Ms.Jotling

About growing up

2010-12-05T12:11:00.002+06:30

There will always be something calling out to me...

I thought I should let my young days go and grow out from it, that's when I realize I'm starting to loose out. The magnitude of it is that in the midst of it, I am gradually losing who I am.

2009 Think about these things...

2009-01-02T14:44:00.005+06:30

Fruitfulness in the midst of Affliction

a change of life style
a change of action
a change of thought and believes
change your view.

your direction
- towards who?

ask yourself
to think
about these things

When Love Takes You In

2008-08-26T13:12:00.003+06:30

Lyrics by Steven Curtis Chapman

I know you’ve heard the stories
But they all sound too good to be true
You’ve heard about a place called home
But there doesn’t seem to be one for you
So one more night you cry yourself to sleep
And drift off to a distant dream

Where love takes you in and everything changes
A miracle starts with the beat of a heart
When love takes you home and says you belong here
The loneliness ends and a new life begins
When love takes you in

And somewhere while you’re sleeping
Someone else is dreaming too
Counting down the days until
They hold you close and say I love you
And like the rain that falls into the sea
In a moment what has been is lost in what will be

When love takes you in everything changes
A miracle starts with the beat of a heart

And this love will never let you go
There is nothing that could ever cause this love to lose its hold

When love takes you in everything changes
A miracle starts with the beat of a heart
When love takes you home and says you belong here
The loneliness ends and a new life begins
When love takes you in it takes you in for good
When love takes you in

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=demRHgul2Zk

Jane Hirshfield

2007-05-03T02:23:00.000+06:30

:Thought I'll share this beautifully written poem by Jane Hirshfield.

THE POET

She is working now, in a room
not unlike this one,
the one where I write, or you read.
Her table is covered with paper.
The light of the lamp would be
tempered by a shade, where the bulb's
single harshness might dissolve,
but it is not, she has taken it off.
Her poems? I will never know them,
though they are the ones I most need.
Even the alphabet she writes in
I cannot decipher. Her chair -
Let us imagine whether it is leather
or canvas, vinyl or wicker. Let her
have a chair, her shadeless lamp,
the table. Let one or two she loves
be in the next room. Let the door
be closed, the sleeping ones healthy.
Let her have time, and silence,
enough paper to make mistakes and go on.

Whoppa!!

2007-03-16T02:05:00.000+06:30

These few days, i've been attending a theatre workshop back in the good old roof-top-theatre. Technically, i was asked to be there just to ground the whole event. But i tell you, this group is such a talented bunch, they didn't need me to ground anything for them. Infact, i am so inspired to be in their midst. Both Puay Tin and Mark Teh has been generating loads of fun stuff! What a joy just to be in it. Everything about it has helped me cope with the not so bright side of things lately. I love playing there... Whoppa!!

Brooding lass

2007-03-16T01:21:00.000+06:30

What is she thinking about?
[More text here]

A Letter of Thanks

2007-03-16T00:50:00.002+06:30

This is not the typical kind of a Thank You letter. I dedicate it to a very special person and I hope that it is okay if it reads a little odd now. If it reads just fine then maybe you know where I am coming from.

Thank you for your shed blood and torn flesh. What sacrifice can be bigger than suffering till death! Thank you for your better solutions which I never see coming. It usually hits me after everything’s over. Then I realize that my anger was foolish and my questioning was unnecessary. But still, thank you for letting me make decisions - good or bad, big or small, you walk me through it despite of my undeserving behavior. Yet, thank you for the instances when you forcefully stop me a head of time. You saved my life.

I really appreciate the way you fix this jigsaw puzzle. I would not have had it any other way even though you pushed my limits again and again. You seem to know exactly how much I can take. It is like how when Coach used to throw me into a six feet deep pool - I drown for a while, drink lots of chlorine and some pee water, but never once did he take his eyes from me till I start paddling like a pro. Your sight never left me. Your doings are aesthetically out of this world.

Then, the way you cure anything which is everything, certainly does not need to get tested. No one can sit as the judge to qualify you. As amusing as your working ethos may be, you are definitely not the musing kind; just maintaining patience till the timing is right. And then you teach knowledge, nurture it into understanding, and then store it as wisdom - a gift. Humanly speaking, you are weird. But I look to be at least a fraction like you. That itself is a lot of catching up to do.

Anxiety & Trust

2007-03-16T00:29:00.000+06:30

How we get consumed by anxiety! Why do we have this need to keep in touch? We grow to like someone even if it is a mere momentary run-in-to. At the back of our heads we see some kind of hope to be connected to them, near or far. Once we get a hold of the person, it is hard to let go, even harder when we get ignored. It’s like the more we are ignored, the more insecure we become and then we try even harder to figure things out. We try to understand why or what has gone wrong. Whether if we were used or misunderstood or hated or maybe not very likable. The more we try to better something the more mistakes we feel we’re making. Such painful unnecessary worry! The one who has the power must show compassion. The empowered one should explain and be direct. Not leave someone guessing nor give unsettling lame excuses like “I’ve been busy”. If we cannot commit anymore, we should admit it than to leave someone’s life hanging in a land of drought and wicked dust.

The trust issue:

How much do you trust a stranger? Can you trust a stranger? Is this stranger a big bad wolf? Is there a possibility for friendship? Is there a possibility for relationship? How should I pursue it? Will it be too much or overtly friendly? Will I appear foolish? Will I be hurt? How will we relate to each other? Should I give this much away? Is it safe for me to share this much? Will I be appreciated? Am I understood? Is he/she sincere? Why does he/she enjoy being with me? What does he/she wants from me? What can I not say? How should I phrase my sentences? Am I losing myself? How to think straight now? Do good people still exist? Will I be kidnapped? Will I be murdered? What will my parents say? At what point does friendliness end and flirtation began? Should I give my actual name, number and address? Is he/she telling the truth? How do I test a stranger? How do I meet a stranger?

Prodical runs dry... Now, returning...

2007-03-15T23:36:00.000+06:30

Till there is no mo ...

Like the rose and its thorns
So is love with its brevity
Brave hearts of hearts drop taps
Resonant round insidious wade
Slashes and meshes
Bleeds pieces of defiled clod

In squarish junctions the world rushes by
Imponderous being draining dry
A writer had no words that day
An unknown singer has passed away
Lacking mobility the naked artist lay
No more muses, no more... Sorrow

On a clear morning
Lilies of the valley waft
The returning sweetness
Tingles joy beside these ears
Vaporizing cure brings comfort within
Lightening the angst of distant isolation

"To see a peer praising Him, i drop my head and i see myself walking further away. Where is the fire and passion that i once had? Hearing a friend speak of a life bursting with laughter and joy, i cringe. I do need to get back. I remember that there is really, no greater joy than to give every intention, expression & energy to Him. I DO NEED TO GET BACK!"

2007-03-13T20:08:00.000+06:30

What have I got to hide?

Oh, a reputation
Passed down from one generation to another
I cannot break the tradition
Neither am i able to keep it up
What should i do?

2007-03-13T19:45:00.000+06:30

SCREAM

Rant !

2007-03-12T03:46:00.000+06:30

Emptiness

Crouch

Suspended

Hollow and thick

Heavy yet empty

A space of no thing

I see but

I don’t connect

I know but of no

Effect

I’ll take a gun and shoot into my head

Till then

The end

I laugh

I don’t have a gun

My blade isn’t sharpened

Not even equipped for suicide

Cramp head in palms

And crouch

Till dawn I’ll crouch

Hide it all

Face off the sun

See not

Hear not

Feel not

Speak

But only to no thing

Homage to Ophelia

2007-03-12T03:18:00.000+06:30

Painting by Ernest Hebert, 1910

Who says I’m beautiful -
I’m with the wet market,
The stank of cowards,
The bitch of prostitutes,
The cow, the crow...

Lil' gals juz wanna hav fun !

2007-03-08T12:18:00.000+06:30

Love, Romance & other Recipes for "Happily Ever After". This is an installation by Ye Shufang at the Singapore Art Museum.

------A little girl dreams of getting Wed...someday! She learns to take care of her little Parakeet bird, dress up Barbie Dolls and fry Flat Cakes with Mummy. Of course those are not the only thing she does. There is more. Her blameless radiance would someday mold to be like the gaze of an Eagle. So at this young age, let her be curious to understand how her parents befriend other people and live with each other. Although so little is said of her at this point, she does see much and that does add to soul building. She talks to Parakeet when feeling low but when she is up, lucky Parakeet will get a Trick and Treat session. On a sunny day, little girl would bask by the open window with Parakeet on her index finger. She says a little “I love you” in her most honest and lovingness. Inside the eager eyes of her Parakeet, little girl sees the Prince who was once a Frog in her bedtime story. She recognizes that it is her calling to give that Magic Love Kiss, be the pride and joy of the Man she loves, the Lady of her House. So on a special day, she hank her hair into a girlish Ballerina Bun, slip into a pair of beige Mummy Shoes and let those Pale Pink Pearls hang down to her knees. She walks out to everyone else, showing off her Lacey Gown. Soon she gets a piece of her Cake with a Red Cherry on it and then she thinks of which Candy to eat next-in-order to save the best for last.

Sylvia Plath

2007-03-08T00:11:00.000+06:30

STILLBORN

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love.

O I cannot understand what happened to them!
They are proper in shape and number and every part.
They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!
They smile and smile and smile and smile at me.
And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start.

They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air -
It would be better if they were alive, and that's
what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother near dead
with distraction,
And they stupidly stare, and do not speak of her.

.unrest.

2007-03-07T23:25:00.000+06:30

Touched-Embraced-Secured.
That sweet encounter suddenly held to a halt is haunting
She is missing a lover
suits her to be drunk.
Blindly walks into her darkroom
intending to perceive dreams, but
insignificant bubble frame petty scenes instead -
Plain thoughts about just now
......

Calling for attention: Gun shots
Awakens the night!
Flashes of bursting light pulse into her darkroom
She draws the curtain aside and search for the explosion.
There they were, Lightflower -
Blowing up red, green, purple and gold; Composing
Spike, sprinkle, and twinkle posses, outside her window.
She looks into the new call ...
This temporary happening. One step away
From old-grown worries
At least to rest her mind for a while
In peace
To let it remember whatever it wants to.
Some sorrow sore eyes and nose,
Lump in the throat grows larger.
These weak urges to tear,
Yet come not even a drip of it
She has not been able to cry.
Just as the window vanish from her notice
Like all good ending, the Final Grande
Resolves in three salvos
Bam-Bum-Boom!
......

The night sky proves itself beautiful -
Exploding reminiscence for her to overcome scars
Then there is no more.
She stands holding the curtain
Decides to leave it open for this very night.
Such post-catharsis quiet is perfect timing for a closure
Where once again -
It is death for a new beginning.

"Can i post a question, please?"

2007-03-07T14:14:00.000+06:30

Can I or can I not
Can I stop it
Will I handle it
Will I be wrong
How am I wrong
Have I thought logically
Could I be blind
How do I make me see

Guessing God’s lines

Not allowed
No you can’t
Don’t even touch it
It is wrong
Wrong is wrong
You are not thinking
Just refusing to see
......

Maybe when God really speaks

I love you
Don’t let that destroy you
Be patient
I know your struggle
Let me help you
It is your will
There is a judgment day
Do not test me

Actually;

"Why is it that i see my mother's face & i hear my mother's voice
with every single one of those lines?"

What a zest ! (Ron Wallace)

2007-03-07T13:10:00.000+06:30

= Absolutely love this piece written by Ron Wallace. =
"I remember saying a little prayer, to God or the muse or my subconscious or whatever was generating the poem, to let me finish it. Just then my wife walked in downstairs and my heart sank. Would she interrupt me? Would I lose the poem? But what happened instead was that SHE WALKED INTO THE POEM."

ORANGES

This morning I eat an orange.
It is sour and juicy. My mouth
will tingle all day.
Outside, it is cold. The trees
do not anticipate their leaves.
When I breathe into my hand I smell
oranges.

I walk across the lake.
Ice fishermen twitch their poles until
perch flicker the surface, quick
and bright as orange slices.
The sun ripens in the sky.
The wind turns thin and citrus,
the day precise, fragile.

My mustache and eyelashes freeze.
When I arrive at your house
you are friendly as a fruit seller.
We peel off our clothes, slice through
that wordy rind.
When I lift my fingers to your lips:
oranges.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"As I was closing the poem I was thinking more of tactile and olfactory than of visual imagery -- the touch, the smell, of oranges on the lips. It wasn't until a reader later pointed out the visual image of the ending -- lips look like orange slices -- that I saw that element of the poem."
= Lips like orange slices ...... beautiful! =

Intoxicated + Caffeinated

2007-03-03T04:12:00.001+06:30

I close my eyes
then i see a window
distencing
into a speck

it's true
THOUGHT
Is
a hard thing to control

Sounds at night
travels -- echos
In mind . an empty picture
primary colors flashing through
blue droplets at one corner

Chamber's gate
Rusted . Rested
Opens -- a woman
Multi-tasking

Fingers slide
dash --
hangman
stunted

..inside OUT

2007-03-02T16:09:00.000+06:30

A dear friend said most casually:
When it gets dark, ... it's like everything turns inside out.

..WOODS

2007-03-02T14:22:00.001+06:30

The essence of a journey...

Where the rays of the sun strike through between the twigs and flickering leaves. The fallen brown leaves narrowing-along this rugged path. Some trampled upon, crushed into dust while some lay in the corners, whole and delicate, brittle free. Smelling of greenery, flowering seeds and incense, barks and canes spike through the soiled earth, arranged providently like a geometrical abstract art. In front, with these eyes, an image snapped. It is now a memory of a slim and long bended lane where straight ahead sat a flight of semen-solid-steps, and the whole area under a kind shadow. At some point, came a destination of five split roads, each one a temptation, wooing towards their long awaited surprise. Standing there giving blank stares to one after the other, the opposite one seemed quite promising. There came a time, more than once, when the kind shadow takes its gentle hands off and the sun would smack a light mercilessly, paining these eyes to shut it out. Then back in a form of memory is this image of a path curving behind the mighty rocks. So the fear of the unknown came knocking and the memory within a memory is a haunting, slave to not knowing the whereabouts of why people do what they do. Then a thought about him, we walking together, salt rolling down our moist skin, we’ll pause with admiration for the place, and then each other, then we’ll share a kiss. He will insist on another and then one more, deeper and more passionate but at some point, a slow separation before we smile at each other and continue walking. The commotion within against such prima beauty is a clash that prods with a tickling finger towards one decision. Words like nature-beauty-God-strength-survive sounding with the company of innocuous bugs, at this point, an intake of breath. There’s a need to breathe in deep, way-down. Although now, at this point, in the end all alone, keep walking without mattering to neither forgive nor forget.

Craig Morgan Teicher

2007-03-02T14:12:00.002+06:30

"All My Poems Are Love Poems" When Two Poets Fall In Love
By Craig Morgan Teicher, as his valentine to the world.
So, if you are a fan of Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, CD Wright, Keith and ... Check out this site! ;-) enjoy!
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19458

To read more about Craig, checkout his blog at
http://slickerchumways.blogspot.com/

Cheers!

Re: "That isn't me!"

2007-03-02T14:12:00.001+06:30

The beauty in its lack of it is a different assortment. It does not conform to the common normality.

[ Perfection is imperfection made brand name. ]

So, the lack of beauty must needs be a life by its own. They should have judgements of its own, impersonal however. Set apart, yet not.

abyss

2007-03-02T14:11:00.001+06:30

PLaY thE muSiC on A LOOP-a-loop aNd tiMe wiLL NeVeR paSS aWaY .

play the music
on loop-a-loop
and time will never
pass away .

play the music on
a loop-a-loop and
time will never pass
away .

Pass

Away

On a loop-a-loop

As the music plays .

UBER-TYRO

2007-03-02T14:10:00.002+06:30

"I can't control this truthful self. This body, it speaks. I hate it because it attends to voices of insecurity and fear.
It shows."

stigmatization

2007-03-02T14:10:00.001+06:30

stump stump stump

mud river
trampled and kicked through
splash contaminated crystal droplets
upon a tree bark
as a parasite would
suck up on this gradual wrinkling tree
to die
rot at mid rear and fall over
hanging sideways, frontwards / backwards
depending on where i stand
therefore,
it does not matter at all
where / who / how
to why this has and must happen

...with crabs in mind.

2007-03-02T14:07:00.000+06:30

At a seafood restaurant: chinese.
While waiting for dinner to be served~

There were many women walking up and down this 'bridge'. They were obviously self conscious: constantly tugging at their tight blouses. Then this waitress, a Philipino i think -- She stood at her little corner, scooping out of a rusted tin, just to occupy little orange saucers with peanuts. Then as a pro would, counting silver-fork-spoons and orange-sticks too.

Why Blog #1 ?

2007-03-02T14:01:00.000+06:30

I never believe in blogging as I am a firm believer of pen on paper. However, one day...
Someone came and introduce 'The self'. So, we chatted. Then, 'The self' asks "Do you have a blog?" I said "no". 'The self' stood there, blinking its big rounded eyes at me, and walks away.
So, here you go...Blog #1