impressions

impressions

by N3ko

self-induced
consternation - laziness
as usual, diversions surround
my shell of smoked glass

haplessly
wandering the labyrinth days
i search for prismatic remnants
of her animated memories
transcribed in numbers

reflected shadows strike
long-forgotten chords
on these toneless strings,slack
and dull, still resonate
in anticipation of sunrise

sleepless
struggling at dawn
to shake off those half-conscious words
conspiring simultaneous release
of torrential desperation:
flocked clouds
cozily floating in the blue-warm
sky and saturday-morning softness
wooly procrastination pulled over
my head: by now it's too late

tortured wait
for a reply:
hazed by light, love and life, she
types for a day and half, finally
those disinterested echoes reach this valley,
afternoon heat occluding the mercurial message
from the capital, a resounding 'was afk, sorry'

i know, and writhe - she's
taken, misses
him: my dull wits split
in ha
lf: i
bre
ak

alone, walking hand in pocket-
the road to dinner,
fences in my wandering mind.
footsteps: someone approaches
from behind (without mercy
she pursues) and passes,
(la belle dame) saying, 'Oh,Hi.'

on the kerb, i mutter
a response- she jogs on
to turn and start back. i do not want
to be misconstrued: feigning disinterest
i avoid, and keep my hand in my pocket the whole time


© N3ko 2009

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N3ko is born and bred Ipohite, rarely logically coherent, terminally sceptical, usually found reading something, often found in a state of hunger or starvation.

every night she waited

every night she waited

by Maslina Arshad

every night she waited
until dawn came
for caresses
for his breath on her neck

glimpses of faded intimacies
she waited
hoping
he remembered,
those days far ago
when all they had was one another

waiting in vain
for someone else's heart
had him now

© Maslina Arshad 2009

Listen to this poem:

Maslina Arshad is a closet poet who is also a lawyer by day. She loves reading and is especially blessed to have married a fellow bookworm. She loves watching the rain fall, staring into space for ideas to form into words. She has been writing since many moons ago but never submitted anything to anywhere, until the existence of this webzine. She would love to publish the rest of her work someday. In the meantime she is happy chasing her son chasing the cat, somewhere in the middle of a town called Temerloh. Visit her blog, to see more of her work.

things my grandmother doesn't understand

things my grandmother doesn't understand

by Liyana Y

She can't pull history out of graveyards
and squeeze them into this century's tiny house
this grey city she doesn't recognise.

She could never count the days
so they run circles around her
the years tease her like a washing
machine tearing her old clothes to shreds.

All she can do is call out for her past but
the tombstones never tumble, never shake an inch.

We pass her to arrive
and she doesn't understand how
we cycle through clothes so fast
cycle through years even

Can't fathom how she drifted
so far from home in minutes

How her husband was aging with her over
breakfast and is dead by lunch
again and again

the way my mother took hours to produce
two daughters over the age of 18
who break into the house at dawn
instead of getting married

When she asks me where her husband is
she doesn't meet my eyes
her hands quiver
as she floats through the rooms of her mind
and switches the lights on and off again

She doesn't understand this dance
or who I am
I try to tell her who she is everyday
but her decades also pass right through me
refusing to be caught
and together it is as if we understand
nothing

© Liyana Y 2009

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Liyana Y is a poet, scientist, student, part time private English tutor, and eats up any freelance jobs she can to get by every month in the city. She's been writing publicly since 2003, has been published in an anthology by MPH, and a collection of poetry by British Council. She's had the privilege of sharing the stage with brilliant poets from here and overseas, as well as performing at the Singapore Writers Festival. She loves taking photos and blowing in the faces of her cats. Above all, she loves to read and write. Sheloves loves loves to write.

There is in the longing

There is in the longing

by Yusuf Martin

There is in the longing
Something profound
Full and compelling
Urging
Inciting
Willing the wanting
Obliging the having
And
In the denying
Satisfies
Fulfils.

The observer
Left to yearn
Gazes
Appreciates
Learns cognition
Is gratified
Warmed
Within that glow
Of
non-possession.

The desired
Pulls back
From objectification
Freed
Permanently other
Untainted
Glowing
Unique
But
Touched
By adoration.

© 2009 Yusuf Martin

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Old Hippy, former bookbinder repairer and restorer, dustman, road sweeper, factory worker, mental hospital porter, graphic designer, digital artist, social worker, guest curator at one of London’s most prestigious museums, now exclusively writes short stories and essays from his country home overlooking lakes in the South East Asian countryside.

Yusuf Martin was born in London but lived mostly in East Anglian, England, briefly in India and has finally retired and settled in rural Malaysia, amidst the water buffalo and civets.

He has written several short stories published in collections in Malaysia including Silverfish New Writing 5 (2006); Silverfish New Writing 7 (2008); Urban Odysseys, due shortly from MPH; and an essay for New Malaysian Essays 2, due next year by Mata Hari.

Yusuf is currently putting the finishing touches to a book of short stories about kampung life in Malaysia (Kampung Tales) , writing more fantasy stories about a bomoh (shaman) called Melvyn, magic and ghosts (Melvyn the Bomoh) and a novel based upon his social work experiences (The Unsocial Worker).

Yusuf's sites:
http://mondaymelvyn.blogspot.com/
http://fatmankampung.blogspot.com/
http://correspondences-martin.blogspot.com/