Writing Till Now

Sometimes, I don’t know how am I still doing it. All the writing. I wonder what it will lead to. I am actually uncertain. I don’t know if my writing possesses any value, as in, any integral value. All I know is to write. There is nothing else I know or truly possess. Is it an auto-generative inheritance? Or, something I have inherited without the clause to the roots to the DNA of the heritage? Or, maybe it has been both both. A multifarious of items. All I know is how to write. Nothing more. Nothing less. Maybe, more. Maybe less. Yet, in which capacity? I am not sure of. 

When I started writing here so many years ago, I was quite the optimist. I guess we all begin with some sense of optimism if not necessarily obligation. I don’t think I have been a success here as I have wanted? Or, has it been that how I was thinking was not necessarily curated to my own needs? No. That is not entirely true. I had written so much back then. My whole heart was an outpouring of writing and I felt very happy knowing that I could do it. This writing. Even if not masterful (sometimes so subjective) was definitely my own little place in the woods. A clearing. A forest. An ocean. Things I could do with my writing that seemed impossible with everything else.  

Everything else was a whole category that still remains unsorted. I don’t really know what I want from life even now. It seems archaically silly, clichéd, stereotyped — those forms of crises you read about all the time and wonder why people feel that way. Then begin to feel yourself. In one way, you are not a freak. You are still human. Even if it seems some days your humanity is as tethered as a cloud by your window. That ancient balloon that you think of with thoughts and imagine shapes and still can’t understand why you can’t fill it up with the helium with your own desires. Hear that squeakiness of the whole thing and even if it seems super funny to others — you wish to keep it for yourself. 

I understand writing for yourself is important. You cannot really feed yourself entirely on the validation of others. In a way, that is surrogate cannibalism — surrogate cannibalistic modes of engagement; fleshed up with someone else, them eating you and you eating them. Wanting validation. Craving it. I understand. It’s important. Yet, it’s not a subsistent crop. Not the meat you want on top. It doesn’t always work out the way you want. I keep on reminding myself because when you are starved it feels any dish would do; though, there is a reason you have a palate and a tongue, the muscles, the cheeks, the kinds of teeth you are meant to have. Not every dish can do. It just won’t suffice. 

The world online is much crowded and murkier than it was at least 20 years ago. Online interactions do not verbatim copy the verbal, the non-verbal, the etiquette you were once used to even in the last 5-10 years. And, etiquette is not universal. Netiquette, as it has been called, can vary in spaces. And, in online social media spaces, it varies tenfold than in actual geographical spaces. One of the main reasons? We don’t really to have deal with people do we? Not in the same way we have to deal with people even in the workplace. You can’t just block an annoying colleague on the go nor can you suddenly give an expletive and run off. There are more immediate consequences to what you are doing. So, you are more apt and careful. Even if being impulsive is your default, you know, you can’t do that always on the face-on-face level. Street-on-street level. Desk-by-desk level. Bullying exists but you will notice in the world of bodies it is more aptly felt, recognised and alerted. 

It is hard to write online too. Your audience may be larger, more global than local, but how do we know how much global it is? How much local it is? The cheerier days of the global village have been put on hiatus: or in oldspeak net — revamping/reconstruction for a few days. Before Web 2.0, it was harder to even imagine doing short term word changes without unplugging something. When I first came upon WordPress, it was still relatively less advertised and unknown (LiveJournal still holding some cards), with a minimum set of themes. It’s .org program may have been used countlessly on many independent websites but it was not the hosting giant we know of today. Now, I am introduced to a new Block Editor (hoping it allows me to write in the fonts I chose for my website and not some default it chose for me. Ironically, 3 months ago this was possible). 

Signalling back, I am stating that because of the many choices we have, because of how many different changes to mediums of expression, life, lifestyles, growth in certain sectors and the rise of many social media fandoms, writing online has become both easier and harder. You can feel pressurised to conform, be bullied, be critiqued without apology, have a person spam you with less consequences and you may still persist, with a chip on your shoulder. Albeit, the optimism have somewhat dimmed though it may brighten again soon. I should be writing more now. I have more free time now. Yet, there are things that do not come to me as easily as they did before? Is it a writer’s block? Partly. Partly, perhaps I am curating and censoring myself. There may a need in me now to choose more quality over quantity though for me I would like to think I always managed a good enough if not the best balance of it. 

I want to still keep on writing many things. I know I can. I know I will. This is not arrogance or mere wilfully, nonchalant confidence. It is a blessing. And, experience. I have been doing this for so long. I been doing doing for most of my childhood, teenage and adult life. Yes, there may be milestones I am missing. I am not going to say that there has been no struggle; that the reason of doing it and the weight of giving up haven’t loomed over me. It has. More than once. That I haven’t achieved what I wanted so what was the point? The use? Is it because I did for so long that giving up would mean I wasted so much? So, I am stubborn because I don’t want it to be a waste? 

Well, that kind of stubbornness is useful in writing even if there is so much waste. I mean, I don’t think it is polluting the environment much. Nor, has it polluted my own life. However, it has most certainly NOT been a waste. Whatever I have written. Whatever I have continued to write. It has shaped a lot of me. Shaped a lot of who I am and who I will be. Things have changed. Things have not changed. My writing has stayed the same but also grown. It has made new branches and nodes of engagement and involvement. I like what I write even if it is not the best subjects out there. It is not merely only I can write this, from my point of view, but because I know this need and want in me to write is unique to me and won’t come again and it is me and no one else. 

I still don’t know if it is important. If it has any integral value. I am sure this uncertainness is part of a process. Gradually, I might be reaching a destination I am not fully aware of and if it’s great then I cannot be happier. It is easier to have a meteoric rise and then fall and decimate the dinosaurs of your expectations. The evolution and extinction, the unchanged and the stellar qualities of my writing may still be going on. I can feel that strength in me. 

Perhaps, right now, here and now, I am where I need and wish to be. Even if the stars seem unfamiliar and the course a bit rougher, it is where I am destined and worked to be. You can’t tether clouds to your window because you are not meant to see only through one window. 

everyday sighs

Why am I sad? Because I wish to exist
in the microcosms of ordinary pleasures
where the everyday is not passaged by
the parties of food and wine. Where I know
a quite labour of reading your fine mouth
over a cup of coffee and the satin taste of tea

I do not belong but I am no imposter
I am no fugitive but I refuge behind clouds
no venegeful storm but I carry water

I do not profess to know anything other
than the incomplete dictionary of me
will you meet me behind the sphyx layered
of time and travel?—

beauty in you

I will bridge you with the birch
between our tongues; cloister
my speech as though it was
a language you know and I toast
yours as my own.

lexicon our saliva and nodes
and finger my spine with yours
do you see the wetting of my eyes
do you know how to rotate yourself?
The slickness of appetite
rouses up in my belly
and throat

which offers itself as cups to drink
do not mistake this as obedience
and I will not mistake yours
as entropy.

Tied to the larynx
met with the hungry mouth
of dialogues as the sexes unite
an acrhway cathedrals its way up
towers its way down and the minarets
lay the tone.

coupled in between our lashes
we kiss uncontrollably.—

Perseverent

I haven’t written
And, I haven’t chosen to be written;
though I am written in leaves and blood
and the mud — snapping with teeth
like the branches of the woods

Oh, youth, you made me feel fresh

And immortal

Not a serving of flesh cased behind a bone
and all the bone is chewing to break out
to now what it cannot know, now

I wanted so much to know what it was like to write
to have known if I had written anything of any value

I am writing as I will always write
clutch my blood next to the quilled ink
sparrow along the ridges and dominant the
lull of the breath; stay passive at the apex of the muscle

I will knead into me a belonging in poetry
as the bread knows the yeast and the sky knows the sun.—

I wonder

I am actually wondering if people still like my poetry. I realised today I am not as prolific as I once was like 5-7 years ago. I also wondered if my poetry stills means anything to anyone. I know through my entire time writing in this blog for almost 11 years that it has been a bittersweet, but meaningful journey. I had my lows and highs. I was able to share some of them here. I was experimental, logical, emotive, attempting to positive and empathetic but also at times mislead. I am happy that I have grown up so much. Matured more than I could have ever realised when I have started. This has been a very personal and intimate journey for me. I have been very fortunate to have had it. I Thank Allah Almighty that I did. It means so much to me.

So, I wanna continue forward. I wanna keep on writing poems here. I wanna keep on experimenting and writing my feelings. If the years back was more an experimentation I think the years would be a mix of confessions and memoirs as well.

I wanna thank everyone who stuck by me as I kept on writing here. I hope to keep on writing more and more.

I feel Blessed that I can write. I Thank Allah Almighty. I just feel blessed to get to know these poems and also have them in me.

Continuing on the journey of writing poems

Much love and good luck and prayers to me and the readers ❤

potential of a memory

in the light of the sun through a window; sized medium, shutters green-slight
it slits on the top; reminds me of old cameras — yet what it records?
life inside or outside? Both? I am soaked by the frame. It’s reference —
a sketch. I am tidying my short hair, happily cut for the occassion
of living alone. Less stress. More eloquence. Like a few short words.
Written on some wall. Engraved on some tree. I feel the sun on my face,
on my naked neck as I blow dry hair. I am getting better at this.

There is a still stubbornness of my locks. They wave and curl; they
are not straight. Cannot be straightened. My androgyne reifies in my retina
in the crown of keratin. I should be pleased. I am. Now. Then, the act of hair
wavy yet immaculate makes me feel bliss. Kiss of warmth of sun and an apparel
for my hair. I feel my blood rise with Moca. Another warmth. Walking on
Stone pavements with my tousled hair and packed bag with coffee.

Loving the feeling of boots clicking on the pebble. Loving the motion
of walking — just walking. Feeling the independence of legs, of locomotion
— I am a being of hyperactivity — my hair flows out even with a hairband
and my clothes are loose and casual. Too casual. Like no metrosexual touch
upon me. No sense of the feminine fashionista. I still need potential for that.

yet my hair, the window and the walking are all potentials
these radicals of being that I didn’t think of always
when breathing winter’s air back in my native land in my youth
crisp tongued with a promise only realising 16 years later
like some sixteenth birthday come after

I study the leaves. I think of the hours I may browse the net
Study the contents of my books. Wait for the shipment of texts
to arrive in packages. Another potential.

my movement gains a stride; slight equations that make me feel complete.▬

song in rain

the rain drank the sun; the day fingers a grey-dark ceremonial
like some ritualistic garb, aiming for some funereal demonstration
or a pilgrimage set in marble and the edification of a time forged
in multidimensional pathways — subtle yet interesting

the rain drank the sun yet her thirst not quenched
the satisfaction was not only in the light serein
gales and winds blew; night was hallowed with light
from the flames of thunders and the pools of lightnings

— there came an ocean; inverted but also sensuously foamed
Venus was birthed in foams, pearls and the oyster carapace
like that of the turtles that support the world — mythos mixes
like a fine precipitate in the analogies of extraction

from the foam of lust and love came the armour of the one sheathed
and daggered; your love was not merely a hypothesis
it was a dissertation written in rain
and what writ in water is eaten by the earth and evolves; never dies.▬

night tremors

there is a discord in my veins
when I can’t sleep at night
when I feel that the darkness is
equivalence to my solemnity
but also the rhapsody of my prayers

there is nothing to shy away from the day
only insubordinate time with its longings
and unkept wishes; I can’t garden time
though I wish I could kill its weeds
gently and feel it snap at the touch of my fingers
these fingers hungry for some communion
with the diary of dreams and the origami
of sensuality nipped lightly by the logic
of the moon in parallels with the stars.—

crashing on boredom

What is this feeling we call boredom?
— was it always a paradox?
should be; life is in the roots
in the air — zigzagging between the nodes
in some membranous digits
and some pockets
the chemistry of boredom can only be measured
when you have really lived; or vicariously searched
through the folders of lives in some others’ kitchens
— the image, the simulacrum — those bread crumbs
that led you to some candied house — were you some
anorexic dandy fidgeting on some other street
tiptoeing through the woods
and the urban sprawls
you seem like a nightingale; singing some memory
of a future. Your posterity begins, when you fold boredom
and piecemeal it with the wings — you know you are borne
and bound to take off — outside yourself and inside yourself
ennui is a happenstance; struggle the happiness.▬