happy 2012!!

curls of chocolate & a thick morass

We don’t know paradise grows
anywhere on an island.

It’s as opaque as all the tired
smiles, slouching in chairs,
which is a pretence
that actually isn’t.

I find seeds of madness
see it inherent,
everyone thinking they’re
special, one moment,
and then nothing
the next.

Over here, when we say “best”,
we mean “worst”,
so read the lips.

Forgive me, for not being my
churchgoing best,
like some naturalistic fossil
cured in a mason jar,
reading Sylvia Plath ranting against
tulips, looking for
the glaze in everything.

I hadn’t eaten a grapefruit
in years, but this season,
I ate a couple of scallops
served in their shells,
as well as strawberries,
luscious against crab cakes.

How to separate the jewels
from crumbs,
and caramelise the
curls of chocolate,
into a thick morass,
like my head,
and how to traipse across
a skillet of shining discs?

One boy was absent,
translating translucence
in bed,
eschewing our company
for nothing, nothing at all
better than sleep.

Did you come out of the old year
cured of the thing
that ails a body part,
smoking the heart?

When I got out, waved goodbye,
we both could not resist
smiling, see you in 2012,
like a raucous rogue smiling
at a unicorn stampede,
no man no woman an island,
each of us
a caramelised need.

A natural history of my balcony

The bones of a house, you mean,
or skin, or face, even how
you feel on the inside.

A high open space makes a loft,
even the false ceiling’s
a seamless whole,
a moon face you could
walk on. Space wouldn’t know
the limits you impose.

The sliding door came off
to take the balcony in,
slate tiles an outdoor illusion,
the gurgling pond, the leaves
of a consummate money plant
climbing arty twigs, after
all these years. Last night
I watched shiny ornaments, snow
lights powered by batteries,
decking the twigs.

After chasing dust bunnies
under spidery corners,
a small stick insect appeared
in a corner, its six long legs
playing some cameo role post
restoration, whispering this
is how a dust bunny would
look, trumped.

Christmas day. The guests sat
on the round table dealing
a decks of cards, chasing
small change like ten bucks
my son made, grandpa licking
his lips, a winner’s smile.

We had made a red paper star,
from Ikea, which opened up
like a foldable beacon,
a larger-than-life star,
hung on the window against
the night sky, making
a sign of peace.

Process notes: We Write Poems’s challenge is to take a look at the importance of place from a very personal relevance point of view. Select whatever room you wish, be it – living room, kitchen, bedroom, pantry, closet, laundry room, attic, basement, etc. Every room within a house has a certain quality inherent to its’ use, the kind of events and history native and natural to that room. And every room includes a relevance that reflects your own personal relationship to that room. Even a simply physical description of a room has something to speak to us.

Interesting title, interesting prompt, even if at first you fret! I confess, the phrase “natural history” made me balk. Does it mean biography? Would that be too personal? Does it mean flora and fauna, and how would it apply to a room? But as you see, I managed to work in those aspects. I’m mighty pleased at the result, as I’m mighty pleased with my twiggy ornamentals and starry light, hehe. It’s one of the high points of my Christmas!

Ho ho ho … Christmas cheers

the world turns on its axis

The world turning on its axis
may do a little jig in a jug,
so the tidings of heart
is, by decree, both afraid
and unafraid, so deal with it,
that ticker that’s been known
to fudge, wanting joy, in haste,
pondering peace, in leisure,
a quagmire of gains and losses,
like peering in a glass-bottomed boat
for some brilliant fuzziness.

I called upon the shepherd of the sea,
will you help me see,
and then the angel of the cloud,
what’s the answer please,
when the only way forward
seems to be backward,
in the transmittals of
that faulty organ,
ensuring that we live.

Your heart’s the manger,
silly, haven’t you heard,
and that story,
and that anchor,
and that wind, for the only
sailboat there is.

Process notes: So yea, I’ve done my end-of-the-year poem, with only a week to go before the new year, 2012. The wordle’s from the ever appreciated The Sunday Whirl. I hope everyone’s had a good year. I know I had. I want good sails for the new year. I wish you good sails.

New York movie

The world isn’t more transparent.

It appears to be porous
with social media.

It’s easier to find the centre
of someone else’s void,
some dent to fit yourself in.

If someone ate a mussel,
you could try to pierce
your own fork in.

It’s as if we’re eavesdropping,
a lot, just to know
we exist not in a vacuum.

Unlike that usherette,
in a New York movie theater,
chin resting on wrist,
elegant and opaque,
fingers tapping out
an occult fantasy.

Hey I saw you at the theater,
or someone like you,
leaning near the red-curtained door,
while the rest of us
escaped the Depression
in some artful movie
you’ve seen a gazillion times.

Afterward, we could suck at a straw,
but we couldn’t upload
some perfunctory comment
on Facebook,
neither could you,
when the world is as dark as
the whirlpool inside
our egg-shaped world.

Process notes: Wow, another Hopper painting, New York Movie, tossed up by Margo in her Tuesday Tryouts. Though late as I am, I’ll probably be left in the dark, unread. Still, hop hop hop I did.

Vietnamese water puppet theater

The puppets appear to move on water, in a waist-deep pool stage. The backdrop/screen is of a temple facade, where the puppeteers move the puppets using long bamboo rods and string mechanism hidden below water. There’re different sequences of storytelling accompanied by an orchestra and singing. One segment featured Quan ho singing, songs exchanged between men and women. In 2009, Quan ho was recognised by Unesco as an immaterial cultural heritage of humanity.

girl in massage place, Sapa

In a roomful of pressure points
intermingling pain and pleasure,
I’m looking at a wall mirror,
wall hangings in tribal brocade.

The girl in the knit cap stared
at my fellow traveller whose feet
she kneaded, in simple oil, as
heads tilted toward a mounted TV.

Her fellow masseuses twittered
at the bared models catwalking
the catwalk, as I wondered how
high fashion cuts across borders

to a place where culture breathes
differently, here where
beauty has yet be plundered
by the giddy air.

I wished for aroma, lavendar oil
that would raise the bar for
these effective hands and knees,
and my fellow traveller thought

that girl could pass for a model,
but she’s hemmed in here, her place
in the world, customers feeling cold,
poor heating, cheesecake next door.

Vietnamese cuisine

Vietnamese spring rolls are delicious. This is the steamed version of it, which is made of steamed rice flour. It’s incredibly wafer thin and delicate in taste.

I secretly filmed the making process!

The fried spring roll version can be seen amidst the seafood platter.

The roll can be transformed into triangles too, masquerading as samosas.

Vietnamese chicken tastes full of flavor. Their chickens are free range. I could live in Vietnam just to eat their chicken.

The staple food of choice is Vietnamese soup noodles called pho. The magic lies in the texture of the delicate noodles dunked in tasty soup with a dash of lime. Beef or chicken is added along with leafy condiments. It’s tastier than it looks here.

journal of the faithless

What saved you?

In the journal of the faithless,
the only god-like presence
is family.

No matter, the improvisations.

You can’t be locked behind glass
as wispy figures go by.

His impish face pressing close,
unexpected solace.

Is what we do for the dead
a charade for the living?
It is perhaps the only compass
for the living.

My father’s aura embraces me,
returning home,
watching the unicorn
tree saying Christmas.

Process notes: So We Write Poems wanted a reprise of the window image. Rinse & repeat, sounds good to me. Like how a hair wash makes a world of difference to how you feel. If you’re interested to read my earlier response to the prompt, it’s here. Interesting that the first time round, I wrote about ghosts, and then this second time, my father ended up here. Strange things happen when you write. The rain has been doing lots of rinsing around here lately. *digressing*