Monthly Archives: July 2013

What do we know

I assure you, I am not always standing close to the edge, four floors above the ground, sober and contemplative!!!

I assure you, I am not always standing close to the edge, four floors above the ground, sober and contemplative!!!

The mother carrying the pregnancy knows
Through labour’s pains before baby shows
Now the boy glows and grows
Wherever he wants he goes

Like he’s waltzed into earth all on his own

The father who protected him knows
Through childhood’s wells and woes
As the teen mellows and bellows
However he wants he flows

Like he’s become a free human all on his own

We have searched highs and lows
Experienced life’s tops and belows
And all the answer to our throes
We think philosophy bestows

Like we’ve become wisest beings all on our own

BACKGROUND: What really does it mean to be free and independent?
The mother knows there is no way the baby could have survived without a major input from her. The father who tried to give the child as meaningful a childhood as he could has influenced that “independent” adult we see.
To look at it more closely, without an external input, I am not sure we would still be here. We seem to do well on our own, only as well as a foetus could manage without the mother. We seem capable of making messes all by ourselves. Yet, we seem forever intent on more independence, or at least the idea of being totally independent.
Okay, enough sober thought. We do have happy moments in the midst of our changing worlds and shifting tides.
Some wine and honeyed milk, please!!!

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The Writer’s Pity-Party.

The poor writer's "big" feast.

The poor writer’s “big” feast.

Let’s roll out the table
Burst open the kitchen
And serve the tea
This writer has had enough

Days of struggling for inspiration
But there was no rain.
And despite his hard work,
The ground still remained barren –
A perpetual desert-ed piece of white paper
Lying on the writer’s table,
Devoid of any ink.
Days of trying to express
What little drops of inspiration
Splashed his way.

Whilst showers flooded
Neighbouring villages,
Those farmers could hardly gather
All the harvest bounties.
See the many followers
Sitting at their festivals.
Even days these rich farmers give no food,
They all still get wine and drunk
And discuss the ingenuity of insanity.
After all, a king’s ragged chair
Is still seen as a throne to others!

I could just throw a writer’s tantrum
And decide to ignore all,
Settle for another more profitable occupation.
Or plant crops which cost little effort
But ain’t worth much either.
Ha! Yes. Something like a vegetable
Seasoned with some spices
Which really lack true nutritive value!

Or I could just be a subsistent farmer
Who grows crops barely enough
To satisfy friends who come visiting,
And they end up in almost-meaningless talks
So neither the farmer nor visitors
Feels bad for a visit
That could not quite give them what they needed,
Till the visitors start making excuses
For not showing up again.
Who dares blame them?!

Or maybe I should just be a seller –
A reviewer/critic who assesses
And re-presents others products.
That way I can get to distribute some food
To my visitors,
And I un-enviously advertise others’ products
Whilst not being guilty of theft or plagiarism.
Well, give some credit to thieves even.
Cloning others’ crops ain’t exactly easy too!

Oh! Of course, I still visit them rich folks.
We can’t be enemies or even literarivals
But today, I just want to sulk
And serve bland tea
To anyone who happens to visit,
Hoping they don’t think me desperate
And they are in the mood to talk,
Not just tick a “like” as a review.
After all, it still takes a real farmer
To grow even bland tea!!!

PS.
Hope the visitor/reader is savvy enough to know if this piece is really about farming, or writing. Please check the title again. Just in case.
*Literarivals -rivals in the world of writing/writers.

Hanging On

Hmmmmmmm……
Relished this. And I don’t think it’s bcos it’s a cynical piece coming from shards. This is a gentle-as-sharp reminder of how we tend to be for the most part.
Gotta love that imagery!

Shards Of DuBois

Dangling by a thread

Hanging on for dear life

We struggle through

A dense wildness

Fighting it uselessly

Like a spider in a bowl

Sliding back down

Repeating our mistakes

Tumbling like a weed

Falling in a breeze

To become dust again

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The Cheetah And Lamb Saga

It’s been going on for a while today.

The cheetah at the lamb’s tail. But, it’d appear he is not hungry, because he’d stride up close to the lamb during the chase, take a little bite and watch with keenness how the lamb reacts. After, he’d step down his pace to allow the lamb recoup.

He favoured the tail at first. Since it wasn’t very painful, the lamb was able to recover easily and adjust to the experience. Then he moved up close and personal as he threw a clawed limb at the lamb’s side cracking a rib close to the lamb’s heart. Thankfully, the lamb’s heart was spared, the cheetah thought. It’d be a premature end to his fun. Now the lamb was beginning to understand as it felt the pain. At a time, the lamb saw the cheetah draw back. He was tired of the game. But, suddenly it felt the cheetah breathing down its neck where it stopped to rest. The cheetah had caught up with it again. The suddenness added more shock to the baseline fear of the whole experience. The lamb leapt up in horror. It was wrong. The cheetah knew his cards well and had upped his game.

Why wouldn’t the lamb just give up? Was its survival instinct that potent, or was the cheetah just playing its psyche just right. Give some hope, then also a little fear (leaving the lamb with a net gain of hope). Repeat the cycle many more times till the lamb gets used to having a little hope left. Then, in one quick clean move, dash the accumulated hopes.

The cheetah paused to rest again. Or, at least so to make the lamb think. Suddenly the cheetah saw two all-white eyes, stark, glaring at him above two rows of all-white teeth, huge, baring. The lamb knocked the cheetah quickly with a hoofed limb to the cheetah’s forehead sending him sprawling, out from under the tree where the cheetah was lounging.

In time, the lamb turned on the cheetah and gives him a run for his sanity.

“Inspiration is a male on heat!”
-JARCSH

BACKGROUND: It could be painful when you call yourself an artist, yet you can’t always seem to capture all you want or wish to capture and express properly. Inspiration would come on strong on you, making you feel warm all over and your head/mind bursting with aggressively taunting bits and pieces of imagination.

Initially, you could manage to live a normal life, undisturbed by days when you cannot express your art. Then, after getting used to making fine works of art -music, writing, graphics, theatre,… it starts becoming a part of you to wanna capture and express EVERYTHING that pops into your mind. Days when it’s organised; days when it’s random; nights you can’t sleep yet not much results to show. Yet, as strong and loud as inspiration is, it doesn’t always wait for you achieve orgasm. It comes on, drops all it has to drop, and leaps off you. Leaves you virtually stranded in the dark. High and dry. And cold. Please, pray you can quickly gather what bits you can, and perhaps your audience may enjoy it well enough not to notice you had to sweat using your own wits to piece the many parts together into a masterpiece.

I am not gonna advise any artist reading this to turn on his/her inspiration, but you know it takes a lot to stride at par with this mischievous cheetah called inspiration.

Thank you.