For Raffles A they say the last lap is the hardest they say that you will want to stop but though i will cry to the finishing line i will laugh when i reach the top
and the glint of the medal will spur you and the touch and the smell of the gold there is no time to spend on the wasting there is no time for you to be told
for the time that we spent in the waiting for the time we spent in the hold there is nothing like the long a-wasting there is nothing like a fire gone cold
they say the last lap is the hardest they say nothing; we will not stop yet i will cry all the way to the finishing line and i will laugh, yes, we will laugh at the top
poemegrenade
Sunday, April 02, 2006
As weariness settles in, like the sun dipping in the horizon And the mind refuses to stay alert, like a persistent fog that sinks even deeper And as fatigue decides to take its toll, like wrinkles on an aging finger
Ah! That is when it sparks! Like the most brilliant star, Piercing the depths of the unassuming clouds, And filtering through with a vision oh so clear It is like a mere drop of bravery surrounded by a sea of fear.
And yet it shines, so brightly too, As if it were adorned with crystals and gems So willing to appear in ink from pen To sing its song, so worthy of it then
But oh woe, it is but lost In the never-ending ocean of uncertainty and doubt No direction or road sign to find its way about.
As weariness settles in, like the sun dipping in the horizon And the mind refuses to stay alert, like a persistent fog that sinks even deeper And as fatigue decides to take its toll, like wrinkles on an aging finger
It stings like a bee, like a prick on a finger Letting its secrets spill out on to paper
And then rabid in frenzy, its passion gone berserk, It fires its worth and surrenders itself Exhaustion overcomes as the oil lamp runs dry And then with the last breath, it ceases to survive Penning down a full stop at the end of its life
And thus runs a poet’s life…
-bloom
poemegrenade
Sunday, February 05, 2006
When a poet's mind is perfectly equipped for its work, it is constantly amalgamating disparate experience; the ordinary man's experience is chaotic, irregular, --T.S. Eliot, "The Metaphysical Poets"
poemegrenade
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Poemegrenade
I challenge a press statement to write a poem About a poem and a fruit And talk about worldly events as he eats it So therefore we spawn the poemegrenade Built in functions include: Spying in the White House Equating to self-animated destruction Also equipped with vocabulary To charm a tight spot And emotional words and metaphors and similies Beg for the understanding then Bluster up in their face in a spew of Excuses,Excuses,Excuses.
-from the goldfish bowl
poemegrenade
Sunday, December 18, 2005
The Applicant First, are you our sort of a person? Do you wear A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch, A brace or a hook, Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,
Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then How can we give you a thing? Stop crying.Open your hand.Empty? Empty. Here is a hand
To fill it and willing To bring teacups and roll away headaches And do whatever you tell it. Will you marry it? It is guaranteed
To thumb shut your eyes at the end And dissolve of sorrow. We make new stock from the salt. I notice you are stark naked. How about this suit -
Black and stiff, but not a bad fit. Will you marry it? It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof Against fire and bombs through the roof. Believe me, they'll bury you in it.
Now your head, excuse me, is empty. I have the ticket for that. Come here, sweetie, out of the closet. Well, what do you think of that? Naked as paper to start
But in twenty-five years she'll be silver, In fifty, gold. A living doll, everywhere you look. It can sew, it can cook, It can talk, talk, talk.
It works, there is nothing wrong with it. You have a hole, it's a poultice. You have an eye, it's an image. My boy, it's your last resort. Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.
-Sylvia Plath
**note: ran out of juice. will be back in a ticket
poemegrenade
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Chinese food
Chinese food around the world has taken a place of its own In US it’s know as takeaway, the quickest exotic taste around It comes in cute little paper boxes with chopsticks which torture many Not only did it develop a new taste but that’s where US ‘Chopsway’ came about!
India sharing a border with China might have known a little more You might have thought some recipes might have slipped through the Silk Road But on the contrary they couldn’t resist sprinkling in some spicy masala Some turmeric powder, some caraway seeds and they created a new taste altogether
bloom
this poem is definitely not complete but i have yet to taste chinese in other parts of the world :)
poemegrenade
A wave to a complete stranger
I wave to a complete stranger And I don't know what it's for Indigenous to this foreign land He was stranger than I thought
Tattered clothes he wore with pride And on his face was a pleasant smile As if his life was void of worries Now I've left him a mile behind
My train rattles on, chug-chugging away Oblivious to that ephemeral connection Regardless of how trivial the idea might seem It came almost like a reflex action
That simple gesture affected me so So sincere and yet so naïve Amazing what a wave can do It was a pity I had to leave
We exchanged no words, no formalities It was brief and from a distance He stood three platforms away from me It wouldn't be long before he forgot my existence
To him I was but another tourist Someone he would never again see A person so insignificant in his life And I couldn't disagree
My train rattles on chug-chugging away But I won't leave the memory behind Its simplicity did strike me so I wouldn't try to erase it from my mind
bloom
poemegrenade
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
What is your Carapace?
What is your carapace? Do you shelter under bursts of affability? Or is it solitude that builds your reserve? What is your carapace?
Do you wear a reflective sheet? Arrogance rebuking all? Or do you wait to be washed ashore? Let the dust settle on its own?
Tell me what’s your carapace?
bloom
(mel- do write your pen name or just a 'mel' after your poem to distinguish. thanks! oh and have fun in m'sia)
poemegrenade
Friday, April 14, 2006
For Raffles A they say the last lap is the hardest they say that you will want to stop but though i will cry to the finishing line i will laugh when i reach the top
and the glint of the medal will spur you and the touch and the smell of the gold there is no time to spend on the wasting there is no time for you to be told
for the time that we spent in the waiting for the time we spent in the hold there is nothing like the long a-wasting there is nothing like a fire gone cold
they say the last lap is the hardest they say nothing; we will not stop yet i will cry all the way to the finishing line and i will laugh, yes, we will laugh at the top
poemegrenade
Sunday, April 02, 2006
As weariness settles in, like the sun dipping in the horizon And the mind refuses to stay alert, like a persistent fog that sinks even deeper And as fatigue decides to take its toll, like wrinkles on an aging finger
Ah! That is when it sparks! Like the most brilliant star, Piercing the depths of the unassuming clouds, And filtering through with a vision oh so clear It is like a mere drop of bravery surrounded by a sea of fear.
And yet it shines, so brightly too, As if it were adorned with crystals and gems So willing to appear in ink from pen To sing its song, so worthy of it then
But oh woe, it is but lost In the never-ending ocean of uncertainty and doubt No direction or road sign to find its way about.
As weariness settles in, like the sun dipping in the horizon And the mind refuses to stay alert, like a persistent fog that sinks even deeper And as fatigue decides to take its toll, like wrinkles on an aging finger
It stings like a bee, like a prick on a finger Letting its secrets spill out on to paper
And then rabid in frenzy, its passion gone berserk, It fires its worth and surrenders itself Exhaustion overcomes as the oil lamp runs dry And then with the last breath, it ceases to survive Penning down a full stop at the end of its life
And thus runs a poet’s life…
-bloom
poemegrenade
Sunday, February 05, 2006
When a poet's mind is perfectly equipped for its work, it is constantly amalgamating disparate experience; the ordinary man's experience is chaotic, irregular, --T.S. Eliot, "The Metaphysical Poets"
poemegrenade
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Poemegrenade
I challenge a press statement to write a poem About a poem and a fruit And talk about worldly events as he eats it So therefore we spawn the poemegrenade Built in functions include: Spying in the White House Equating to self-animated destruction Also equipped with vocabulary To charm a tight spot And emotional words and metaphors and similies Beg for the understanding then Bluster up in their face in a spew of Excuses,Excuses,Excuses.
-from the goldfish bowl
poemegrenade
Sunday, December 18, 2005
The Applicant First, are you our sort of a person? Do you wear A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch, A brace or a hook, Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,
Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then How can we give you a thing? Stop crying.Open your hand.Empty? Empty. Here is a hand
To fill it and willing To bring teacups and roll away headaches And do whatever you tell it. Will you marry it? It is guaranteed
To thumb shut your eyes at the end And dissolve of sorrow. We make new stock from the salt. I notice you are stark naked. How about this suit -
Black and stiff, but not a bad fit. Will you marry it? It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof Against fire and bombs through the roof. Believe me, they'll bury you in it.
Now your head, excuse me, is empty. I have the ticket for that. Come here, sweetie, out of the closet. Well, what do you think of that? Naked as paper to start
But in twenty-five years she'll be silver, In fifty, gold. A living doll, everywhere you look. It can sew, it can cook, It can talk, talk, talk.
It works, there is nothing wrong with it. You have a hole, it's a poultice. You have an eye, it's an image. My boy, it's your last resort. Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.
-Sylvia Plath
**note: ran out of juice. will be back in a ticket
poemegrenade
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Chinese food
Chinese food around the world has taken a place of its own In US it’s know as takeaway, the quickest exotic taste around It comes in cute little paper boxes with chopsticks which torture many Not only did it develop a new taste but that’s where US ‘Chopsway’ came about!
India sharing a border with China might have known a little more You might have thought some recipes might have slipped through the Silk Road But on the contrary they couldn’t resist sprinkling in some spicy masala Some turmeric powder, some caraway seeds and they created a new taste altogether
bloom
this poem is definitely not complete but i have yet to taste chinese in other parts of the world :)
poemegrenade
A wave to a complete stranger
I wave to a complete stranger And I don't know what it's for Indigenous to this foreign land He was stranger than I thought
Tattered clothes he wore with pride And on his face was a pleasant smile As if his life was void of worries Now I've left him a mile behind
My train rattles on, chug-chugging away Oblivious to that ephemeral connection Regardless of how trivial the idea might seem It came almost like a reflex action
That simple gesture affected me so So sincere and yet so naïve Amazing what a wave can do It was a pity I had to leave
We exchanged no words, no formalities It was brief and from a distance He stood three platforms away from me It wouldn't be long before he forgot my existence
To him I was but another tourist Someone he would never again see A person so insignificant in his life And I couldn't disagree
My train rattles on chug-chugging away But I won't leave the memory behind Its simplicity did strike me so I wouldn't try to erase it from my mind
bloom
poemegrenade
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
What is your Carapace?
What is your carapace? Do you shelter under bursts of affability? Or is it solitude that builds your reserve? What is your carapace?
Do you wear a reflective sheet? Arrogance rebuking all? Or do you wait to be washed ashore? Let the dust settle on its own?
Tell me what’s your carapace?
bloom
(mel- do write your pen name or just a 'mel' after your poem to distinguish. thanks! oh and have fun in m'sia)
Latest Reads:
1.Crime Zero by Michael Cordy
2.Miracle Strain by Michael Cordy
3.A Sunday Morning by Amy Ephron
4.Damnedifido by Percival Everett
5.Bliss by Peter Carey
6.Deception Point by Dan Brown
WRITER02:
Produces: Poems and short Short Stories
Latest Reads:
1. Death in The Afternoon by Ernest Hemingway
2. Anansi's Boys by Neil Gaiman
3. Eragon by Christopher Paolini
4. Eldest by Christopher Paolini
