Love, Play

Love's flow finds its moment,
Arching, dipping into the pool.

****

Before is foreplay,
During is in-play,
After is fatigue(y).

****

A relationship wanders down an avenue,
Poking into byways for insights into human nature,
Using a private language to delve into the matter.

****

Strange love meets stranger love,
All for the love of a proper stranger.

****

Love found, love lost, love found,
Love lost, love found, love lost,
Love found.

****

I look for one to love,
Found many;
I look to one to love,
Found it in many;
I look to many to find love,
I found it in me.

****

Nature inchoate,
Nurture explicate.

Take My Heart: Song & Lyrics by Soko

Great simple song; takes my heart and blows my mind away ...



You can take my heart for a walk on the beach
You can take my heart for a little trip
You can take my heart very close to your heart
You can take my heart forever if you like

But not every heart belongs to any other
You and I
You and I are meant to be
I'm the one for you, You're the one for me
You love me as much as I do
When you look at me and we're skin to skin
I want you so
Please come in
And you love me more and more
And my love grows up with you
And you kiss me more and more
And I kiss you, too
And I kiss you, too

If I take your heart, I will cherish it every day
If I take your heart, I will heal these old wounds
If I take your heart, it's to make it happy
If I take your heart, it's forever close to mine

But not every heart belongs to any other
You and I
You and I are meant to be
I'm the one for you, You're the one for me
You love me as much as I do
When you look at me and we're skin to skin
I want you so
Please come in
And you love me more and more
And my love grows up with you
And you kiss me more and more
And I kiss you, too
And I kiss you, too

(Violin solo! )

I don't care, I don't care
If I'm again carried away
If you swear, if you swear
To give me your heart in return

I don't care, I don't care
If I'm again carried away
If you swear, if you swear
To give me your heart in return
To give me your heart in return

And God Created Man To Validate Him ... And Women

What is a baby without a caregiver to look him in the eye?
What if the baby had been brought up by a pack of wolves?
What is a woman without a baby and a man,
To hug and be hugged?
What if the woman is in solitary confinement?
Is she a sight brave or sad to behold?
What is Emily Dickinson without her legacy of poems?
What is Helen Keller without her life story?
What is Mother Teresa without her slump in the slums?
What is a man making his way in life,
Without someone to talk to?
Will a wordless dog, a curt passerby,
A speechless bystander do?
What is Jesus without John?
What does the mocking gallery,
The baying in the bleachers,
To the fallen gladiator do?
Think of his Momma,
His children,
O, all so far away and long ago?
What is a writer whose gift is not received?
Who is Gaugain that he threw his life,
And his paintings, away?
What is the performer who plays to an empty hall?
To whom does the owl to-wit-to-woo,
A melange of melancholy and bellyful?
Is it to the moon as a pantunnaire would write?
Or is he seeking a mate for his soul, if not the night?
What is a book without an author,
Who is Brigitte without Roger,
Bardot without Vadim?
Does the tree in the forest falls,
If there is no Karam Singh Walia to report it all?
What is God without Man to scribe Him?
What is the girl, okay, woman,
With the killer looks at FB,
If this verse is not dedicated to her?

The Monkey In Humans

Do monkeys see humans as monkeys or humans?
Are we humans outside and monkeys inside?
O, why do monkey things happen in human affairs?
God gives the word and a higher level of thinking to humans
But still it is monkeys they turn up to be;
Why do bad things happen to good people?
God gives a flower to humans, but they turn into monkeys
And tear the flower up;
How do you love a human who has been scorched,
How do you love a woman who has been scorned,
How do you love a child who has been hurt,
Without the monkey in them snatching
It away and up a tree, defiant look and all?
How do you tame the wild when the wild does not want to be tamed?
Can you fashion a handbag from monkey skin?
Why o why do I have to fall for a love monkey?
Who teases, tears, tosses, tests and tricks?
Is a sense of love lost a signpost for a sense of new love found?
As in paradise lost, paradise returned?
And how would you like to bury a love lost
By conceding the ultimate irony:
"Let it be,"
Says humanity,
In the very same monkey?

Pouring A Hot Steamng Mug Of Coffee Into Another In Mid Air To Cool It To Beat Imsak

An eye on the clock,
An ear on its tick-tock,
Just over a minute
Before the call from the minaret
Signals the imsak onset;
The Davidoff coffee
Is still steaming hot ...
What to do?
Throw in ice cubes?
Changes the flavor;
Stand it in cold water?
Fret the seconds away,
Tempting a rising pulse,
An idea none too clever;
Do the tarik!
Pour the coffee
From mug to mug,
Hung in mid air,
Pulled afar,
Brought close,
Like playing an accordion,
Do it again, Sudin!
Like docking spaceships,
Easy does it now, no slips,
Balancing gravity,
With surface tension,
Getting right the rapidity
And rhythmic precision,
So as not to cause spillage,
Tarnishing the Davidoff homage,
Spoiling the imsak heritage.

The above verse is based on this message I posted at FaceBook:

While keeping an anxious eye on the ticker and ear on its tick-tick-tick, balancing between gravity and H2O molecular attraction by transferring the liquid from one mug to another separated by a foot of sky without spilling precious any, with the purpose of bringing down its heat to a level acceptable by the tongue, is... a better stratagem of achieving its purpose by virtue of being able to calm down a rising pulse by having something to do while waiting THAN standing the hot mug in cold water and just staring at the darn thing, indeed a stratagem worthy of a field marshal's, no less the foot-soldier's, battle lexicon, in the holy war against a ragged and unruly crowd of pangs, pains and pines rising from the trenches of our still developing soul population ... just some putar belit dari Kerling ... ROTFL ...

Where the Fakawi

Where the Fakawi?
On the edge of the Kalahari;
What dey do dere?
Dey looking for deer,
Dey looking for hare,

Dey caught any?
Yes,they caught many

but dey got lost
And plaintive cry,
Where the Fakawi ...
Where the Fakawi ...

Who the Fakawi

Who the Fakawi?
Cried the lost tribes of Galilee,
There were twelve at the start,
Ten were left when two lost heart,
Four got bogged in loose terrain
And were never seen again;
Of the six remaining,
Four showed lack of training,
And the trek their energy draining,
The last two, one headed east,
The other headed west,
One ceased to exist,
Leaving the twelfth the best
Fakawi among themselves.

Good Day To Die

I

T'day is a good day to die,
Y'terday would have been okay too,
But I stepped through the day
Without passing away;
If I don't die today,
Maybe I'll die t'morrow,
If t'morrow never come,
Then maybe I'll never cease
To exist but quietly
Make my exit
From this body transit
To the place of peace.

II

There I want to range the ocean like a whale,
Lurk among the sea anemone like a clown fish,
Soar over the coast like an eagle,
Gambol in the shallows like an otter,
Frolic on a rocky slope like a serow,
Lope the steppe like a wolf;
And like them sleep
With the stars as my roof,
With nature at ease,
With nurture at peace.

Not enamored with the scriptural
Mansion and maiden lure?
Naw, because it is a denial
Of Nature and my nurture
Wherein I feel one with the wolf
Who has no need for a mansion
And other possessions;
Maidens? Are people I'd meet
In my frolics and not keepsakes
To fill the mansion.
It is an appeal to the skeleton
In the basement, Mr Priestman,
But a suck to the spirit in my attic.
Take it to the the flock,
See if they buy your stock -
Happy evangelizing, Padre.

Listening to the Universe

It is past midnight,
Not a sound in sight,
Nor a sight within hearing,
But hark, the universe is heaving.

Paean to En Attendant Godot - Samuel Beckett

One is Gado,
The other is Godot,
One goes the way of the dodo,
The other does the dangdot,
One goes berserk-u,
The other is absurd-u,
A poetun, a haiku,
A cross between Ogden Nash
And Edward Lear, his peer,
But no, not Nooh, the Gadot.

Aaow!

July 4, 2007 by zveloyak

That was me howling as I popped out from inside of me onto this world of blogging. I may have just appeared here but actually I’m a reincarnate of my other selves – that’s right, plural – blogging at other sites. Somehow I stumbled onto this dimension and found the name WordPress has a resonant ring to it and decided to be reborn here and see how I will grow. I will not totally abandon my other blogsites and turn them into graveyards as I have quite a lot of lively and current stuff there. If I like it here, I might find ways to import them here but I doubt there as a free blog is not as resilient and feature-rich as having a web host. Why don’t I get a web host then? Erm, I’ve been thinking of getting one for a long, long time, but I kept postponing and balking because, one, there’s so many, and I felt lost, and, two, not being a computer geek, I felt even more lost in the alphabet soup of newly minted computer terms. Taking a course to find my way through the maze to my online mansion of a website is too much of a bother considering my needs are quite simple.

So I will maintain and feed all four sites – this and the other three – contemporaneously, and see them grow and compete among themselves as a litter of pups outdo one another for the fullest teat and biggest share of the food.

Two Poetuns Inspired by Zainal Jais

I

Went searching in the forest for quails,
Spotted instead a deer with ambition equestrian,
Looking up to a teacher who is interested in her nails,
Is as frustrating as looking at a politician jockeying for position.

II

Went hunting on the plain,
Caught a deer with striped limbs,
Want to learn from a saint,
Turns out to be a pompous pimp.

This is the original pantun written by Zainal Jais which inspired the poetuns:

Berburu di padang datar,
Dapat rusa belang kaki,
Berguru kepalang ajar,
Jadi pemimpin gila kerusi.

Nine A's Wunderkind Now

This is a composite profile of a Nine A's child genius
as an adult now. It is written by a One A idiot - me.
So what subject did I get an A for? English, of course.
Yeah, I got a Nine(!) - for maths. And an Eight for BM.
See? Told ye, I'm an idiot. I put two and two together,
I still get a four. Been trying for years to whack
two and two to get one without much success.
I've met a few of these smart ones,
in fact a number of them runs in my clan.
There are twins even,
and I tell ye, they are all out of whack -
from the mild to the wild -
not that I'm any better,
in fact I'm even worse
but then I was a One-A letdown.
I started this posting by saying I'll
draw a composite picture of one
but I've changed my mind
and will write about more.
One topped the state in maths and spent years in England
but now lives in a coop together with chicken writing a book
on Islam and dreaming to win the Nobel prize for inventing
a DNA deciphering machine.
This has been going on ten and four years.
Number Two topped her school in studies and sports -
news cuttings of her receiving prizes from the Sultana -
spent years in England to graduate as an engineer,
but is now working as a cook -
"I'm not a cook, I'm a cooking teacher!" she shrieks mutinously,
taking off her glasses with one hand and rubbing her face
vigorously with the other in a mixture of sebum and baby lotion
coming up with the same pasty as when
she grinds kunyit, cilli and such on a lesung.
Number Three is the only female marine archeologist in the country
and she is out of work and out of whack.
Number Four is an ecological weekend warrior
But frequents watering holes after hours during the working week;
Oh, she also has the gift of seeing elves jumping from behind trees.
No kidding, she says so herself ...
Number Five was a top surgeon of the heart
But dug into a rind of bacon on the side.
Number Six is an East Coast kampung boy,
raised on budu and ikan panggang tawar,
the first to spring from Kijal to be
a doctor, never mind a specialist,
vertically challenged,
with funny glasses that make his doe eyes look even rounder,
a curious cheek-lips mix of Kijal and Madras,
with a maddening stare if not quite mad-assed.
Yes, he is now number one in his field, and
yes, he's a relation, son of a cousin.
Now let's go back to Number Two for it is she
this verse - call this verse? - is all about.
Although I'm older than her ailing mother
and passed my driving test before she was born,
drove all the way from Istanbul to Amritsar
before taking the test,
this did nothing to discourage her from
telling me how to drive my own car
as she sat in the passenger seat
not having held a steering wheel in four years ...
There is no chip sutured under her skin
by some secret agency but there is one on her shoulder,
turning her into a governmental and familial mutineer -
"Merajuk big-time," as she herself puts it.
There are no tv set, makeup set, mirror, framed photos, newspaper,
tissue-paper and microwave oven in her house -
they are symbols of bondage and servitude, she says.
She put her foot down hard on polygamy
but was thrilled to shrieks when told polyandry
is what she is practicing - she has an AWOL husband,
a visiting boyfriend and a new friend rolling on the floor.
Meanwhile, over at her outdoor cooking class,
Learners from all over the English-speaking
parts of the planet keep arriving by the planelette,
and, at RM70 per head, keep the wolf from her door.

Verse In Waiting

Like puppies and guppies at feeding times,
Several poem ideas are body knocking one another
To make it to this blog page, but in the jostling
I forgot all of them like you forget individual
Guppies from the same hatching batch
And puppies from the same litter
As they dissolve and reappear in a frenzy
With a reared head above and ducked head under
And come up with this blank verse letter
To compensate for the lost litter, barely
Hatching up a gulp and a pulp
From another clutch
Of verses in waiting.

Dungeon di Dungun

After a filling dinner at nine,
I took an infrequent route home,
in the darkness near where Jalan Kenanga
and Jalan Melati intersect near the padang
not far from the graveyard facing the sea,
I spotted a remembered big bungalow
used to be filled with people
who scurried in the background
while only mama or papa talked with me;
the papa has been long gone
the mama carrying dem rich men's burden
her will to live bending under
no matter her adult children spending filial cash
paying RM180 for a 500 gm tin of colostrum
RM20 for a capsule of powdered egg yolk
with a bio-enhancing name such as ProforLife
or somethin' - but tonight,
the mansion-like house where
the late Cikgu Mang used to live
is in darkness with only the street lights
giving its silhouette a Gothic cast;
Where are the people gone?
I drove past with the songs
coming off the car stereo tugging me
from mundane matters
into an endorphin-stirred state;
I rounded a bend to head to the open sea
but my progress was halted by an unusual
congestion of cars parked both sides with
more cars and people in the middle of the road;
I almost instantly understood the urgency of the night -
someone had died earlier in the day
and must be buried without delay;
I turned off the loud stereo,
wound down the window
and asked a passerby: "Sapa?"
"Bini Wang Peng!"
I didn't know either from Chin Peng
but must be someone of clout
judging from the huge turnout;
I drove on without further ado
turning into the long and straight Jalan Pantai
with the moonlit sea on my immediate left;
I switched on the stereo again -
Timberlake, Akorn, Green-eyed Peas
took turns to put my mind at peace;
I went past the junction to my place
and drove on to the end of Jalan Pantai
near the UITM Dungun campus
where a nice spot to relax is and I did
for two or three more songs before
starting back to my almost finished new house -
Dungeon di Dungun.

The Thing Pops Into My Head

The thing that pops into my head,
Often I dismiss it almost at once,
Often with the recital of a handsmedown prayer,
Sometimes I let it linger a while,
Savoring its evil,
But NAW ... it gnaws ... and gnaws ...
Am I sick that it pops into my head,
Am I weak that I let it linger
And ever briefly identifies with it?
What if it is a recurring thing?
What if it is a lifetime thing?
Am I sick to the pits, alone,
Or shares the sickness with the rest of humanity?
With the difference between I and
Those who end up in the news,
Only a thin line over which I didn't cross?
Has it got something to do with brain chemistry,
Or is it a spiritual challenge,
To fashion your forming soul,
An adversary to pit your character against,
An exercise to build your identity,
A resistance to carve your destiny?
Yes, gentle reader, you guessed
The thing that pops into my head -
Negative thoughts.