MEDITATION FROM PEOPLE WATCHING IN LONDON

Photo by Alexander Dimitrov on Unsplash

It is a miracle for people to love each
other, in spite of the fact that people
are people. We are so minute and
small in this ocean of want. How
we part like clouds nobody watches.
Is there beauty in what’s unknown?
I’m sitting at a cafe, alone, watching
filled-out city buses run to death.
Heads like mason jars filled with
thoughts nobody will remember.
I can’t help but relate everything
to you at some point. It’s an instinct
to bury myself in memory. Come on.
Think of simpler times, think of the time
we were bent sweaty making guacamole
in the kitchen when you stabbed yourself
with the knife, the seed a spared child.
We had to call an ambulance and you
were so afraid that you would never
write again. The gap in your palm,
first a fleshy blue, then purple, like
an evening sky after a fisherman’s day.
The shape of that wound is carved
still on the walls of my mind. I trace
it from time to time to remind me
how delicate life is. How it all
hangs on silken thread and
frayed knots, a fire threatening
to devour it all. The power
of a few centimetres, the fear
of the hit and miss. The scars
that have yet to form, to heal.

APRIL UPDATE


Photo by Daria Shevtsova on Unsplash

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything (for this website, anyway), so I figured I might as well switch it up a little with some blogging.

Finally got something accepted somewhere! I’ve gotten a piece in Food Republic, the first (to my knowledge, anyway) food-themed anthology in Singapore, as well as two fun little experiments into Caveat Lector, UCD’s lit mag. Somewhere along the process I started to realise how little I was submitting outside as opposed to how much I thought I was doing. Making a spreadsheet really reveals how much you’re actually doing with your work – I guess I’m now in the “100 rejections per year” gang.

Also! Finished and submitted for Manuscript Bootcamp. While I have little confidence about making it to the end, I do hope that the judges enjoy the work. Working on it was really exhausting and made me hate my own work for a while.

Speaking of hating myself – SingPoWriMo has officially descended! Essentially Singapore’s National Poetry Writing Month, we have to write a poem each day for a month. The pressure so far has been pretty high – I’ve had a good thing going the past few days but the Day 5 prompt threatens to ruin that streak.

Fingers crossed! I’m full of hope and optimism and back pain right now.

SELF PORTRAIT AS OWN BIRTH


Photo by Alex Hockett on Unsplash

If two sameselves make
a paradox, then so is my birth;
one roll of the die
with infinite sides.
I oscillate between possibilities
like a speck of dust
caught in vision.
A child of coincidence,
one branch of Yggdrasil,
born to yearn for fruit.
I’d like to reconfirm
my own existence, ensure
that I was some other
unknown in an equation.
I need to verify that there
is a purpose to this permanence.
I’d like to see
the snip of the tether
between this poem and the next.
To be free under a maiden blade.
To be named again and again.

TIME


Photo by Ihor Malytskyi on Unsplash

Time lies, useless as a sword
in the lake. For one, there’s time,
and then, there is passage, as in
come, squeeze the cheeks of
this little tragedy
. Who will offer
the world their breast?
I’m sat, couched deep in tomorrow,
hands on the pulse. Tomorrow I will
flip onto the pavement and pound it
Into confession. Tomorrow I will
flip on the tele and watch nothing,
I will ride down to a cliff and say
nothing. Time waits there, watching
over us all like an empty house.


Truth be told, I still find most of my writing to be horrid or gross somehow. Posting them online is one way for me to try and curb this mentality. I need to be comfortable with the things I write.

BLUE


Photo by Valentine Werner on Unsplash

The taste of dish soap lingers
on the rim of the teacup. You
and I sit at crossroads, legs
dangling over cliffs. This is
an exercise in communication
by proxy, messages hidden
in the fold of an arm. Coltrane
murmurs in the background like
a roommate, and the television
is switched off. This is timeless,
this is the way we freeze-frame
our lives, this is how it’s always
been. Quiet slips into the tea.
Outside, the world loiters on to
the beat of its own heart, clouds
passing strangers, averting gazes
onto the street. Your irises cross
the street too, leaving without
goodbyes. I get up and walk
into another room, empty,
but I don’t come back.
The teacups are left
in the sink, soaking
everything in.

Written for UCD LitSoc’s Writer’s Bloc! It’s a fun workshop where we get to do short writing prompts within a limited time span. Really encourages stream of consciousness-based writing as well! Also, I realise the tea cup in the featured image isn’t exactly the type of tea cup that would fit here but I couldn’t find an image I wanted. Sorry!