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