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

Labels: , , ,

Sunday, April 10, 2022

poetry lesson #11

"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."

― Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken



digital montage by dsnake1 with Sketchpad 5.1


poetry lesson #11
() this a poem


these are words scratched
by a bayonet tip
on an ammo box
in some foreign fields
and it claimed
a soldier was here
but he wished he was not.

these are squiggles scrawled
on some scrap paper
which looked like
some alien runes
but the writer thought
these can win
the next nobel award.

this is a seemingly blank
slightly yellowed page
where a salty tear once
dropped and blotted
when the heart was hurt
and words
were not enough.

this is a poem
these are poems.



written 01/06/2007
revised 03/08/2021
****************






Poets of the Fall - Locking Up The Sun





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2022

Labels: , ,

Sunday, November 14, 2021

poetry lesson #10

If i am asked to give a talk on writing poetry, i will repeat the same words as this...


pencil sketch by dsnake1



poetry lesson #10


to write a poem, keep to your pace.
you may walk to a different drum beat
be it.

know what you want to talk about.
a prompt, a sexy photo, blue skies
your anger.

write a draft, the stuff that comes
to mind, sticky notes, that passes by
write it.

frame the words, like a picture
find a form, like this poem, fence it
feed your cat

and then take a break, you know me
go to youtube, weird docus, favourite
rock bands

i keep coming back, ever since that song
in a disused shipyard, guitars and drums
that tell time.

i am distracted, headphones seem stuck,
they are just too pretty, i will be back
in a week


23/07/2021
**********




Shared on Friday Writings #2 at Poets and Storytellers United.





BAND-MAID - Daydreaming





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

Labels: , ,

Sunday, August 15, 2021

poetry lesson #8

On pouring rice grains into a plastic bin, or a metal bowl dropping onto the floor, and the contented pigeon cooing on my eaves, what chords are in the sounds?

- dsnake1



pencil sketch by dsnake1


poetry lesson #8
() sounds


poetry is sometimes like that
you pulled some sounds out of noise
and it is some sweet music

i have a test cd, it warns
the low bass may damage your speakers
i am listening to a bass guitarist
her riffs toss and warm you
her low bass may damage your speakers
but wraps you in a cocoon of emotion.

it is the same with poetry
the deeper you go into your soul
the easier to reach insanity.


27/02/2021
**********






BAND-MAID - The Dragon Cries

Shared on Writers' Pantry #83 at Poets and Storytellers United





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

Labels: , , ,

Sunday, June 27, 2021

poetry lesson #7

Technology do the heavy lifting, but has it dull our curiosity?


pencil sketch by dsnake1


poetry lesson #7


once upon a time i have to
hammer out the words on
an old olivetti, changing
the ribbons every couple of months
or so
staining my fingers black and red

writing poetry

poetry is lonely, poetry is love, poetry can be brutal
-the poet goes to war, and is needlessly
  killed the day before Armistice
-the poet asks for water rather than
  disturb the morning glory at the well
-the poet sits in a chopper and cries
  for his buddy who had stepped on a mine.

i did not grow wings and rescue souls
i am just an old guy writing his life story

but i miss my cigarettes
i would like a cold beer
and the traffic in the night is reassuring
the world is breathing

do not put an extra demand
on the brain to corral the exact words

i go for a walk
i switch on the game machine
i sleep
i watch a youtube video (again)
the lady guitarist
she plucks the strings
she plucks
the air out of my lungs
the guitar cries
i cries
and
the life story waits


28/01/2021
**********






Band-Maid - Anemone

Shared at Writers' Pantry #76





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

Labels: , ,

Sunday, May 02, 2021

poetry lesson #6

poetry. definitely a love-hate relationship...


pencil sketch by dsnake1



poetry lesson #6


i confess
i am trying to write a poem.

pencil & notebook is ready

trying to pull words
out of a hat

it is like my constipated
self trying to poop

mercifully!

and out of the
angry scrawls on the paper

finally!

looks.like.a.poem

pick the poem apart
letter by letter
it is painful, watching
like an autopsy

kill the poem! kill it!

you call this poetry, sir?
perhaps the blackbird outside on my air con unit can scratch better than this!

my muse, quick, i need my pretty muse.


15.01.2021
**********






Band-Maid - Manners





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

Labels: , , ,

Sunday, March 21, 2021

poetry lesson #5

forget OB markers, if you feel like it...


photo by dsnake1


poetry lesson #5
it is a poem


it is about the sunrise
which tosses its gossamer
of flaming crimson that
flares in the early eastern sky

it is about your love
which is a cup of nectar
the liquid spilling off the cusp
the goblet you hold in a weak grasp

it is about the darkness
which is a stone wall of razor wires
which shut out the grey of sad skies
the marble of stone crosses

it is about elusive words
the little abstractions which
roll easily off tongues but we
despaired building like lego bricks

it is the heartbreak of battlefields
it is the insignifant things from A to Z
it is the watching of paint drying
it can be so painful you want to cry

as we toss paper after paper
                 to wastebaskets
till the words become a picture
and it is a poem
.

written 01/12/2002
revised 07/04/2019
****************






BAND-MAID - Freedom





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

Labels: ,

Sunday, January 17, 2021

poetry lesson #4

The broken heart is there but still the words would not come...


pencil sketch by dsnake1


poetry lesson #4


the humid air hangs with
                 distractions
how to write a poem now
                 any poem.
and there are other nudges.
why, i just made my video hitman
drove all over the seedy town
then to take out a mob boss,
it was messy but the job was done.
             and i just realised
all my rock heroes
are now dead or old men,
their beards fashionable
             but grey,
and now the guitars have
             been passed to
five pretty Japanese girls
in maid outfits
to save rock.
it's sick!

and that poem
is still nowhere around
so i poured myself
a glass of wine (yes, wine now)
and send my hitman out again
to look for UFO parts.

and that poem?
the lady vocalist in
the youtube video
her gestures, her face,
                  her moles
reminds me of someone
i missed dearly.
i hit the replay button,
i feel like crying

and so
the poem will wait.


16/09/2020
**********






BAND-MAID - Wonderland





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

Labels: , , , ,

Sunday, October 25, 2020

poetry lesson #3

spare a thought for the one trying to write some poetry...


photo of Sanjo, Kyoto by YunPing


poetry lesson #3


have you been awake and
trying to write poetry
                 at 1 a.m.
and all that is outside
are two drunks bitching?

i am starting to miss my
cigarettes but the doc says
                 65% blocked
those damn arteries, please
don't go messing with them

so i try to sit down with
a pencil and paper or the
                 old computer
trying to feel good, drink,
dream or pretend that i am

Bukowski
Pound
William Carlos Williams
Plath
Ferlinghetti

or the whatever poet
flavor of the moment
                 it helps
take my word for it
that's how i grind out

beautiful young women with poor fates
loneliness and the pitifully lonely mad
days gone and wasted at godforsaken camps
the comfort and friendship of raintrees
people i know who have come and gone

someone said the butterfly
counts not time but moments
                    is true?
and so is poetry, because we
live for that space in time

some nights soak in sadness
and i plead for the sunrise
                      the sky
has turned a hue of rusty red
a werewolf howls from a block

and there still outside
the two drunks are bitching.



written : 02/09/2020
revised : 08/10/2020
*****************






SCANDAL - Departure





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

Labels: , , ,

Sunday, October 04, 2020

The Muse

Have you got the feeling that you have gone through this before?


photo by Jake Charles at Unsplash


The Muse


How many days already? The Muse is still missing! I woke up and the pencil is on the floor, and the sheets of paper lurking in the waste basket. Shall I go and file a missing persons report? But the cops will probably ask some awkward questions like where did you lose it, what time was it, and worst of all, describe the lost item.

You don't understand Sir, it is a person. Sort of.
A person, eh, and what does he do?
She helps me write poetry, sir.
She, eh? and they give me a knowing wink. Ah, the literary type, and I can imagine them picturing her, in thick glasses and toting a couple of thick books.
Have you checked the library, probably she's there, and what's her name please?
I think it's Clio, or Erato, or Polyhymnia, she's very vague about that too, and I can see them eyebrows rising just a bit.

And then i think I dropped the bomb by saying that she is not a real person. Not in a physical sense, but very real to me. First they roll their eyes, one poke a finger at me and threaten to lock me up if I don't exit the station by xx seconds.

So what choice do I have but to do my own legwork, poke in at the pub I brought her there a couple of times, that cafe by the beach. Or I can just sit tight and break some pencils and crush some papers. During the World Cup, she thought England was her beloved Greece. Poor thing! She was there at the coffee shop, watching the games on TV, cheering the wrong team. And me like a fool followed her and made some wrong choices at the betting shop.

She will come back to me, I am sure. One fine day when I am threatening the keyboard, she will be back, without a greeting. Sulking, sultry, laughing, murmuring. Always like that. As I am running out of poems, I will welcome her back. No hard feelings.


From an old journal,undated.
Revised somewhat, Sept 2020.
*************************






Stereopony - Stand By Me





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

Labels: , , ,

Sunday, June 21, 2020

A diary of the lockdown

During the country's 56 days of the 'circuit breaker' lockdown I managed to keep a 'diary' of the event. There were opinions, rants, humour, pictures of my home-cooked meals, and short poetry. Below, I have chosen 5 short poetry from the period. If you want to read all the stuff, the whole nine yards, click HERE. It is a long read but should be interesting. 😁



A diary of the lockdown




photo by dsnake1


Day 23


cherry blossoms -
looking at my photographs
of Japan


29/04/2020
**********




photo by dsnake1



Day 24

Two blackbirds perch on my air-con unit and debate the pandemic.


30/04/2020
**********





photo by chelle at morguefile


Day 43

nicked finger -

red fish gills
in a white sink


19/05/2020
**********




photo by dsnake1


Day 46

hi love we will get by

sometimes even manage
to squeeze in a pub
if not the sky and stars
                         above
will do.

Ain't it good to be alive.



undated, probably late 80's
**********************




photo by dsnake1



Day 51

hospital waiting room -
another trip to the water cooler again.



27/05/2020
**********


Day 23 : No chance to go back there for a holiday.
Day 24 : An American sentence.
Day 43 : Really nicked my finger preparing food.
Day 46 : Recently found from my old journals. Pretty appropriate now.
Day 51 : I was at a hospital for a scan when i wrote this.







Now that the lockdown is over, remember, places are opening because of the economy. Not because it is safe. Take care.





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

Labels: , , , , , ,

Sunday, May 06, 2018

how i started on poetry

You will not remember your first dip into poetry.



Photo by LizzieB67 at pixabay


how i started on poetry


i copied nursery rhymes
wide-eyed
on flimsy jotter books
doodled stick figures
to go with it.
and later
all pimply faced
i scratched foul-mouthed rants
in little notebooks
because i thought
i can change the world

is it poetry then
if i carved an opinion
with a bayonet
on an ammo box?

or on star lit nights
named the constellations
to the woman i loved
while seated on a cenotaph?

and now, almost a lifetime later
squinting into the glare
of the monitor
fingers on plastic buttons

i wonder, did this started it all?

twinkle twinkle little star
how i wonder what you are...




written 03/04/2014
revised 28/02/2018
****************






"Tell me what you're reading, and I'll tell you who you are."

--Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk, First president of Czechoslovakia.



and if you still want to change the world : Ten Years After, I'd love to change the world





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

Labels: , , ,

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

Labels: , ,

Sunday, August 07, 2016

old graffiti

This is from my 2009 NaPoWriMo archives.

When I was younger, I used to write down my thoughts on paper with a pencil, in bound journals and ring notebooks. Most were just rants and doggerel. Much was thrown away. Maybe I shouldn't have. There were some decent and very good poetry (i think), like those in the period just after my military service, that were lost when I moved from place to place. My heart still aches when I think about it. :(




photo by dsnake1




old graffiti




it was just
rows of
faded pencil marks
on a yellowed page

scratched in a naive hand
brash but unsure
small steps
like a baby's

searching
for words
for that
great poem

even the strokes
were angry
the mood
probably too

but the elusive
creatures,the words
stayed hidden
buried

and that was why
that poem
never met
the light

of day


09/04/2009
**********






“Sometimes things become possible if we want them bad enough.”

― T.S. Eliot



Shared on Poetry Pantry #314 at Poets United.





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

Labels: , , , ,

Sunday, July 31, 2016

bernadette

Some time in the not-too-distant past, there was this little skill and past-time called letter writing. Words were not a string of zeroes and ones, but were ink on paper, and arrived in envelopes with postmarks. Sometimes, it takes weeks to reach you, which is unthinkable of now. But the joy of it, when you see the letter in the mailbox (a real physical box of metal nailed to a wall)

I had a pen-pal from a neighbouring country. We exchanged letters and first day covers regularly. And then, like all good things, it came to an end. The letters became less and less, a trickle, and finally ceased. I guessed we each had our own needs and priorities to attend to. But it was a great experience while it lasted.





pencil sketch by dsnake1





bernadette




but it was not to be

i could have taken
a train
to meet you.
we could even have
met halfway
at Kluang
have a coffee
shake hands

but we just write
our letters

and then
other things
          came
and took over our
time

and the letters
became less

and
less

and then

it was not to be.




nov 2011
********


to bernadette, wherever you may be.







"Thus having spoke she turned away and though I found no words to say
I stood and watched until I saw her black cloak disappear."

-- Uriah Heep, Lady in Black



Shared on Poetry Pantry #313 at Poets United.





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

Labels: , , , , , , ,

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

in a blog spot

Urban Poems is ... 10 years old. And that's a long time in the cyberworld.

And what was my first post?










in a Blog spot


excuse me.
totally lost.

feeling my way around.
damn!














no wonder there were no comments. :)





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2015

Labels: , , ,

Sunday, July 05, 2015

About Places

No poetry today, just some not-so-coherent musings. There has been not much from me lately. I have been tied down with work, knocked out by the flu for a couple of weeks, and am working hard on some poems for a national poetry competition, which unfortunately, I am unable to submit as the deadline was just a few days ago. Oh well!

This piece has been sitting in the hard drive for some years, until I dusted it out recently and rewrite a few lines. There are some more squatters in my PC's hard drive. :)





almost Mondrian
image by dsnake1, done with PSP9




About Places




A post by blogger Gautami Tripathy some years back stirred my lazy grey cells. She wrote :


How does place figure in your writing? Do you feel comfortable in the place you live, or do you feel at odds with your atmosphere? Do you convey that in your writing? What stories does your location have to tell?



I have not really given much thought to this question before, because when I feel like writing, I will just write. I know, sounds cliched, but that's what it is

So I guess the 5Ws, the who, what, where, when and why are the questions I have to answer when I begin to write something, be it a short story or a poem. These are parts of the jigsaw puzzle that has to be fixed, the ingredients that are needed for a meal. And "place", the "where", is just part of the equation, although I think a very important part.

So yes, "place" do figure highly in my writings. The entries I sent to a national poetry writing competition some years back were all about a single place. A place I spent part of my youth, where I found my love, a place labelled dangerous, but a warm-hearted place, if you lived long enough there. I have written about places with names. Places with no names. The places where I had lived. Other cities. Sometimes, I build a poem around a place. Sometimes a person, and even a time.

Writing, and especially poetry, is about observation. You sit in a cafe with a coffee, you are packed with the crowds in the train, and there is nothing much to do but observe. The people around you, the places you frequent, you live in. The buildings, the streets, parks, trees, and eateries.

You will write about this because these are the things you know. The park bench you sat with your loved one, the street which wore your sneakers thin on your daily walk to work, the dark hill which you charged up with your platoon mates. The pub where you fought with Captain Morgan. Love and war and apathy makes you see a place differently.

So what are the places that inspire you? A wasteland, a war trench, a tranquil beach? A set of GPS coordinates? A planet in another galaxy?

A place, like a person, has character too. We fear a dark alley, and the dangers that may lurk within. A meadow with green blades of grass invigorates us. The booming waves on a breakwater sing to us of freedom. A wild flower growing out of a crack in concrete reminds you of resilience..

In its own quiet way, place is always around. Not just in my writings, but also in my physical environment. because it is just too important to ignore.


June 2015
*********







The reason one writes isn't the fact he wants to say something. He writes because he has something to say.

-- F. Scott Fitzgerald





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2015

Labels: , , , ,

Sunday, July 14, 2013

what i wanted to write

Lately, the muse went awol. Or she quit. Anyway, whenever I want to write something, a fence appears. The paper remains blank, and after a while I go back to the video games.

This is something I wrote a few years back, and has been sitting in my hard drive since. Forgot what made me mad the day I wrote that...




photo by ppdigital
image from morguefile.com




what i wanted to write


i wanted to write
of lush sunsets
flowers in the wind
lovers whispering
sweet promises

but

i have nothing to offer
except
bleak grey walls
rain
in the evenings

a plastic bag
flailing in the wind
ash dangling at
the tip of a cigarette


who wants to read
of
sunbaked pavements
rusty bumpers
short tempers
the man rummaging for
aluminiun cans
from trash bins
which he will resell
for a bowl of porridge

i wanted to write
of lush sunsets
flowers in the wind
lovers whispering
sweet nothings

but

that will be
another time.


25/04/08
********






"Writing is something you do alone. Its a profession for introverts who want to tell you a story but don't want to make eye contact while doing it.”

-- John Green.



Shared on Poetry Pantry #158  at Poets United.






© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2013

Labels: , , , , , ,

Sunday, November 25, 2012

bernadette

Long before the internet age, there was this little skill and past-time called letter writing. Words were not a string of zeroes and ones, but were ink on paper, and arrived in envelopes with postmarks. Sometimes, it takes weeks to reach you, which is unthinkable of now. But the joy of it, when you see the letter in the mailbox (a real physical box of metal nailed to a wall)

I had a pen-pal from a neighbouring country. We exchanged letters and first day covers regularly. And then, like all good things, it came to an end. The letters became less and less, a trickle, and finally ceased. I guessed we each had our own needs and priorities to attend to. But it was a great experience while it lasted.





drawing by dsnake1




bernadette



but it was not to be

i could have taken
a train
to meet you.
we could even have
met halfway
at Kluang
have a coffee
shake hands

but we just write
our letters

and then
other things
came
and took over our
time

and the letters
became less

and
less

and then

it was not to be.




nov 2011
********




to bernadette, wherever you may be.







"And then one day you find
Ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run
You missed the starting gun”

-- Pink Floyd, The Dark Side of the Moon




This is for Poetry Pantry Week #125. at Poets United.






© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2012

Labels: , , , ,

Sunday, November 04, 2007

trying to write a poem

It's getting harder to write something that makes sense these past days. The pencil hovers over the paper, the fingers rest on the keyboard. That's about all.

Try to enjoy the following piece. :)


blank book
photo from morguefile.com


trying to write a poem


it took me
a full hour
to write these
few words
maybe
there was more
but i thought
i deleted
them away
it was
so simple
anyway
i am not
too sure
it's 1 a.m.
plus
and i can't sleep
i am trying
hard not to
notice
that last
cigarette
in the box
as i try to
write
the Greatest Poem

in the world
but it won't
happen now

work has a
nasty way
of emptying
your brain

29/10/07
********




mood of the day

the mood is ...

Labels: ,