songs like this

“Because music, as an art form is essentially playful.”   – Alan Watts, Life is Not a Journey

sliding arms and gesturing
with the classics –

connect the passing pauses,
bubbling in scaling riffs

as a refrain tunes in. anything works
but music, we don’t work music;

we imagine them. powerful slurs
like childish autumn leaves and

old souls dancing. i have always liked
seeing cotton chords hanging

beneath Apollo, spilling
moments all over the stage floor

slipping into its stream – and still,
relive a conductor’s final touch

that misplaces with purpose the notes
into its primary taste, sweeter than ever.
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KOTA DENGAN SENYUMAN || SENYUMAN YANG KELUPA

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I know the white background is horrible but wordpress does not let me format this piece into the alignments above so I had to ss 😦

This is the work of a twin cinema, a form where the poem can be read as two vertical individual pieces or read across horizontally as one solo piece. The name was affectionately coined after Poet Yeow Kai Chai’s favourite band Two Door Cinema Club. My portion of the poem sits on the vertical right. It’s my first try on twin cinemas and it was pretty exciting; I can’t wait till I’ve got time and inspiration to write more of these. Hope you enjoyed it!

Twin Cinema

numb, perhaps.

 

immured sentiments leans
uneasy on crossed legs, in
cups and palms; every part sits
as a naked skeleton.

as the dates would stay
better not knowing
wake up not knowing
hands were not as free.

the moon whispers its cold
embrace, we remember everything.

for reaching
is the old eye abandoned,
to even think of being

this one word.

The Machine Money People

 

the machine money people
trains the chugging thoughts
coined from the silver gears of city
breaths. some buttons to
press on
purging the production
of answers on paper,
the same
answers you have seen elsewhere.

the belts are wearing off
so loosely, and no one
is there to have them replaced.
even in the presence of two legs
and a mind
they are still
moving
in circular motions,
like the drills of a marching
band on national day.
memorized.

Equipped with stationary
textbooks by the side
I begin to finish a segment of
assigned youth.
the machine money people
once said that
there was only a singular
mechanism that produced success.

I do not stop to add gas,
only to press on.

metaphors for autosuggested poems

 

words stolen from past
mistakes, a dictionary
sans definition.

it appears prim, true
to seasons, but like winter
well without water.

synthetic, composed
beneath the tree
that refused to think.

poetic gardens
borne from synthetic seeds, for
the tourists to see.

you no longer are
the writer with a pen,

a poem scratched from
the edges of bright lit screens
without truth and mind.

sincerely, no.

 

This is a China bracelet. It is a message my mother had given to me, of genuine postures and pretty faces having to seamlessly combine into what we all recognize as Woman. Seemingly, I sit myself in front of the mirror, reminding myself the importance of silky hair locks and the risks of an empty wrists, the empty fourth finger she chases. She taught me how boys looked for pretty eyes, pretty hands, pretty lips – pretty.

She taught me: looks, style, act, pose, perform.
I learnt: make-up, poise, China, genuine, unwanted attention.

I have learnt so much that beneath my skin, there lies no gravity in my veins nor voice. There is no tangible matter you were looking for; I am skin under skin under skin. Just look into my sole reflection: I am armed with mascara here and a lust chain there.

Do I look pretty now?


Heyo, I’m back again! Just went out for Sing Night Fest and it was crazy hot. *Reminds self to bring portable fan next weekend.

This prose poetry was triggered when one of my friends commented ‘nice bracelet’ on my bracelet. Well, truthfully speaking, mine did come from China China (like legit some China shop in China), and my mom had picked them out for me. I probably should be killing myself for using the highly used word, pretty. But I pretty much have too little neurons to get myself starting on this word hunt. I mean, I’m like 16 years and 17 months old, so I technically am still too young and incapable of taking on such missions? Plus it’s 1:12; nothing I can actually do now.

I have been feeling morbid-ish these few days and I know I shouldn’t. Especially when my mentor demands we write some happy pieces by 27th. “Good fking luck renata”. But this one just hit me sooooo…

so bye, hope you’ve enjoyed the read.

p.s. collectively, I don’t quite care whether I’m pretty or not.

 

 

 

Father

 

Good night, good night

goes the voice of a breadwinner, his
eyelid steeled and mouth mechanized
bellowing the two humbling syllables.
(they were warmed and baked but
the children do not rise)

Feet shuffles backward, slipper against marble

it is almost midnight
and seeing that this is the time
the rest seeks rest,
his wrist rigidly turns upon the doorknob
angle by angle
as he gently untwists his worries
from today, from yesterday,
leaving two daughters asleep
and thinking of tomorrow’s

risks
again.


hello! my name is renata, and above anything else that I deem important to say, I just want to thank every reader who has been reading my posts; I’m so immensely grateful that you came by.

from this post onward, I’ve decided to seam my posts with journal-ish thoughts in this section. And with every first thing comes the need (or so I feel) for an introduction (whether you read it or not – doesn’t matter for the following tbh):

i can’t say for sure what lured me into poetry, but one of them would be this animation+poetry, titled “To this day”. It was a moving slam, and had brought me up during the lower troughs in my life. Even as I re watched the video, I couldn’t help but feel the choke, the glare in his voice yet the strain of it all, again and again and again. I guess that made me want to emulate such power from curated words and to present the hidden side to things.

i’ve never considered myself a possible writer, a poet; I’m really just a rambler. So when I first got into CAP, I was utterly flabbergasted, and more than happy to be part of the seminar. I swear it was a dream come true. Then when I applied for CAP Mentorship and – i seriously dk how but – got in, I almost felt like I had struck one-billion at MBS. Even though I’m not legal. Like WATEVENOMG

but anyway I’m feeling so lucky now and I can say that I’m so glad for having listened to that slam, for having saved me and not deprive me of this awesome opportunity. Now, I can’t wait to meet my mentor!!!!

also it’s like 1.21am now so I’m feeling extremely tired now. aka I’m leaving you now bc sleep.

okbye

p.s. so glad I wrote this poem.

 

 

sunset & sea

 

here! light spilling
curtains that clad
me thin.
arrive and arise:
i am, i am.

missing puzzle pieces
scatter into the bonfire. I
saw some bittersweet smile
to the hands
that used to embrace me.

it was warm, but
your touch brimmed in gallons,
gushing upon skin after skin.
I was his after bear kisses,
bare after burnt bridges.

from six to night
my body
sears open,
departing upon
punished youth –

don’t mind the waves.
everything on the shore goes:
washed,
engulfed,
gone.

Pencils

 

Has a first sketch never gone wrong?
The pencils were the criminals, I swear.

I speak of the pencils possessed
by a girl with innocent thoughts.
The ones that nudge white space into corners
when its toes meets the motherland.
Yesterday, they robbed purity
out of daylight’s skin.

Today, with sharpened beaks,
they began drilling words into walls;
covering up unworthy cracks
with words like “sorry”,
“i tried”.

The perpetrators sneak onto the paper:
it is carbon at twelve. I am sure
we see the moon and stars.
But the judge misses
the entire blanket,
frowning at black holes instead.

He hands her the fourth sentence
and issues a warning
to cover them up.
“erase” and “re-do”,

as if the strokes she mastered
left papers with less justice. At
the end of the day, the sky
is just as sinful, just as
the humans could ever try.

 

till she leaves

 

for yvette

When I see you I think of a garden in summer – homegrown pastel petals pop up, prevalent on every sidewalk. I am reminded: Each flower possessing individual shades, their unique network of veins contributing to different characters. When I see you, hints of autumn and spring begin to metastasize within the curls of your hair and the creases of your favourite Beatles shirts. Enthralled by your aura, the flowers around you grow fonder each day.

Months had flown by, and little by little, your presence began to blossom my tiny shoots. You were like a blue-ombre flower with petals transcending from paler skies to deeper oceans (which I find to be really pretty). Your lulling allure unravelled fragments of laughter and frustration stitched together in our experiences.

And you taught me, of the places I’ll go – you’ll move mountains! – so I gradually register to the vastness of my own character.

There were plethoras to explore, so many new grown fruits to harvest. Your existence makes me happy, and I will hark back often on our journey together. You are a masterpiece on this very soil; I longed to have spent better hours. But like dandelion, I see your petals carry away quickly, in search of new grounds to begin again.

It withers me to see you go.

But right now: Let the wind take you to prettier canopies. Thrive in your journey ahead; passion propels the heart forward. So grow and bloom, because then,

will others do, too.