he wrote

he wrote for lengthy abstinence,
he wrote for futures sought;
he wrote for future reference,
and did so without thought.

so dazzled are our common wits, to prance at rainbow suns,
and speak with narwhal and fox kits, and play with perfect puns;
but little do you know the rhyme behind a darkened sill,
to decipher such obtuse signs requires more than will.

beyond the door that locks itself, beyond the wind billowed,
a creature lurks that no-one cares for except for those that bode
well for themselves and for others, with intent pure as ice,
but, then, you see, in itself is this one's unruly vice.

because to write is not to have a creature to have read,
you'll notice it much simpler to eat loaves of garlic bread;
but -mmm- that smells so very nice, like oranges, you say?
what kind of spell is this, pray tell! that might, that would, that may?

that june and july, and august, too, and september, why not?
a writer can have writer's block, a reader can leave rot
so terrible a writing i must say can only source,
from desperation and from care, from like and from dull force;
you see, again, this is all much, too much for one so frail,
that even is a trouble for iridescent narwhale,
and silly sops, like wily wops, that care little for truth;
in fact, such arbitrary tales are vulgar and uncouth.

so, why, my man, why did he write? what did he seek to see?
i cannot tell for anything, not for the life of me!
but maybe God can shine and bless and all those fancy tries,
if one deserves to like, to lust, for -oh my, i smell french fries!-

now where was i, i've lost my thought, oh yes! of why he writes...
i cannot say, i may not know, except that wrong he rights.
but who can care? surely not you, nor reader, you or you,
i guess that's that -some ice cream here- and with that we are through!

he wrote for lengthy abstinence,

he wrote for futures sought;

he wrote for future reference,

and did so without thought.

lack thereof

i have not been writing lately, and i do not know why. i still find the time, and i still find things to write about, but i feel a lack of muse; a lack of motivation. is this what is writer's block, i wonder? perhaps it will pass soon, perhaps it never will. perhaps i have outgrown blogging as a past time, but perhaps i am just waiting for an inspiration, an inspirator.

on the backhand, i have finally set down and written a short story, which is hopefully on the lines that will draw towards me writing that novel i always wanted to. i wonder if i send it in (the short story), will it be worthy of publishing? it is crude and awkward and entirely detached and unsuitable, but maybe that's where we all start - unrefined and uncouth, until we have made so many mistakes that we arrive at something acceptable as to warrant (in this case) publication.

maybe time will tell, and now i embark upon finishing it! should i post it here, i wonder, chapter by chapter, to compensate for the lack of writing? or should i not bother, and have another draft?

taming of the shrew

i believe that my life currently is this. but instead of being tamed, the object is doing... elsethings. my heart is dampened, but it is yet not broken. i still have hope for a farcical and meaningless relationship, that it may blossom into something that means more than life itself, but, as i  keep reiterating, the poet jalaluddin al-rumi said:

'to find love, one does not need to search externally for it, but merely dissolve internal barriers that bar its entry'


maybe, in time, this will dawn upon said shrew. but until then, i can only hope for first contact.

but dove

long life lines in arabesque,
that intertwine and seethe of lust;
a glass of wine upon this desk,
that smells of sweat, of blood, of must.

another cry for help is heard,
but, oh, how placid is this bed;
ignored like filthy, stray blackbird,
do not let it get to your head.

so sing your song, that cheerful tune,
while neighbours die to smoke and flame;
they still gave you the sun, the moon,
and then themselves, they left to blame.

and court!
forget not that they court!
and promised all of life's good will,
with ice and frost they bravely fought,
but fire, comes he now to kill.

another cry for help is seen,
but, damn, these prawns, they taste so good;
ignored like fat, like bone, like lean,
drink that milk like only you could.

but love!
how could you blind such love?
the bitter taste of charcoal becks,
and marred that blackbird was a dove,
now slaughtered, cut above it's neck.

oh, mistake, so i have been told,
it's slaughter not, but sacrifice;
let body remain safe and whole,
the bill? you should not pay this price.

so let the neighbours take it on,
their tab is infinite like stars;
your jacket, sir, do take and don,
and leave in one of your fast cars.

but hope!
this hope, they gave, you too!
a gift so sordid while you part,
that dove died not from blood and dew,
but for you broke its fragile heart.

foreign comprehension

languages are interesting things. even if one were to understand all the available languages humans have come about, would one really be able to understand the ideas behind written work? language extends beyonds the use of words for conveying ideas. languages are born of thought processes and ideologies, they are tainted with culture and limits of knowledge.

for example, notice how english has an ever-expanding and dynamic vocabulary, whereas, say malay has (relatively) not. or how some languages have feminine and masculine modes. or how japanese speech and grammar and choice of words depends on gender. or how rough the arabic language is, when spoken or written. these are only a handful of examples that i present based on the languages i know, and i'm sure there are a million more peculiarities associated with each and every language, that are attributable to how the language originated, is used, evolved, and is envisioned for the future.

this brings me to my particular dilemma. reading through the list of nobel laureates in literature, i find that, without understanding the native language, and having to rely on english translations, i am lost. i find the works lacklustre and begging for something more than the mere translated words can offer. and it is simple to use the term 'lost in translation', but really, there is something more to that. something i cannot ascribe. the 2011 laureate, tomas transtromer's poem reads, for example:

April and Silence

Spring lies deserted.

The velvet-dark ditch

crawls by my side without reflections.

All that shines

are yellow flowers.

I’m carried in my shadow

like a violin in its black case.

The only thing I want to say

gleams out of reach

like the silver

in a pawnshop.

why are the ideas of reflections and velvet-dark associated with april? is it to do with the fact that it is influenced by scenes in sweden? why shadows during summer, which is more associated (possibly) with the equinox, when shadows are at a minimum? why violins and pawnshops? who can say, really, even if we were presented with a dissection by the author himself. would it make sense?

to me, this poem is lost. i cannot appreciate it, much to my dismay. but i do not hold language responsible. i do not hold the author. and i do not hold the ideas behind his inspiration. 

in comparison, my poetry is simple, and discernible, but i wonder, if anyone read it, would they feel the same? would it be translatable and still lost? and would it even be comparable, in the first place? unlikely, but it is comforting to know that if anyone is responsible, it is myself, instead.

mon soleil

réveiller, mon soleil,
et de tarir ces larmes,
with time that with space, that with heart will grow farther;
but time is a price that when paid laissez-faire,
is cheap, mon soleil, like this burden i bear.

what freedom is light, when darkness abound?
what paltry is like, till 'nother you've found?
but night is not endless, with dawn breaks the day,
tarir ces larmes,
réveiller mon soleil.

best. drama. series. ever.

i never really understood relationships. parents and children; boyfriend and girlfriend; husband and wife; etc. even the most basic relationship between friends continues to puzzle me to this day. i think this enlightenment about my lack of knowing came when i first saw an episode of house, where the anti-hero (house) mentions to his best friend (wilson) that friends only exist because of a 'social contract'. i cannot remember the philosophy in its entirety, and the episode probably did not centre around this, but of importance is the concept that we are all predatory beings, and friendships are a mutual benefit, where we invest (emotionally, financially, temporally, and cognitively) in the hopes that one day, when we require cashing - out, that friend is bound by some moral value, or reciprocation, to return the favour. this is why morally bankrupt individuals can exploit the system, like parasites who feed when they need but feel no desire to extend their friendship beyond what is necessary, and some friends would quickly abandon all concept of relationship when the times get tough, or at least the outlook is bleak and there would seem to be no further use of said friendship. of course, even the most optimistic amongst us could argue for the flaws in this idea, but it is an easily-extendible one, that those who see past the simple use of friends are just more patient or play their hands closer to their chests. for posterity, in the episode of house, though he preaches so, house eventually ends up acting above and beyond his ideals, and though he will not admit it, the episode will go on to show that even the cynic in him is soothed by the need for his one real friend.

moving on, as all will quickly question the motif of this post, is the even more complex relationship between partners. most easily described as boyfriend/girlfriend, i am not quick to exclude boyfriend/boyfriend and the various variants of vagary-inducing relationships. semantics and generalisations aside, i cannot fathom the need for this, but let us pen it down to being 'human nature' - the need for another so special that (s)he / it warrants a whole new set of rules and relationship dynamics. having myself reached but failed to grasp any semblance of this, i cannot begin to explain the concepts that apply, but, just like the 'social contract' idea between friends, i would imagine that this rule does not yet break. but i am wrong. apparently.

in its simplest, i would hope that the very basis of friendships holds true (first and foremost) in a budding 'love' relationship; that the portends of mishap may be reason to abandon ship, but otherwise, we tread cautiously and hope that the increasing value of investment does not creep up upon us that we one day wake up bankrupt or in debt. debt so deep that we cannot exit the relationship any more - and this is what is defined as commitment. alternatively, some may want to invest entirely, and (god forbid) hope that the other does as well, and i must admit that i am guilty of such charge, though no longer. the individualist in me (and us all) should rise above this, for it is ironic that such reluctance to invest is perceived as a strength and only encourages the other to invest - a cat and mouse game that i will never understand.

and yet, going back to that basis, one would imagine that cradling and nurturing said investment would be an advantage in all situations, even though commitment is undesirable (though in most cases, imminent). and here, my theory falls flat, again... and i am confused as to why this is so. maybe when one develops a 'loving' relationship, one proceeds to test it. vigorously and unrelentingly, savagely and brutally, till it is battered and broken and unsightly and appalling, and then, should it survive like a mangy mongrel that nobody will want or care for, that is when we adopt it, full on, and without want for reciprocation (as love is blind, but also pure and expecting no reward *sarcasm here*). just like the most bitter medicines are the ones that work the best, the most thoroughly-tested relationships may last the longest? i suppose there is logic in this, but as a person of logic and wanting open lines of communication (as opposed to this whole covert operation of indirect testing, though i must admit, like a beautiful experiment, there is an aesthetic value here that i am yet to appreciate in its entirety), when does one relent? when does one abate, and finally settle? and most importantly, when does the testing stop upon oneself? how much more can one endure before it is no longer worth it? is patience the key to success, or a recipe for disaster? i cannot begin to answer all of these, for i am not even in the slightest way close to any of these checkpoints in a budding relationship. however, i can say this, i don't think i will want to put up with any of this. and, as the wise saying goes:

b*tch, please


if i wanted drama, i'll just go watch another episode of house.