i feel the chill of

http://wonderous.deviantart.com

I need this warmth to wrap

me

in silence, in love, in sickness, in health, in in in everything

without this,

this warmth

I malfunction like a rusted machine that hasn’t seen usage in years and years years

Years.

Winter seems to descend and wraps

me

because the warmth is walking slowly away from me and can’t be stopped, halted, ceased

For the life of me I try try try to

pull it in, snap it up, draw it close, entice it near

but the warmth escapes me

me, me

Siren

http://jaxabrat.deviantart.com

The place sings a dangerous Siren song


beckoning sweetly


softly,


softly,


its art, its history,


undulating skylines filled with mystery


are sung in the Siren song


softly,


softly,





The place holds promise


and secrets


and darkness within its bright lights


the Siren song goes on,


calling, inviting


how could you want anywhere else


how could you be anywhere else


when the Siren calls to you


softly,


softly

Enivrez-vous: Get drunk.

Enivrez-vous, Charles Baudelaire

http://nigelt.deviantart.com

Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là ; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.

Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu à votre guise, mais enivrez-vous!

Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, dans le solitude morne de votre chambre, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l'étoile, à l'oiseau, à l'horloge; à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est. Et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront, il est l'heure de s'enivrer ; pour ne pas être les esclaves martyrisés du temps, enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse de vin, de poésie, de vertu, à votre guise.

--------------
My rough translation:

http://p0rg.deviantart.com

One must always be drunk, that's all there is; it is the only way. In order not to feel the horrible burden of time which shatters your shoulders and almost drags you to the ground, one must be perpetually drunk.

But on what? On wine, on poetry, or virtue, on whatever you please, but be drunk!

And if, sometimes, on the steps of a palace, in the green grass of a ditch, in the bleak loneliness of you room, you awaken, your drunkenness already waning or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock; ask all that flees, all that moans, all that sings, all that speaks, ask them what time it is. And the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will tell you, "It is time to get drunk; so as not to be the martyred slaves of time, get drunk, get drunk constantly on wine, on poetry, on virtue, on whatever you please."

-------------

The poem is from a collection called "Les petits poemes en prose" (i.e. Little poems in prose) and I've seen it presented in a more traditional poem format, rather than a running paragraph, but I'm pretty sure the original was written in prose.

I first saw this poem when I was flicking through a book in the library. It was an hour or so after school had finished, and I was sitting by the new books display, in between one shelf and a pillar, cross-legged on the floor. And I was bent over this book and I saw the Baudelaire poem. The poem is in the book because apparently the protagonist gets drunk for the first time and his friend sends him the poem after the incident as a joke. It's sent to the protagonist in french, which he doesn't understand a word of.

I've seen some English translations of this but I didn't particularly like any of them, so I just translated it myself. Plus, I'm supposed to practice my French so my teacher doesn't give me any flak when school starts up again.

Baa baa black sheep.

http://israfel03.deviantart.com

Happy friday! I was singing baa baa black sheep to myself last night (I mean, who doesn't randomly sing nursery songs to themselves right?) and it inspired a poem...here it is. First poem I've written in a very long while

Baa Baa Black Sheep

Baa, baa black sheep
Have you any Wool?

Yes sir,
No sir,
Go and ask the bull.

Just one for my peace of mind,
One to ease the pain,
One to find the trust that I lost down the Lane -

Baa, baa black sheep
Have you any Wool?

Yes sir,
If you sir,
Wouldn't be so cruel

Baa, baa I'm a black sheep
And I would give you some Wool
Yes sir, but sir
The salvation basket's full.

Baa baa I'm a black sheep
You can ask me for some Wool
Yes sir, but sir,
It would be like asking the bull

Here's a message from your Master
A message from your Dame
You won't find the trust that you lost down the Lane.

Long time no blog...

Ok ok ok quick update because I haven't blogged in a while.

I'm favouring speed over quality here so I'll write this in bulletpoints (yes, I know, BULLETPOINTS?!)

• Am getting published in the World Book sponsored by UNESCO this yearrrr woot.
• Interning at a law firm for the summer
• Found some old poems that I will post up here soon soon soon
• AAAANNND updated my deviant after long months of nothing click here>> http://sanderschris.deviantart.com

Lunch break's over now
Later!

Elimae

http://girlfromthebridge.deviantart.com

Here's a poem from elimae I particularly liked:

I Write For Peter Joseph Gloviczki

The experience of it or how words crash on the page. http://www.elimae.com/2009/03/Write.html

The World Book, watchmen and others...

UPDATE: just saw a LOT of typos in this. Will fix soon!


I saw Watchmen over the weekend. I'm not familiar with the original graphic novel (which is why I've now decided to read it). Watching a movie set in an alternate history where Nixon is in his third term as president and the Americans won the Vietnam war is an interesting experience to be had in post-war Vietnam. They edited out certain parts of the movie - at least I think they did, since the movie did that bizarre jumpy thing. They edited sex scenes, violence, and I believe anything that delved too deeply into the vietnam war. It surprised me that they DIDN'T cut out the part where Dr Manhattan is obliterating Viet. troops in the fields, or where The Comedian is torching soldiers. But maybe that's because this is Southern Vietnam? Who knows. I see the movie omitted the part where The Comedian is confronted by a Vietnamese women he impregnated - or maybe that was never included in the movie in the first place?

Either way I enjoyed the movie, but I guess I can't REALLY criticise it until I finish reading it.

So, tomorrow is the deadline for the UNESCO World book submissions...

I decided to submit one of my poems, "Glass" and that story I wrote about Nora? Remember that? Well, here's the full version:

Just some historical bg: In 1941, just ten hours after Pearl Harbour, the Japanese invaded the Philippines (up in Pampanga). The central character, Nora, grew up during that time, seeking refuge with her family in caves up in the hills.

My great-aunt and my grandfather did in fact have to live in caves in the hills in the '40s. My great-aunt told me that even after the war, the whine of a plane, any plane, would make her heart start pumping faster.

Surviving

Nora remembers. She remembers the horrible sucking sounds of the mud as they ran the whine of Japanese planes at their backs. They ran over the fields, up the hills, into the caves. Far, far away from the sound of approaching Death. But in the silence of the cave, cradled in her mother's arms, she still heard the insistent noise of the plane, Nora remembers, she remembers it all.

The children play at Nora's feet, on a hardwood floor, with shiny plastic toys. No stone floors. Nora told her husband, no stone. It reminded her too much of the caves they slept in, of the absolute darkness of every night.

Her grand-nieces and grand-nephews are so soft, skin pink and pliable. At their age Nora's hands were covered with calluses, her heels were dirty and hard. She looks at herself now, hands dotted with liver spots, skin wrinkled with age. The calluses are gone and her skin is clean. No marks remain from the war, except the small shrapnel scar behind her left ear. Nobody knows of it except her elder brother - her perfectly coiffed hair hides her scar expertly.

And where is Alex now?

Grandpa! Grandpa!

The elated cries of her grand-nephew. Ah, here is Alex, the proud grandfather of seventeen, smiling at his grandchildren. The little ones throw themselves at him; Alex Jr. is hanging off his shoulder. Nora sees her brother wince with pain, but the children don't notice how his face is twisted, the veins in his neck bulging. The expression on his face is so familiar to her; the soundless agony of his pain. After all these years, the scar still hurt him.

She had told him not to take the shortcut to the market. The rocks on that side of the hill were loose; any misstep would send you tumbling down. But no, Alex needed to get to the market before all the good bargains were gone, and they hadn’t had anything decent meals in a while. And why would he listen to Nora? She was seven and he was twelve.

He started down the hill, his pace quickening to a run. And then he fell. And he didn’t stop falling. He skidded down the rocks on his back, trying to stop himself with his feet. He came to a sudden halt halfway down the hill, a ribbon of blood marking his fall. Nora had been so sure he was dead that she burst into tears of joy when she felt him breathing. She fell silent when she helped him up and saw the deep gash running across his back from his shoulder to his hip, a mess of raw skin and exposed muscle obscured by thick blood.

Late that night her father had stitched up Alex’s back with her mother’s sewing needle, the candle as his only light. Nora didn’t sleep that night. Her brother’s screaming kept her eyes wide open. Every time the needle pierced his skin he screamed. His cries of pain echoed though the cave crawled under her skin and seeped into her. All she could see was his blood – the blood on her brother’s back, on her hands, the blood spread over the rocks of the hill.

Someone is shaking her shoulder, trying to speak to her. It is Alex, and it is time for dinner. He starts to help her out of her chair, but when she slips her arms around her shoulder she feels his thick, jagged scar and sits back.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore, Nora.”

But it does, and Nora knows. She shakes her head at him, “You should tell the children they shouldn’t jump on you, make them understand why.”

“They don’t need to know about that. What’s past is past,” Alex looks over at the dinner table, “it has nothing to do with our lives now.”

Nora lets her brother help her up, but she knows about the past. The memories define her, make her. The past was everything, is everything. It is all she has left.

Currently reading...

Trying to work out what to submit to the world book. I'll probably submit the story about Nora.

I've started borrowing books from the school library again. Before year 10-ish I always had two or three books out from the library per week, and over time I stopped reading regularly. Maybe it's the new layout of the library, or our cool new librarian, but I've started reading properly again.

The other day I bought two books -

 

Sara's Face by Melvin Burgess and 

the Thief by Megan Whalen Turner

After reading them both, I realised how much I liked just chilling out for an hour reading steadily. The Thief is the first book in a trilogy, and so I went hunting in the library for the sequel since I didn't have it...

Which brought out my inner bibliophile. When I finished The Queen of Attolia  and was searching for a new book, I saw City of Flowers by Mary Hoffman, third in the Stravaganza series. (Now I'm frustrated that I can't read City of secrets, the last one!!!)

I'm horrible with books. I devour them, and I think it's safe to say that I abuse them. I read them wherever and whenever- in the bathroom, on a chair, on the floor, on the bed, in between doing homework, in the kitchen, while I'm eating... I tend to get called while I'm reading as well, so I normally lay the book open and face down on the closest surface (usually this is the floor). This is not good for the spines of books. I also dog-ear every book I read - though now I use a bookmark if I'm reading a book someone has lent me - and I open them as wide as possible to make it easier to read. Needless to say, the books on my bookshelf look very, very well read. There are somethings I NEVER do with books though- I may read while eating, but I never spill things on any book. I NEVER tear pages, or bend the covers backwards. I always take care when I turn the page. 

I borrowed the Queen of Attolia and returned it the next day, and I read City of Flowers and returned that the next day.

Mr Jacques, our librarian recommended two books to me, 

Oranges are not the Only Fruit by Jeannette Winterson

and Thursday's Child by Sonya Hartnett

Since Mr Jacques has been our librarian (end of 2008) there's been an influx of new books (: and one of them is the Wind up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. I saw it and borrowed it. I quite like Murakami, after reading one of his books, the Wild Sheep Chase.

 

So, I am now reading Oranges... and will tell you what I think when it's finished.

Grief.

Everything with her was larger than life itself. When she was happy, her face glowed, her big, big smile shone with all her teeth. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were round, and she jumped, she laughed, she sang, she danced. When she was angry her brows would knit together, her lips would purse, her nostrils flare. The blood rushed to her face, her eyes narrowed, and her voice crescendoed. She waved her arms wildly in the air, she screamed. And when she was sad, she became so small, arms and legs retracted, but bawling. Wailing and crying and lamenting, like she was being torn apart by pain. Shaking and rocking backwards and forwards, gasping for breath.

She was slouching on a chair, and for all anyone knew there was nothing wrong. She wasn't saying much, but then again everyone was speaking at the same time, they would hardly have noticed. She wasn't moving, and her eyes were fixed on one single point in front of her. When she talked about it she spoke without feeling. Her sentences were matter of fact, her voice at normal volume. But everything about her was so lifeless - as if she was dying in solidarity.

Layouts and thingsss

Searching for a new layout - this current brown sludgy crap is doing my eyes in....

Ms Charmaine asked me about World Book contributions the other day -

PSYCHED PSYCHED PSYCHED.

Current music:

The Fear - Lily Allen listen to the lyrics especially

Rich Girls - The Virgins

Valerie - The Zutons

Do The Whirlwind - Architecture in Helsinki fun beat

Stay - Sugarland her voice is amazing

Smack My Derb - Alpha Twins Melb shuffle track, totally infectious beat

Beautiful Day - U2 classic.

Glass

do not look through me

I am Flesh and I am Blood

bundle of pulsing veins, beating heart

throbbing muscles.

do not close your ears to me

I am Whole

I am Real

full of thought, bursting with emotion

overflowing with passion.

I exude Life - if I do Exist indeed

I am Tangible and I Breathe

the air that you breathe

I feel the heat of the sun on my skin

sinking into my bloodstream

and firing my core

I Feel, and I Love,

And I admit that I Hate.

yet the gaze of others runs straight through me

uninterrupted as if through glass

eyes looking not  seeing

but I am Flesh

and I am Blood

and I demand that I am Seen.

 

Nora.

I wrote this a week or so ago. Here's the first bit of it.

My great-aunt and my grandfather did actually have to live up in the caves in Pangasinan at the time of the American-Japanese war in the Philippines.

----------------------------

Nora remembers. She remembers the horrible sucking sounds of the mud as they ran, the whine of Japanese planes at their backs. They ran over the fields, up the hills, into the cages. Far, far away from the sound of approaching Death. But in the silence of the cave, cradled in her mother's arms, she still heard the insistent noise of the plane, Nora remembers, she remembers it all.

The children play at Nora's feet, on a hardwood floor, with shiny plastic toys. No stone floors. Nora told her husband, no stone. It reminded her too much of the caves they slept in, of the absolute darkness of every night.

Her grand-nieces and grand-nephews are so soft, skin pink and pliable. At their age Nora's hands were covered with callouses, her heels were dirty and hard. She looks at herself now, hands dotted with liver spots, skin wrinkled with age. The callouses are gone and her skin is clean. No marks remain from the war, except the small shrapnel scar behind her left ear. Nobody knows of it except her elder brother - her perfectly coiffed hair hides her scar expertly.

And where is Alex now?

Grandpa! Grandpa!

The elated cries of her grand-nephew. Ah, here is Alex, the proud grandfather of seventeen, smiling at his grandchildren. The little ones throw themselves at him, Alex Jr. is hanging off his shoulder. Nora sees her brother wince with pain, but the children don't notice how his face is twisted, the veins in his neck bulging. The expression on his face is so familiar to her; the soundless agony of his pain. After all these years, the scar still hurt him.

Citizens of the World

An intro to some short story ideas I have. Draft #1

You've probably lost track of the number of airplanes you've flown, or how many hours of your life have been spent in airports. You fly home at Christmas, maybe during the summer. Maybe once a year, maybe twice a year. You've been on a delayed flight before, you've been stuck on tarmac. You've been through a cloud before. You have a passport, your own personal suitcase, and a specific way that you like to sleep on an airplane. You may love or hate the way your stomach floats upwards when a plane gets off the ground, or the exhilirating rush you get when the pilot lands the plane, taxing down the runway at high speed.

How many schools have you been to? A few? A dozen? Maybe more depending on how many times you've moved. And when you talk about moving, you mean crossing the Atlantic, the Pacific, giant bodies of water that divide the world. You don't mean hopping in a car and driving for a day or two. You mean packing your house into a container that gets shipped to your new house by sea. You mean living in an apartment before you find a house to live in. You know what it's like to start over, and what it's like to have to line up at immigration, fight through customs, just to visit all the things you've left behind.

You know about the world, and you care. You know the names of countries that some people may not have heard of, you know the names of major world leaders, and you know who's fighting who, and who seems to be winning. Global, political issues, you talk about them with your friends, your parents, your teachers. 

You like experiencing new things and seeing new places. You've been inside a cathedral, a mosque, a temple. You know about religions, and you've probably met someone from all the ones that you know of. You've been at school when kids fasted during Ramadan, gave up meat and chocolate at Lent, celebrated light at Diwali. You know why your Sikh friend is wearing a turban, you know why people are celebrating the Lunar New Year.

 You have friends who are so completely different from you - from different nations, cultures and upbringings - but they are just like you, and when you talk about your life, they understand. You know the pain of Goodbye - you've had to say it more than once to many people, but eventually you realised that you really meant "see you again." You know how small the world really is, because you have friends everywhere. The girl who just moved to your school used to go to school in Kuala Lumpur, and your best friend just moved there. The new boy in your Biology class knows the captain of the football team because they went to school together when they lived in Mumbai. 

Often, people ask where you're from. Maybe you have a confident answer to give, and maybe you don't. But it's always an interesting question, always a topic for discussion. You're British? But you've lived in Guangzhou for five years? What was that like? You've been asked questions that to you seem hilarious, but to others seem plausible. You lived in Vietnam, is it safe, are you scared? You lived in Egypt, did you ride a camel to school? 

Your global upbringing has made you who you are. You may have questioned your nationality, your identity, your culture, your religion. Your beliefs, superstitions and customs have been challenged, your opinions influenced by multicultural individuals like yourself. You have seen things and done things you never would have at home. You know a lot about the world, but you understand that there is so much more to know. You have interesting things to say, good stories to tell. You have high expectations, big dreams and strong ambitions. You will do great things in life, and you plan to succeed.

That is because You, my friend, are a citizen of the world.

All the lonely people where do they all belong...

In a small corner of a dark and deserted street he waits. The chill of the night has soaked into every crevice of his body, sliding smoothly around the joints in his fingers, his kneecaps, his ankles. The sound of a passing car jolts him out of his statuesque pose, he hears a car door slam, footsteps crunching on gravel, and looks up. Maybe, just maybe they would turn in his direction, walk towards his dank little corner, and make him an offering. Some warm food, a blanket, maybe even a little money.

In his mind a little scene plays out. He is shivering, and a kind, benevolent face peers down at him. Wordlessly a blanket drops around his shoulders, a plate of food is presented from the folds of the kind stranger's coat. Somehow the stranger has a lot of leftover change and gives it to him. The stranger even offers to take him anywhere he wants to go in their car. Somewhere warmer, perhaps? The stranger smiles, and reaches out to grasp his hand.

The sounds of crunching gravel fade off into the distance. No one is coming down this pathetic street tonight. No one ever does. The man huddles closer into the corner, legs folding inwards, hands balled into fists and thrust close to his chest. He looks like a child. An innocent little child. 

As he drifts off into sleep, the man wonders if this winter will finally be his last. Wonders if all of his lonely life will only ever amount to this. Huddling in a street corner, teeth chattering from the cold, and alone. So utterly alone.

Music for my soul.

http://imahippie.deviantart.com (c) Mai Vo

No time for a long post. Just got back from my xmas break - went back home to the Philippines, it was beautiful.

I want to post about this very poignant book I read, and re-draft+post a poem I wrote which was inspired by the city of Cebu...but that will have to come later.

For now, this week's playlist:

Santeria, Sublime

Cath..., Death Cab for Cutie

With or Without You, Keane (U2 Cover)

Smash Your Head, Girl Talk

Technicolor Girls, Death Cab for Cutie

Use Somebody, Kings of Leon

Momentum, The Hush Sound

The Falls, The French Kicks

Nineteen, Tegan & Sara

Great DJ, The Tings Tings

The photo up top ^^ was taken by another very talented person from my school =]