Guardian Poetry Workshop submissions: post your entry here!
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I'm pretty sure that some poets here have submitted pieces to Guardian Poetry Workshop before. (I've only recently discovered it -- a pity!)
The latest one's for the month of February, and the theme is Ghost.
Here's mine:
Coming home
My father wore his skin like a sewn-in shroud,
when he died his belly sighed and his eyes grew wide:
a pale moon smile glazed his fine porcelain face.
On the seventh day, the priest knocked on our doors,
flung rancid flour on the oak of our floors, as if it was his right.
He was right, the dead knock on doors in the thick of night.
When the clock chimed twelve, my mother, turned matriach by living,
heaved a string-reddened cleaver with all her corded might,
her sudden wail loud enough to still the living and raise the dead.
Tonight my father strolled on a pavement of white.
I could have sworn that I heard him laugh as he shrugged
away his souless shroud and sucked on the marrow of melting wax.
-----------------
How about yours?[/b] -
This is mine:
Stay by the body
I remember little of the moment death touched;
I can recall only that deep-throated rumble
and the smell of burning hair and grass. Overhead,
the sun winked goodbye as ash-gray clouds
devoured her face, her light.
Then I was aware, seeing all and around at once;
I saw my form lying heavy on its side, my face,
gray; my eyes, shut. I sat on a rock, weighing
choices: to stay or to leave. I decided itÂ’s best
to stay by the body.
Time passed, marked by shine and fade,
visitations by mud-caked mongrels, flies
pregnant with eggs and scavenging ants.
IÂ’ve scared them off; my formless presence,
a presence nonetheless.
Then came the servants of dismemberment;
single-celled masses undid my body inside out,
outside in.
They distributed my flesh without permission
until bones lie naked, exposed to the weather
that will beat them with water, wind and ice. Still
I remain, I must stay by whatÂ’s left here of me.
I have forgotten what else there is.
If anyone is interested, watch this space: http://books.guardian.co.uk/poetryworkshop/ -
Originally posted by peebrain:
peebrain,
Coming home
My father wore his skin like a sewn-in shroud,
when he died his belly sighed and his eyes grew wide:
a pale moon smile glazed his fine porcelain face.
On the seventh day, the priest knocked on our doors,
flung rancid flour on the oak of our floors, as if it was his right.
He was right, the dead knock on doors in the thick of night.
When the clock chimed twelve, my mother, turned matriach by living,
heaved a string-reddened cleaver with all her corded might,
her sudden wail loud enough to still the living and raise the dead.
Tonight my father strolled on a pavement of white.
I could have sworn that I heard him laugh as he shrugged
away his souless shroud and sucked on the marrow of melting wax.
-----------------
this is a very good piece. keen observations.
it tells of the Chinese belief that a dead person will return for one last time to his/her last dwelling place, to have a last look at his loved ones.
after his return, you are supposed to see his footprints in the flour on the floor. Many people said they do.
the cleaver tied with red string is thrown on the floor after the deceased is supposed to have left, the louder the noise it made , the better to ward off evil
or any other ghosts that lingers.
"sucked on the marrow of melting wax" : nice way of expressing candles used in such ceremonies.
wondered if the ang moh understand such beliefs?
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OT : This reminded me of the time when my granny passed away, and a few days later, I had a few vivid dreams where I saw her and my late granddad, they were sitting around the television, the sun was shining and she could walk around (was in a wheelchair for the last part of her life). They looked like how I loved to remember them as, in their 70s, still with vigour.When I walked into the living room, both of them turned to me, and gave me a nodding smile and through the bright sunlight, I somehow knew that they found each other in the afterlife, and are in a better place.
Gawd.I miss them a lot.
OT Off. -
Wrote one for the workshop, missed the deadline, didn't send it out.
Guess it still qualify to be posted here.
===========================
It's cold out there
it's cold out there
even for a ghost like me
trapped in the realms
between the living
and the damned
once
i saw you wept
at my tombstone
your fingers brushing
the marble
as you once
brushes my hair
tonight i sat
by your bedside
the room lit faintly
by moonlight
the stars spoke
of different lifetimes
i was just looking at you
your eyelids fluttered
in fitful sleep
i wanted to touch you
to brush your hair
but
i'm afraid
it might startle you
because once
you called out my name
tried to stretch out
your hands to me
and then fear gripped you
like a vice
and you switched on
the lights
my touch is cold
my touch is icy cold
and yes
ghosts do cry
not the salty tears you shed
the air just wavered
like sea fog
a cold draft swirled
frosty breath
to every nook
find another woman
who will love you
brings back the warmth
to your life
and then i will
go
peacefully..
till then
i'm sorry, you shivered
even under the sheets
but i just can't help it
even divided by barriers
of space and time
i love you too much
i love you too much..
----------------- -
Originally posted by Bluesky_Liz:
erm ...... i think it's better to leave the body
This is mine:
[b]Stay by the body
I remember little of the moment death touched;
I can recall only that deep-throated rumble
and the smell of burning hair and grass. Overhead,
the sun winked goodbye as ash-gray clouds
devoured her face, her light.
Then I was aware, seeing all and around at once;
I saw my form lying heavy on its side, my face,
gray; my eyes, shut. I sat on a rock, weighing
choices: to stay or to leave. I decided itÂ’s best
to stay by the body.
Time passed, marked by shine and fade,
visitations by mud-caked mongrels, flies
pregnant with eggs and scavenging ants.
IÂ’ve scared them off; my formless presence,
a presence nonetheless.
Then came the servants of dismemberment;
single-celled masses undid my body inside out,
outside in.
They distributed my flesh without permission
until bones lie naked, exposed to the weather
that will beat them with water, wind and ice. Still
I remain, I must stay by whatÂ’s left here of me.
I have forgotten what else there is.
If anyone is interested, watch this space: http://books.guardian.co.uk/poetryworkshop/[/b]
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Originally posted by dsnake1:
I love that stanza.It's always wistful to read of sadness that transcends life and death.
Wrote one for the workshop, missed the deadline, didn't send it out.
Guess it still qualify to be posted here.
===========================
[b]It's cold out there
it's cold out there
even for a ghost like me
trapped in the realms
between the living
and the damned
once
i saw you wept
at my tombstone
your fingers brushing
the marble
as you once
brushes my hair
tonight i sat
by your bedside
the room lit faintly
by moonlight
the stars spoke
of different lifetimes
i was just looking at you
your eyelids fluttered
in fitful sleep
i wanted to touch you
to brush your hair
but
i'm afraid
it might startle you
because once
you called out my name
tried to stretch out
your hands to me
and then fear gripped you
like a vice
and you switched on
the lights
my touch is cold
my touch is icy cold
[color]and yes
ghosts do cry
not the salty tears you shed
the air just wavered
like sea fog
a cold draft swirled
frosty breath
to every nook[/color]
find another woman
who will love you
brings back the warmth
to your life
and then i will
go
peacefully..
till then
i'm sorry, you shivered
even under the sheets
but i just can't help it
even divided by barriers
of space and time
i love you too much
i love you too much..
-----------------[/b]