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! :)