tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34501800863943309222024-03-20T04:17:26.129+08:00The Malaysian Poetic ChroniclesLeon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.comBlogger139125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-83039372358193846102018-07-03T17:12:00.001+08:002018-07-03T17:12:54.760+08:00We are on hiatusAs the admin Is preoccupied with some other projects, we are sorry to announce that we are on an unspecified length of hiatus until we are ready to resume posting new work.Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-77778893488648433312018-05-19T17:03:00.001+08:002018-05-20T10:43:06.751+08:00Ode to the Election CommissionODE TO THE ELECTION COMMISSIONBy Meera Badmanaban You were born after independence, for our nation.Set up under Article 114 of the Federal Constitution,To regulate and oversee the running of an election,With efficiency and transparency, was your mission. Your task to register voters, strike out the deceased,Oversee borders of Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-54149599867124736542018-03-06T11:22:00.001+08:002018-03-06T11:36:07.717+08:00Poems by Joseph Gordon WilsonMissed Welcome to the far reaches.Where corrosive waters lap on black sun beaches and tree leaves sing sardonic songs.Where seekers ponder as they long and what a sailor dreams when he looks out to sea.Where roaring rivers meander quietly and red fish trek upstream to spawn.Where gold dust sparkles from the light of dawn and is drowned in a velvet mist.Where above Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-66292959578506111632017-08-17T10:27:00.001+08:002017-08-17T10:31:03.085+08:00Have You Forgotten Me? By Meera BadmanabanHave you forgotten me?I am the boy whose legs turned black.You saw my amputated legs; didn’t you?The rubber hose was his form of attack.I prayed hard for the torture to stop;But he still continued; and so I died. Have you forgotten me ?I am the girl who was raped by granddad.You read the papers; didn’t you ?He loved me, he said; his face all sad;But what he did to me hurt real bad.I screamedLeon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-27113529266870332852017-03-28T16:11:00.001+08:002017-03-28T16:20:01.852+08:00Photographs by Vernon DaimSee the sprawling branches of a treebound by bloodties and surnameson the wall. Frame by frame, be awed by milestones and anniversaries.Look closely at the kindegarten shows, graduations, holidays abroad and weddings of relatives close and distant. Notice how at reunions and birthdays every one smiled their genuine best, their artificialLeon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-48563080173502287882016-10-10T16:10:00.001+08:002016-11-01T12:22:46.214+08:00Poems by Christopher HaroldThe Swimmers' Guide to DrowningTongues sweat in humid fumes of sinful breath.Saliva bathing rows of crooked teeth,Gnawing on voices toned to charm the deaf,Bait the shepherd's lore with terms of deceit.One is selling cups of poison hemlock,The other pours out shots of cyanide.One raps on the door latched with a padlock,The other has the key to get inside.Residents drape themselves in sullied Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-26605284606616485462016-10-10T16:01:00.001+08:002016-11-01T12:22:25.828+08:00Poems by Gregg DotoliHaikudawn spawns smoky fogbrackish herring deep sensetidal reverse beneath warm salt airAfter Parisflowers dim-dull boringsun a simple lightsongs slightly off denim faded smileslifeaim returnjoyous spirit absentlovesick sad moondrips hope-rayson upside down melifeaim returnscarce wind my companionlovelorn homesick dream-achestone lonely without Parislove you foreverlifeaim returnthis above Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-66936949476876137792016-09-18T17:03:00.001+08:002016-11-01T16:07:50.293+08:00New poems by Vaughan Rapatahanathree hour GCE O level examination, bandar seri begawan, september before the monsoon. school hall is so crammedthat the wallscry out inclammy angst. each tudong/songkokbearingpupiltroves leg-room safety through bent-knee anguish, Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-61010680334149310342016-06-13T14:12:00.001+08:002016-06-13T14:23:35.462+08:00Poems by Gregg Dotoli3 haikudawn spawns smoky fogbrackish herring deep sensetidal reverse beneath warm salt airscuttle braunish foxcool snowy dusk waning noeggs snake mice for pupscrash clear sardine waveflash silver fear spin flip air hopacrobats flee bassIsthmuswe are on the Isthmuspast-present soilgrowing crowded and carbon-hotis that tide higher?where is that lake?those polar bears swimbut aren't Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-61457841389122842412014-10-15T19:26:00.001+08:002014-10-15T19:39:59.878+08:00Two poems by Cameron ConawayIn Season I’m in a Starbucks in a supermarketin a six-story mall in Bangkok alonewatching watchers watch a professional fruit basket maker careful labora balance mangosteen canopy in bundled electricity concentrationrambutan: all red rind ball andLeon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-62759848915470266192014-08-15T19:56:00.001+08:002014-08-19T15:54:59.297+08:00Moonlit Angel by Jeff Ooi
Moonlit Angel
There she stood,
By the edge of her chilly world,
Confessing her last fantasy.
With bloodshot eyes,
She looked and she panned
But no star was in sight,
Only murkiness
Dimly lit
By an ecliptic crescent
Upon a sullen night.
She swore
She beheld the presence
Of Fallen Cherubs
Humming a requiem
In euphonic harmony,
As candles fade
And wind whispers
Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-44731755547663711252014-06-25T14:28:00.000+08:002014-06-25T14:29:21.057+08:00TENDAI R MWANAKA:poems
THEY MURDER OUR CHILDREN WITH THEIR WEAPONS
Battlefields blooming in blood.
The country now locked in irons
of medieval terrors.
Guzzling, burning- bright blue giant.
Weapon dealer-
&Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-39407858473929064982014-06-25T14:23:00.002+08:002014-06-25T14:23:36.767+08:00Jyothsnaphanija: poems
Fiction
Fictitious this medical evening.
This cross eyed custard cup.
This table cloth absorbed the table paint.
This rhythmic flow of the type writer
In fact, it’s virus that makes it slow
down.
Fictitious you wearing a green shawl.
Your eyes, fugitive.
You inspecting aroma of
vase.
My blank page face.
You reserve better words for fiction.
More space, Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-13346458624370639702014-06-25T14:18:00.000+08:002014-06-25T14:18:22.309+08:00Chris G. Vaillancourt: poems
I Ought To Have Gone
Sometimes there are momentsthat flash before us like the narrowopening of one of those worm-holesinto another universe and you have no timeto calculate: Should I leavemother, father, history, ecology,job, ambition, hometo follow her? Too late.Too late. You ought to have gone.For the rest of your lifeyou’ll be telling yourself,“I ought to have gone.I ought to have goneLeon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-85239484224819962692014-06-25T14:11:00.002+08:002014-06-25T22:13:33.783+08:00Ananya S Guha: poems
Hills Of Slow Time
There was a time
when the hills denuded
scattered out of myth
origin and ash
came tumbling down
with waterfalls, lakes and rivers
to give succour to incarnadine hues.
The hills I have known, paraded with
my destiny, the hills that moulded clay
into mythic dolls. Yes these were the hills I knew.
Molten clay, shrapnel hirsute legs the hills were
not man made. Man. Woman
and in Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-66062214276666111392014-06-25T14:04:00.001+08:002014-06-25T22:14:22.714+08:00Sze-Leng Tan: poems
IT
IT started with ‘once upon a time’
IT happened without any warning
Oh... Your tough-loving tangerine
seeped right into my dry defenceless lips
the sweet surf of your song
............................................................across my petals
Sips of your surging saltiness
your smooth passing... tempting
your dreamy entrance... enticing
you bite me with your cold surprise
............Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-5786415235816371892014-06-25T13:38:00.000+08:002014-06-25T14:05:45.632+08:00Changming Yuan : 5 poems
[y]
yes, yes, with your
yellowish skin, you enjoy
meditating within the shape of
a wishbone, inside the broken wing
of an oriental bird strayed, or
in a larger sense, you look like
the surfacing tail of a pacific whale
who yells low, but Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-57951925727887812192014-03-13T17:03:00.001+08:002014-03-13T17:10:54.966+08:00Poems by Dawnell HarrisonStill of the nightIn the still of the nightwhen the moon ragesits harvest orange huesto the ground I writesleepily by a red light.I labor out of the loveof words grazing thetips of your earswith a beacon of light'sgilded colors.I write on spindriftpages of white harboringjust the right tone,just the right syllablesto connect your soulinexplicably to mine. QuietI should lie Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-78540785977307093392014-03-13T16:50:00.001+08:002014-03-13T17:07:40.099+08:00Poems by changming yuan[pursuing]l Here is the persistent pursuit of a bone chipHung right above the nose of the ravenousDog as it runs amuck, as well as another Pursuit of an exotic seed by the west windThat keeps blowing to catch, to throw itInto the voiceless reality, and another pursuit Of an innocent deer trying to gain an inchOf freedom from the claws of an African lionOr the Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-56546971181718536792014-03-13T16:40:00.001+08:002014-03-13T17:07:51.461+08:00Today, Yesterday by Ananya S GuhaToday is once again a ripple of warmth,murmur of the wind desultory, everythingis happening, with the loud speaker in afit of manic blaring. Doesn't matter, these thingshappen as days pass in circular motionwith wind and stones narrating storiesof past. A myth walks across this land as gushing waterfallstake on the realities, unraveling all that is hoary.Go to Sohra and see the Nohkalikai Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-90226914536876243312014-03-13T16:28:00.001+08:002014-03-13T17:08:15.086+08:002 poems by Wrulf Gunkl VonGlashausFire for Tyler The grass is whisperin'the leaves are singin'the sun smilin' in the sky,is that too perfect a picture?oh yeah, 'cause you, me and nothin' else are perfect,screw perfection!let's all take hands in a circle 'round,the Solstice fire awaits our dance. The snow's beguilin'the wind seducin'the moon shimmerin' above,is that too perfect a picture?oh yeah, 'cause you, meLeon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-7276204022966692132014-01-08T10:07:00.004+08:002014-01-10T09:59:13.531+08:00Of Poets and Potters by Srinjay Chakravarti
OF POETS AND POTTERS
The wheel begins to move
under your hands.
Slowly at first, then it picks up speed.
Now your thoughts are only lumps of earth,
&Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-76955138407465367692013-12-21T15:39:00.001+08:002014-04-03T19:24:35.949+08:00Three Poems by Emily StraussEmily Strauss** has an M.A. in English, but is self-taught in poetry. Over 130 of her poems appear in dozens of online venues and in anthologies. The natural world is generally her framework; she often focuses on the tension between nature and humanity, using concrete images to illuminate the loss of meaning between them. She is a semi-retired teacher living in California....Poem at Lee Vining Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-5220491609310946222013-09-03T15:37:00.001+08:002013-09-04T10:07:37.597+08:00Poems by Changming YuanY: Yellowish MusingsGold, lemon, butter, rapeseed flowers: Pre-positioned, you function to leadA whole column of evils as in the yellowPeril, bastards, bellies, dogs, fish, gutsJournalism, heels, even men and pups After words, you will become as nobleAs imperial, as royal, or as ChineseYellow. That makes all the difference Between a noun and an adjectiveBetween Chinese and Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-24995190283411043952013-06-10T22:52:00.001+08:002013-06-10T23:08:42.984+08:00New poems by Vaughan Rapatahanahome in j. pineda me & apo canlassit on plastic chairslike tailor’s dummies. the rain chafesat cloud corners,a firing squadspoiling for a chanceto squallt h r othe u sticky pall. g h  Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0