Played Follow the Leader
There was grass, and there was gravel
The grass was wet as it had just rained
And it brushed constantly against my feet.
There was gravel
But I'm going to tell you how it feels, later.

There was a moment in time
A push
A lull
And then a frantic tumble
As if they could not fall
Fast enough
Collapsed
On me.

And now I'll tell you how the gravel felt.

It hurt.

*Personal family names coined after years of familiarity. You notice that the word 'family' is in familiarity :)

Note: Writing exercises are something that make you write and write and write. You can write nonsense (Cleo: Nun-sense!) and yet ultimately it will help you write better and express your feelings about a subject more clearly and yes it does help, I guess, with writer's block, because you are not allowed to put your pen down, no, not even for a second to pause to think, and you can start with something small and insignificant and it may turn into an epic drama or play that lasts 24 hours running. I do hope the above wasn't ALL utter nonsense :)

"Pour your experiences into a mold."
Thank you Ms Jean Tay

Old Poems
Haikus

Shades of faint sunlight
Dart among edges of green
The game still goes on

Metallic armour
Afraid yet fascinated
And he leans forward

Artificial is
Unable to beat nature
Beautician, She is

No, fashion eyewear
Flicker, flaunt, no eyelashes
The eye flies away

The Buddha’s Journey
Inner meditation, he
Made his legacy

How to kiss a spider

You watch it
Balance so still,
hanging
As if on thin air

The web it spins
Catches the Sunlight,
Magnifies the Starlight

Paralysed,
Gripping hard
The pain of nails merged into skin

But delve in deep
It takes over
Granite over snow

Pincers dissolve
Imagine lips
Take a bow and move on in

Moment;
Prick of poison,
Veins of ice

I've done it
Dared the devil
Rewarded an angel

The feelings you get
The steps to take
"How to kiss a spider."

That is you

That is you
Staring sullen, at the floor
Before thundering up the
Stairs
In a flash.
It is your leave
And not our fight,
That stung.
Now that you are
Upstairs,
Distant
Enough,
Doesn’t hold me back,
Doesn’t hold
Them back.
Red hot molten frustration
Subsides into pathetic upheavals
Of breath
Then,
Silence
When I could finally bear helplessness
Recognition.
Reach up to cover my
Fac(ad)e, only to meet
Pools of weariness running dry.

I touch the warm wetness that clings to my finger,
Circle the drop round the rim
Of red eye,
Like the celebratory glass of champagne
Overspill.
Circle continuously,
Meticulously,
Til dries.
The moist ghost lingers,
Remains a vapour on
My finger,
Watery eyeshadow,
Macabre mascara,
I pretty myself
For the picture,
That is you

Comments: Extremely dislike the part from "red hot molten fustration" til "running dry". Ugh -shivers- so cliche! I separated the first stanza from the second cause
I initially wrote the second one first, that was my bit when I was inspired,
And the first stanza was there for it to make sense. So I think the first could use a lot of help!
And the second, well, is
Subject to opinion. :)

Everything and Nothing

Soft hands are
White linen that
Rest momentary
On mine
Thumb and forefinger
Feel familiarity slide
Past grooves and whorls
A quiet little spark
And when let
It go
I know
Your mark