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, 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.