Sunday, August 14, 2022

How do you go about your craft?

Rosemary at Poets and Storytellers United asks us how we go about crafting our poems or stories.


photo by dsnake1


How do you go about your craft?


A fellow blogger once asked these questions in her post:
"Do you have a writing practice? What’s it like? How has it helped you become a better writer? If you’re thinking about starting a writing practice, how do you envision it? What would work for you?"

I think she has some very valid questions here. And it is not easy to self-examine ourselves.

I do not earn my living from writing, and I think writing emails, excuses and threats doesn't count. But writing, especially poetry, has always been a part of me, like breathing and eating, ever since I won a book prize during my primary school days.

I remembered Bukowski writing about him banging out his poems on a typewriter in rented rooms, smoke and a glass of wine in hand. I do not have a writing desk where each morning, after a coffee, I sit down to write. I have a very cluttered table with books, toys and a computer where I edit my work. So no, I guess I do not have a writing practice. Yet.

What I do is quite spontaneous, I write what I fancy, whatever the flavour of the moment is. Politics, nature, crime, people. Or a prompt catches my interest. I keep a notebook and pencil handy so that whenever some magical lines or a wild idea hits me, I am able to record it down. When I was a correspondent for my company's newsletter some time back, I did take writing more seriously, probably because there are deadlines and editors chasing you for the copy.

I am probably not a disciplined writer. Nor a very organised one. If I set out to write something and walk into a wall, I will put it aside and do something else, like button mashing some video games console.

There may be chaos in method, but there will always be a poem.


written : March 2010
Revised : 13/08/2022
*****************

316 words






"I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again."

- Oscar Wilde






© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2022

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Sunday, May 09, 2021

Tai Seng

He sat across from me. He said, "I will bury him." I thought, this guy is very unhappy and crazy. "Look, let's have another beer and I will take you home. Where do you live?". "Tai Seng", he said.



photo by Darius Bashar at Unsplash



Tai Seng



talking about
                 Tai seng
when we were watching Hard Boiled on the CD
you know, you can wander into that place
and never come out again.

taking another
                 swig of vodka
she in her teddies just bored
i have been there a couple of times, told her
the guys there are quite friendly

once i went there
                 to play cards
and when i left one of the guys
lifted a zinc sheet off the wall and outside
was a tiny alleyway with cut steps

just follow it
                 to the bus stop
just so casual, like old friends
the other time we went there to get grass
we found out what a labyrinth means

the dealer took us
                 left and right
we went through someone's house
the people didn't bat an eyelid, just nodded
like it was another day in the office

her silk dudou
                 a distraction
on the screen Chow Yuen Fatt
was shooting up the gangsters in the teahouse.
but i didn't seem to hear the gunfire

this probably is not a good time to talk about
                 Tai Seng


03/08/2020
**********



Ask any old-timer where are the most dangerous 'hoods on the island in the 70's and they will rattle off names like Tai Seng, The Gasworks, Geylang and Redhill. And in most lists will be Tai Seng.





Band-Maid - Thrill (スリル)





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

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Sunday, October 20, 2019

nights on a thin mattress, redux

when you don't have much and need to live...



photo by Sarah_Loetscher at pixabay



nights on a thin mattress, redux


do not tempt fate with us, our tempers are thin
when 8, 9 people are crammed into a tiny flat.
sometimes the cops call, it is the neighbours.
they do not like our ugly faces, or something.
then they see some guys lounging, smoking
a little stand fan turning, oily fumes in the air,
a stale smell of dried sweat, dirty clothes on walls.
oft times we turn on the old telly, max the volume
watch what's in the box, like everyone else
argue about why Saturday Night Fever is so big
or we will just roll out our thin mattresses
trying to grab some sleep, thinking of money
loads of it, and the hot girls we had missed.

sometimes maybe around 2 a.m., deep sleep
there are sounds of breaking glass, taunts
mentions of human anatomy, crude language
some fearless drunks down at the coffee shop
they are playing at muay thai and jeet kun do.
we come out to the corridor, to the parapet,
lean out, kaypoh, shirtless in the hot night
see if blood is spilt, money or pride is lost.
then a hothead from upstairs, sleep interrupted,
would lean over the parapet,no malice lost,
nabeh, who the fuck is making noise,
i am coming down with a fucking knife!

and the night is suddenly all quiet again,
until the day takes over, the sun rising
over the bleak factories, the muddy sites,
and compounds we will all be going to
after we have rolled up our thin mattresses,
the dust motes, clear in the morning light.


19/06/2019
**********


this is one of the poems that i wanted to submit for a poetry competition. This is actually a rework of an older poem. Kind of a bit gritty and ugly for a competition. Maybe not.







"You sigh too much," she said. "Sighing is a sign of defeat". We were sitting on a park bench, trying to decipher the stars in the dark blue night sky. I repeated her words again. I held her closer in the warm, sweaty night, hoping the world will not fail us both.

-- dsnake1






© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

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Sunday, October 21, 2018

territory

Do we like to see this world more tolerant, more compassionate? But bigotry, xenophobia, chauvinism, and a host of other -ism masking as self-righteousness are building walls and barriers. And governments are leaning on protectionism and citizen control.

And all this mentality filters down to the man in the street. Only when you run with the wolves will you understand.




photo by ArielleJay at morguefile.com




territory


small talk at beer tables can escalate into big arguments.
the fact that alcohol is involved does not help matters.
just like modern governments, the escalation bit, i mean.
it's not over beer, usually some small islands everyone wants.

they don't shout and wave a smashed beer bottle at people, like us.
they send in a couple of patrol boats or warships, waving guns.

it's a wonder we had lasted so long.
but let's go back to the peasants like us
talking to the fluorescent lights and moon...

a broken beer bottle
intimidates
because
you are not sure
what harm it can do
how the jagged edges
will cut
if a shard will break
and buries in
your guts.
a bearing scrapper
a cleaver
we know what
the steel can do
so
the other day
at the coffeeshop
when the cleaner
accidentally
drops a mug
the sound
of shattering glass
like a gong
in a small room.

we jump
chairs clatter
glance close
glance quick
who the fuck did that?
the poor aunty, cursing
and looking for a broom
and we settle down again
muttering
throw out the ice cubes
pour another glass
call out to the beer lady,
for a couple more bottles
as the drama forgotten
(like those border stand-offs)
and we resume
our drinking
to see who
will be the first one
to drop over
the edge.


written 27/09/2015
revised 21/10/2018
****************


a strange piece of work. i am afraid to call it a poem.







Glance close, glance quick, but don’t stare.

*

from “Sovereign Nation” by Jeff Alessandrelli.

This poem was inspired by the lines from the above poem & some bottles of beer. This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in aggressive ways.






© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

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Sunday, July 08, 2018

the four sisters

This is a painting by the artist Rick Mobbs. Over a decade back, Rick offered on his blog a weekly image prompt for us wannabe writers to ponder over it. He called the project The Storybook Collaborative. Those images are paintings that he had done, and out of it were some very good poems.

The below poem has been sitting in my thumb drive for some time. Perhaps I took too long to ponder?




painting by Rick Mobbs



the four sisters



"Can we not raise our hands in anger?
beat our swords into ploughshares instead?"

and Peace
raises her hands and releases the white petrel
where it circles the storm clouds

says Hope
and the golden flame in her hand
flickers but still burns strongly in the wind

says Love
and the stalk of red rose
bends with the wind but does not break

says Faith
and her hands cup the the sunrise
weighing the golden orb of the growing sun

and they look at the grey skies turning black
the sea sneering and scattering the dunes

and they are not afraid.




written 10/09/2010
revised 08/06/2018
****************






And if you think the dark clouds will clear : Pink Floyd, A Great Day for Freedom





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

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Thursday, April 21, 2011

why i waited in the rain


This is the first time I am participating in the Thursday Poets' Rally (Week 42) and I am posting this for the event.

Although this poem has appeared in this blog before, in June 2007, it is one of my favourites, and I thought I would like to share it again. :)




photo by chelle at morguefile.com




why i waited in the rain


because you came to me
with your umbrella
offering shelter
like a heroine
out of a wuxia novel
and your smile
was dazzling
even on a wet
March morning.

you leaned close to me
warm breath in my face
a scent of soft talc
fresh lilac flowers,
the patter of rain
on stretched fabric
keeping time
racing alongside
our heartbeats.


we laughed
and stamped on puddles
like children
the song of our joy
scattering like beads
of crystal
clearer than the rays
that were
trying to break
through moody clouds.



07.06.07
********



© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

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