Hanger Games

Every once in a while, inspiration comes from the most unlikely sources, such as a trending hashtag you happen to see one day. This one behind this post was #DressAFilm

Movies referenced here: Kill Bill, Scarface, The Hunger Games, Die Hard, Die Another Day, and How the West Was Won. Oh, and also Take the Lead (but that was accidental, so there isn't a dressed version of that here).

Symbolic Poetry

Here's a poem inspired by my friend's idea of using 'p&a' instead of 'panda'. I could have used numbers and letter names too (well, I did use one number) but that would have been too easy. This took much longer to write than any of my other poems, but it was great fun, so no complaints.

I'm sure you know what these symbols are, but in case you're confused (since some of them can be called different names) here's what I meant:

* star        & and        . point        ✓ check        𝛑 pi        # hash        √ root        ^ caret        @ at

– dash        : colon        ↔ line        > greater than        , comma        = equal

Everyday Poems

Here are some mundane things I tried to make interesting by writing them down as poems.

Haiku for the Weekend

A haiku is like
A weekend. Hardly begins
And is then over.

Fruit Fly in Coffee - limerick

I thought to myself, "This fruit fly
In my coffee will drown and die."
But turns out that it
Drank a little bit
And became unnaturally high.

Fruit Fly in Coffee - haiku

I thought the fruit fly
In my coffee would drown, but
It just turned hyper.

Dairy-free "Ice Cream" - limerick+haiku

It seemed easy to make, so I
Gave dairy-free ice cream a try,
But I should have known
From the name alone
That it was a terrible lie.

So then I ate some
Ordinary ice cream from
A shop. It was yum.

Street Pics - haikus

I took a photo
of a pretty lane, and drew
a picture of it,

then took a photo
of the picture so I could
show it to some folks.

A few days later,
I came across the photo
on my computer.

I thought to myself,
"Wow, my picture looks just like
a photo. Yay me!"

But turned out it was
the original photo
I was looking at.

Masquerade Glasses  

My friend is getting glasses.

We were discussing frames
when suddenly, a brilliant
idea to me came.

Those masks in masquerade balls
or ones sold at a fair
could become frames for spectacles
you regularly wear.

They could use one-way mirrors
so the wearer can see
all of the world while hiding his
or her identity.

All those designs and colours!
Oh, wouldn't that be fine!
I'd have a dozen pairs, and I
would wear them all the time.

I'd made this as a decorative mask, but imagine it as a frame for glasses. Cool, right?

Until I have the time to design my own, here are a couple of images I'm borrowing from the mighty internet just to give you a clearer idea.

Life and Ladders

For those of you who may find that hard to read (thanks to Blogger's uncooperative image sizing) here's the (Shel Silverstein-inspired?) poem:

A ladder isn’t just a ladder.

Ladders also represent life 

The ups and downs, the joy and strife.

The view from way up top is great, 

But it’s hard work - and maybe fate?

Don’t let the height make your head spin, 

But don’t forget where you begin.

It’s how you use your ladder, not 

The kind of ladder that you’ve got.

Some ladders are short, others tall, 

Some have flat rungs so you don’t fall,

And if you do fall, breathe, and then 

Make sure you get back up again

Unless you’ve fallen to your death. 

Okay, I think I’ve caught my breath.

I’ll now resume to climb in style 

Up to the roof to fix that tile.

Sucky Summer Stuff

I may have written essays about summer being my favourite season back in school. This was mostly because "summer" was synonymous with "vacation", but (as I realize now on looking back) also because we had pleasant climate throughout the year.

Who loves summer now, in 2017? Only two kinds of people, in my mind:
1. Those who live in places so cold that summer means two layers of clothing instead of five
2. Crazy people

So here's a poem on some of those "ugh" summer moments.

If somebody had said to me around ten years ago
That we’d need A.C.s in this city, I’d have said “Oh, no,
This place is naturally cool, it’s pleasant as can be.
You must be crazy if you think that you need an A.C."

But alas! Things have changed so fast. The once warm, friendly sun
Now blazes down with great vengeance, and summers are no fun.
It’s too hot in the afternoon, the mornings are too bright,
It’s dry and irritating, and it’s even hot at night!

'There must be some upside to this', you think, 'well, let me try
To stand outside with my wet hair―see how fast it will dry.'
But thirty seconds later you decide to go back in.
You’d rather not turn into a sizzler with crispy skin.

And inside isn’t always better. Maybe cooler, but
Sometimes there’s no breeze, and, oh joy, there IS a power cut.
So yes, at least you have some shade, but it’s not very nice
When all your fans stop working and your fridge can make no ice.

There is a way to cool oneself, you think as it gets hotter.
You step into the shower and― oh no, you’re out of water!
At least you weren’t brushing, pooping, or covered in soap.
(Yes, that can happen, and all you can do is swear and mope.)

But whenever I’m feeling brave enough to step outside,
I look at all the world around me, and I realize
I hate summer, but the thing that makes it REALLY sucky
Is seeing all these other folk who aren’t half as lucky.

Life's a Beach

Seems appropriate for the title, if not for the actual post, which is a (strangely allegorical and philosophical) poem inspired by some time I spent with my friends on a beach. Made sense to me to put this up on NYE.

Rough lines in the sand
Very hastily drawn.
Fill those boxes quickly
For soon they’ll be gone.

The sun’s slowly setting,
So quick, make your mark.
Let’s finish a few more rounds
Before it’s dark.

But also be careful
Of spaces you choose
For sometimes even the best players
Will lose.

But either way,
What matters is that you play
As well as you can
Ere it’s all washed away

So come on, just one more.
The tide’s getting high.
We no longer can see
The sun in the sky

We’ve made all the marks we could
and had our fun,
So let’s say goodbye now;
Our time here is done.

For on we must go...
It's been pretty grand
But we leave it all there
In the sea and the sand.

Stupid Sayings

Sometimes we say things without thinking about them simply because they've been said several times before. Luckily, once in a while, we realize that just because a phrase is used commonly doesn't mean it's true. Here are some examples:


> What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Counter explanation from Modern Family's Manny:

Thanks, Manny! Sorry, Kelly Clarkson. I like that song, but it isn't true most of the time.


> The road to hell is paved with good intentions...

...making it just like the road to heaven, yes?


> Your day will go the way the corners of your mouth turn

Ideally, yes, but we don't live in Utopian conditions. Wait, scratch that. I just realized that this also implies that if, say, you're crying, your day will continue to be crappy. That's mean.
It's much more likely that your day will depend on whether or not you had coffee in the morning.
For example, you can't not be happy (or happier, if you started off sad) on a regular day when you have this:

I've been seeing many similar pictures lately. Dying to get hold of one of these!

> If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, its yours forever. If it doesn’t, then it was never meant to be.

Reality check: nothing is really yours. Nothing at all. Think about that.

> Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.

Rebuttal:

And a great fruit salad at that. Case closed.

> He who laughs last laughs longest

Or maybe it seems that way because he started after everyone else. Literally taken, it's logical enough, but the implied meaning seems off. He who laughs last probably just takes longer to understand the joke. This is one of those sayings that ought to be taken at face value. And speaking of face value...


> Beauty is skin deep.

I could say a lot about this, but Roald Dahl and Quentin Blake say it best:

Seriously, this will never stop being relevant. It's something we ought to think about every day.

> A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.

It should, but I doubt it would. When I was little, mom sometimes spruced up leftover rice with vegetables and things, and a "risotto" or a "kedgeree" definitely tasted a lot better than, say, "leftovers" or even "fried rice".

So maybe a rose by any other name would be just as sweet-smelling. But would it actually smell just as sweet? Probably not.


> Roses are red, violets are blue, etc.

Who made up this silly rhyme? And more importantly, why is it popular across so many generations? Besides, aren't violets called violets because they're violet? Blue-ish, maybe, but not blue.

Hope I've covered all the rose colours.

This is fun. I'm already getting carried away thinking of more stupid sayings I can point out flaws in. Going to dissect a few more very soon.

(Good?) Mornings

It's 7 A.M. and the sun says, "Surprise!

I'm here once again to push you out of bed."

I crawl out reluctantly, rubbing my eyes,

Already angry and half drenched in sweat.

Not even awake but I'm starting to smell.

This is no good morning; this morning is hell.

I stumble about – it's so bright I can't see.

My things simply aren't where I know they should be.

I've tripped a few times and I just skinned my knee.

Why must all the furniture bump into me?

Great, dropped my toothbrush. Well, isn't this swell?

What is a good morning? All mornings are hell.

But somehow I plod through it all in a daze

Until I take one little sip from a mug

And like every other day, I'm still amazed

At how this coffee is so much like a hug

The universe sends you to make you feel whole,

To give your day meaning by touching your soul.

Bitter and sweet, maybe just a tad sour,

It fills my senses, it fills me with power

The way I have always trusted that it would,

And suddenly this hellish morning is... good better.

So, if you must say good morning to me,

Make sure it comes with a mug of coffee.

No.

Imagination, you great jerk,

Why must you interrupt my work

And hound me to so clearly see

Things that I know can never be?

You twist my world to make me feel

And believe what’s not really real

Like making me think I can do

Stuff that I never could see through.

Wish you’d just get out of my head

And leave me to focus instead

On this life so mundane and long

With almost everything gone wrong.

Oh, please don’t let me drift away

To other worlds; I need to stay

In touch with my reality.

Please don’t tempt me with fantasy!

Imagination, I confess

You’ve got me in an awful mess,

But despite all you are, I fear

I rather like it with you here. 

Imagine

No, it has nothing to do with John Lennon and everything to do with me writing random poems and being terrible at coming up with titles.

So much for the title. Here's the random poem:

Open your weary eyes, look all around.
Unplug your ears and listen to the sounds.
Buildings and vehicles on each crowded street,
Voices and horns, a dull shuffle of feet.
Busy feet walking on, going nowhere,
Living ghosts, wicked mouths and silent stares...
Mouths that, once open, tear all things apart
And cut like a scalpel through toughest of hearts,
Polished and sly, or words careless and small,
Laments that mean next to nothing at all.

Look out the window.
Now, what do you see?
A mad world,
A place where you're not meant to be?

Shutitout.
Stop.

Take a deep breath,
and then
Open your eyes and ears up once again.

Look hard beyond what you see, listen well,
Feel beyond that slowly festering hell
A place that resembles some exquisite dream
Distant and faint, but more close than it seems.
A place filled with magic and music and art
And people good-natured, creative, and smart.
Someplace with great wonders in the slightest things
That makes you believe you can fly without wings.

So when you're alone and confused feeling blue
And think you have nothing constructive to do,
Look out at your world, then deep within you
And see how all that you imagine comes true.

Rain: A Sonnet On It

I really wanted to write a Petrarchan sonnet but wasn't particularly inspired when I wrote it because it wasn't raining. Also, I found it's way harder than I thought it would be. Keeping track of rhyming schemes and metre at the same time can be incredibly difficult, but managed to do it somehow. Not very well, but I did it.

A faint glow lights up the dark morning sky
And slowly gets bright, turning up the heat.
Slowly creeping up on you from your feet,
The harsh sun rays strike you right in the eye.
You crawl through the day with many a sigh,
Too hot and drowsy to get off your seat,
Drink water, eat some ice, water, repeat,
Wishing for the cold, for the heat to die.
But soon the white sky turns to a deep grey
With a few clouds, the occasional breeze,
And the promise of rain from far away.
The winds get cold and much stronger, and trees
Start getting wet and violently sway.
Rain pours down at last, puts the world at ease.

Because drawing a picture always makes it better.

More haikus

The haiku is not
A form I excel at, but
I try anyway.

Three souls in my room:

Frightened me looking round for

Two flying insects.

Insect 1 and 2,

Please don’t fly about like that

Go, leave me alone.

Insect 1

Like a sleek sporty version of a ladybug 

Insect on my couch

Sat there resting for a while

And then disappeared.

Insect 2

Creepy, I tell you

Insect on my wall

Jumped at me, so I jumped too.

It shall jump no more.

Which reminds me, RIP, Chris Kelly. (For those of you who don’t know, he was part of the duo Kris Kross. Their most famous song was Jump. I swear I didn’t think about it until I finished writing that haiku)

Also, I didn’t squish the wall insect. It disappeared quietly just like the other one.

Nothing

Running helter-skelter, busy, trying to score, 

Each day nearly just the same as the one before,

Schedules to stick to, deadlines to meet, 

Running along on two sore, tired feet 

Wishing time would let you do just a little more. 

Or maybe nothing at all.

Rub your eyes, wake up at a quarter to four,

Each day nearly just the same as the one before,

Nothing exciting, no people to meet,

Look out the window at the empty street

Wishing you were able to do just a little more 

Instead of nothing at all.

Then one day you realize you’ve had enough, you’re done.

Step out of the narrow life, step into the sun.

Close your eyes, feel the gentle heat,

The earth so soft, the air so sweet,

Telling you to open your mind and do something fun.

And maybe just a little bit

Of nothing. 

The Final Sensitive Poem

I had to try all the beginning exercises once I started, and now that I have, you'll be happy to hear that I'm done writing sensitive poetry. Done for a while, at least. Even if I do write something like this in the near future, I won't put it up here. Or at least that's the plan.

Near the lonely knoll I weep

For all the secrets that I keep

Torment me when I try to sleep

And kill my imaginary sheep,

Thus keeping me awake all night

Clutching my pillow, filled with fright,

Doing the best I can to fight

The fear until the sky turns bright.

But daylight won’t forever stay,

And even if it could,

It wouldn’t help me chase away

The maggots in the hole

(That grows bigger with each new day)

Where used to be my soul.

The world just isn’t big enough

For someone like me to hide

The scathing pain and to act tough

When I'm crying inside.

I’ve tried my best to smile and laugh

While parts of me have died.

But now there’s no one else around

And you won’t hear a single sound

Unless maybe you strain your ears

To try and hear my silent tears,

Though that is something I think you

Will probably not care to do

For you are deaf without your phone

And I would rather be alone.

A few hours later I decide I’m done.

My eyes dry, I’m determined to have some fun.

Begone, ye feelings of dread and despair!

Secrets can spread. I’ve grown too cold to care.

I’ll start by climbing this green hill,

And I won’t stop climbing until

I reach the top covered with snow,

Where wild winds cold as my heart blow,

And then, from the highest point I know,

I’ll hurl insults at the world below.

Few days have passed since I did

What I’d set out to do,

And if you say it was stupid,

I might agree with you

For it felt truly wonderful,

But kind of pointless too

Because very few people heard

The things I had to say

And my soul and mind are still disturbed.

The pain won’t go away.

On the lonely cliff I loiter

For the final time

For I am slowly growing weary

Of making words rhyme.

But unless you write stuff like this,

You may never know

That emotions are hard to hide,

But much harder to show.

I step off the cliff edge a little too soon

Like they do in some kids’ cartoons.

Now I would like to point this out

Before everything goes black:

Unlike those cartoon characters,

I won’t be coming back.


Here are the ones that preceded this:
Sensitive poem 1
Sensitive poem 2
Sensitive poem 3

Sensitive Poem III

I'm not putting in the inspiring picture again because I'm thinking of illustrating this soon.

I saw a genius in the mirror today.

I smiled at her and thought, “No way!

She couldn’t have been here since yesterday!”

She smiled back, but didn’t say a word.

Her lips moved, but how absurd—

The sound of my own voice was all I heard!

I waved to her, and she waved to me

At exactly the same time. How could this be?

I had to solve this intriguing mystery.

I don’t know why I did it, but I took a few steps back,

Closed my eyes and ran into the mirror with a smack.

The girl disappeared, and everything went black.

A few moments later, my body turned to stone.

I heard a distant voice say with a little groan,

“This is what happens to those who always live alone.”

Not that anything I write is 'normal', but seriously, my poems are getting increasingly bizarre. Matt Groening, what have you done to me?

Sensitive Poem I
Sensitive Poem II

More Sensitive Poetry

This never fails to give me some sort of inspiration, however weird the results may be. I was hoping to write something unnecessarily dramatic and somewhat funny like my previous Sensitive Poem, but what I came up with is this morose thing instead. Well, at least it's still a Sensitive Poem. 

Across the lonely beach I wander,
Staring at the small ships yonder,
Wondering if I'm getting fonder
Of the sea, though once I scorned her.

I rejoice in my solitude,
So other people think I'm skewed
Although I'm just a normal dude
Whose emotions are misconstrued.

The gathering clouds overhead
Grow dark and heavy as they shed
Their cold, harsh tears onto my head
Almost as if they wish me dead.

Suddenly the sea of grey
Surrounds my legs and makes me sway
And to my uttermost dismay,
The sand beneath me slips away.

On that note, happy new year, everybody!

Writer's Block

Five more hours on the clock

It still goes tick-tock tick-tock

But my hands are numb

And I feel so dumb

Because I have writer’s block.

I bet all of you could tell

Coz those five lines were bad as hell

But here are five more

Okay... make that four.

(Aha, that worked pretty well.)

It plagued many a lord and lady,

And right from Shakespeare to Slim Shady,

People said “Aw fish!

I really do wish

That I could be more like Wayne Brady.”

So instead of getting all sore,

I'll get back in my bed and pour

Hot coffee for me

(For it’s cold, you see.)

And then I shall just sleep some more.

If you're going to be a smart-ass and say they didn't write during the Stone Age, I say to you: EXACTLY!

I write, therefore I am. (Okay, not really)

Sometimes you just have to write
A few words which, like dynamite,
Will blow all your readers' brains out
BECAUSE IN THEIR HEADS YOU WILL SHOUT!

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Then you realize that writing from top to bottom is harder than reading from top to bottom, and so you decide to find a more effective way of torturing people with bad writing in the near future.

Yes, that's a minute of your life you will never get back. Be happy it's a short post.

New Quill + Palindromic Poem

Okay, I shall quickly type out the second page for those of you who can't decipher my handwriting.

Bird poop. *DRIB*

O part of underside, emit waste.

Yo, took le debris? Use it, okay?

Yak?

O, Tie, S.U.

Sir, bed-elk?

Oo, toy! E.T., Saw time.

Ed is red, 'n' UFO: trap.

O, bird poop! *DRIB*

[Note: S.U.= shut up]

Explanation: Ed is a horrible bird who has tricked Tie the E.T. into becoming his slave and cleaning his poop. Ed poops all the time. He also thinks using random French words makes him sound smart. 

Tie tries to placate Ed with stuffed toys, but instead of going to sleep, Ed says it is Saw time (Saw: the series of horror films) and Tie realizes he has been trapped in the 'UFO', as Ed poops some more.

I might draw pictures, if I feel like it and don't forget.

Update: I just did (scribble out draw a picture)

Evil pooping bird, and alien cleaning poop in fake UFO.

This is so much fun! I really ought to do this kind of thing more often.

My Sensitive Poem

A friend of mine showed me this epic cartoon by Matt Groening and I vowed to use it as inspiration for my own “sensitive poem”. In fact, I’ve combined one of the Beginning Exercises with one of the Advanced Exercises, and I’ve also used a Barn door reference from How I Met Your Mother. Really, I take sensitive poetry to a new level.

Alas!

The hornets buzzing in my brain

Are stinging me with great disdain

For now my roof has started leaking

And I have ever since stopped speaking.

I am a barn, creaking, creaking,

In my great misery shrieking.

Now no one will see

What I once used to be.

The past is just a distant dream

Flowing away like a stream

Attempts at bliss are futile

Solitude is now in style.

I look up at the trees outside –

Those brave things, they don’t need to hide.

I feel the shrinking of my heart.

All by myself, I fall apart.

Everything inside me’s broken

The barn door’s no longer open.

Because YES, I can face disdain, ridicule, and utter indifference! 
(Just saying. Not that I actually want to, even though it would give me more opportunities and inspiration to write about pain, critics, loneliness, futility, blight, depression, etc.)

PS - My very ambitious plan is still under execution.