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.