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, September 18, 2016

Why Write Poetry?

I wrote this piece and posted on this blog somewhere in 2005. Somehow, I think it is still relevant today as it was then.

Yes, you can say this post is partly inspired by Rosemary Nissen-Wades's excellent article at Poet's United.




photo by dsnake1



Why Write Poetry?



Why write poetry? Poetry don't sell, nobody reads them. Don't bet on that, but that's not the point. People write poetry because they love to. Just like you love a beer.

An author, I think it was Stephen King, once said that you are like an opened carton of milk in the fridge. You take on whatever flavour is beside you. But like he said, an author shouldn't just be that carton of milk. Yes, you absorb the flavours, it gives you different tastes, but you have to try to find your own voice.

My nephew once asked me about the secret of good writing. I told him there's really no secret. He looked surprised when I told him to read. And write. Lots of it. True, the two go hand in hand. It's like a guy wanting to win a marathon but having no time to do practice runs.

So go read anything you can lay your hands on, your thick reference books, the great SF masters, the Nobel laureates, pulp fiction, manga, your child's bedtime story books, the papers. And then go write some poetry. In your journals, sketchbooks, Moleskines, A4 papers, your blogs. And it will become your lifelong companion and friend.

I write poetry simply because I love to.


written 02/10/2005
revised 18/09/2016
****************







"Those who read poetry do so for pleasure, for insight, sometimes for counsel. The least they can expect is that the poet who shares his visions and experiences with them do so with no hypocrisy. To compromise poetry through fear is to atrophy the psyche. To compromise poetry through expediency is the soft, small murder of the soul..."

--Lenore Kendel (1932 - 2009), "poetry is never compromise",



Shared on Poetry Pantry #320 at Poets United.





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

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Sunday, January 10, 2016

The Shortest Poems

How short can a poem gets?




photo by krosseel
image from morguefile.com





A haiku, 3 lines, 17 syllables? Ginsberg's American Sentence, 1 sentence, 17 syllables, no more no less. Or a monostitch, a one line poem, usually less than 17 syllables?

Or Strickland Gillilan's couplet "Lines on the Antiquity of Microbes" :

      Adam
      Had 'em.


Seems like the title is longer than the poem.


Or "Ode to a Goldfish", often attributed to Ogden Nash :

      Oh, wet
      pet


Just 3 syllables, my friends.







Or how about this one, just one word "lighght" by Aram Saroyan, which caused a little storm between the National Endowment for the Arts and the U.S. Congress.




Or how about this one, "ly" by Geof Huth? Was he thinking of adverbs when he wrote this?








Or this by Bill Pauly (from The Haiku Handbook) which doesn't even had a word. Do you see the cat on the fence?


And in my opinion, the best shortest poem, if there is such a thing, is by jwcurry. Just a lower case i dotted with his own fingerprint. Like this (done with my own fingerprint, for this illustration).







And from me, just for the fun for this post, 2 "short poems".






Do you see through the Lies?





another visual word from me. and how about this monostich that i wrote at my other blog :

pregnant silence after she said she was.


I know. Our attention span in this internet age is shorter than the power cable on the computer. This post is getting too draggy, so it is time to cut it short. Promise to be back with a longer poem next post. :)


THE
END

(this is not a short poem)





sometimes, the less said, the better.


Shared on Poetry Pantry #285 at Poets United.





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

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Thursday, January 01, 2015

a lesson

Raise your hands all those who agree that 2014 had been mostly a bad year.




digital sketch by dsnake1, made with Sketchpad



a lesson


On a New Year's eve, as I was about to go to work in the afternoon, a lady knocked on my front door. She was selling ballpoint pens. She had a card stating she was partially blind. Her dress had seen better days, but she was neat. She was also missing a couple of front teeth.

As I was in a hurry, I declined. She smiled and apologised and started to walk away. And then like a slap, it hit me. This is New Year's eve, for goodness sake. Why were you so mean? And I ran and caught up with the lady at the lift landing.

So I bought a pen from the lady, all for two bucks. I am kicking myself now. I mean, how much can one make from two bucks? I should have bought a few more. Here I was griping about working on New Year's eve, and here was a lady who would probably never be able to find a job that can pay her a decent wage.

Today has taught me a lesson. Slow down, man, slow down. Breathe, and then breathe deeply again. You may be able to see better.


31/12/2014
**********






Here's wishing all my readers a safe and happy New Year!





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2015

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Sunday, November 10, 2013

pussyfoot

Something old. Memories and blog post and me. Sorry, no poem (maybe a haiku).


photo by imelenchon
image from morguefile.com



pussyfoot




Pussyfoot

The word just popped into my mind while I was having my tea at the coffeeshop today. Maybe it was the cat padding around under the tables. Maybe I have turned soft and nostalgic. Whatever the trigger, the word brought back a flood of memories.

I was young then, just out of the army and looking for a way to survive. I took on this job at a nightclub in Geylang, waiting on tables and serving drinks. It was a real sleazy place; triads, loan sharks, con-men. And a floor show that even the hardened mamasans blushed at. The management had advised, keep your eyes open, and your mouth shut and you should be fine. So the first day at work, someone ordered "pussyfoot", and I sort of went "huh?", what the heck was that?

I went to the counter, repeated the word as I remembered (which wasn't too difficult), and the bartender nonchalantly poured out something as if that was the most ordinary thing in the world. In my vocabulary at that time, drinks meant beer, brandy, whisky and rum, you know, the hard stuff.

Turned out a pussyfoot is a non-alcoholic concoction of a few fruit juices served chilled. I also found out that it was indeed the most ordinary thing in the club, a favourite with the ladies. Nice to sip with, and nowhere near potent enough to be knocked out, so the men couldn't take advantage of them. Of course the men wouldn't be seen dead with that drink, heavens! They want stuff that is a bit stiff.

The tips were good, those people there threw money around like water. I came to work with a few coins in my pockets, and went home with a fistful of notes. The management had warned, do not pocket tips yourself, but I was young and brash then, and everybody else was doing it, to hell with the rules. It was good money. The tobacco smoke was another matter.

It's amazing, what a word, buried in the deep recesses of the memory, can somehow surfaced and brings back a train of images...



18/02/2006
**********




neon

neon
splashing on my face

with the rain


09/11/2013
**********








I promise to be back with a poem next time, not this, uh, stuff.



Shared on Poetry Pantry #175 at Poets United.





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

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Sunday, September 15, 2013

about haiku

This is an essay about haiku. I hope.




image from visipix.com


what i have learned about haiku



I started writing English haiku only recently, maybe about five or six years back when I started sending in stuff to the monthly shiki at haikuworld.org. I said stuff because what I wrote then, on retrospect, was not really haiku, maybe some words worked into 3 lines and seventeen syllables.

So after climbing a learning curve, read some really good haiku from some blogs, websites and books, and writing some myself ( I mean really write), I have come to see haiku in a different light. What was once I thought for kids and word-blocked writers (hey, what's so difficult about a three line poem?) was something not easy to fathom. It is like fencing in the dark.

This is what I have learned so far, about haiku in English:

A haiku in Japanese is usually written in 3 groups of syllables (5-7-5), 17 syllables in all. This is pretty rigid in Japanese. In English, it is not wrong to write in 17 syllables (following the rules), but usually, only 10 to 12 syllables are the norm.This is something to do with diphthongs, which I will not explain because it will get me into a tangle.

A haiku is about the present, thus it is always written in the present tense. It is concerned about a single happening.

Avoid metaphors and similes. Words like "as" or "like a" should not be used in haiku, because what you intend to say will be associated with something else.

I have learned something very basic about haiku from fellow bloggers and haiku maestros. One very good haiku writer told me these words : "Show, don't tell." Don't tell the reader what to feel. Tell the image instead, let the reader interpret and feel in his own imagination. Don't say, "how happy!" Show what is happy. This is the mantra that I repeat to myself when I start on a haiku.

There are not many words you can squeeze into a haiku. Thus there are some words that should be dropped. Most adjectives, adverbs, long bombastic words. No emotional words like "beautiful" and "horrible". Leave that to the reader. Avoid "I" since you don't need to show what you are feeling.

Haiku is about experiences. Do not overlook the seemingly small details. That said, it does not mean that an older person is a better haiku writer than say, a very young one. Children can write very good haiku too.

remember the 3 lines :
image
image
event.

That's about all that I can think of at this moment. If you, dear reader, has anything to share, feel free to leave your comments..

As William J Higginson wrote in his very excellent book The Haiku Handbook, "the central act of haiku is letting an object or event touch us, and then sharing it with another."




Here are some examples from the masters:

on a bare branch
a crow has settled...

       autumn evening


- Basho (1644 - 1694)


sick on a journey -

dreams wander on
over dried up fields.


- Basho



by a winter river
forsaken, a dog's
         carcass!


- Masaoka Shiki (1867 - 1902)



in the toy pail
at low tide        floats
the still ferris wheel



- Cor van den Heuvel





And now, (not from a master), an urban haiku :


day moon at first light.

the street lamps
hesitate to switch off



- dsnake1



Shared on Poetry Pantry #167 at Poets United.





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

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