tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34501800863943309222011-11-20T05:25:06.932+08:00Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.comBlogger1141100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-84143401597378237642011-10-30T11:43:00.003+08:002011-10-30T11:45:00.502+08:00

Just two of you I need to lend a hand First to measure the rope from base to base Then here along the wall from here to where The rope is tied around the ceiling post. Careful there because all must be exact. The tale is always in the tape you know, Just an inch or so an inch here or there Even one and it would be a different story. But we can rule that out because here Is the can he must have

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-89100705978189210672011-10-30T11:43:00.001+08:002011-10-30T11:43:17.654+08:00

10:02 am My eyes fight the light. My mind twists. The fumes of the midnight hour Have resonated in my mouth. I think I saw greatness (Truthfully that is the last bit of liquor talking) As the voices thundering in my dome, becomes echoes of shames. I press the replay button, And it all slowed down: I see a man who looks like me. He is dressed like me, He is a better me, Making sweet love to

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-12337684561830788162011-07-31T10:07:00.000+08:002011-07-31T10:07:16.901+08:00

All Kinds Have you ever been so alone you shouted into an abandoned well just to hear your voice echo back? Or held the door open for a group of people just to feel them walk by; just to have another person close to you? An old woman hording cats, trying to build friendships. The old man feeding pigeons, enjoying the feeling of being wanted. Needed. Tommy Lee Jones in Coal Miner's Daughter,

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-84728429139862595092011-06-19T10:55:00.003+08:002011-11-17T11:44:59.128+08:00

SALTED EARTH Salted earth,Preserving the sweatof the hundred feet that stepped upon you,and your kind,before my time.Lending your softnessto careless streams,so that hard minds may drink from them.Preparing the mountains with hope,and so they standstill beneath the seas. And yet they dig you up so mercilessly,that even your blood is not given its time to heal.They plough through your future,

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-68269498263548944062011-06-19T10:40:00.000+08:002011-06-19T10:40:49.580+08:00

Unannounced The couple at the courthouse Standing tall in khakis A soldier back from Iraq His bride flowerless in dress She bought at Ross for less Yet their wedding Priceless. © 2011 Clinton Van Inman Clinton Van Inman is a high school teacher in Hillsborough County, Florida.  He is 65 and a graduate of San Diego State University. He was born in England.  He has had many publications

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-72895792430760837472011-06-19T10:32:00.001+08:002011-06-19T10:32:26.822+08:00

by Maslina Arshad no one can be read like an open book tho some may claim they could for sometimes secrets seek refuge in between the lines © Maslina Arshad 2011 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

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-44753614794411207832011-06-19T10:32:00.000+08:002011-06-19T10:32:15.152+08:00

by Wrulf Gunkl VonGlashaus It was the glorious terror of an instant when the sun was lost in the moon - and the explosion shook the hair out of the world into our abyss nourished by the blinding light, … enraptured and captive, we ran and hid then dared to play, first, you were the sun and I was the moon, next, you the gem haunting the silken web of night... … and the explosion still

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-10986127090576712222011-04-29T16:24:00.001+08:002011-04-29T16:24:51.164+08:00

FRANKINSTEIN Color coded complete with picture I.D.We’ll teach you to be like us.Give you a turtle neck or bow tieYou will be our kind of MenschComplete with certificate of authenticityCredit rating and charge account,Security, savings, and even disability.We’ll teach you how to walk and talkin circles as if you had some sense.We will give you some brand named shoesWe’ll even call you Frank

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-76352379374763331082011-04-29T16:23:00.001+08:002011-04-29T16:25:09.109+08:00

by Sarah Rani The sombre street fills with emptiness,As echoes of cries resonate within these walls,Ghosts of the past linger in the darkness,Translucent amber,A limp body descend into the ground. A heavy step dragging this battered body,Don't bury me. Drowning in your acid bath,A disease you say,We pay with our lives and you survive. Break this shackle around me,Breaking your pretentious

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-83339725673795284262011-04-29T16:22:00.001+08:002011-04-29T16:25:31.999+08:00

by Gale Acuff It's not that we don't love you, Mother says,but we don't love each other anymore.I stand before her and Father. They siton the newly reupholstered sofa.They sit real close not to like each other.That's right, son, Father says--your mother's right.Oh, I say, my hands behind my back andmy bladder filling up. I hope I don'tpee my pants but I'm a little nervous.What we've

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-36351874162045609232011-03-06T13:43:00.002+08:002011-03-06T13:45:10.089+08:00

Magnolia Song by Wrulf Gunkl VonGlashaus (for The Beloved and in honour of Arthur Rimbaud) … the magnolias are far away – still, I sing, beggingthem for bridges tobrood with stanzas of butterfliesin the suffocation around andheat mocking the sea where once we walked the shorebeneath the cruel commas of hawksshowering seraphimic curses,pink roses upon stormsflung upward from spotted, inverted

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-85849699215979358862011-03-06T13:43:00.000+08:002011-03-06T13:43:05.824+08:00

by Elaine Foster Yes you love the oceanIt will drift you where it wantsAnd drown you at any given chanceYes the ocean is wild and mightyIt’s surf will push you forwardIt’s tide will pull you furtherTo think you can out swim itOr hold your lungs and breath foreverIs reckless and foolish, a sentence to death at best.And yes, to feel reckless and wild and foolish is to feel freeAnd yes the spray

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-23883713445881346682011-02-05T12:23:00.000+08:002011-02-05T12:23:11.149+08:00

Flowers Are Growing Vivid Flowers are growing vivid in the structure of my brain. I sense them, the roots travelling like baby powder trickling down my back. Embracing this thought, I inwardly grimace and dance a dance of hopeless optimism. Why are the words we use with one another so often filled with bitter accusations? Why do the smiles we shed like skin reveal nothing of our hearts inside

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-17623103873958663342011-02-05T12:22:00.000+08:002011-02-05T12:22:59.748+08:00

Next year won’t be next yearIf another day never arrives; Or returns If your minutes expireYour plan is canceled Sky mobile; Are you stuck withNo roll over plan? Preparing brings awarenessConcerns brings the actions of being careful. The next minute won’t be the next minuteIf it’s stood up by the next second If your heart stopsThe breaker popsNo loveNo electric The next can only be the nextIf

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-82499781692536744332011-01-01T09:51:00.000+08:002011-01-01T09:51:54.960+08:00

you didnt noticei was missing frommost pagesdeleted from your words was there butnowhere to be seen 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

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-14575845152831717362010-12-15T14:41:00.002+08:002010-12-15T17:19:41.727+08:00

If I could speakI’ll not lose my words behind my cheek Will never leave any songs unsung And thoughts shall never stale under my tongue If I could hear I'd want my heart to be my ear I'd sit alone on the quietest quay And try to hear what my eyes couldn’t see If I could smell My nose will tell you if I’m unswell It will crinkle when I smell something bad And it will run all day when I’m feeling

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-65311452804219593692010-11-14T14:34:00.005+08:002010-11-14T14:45:49.311+08:00

By Sonia B. SyGaco The motorcycle skidded over the narrow dirt road’s potholes. If she hadn’t been on the gas tank’s side saddle, she’d be hanging between the bushes, like her companions she could now hear screaming from the branches, where they’d been thrown. She knew that would happen.  She’d just come from town. ** “Will you Ms Mary buy these things for us until Felix recovers from

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-62380321980453363472010-11-14T14:34:00.002+08:002010-11-14T14:34:27.248+08:00

by Ananya S Guha Autumn sprinkles leaves and they trace ways back winding steps to school, school's leaves thumb pages into a hall where foreboding fears stood, the leaves know, the steps know, as the fields look green and winter sprays the first quiver of the sun. Autumn's leaves strewn in blue green rustle Autumn's leaves yellowing in golden hues Autumn's leaves untrodden Autumn's leaves

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-55825770270433168392010-11-14T14:34:00.000+08:002010-11-14T14:34:04.578+08:00

Lemang by Yusuf Martin you come to me all soft and creamy scents of coconut, rice, bamboo fire-smoke and banana leaf. I sense your firmness, al dente, taste your pliancy and succulent delights. i want to drizzle you with wild bee honey, drip over your sides bite into you sweet stickiness dribbling into my beard while you kill me slowly softly * Malim Nawar Morning surreal hummingbird

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-87740741084407183512010-09-20T15:27:00.004+08:002010-09-20T15:50:04.488+08:00

by Vaughan Rapatahana stuck in Ho Tin,as the smog skulks, the perennial clitter-clatter of the lambent light-rail & that stoic perambulation of the feet feet feet plodding ever footsore to circadian drudgery in some grieving office towerla*mb**aste***dbehind over-b  u  r  d  e  n  e  dapartments meltedintos  w  a  GG  e  r  i  n  gMASS. bereft of scope, a tunnel-vision periphrasis:

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-31319897383419385802010-09-20T15:26:00.000+08:002010-09-20T15:47:57.303+08:00

 by Ananya S Guha I haven't yet thought of the curtailed river bearing fangs, with snapping teeth, guffawing deliriously, with its possession of beastly humans  I haven't yet thought of the tornado cresting on its fulcrum, tearing things animals and men, to gory death  I haven't yet thought of the ghoulish monster intruding halcyon dreams to create death knell I haven't yet thought of

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-14127298841902565562010-09-20T15:25:00.001+08:002010-09-20T15:48:25.407+08:00

by Chris G. Vaillancourt It used to be called "Sunken Gardens", this section of the park. Now it is called "The Queen Elizabeth 2nd Gardens" because Her Majesty visited them. She wore a pale blue dress that day. I remember because my sisters and I were in the crowd. Like the others, we stared at the Royal "She" in awed tones of respect and curiosity. In high school, we used the park

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-75875068001571300952010-09-20T15:24:00.003+08:002010-09-20T15:49:07.966+08:00

By Sonia B. SyGaco I see this morning's downpour, felt the sudden rush to go outside. The evening before, I counted sheep after sheep jumping over the fence. The drip-drop-drip from my rooftop comforted my tired eyes, lulling them towards sleep.           Not camera obscura, my eyes took snapshots of childhood friends walking homebound, caught unguarded from the crying sky. We pretended the

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-14220631208056712132010-07-11T13:18:00.002+08:002010-07-11T13:22:04.899+08:00

by Pey Pey Oh I am stalking Neil Gaiman on Twitter, I know when he’s cutting his crazy hair; when he walks his white dog Cabal and his new puppy Lola; when he saw bear shit in the Minnesotan woods. I know that he’s been stung by the bees four times - that’s once a year since he’s had them, or mopping up fountain pen spills on his front pocket, I know when he is oiling pigs with his mate Wossy

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-83116887962888049832010-07-11T13:18:00.000+08:002010-07-11T13:18:00.805+08:00

by Ashweein Narayanan Wooden steps lead, To the house, at the end of the lane, The one that boasts a wonderful yard, The one that boasts a wonderful garden, The very same one, on stilts, The one that subsisted through age, And has remained unbothered. Our tharavadu, our one solace, The same one our Muthiamma and Muthacha built, During the occupation of the Nippon, A sanctuary for their

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-15750299970202939892010-07-11T13:17:00.000+08:002010-07-11T13:17:45.519+08:00

Why’d You Go And Leave Meby G. David Schwartz Why on earth And why in heaven Did you get a car And just drive to Route Seven, Didn’t say a word Of farewell or, absurd, Just said not a thing? This did make my ears ring While trying to hear your thoughts. What you need and what you want, Now I think it is true, You wanted to leave me blue. * I Just Don’t Understand Itby G. David Schwartz I

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-81116687539701865382010-06-20T15:30:00.006+08:002010-08-10T09:35:37.361+08:00

Fragmented Poem Let me gently touch your feet. Somewhere roses will bloom, and children laugh. Listen to this poem: * We Meet I walk ways of paths that are ancient. Roads bristle with briars. The fences are warped, barbed. And the stones that I tread speak old songs, unheard. I walk my own desultory ways. You yours, yet at some togetherness destination we meet. Listen to this poem:

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-45693191383386428362010-05-09T13:22:00.002+08:002010-05-09T13:25:42.763+08:00

Poems by Chris G. Vaillancourt Heat Stroke Heat stroke dangling, cold ice upon the embers of flames. Flaking of paint, slinking through amber green tornadoes. The teeth sharpened to coals of anger. Falling asleep in the tent with the yipping dogs of yesterday who have flipped burgers in the groin. They care, but who else does? They stare, but no one is aware. Fly, let the neon

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-8577344413558020632010-04-11T09:35:00.002+08:002010-04-11T12:08:15.849+08:00

   Lighterby O Thiam Chin The two men looked at the body on the bed, and at one another, before looking somewhere else, one at his hands, and the other out the windows. Nobody spoke for a long time, each waiting for the other person to end the silence. The bedroom smelled of unwashed hair, body sweat, and a palpable odour of residual violence. A while ago, the room was forcefully charged,

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-74000835104190242552010-04-11T09:34:00.002+08:002010-04-11T09:39:08.962+08:00

This Eveningby Ananya S Guha This evening it is different as the asphalt on the road melts into tears in my eyes It is different as your bird's nest eyes ask the question that cannot be answered, as I am waylaid by feelings trapped into death wish which only the sullen crow knows It is different this evening as a poem that hurts fades into oblivion of giving and taking. © 2010 Ananya S Guha

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-44725476098475473952010-02-20T13:07:00.000+08:002010-02-20T13:07:36.239+08:00

the dead are the ones by Maslina Arshad the dead are the ones who loved the most they are all gone becoming shadows missing them i seek refuge amongst the tombstones of memories © 2010 Maslina Arshad 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

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-74651081697548187322010-02-14T08:22:00.000+08:002010-02-14T08:22:42.027+08:00

Love's Altarby Pey Pey Oh The Merry Widow’s got her red roses in the window. She knows that love needs an altar to call it home. She knows the symbols that sketch love’s portal open. Heart-shaped frames, pink candles, Rose quartz, the angora throw: They all say, “Enter.” Even I, who am not in the know, Can feel the breeze in the door, the ringing phone, The tow of the line of want, etched in

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-39192415864512547412010-02-10T10:30:00.004+08:002010-02-10T10:35:29.630+08:00

Chris G. Vaillancourt Leaves Die Silent trees standing in the night, like armed guards in a concentration camp. Yearning hands that reach out, Touching nobody. Touching nothing. Grabbing for the end of the sentence. Hoping that the words spoken will fall on somebody's heart. Hearing nobody. Hearing nothing. Rain is gently slashing into the chill of the dark. There are noises in

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-81688825752691438362010-01-23T14:45:00.005+08:002010-01-30T08:42:50.659+08:00

Arcana III: What Am I Like? by Pey Pey Oh  * To My Darling Friend Kenny Mah: Happy Birthday * “One day, the burning tower will stop burning and I will stop falling out of windows, will stop being hit with bricks, will stop choking on smoke. I’ll stagger out taking deep breaths and bandages.”- Only in my Dreams I donʼt wish it On anyone but, I AM the Tower. If you meet me, Watch out: The

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-49974694166785246512010-01-10T13:29:00.001+08:002010-01-10T13:30:19.070+08:00

Avatar Aftermath: Mission Pandora Prologue By Hazlan Zakaria Intrinsically fan fiction, this story also rewrites the original, to portray the other side of the coin à la Eggar’s Wild Things. The narrator Marine Derek Plummer whom everyone assumes is the baddie is fighting for Earth, which will die off without Unobtanium. Plummer’s family is living in the crowded space stations hovering

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-86865117359500164782010-01-07T15:03:00.007+08:002010-01-07T15:23:09.578+08:00

Chris G. Vaillancourt Falling Rain The last wind of winter has ceased its power. It is memory now, and has no message to give. The rains of spring have replaced the snow And spatter insistent tunes upon the roof. From the ground, the plants have burst out, Reminders of the cycle of life and renewal, Early flowers busy in their own serenity, Splashes of colour that arrive in

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-10223122755095354912009-12-09T08:44:00.000+08:002009-12-09T08:44:06.039+08:00

THE LATE SHOW by Solomon He makes his thrusts Un-lubricated He means to hurt Wants to be in your debt The unseen side of the moon There he keeps his own hurt Rising and waning faithfully So that the sea will have its tides He tells you about Lightning striking the desert floor In that place of skinny clouds It’s the white sparking rage Of God So like a man Slamming fist into wall No one to

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-68312809234616276112009-12-06T09:26:00.001+08:002009-12-06T09:27:11.863+08:00

Poems by Chris G. Vaillancourt When The Wind Dies Down When the wind dies down, the world will reflect indifference. Consumed with the growling heart that falls like the panic from the mind. Front door closed. Locked. Empty rooms. Everyone has left the house now. It is once again an address on a map. Not a home. Toppled heat that wanders like a whipped cream desert smashed

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-59010887225041247922009-11-29T13:46:00.001+08:002009-11-29T13:47:44.774+08:00

mak mariam by Maslina Arshad never did i ask her was she lonely taking cautious steps stopping to catch her breath by the sofa, at the table in the kitchen as always a mug in hand talking to the cats wishing them well telling them off never did she complain about the lack of human voices, those final days © 2009 Maslina Arshad Listen to this poem: Maslina Arshad is a closet poet who is

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-7281737446736165032009-11-27T09:02:00.004+08:002009-11-27T09:14:07.705+08:00

New York, Thanksgiving by Pey Pey Oh “This is a soldier’s kiss”- Antony and Cleopatra A soldier’s kiss is one that knows No moment but this. You move through the world like there’s a war, Paying a poet’s price. In haloes of mist and light, Ranks of trees lean and turn from me, Looming clear, then dim, in the dawn. ~ I am the girl at the train station, Throwing flowers, Waiting for

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-83433052100574521352009-11-22T09:15:00.004+08:002009-11-22T09:57:57.574+08:00

3 poems by Vaughan Rapatahana  Pachyderm words Oral examiners meeting, Yau Ma Tei, 2009 on stage the bullshit s p e w s: an ELEPHANTINE roar incessant we are all far too old to hear such clumsy pedantry, crouched awkward on silly stools, clumped e  n  f  i  l  a  d  e  d on sterile floor kiddy talk lambastes our ears; the effluence s p i l l i n g  ever  on, basting us into torpid

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-24026261015966975372009-11-03T09:13:00.001+08:002009-11-03T09:16:14.339+08:00

VIALS OF P by Solomon They’re filtering pain Making it pure Making it potent Labelling it A distillate of life A potion of clear rush Wear around your neck Take it When you feel Too damned good © Solomon  2009 Listen to this poem: *** STONE-AGE WOMAN by Solomon You're the cave man's dream Turning your head kindly to be hit Want to be dragged away like meat Offer your sweetness

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-66458997175841350522009-10-24T09:51:00.001+08:002009-10-24T09:58:24.033+08:00

Wall by J.Y. Lou One window with Venetian blinds drawn, another with curtains. I can seldom read you. But when I do, you let escape a ray from the rising sun or a living poem of a half-dried leaf wind-flung. When you draw aside a breath of veil, I glimpse the you in the centre of your 'verse. A brief, short-lived view of what could've been but never will. I so seldom see you now. ©  2009  

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-17320322080993479822009-09-28T10:25:00.002+08:002009-09-28T10:28:39.510+08:00

Estranger By Yusuf Martin You were Cliff I was John We didn't belong on the same planet Let alone the same family When you discarded lumberjack shirts and blue jeans I donned military jacket Put flowers in my hair You stopped being a bachelor boy I became a walrus You had kids I had orgasms You - weeding I - weed There was no way that we were going to sit at the Christmas table and

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-52672818362631470142009-09-11T16:54:00.007+08:002009-09-28T10:15:09.341+08:00

2TRUEFRIENDS By Yusuf Martin 1 Norfolk caravanning 1 Bombay writing 1 White wine drinking 1 Cool breath smoking 1 Roger Mc Gough 1 Desperate Housewives 1 Phone SMS 1 Net Facebook Both Equidistant 2 Forever close 2 Smart living 2 Ever laughing 2 Warm giving 2 Girlish smiling 2 Trusting children 2 Generous spirits 2 Truefriends 1 love © 2009 Yusuf Martin Old Hippy, former

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-22604726825792442322009-08-28T10:38:00.009+08:002009-09-14T10:28:59.459+08:00

rain?by N3ko blue emptiness framing telephone poles between the roofs of the platforms through the railings of the walkway changes. Light footsteps fill the sky with distant echoes. the lifts still go up and down: this city's arteries - the roads, the rails don't stop for the grayness, sprawling purring in the sky where pedestrian thoughts float then sink, ponderous, laden, waves bearing

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-15167726445234554212009-08-17T09:06:00.006+08:002009-08-17T09:16:24.647+08:00

OPEN SKYby Solomon“if we followed our heartswe would be merely teenagers”she asks, “then what should we be?”“you be the mountain islandthere on the horizoni’ll be the oceanmy opaque eyesuseless to see youeven as I riseat high tide”she knows...“and I will haveyour embracefrom all around,your gentle insistencefor all time”he smiles toohow crafty our choiceswe in respectable greykeeping secretsunder

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-8385061425507402832009-07-31T13:29:00.005+08:002009-07-31T13:40:22.809+08:00

Animalityby Leon WingDegrees around then backThen back again to start,He found a fitting finally.He clicked on nails, bleed-Ing trails of notes be-Tween fuzz, sizing her up,Jawing her neck. In turnShe seized the top of hisHead, kneading calm hisChrysoberyl glare.© Leon Wing 2009Listen to this poem:Leon Wing writes poems, mostly. He “sees” shapes, colours, objects, structures, when reading them;

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-37066108652125701492009-06-19T11:27:00.003+08:002009-06-19T11:42:34.410+08:00

impressionsby N3koself-inducedconsternation - lazinessas usual, diversions surroundmy shell of smoked glasshaplesslywandering the labyrinth daysi search for prismatic remnantsof her animated memoriestranscribed in numbersreflected shadows strikelong-forgotten chordson these toneless strings,slackand dull, still resonatein anticipation of sunrisesleeplessstruggling at dawnto shake off those

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-67694870631643929502009-06-16T08:02:00.005+08:002009-06-17T08:27:40.291+08:00

every night she waitedby Maslina Arshadevery night she waiteduntil dawn camefor caressesfor his breath on her neckglimpses of faded intimaciesshe waitedhopinghe remembered,those days far agowhen all they had was one anotherwaiting in vainfor someone else's heart had him now© Maslina Arshad 2009Listen to this poem:Maslina Arshad is a closet poet who is also a lawyer by day. She loves reading and

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-87818626843160697952009-06-15T13:25:00.003+08:002009-06-15T15:57:40.533+08:00

things my grandmother doesn't understandby Liyana YShe can't pull history out of graveyardsand squeeze them into this century's tiny housethis grey city she doesn't recognise.She could never count the daysso they run circles around herthe years tease her like a washingmachine tearing her old clothes to shreds.All she can do is call out for her past butthe tombstones never tumble, never shake an

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-67209739201597105882009-06-13T09:43:00.006+08:002009-06-13T09:48:10.679+08:00

There is in the longingby Yusuf MartinThere is in the longingSomething profoundFull and compellingUrgingIncitingWilling the wantingObliging the havingAndIn the denyingSatisfiesFulfils.The observerLeft to yearnGazesAppreciatesLearns cognitionIs gratifiedWarmedWithin that glowOfnon-possession.The desiredPulls backFrom objectificationFreedPermanently otherUntaintedGlowingUniqueButTouchedBy adoration

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-27298029030045563282009-06-03T08:30:00.002+08:002009-09-13T16:08:53.708+08:00

Children Of The DarkBy Mmakgari Dabutha  We are behind when we visit the village. We are reminded by those that stayed of how things are supposed to be. They say things have changed. Yet you know they remain the same. So you have changed. You admire their lives filled with harmony and rich in spirituality. We come with the big cars and the fancy clothes. Sooner or later they get swallowed into

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-77316363747189258122009-06-01T08:30:00.001+08:002010-02-12T08:47:22.159+08:00

Arcana II: The Question of control by Pey Pey Oh Magic’s about taking that stuff of the universe, Molding it like putty. Here I am again, Free of self-sacrifice but not the pain of balance, doomed to traverse the fine line; With or without the blindfold, it still hurts. The lady with the scales, she has to be My dark sister, can you see our arms shake, tense with the ache of responsibility,

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-80993194449649159482009-05-30T09:03:00.007+08:002009-05-30T09:37:28.536+08:00

LeavingBy Damyanti GhoshLeaving. Such a lonely word, you say.Leave some thing, some place, some body.Walking away from somethingis sometimes a walk towards something else.But it can also be a letting go and not stopping.Letting the breath take you,carry you with itfor you to float nameless and without address,without friends or foes,without relatives, acquaintances.Just fall, fall, free fall

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-8248478645422193062009-05-23T09:10:00.002+08:002010-02-12T08:44:59.456+08:00

Arcana Iby Pey Pey Oh Today the cards say, I used to be a woman wrestling with lions. Tangling with my shadow self day after day. Who was she? That smug empress under the pink blossom, The mother of the world, harmonious harbinger. I am amazed they have the same face and the same hair. The lady with the lion has got a good grip. Razor teeth, silky mane packing some solid muscle, I, too, live in

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-24136133768922116332009-05-22T12:00:00.001+08:002009-05-22T12:50:11.798+08:00

Secondsby Salasiah RadzaliOne, two, three.Three seconds. That's the most she could go without thinking about him.She was like that every time; her lips would quiver, her hands would shake and her body would shiver as thoughts of him entered her head."He is special," she told her friends.He is her obsession. Her one and only.Four, five, six.Six days have passed, and all of her friends were

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-62541388014842934202009-05-02T09:05:00.008+08:002009-05-02T14:08:53.751+08:00

The battle field is yoursby Carol Marufuwho said to you arisearise and dreamwhat? arisearise and dreamwho said to you ariseyou arose with such hopearose with such passionwhat? arosearose and dreamtwho said to you arisearise and dreamdon’t you know he soon will steal your dreamWhat? ariseooh no stay dead and he will not care notdream and he will make it his plan of the dayto arise and take your

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-24900617374474560302009-04-23T08:47:00.008+08:002009-09-13T16:32:10.054+08:00

In this exclusive excerpt from a novel by a local writer Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli, the main character Adrian is in love with Rina. A Malaysian with a touch of the Irish in him, Adrian is working his gig in a bar, when he meets a talent scout not exactly looking for singing talent ... Adrian's Last Songby Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli I had been singing here almost every week for the past year.

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-53323313877320607782009-04-20T08:56:00.012+08:002009-04-20T09:25:53.506+08:00

The Sealed VoiceThe voice is sealed.Listen. Gust of airPermeates the dark room.Dust daubsThe chained windows.Dolorous eyes lookUpon the unopened windows.The wallpaper of metal walls knitted.No doors. No light.Listen. The voice is sealed.The windows could never beOpened, Unlocked, Freed.Listen to this poem:---LamppostStanding still, shivering,I could not wring the coldness.Under the unlit

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-29371269336507005212009-04-10T09:38:00.009+08:002009-04-10T10:04:45.895+08:00

18+by N3kocracksin the pavement,like those in my head -alone, I walk on:followed, turning tofollowing; their tracks(sweat-dew-soaked) dusty.morning seven-thirty:chattering, their voicesfloat: two. happy.I lift my head.endless paradoxes engulfand drown me, torrentsof melancholy :( meant to be)"accepted or rejected?" I still ammyself, alone I walk on:my shadow beside methinks i'm too dull,

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-753637751309182122009-03-19T12:33:00.014+08:002009-03-19T12:49:18.626+08:00

THE DAYThere has been a beatingIt is the dayDay sinks into the shadowsLike a wife hiding bruisesTwilight offers a shoulderAnd the alcohol of dissipationNight comesAlive and coiledEverything is bornEverything demands its dueThe sun has turned awayThe moon is beamingThree am coughsOne sip, if you pleaseThe night tips overGives up the ghostThere is a rousingIt is the dayLike nothing seen

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-86077932857124985262009-02-28T11:07:00.004+08:002009-02-28T11:11:39.592+08:00

it was a giftby Maslina Arshadit was a giftwrapped bylayers ofunluckinessomissions; mineand otherslack of carefuldilligenceoversightplain carelessnessallglued togethera gift neverthelessinside thosemisfortunesare silver liningsand blessings disguised© 2009 Maslina ArshadListen to this poem:Maslina Arshad is a closet poet who is also a lawyer by day. She loves reading and is especially blessed to

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-20610102127545918012009-02-26T09:13:00.004+08:002009-02-26T09:20:48.766+08:00

WHAT IS THE WORD?by SolomonHe asks why she won't talkHe won't look at her eyesWhere everything is screamedYears pass in a murmurThenHe touches her alabaster shoulderPale and deadFrom not being touchedShe stands paralysed by emotionsLashing her like spices blendedTo overwhelmTo chokeHe: I fell into your pathLike an accursed star, didn't I?She: Why did you love me?I was always ugly with honestyHe:

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-36554745012415332932009-02-20T14:09:00.010+08:002009-02-20T14:43:05.781+08:00

Ifby N3ko You would (of course) prefer to (you should) allow distance     to build its walls of        solitude   between us - the South China Sea; or the speed-shot artery of the Peninsula? Both mingle in double-vision.  Single   thought on my mind, I sink still  - standing - slowly into the mire of memory saying: "sorry   sorry       sorry"  ...   I Play     on, bleating

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-66247147258357208442009-02-18T09:06:00.004+08:002009-02-18T09:21:39.784+08:00

In Your Graveby SolomonMake some space.I'll lie down in your grave with you.I don't believe everything I say,But let me be quoted, I will lie with you.We took the road of no directions,Savoured the long way, put nothing away,Free of any nudges and kicks,Of assets pulsing in the womb of the bank.You admired the clever little pandaXiao Peng, DengAnd the writer who went into the Mexican furnaceTo

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-72848112812103752692009-02-11T08:51:00.012+08:002009-02-11T09:52:49.839+08:00

GROWN UPby Leon Wing“I’m only going out for a bit, to get you some nice fish for your dinner. Wouldn’t that be nice, a nice bit of fish?” Mrs Tan wheedled, looking a little closer at her little boy, playing at soldiers on the kitchen floor. Or is it hunting seals, the way he was mauling the teddy bear.     She already had on her red riding hood, to keep her hair from frizzing and the rest of her

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-61698148235826161592009-02-10T10:07:00.009+08:002009-02-10T10:19:57.575+08:00

One Last Timeby Damyanti GhoshThink black thoughts,black-sad, sad-black,the soothing color of oblivion.Take yourself out on a ride,ride on air, on emptiness,sit on your mind's eye.Become the stubbed outbutt-end of a cigarettespiraling downfrom hundreds of floors,down, down, down,always down.Twirl in the air,enjoy the breeze, hopefor a fanning of the firethat was stamped out of yousome time

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-79061528036171187452009-02-06T12:59:00.005+08:002009-02-06T13:42:24.769+08:00

Day of the God (Mahana no Atua), 1894 by Paul Gauguin (French, 1848-1903)Oil on canvas, 26 7/8 x 36 in. (68.3 x 91.5 cm) Helen Birch Bartlett Memorial Collection, 1926.198 Gallery 246A GOD DAYby SolomonThe gears are all in mesh.My veins are swollen with confidence.Today I can skip underThe skin of eternityAnd become that galloping horse,Feel like a kingWho has all things in place.Any one of

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-55229742533192052352009-02-03T13:57:00.005+08:002009-02-03T14:14:30.264+08:00

The Incarnadine Landby Nuruljannah Bte Hj UsopThe land is paintedthick incarnadine,exuberant soldiers brandishingdeath, ignoring the musicof catastrophe,the guns playingSealing Immaculate screams© 2009 Nuruljannah Bte Hj Usop Listen to this poem:Nuruljannah Bte Hj Usop: The ideas simply spluttered out when I saw one poster about what was happening in Gaza. Sorrow pierced my heart, seeing a boy’s

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-52810024886749184952009-02-02T09:24:00.008+08:002009-02-02T10:25:06.506+08:00

Po-Po A TreeBy George WielgusThe aggrandising audacity of my perspicacityPassed down from bards all through perpetuityThe gift of word games an inherited gratuityMetered out method of melodic mythology.Word-spell wizardy, taking your mind into captivityWith my shamanic ritual of hypnotic descriptivity.What are poems if not the moment sublimeCaptured on page and by voice to defy test of

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-79827280929384389442009-01-29T09:37:00.009+08:002009-01-29T10:26:40.346+08:00

..... ...... ........by June NandyI was a precocious boy.Hiding in the dark,waiting, listening, smelling,you dressing up as a day,light fabric rustling against my skin,walking softly across the room,leaving thin, thick, dry, warmair for me; you always left mealone, to play with others.When they abandoned you,for their nights,I touched you,top to bottom, left to right,carefully, in circular

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-82376211405854289492009-01-23T09:13:00.009+08:002009-01-23T10:55:35.158+08:00

Twistedby N3ko words writhemergingwith the salt-stench'twixt my teeth:yourelectronic epiphaniespinned in blue-black lyricsof last decade's poptrailing thoughts of news: datedrefusesinging, you wringwords from wrought-iron cages,strewn, sewn into excusesfor your serenityor eternity,you pick and choosesight, prolonging plightas you let things take(or fake?) their course,breaking through, not to

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-205119206408373372009-01-16T11:25:00.008+08:002009-01-17T10:21:45.554+08:00

Cry    ingby Maslina Arshadsome diedcryinga few more willdie as you readthis           theyare alldeadwhile     the     worldiswatching© 2009 Maslina ArshadMaslina 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

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-86683556036921892162008-12-22T08:31:00.006+08:002008-12-22T08:41:02.147+08:00

for L.Y.by N3ko chasedfrom gray yesterday's throb of compelled error:start on the back-beatand prophesy of tomorrow's sheen, dreadmoonlight - burning downon our sundering:the straits, and sometimes the mountainsmeanderblacklyunder pouting skies, witheringall sense of forgiveness, fading -your masked words, betrayingour listless visionof the chiming hour; nonebut your damned distancewould burn me

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-19535315947217264602008-12-19T11:24:00.004+08:002008-12-19T11:34:47.247+08:00

how do they chooseby Maslina Arshadhow do they choosewho to diethat daywhich spotto leavea ticking clockand afterwardshow do they knowwho they’d missed© 2008 Maslina ArshadListen 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

Leon Winghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15592130736448886164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-38152833918254753482008-12-18T13:52:00.012+08:002008-12-18T14:36:38.761+08:00

I licked the stampby Leon WingI licked the stampI posted the stampunder my tongueSaliva and glue kisseddanced togetherburned the nousSeeing strobedHeart bosomedLegs lost locusNostrils flamed outsparking the danced groundSomeone’s fleck surgedlarge closeinto my irisI see black© Leon Wing 2008Listen to this poem:Leon Wing: Someone called out to another,"Lick the stamp". A song is playing in the

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-75815783909039269912008-12-13T08:34:00.011+08:002008-12-19T11:43:52.328+08:00

My Roadby Nuruljannah Bte Hj Usop Knitted thorns on immeasurable road,Malevolent gravels scattered abroad,Though small, do notMisjudge their entangled malicious thought.Taking a step with coercive pace,Melancholy hidden through fence of face,I let a sombre sigh, which could dissipate,Not vanish the pain, letting hidden tears participate.Do not sleep, whispers my head,forcing the steps, like a

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-55503227254293122592008-12-09T10:50:00.016+08:002008-12-11T08:35:09.124+08:00

Kiss Meby Vaijyanti GhoseCome kiss me.I am waiting under the morning sun,At the edge of the rock near the pool,On the vine of red flowers.I am the dying croak of the night,The dry bark on your lawn,The hunger in the pit of your stomach,The rage pulsing in your veins.Come kiss me,Cradle me,Love me,Let me loose.................© 2008 Vaijyanti GhoseListen to this poem:----Truantby Vaijyanti GhoseAs

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-79606583855350780932008-12-02T13:24:00.009+08:002008-12-02T14:04:08.786+08:00

Cain CanineBy Leon WingHis canines killhis sibling as he keelsover and diesin jest, learning their mother’sways in the paved tropics,these kitties, so appealingeven when they can borea punctum as precisely as the pointon her kitchen knife can stabinto the plates of the fish,their last repastof the eventide, her sonswatching and waitingfor the kill© Leon Wing 2008Listen to this poem:Leon Wing:  As

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-1155431161049198592008-11-29T09:37:00.012+08:002009-09-13T16:32:37.315+08:00

The Chronicles of Professor MerdekaPart 1: The Mission by Hazlan Zakaria  It is as if the universe herself is weeping, and the steady rain her frequent teardrops. All around the dead city resounds a torrential downpour - it is raining cats and dogs. If there are still cats and dogs around anymore.     And through all this, through the wet haze and curtain, through this tableau of man-made

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-28639825036011521422008-11-28T10:26:00.006+08:002008-11-28T10:45:04.675+08:00

how do you loveby Maslina Arshadhow do youlove someonewhenyou love mehow do you love mewhen youlovesome onehow doessomeoneloveyouwhenyou have mehow do you have me whensomeone else has you© 2008 Maslina ArshadListen to this poem:Maslina Arshad: I suppose such questions are asked almost every minute - across the whole world - as long as we are capable of loving and being lovedMaslina Arshad is a

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-2458152117641631612008-11-26T10:21:00.004+08:002008-11-26T10:30:05.409+08:00

Woodwitchby Mental MistGrief of the elements - Earthshe spun out castles far and widewith the uncut souls of every seasonmasterpieces from the missing centuriesin every seeking mindmany many castles in the airone solitary on the groundguarded with her bloodshelter for her running spiritthey flocked from every land sea to tasteher enchanted houses of myriad intensitylittle air pockets of visceral

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-37525677750635448802008-11-13T11:34:00.021+08:002009-09-13T16:32:57.469+08:00

How Does One Drive to Rizal’sBy Hazlan Zakaria The old Honda lies stranded and idle by the side of the Kota Kemuning road, its driver and passengers locked in titanic battles, shared and personal, diverse and singular, mundane and spectacular... “Left, left, it’s the second left… after the first right, after the empty field on your left….” Rizal’s disembodied voice continues its tirade of

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-83427418660247866492008-10-31T07:30:00.004+08:002010-08-10T09:36:09.731+08:00

Beforeby Leon Wing Before the rats picked at the blood and flesh on the fragments of her skull dotted all over the rails, before her head got crushed and brain matter splattered all over, and shattered bones, still with some flesh around them, flung everywhere on the rails, before some passengers in the LRT were jerked off their seats when the LRT hit something solid and nearly derailed, before

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-9335792008943467782008-10-27T13:24:00.010+08:002008-10-27T14:00:59.343+08:00

The journey of lifeBy Yusuf Martinconsciousness.stretchambulate.zeitescortinggeist.stridelongerlongerstrides.reachingbrushingstarsplanetsgalaxiesmulti-versesconsciousnesssojournjourneysojournjourneybe thereda-seinpresenceexistencetranscendconsciousnessselfime.packidentityinto smallersuitcasessailtowardsilluminationcompletionreturn tocogitoergosum.© 2008 Yusuf MartinListen to this poem: Old Hippy,

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-78876335221840574752008-10-22T08:38:00.010+08:002009-09-13T16:31:19.995+08:00

Ruth’s HeartBy Damyanti Ghosh Always hearts, all the hearts, and nothing but the hearts will do. An anthem for Ruth, the ruthless. Golden locks, a knowing, pouting smile, and a body to match, Ruth had ammunition. Her eyes were cold, frozen fish cold, but with a single blow of her glance she could land a heart on her palm, fluttering, helpless, beating fast, calling her name, begging for mercy.

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-10996657898772346882008-10-16T11:06:00.021+08:002008-10-22T14:53:23.368+08:00

At The Doctor's OfficeBy Reza RosliThe rain has stopped and the afternoon sun is out, baking the moist ground with its heat. Looking out the window at the doctor's office I see my car.Like a droplet of quicksilver arrested escaping its wild descent groundwards never quite intersecting with the plane that stopped its fall but flows on wildly whole, it does not resist. Drenched in sunlight, cloaked

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-78559453548408249042008-10-09T08:37:00.012+08:002008-10-27T14:02:33.794+08:00

Medan Tuankuby Yusuf MartinmorningMedan Tuankuforlornsolitary malecamera on signself portraitsecurity VDUsound and visionhollowheartbroken Chinese love songstemporary Top of the Popsghostly carriageway trafficreality semblancesans connectednesssans belongingsans responsibilitysans correspondencesA platformmonorail pulls inand outin and outdisgorged passengersB

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-83184372501804091292008-10-08T08:28:00.003+08:002008-10-22T14:54:41.459+08:00

More than painBy Maslina Arshadwhat the gladiatorsdidn’t know wasthe pain was not morefrom the arrowsflown from the foldsof the Colosseumbut from wounded pridenumbing angerof being trappedfor days, yearsleashed withindark confining cagesthat pain was more realthan the bloodfrom the arrowspiercing their insideshurting more thanthe raw bleeding wounds© 2008 Maslina ArshadListen to this poem:

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-8333848095169037182008-10-06T10:07:00.004+08:002008-10-22T14:56:35.620+08:00

WOMAN CHAMELEONby Vaijyanti GhoseSittinglike a chameleonon a black rock.The thirsty sun,looking down on me.Rolling two eyesin opposite directions,following the spiderspinning its way up the green cactus.Black then, green now,as the long tongue flicks outand enters the cavern of your mouth.Whisky and cigarette melt togetheron the walls of your mouth,as your rough snake tongue flicks out to consume

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-14044194050526824002008-09-24T14:08:00.011+08:002008-10-06T10:32:05.360+08:00

Thoughtsby Jonny HaIn my eyes,My thoughts would seek this sightly land.In my earsThey hear the ringing wind.In my mouthThey speak the wisdom in me.In my mindThey ask, What's to come.In my heartThey wish arise a fervour,And not forgetTo hold fast the first diveInto the heart.© 2008 Jonny HaListen to this poem:Jonny Ha wonders if what inspired him to write this piece was probably his first real 

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-88629917894046088562008-09-22T10:16:00.019+08:002008-09-22T11:26:40.739+08:00

Monologue 1.01.001HelloSalamShalomPeace be upon you Men.Nice to meet youyes dear I do know you but do you know me?I am me. Woman. Perempuan. Wanita.The trustee of births.The owner of vagina and uterus.The cradle of creation. Sacred feminine.I am your mother, daughter, sister and wife.And yet I have all seven pits of Hell in me.I am Al-Rajam, Al-Maksiat and An-Nar.Yes, that is me.I am the woman

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-87939945068801444552008-09-19T10:47:00.005+08:002008-10-06T10:36:09.811+08:00

Bare Hands from starranise on Vimeo.Bare HandsBy Nadira IlanaIf I were to lose my hands, there are many things I wouldn't be able to do.The first that occurred to me was that: you would love me less.Sex.We could not make love because I would not be able to embrace you.I would be, two , maybe three holes for you to penetrate?and all creativity and activity in our familiar nights would be

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-81180731923687039912008-09-18T19:47:00.010+08:002008-09-19T17:09:38.835+08:00

The Passingby Damyanti GhoshShe has woken up early today, feeling strangely empty. She buries her face further into the pillow and reaches out for that familiar feeling, the feeling that makes her tremble and spill out in tears every time she thinks of the day they'd met for the last time.       He had come into town just that morning, tired, jet-lagged. She had waited for him at a coffee-shop.

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-39788297230767421172008-09-18T13:14:00.002+08:002008-09-19T14:05:10.927+08:00

The SmellBy Leon WingShe didn’t flush after evacuating, or even wipe herself .  She went to the bureau  in the adjoining room of the apartment, to rifle through the drawers for any clean clothes to put on. She sniffed at her pong, but she thought the smell coming from the kitchen was even worse.     She had been getting familiar with all the rooms in this apartment for a week now, sleeping in one

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-85493301306439154422008-09-11T12:48:00.012+08:002010-02-22T09:45:59.881+08:00

to my Malay lover by Yusuf Martin For you I’dgive up my inalienable right to be lonelywait hours outside               shops                                                                stalls                                                                malls                                                                markets

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-3836599097484460822008-09-11T08:51:00.000+08:002008-09-12T11:32:49.491+08:00

"the affair" series© 2008 Dina Zaman"we are each other"i am hiddenso is hethe life of mistressing"love IX"you go in with your eyes openbut hold your heartyou must"waiting"how long more he askedi am addicted to youup to you, i said"breaking up XXX"i dreamed of your sonand he saidplease give back my daddyno, you said. no.it's you and me and him."and back to love"it took him three monthsto hold my

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-22218280977949688202008-09-10T13:35:00.000+08:002008-09-12T13:01:12.978+08:00

HomeI see green,concrete,lined with movements everywhere,and I ask myself if this is really home.Do I see my soul in it?Would I die for it?Would I find my ancestorsdwelling in this same strange land?Or have they eloped to a placenever to taste race?never to uncover blood deep inside our Mother's womb?never to swallow made up myths of memories?never to ever toMaybe one day I'll find them hereMaybe

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3450180086394330922.post-13889127215621776522008-09-08T12:40:00.000+08:002008-09-12T11:26:56.691+08:00

Untitledby Allan KoayName and numberon a yellow post-iton the edge of the messy table,shivering in the pathof the turning fan,fluttering like the fleeing heart.In a nearby district of that countrysits an obedient phone,dark blue with beige numbers,dressed in a coat of dust,unused, neglected.They regard each otherwith furtive glances andfearful hesitance,like spies in an old noir flick.Stance,

Chief Chroniclerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17651182741139810363noreply@blogger.com1