So a couple of weeks ago i started a poetry contest on Writer's Cafe and i made a promise to the winners that each of them will have their works posted on my blog. I'll start with the winner of the contest.Ever wondered where poetry is born? No words explain this better than the way Kecil have done it here...Enjoy!!!
Dichotomous Poetry by Penulis Kecil
II
We are taught in school to open
a poem, pull out the pieces
make their meanings our playthings.
Poets, they tell us,
weigh each word, search
for nuance unbreathed,
so we learn 16 words the poet could have chosen
in place of the "cerulean" that paints an ocean
across our mindscape and upon our tongues.
We imagine the fingers of his heart
caressing the language, visualise
a pair of hands to hold each word
to the light, to measure it against another.
So we find the poet within-
uncover him in our own self
and sew his work up again;
we give it a new soul,
new meaning.
I
And it may be that some poets weigh their words
on household scales, with lines upon the wall
to mark how tall the last stood; fit them
into each other like the pieces of a jigsaw.
And it may be that some poets taste their words
licked from a spoon, a pinch of this
to match a shake of that; assembled
together like a recipe for the perfect meal.
It is that I would rather divine language's chords
risen in crescendo, blended
in its own harmony; composed
into a symphony whispered in my ear.
http://www.writerscafe.org/penuliskecil
Dichotomous Poetry by Penulis Kecil
II
We are taught in school to open
a poem, pull out the pieces
make their meanings our playthings.
Poets, they tell us,
weigh each word, search
for nuance unbreathed,
so we learn 16 words the poet could have chosen
in place of the "cerulean" that paints an ocean
across our mindscape and upon our tongues.
We imagine the fingers of his heart
caressing the language, visualise
a pair of hands to hold each word
to the light, to measure it against another.
So we find the poet within-
uncover him in our own self
and sew his work up again;
we give it a new soul,
new meaning.
I
And it may be that some poets weigh their words
on household scales, with lines upon the wall
to mark how tall the last stood; fit them
into each other like the pieces of a jigsaw.
And it may be that some poets taste their words
licked from a spoon, a pinch of this
to match a shake of that; assembled
together like a recipe for the perfect meal.
It is that I would rather divine language's chords
risen in crescendo, blended
in its own harmony; composed
into a symphony whispered in my ear.
http://www.writerscafe.org/penuliskecil
