Fortissimo

To try to write like someone
is like gleaning off the icing layer
on a lovely sponge cake;

where Venus parts with
hard-won favours,
euphonious melodies lingering
on your blessed tongue
for this gratuitous moment –

but feeling crudely dissatisfied

as the hollow ring
of a frustrated stomach
echoes the similar sentiments
of this crestfallen owner.

To swallow the whole style, line and sinker,
is like gobbling up the whole cake
and turning around to see
if anyone noticed your naughty deed –

You crow to yourself,
a hidden gauntlet in a velvet cloak;

but everyone soon finds out
when you contract tell-tale signs
of beastly salmonella,

your Olympian sprints
to the increasingly rancid toilet
more heroic in nature

than the assignments
they know you
half-hardheartedly churn out
on a regular basis.

To examine the writer’s life
by surreptitiously snooping
through his diaries,
splashes of red, green and yellow
in a riotous dramatization –

(how is the poor sod not rolling in his grave?)

A microscopic glimpse
into the portrait
of a struggling artist,
or simply just another
poor soul lost,
to the harbinger
of drugs and drink?

As you can see now,
there’s no shortcut
down this rocky, bumpy road –

Painful as it is;
where selves and soles
are ripped cleanly into two,

but if we sit down
and allow the humble nib
to scratch the page;

recording these moments
of inner realization –
a dim lightbulb slowly
glowing with intensity,
as a passage is read
or a little quote digested

to let the thoughts flow
uninhibited while
blatantly ignoring this
savage voice of doubt
in our head;

This, then,
is when we can finally stop
placing these writers
on some absurd golden pedestal

and allow ourselves
to come,

of age.

© Zelda Reville

November Notes Challenge — Heartstring Eulogies

My good friend Rosema over at A Reading Writer and I have developed a very musical month of prompts for November called #NovemberNotes. Using diverse song titles that sound beautiful and can evoke some strong emotions, but their lyrics and titles hold significance, too. You can create whatever you want — poetry, prose, short stories, take […]

via November Notes Challenge — Heartstring Eulogies

(I’m already eyeing some of the song titles….hmmm!)

Moodboard – Existentialism 

​”Sixty seconds, if you like,” he said. “What’s the difference? Those are moments when time stands still.” He looked at his hands for what seemed a long while. “Moments when you’re beyond life and yet still see. And then time begins flowing again, your heart beats, you stretch out your arms, you take a step forward. You still know, but you no longer see.” 

– Simone De Beauvoir, All Men Are Mortal 

K

See how this voice scrabbles
over these limestone walls
for dear life;
to the impervious words
that hold buoyant meaning
for the dormant
in thousands?

Swooping and soaring,
or hopelessly forlorn and crying –
one wonders at the breadth and
origin of her adept skill,
shapeshifting so easily
between different guises –

fine sand running through
grasping fingers, but yet
still linked together to the whole
by invisible threads,
even more obscure in notion
than the next

© Zelda Reville

 

Sunshine Blogger Award

First up – I’m really sorry if this came late, I was reading and procrastinating as usual…Hi Gbolabo, thank you for this lovely little award 🙂 His blog is fascinating, I implore all of you to take a sample look at this poem here.

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Here are the rules for the Sunshine Blogger Award: (If you choose to participate)

1.Thank the person who nominated you
2.Answer their questions
3.Nominate fellow bloggers who you follow
4.Give them ten questions to answer

So here are Gbolabo’s questions, which I will try to answer without going off-topic:

What languages do you speak?

I can speak English and Chinese, but I’ve never been sufficiently proficient in Chinese to write a poem, or read a book from cover to cover. I did study Japanese when I started my polytechnic studies, but I stopped after I finished school. I wouldn’t mind picking it up again, actually!

When did you last cry in front of another person?

Huh, this one…my mum, I think. I was throwing a fit at her and I just simply burst into tears. Good times.

Are you less religious than your parents?

Perhaps. I don’t know the answer to this yet, you’ll have to ask me again in another decade! But I’m definitely more philosophical than my mum.

What is the one thing you have tried but will never do it again?

This horrible seed which left an intense, bitter taste in my mouth for 30 minutes. It wouldn’t go away even when I desperately gulped water down. It now has the dubious honour of being No. 1 on my top ten list of Horrible Foods Blacklisted From My Mouth.

Do you believe everyone needs a soulmate?

A good friend, yes. A soulmate? You would be less lonely with one, I think, but I’m not sure if that would make a soulmate necessary. It would be more correct to say that I would like to believe that everyone can all end up with someone till death rings its bell, but I don’t think that means everyone needs one. If you’re an anti-social human being, and solitude is your idea of happiness, then that’s alright too.

…I sound like a bleeding pessimist now, don’t I??

Would you say no to palm oil products to save the orangutans?

Yes, since palm oil isn’t really good for us anyway. Although something cheap and viable would have to take its place, so that companies wouldn’t be tempted to go back to using palm oil and endangering the orangutans. Capitalism always sticks its sore thumb out in the end though, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do anything about this.

Have you ever succeeded when you thought you might fail?

Yes, I was very surprised! This has happened a few times, and it’s very humbling when it happens. Now it only strengthens that “Why not?” mantra when I go for it.

Who makes your dinner?

My mum. She isn’t very pleased about this…

Do you consider yourself an extrovert or an introvert ?

An introvert with people whom I don’t know very well. The most boisterous extrovert with my close friends. Sometimes I flip-flop between the two.

Have you ever witnessed a panic attack?

No, thankfully. I can only imagine how awful it must feel.

Hmmm…I can’t think of anyone to nominate, so anyone can do this! I’ll be sticking to the same questions too, since I like seeing the different answers people come up with. 🙂

 

Wabi Sabi

The most effective blend of beauty and serenity can be found in the longest of summers, particularly during early mornings and late evenings where random motifs of emerald leaves overlaying themselves over ponderous, empty skies sear neatly onto willing human eyeballs, bringing its unique brand of quiet devastation to groups of awestruck onlookers visiting the forests.

© Zelda Reville

Temples

Each toll 
that splits off as
the bell 
rings,
sending

echoes in the air;

perfect, vibrating copies
of the original ripple –

purity encased
within sonic amulets,
that bathe Silence with the bliss
of enraptured devouts nearby

while enhancing
the sacred atmosphere
amongst lazy smoke wisps
coiling around figures,

pristine decades of practiced languor.

(Written for #PardyPrompt on Sarah Marie Pardy‘s Tumblr)

© Zelda Reville

 

Teardrop

Tiny salt daggers
made of twinkling
crystals
that stab
repeatedly
and laugh at
defenseless eyes

leaving a warm
snail’s trail of
collected dejection,

that always looked
so beguiling on the
dampened cheeks
of some botoxed,
pouting actress

alas, but they
only serve
to hold her
at greedy random

where the price
to reveal this doleful self
to an emotionally
unprepared world

would only
simply result in
unadorned humiliation

But the dikes
finally open
against her will,
gilded gates gleaming
in the dawning sun

as white foam crests
toss themselves
against her, battering
her body with the
most violent of
tremors and quakes,
but

she suddenly
finds herself
numb and
preposterously frozen –

“Why can’t I cry, when
I so desperately
want to feel the tears
roll down my cheeks
without the slightest care in the world –

these closest
resemblances,
to
the gentle caresses
of a warm human hand…?”

As if to answer her question,

the smallest tear starts
descending down her cheek,
as battered orbs
raise the white flag
of surrender in her mind…

No!

Don’t let them fall;
don’t let this
numbing reality
fully realize itself –

(choke)

yes, keep the rest
of that melancholia
inside,

shove it all
into the jam-packed
closet where you
locked away that
yellowed shot
of your mother’s
tear-stained face,

(squeezes eyelids)

as you stuff your own
bruised fist into your
gagging mouth,

(“nnnngggh!”)

even as this bomb
slowly ticks
towards the
inevitable zero –

(tick, tick, tick)

for you shall save this
woeful weeping of yours
for a miserable day

far more wretched
than this one –

© Zelda Reville

Sugar Hiccup

i
Sugar hiccups that
bounce along on
four unwieldy
cantankerous wheels,

making one spill
hot coffee on
someone’s poor feet,
or dot their ‘i’s
jerkily on some
thrift-shop greeting card –

ii
I have often wondered
about the elusive
epheremality of these
strange treasures,

lesser seen, then
usually heard.

Indeed, would
their texture
resemble
trailing gossamer
from cotton candy,
this less-serious
delegation of confectionery,

or the fuzzy lint
sticking to Mum’s tired coat,
after a good rumble in the wash,

or these baby tinsel streamers

that peek out
from under lace petticoats,
unraveling little threads
so characteristic of
rough-and-tumbling
little girls?

Instead, this was how
I found them
described in detail
from a well-worn,
obscure fairytale
on my aunt’s
yawning bookshelf –

iii
“And each breathtaking detail,
so lovingly rendered
on a dainty hic-cup,
carved and gilded with
peeling gold-leaf,
where pitch-black ebony
and gleaming opal
took to each other’s arms
very naturally,

and this little handle
that curved neatly,
slicing a sword of contrast
and arching its back like
the lithe spines of tiny
faeries,
a gleaming sprite of wonder
that would have caressed
some well-made,
pretentious little pinky -“

But in all honesty,
I’ve seen some argue
that they are simply just
pebble trails,

like the
proverbial breadcrumbs
strewn across paths
for the likes of
Hansel and Gretel
to wander across

or for these
oft-mentioned
beauty-blinded gnomes
to grope at greedily
with these
ignominable,
gnarled hands.

iv
Hic – hic! Flickety-prick!
Tick-tock!
Hickory – ULP!

Did you just see
a large mouse run out
from underneath these
wooden floorboards…?

As science will tell you,
without any imagination –
they are only occasional pranks
that your cheeky diaphragm
likes to comes up with,

but science, as again, fails
to come up with a functional
solution that could cure these
unfathomable things.

v
They say that
three teaspoons of warm honey
should do the trick – preferably
with three twirls of a wooden spoon
for some added effect,

Or to hold your breath
till your face turns the hue
of a permanently
disgruntled eggplant…

Although I mostly feel
that if you try to forget this
ridiculous debacle
between your
disobedient lungs,

by banishing these pretty
hic-cups to the back of
your mind –

If you just concentrate
hard enough,
on the counting minute
hand of this
wise grandfather clock,

those lovely hic-cups will
inevitably hide themselves

and save their mischief
for another clueless,
boring day.

© Zelda Reville