If I were reborn...

i will be constantly on the move, stimulating myself with new sights and knowledge, to prevent myself from sinking into mediocrity. i will not have to worry about money because i will not be stuck in an environment that places emphasis on it. i will engage in paid labour when needed and demand immediate payment for fulfilling my immediate needs. i will certainly not be married or tied down in any way because i have suffered enough from trying to fit, trying to adjust. it's never about the two of us, it's always the whole ching gang of stuff and detestable human beings that come along. i do not have to be social and i laugh only when i want to. i do not have to contort any part of myself to fit into any roles, parts, space or circle. i will be alone and seek company, partners, human contact whenever i feel an urge to satisfy any needs that might surface, after which all contact will be discarded like used tissue paper. no baggage, no lingering connections and no need to remember to phone who. if no one deigns to be engaged with me, then i shall be alone and enjoy my loneliness. i do not practise censorship in all sense, whether in speech, manner, behaviour or thoughts. i will have all the time to read and ponder and write, hopefully gaining some money in return to buy myself an occasional coffee. i will drift from one place to another, and no one will know me. truly. i will feel reborn again and again in each new environment and whatever it brings to me. that is truly paradise, which only death and rebirth can deliver.

If I were to choose...

haven't been so disturbed for a while, but I get these attacks rather often. This whole issue of death and choosing it came up during this morning's train ride to work. I have sort of decided to leap off a random but easily accessible building in a "neutral" location. not decided where exactly, probably bishan, thomson area, which is pretty much unknown to most people known. there are so many options to go but when you really think about it, only very few are truly viable ones. Sylvia Plath put her head into a microwave oven but such explosive dramatics! Gassing oneself is reportedly painless but the reality is where to find an airtight place of convenience? And Nat, I really don't fancy leaping into the path of an oncoming MRT train; I can almost hear the crunch and grind of my bones. Tossing myself off some tall architecture seems to work best: I will try and muster a somersault even and a woo hoo~, before landing, preferably softly, on green grass. I think the color red will contrast well with the green.

Imagisme. This whole idea

Direct treatment of the 'thing' whether subjective or objective. Use common speech but employ always the exact word. Present an image - poetry should render particulars exactly and not deal in vague generalities. To produce poetry that is hard and clear, never blur nor indefinite. Concentration is of the very essence of poetry. Imagism refers to the manner of presentation, not to the subject. It means clear presentation of whatever the author wishes to convey. The 'exact' word does not mean the word which exactly describes the object in itself, it means the 'exact' word which brings the effect of that object before the reader as it presented itself to the poet's mind at the time of writing. Rhythm must have meaning. It cannot be merely a careless dash off, with no grip and no real hold to the words and sense.

danger on peaks

travel poetry. haibun style. his use of common speech patterns, either u like it or u don't.

Loose on Earth

....
Humanity,
said Jeffers, is like a quick

explosion on the planet
we're loose on earth
half a million years
our weird blast spreading –

and after,
rubble - millennia to weather,
soften, fragment,
sprout, and green again

Heron's Nest 2007

Hmm. Felt a bit let down by this much vaulted collection. The selection here is pretty uneven, sometimes leaning towards mediocrity. The winners, expectedly, do measure up.



buffalo bones
wind less than a whisper
in the summer grass

— Chad Lee Robinson


circle of lamplight —
I complete the baby quilt
begun for me

— Carolyn Hall



silted river
an old doe turns
to face the flow

— John Barlow

Gotta..

I got to kickstart my writing again. Somehow, it's difficult for me to switch from work mode to writing mode and back again. A clear mind and a relaxed setting are missing crucial elements right now. A 5-day work week is too much for me. Kudos to the forking French for picketing their way to a 4-4.5 days-more-reasonable work week.

Black & White

There's something about black and white photography that gives portraits so much depth, ambiguity and opens up to a whole lot of possible meanings and interpretations. Very haiku-like.

Before Banksy....

there was Blek le Rat, probably the father of pochoir - stencil street art - in the graffiti world. And who says grafitti is only for young punks. This guy has been around for more than 30 years, and is still going on strong. He also brought poster art into the graffiti world, mostly because he needed to get past the police.

Tango in Paris -
his breath, warm
on my parted lips.

softness of her satin dress
on my inner thigh










That lamb, everywhere...
wintry sidewalk
in New York.

a note on Tanka

I am still exploring this form and trying to acquire more knowledge about it. Compared to its shorter cousin haiku, tanka lags far behind in terms of international popularity and general appreciation of it. Tanka in English also does not possess as long a history as haiku, although many haiku poets do dabble in tanka on the side and this has probably created greater awareness of its presence in the Engish language world. The Tanka Society of America, I found out, was only established in 2000; haiku is celebrating its 100th year anniversary in the West.

Acorn No.20 Spring 08

Woo hoo~ Spring is in. Can't wait for the Autumn issue!

There's something about Tanka....

Hmm. Tanka doesn't really work for me. It's longer form is supposed to allow more space for development of the poet's emotions but I just feel that I have too much space to play with. I wonder if it's usual to find it difficult to switch between tanka and haiku? Haiku and Senryu, yes. Haiku and Haibun, yes. But somehow, tanka is harder to grasp. And I still enjoy the rigorous discipline of objectivity that haiku demands.

Anyhow, Sir (I just gave him that title) Makoto Ueda has again done an excellent job in producing this work. His translations pay much attention to nuances and the unsaid. His Japanese sensibilities are very much sharper than his peers'.

Iron Press

Collection of haiku entries for one of the largest haiku events staged in the UK. Thoroughly enjoyable.

Random Stuff

Memory getting fried. Cannot remember to do stuff that I just remembered a while ago (like 30 secs ago). Operating in sort of a zombie-like state. Forwarding stuff that I shouldn't be (this is the worst part). This general feeling of sian-ness settling in slowly.


Shipment of books arrived, from dear Silvanus and also random ones from Amazon, Acorn, red moon press, brooks books etc. Got a lot of reading to do. I am tired, I have no time, I don't feel settled.