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)

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