five minute poetry. (long overdue)

FINGERS

Its cold here, without you.

Hand-holding weather, you used to say

When our fingers were cold until caressed by the warmth of the other

and Our hands could

interlock without sweat.

But you are gone, and I am

Sitting here, frozen fingers fast

becoming numb.The Cold is

seep/creep

ing into me now that you

are not here, and it is

squeez/freez

ing my mind dry.

CROSS

You are sitting,

Eyes closed, head down.

Mouth turned down at the corners

Eyebrows knitted together, tight

like an infant's fist.

You are looking,

But I am not sure what you are

Seeing. You hold the long piece of

plastic and it is slick-slippery with sweat

and you look up, and I look down

At the positive, the negative, the plus,

another cross to bear.

STAGE

Darling,

the stagelights are glaring,

and this place is cold.

I am shivering, and I hope that you,

down there with the rest of them,

do not notice.

You are watching me, your

Eyes flicking from my head to my toes.

I wonder what you are thinking, but

then I have no time to wonder when

Your hands begin a chorus of

applause and rudely push my thoughts

out of my mind and onto the stage, where I

pick them up, and begin to throw them

at you.

05/09/2011 - untitled

Son,

You send us messages at night,
Excusing your absence with some
Pixels on a screen.
You say you are at with her.
(As always.)

Some days you do come back.
Safe,
Whole,
(but not wholly back)
Still unable to disguise the
Helium hope in you that is Her.

Maybe tomorrow you will be home.

i. malinconia melancholy

who are you? she asks, white hair trailing
who am i? she wonders, tracing the varicose veins
that trail over her arm

ii. grave solemn, slow

where is this? she wants to know, it is all
sterile white sheets and blue
paper gowns and too-bright
lights

iii. giocoso merrily, happily

here there is
a pretty young girl to take
care of me
pretty like I used to be
(small smile)

iv. dolce sweetly

(time for your meds louisa)

v.

but who am i?
i don't know yet
i cannot take pills
and sugary syrups
if i do not know who i am feeding
I want to remember.

vi. lamentoso mournfully

(but then again, you may never know again)

Poh Poh

I could always hear Grandmother before I saw her. The clicking of her perilously high heels, the guttural fragments of dialect. Her smile-wrinkled face would beam all around whichever room she was in, showing her bright crimson lipstick and yellowed but straight teeth. Her gray hair was almost always in a bun, I suspect to show off the large jade earrings and heavy gold pendant she always wore.

“Ah girl,” she would say to me, “Eat these dates, drink this herbal tea that Poh Poh made just for you! I also bought some chicken essence and ginseng for you to drink. Then you will be smarter, then next time can earn more money, then can buy Poh Poh jewellery, right?”

Grandmother would pat my head gently. I would try my best to smile and look grateful, bobbing along with her. She would give me a hug each day as she sent me off to school, and I would inhale her familiar scent of Prickly Heat powder, sour plums and Axe medicated oil.

She always tried to get me to call her Poh Poh, like the rest of her grandchildren. I insisted on calling her Grandmother. It was my way of distancing me from her, removing myself from her. I did not want to be emotionally connected to her. I knew that she, like most other elderly people, would soon pass away. The more distance I put between me and her, the less I would miss her when she too, was gone.

Grandmother was never the same after Gong Gong’s death. She became louder, flashier, as if in order to make up for his absence. In the night, she would comb my hair and tell me long sentimental stories of how Gong Gong slowly wooed her.

She told me how he would send her long lists every day, stating the reasons why he was an ideal companion. She told me how even though Gong Gong had been poor, he always tried to look his best, patching up the holes in his clothes and styling his hair with Brylcreem. She showed me how Gong Gong had danced with her. I would always see a spark of nostalgia in her dark, Singaporean-brown eyes. Most of the time, I would also see a river of grief behind those eyes.

When Grandmother thought I was asleep, she would simply sit next to my bed and sing Cantonese love songs to herself, eyes bright with the sheen of unshed tears. Once, I slipped my hand gently into Grandmother’s hand, rough and callused from years of hard work, varicose veins protruding. I did not look at her, but I felt a warm splash on my hand, the outlet for her sorrows.

I called her Poh Poh from then on.

She told me that I
Should write instead of venting
My frustrations on others
Instead of pounding about the
House, stomping around

She told me it was
Easy. Take a pen, sheet or
Two of paper
And pour out your mind
While trying your best to make
Some semblance of sense

Or not.
Because that’s okay too.

5 Minute Poetry

Here's what we do for 5 Minute Poetry:

1. Open a mass MSN/FB/Skype convo

2. Add all who are involved

3. Spew out topics

4. Wait five minutes between each topic then post your poetry and read others' :D

5. Continue for as long as you want.

Here's the result of when I did this with Myko, Wei Khai and Kat:

(Mine are the discernibly noob ones.)

Note: This is copy-pasted from Myko's facebook notes, and i'm not deleting any comments. So like yeah. Here goes.

traffic light (12/5/2011)

myko's

I will be waiting here

Here at this traffic light

For a sign, any sign

That you still need me.

Like the light to call Batman,

Or Gatsby's green light

across the sound; I will

wait at this traffic light

for a sign, for your sign.

Wei Khai's (more beautiful one)

in essence the presence

of lighted effervescence the

result of countless experiments,

when combustion in conditions make for

perverse tradition -

we transverse the outrageous

and bullish stubborness

of sensual maroon hubris;

the price we pay for a rashness

that gets under our skin.

Ant's (also REALLY CUTE AND GOOD ONE)

widened eyes connect

over darkened windows

a small wave

a tiny smile

a brief connection

green!

now broken.

Kat's..... (wtf why so imba)

When there are no more lights

To lead you home

It is okay, perhaps

Even appropriate

To wander the smiling streets

With its rotten teeth and

Benevolent fingers

Crooked in your direction

Beckoning your footsteps to

Indecisive lights

That may lead you away

grass (12/5/2011)

myko's

do you notice how the grass sways

in the wind; in the endless fields?

do you notice how the grass prays

with their heads bent down in deep thought?

do you notice how the grass plays

upon the flute a reedy tune?

do you notice how the grass stays;

it bends but never moves far away

do you notice the small things like

the grass? do you notice the small people,

like me? the people smaller than the grass?

Wei Khai's

you taught me how each blade

was not as sharp as they were

supposed to be, instead a luscious

sea of green and yellow and all of

summer, when one bristles his fingertips

over the gleeful heads of welcome stalks,

each one a smattering of childishness like

cereal on a sunday morning.

the mud you smeared on my face, you cleaned with

the grass, and the smell of freshly fallen rain a miscible

solution to my dewy worries.

Kat's

Those green

Gentlemen fall

Into garden ballrooms

Waltzing with bugs, surrenders their

Blades' edge

cards (12/5/2011)

myko's

One day, I will run out of cards to send you;

I will run out of excuses to write sweet things

to you without sounding pretentious or awkard,

one day I will run out of Valentine's Day Cards,

Or Happy Birthday Cards, or other cards, so

One day I will send you my name card, the

King of Diamonds, because I'm superficial. But you

should be the Queen of Hearts, because

that is what you are; the queen of my heart

and all my hearts and my heart of heart of hearts,

In possesion of something more precious than gold.

One day I will send you a postcard

from my heart saying "I wish you were

Here", because that is all I could ever

wish for. For you to see be with me

in my heart, sharing something special.

One day I will write you a card without

any reason apart from the fact that I want

to write you a card.

Wei Khai's

you played your hand

right into mine, as i held it

and told you, that life is a tower of

cards, and your dog-eared emotions

but the royal flush

that colour your cheeks with the powdered

cherry - in essence the presence

of an unwilling poker face.

Anthea's (oh this is my favourite)

I'll send you a note

A stiff piece of paper,

Covered with flowing script

On one side

Decorated on the other

folded in half.

I'll expect it to mean more to you

Than what it really is:

A stiff piece of tree.

Happy birthday.

Kat's

Essentially

We pay

Greeting card writers

To paraphrase, in a million

Witty

Politically correct

Obscene

Ironic

Endearing

Hilarious

Unique

Ways, what should be

Scratched on to the backs

Of scraps of paper

By pens that struggle to work

In, above all, our own hand

coffee aka the super-difficult-to-write-about topic by Anthea (12/5/2011)

myko's

what's there to talk about coffee?

I wake up at every morning, have

a cup of the damn thing and then

go to school. normal routine.

what's there to write about coffee?

what's so special about coffee?

is it because it keeps you awake?

honestly you keep me sleepless

more than coffee can. love keeps

me more sleepless than coffee

could ever hope to keep me sleepless.

Wei Khai's

twenty seconds in and he is

late for work, the fog from the coffee

pulling a comfortor over his sweetest vision

like caramel in an hot blend of the latest

latte, flowing in silent motion to mock his

frustrated dash for the 8:04, the swirling mess in

chipped mugs which have so often connected chapped lips

together in a silent acknowledgement of brevity in love,

and the flourescent reflection of the heavens long

after his wife has turned off the lights -

no longer a celestial divinity

but a passing affinity.

Anthea's

One day, my father says, you will learn

to appreciate the aroma of coffee

One day, he always says, you will like

this more than you like tea

One day, you will concede that

ground up, boiled beans

are infinitely better than

ground up, boiled leaves

Because one day these beans

will give you that so

badly needed boost

that those leaves cannot.

Kat's

Every morning

I make myself a cup of coffee

And, every morning, as an

Afterthought

I make a cup of coffee

For you

I carry both mugs and set them

Down on the table, where they stand as

Warring cities, divided by an

Ocean of milk and butter

I sit down then and you know

I hate to be impolite but

I've stopped waiting for you to arrive

Instead, I bring the mug, scorching

To my lips, take a sip

Then cradle it in my hands

Nursing the drink like a

Fresh bruise

Until all the heat has left

And your mug remains

Untouched

Grandmother

I could always hear Grandmother before I saw her. The clicking of her perilously high heels, the guttural fragments of dialect. Her smile-wrinkled face would beam all around whichever room she was in, showing her bright crimson lipstick and yellowed but straight teeth. Her gray hair was almost always in a bun, I suspect to show off the large jade earrings and heavy gold pendant she always wore.

“Ah girl,” she would say to me, “Eat these dates, drink this herbal tea that Poh Poh made just for you! I also bought some chicken essence and ginseng for you to drink. Then you will be smarter, then next time can earn more money, then can buy Poh Poh jewellery, right?”

Grandmother would pat my head gently. I would try my best to smile and look grateful, bodding along with her. She would give me a hug each day as she sent me off to school, and I would inhale her familiar scent of Prickly Heat powder, sour plums and Axe medicated oil.

She always tried to get me to call her Poh Poh, like the rest of her grandchildren. I insisted on calling her Grandmother. It was my way of distancing me from her, removing myself from her. I did not want to be emotionally connected to her. I knew that she, like most other elderly people, would soon pass away. The more distance I put between me and her, the less I would miss her when she too, was gone.

Grandmother was never the same after Gong Gong’s death. She became louder, flashier, as if in order to make up for his absence. In the night, she would comb my hair and tell me long sentimental stories of how Gong Gong slowly wooed her.

She told me how he would send her long lists every day, stating the reasons why he was an ideal companion. She told me how even though Gong Gong had been poor, he always tried to look his best, patching up the holes in his clothes and styling his hair with Brylcreem. She showed me how Gong Gong had danced with her. I would always see a spark of nostalgia in her dark, Singaporean-brown eyes. Most of the time, I would also see a river of grief behind those eyes.

When Grandmother thought I was asleep, she would simply sit next to my bed and sing Cantonese love songs to herself, eyes bright with the sheen of unshed tears. Once, I slipped my hand gently into Grandmother’s hand, rough and callused from years of hard work, varicose veins protruding. I did not look at her, but I felt a warm splash on my hand, the out-letting of her sorrows.

***

I need to write more (regularly).