Smoking in the 2nd Class

Hello my faithful readers,

This is the 'appetizer' for our next post: modern visual poetry.
Feel free to enjoy this 'sumptuous' spread of literary devices and revel in its definition-defying or rather the re-defining of the free form.

To view the poem, open it in a new tab and click on the image to enlarge. 

Mapping the City

The city is the place we live: we weave our lives and experiences around it and it precisely this that makes writing about the city so powerful. Whether in prose (narrative) or verse (poetry), when witing about the city, the writer is able to imbue the city with the values and emotions the want to ascribe it. When mapping a city, you can garb it as majestic, fantastical, unfamiliar, evil, barren, lifeless, rich, poor, tyrannical et cetera.

When mapping a city, it is useful to 'personalise' the city by language (by use of jargon), diction (choice of words), imagery, metaphor or metonymy and not to forget - memory. Memory is a very powerful tool, not only in writing but in any field. The way we perceive things historically, temporally (time) and spatially (space) can alter the ways we perceive the many different elements and experiences.

That is why "walking through the city" is important when writing poetry. It gives an important insight into the everyday life of everyday people - it talks about the politics of place, space and the inhabitants of that space; time  and the passing of time; popular culture and the populace itself ( and potentially a comment on demographics).

Below are links to two different poems that I think maps a city well and there is a lot to be observed and understood from these poems:
In the City and Mumbai.

All the best,
Loe.

Re-imagining and Re-defining Poetry

Our goal here at the Hive is not not just to suggest, address and digest all kinds of writing - although my focus has been largely taken up by the Just Write poetry project. I realise, after going through the few submissions trickling in that many people still do not understand why people write.

People write for many reasons - to express themselves, share thoughts and feelings, but beyond that, we write to problematise and document our everyday struggles and issues we face throughout our lives. Poetry is unique in its approach to persuade, disuade, suggest, portray the different issues through feelings, imagery, word play and sound.

While we're on this track, my main point is this: poetry need not be traditional (same rhyme, same stanza length). Personally, I suggest the free-verse and free-style of poetry as in can be much more liberating and allows for much more creative freedom.

At the same time, by employing certain techniques such as visual poetry (a future topic), palindrome (something like a mirror effect, also a possible future topic) can be more liberating artistically. The results sometimes forces the writer to move out of their comfort zone and write 'outside the box'. At the same time, it can be much more pleasurable to write, as well as to read.

For example,
below is lipogram (where an alphabet is dropped from the entire poem). The alphabet 'a' has been dropped from the poem.

Power is purpose corruptive;
corrosive forces curdling
white into sour milk.

Power is purpose corruptive;
Toy soldiers lumbering below
ruins of empires, broken.

Power is purpose corruptive;
Control too tightly eventually ruptures -

Fright, that flighty fiend has come home.

The poem is polysemic, in the sense that it carries a different meaning to different people. The rhytym does not flow and it is intentional - to disturb the reader, and provoke him or her to question 'power'.

Disclaimer: I am in no way suggesting that the above poem is the best. It is just an example of free form. Also, I would like those of you reading this blog to question the lack of consistent imagery here and how that affects a poem through its impact.

Example: Transgender poetry

The Pink Elephant
(source: http://allpoetry.com/poem/7354667-The_Pink_Elephant-by-teamblake)

It was the pink elephant Just standing in the middle of the living room Waiting to get noticed Hoping to one day be the topic of conversation 

Some days I swear it had polka dots Other days It just blended into the background of the kitchen walls 

We all knew it was there But didn’t know how to approach it So we tiptoed around Hoping not to disturb its slumber 

The thought of truth being spoken Ignited flames to my throat Choking me At the sight of honesty’s release 

Images of dark blue Ripe purple and a burden of black Reminders Covering my chest and back 

A reminder of my differences And keeper of my secrets 

It’s the slurs Thick with hate Thrown across class rooms Bouncing off walls like rubber balls high off caffeine 

Scars so deep Dignity is nowhere to be found Barbie’s host their non-fat fraps with extra whip Whispering 

of sissies and dykes who roam hopelessly With their elephants in tow Their whispers so loud 

They course through the shallow halls Kicked up and passed around By the football team And slammed into the shadows 

The pink elephant It follows me everywhere
It’s kept on a leash Like the secrets resting on the tip of our tongues 

Waiting, waiting to one day 

slip free

In Focus: The Queue

by Lawrence Mainja, Zimbabwe
source: http://www.voicesnet.org/displayonepoem.aspx?poemid=155879

In the queue, sweat drippingTumies rumbling and
The sun’s rage scotching bald heads
Hoping faces just glance
To the wavering horizon
Spitting out grief
This act, like inborn
Draws us to this place
And the question:
Where we are? 

Waiting
Trees are transpirating
Maybe one coughs
Yet we rub our brows and wait
Not forgetting the persona non grata
Heads we nod, and sovereignty we cherish
What lustre these words have
The fuhrer spits venoms
Hands, hoes, spades are torn, clapping
Knowing tomorrow is the queue
In telepathy we agree
That order and power
Endowed with god’s grace
Is to be left wriggling
Till we all shrink

In Focus: War

Leaping the Peace
We are the Peace-keepers
Who walk in desert lands,
We are the Army’s friendly face,
Machine guns in our hands.

We walk the wilderness
Where others fear to tread
In a mine-infested city
Populated by the dead.

We’ve been programmed to destroy
We’re itching for the kill
So whilst we’re winning hearts and minds
The hunger lingers still.

When politicians wash their hands
Of torture and of shame
When lethal weapons blow you up
Then we’re the ones you blame.

We are all the young men
And women you despise
Who bear the guilt of nations
In the bleakness of our eyes.

And when in uniform display
Our coffins high are borne,
We are your sacrifice
Your slaughtered lambs come home.


by Lynne Colgrave, UK


Source: http://www.voicesnet.org/displayonepoem.aspx?poemid=193746

In Focus: Malaysian Poet, Wong Phui Nam

These are further examples of both form, style and content. To date, Wong Phui Nam remains a favourite poet of mine. His style, in my opinion, especially his description of the landscape carries such love that can only be compared to one of the earliest Indian poets to write in English - Rabindranath Tagore.

HOW THE HILLS ARE DISTANT

Even the film-makers will have to admit,
the Malay annals upon the people’s consciousness
would wash like the tide
piling jetsam upon the jetty steps,
you said, as the car hit
ninety, beetling into the obsessive shell
of a parched landscape. And K.L. hours behind.
Dodging the disappearances and appearances
of the road, the cradled ego growing blind
against the body’s chafing would hide
from the terrible squashing of the sun,
threshing in daydream played out in the street…
of the Capitan China, the one
who, befogged in private vision,
laid down his law and had his women,
drove through the town in his carriage and eight –
for our forefathers left much behind
bringing mostly, when they came, the body
to contend with, did not notice the landscape,
the nodding vacuity of a malformed head.

At year’s end, the sense of annunciation touched only
the windows of the solitary.
And at the garden party, the bishop,
between meeting the community’s leaders,
picked at his beard, thinking perhaps of his study,
colonnades… the cathedral town…
The Capitan’s horses go clip-clop,
passing like the breeze down the midnight streets.

Our conversation petering out… silences…
Daydreams settle into laterite and gibberish of vegetation,
which made nonsense of Saint Francis’ mission.
De Sequiera’s troops over the ridge
forgot the meaning of their Christ and King.
Under the flare of the sun’s declension
the hills ignited. We passed the region
of the dead, the circular descent of those
who died and had committed nothing.

Our room’s on the second floor.
I am rather tired after today;
I feel the darkness of Babylon at the door.

NOCTURNES AND BAGATELLES

The river grows harsh at the bend,
speech broken onto boulders, tears at root-ends
of strong reeds. A lizard moves 
and crawls in the mimosa 
which spread and trail leafless 
across the rough stones of my heart.  
This is not the season 
when the wind blows wet 
and in the night rumours of water fowl 
but of the lonely sun 
when anger withers on the stoney bank, 
its branches bare
against the sky that holds your absence.

by Wong Phui Nam

**Read more about Wong Phui Nam here

Experimental poetry

New forms of literature prefer to break the rules than adhere to old rules.
Experimental writing has been much more fun to read and write compared to old writing forms and techniques.
However, experimental poetry isn't as much a success as experimental writing (reader response-wise, in my opinion) - not because it lacks artistic expression or context or even esthetique value but perhaps because the conventional form of writing verse and prose is a lot more popular than contemporary ones.

Anyways, here is one that I find quite interesting.
I hope you can draw inspiration from these poems.
All the best!

in the stumps of old trees where the rain gathers and the/trapped

leaves and the beak, and the laced weasel’s eyes, there are/holes the

length of a man’s arm, and at the bottom a sodden bible/written in the

language of rooks. But do not put your hand down/to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there

are holes the length of a man’s arm where the weasels are/trapped

and the letters of the rook language are laced on the/sodden leaves,

and at the bottom there is a man’s arm. But do/not put your hand

down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out/there

are deep holes and dank pools where the rain gathers, and/if you

ever put your hand down to see, you can wipe it in the/sharp grass

till it bleeds, but you’ll never want to eat with/it again.

In the stump of the old tree, where the heart has rotted

out,/there is a hole the length of a man’s arm, and a dank pool at

the/bottom of it where the rain gathers, and the old leaves turn

into/lacy skeletons. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees, where the hearts have rotted

out,/there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and dank pools at

the/bottom where the rain gathers and old leaves turn to lace, and

the/beak of a dead bird gapes like a trap. But do not put your/hand

down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees with rotten hearts, where the

rain/gathers and the laced leaves and the dead bird like a trap,

there/are holes the length of a man’s arm, and in every crevice of

the/rotten wood grow weasel’s eyes like molluscs, their lids

open/and shut with the tide. But do not put your hand down to see,

because

‘Poem:“In the stump of the old tree . . .” ’ (Davies 1964, pp. 227–8)

 

How was this poem? Did you enjoy it?

I liked it very much for its form.

Notice the repetition. It enhances the feel of decay in the poem and the sense of inescapability and unavoidability.

The unending verses is draggy and adds to that sense of unescapable feeling.

What else did you notice?

Here is another poem. This form is very interesting. You read it sideways, horizontally, zig-zag like and it still carries meaning.



 ~ ‘90s market’ (Lyons 1996)

Poetry, by Nathaniel A. Samuel

In Contrast

Vacant my intelligence,

Slowly propels away.

An allusion of my stance,

In silence concealed and gone astray.

Judge me not,

Judge not what I say.

For lone is my core,

Lone no more, I pray.

In the obscurity of a hushed night,

I caught a glimpse of what could be.

A mere hopefulness,

Of existing with thee.

Enveloped but by your attendance,

Enclosed, but free.

I pine for affection,

Only you can give me.

This aching,

I feel but cannot touch.

This yearning,

I am content, but not that much.

Somewhere, in the cavernous pit of my heart,

Your silhouette I see,

But no, it is not such.

Embrace my hand,

Embrace it so…

No, I would not let go,

I swear to not let go.

The finale is upon us,

The hourglass goes dry,

This about this suggestion,

And I bid you goodnight.

_____________________________________________________________

Frozen Frame

Slip into a frozen frame,
A caught moment in the film,
Memorizing the lines of your face,
Remembering the warmth of your breath,
Your hands in mine,
Our legs entwined,
A whisper goodnight,
Head resting on my shoulder,
Tucked snug under the covers,
Lips locked in endless wander,
A sigh and closed eyes,
We fall into our dreams,
And now the years have gone by,
The smiles have faded to tears,
Disagreement, discontent,
And emptiness on my end.

_________________________________________________________

Noises

Spilling

Over

Dripping

Screaming

Agitated

Shouting

Crying

Broken

Tears

Drip

Drop

Ripped

Apart

Blurred

Vision

Why?

How?

When?

Who?

What?

No

Yes

Maybe

Bitter

Cold

Hearted

Supreme

Being

Crushed

Lament

Silent

Scream

Scream

Scream

Shout

Shout

Shout

Grinding

Teeth

Sweaty

Palms

Nervous

Twitch

Bleeding

Swirling

Twirling

Spinning

Black

Out

Turn

Off

Noises

In

My

Head

Note**

Nathaniel is currently pursuing his degree in Writing and International Studies at Monash University, Malaysia. He is an aspiring writer, like many of us here at the Writing Hive and wanted to share some of his poems as a guide to other budding writers.

I chose to use these poems because they depict a different writing style than the others posted up here on the blog. 

Feel free to discuss the use of literary tools in his poems in the comment thread below. Nathaniel welcomes constructive criticisms and evaluations. :)


Lots of love,
L.

What can the Editors do for YOU

Editors edit.

Well, I guess that is one way of looking at it. Besides actually editing the manuscript, editors actually do a lot more. If you are a published author, your editor would be your best friend and literary critic. He or she does not judge your work but always tries their hardest to make you write your bst work yet. Editors do not only put the whole book together but they must liaise with the Marketing and Finance department to ensure that there is a market for the book and to make sure that the compromise between cost of production and quantities published are not too skewed on either limb.

But what we Editors, here, at the Writing Hive do is something else.

We are here to offer our knowledge, skills and time to basically put together a book.

We are also here to give feedback and help you send in your best work.

We are not here to merely select the better written poems but to advise you on ways to make your poem better, more powerful.

We actively recruit and promote young Malaysians to our cause.

You can choose to work with us as a group, but you can also choose to work with the person you feel most comfortable with.

Below are the the names of the Editors you may come to work with:
Lochna (Please call me Loe ;)
Ida
Keana

We look forward to work with you! :)

Poetry, example. In focus: IMAGERY

modern concrete
 Eddie Tay

i try for colour
but the city’s concrete does not allow me
concrete is modern as airports
bridges pavements and the river still
a river and functional
the cars gleam silver like fishes
i try for colour
but the city’s concrete does not allow me the new hermit
a snail of a shell is modern and not seen
like wi fi
he lives within a mountain
of pigeon flats
holes in an economy of a few million snails
by the bank of pale water
the cars gleam silver like fishes
i try for colour
but the city’s concrete does not allow me
so here’s the housing project in chunks
with mended words
the cars gleam silver like fishes

-published in the Asiatic Literary Journal

 

Eddie Tay teaches creative writing and poetry at the Department of English, Chinese University of Hong Kong. His research is in the area of creative writing as well as anglophone literatures of Singapore, Malaysia and Hong Kong. He is the author of 3 poetry collections, the most recent being The Mental Life of Cities (Chameleon Press, 2010). He is also the author of a monograph entitled Colony, Nation, and Globalisation: Not at Home in Singaporean and Malaysian Literature (HKU Press; NUS Press, 2011). _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

WHAT CAN I TAKE AWAY FROM THE ABOVE POEM

1. What kind of feeling is the writer trying to portray?

2. Notice the consistency of imagery used - in what ways do the imagery

 (such as cars gleam silver like fishes) help create a sense of life and lifelessness?

3. Think about the kinds of imagery you can use to create a unified and coherent sense of loss, life, love, belonging, unbelonging or wholesomeness etc etc (the mood of your own poem)


All the best,
Your editors.

How do I write poems?

Poems are words written in verse form - sometimes with a lyrical rhyme and at other times it doesn't rhyme or it has a very brutally harsh flow.

Below is a poem by one of my favourite poets, Rabindranath Tagore:

PAPER BOATS

Day by day I float my paper boats one by one down the running
stream.
In bid black letters I write my name on them and the name of
the village where I live.
I hope that someone in some strange land will find them and
know who I am.
I load my little boats with shiuli flower from our garden, and
hope that these blooms of the dawn will be carried safely to land
in the night.
I launch my paper boats and look up into the sky and see the
little clouds setting thee white bulging sails.
I know not what playmate of mine in the sky sends them down
the air to race with my boats!
When night comes I bury my face in my arms and dream that my
paper boats float on and on under the midnight stars.
The fairies of sleep are sailing in them, and the lading ins
their baskets full of dreams

Pay attention to the imagery and meaning constructed through the imagery and ask yourself
 "What emotion is the poet trying to evoke here? What is the message he is trying to pass across?"

When writing poetry,
Firstly, you have to make sure of the message you are trying to put across.
Secondly, you have make sure that the imagery, choice of words and tone is consistent with the message you are trying to put across.

Always try to refrain from using cliched imagery, such as, your lips are as red as a rose.

The writing mantra is very simple:

 SHOW, NOT TELL

For instance, instead of saying that "She looked tired", write:

Her shoulders were bent from the days' weariness;

her makeup washed away by perspiration, and her

eyes were dark and soulless, as if the city had drained from her,

her breath, her life, the essence which made her whole."

Below is a poem I wrote sometime back, right after the Tsunami hit Japan earlier this year:

"Lost City

This inky midnight blanket

is cold to touch, slippery cool

as it brushes through my hair 

and kisses my face. Waters tinkle 

at my feet like bells, wetting my hem

with their mayhem, glistening

like silverfish under the enchantment

of the moon.

A golden man riding a golden chariot;

Streaks of of pink, blue and green

that disappear into an endless stream;

a soundless song riding on the back of 

a thunderous storm; purple pixies who

live in bluebells; a palace carved from light;

and a demon woman mourning

the fate of her late mate.

Clocks running faster than light;

Cities that camouflage itself

according to the current politicians;

miniature men digging deep into one's soul;

a treasure map to heaven lying dusty

on the road; books discarded along with

Testaments; birds falling like acid rain;

golden walls overgrown with blood-red vines;

Rivers dyed black with ignorance and scorn;

Lightning crashing like Titans in the sky,

A vast battlefield becoming grey in decay -

And a woman bleeding for the first time.

Despair, in furry hats, knocking on doors;

A child with silver hairs, gaunt with regret,

Men in coats in their concrete towers,

Women in short dresses with waxy faces,

A heart mowed over, a God thrown over;

Empty houses and empty spaces,

Hollow eyes and hollow cheeks, hollow smiles

and a waning soul.

And a woman violated by Faith,

Deceived by Fate, pregnant

with Disilussionment.

The die is cast- Chance playing his last game.

Like a vise, words bind you to the ground.

Like ghosts walking down the street, laughing.

Like smoke, the city is rotting.

A child torn from a mother's womb;

Hearts grown mouldy in soggy ground.

And a woman burying a dead son.

Red sunsets, grey sands,

The waters no longer play at my feet.

I'm waiting for you to pull tightly

into your embrace and drag me to your

murky depths so that I may, finally,

slumber in peace, leaving behind the deeds

they wrought with my hands, the words

they uttered through my lips, the body they

plundered; with twin gifts of Sin and Malice.

A woman laments, wailing into the night.

She is dead, and seeking her lost soul.

The night is young, and the moon playing truant.

Perhaps another night, the moon shall shine for her.

Perhaps another night, there won't be another day."

I have to apologise for the length of the poem, but I am very fond of writing lengthy poems.

I am not going to explain the poem, but Ido think that the imagery I wrote here is useful in terms of showing how imagery can be used to create meaning.

I also used one of my own works to illustrate my point that Malaysian youth are capable of writing powerful poetry, that is able to politicise and problematise an issue.

But as this post is lengthy enough, I will leave that for another time.

Ciao, and till next time,
With all my love,
L.

YOU DON'T NEED GOOD ENGLISH. YOU JUST NEED TO WRITE :)

Editor's Note:

What is this? This is the slogan for our first event and my brainchild. To encourage other Malaysians who love writing poetry and those who want get published, my fellow editors and I have organised this event where we want people to write poetry and well, tell their story.

This occurred to me one day, when I just told myself that I am going to self-publish an anthology of poems, but then again, I thought it would be far more interesting if we published a poetry anthology for Malaysian youth by Malaysians beacause our generation is most unique and diverse with different understandings of race, politics, culture and much more. And I thought, why not poetry?

Poetry is a dying art, and although it thrives in different parts of the world, in Malaysia there is a sad lack of appreciation for poetry. Most Malaysians wirte poetry as pasttime but do not seek to develop their raw efforts that sometimes give off a glimmer of a potential work of art. What we seek to do here is to gather these different voices and give space for talented Malaysians to get published and a platform to speak to the world.

 Regulations

1. Theme: Our theme is "Love"

Although our theme is "Love", what we want to do here is to promote young Malaysians to think outside the box by considering other types of love - the unconventional "love" that is not necessarily pure and enduring.

Think of:

The politics of sexuality,
the age divide,
Cultural erosion,
Political reform,
Drug abuse,
trangsgender issues,
postcolonial identities,
Love of fashion,
Marriage,
Entering the working world,
family,
Love as defined by things etc...




2. Wordcount: More than 50 words.


3.You may write in English, Malay or a mixture of English and Malay. You are allowed to use culture specific words such as "vibuthi" (Tamil) and the same for Chinese - but the author is responsible to provide an explanation for the said word in a footnote.


4. Heavy cultural significance and usage is would be very welcome (although it is not a criterion in the selection process).


5. Should you wish to include previously published poetry, kindly check with your publisher regarding copyright issues.

6. Any person is allowed to submit up to four poems.

Submission

To submit, download our cover page from http://www.mediafire.com/?zmolz5re6gew7sh

Dateline is 31st November 2011.

All entries are to be emailed to writinghive@gmail.com.

Notifications

All selected poems will be published in the poetry anthology.  There is no prize. In fact, winners may have to contribute to printing costs, but we will try to get some sponsors and maybe some donations.

Winners will be notified via email and their names will be published on this blog.

Tips and the kind of poems we are looking for will also be published on the blog.

Queries

Please email us all queries, questions and curiosities with the subject titled 'Query'.

If you have a group of more than five people who are interested to participate, we are willing to conduct short poetry writing classes to show the different ways literary devices can be used to achieve effect. The coaching is free of charge.

All the best. Carpe diem.

With love,

Loe.

Welcome to the Writing Hive

If you are a dreamer whose dreams are measureless before reality, if words mean more to you than just ink on paper and instead, in an endless stream of words, you see a world of infinite possibilities and a hint of truth, than you a writer.

We, here at the Writing Hive, love all forms of writing - some more than others, to be honest. There are different kinds of writing - experimental writing, prose, verse, using collage to tell a story. But most importantly, one must have a story to tell.

A story does not have to be of particular significance, or of political value. A story can be the steram of thoughts going through your mind at the speed of a bullet train while eating nasi lemak for breakfast. Writing is to me, the breath of life. Without a story, one may still live and yet remain lifeless.

Some people, or rather, most people seem to think that writing requires particular skill or knowledge but really all you need is a story and an initiative to tell that story.

And if you want to say something but you are unsure of what it is you are trying to communicate, then perhaps, all you have to do is to ask yourself - Why write?

- Loe