Let the sun beat

STRAWBERRIES

by Edwin Morgan

'There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you

let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates' 





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Old photo, new poem, same feelings. 

Poetry bites

Housewarming 
(As it might have been written by Sylvia Plath)

It is noon & I am already wilting

the landscape cringes &

unhinges

while the second-hand in my wrist ticks on

but only faintly.

I need quiet,

I need space
but all there is, is waiting
& more of falling apart
at the seams

Somewhere else, the real belltower rings.

If this goes on, I might

crack

like an egg

& slide across

the bottom

of a porcelain bowl.

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Currently finishing up two poetry collections that I purchased earlier this year, the first being Wendy Cope's Two Cures for Love & the second being a Sylvia Plath anthology. I have always been crazy over Wendy Cope's work, which is always filled with witty social commentary & counter-balanced with bare-faced honesty about the lesser-known (or less-talked about), embarrassing experiences in life. Her poems, above all, are a celebration of simplicity & uninterrupted streams of emotion, which I like very much. My two favourite pieces from this particular collection were written in two famous poets' 'voice' & style. Here are the excerpts:





A Nursery Rhyme 
(As it might have been written by William Wordsworth)

The skylark & the jay sang loud & long
The sun was calm & bright, the air was sweet,
When all at once I heard above the throng
Of jocund birds a single plantitive bleat.'


&



A Nursery Rhyme 
(As it might have been written by T.S. Eliot)

Because time will not run backwards
Because time
Because time will not run
(Hickory Dickory)




When I say that the poem is written 'in Sylvia Plath's voice', I don't mean to completely copy & paste her style over into my poems because that would just be plain disrespectful. It's just that sometimes, when you have been reading the work of a particular poet over a long period of time like I have, their style automatically becomes familiar to you & sticks, & certain emotions you feel somehow translate themselves into lines that reflect the poet's language & voice greatly. & this isn't disrespectful, or plagiarism in the least, but quite a beautiful thing: a young novice writer paying homage to one of the literary greats by almost becoming one with him/her. I love that idea, that nothing is original, but everything can be authentic.

Well I definitely need to start writing again... & updating this space on everything that's been happening. More to come! 

Writing the City

'Prose is all well & good, but it seems to me that poetry is full of music...'

Julia Bell

Last week, our creative writing fiction class attended a short seminar entitled 'Writing the City' by Julia Bell & Jean McNeil from the British Council & that was a nice change from the lessons that we've been having. Creative writing classes have always been a beacon for me in the past two years of college, with the exposure to interesting literature & the rediscovering of an innate hunger to write, but somehow this semester's fiction course was a little... drab. Perhaps it was the way classes were conducted; three hours of sitting in a circle & workshopping other people's work, which sometimes tended to go in circles without answering any quintessential questions (What does it mean when one says that a novel has a voice? When does one draw the line between fiction & autobiography?). Talking about writing, to me, is always necessary but often dull. Perhaps it also had to do with the kind of fiction my coursemates & I were producing, a lot of it being self-absorbed & overly-personal biography, only with disguised characters & changed names. Most of all though, it was largely because fiction doesn't come naturally to me at all, like how poetry or songs (sometimes) do, & these thirteen weeks were spent feeling largely like a fish out of water. Last week's class however, felt a bit like a breakthrough.

It was more of a reading of their work & discussion than a direct teaching seminar. The pieces they read, both excerpts of work-in-progress-novels & poems, were impressive & on occasion, brilliant. Jean, a travel writer whose work encompasses both Antarctica & Africa, talked about how good writers never let their life experiences & people & current landscapes directly translate into their writing, but how they used these tools to provide a template, a vibrant background for the invented story they had to tell, & I could definitely see how that was the case in her stories. There's a certain richness & creativity & also a curious authenticity, when a writer infuses the surrounding culture & his/her own life into a story without allowing it to be a true reflection of their own lives.

Julia also addressed the issue of fiction vs. autobiography, where she talked about how writing fiction isn't equivalent to ranting on the author's part. Throwing up your emotions on a page is the least of any kinds of writing, which often happens to writers in their early stages. Adolescent angst & bitter romances & painful experiences are treasure troves because of the strong emotion it invokes in the writer & his/her readers, but truly magnificent writing pays attention to how all of it translates onto a page & transforms personal experiences into something powerful & sublime. That is why writing is above all an artform, where things like rhyme & form & style are utilized to craft stories to the best possible form.


It was a good hour. What a terribly awful rant that must have been to some of you, but it was an eye-opener for me... I enjoyed it tremendously! Anyway, I haven't been blogging nearly enough & I promise I will soon when the obligatory final exams are over & summer holidays kick in. Till then... au revoir!



P.S. You can read about Jean's work here, & read some of Julia's poetry & short stories here.

In paper & ink

Sometimes, stories are the only things that matter.

Paris, 1899

A continuation from here. 

Take time & imagine

A landscape, like hands, warm

& a plane melting into clouds

silently & beautifully as we watch

from down below,

Rose.

Imagine

A scene, like a film, unfolding

enfolding, embracing

tasting like mulled wine, in my mouth

on an autumn day

Cold tongues licking cold ice-creams

A divot, in the glass, in the kaleidoscope, in eyes

Colours aflame

Don't look,

see.

People in graceful waves

These houses must be made of paper, I'm sure

Buildings transform into

shades,

& well

There are a hundred ways to look at the city

but I like my view the best of all.

By the river

the birds cry out,

& the river begins to sing.

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A lot of the time, for me, poetry comes out of a single moment of intense emotion & flows out as if it were seamless dialogue between people. The greatest instance of this happening was in Paris last year, on a three-week-long backpacking trip with two dear friends. I remember we were sitting on the left side of the River Seine, taking photographs & savouring salted caramel & vanilla ice-creams that we had bought with the last of our money. Paris, in all its romanticism & sepia tones & language with its elegant twists & turns, is an inspiration in itself. I remember that it was very cold & the wind was very harsh (even though it was summer) & we were all laughing at the irony of eating ice-cream in such freezing weather, & the very posh & reserved Parisians were looking crossly at us but we didn't care & laughed anyway, & it was all very beautiful & at that moment I started making leaps into my notebook & scribbled masses of words, lines, stanzas. It was just a pity, to not capture that single moment in time on paper, if you know what I mean. I sent it home on a postcard to my family the very next day.

There's a lot that goes into the process of writing poetry, the conscious or unconscious aspect of it all, that's become very interesting to me. Over the course of this semester, I've realised that writers basically fall into two groups: those who sit down & dedicate a portion of their day to writing & mulling over ideas, carefully constructing poems over a duration & creating masterpieces & inspired projects. While I respect these people very much, it's an attitude that I can never hope to emulate because as said before, most of the time, inspiration for me comes from an image or an atmosphere, & transforms itself into a poem or a song. To be honest, it sometimes feels like I'm cheating, like I have snatched the line from thin air & made it my own...

On writers.

'Great House'

Nicole Krauss

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I love this extract where Krauss talks about the world of a writer. Taking an advanced poetry class this semester has been incredibly challenging, and different to what I had originally expected. While studying poetry spanning centuries has been wonderful, one cannot help but feel a degree of discomfort when exposed to something entirely novel, like this, and being told that it is poetry. 

I've learnt a couple of things though, about the process of creating poetry and the foundation of which it is built on. For aspiring poets and writers, the first thing to do is not to ask what qualifies as poetry but rather, what we can turn into poetry. It was difficult and tricky at first, of course, stepping out of my expectations of what poetry is supposed to be, and accepting that it merely is. It's funny, how at the beginning, I would ask questions like 'What does this line mean?' or 'What does the author want from this poem?' but along the way I've learnt that sometimes poetry doesn't have to be understood so much as it needs to be felt. 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that exploring and being exposed to the myriad of rhythms & forms & types is only the initial step that builds the foundation for your own poetry. To be exposed is to learn, but to only look at different poetry forms with disdain is to put your creativity and artistic style in a box, and I'm learning to accept all kinds, I'm learning to enjoy. I don't want to put my idea of poetry in a confined space. I'd like to believe that poets are capable of the fierce invention Krauss speaks of, that we create, alter and amend, and like many spheres of art, poetry is freedom.  

On art & poetry

Ever since coming back from the States, I've been writing a lot more. Jotted anecdotes, notebook doodles, song lyrics, short prose, etc. I miss the holidays because of the abundance of time where one can write. Because of the poetry module I'm taking this semester, I've been thinking a lot about the creative process & the mixing of poetry with different kinds of mediums... It's interesting, really. 

Before my mom became a housewife, she was a graphic designer specializing in font design & layout. Sometime in the 1980s, her company was commissioned by the American furniture company, Herman Miller, to create something; a designed product to be sent out as corporate gifts. This was what they came up with. She gave me this unframed piece two years ago, & it's been hanging on my bedroom wall since then. 

I can't pronounce half the words on the handkerchief, but I love how art & words were fused together to make the final product, which is more than the sum total of its parts. The way I see it, it's no different from writing Haiku, or a sonnet, or sticking to any kind of poetic convention (like following a certain rhyme scheme, or creating a kind of form). The only thing that's different is that with graphic art, you're working with space, & colour, & the shape of words, while maintaining the flow of the poetry or prose. I've tried it before, & well, it isn't in the least bit easy... That's not to say I'm giving up. I'm trying, trying harder. It's a process. A work in progress.

Certain half-deserted streets

Ghost Town (noun)
by Merriam-Webster

: A once-flourishing town, wholly or nearly deserted, usually as a result of the exhaustion of some natural resource. First known usage of lexicon: 1931.

Out of the ash

'We should meet in another life,
We should meet in air,
Me & You.'

Sylvia Plath

'Ariel'

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We visited a decorative cemetery one weekend, in Whiskeytown CA. We were on our way to do some hiking & swimming in the lake, & so we almost missed it, nearly driving past the trees & wooden gates. I'm glad we didn't though, because it was quite something: those graves furnished with stone plagues, garden gnomes, whole nativity scenes, clay rabbits, toy race cars & assorted knick-knacks.

People don't usually find solace in drab places like cemeteries, but over there, it felt quite different... It was a hint of life, happiness, and most of all, peace. If I had a choice, all cemeteries would be like this... & then visiting them would be quite a different experience.

Nature, my creator

 'My river runs to thee,
Blue sea, wilt welcome me? 

My river waits reply.
Oh sea, look graciously! 

I'll fetch thee brooks
From spotted nooks, - 

Say, sea,
Take me!'

Love XI

Emily Dickinson

Beyond the Sea

'I who lived in a harbour from which I loved you
The solitude crossed with dream & with silence,
Penned up between the sea & sadness,
Soundless, delirious...'

Twenty Love Poems & A Song of Despair, XIII

Pablo Neruda

_________________________________________

San Francisco is a such a beautiful city... It's like a perpetual flea/farmer/fresh market all year round! There's something about the smells of salt and warm churros and sea catch that make you feel a little more alive. We must have taken the ferry at least four times, to Vallejo & Sauslito (Beautiful places, both of them. More on that later.)

I love the pier. And that carousel? I mean, come on. 

Between Union & Ghirardelli Squares, Chinatown, the Bay Area & the above, SF is quite the experience. Such a perfect place to spend summer! I quite needed that break.

Prufrocking

'Let us go then, you and I

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster shells;

Streets that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent

To lead to an overwhelming question...

Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'

Let us go and make our visit.

...

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet

...

For I have known them already, known them all;

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life in coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall,

Beneath the music from a farther room

So how should I presume?

...

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets,

And watch the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of the windows?

...

And I have seen the moments of my greatness flicker

And I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short,

I was afraid.

...

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red & brown,

Till human voices wake us, & we drown.'

Excerpts from 'The Lovesong of J.S. Prufrock' 

T.S. Eliot.

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I love that phrase: 'streets that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent.' I don't know the exact word to describe the way I feel when I read it, except that it is a pleasant and warm sensation that prickles through me. Strange, the things that poetry can do.

Last week, I was dozing off in a linguistics lecture, and the professor used the word insidious in a statement (which I now forget. It was related to phonetics, or sociolinguistics, or something equally sleep-inducing.) and I immediately snapped to attention. It just reminded me of this very special poem & how it made me feel. I began to smile like a complete goof & my course-mate looked at me like I was completely off my rocker. Like I was mad. 

I continued to smile widely to myself though, because it was all strange and funny and lovely to have this secret connection to a certain word that no one else knew about. Well. Perhaps all aspiring writers are a little mad, inside.   

Let us go then, you and I

A wishlist of books 

for the summer & years to come

A Widow for One Year - John Irving

A Marriage Plot - Jeffrey Eugenides

Milkweed - Jerry Spinelli

Selected Poems by T.S. Eliot - T.S. Eliot

The Diving Bell & The Butterfly - Jean Dominique Bauby

Schindler's Ark - Thomas Keneally

The History of Love - Nicole Krauss

We Bought a Zoo - Benjamin Mee

Delicacy - David Foenkinos

Bel Ami - Guy De Maupassant

Leaves of Grass - Walt Whitman

The Whores Asylum - Katy Darby

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey

We Need to Talk About Kevin - Lionel Shriver

All is Song - Samantha Harvey

The Paris Wife - Paula McLain

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My room is turning into some sort of wreckage site; I've run out of shelves, and floor. 

The European Experience: Part 7

A City of War
Berlin

'You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire;
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank.'

The Song of Despair
Pablo Neruda

There is something about Berlin that strikes a stray chord in the hearts of all who visit. The political and historical air emanating from every street corner is almost overpowering; the city's attractions, though numerous, hover around the notion of war & death. After four days, the air of suppression inevitably starts to sink in, for it's hard to walk fifty feet without stumbling into some sort of war memorial or monument. From the holocaust memorial (Part 3) to the crumbling facade of the Berlin Wall, everything about that place screams of Germany's dark past.

That's not say we didn't have an ounce of fun in Berlin though! A couple of currywursts and hot tea are wonderful accompaniments as you walk the streets, soaking in the sights and sounds of the metropolis. The gaps between the roads of concrete will open up into beautiful scenes if you let it. The museum island, for one, is rich in modern art culture with its absolutely resplendent large, open plains. The massive squares of the opera house, universities and Brandenburg Gate are alive with its locals and German youth decked out from head-to-toe in slightly ill-fitting military garb, taking snapshots with eager tourists.

Another thing that was a real bonus was our wonderful NewEuropeTour guide, Eva, who lead us through the city with much passion and charisma. Besides that, Eva also showed us that despite the (sometimes) horrific history of Berlin, it is what millions of people call home and a place she loves deeply. Although the urban sprawl of Berlin may take some getting used to, its rich history and culture is not something to be missed.

The Fiesta

'My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.'

Pablo Neruda

Desperately, missing Europe.

Bittersweet

'We the mortals touch the metals,
the wind, the ocean shores, the stones,
knowing they will go on, inert or burning,
and I was discovering, naming all the these things:
it was my destiny to love and say goodbye'

Between inanimate objects

Love Letter from the Toothbrush to the Bicycle Tire
by Sarah Kay

They told me that I was meant for the cleaner life!
That you would drag me through the mud.
They said that you would tread all over me,
That they could see right through you,
That you were full of hot air.

That I would always be chasing,
always watching you,
chase after sleeker models
that would be a vicious cycle.

But I know better.
I know about your rough edges
and I have seen your perfect curves.
I will fit into whatever spaces you let me
If loving you means getting dirty,
then bring on the grime!
I will leave this porcelain home behind
I'm used to twice-a-day relationships
But with you
I'd take all the time!

And I know we live in different worlds,
and we're always really busy
But in my dreams
you spin around me so fast
I always wake up dizzy

So maybe one day,
you'll grow tired of the road
and roll on back to me
And when I blink my eyes into morning,
Your smile,
Will be the only one I see.

Soliloquy

'To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause – there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.'

Hamlet, Act III, Sc I

The Book Depository

I can read in red. I can read in blue.
I can read in pickle color too.
I can read in bed, and in purple. and in brown.
I can read in a circle and upside down!
I can read with my left eye. I can read with my right.
I can read Mississippi with my eyes shut tight!

There are so many things you can learn about.
But…you'll miss the best things
If you keep your eyes shut.
The more that you read, the more things you will know
The more that you learn, the more places you'll go.

If you read with your eyes shut you're likely to find
That the place where you're going is far, far behind
SO…that's why I tell you to keep your eyes wide.
Keep them wide open…at least on one side.

Dr. Seuss

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Flipping through pictures on friend's tumblrs can sometimes urge me to do stuff I should have done long ago... like organize the volumes stacked on my bedside table/stuffed in hat drawers/on the floor.

It's not as neat, but still, a start.

I like to read :)

After the hours and hours of mugging(!) I find it best to dive into a new paperback novel, with a steaming cup of hot tea (I also like tea). Lately, I've been reading the classics; Fitzgerald, Wilde and finally, Jules Verne. Now, there's a writer that was way ahead of his time. 20 000 Leagues Under the Sea, heavily-ridden with scientific terminology as it is, is still pretty fantastic.

Also, after reading Jane Eyre, I definitely prefer Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights any day :/ Although Charlotte did craft an entirely new and (more sexy?) hero. Oh, Mr Rochester.

Just realised what an absolute nerd I am. Book fiend, anyhow.



Sigh, back to Thomas Hardy and poor old Tess.

Poetry at its simplest

The Orange
by Wendy Cope

At lunchtime I brought a huge orange
The size of it made us all laugh
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave
They got quarters and I had a half

And that orange it made me so happy
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park
This is peace and contentment. It's new

The rest of the days were quite easy
I did all my jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I'm glad I exist.