Marmalade

I took down a jar of orange marmalade
From the inbuilt shelf.
I strained to touch the glass
That held semi-liquid bliss.
I smeared the sugary rind and pulp
On a browned slice.
Baking the plump bread
Crisping from soft white.
I tasted the bitter-sweet natural flavour
On my tongue and skin.
I sipped a cup of tea that
The marmalade weakened.
And I waited.
And I waited.
The next day
I cleared the crumbs and wiped the spilled tea.

This was a very random poem that I scribble-typed yesterday in a flurry. Not so great really, very simply written, but I feel ashamed that I'm not contributing to this blog as much as I'd like to so:

The Distasteful Alibi

Gordon says he had rehearsals,
I think I ought to believe him.
He’s the dearest little boy, my own,
Sensitive, caring and a trifle shy.

But he is quiet all the evening;
He eats ravenously, speaks little.
I worry for him, my spot of joy,
He’s barely touching sixteen.

He retreats early, he needs his sleep.
He is gone before sunlight blushes.
I cannot bring myself to brush
His perfect, cold, odourless room.

Today Gordon is late again-
The doorbell chimes nine-fifteen,
I do not ask him where he went.
I lock myself up and cry into the linen.

On the morrow he starts to say
Something I’m not ready to hear:
“I’m in love,” he says “she’s a girl
I saw at the carnival fair.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier
I was scared, I was not sure
If you would come to like her.
But she’s the one, I won’t retract.”

I try out a smile, I’m pleading.
“She’s my daughter hence.”
Of course I do not tell him
That things will never be the same.

A Little Song about Tweaking

All around, everywhere there are Tweakers
Tweaking busily little bits of information,
Humming a vague melody, tying their laces,
Busily sifting, knotting names with faces.

Groping in the crevices of their cerebrums,
Swilling black coffee with cubes of sweet,
The Tweakers soundlessly mouth phrases
Filling in the grayish-white hollow spaces.

No they are not evaders, nor do they lie;
The Tweakers smile a little with self-pride:
Nosing their way, boring deeper and deeper
They split hairs better than rough winter.

Ferreting out furtive facts from underneath
Desks, novels, clothing and waste paper bins;
Analyzing, pondering, linking, Tweaking,
Fixing, retrieving, weighing, and cleaning.

Busy-bodies most efficiently bridging time
From the stroke of the hand from six to nine,
Poor Tweakers, they need to rest their feet-
They are tired of shuttling from soul to street.

Alloyed

He would journal
Only about the honorable,
Only about the philosophical.
He would stem the flow
Of his desire, and control
It, blinking back thoughts,
Like the boatman who fights
To steer in seductive waters.
When his uncle died,
He would bite back
His two cents about
The pointless amusement
He derived from death,
And a couple of laughs too –
Laughs that would come out
Uncouth, uncontrolled
Like the goblin’s uncertain wheeze.
Watching hazy sunlit streets,
He would try to summon
Some form of
Wholesomeness
In himself – try to ward off
The blind, nebulous irritation,
The sweet, tasteless
Wound of a ghost
In his head.


By Noodle

Evolution Story

..

Enclosed herewith is my second EVER comic (so please be lenient, my lovely blog-readers cum critics). Just to clarify before you even start reading the comic (just so you can actually find it funny...or not), this is about my personal experience during the year 2000. I was young and raw, and took it upon myself to change in a certain direction that I thought was "right", in the "absolute" sense. And the end result of course, is that I ended up nowhere. So. I now offer this illustrative rendition of that story up to your (inevitably harsh) judgement. Thank you, all.

Achilles

Finally, a poem about Achilles. I was dying to write a poem about Achilles ever since my poetry class started, and had this minor debate going on within myself as to which form to choose to write about him. Was this form effective? I feel like a ballad would also be good. Anyway, here it is. I'm actually mighty pleased with it, if I do say so myself.


Achilles


I see him not in penciled thin eyebrows,
I see him not in trip-hop, rave and house,
I see him not in operetta trills,
Or in fine, stately houses on the hills.
I see him not in daylight’s salty streets,
I see him not in alleys, fields of weeds,
I see him not remembered in the songs
Of caravans, that travel far and long.
I see him fight in battlefields of old.
I see him wash his glowing mane of gold.
I see his figure, brown in Trojan sun,
The arms of sword that lead the battle run.
I see his eyes in melting glints of power,
I see his story vanish within the hour.
I see his beacon in the murky past,
I see, but what I see will never last.