Poems

i used to write poems. but eversince i started on my dissertation i stopped. to be able to write good poems, you do not only have to have the flair, but also a good knowledge of a wide range of poetry. that was what my undergrad academic exercise supervisor, mr hazidi, told me when he assessed my too-idealistic poems "you have to read MORE poems" and added "write when you're angry or sad or happy". well.... i took his advice. when i was in the final sem of doing my MA coursework, i took Stylistics (in other words, linguistics application in literature). much as i abhor the dryness of linguistics, i must admit that with the linguistics background i was able to criticise and analyse the poems better - that also means i know essentially what makes a good poem.

this morning, as i was about to write down the menu for the small tea party i'll be holding for my students tomorrow, i came across my book of poetry - written when i was experimenting with skills that i learnt in my classes. here i present to you the poems, but please do not plagiarise the works.

Ode to Batu Buruk Beach
At the sandy beach I stand,
Paying homage to an old friend,
Homeground.
My turf.
Palm leaves swaying to the roaring ocean,
Children playing colourful kites,
Murky waves unleash their fury,
They have seen much.
They know much.
The taste of nostalgia is deafening.
In my mother’s childhood days,
The puja pantai was celebrated.
Offerings made to the spirits of the sea,
Pagan dances under the moonlight.
The winds of the South China Sea greet me,
Two old friends are we.
In such powerful embrace,
I bask in the land’s love.
I’m a girl once more, of years ago.
I had abandoned you, I know.
But I’m here now, my friend.
The salty air is in my blood,
the sand, the sea, the palm trees…
The Land of the Seven Princesses is part of me.
Arms wide open I surrender.
I’m free! I’m free!
I’m the kite that soars high
I never lose ground
For you hold me firm and never let me stray.
Sounds of azan come with dusk.
I walk away with lighter steps.
I may fly again,
But I will always return.
Homeground.
My turf.

Music Box
While spring cleaning
I come across a memory.
The music box lies on the table
Dusty, forgotten.
I blow away the thin mist
and open the teak box.
Inside a lady and a man dance,
And soft melody plays;
Evoking memories of yesteryears
Of that particular time
Of that particular moment.
A time of happiness and hopes
To be dashed so soon.
It was just a fantasy.
It was a mistake.
The sweet serenade finally slows to a halt.
A salty saline drops on the two figurines.
I take a deep breath,
Slowly exhaling the old bittersweet story.
“Life must go on”
So I put back our love in the music box,
And let it dust away.