something I have no idea on something I never thought of something that I never imagine something, that I never ask for
I could’ve born as a boy
I could’ve been a butterfly, a spider, a crab, a pebble
or a tree where a mommy bird build the nest on
yet I born a woman through this woman and this woman through this process through this phase it makes her a mother and oh, it was wonder yet
the only role that I want to play the only person that I’m dying to be
no more no other than
myself
While Shakespeare has enlightened us on suiting its use to the interest of the hopeless romantic, some less internationally-recognized poets like Indonesia’s Chairil Anwar has demonstrated to his nation the vital importance of poetry in the struggle for independence. But whichever it may be—a social device or genuine form of expression, poetry has always existed to serve more than a single, uni-dimensional purpose.
In today’s era of the most technologically enlightened, however, the art of poetry seems to face an endangerment much fiercer than anything it has ever been in close encounter before: a competition from a ‘professional’ vision which regards anything to be of value only as long as they possess practical qualities.
Findings from multiple surveys hint on an all-time-low interest in poetry. “Poetry is dead,” they say, and its murderer most probably would be the common sense that listing “I read Hamilton and Dylan Thomas for breakfast” adds no value to a resume. But does this supremely hold true? Can all of us really function solely on numerical efficiency without the reassurance that we are, after all, serving a more profound, meaningful cause?
It can’t possibly be true. Otherwise, every advertisement in our industry would simply show the technical specs for every fancy new phone, or list the horsepower and torque of each new car. Instead, what remains central in advertisement is convincing us that the advertised product is laced with qualities of our desire—be it happiness, trust, sympathy, assurance, company, or love. Thus, the success of advertisement—much like everything else in our industrial world—hinges not upon the conveying of its value, but rather by convincing us that it is a vessel of profoundness and meaning.
But if by possessing more, we only crave for more, then the ideal sold to us by our industry through advertisement might not be so true after all. Otherwise, we’d have to agree that we have an insatiable thirst for profoundness and meaning. What is more likely is that profoundness and meaning reside somewhere else; perhaps within the genre we had dismissed as obsolete for lacking practicality; perhaps our next step forward is to look back—in the removed dusty covers of books of poetry.
It may take a detour to our quest for meaning. It might seem nothing less than a time-walk to an age of antiquity. And there may lie the biggest problem with poetry, or so we are led to believe, that it conforms not to our futuristic interest, the so-called modern vision.
It will still hold true that the compilation of sophisticated diction may still not add any relevant entry to our CV. However, in the events where that very CV is successful in bringing us a new office and new suit to wear, poetry may complement us with the profoundness we need to carry on.
Because poetry, and art in general, does nothing less than equipping us with passion. And while we may run out of professional work ethics after exhausting series of chases with deadlines, I honestly never think we would ever find ourselves in short supply for passion of being human.
Once upon a time, I was a judge in a poem-reading competition. It was the second day of the competition, the participants who made it so far were required to write their own poems then recite it.
Now, as someone who has written poetry for so long I have my fair share of expectations of what the participants would write. I thought, for kids their age (all participants were senior high-schooler), their poetic sensibility might find itself lost in an effort to present an ultimate moral message. Like how every movie seems to fashion a trend of bringing an ‘unexpected’ twist nowadays, I prepared myself to get something within that line of expectation. My job was thus simple, determining which among them communicated the most compelling message.
My suspicion was confirmed, almost all participants took it to themselves to present something with ‘preachy’ substance. Then came the turn of this particular shy-looking girl to recite hers. She had given quite a good impression to me and the other judge for speaking in clearly better English than the rest of the participants. But this time it was not about reciting classic poems anymore, this was her own work, and I was still solid in anticipation that her work too should fall in the same category with that of her peers.
I couldn’t be more wrong. I swore hers somehow evoked an image of a crayon-picture in my mind, of dragons, of wizard, that of medieval tales, before turning it around with almost an absurd conclusion. It was an extreme opposite to her peers: hers was all poetic sensibility without any intention to preach—a pure subscription to subjectivity.
After she finished, the other judge asked me “her English was indeed excellent but what was her poem supposed to mean Jeremy?” I said, “It didn’t have to mean anything.” All I understood was she conveyed me a glimpse of the world in her head, in her own way of expressing it. Those with tendency to connect the dots to reality would find only frustration for not being able to link her work with any present moral message or any present phenomenon for that matter.
It was an ineffable experience for someone sitting at the judging table. Her poem was not supposed to be presented there, exactly because it was not meant for public evaluation, for ignorant impartial critics.
It was too much her own to be shared; no one else should put their hands on something that personal. Yet it was there, and it was beautiful.
And I saw in her not a participant tied to all the expectation in the eyes of a judge. Instead, I saw simply a person. I was appalled by how rare this was, in a world where performance is a norm, that one often finds him/herself crippled with the expectation of ‘correct’ form of expression.
I learned from her the importance of being human in this circuit-and-cable world of ours; to subscribe to elements of simplicity and honesty that truly makes us a person. It was ironic how all the other participants failed to teach me a bigger, far more transcendent lesson, compared to somebody who was not even trying to impart any lesson at all.
What’s that? Where is she nowadays? Oh we kinda lost contact for a year. Then we met again and now she is my girlfriend. What? So this is just a cliche retelling of how Selvi and I met? No it’s not, you totally miss the point, forget it!
Recently my presence is substituted by that measly little toy . . . How dare you Optimus. Your last movie is not that good anyway.
The puzzle of this century has been the cringe of what liberty may lurk beneath the liquor glass; and the ultimate wonder of capturing freedom within the ear-clogs.
In falsifying lights prior the night
In transcending the confining hour
Faux-control, in desperate and sour
Retreat from day to seize but fright
The irony of the century lies within the chorus over the eve; in resisting the avant-garde through an overt denial for the obsolete.
There are two kinds of people in a modern cafeteria: those who engage their surrounding, and those who can only gaze at their surrounding through the glossy rendered reflection of their monitor
writeinwhites 