Tag Archives: literature

Will The Real Author Please Stand Up?

Do you ever get envious of other people’s words?

The way they’re so intricately, elegantly, genuinely made. The way that the sentimental fervour and tortured passion rings out plangently from beyond the curled pages of the book and strikes sharp aches and twinges in even the most desensitised heart. The way you could read them for days at an end and never get tired of the intangible shapes they form, the sophisticated literary art they create, the breathtaking stories they tell. The way that you can never really understand what that individual meant, what they truly felt, and you aren’t quite sure if you could even place yourself in their perception and situation, but despite all that, they’re still your emotions. They’re confusing. Messy. A foreign tongue that no soul, living or deceased, can ever know how to speak again. But you can feel them latching in your hair, your skin, your eyes, your lips, speaking your mind, all the words you don’t know how to say, all the senses you never knew existed in the first place, all the thoughts you don’t know how to feel.

And so you feel inspired. And so you attempt to write.

But your words, on the other hand, are rather insipid and unamusing. They’re the proverbial rain that never gets written about. The damp, stuffy, erratic kind of drizzle that relents to the point of irritation and drips down cracked ceilings and forgotten open windows. The kind that’s well-meant by the dear weather, but never makes its humble way in poets’ thoughts and poetry books, except occasionally to emphasise a depressing thought. You could stand outside that downpour for days at an end and get not a single drop of water on your skin. Your words feel cheap and secondhand, sharp edges worn-down to cliches and dull torpor, no wit to be found anywhere. Your words are no one else’s and you aren’t quite sure if they’re even yours, or just by the ghost that resides behind your empty ribs. It’s confusing. Messy. A foreign tongue that not a soul, living or deceased, knows how to speak. They’re all the words you can’t say, all the thoughts you don’t know how to feel, but you try to make sense of them anyway.

Do you ever wish…that you couldn’t write?

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

Odes And Dedications

I’d write you a million letters

You left me at a loss for words

Halfway around the world, yet

You stole my breaths unfurled

.

I’ll compose until my hands ache

And my quill protests ‘no more’

Until I dried up all the ink I have

And literates stop keeping score

.

I’d write you in ballads and sonnets

Limericks, haikus, and silly rhymes

I’d write you odes and lengthy epics

That shall withstand the test of time

.

And all the troubadours and minstrels

Will speak of your name for centuries

Immortalised between yellowing pages

Of prose and verse and lines of poetry

.

I’d write you a million novels and books

‘Til I run out of words to use in every language

And even then, it still won’t fully express

Just how much you truly made this bard change.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Weekend Hymns

“If you call me at all, don’t tell me that I’m ordinary, ’cause I won’t be passing you, please don’t leave…” serenades the familiar strains of a soothing voice, interlacing delicately with the quaint glassy chords of a softly-strummed guitar, and dissipating behind the skeletal mist of the hazy whorled coffee smoke. Spongy traces of a cold jelly roll melt and shiver in my tongue, leaving traces of a sweet sensation to tease these anticipating taste buds of mine. On my right side lays a Fantastic Beasts colouring book opened on a page of Newt Scamander’s luggage, abandoned coloured pencils scattered everywhere, and a half-finished unwritten postcard with vibrant pastel shades complimenting each other in mild, careful strokes; and on my left side a battered notebook overstuffed with scribbled papers and a slightly-chewed black pen, waiting patiently to bleed words into blank parchment.

Turn off these lights, call my name. Don’t talk, just drive… Another potent vocal joins in with the tranquil music, rhythmic acoustic strains and deep baritone timbre sending quiet shivers pleasantly down my spinal column. The rain has come to a cradlesong refrain, and, time being, has ceased from thrumming a metronomic pitter-patter against the fogged-up windows. I pause, place a cat bookmark on page 12 of John Steinback’s Of Mice and Men, and take another sip of my tepid milky drink and huddle further underneath my delicate blue blanket, starry night socks rubbing against the creaky bed mattress as I do so. After partaking in such a short interlude, I indulge zealously in my awaiting literature once more, losing myself against the mollifying song and letting my imagination run away and be caught between George and Lennie’s frolicsome bickering and humbler conversations.

“Red and blue and green rabbits, Lennie. Millions of ’em.” George concluded drowsily as the chapter came to a finish, synchronously alongside Jonny Craig’s flourished crescendo of And baby, honestly these teeth won’t let you go…”, and I thumbed down on the page and set down the book once again, lost in a silent reverie. This day seems to be nothing but a lucid woolgathering, and in a momentary splinter from reality, I am quite unsure which is a fact, and which is nothing more than a mere dream anymore. It left me slightly confused whether I had actually been chasing musicians through a cornfield full of bedraggled zombies in Southern California, or if my grandmother had actually been confined in the hospital after an unfortunate slip and needs three months of bed rest to recover, or whether any of those were even real, not just derogated fantasies of an inured mind in dire need of a proper rest. Perhaps I’m simply tired. I had, after all, been looking for my exuberant nephews for a good part of the afternoon. But this is a good tired, unlike the draining emptiness of a tired stress that I have been beleaguered with the entire week. And this time around, I’ll sleep not to forget the memories. Rather, I’ll sleep to remember them.

“If you call me at all, oh if you call me at all…” The mellisonant sincerity of his lilting assurances envelopes my weary and aching bones tangibly, as if the xanthous stars had personally touched down from the lavender-blotched sky and given me a synesthetic embrace from the gentle cosmos. The final coda of the song falters and fades against the distant monsoon, washing away every worry, every qualm, every cynical thought and nightmarish daydream of mine, washing me away under the horizon’s encore performance of dying sunshine and inchoate moonbeams alike. I breathe deeply and finally close my eyes, listening to the hymn of the rainy weather and halcyon weekend continue to play around me. I’ll be alright. For now, at least…I’m alright.

Leave a comment

Filed under Prose

451

Fahrenheit 451—the temperature at which book paper catches fire and burns…” ~Ray Bradbury

~*~

4 days…

Dandelion tickles her soft chin

Montag, are you in love or not?

Childish star girl of evergreen

Dial watch face and whatnots

Life with you, in pretty whims

Until a beetle ran you over flat

.

Her liquid mercury eyes staring

Where did we first meet, Millie?

Her snowless island, yet hailing

Faux laughs of a parlour family

Life, with you, lacklustre feeling

Until a snake expunged toxicity

.

5 hours…

Mechanical hound, metal growl

What are fires, but clean lauds?

Captain, with a solid-set scowl

His knowledge, logically sound

Life with you, exhilarating goals

Until a dragon melts your ground

.

Brittle bones creaking with age

Books bleed pores, do you see?

The clever professor assuages

With green thimbles, philosophy

Life with you, easy plans staged

Until wolves chased relentlessly

.

1 lifetime.

A silver salamander button melting

Fill this sieve with sand for a dime?

A fireman with his joys misguiding

A forbidden hobby to pass the time

Life with himself, scary, confusing

Until books made him feel sublime

.

In a monochromatic dystopia, a future glowing bleak

Yes. Chicago. Beauty. Yes. Can’t. Answered his insights

Wars waged in twenty seconds, and families of static

Watching butterfly pages curling, words burning bright

Life as Book of Ecclesiastes, walking with his fellow literaries

I’ll save this passage for when we finally reach the city lights…

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry