Prompt: By NaPoWriMo, write a poem that plays with the idea of a list. Try to write a such a non-list, but a couple of other ideas would be to create a list of ingredients, or a list of entries in an index. Another way into this prompt might be a list of instructions.
The Hooded Tapestry
Girlhood
Womanhood
Ancestresshood
Godhood
Personhood
- Oizys.
Prompt: Today’s prompt is also from NaPoWriMo. Take a look around Poetry International for a poem in a language you don’t know. Now, read the poem to yourself, thinking about the sound and shape of the words, and the degree to which they remind you of words in your own language. Use those correspondences as the basis for a new poem.
I chose the poem “Poem Without an End” by Yehuda Amichai. It is one of my favourites and I hold it close to my heart. As I had mentioned in the triolet post, I rarely have a sense of sound and rhythm. So, I have tried my best here (and maybe, miserably failed) to encapsulate my emotions and thoughts of the chosen poem in my own crafted poem.
Barefoot muse and passion
Bait, fate or reflect,
any?
Bitterly?
Or, lively?
Or, bitterly and lively?
Muse!
Echo harmonious
Beats of mystics
Betoken
any?
Bitterly?
Or, lively?
Or, bitterly and lively?
Muse!
- Oizys.
For reference, following is Hebrew transliteration of Yehuda Amichai's poem, Poem Without an End that I used for sounds:
Betoch muz'aon chadash, beit knesset yashan.
Betoch beit haknesset
Ani.
Betochi
Libi.
Betoch libi
Muzaeon.
Betoch hamuzaeon
Beit knesset,
Betochan
Ani,
Betochi
Libi.
Betoch libi
Muzaeon.
P.S. - I really like the choice the words in my poem and it gives a very poetic feel. So, one day, I might enlarge and polish my poem to give it more structure and concrete.
Prompt: Juxtaposition by NaPoWriMo
In a quiet range, suffused accompanying tears,
A gathering assembled to announce their last goodbyes,
For dignitary dear had abandoned this existence,
And the air was weighty accompanying upsetting sighs.
The range was understood, except for a whimper or two,
As lamenters rewarded their conclusive devoirs,
The air was difficult, the character controlled,
As the experience about bureaucracy appeared to indicate.
The unhappiness in their hearts,
But therefore a sound destitute through the silence,
A guffaw, limited and clean,
A snicker, so filled of disobedience.
The lamenters retired surprise,
Wondering what take care of cause specific levity,
But therefore they proverb a parent accompanying her teenager,
A teeny baby, so new to this soil.
It was the baby's first snicker,
A sound that caused a laugh,
A sound that illuminated the weighty attitude,
And fashioned the lamenters ignore their while.
For on account of importance, they evoked,
That growth continues, even following in position or time obliteration,
That skilled is still pleasure expected raise,
Even when we draw our definitive break.
So allow the baby's amusement ring,
And fill the range accompanying clean delight,
For because importance, they earned,
That love can overcome even the the most evil midnight.
- Oizys.
Prompt: Triolet format by NaPoWriMo. So, for years, I would never call myself a poet (I still don't sometimes!) because I was never able to write poetry in structure, rhythm or rhyming words. I would try hard but I succeeded. Sometimes, the form would be right but the poem would not make sense or vice versa.
So, for this prompt, I tried to write two triolet about trying to write a triolet. Please tell me, even if the poem is ish, the form and rhythm is correct.
Triolet 1:
I sat down with pen and paper in hand,
My mind set on trying a triolet.
I wrote the first line, my heart did expand,
I sat down with pen and paper in hand.
I searched for rhymes that were grand,
My creativity I couldn't forget.
I sat down with pen and paper in hand,
My mind set on trying a triolet.
Triolet 2:
Trying a Triolet, a form to explore,
Eight simple lines, but so much in store,
First, fourth, and seventh, the same as before,
Trying a Triolet, a form to explore.
Rhyming and repeating, what could be more,
A structure to follow, a challenge to adore,
Trying a Triolet, a form to explore,
Eight simple lines, but so much in store.
Oh. My. God. It feels like someone is making me vomit and then forcing me to swallow it. The constant nagging. I am on the verge of exploding. But, I guess, I do not even have the privilege to even poof a little bit. All day long, my brain keeps yelling at my eyes, "Do not cry; they are around." "Do not freaking tear up even!"
I wish I had the resources, the courage, and the ability to just break away and survive somewhere else. Every morning I wake up to survive this unstable lab where every aspect of my livelihood is tested dangerously. Every moment I break down a little more in the hope some angel would appear out of nowhere to take me away to somewhere heavenly. I wish I could just pack some things and exit. I wish I could. But I cannot. I am nothing but a body chock-full of fears. Nothing but a hole of anxiety. I know nothing of the real world. I would drop dead if I picked up a bag and left. I have no means of survival. No job. No money. No skills. No connection. No friends. There is no will to live, even. What do I do? Day by day, I feel myself deteriorating. I feel myself chopping up my parts of sanity to exchange for an unstable shelter and some food made up of taunts and mockery.
It is as if the system is built that way for us. They subjugate you in such a way that you can only survive when you follow their marked goalposts. Even if you choose to have your own thoughts, emotions, opinions, and individuality, you are shown the door. They tell you, "The door is wide open; leave if you don't like it!" But here's the catch: It is not a statement they are making. Rather a taunting remark. Because the door may be open for you to escape, but your legs are tied. They completely emasculate you from the beginning. They keep you grounded. They keep you sheltered. And when you show a hint of resistance, they mock you with sentences like that. The open door is a mockery of your helplessness. They ask you to leave because, deep down, they know you won't be able to. Your legs are chained by codependency and financial constraints.
And all I want is to be. Just be me. Maybe go to that park next to my house and read a book there. Without them constantly breathing down my neck. Maybe sit on that bench and talk to my friend. Without them blasting my phone every five minutes, asking where I am. I would like for it to just be. Please. I am just a run-of-the-mill fool. I am no believer in God. Yet I sit here with my bruised sentience waiting for some kind of magic. All I do is, while I wait, squeeze my pain with my bare wrists to get some drops of poetry and words for my parched soul. I sit and scribble all day in the hope that someone will listen to this muffled cry for help and rush in order to save me. This is just a mere act of cowardice. I hide behind this foolish, wistful thinking. Because, deep down, a part of me is aware that no one is coming. No one can hear me. No one can see me. I am insubstantial. I hold no sound, no reality. I am, but doom awaits.
- Oizys.
Prompt: Find a shortish poem that you like, and rewrite each line, replacing each word (or as many words as you can) with words that mean the opposite. For example, you might turn “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” to “I won’t contrast you with a winter’s night.” From: NaPoWriMo
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
By Emily Dickinson
"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me."
Despair is an fantasy with scales
That shelters in the mind,
And silences the world with harshness,
And just stops all,
And bitterest in the stillness is heard;
And indolent must be the serene
That could never daunt the vulture
That turned so many blue.
I've never heard it in the sunny land,
And on the ordinary lake;
Yet, always, in the beginning,
It plucked a fistful of me.
- Oizys.
Prompt: Fog, River, Ghost, Longing, Song.
What is fog?
The dreadful veil draped around the nature,
What is river?
The story of birth by the earth,
What is ghost?
The lingering whisper of the storm,
What is longing?
The bittersweet ache of beautiful destruction,
What is song?
The symphony of babbling brook.
What is fog?
The ghostly form,
What is river?
The melody song in its own flow,
What is ghost?
The lingering longing of love,
What is longing?
The song of sadness,
What is song?
The ache of melancholic fog.
- Oizys.
Prompt: Latibulate
Today was my college farewell, I did not go and sat on my desk to write my poem.
Today is my college farewell.
I did not go, rather sat down at my desk to write a poem.
To write a poem about goodbyes,
Rather than saying them.
So many feelings I try to articulate,
While I latibulate from the world.
I hide from the fire of closures,
To keep my frozen heart safe.
In this veil of shelter,
I rummage through box of memories.
All I find is regrets and fears,
Maybe, a smile or two of my friends,
Underneath heaps of shame and stabs.
So, I take this moment of solitude,
And, watch the crowd from afar.
I watch them twirl and dance,
While I twist my soul,
To squeeze out some ink for this poem.
My mind makes me think,
This is best way to seal the deal,
To close a box of regrets and resentments,
By regreting about not being able to say last bye.
- Oizys.
The greatest challenge I am facing as a twenty-something Asian is being stuck between a rock and a hard place.
On one hand, you have been beaten into shape by this ultra-collectivist society that only values you when you are a part of the structure, an unquestioning member of the family, and a blind follower of the community. And, when you start going out into the world, you discover the concept of individuality and self-expression. You realise all the wrongdoings done to you in the name of "culture". And, when you seek a way out, a path of discovering yourself, you are bombarded with tone-deaf solutions like "Just move out", or "Cut them off". Yes, we know that. We know we need to move out. We need to cut them off. We need to get financially independent.
But, sometimes, the problem is not just moving out. Not earning your own money. It is about navigating your personhood. It is so, so lonely. No one tells you that. The transition is so lonely when you break yourself away from the "community" so you can grow your own full-fledged self. That detachment is so painful, even if you're losing an unwanted part of your body, it hurts. It is such a fragile state that we think we are not even allowed to make mistakes because God forbid if we fail, we get told how our individuality and freedom are worthless. And some of us, in our weak state, cleave back to our society, thinking failure is something we cannot afford as human beings. The journey when you realise a part of your personhood includes mistakes is normal is so difficult. The lingering guilt that stays rent-free in the back of our minds that discovering ourselves is somehow an act of betrayal. Our trained minds make us think like that because we quite literally abandon years of our manufactured lives to look for ourselves. To look for something that is inevitably ours. It is very difficult for us to leave because we feel as if we are leaving something behind, even though it was never ours but something is given to us by our parents, families, and society, from which we have to squeeze out returns and give back what we owe to them.
For years, I did not know who I was. What my likes were. What my dislikes were. What my personality is. What my opinions were. Heck, I could not even realise the reason I did not like milk: I was lactose intolerant. As I grew up and started feeling things, and my mind, my body, and my thoughts were also trying to get adjusted to those feelings, my mother would often complain that I had become disobedient, picky, or high-maintenance. She did not like the fact that she cannot "mother" me any more because I have come to know "too much". They delude you from yourself. And when you leave the culture, you are left alone with yourself. It feels like you are with a stranger. You don't know who that person is. It is scary. It is daunting. It feels as though you have to nurture yourself after being malnourished for so long. The cultural trauma inflicted upon our self-identity is so unjust and unfair to us as human beings. They never give recognition to our personal selves, and when we step out into the big world, we are overwhelmed with heavy emotions and blurred understandings. They emasculate us from surviving in any place as a separate individual other than just being an identical yet competitive "building block" in the collectivist society.
It is so much more than getting your own apartment or getting a job abroad. So many people who give such advice do not realise the amount of power such societies have on our personal lives—it is nigh infinite. To bolster in us a mindset that makes us believe we won't have any value or worth if we break away from the community. When you look into your parents' eyes, you see no respect for your education if you don't obey them. When you look into your grandparents' eyes and you see no acceptance of your love if it is not their choice. Your mental autonomy is perceived as a tool of deceit by your family. Your individuality is infantilized as an act of teeny-angst rebellion.
We seek help in that phase of transition, from chopping them off from our lives to soothing that wound. We seek help in protecting ourselves from our forefathers' haunting. We know we need to move out. We just want to take these negative emotions and intrusive thoughts out of our minds first. We seek help in unlearning all the indoctrination. We seek help in learning ourselves. And, sometimes, just sometimes, we seek a space to just vent and be understood for what we have been subjected to and not be met with blanket statements such as "Why are you still living with them if you are 18?"
- Oizys.