$25 Best Written Poem of the May 25 Singapore Poetry Slam™. Please post below.

5/28/2017

Please poem your poems from the Blue Man Poetry Slam (May 25) in the comments below and stand to win $25. The winning poet will be announced and awarded at the June 29 Foodarama Poetry Slam.

16 Comments

Dan Tan link

5/28/2017 09:33:18 pm

Why I Will Not Have Children

I.
Mynahs raining around the hawker centre,
families of black commotion. Nearby, a pair
of young parents feed morsels of fried
carrot cake to their toddler. He is a bundle
of noise, refusing tablespoons of something
like congee; quiets finally at the cradle
of mama’s loving arms.
Close by, I roll my eyes at houseflies
doing the courtship dance over
my cup of kopi.

II.
I did not wish to trouble my parents any farther.
Rented an apartment, stayed out and listened
to birdsong, insomniac near each dawn. Soon,
an affinity with early arising, taking the cool
and dawn-colored parks as acoustic hall for self-
repressed strolls. Loneliness was a dog held on a leash,
walked by an owner whose long hair flamed the
color of beng-ness. His arms and legs, tattooed to infinity.

III.
Age of three.

In my mind is an image of me reaching up
for basketball. Then mother falling
ill after nursing well my fall and cold,
sleeping on my dried patch of urine so I
could have the clean patch of the queen-sized bed.

IV.

I will never have children, I once told
a potential mate. She remains a lover
in my department of contacts, someone
to love away the cold and lonely nights.

October creeps on the dark roof of my hair.
I wait for the question my parents
will pop next about her;

resigned, perhaps, to picking up
a guitar. Make my living in bars, singing
with her the long and lonely years away.

Chris Mooney-Singh

5/28/2017 09:35:09 pm

Good to see Dan. Good Luck!

Nicole Carmen

5/28/2017 10:05:28 pm

IS BLUE A SEXIST COLOUR?

Who cares, I don’t know ... But I hate the colour blue.
I think people SHOULD associate it with sexism, don't you?
You know like the white privilege in respect of worldly racism,
Let's spend a moment thinking about the blue-pink gender discrimination.

Blue for a traditional family of Asians,
Make for literally PRECONCEIVED celebrations.
Because this colour shows that once the baby is born,
The family lineage will now carry on.
The biological differences are *ahem* a stick, balls and superiority of strength,
But the colour code packaging gives privileges I could list at length.

Blue is immunity from kitchen chores like making a sandwich,
Or for embracing your sexuality, the labels whore, slut or bitch.
Blue is also a green card for playing sports and playing rough,
Having a chest flat as a runway or a body bulging buff.
Blue is a forever delay to marriage expiration,
And ensures no birth of interruptions in your career aspirations.
Blue lets the men expect all the good things in life,
Like preventing them from even dreaming of becoming a useless housewife.
Blue gives the dating man the choice of which meals to eat and pay,
And the time he wishes to send his date back at the end of the day.
Blue makes the trouble of make-up for men a fiction,
And saves them from painful heels and dance – by often making those associated with mental afflictions.

Blue for a traditional family of Asians,
Make for literally MANLY head-of-household expectations.
Because this colour means that one is a delectable champ – a breadwinner, and
The family has a guy bringing in dough for breakfast, lunch, dinner.
The cultural expectations sit the blue man over the pink girl,
But the colour code at least puts pink way above that disgraceful purple.

You know like the yellow ‘heritage’ in local racism,
Let’s just be colour blind to our blue (and purple too) discrimi - I mean – non-approval of wayward expression.
Who cares, I don’t know ... But I hate the Colour blue.
I mean as a woman, I’m subject to sexism, and I CAN'T be the sexist one ... (If only that were true.)

Nicole Carmen

5/28/2017 10:07:39 pm

THE POSITIVELY YELLOW LESSON FOR THE PESSIMISTIC BLUE MAN

If yellow is for the sun and blue is for the sea,
Then yellow stands for happiness and blue for misery.
So an optimist and a pessimist are yellow and blue men respectively,
And now I hope to shine yellow positivity to fellow blue men like me.

I'm sure most of you know your colour, but for the benefit of the rest,
I'll use this very famous and accurate test.
Is your glass of water half cup empty or half cup full?
If you answered the latter, just get out, this lesson ain’t for you.

Now blue men I’ll start my lesson looking back our half cup,
Since you focus on the empty, all you see is space to fill up.
Stupid yellow men see, and are happy, with the half glass full of water,
So, it must be true, that the blue man’s view, is literally nothing, but better!
You're still probably unhappy with that half cup empty,
But actually, factually, this is really an opportunity!
Though not your foremost thoughts, it's at the back of your mind,
"Should I fill this cup with beer, gin, whiskey or wine?"
And you know, what makes yellow men bluer than blue men is alcohol,
They see it as a problem, we think it solves it all.
And once you take action to fill, it doesn't matter with what,
You're starting to problem-solve, and that's a head start.
But too much good thoughts, like alcohol, makes blue men hungover,
Because unfortunately, at some point, we all need to be sober.

What I mean, is as a blue man, bright starts lead to dark places,
The possibility of failure, backed by statistics and cases.
So, then you ask me, what if, like the rest, I fail?
Don't be a yellow man, of course you will!
But each time you fail, it only shows your pessimism was right,
Then though you, are blue, you're not dull, you’re really bright!
By now, please realise, the only thing you have to fear,
Is when this taboo of a thought – success - draws near...
Blue men can’t be successful, that’ll be too perfect!
Nothing good lasts forever, that belief is sacrosanct.
Well then if later in life you fail, we knew you were cursed,
But your blue mind should know of one million ways it could be worse.
If somehow, you reach a point where everything becomes smooth,
Your blue mind panics, and fears that this can't be the truth.
Trust me, I’m true blue, don't fear your life could end up a lie,
As I assure you, it's always a bad end, you are doomed to die.

I’m sure see the light, so bright and yellow?
If you don’t, it’s your blue skin, it makes it look mellow.
And we all know, blue plus yellow gives us green,
So you are no longer blue, not matter how blue you have been.
Enlightened now, you are no blue man on the streets, you know,
You’re a green man, and traffic mandates that onward you go!

Nicole Carmen

5/28/2017 10:10:02 pm

BURNING BLUE

Sipping tea, faceless in the deafening fold
Of this cha chaan teng – it is unbearably HOT
In here, alien tongue in first contact against
The boiling brew. “Excuse me”, I choke out
In English, burning bright blue gesturing
Against this sea of impassioned red –
Raucous tongues brilliantly flashing,
Exuberant hearts dyed in patriot’s hue.

Burning blue
Burning blue
Burning blue

Burning Blue responds to a prompt to a poetry slam
Which I am unfortunately unable to attend.
It explores the deeply seated unfamiliarity and sense of “otherness” I experienced while trying to order food in English,
At a proudly local Hong Kong dim sum establishment.

Burning blue
Burning blue
Burning blue...?

You may have realised by now that since I doing this slam,
I must have been able to attend.
So I could not have this previous “I”, and am quite the scam,
Since evidently I could not have been the burning blue man.
So put two and two together, just as you could and should put together your hands,
For the burning blue man’s rejected, dejected, burning blue friend.

[Credits also to Joshua Kow (The Burning Blue Man)]

Alex Soh link

5/28/2017 10:30:45 pm

THE BLUE SLAM BAM
-Alexander

I have been swimming in an ocean of exhaustion
Fatigue has set it at last and I blame depression.
So I signed up for a slam
But I hadn't written anything relevant to the slam
So I'd just list things that are blue.

The sea.
The sky (most of the time).
The blue man group.
Blue frosting
That ugly dress I wore on my dad's birthday
My best friend's hair.
The feeling of melancholy and sadness.
Depression, when it first hits.

Broken dreams.
The back of my crush's shirt when he left.
My ex's T-Shirt on the floor.
The little cord things on my ex-fiancee's green hoodie.
Waffles.
Cookie monster.
He loved cookie monster. Said it was his favourite character.

My cousin's hat.
My favourite hoodie.
My ex's blanket draped over me as he tucked me in for the day, because I had a stomachache.
I would say tears, but those things aren't blue no matter what people say. They sure feel blue, though.
My ex's t-shirt when I hugged him after 3/4s of a year not talking.
My self-love.
My childhood.

Heteronormative representation of males.
I hate heteronormity, straight cis males but-
Why do I like him so much?
Maybe to love is to be blue, too.
How I felt when he started ignoring me and dating our classmate at the same time. After he acted like he was crushing on me.
The rum I downed that night.
Tumblr.
A water bottle, filled with apple cider.
What it feels like I'm drowning in a sea of my own tears.

My favourite shoes.
This poem.
My depression.
Fatigue.

Everything I just said was Blue.

Bam.

Miranda Price

5/28/2017 11:30:09 pm

Blue man / Black dog
Feeling of being so broken
How do you ever think it can be fixed?
Can it even be fixed?
It never goes back just as it was before
The mending is never seamless

How do you summon the strength
To reach out
To stretch
To ensure you take your next breath
It can’t be forced, only organic
It must come from a place of pure instinct

No words can help
If we could get over it or
Change our thinking
Do you not think that we haven’t tried?

The sun shines brightly
Emitting such warmth
And yet you see grey
And feel so cold
The coldness is from the inside out

Lingering thoughts can trap your whole being
Is this it? Is this all there is?
Limiting self-beliefs overshadow the endless possibilities

People speak of being whole
But what does it feel to feel half or even less?
When you stand at a cliff edge
What drives you to step off?

I didn’t see my life flash before my eyes
A mythical ideal that conjures romanticism
You see only a sense of relief – no purpose
The purpose is your relief
Your release from the shackles that burden your very being

Spinning, Spinning, Spinning
The yearning for nauseousness
As you struggle to feel
You are consciously unconscious, watching
You are out of your body, watching

The impact is harsh and unforgiving
Your head spins and your body is limp
You are consciously unconscious, watching

Time stands still
But time doesn’t stand still, it never stops
Life is but not a positive poster of motivation and inspiration
How can an image or a well meaning statement
Scoop you up out of the depths of despair
Soften the overwhelming sense that you are gasping for air
Dismissing emotions so as not to create a burden

One more sip, it won’t hurt
What difference does one more make?
But in that we open up a storm,
It opens the flood gates
Through which there is always just one more

Poison Passion Procrastination
Meditate, Mantras, Mindfulness
Learn from mistakes
It’s only a mistake if it is followed by regret
Are you regretting the past or dreading the future?
If a thousand miles begins with the first step
Why is that step just so hard to take?

Luke Hindes

5/28/2017 11:31:02 pm

The man in Blue- Poem 1

Born into a Thatcherite society
The man in blue was led by the women in blue
She that ruled the roost with her iron fist
The women in blue brought upon the destruction of the UK industrial revolution
Brought upon the demonization of the working class
Well done the woman in blue

What followed was the demolition of the trade unions
So freedom of speech among the working class seemed to be taboo
Well done the man in blue

So who could stop the man in blue
It used to be the man in red
But now he’s dead
Bought out and sold out to the corporations
This has enabled the gap between poor and rich to grow
Well done the man in blue

Chav Chav Chav
Label label label
Pull your-self up by your boot straps
Easier said than done when you’re born into depredation
No appreciation
No way out or opportunity
Cheap labour seems to be our commodity
Well done to the man in blue

However now beyond the horizon
A bright red light seems to be shining
A red man about the people
Coming to bridge the gap between good and evil
Shorten the gap between the rich and poor
The real man in the red cape has arrived
By by the man in blue!!!

However media run by the blue man are like his kryptonite and want to slay him
Make a mockery of him
No one man can save our NHS, make education free -- and crazily enough restore some of our industry
But the key is investment in Education not war
Destroying that gap between the rich and the poor
So please get up off the fence and rip those splinters out of your arse
And vote for a man that is not only truly red but an amazing humanitarian and a force to be reckoned with.
Now good riddance to the man in blue!!!

Culture shock - Poem 2

It started on one knee
she said yes to me
Then daunting thought
of a Gindian ceremony
The mixture of two cultures
How would this day fair
When the Irish and Indians came to share

The dance floor, the hall, the ceremony and stalls
Where tradition meets a whole lot of alcohol
Somebody please tell me
How will it fair
When the Irish and the Indians come and share

So as the months moved quickly
And the big day approached
All I could think about is who would throw first
In the morning a foggy dew could been seen
The Irish invaded dancing in the street
To the dholi drummer smashing the beat
Then I cracked the coconut
And was swept off my feet
Saw my sister hanging on to my shoe
But there were smiles and laughter no worries insued
And at that moment I stood with bear feet
NO worries could be felt just love and harmony
In true Gindian tradition we danced till dawn
On that day new culture was born.

Miranda Price

5/28/2017 11:31:11 pm

Poison, Passion, Procrastination
We all have these. What’s yours? What’s mine?
Heart racing, sweating palms
A quiver in the knees
Parts of the body ebb between
Stilted paralysis to liquid waves of weakness
Body changes from hot to cold
As the slightest touch sends chills
Gushing throughout your whole being
Barely able to keep your head above the water

For what did I see?
Suspended in time and space
Moving without gravity
Reaching out to touch something that is not within my grasp
The silhouette of a man
The blue the shadow formed from the light of the moon

Nothing ever looks the way we imagine it
My window is unique, for my eyes only
Others looking through only see
You haven’t done what you’re supposed to do

Finding your passion perhaps it is easy
Perhaps it is starring you right between the eyes
But we sit and we wait for others to tell us
What they feel and as they speak the truth
Your passion moves further and further away from you
Spiralling in the web of procrastination
Never as good as the first time
As the second time never lives up to the dream
Anxiety of loss
Deep in the pit of my stomach
Fearful to forget the face of the blue man standing created in the shadow

From depths of great passion
To the overwhelming joy
A wink, a raised eyebrow
A slight smirk or hint of spark in the eye
Messages sent only for one another

Eyes and lips that glisten
A slight hint of moisture
Enticing you into the pool of great desire
Words do not even need to be spoken

Twisting, turning, yearning and longing
Your head is pounding
Your body is shaking
Natural sensations swirling around
Taking you to places that are only accessible now by your mind

Shivers that run through your body
As you imagine the sensation of touch running down your spine
Is this what it means to be suspended in time?

Anujaya Krishna

5/29/2017 06:33:16 am

Am I blue?

I make up most the Earth, they say,
I can be found in seas, oceans and the bay.
I can be seen trickling through that crevice and that meandering fall,
I can be seen pouring from the sky, whenever the clouds call.

It’s strange though, how ever present I am supposed to be,
But plenty of thirsting faces are all I see;
And people walking with clay urns to get a glimpse of me,
When all they might get is a rusty mouthful of what I can truly be.

By now you would’ve guessed who I am,
Home to the fish, the mermaid and the clam.
But there is this predicament I’ve had for the longest time:
They’ve been telling me I’ve no colour and that I usually don’t cost a dime!

Now don’t get me wrong- I am a free soul,
But people have been calling me ‘blue’ from space to the North Pole!
And then you step up and say, “You’re colourless!”
Well, hold your horses, sir, and their harness.

I will be blue when I want to be,
I will be brown as I break over the levee;
I will be crimson, by golly, if you dip a cut,
In fact, I could be making rainbows in a rut!

Neo Jialing link

5/29/2017 08:30:18 am

trying too hard //

i find myself lying in bed,
by the dim orange light of my night lamp, again,
again, writing, something you'd never see, you'd
never know of, feeling the blues
in deeper hues than I can comprehend, wondering
if I brought myself into this deep mess
by my own doing,
and man.
I just can't believe how long it's been,
wallowing in this state of self-pity -
I seem to have been floating here for a mighty long time.
I can feel my mind languishing away, the brain cells,
popping away like popcorn drenched in too much buttery syrup -
my brain swims in thick, honey-like gunk,
intoxicated, by you
your tunes, your long lashes and unlikely
bursts of romanticism which only existed in the beginning of all these
shenanigans.

you tell me quite early in this stumbling duet that
smooth as you were, you’d never play smooth jazz -
as a jazz musician, it was akin to
a guilty pleasure, almost, that most self-respecting
jazz purists would never accrue their talent by - yet ironically,
I've always been afraid to tell you that, truth be told,
I fell for you because of the one time you mockingly played Careless Whisper in the home-ground of my dance studio,
and my clueless heart did a pirouette, at the most
overrated, stereotypical jazzy saxophone solo. I could have sworn in that moment I could have done 32 fouettes (and that, I must say, is a gross exaggeration because that would mean 32 turns on one leg while the other keeps in circular motion perpendicular to my body and I can't even cross a street without falling off the pavement and spraining my ankle whilst on two feet)
but honestly - digression aside,
I mean,
how can I tell you? how can I admit that despite all that I've tried to prove myself with
all the countless attempts at getting to know your art better,
trying to draw similarities to my own pursuits and passions that
I'm really just a hapless romantic after all?

I mean, I should have known, from the start, how all this was doomed to fail,
how the intensity of your eyes would meet the intense fire of my relentless need to be assured, and we would be
burnt by that fire, scarred - instead of
caressed, by the supposed buzzing warmth that preludes all courtship but
can never quite last the ride.

I mean it should have been telling enough, when we started to burn so quickly and so easily,
from crimson to cold blue,
the heat of two bodies misleading yet intoxicating - wherein lies the irony of how the hotter a flame is the bluer it is, and quicker the fuel diminishes -
it should have been telling enough
how when I whispered, in your arms "I feel really safe with you," you merely attributed it to the warmth of the duvet,
leaving my words hanging in the air,
like a lame sentiment that should have been left unsaid.

Am I trying too hard? Perhaps.
Perhaps it is
time to acknowledge that the only kisses I deserve are the ones from the floor, as I dance my duet with gravity,
Leaving my limbs bruised and blue.
Perhaps it is
wiser to spend that time breathing life into my passions, return my focus into movement and dance that abandon I've always sought for.
Perhaps it is
time to take a leaf out of Lady Gaga's book and tell myself that maybe none of this will ever be worth it and in her words, begin to believe in the irrefutable fact that
"your work will never wake up one day, telling you that it doesn't love you anymore."

Neo Jialing link

5/29/2017 08:33:15 am

faulty fountain pens //

Our love, was like
The cheap fountain pen you deemed fit to give me, bought from Mustafa, barely more than a dollar - an afterthought you passed on to from one hand to another - and even as it wrote beautifully and served its purpose, it leaked streaks of liquid blue onto my fingers and seeped into my skin, bleeding across my pages. I spent more time wasting its colour and vibrancy on my notebooks, in splotches and stains on the floor, than actually writing legible words and sketching ideals. In fact, the only two times I used it to write, first with much joy and later in furious succession - were both in relation to you. Like giggling schoolkids, I scribbled onto your hand, graffiti on your arms with a pen that tattooed your pores with that same splash of aquamarine blue - which you saw fit to fill the pen with, like how you saw fit to fill my soul with your personal brand of blue. Wasn't it ironic then, how as I penned that last letter to you, heart pounding in fear and head filled with frustration, knowing full well how the swell of emotions that led my hand across the page were the same emotions that would lead me nowhere but to the end -
your fountain pen;
mid-scrawl and semi-flourish, sputtered its last dying drop of ink, leaving me to scratch the paper with nothing, leaving indents of alphabets into words which echoed the hollowed out channels of my being. Ghost words which whispered their intent, but could not convey them. Shouldn't it be laughable, how even the one tangible thing you left me, should be rendered useless upon your departure from my life, too. It sits on my desk still, a pointless object serving no purpose except to remind me of its fleeting life, paralleling your fickle inclinations. I hold on to it, like how I held onto you, that last night, with the knowledge of how cheap and useless everything is, yet knowing I coveted every moment of its life, unmarred by its value, or rather, the lack thereof.

You profess yourself to be a writer but all you ever wrote were on subjects which held no water, over pages, over the same words already prescribed. With your leaking pens and flimsy parchment, splotches of blue and cancellations, you scribble line upon line, repetitions, permutations of the previous, making little progression, or none at all. You simply keep writing yet everything is pointless and indecipherable and the only result is a complete and utter mess, just like you are. You profess yourself a writer but you took it upon yourself to make my life a reflection of that mess as your one true profession and only god knows,
only god knows -
how incredibly ruined yet filled my pages are, as a result of
you.

Neo Jialing link

5/29/2017 08:34:50 am

pythagora's theorem //

I wish our love could be as sure as mathematical formulas
Like how in the Pythagora's theorem, the hypotenuse, the longest distance of a right-triangle will always be the sum total of its squared sides
Yet somehow the longest distance between us will never be measurable
The points which join our hearts together cannot be charted
Like two drifting coordinates on a wonky S curve graph,
Far strung from each other, parallel, never quite perpendicular -
Well, my math has never been good
and you promised me you'd do my taxes
And yet that equation doesn't seem to match up somehow
Because you said 3 years and in the mind of a girl who gave up Additional math in school just cause the thought of having to make any more sense of numbers gave her the chills and enough anxiety to last her a lifetime
So I took up art instead, pouring that same anxiety onto canvas and still -
The colours I splashed across the board seemed more vibrant than what the possibilities of our future hold
And I am afraid because
I've never been one to know how to count, very well
And before the time is up I'm afraid I'd have messed up the countdown and lost you in my folly
Somehow missing each other in the wrong time zones
Crossing just barely but never quite making it to your
point.

Meenakshi Palaniappan

5/29/2017 06:50:26 pm

In My Universe

In my universe
I see
Shiva smear blue ash to the rhythm of his Dance
He flicks the 7 (and ½) planets
to their designated spaces.

In my universe
I see him
Lift his blue-green jewel,
Encase it in an ethereal bauble,
And place it, precisely,
Third from the Sun, shielded by his Third Eye.

In my universe
I see him spin,
And the worlds spin with him.
They fly – mad and wild as his fearsome locks
Asteroids and Meteorites careen wildly into orbit
Pummelling Mars with craters that could hold the moon.

I see these shrapnel
Bounce off Earth’s atmosphere
Blasted by his Scorching Third Eye
Shimmering into shooting stars

And so, in my Universe
We twirl gaily,
Swirling in blessed ignorance of the fearful storms
That rage around us…
Aquamarine waters holding lands in place
Ephemeral Air holding water and land in Space

In my Universe
I think I see him laugh
-
He didn’t think he’d need to protect us
Within this haven.
That, if we can’t feel the blasts and bullets of rocks in space,
We’d do it ourselves…
Fling explosives and gases at one another,
Rip holes in that bubble…

Did you know,
In my universe,
Earth is only as strong as its atmosphere?
That we enjoy light, and warmth and air,
And are not blasted off by boulders
Because of that sheer film about us?

And that there are ice planets up there
Where it’s so cold, Uranus and Neptune,
That, if we fell, we’d shatter into a million shards of blue ice
before we hit the blue seas of liquid methane…

In my universe
I know
Shiva’s CDance will end one day
Till then
I shall follow his rhythm.
Breathe in -
And out.

25 May 2017

Written in awe of creation, the marvel of the fact that earth hangs in space buffeted by thin air.

Meenakshi Palaniappan

5/29/2017 06:54:51 pm

Every time I Cross the Road
_____________________________

Every time I cross the road
I wonder... will this be the day
I get knocked down?
Flattened onto the ground
The painter's deft stroke -
Abstract art on tar.

Will the prata man dragging on his nicotine tar
Be forever marred by this road -
His regular customer felled in one stroke...
He may buy lottery that day
Win some cash that changes his ground
Or, perhaps, he may just cry – slumping down.

I ponder how I might one day go down
in history – will my name be tarred
by some indiscretion underground,
or will I be known for making inroads
- in my passion - that changes the day -
dreams of young minds in one masterful stroke?

l lie looking at the stars, when, at the stroke
of midnight I feel a jolt run down
my spine. I think this day
might be the day something will happen to tar
this image I've been safeguarding on this road...
How will I go to ground?

First I want to take you to the playground
and then give you a bath- I want to stroke
your cheeks before I take to the road
to kiss your eyes before I put you down
so nothing will mar or tar
this picture of you today

And then I will say good day!
My time has come – to lie in the ground –
I know I will also, one day, be overlaid with tar.
I hope I will be remembered though, for the stroke
of genius I had within me deep down
Before I ended this road.

I see my life, ground up, laid on stroke by stroke.
Today I would like to see it set down:
I did indeed live this avatar, before I died, on this road.

_________
Written in the form of a Sestina

Priyanka

5/31/2017 01:50:20 am

My blue story

What Am
I doing here
In this blue jazz cafe?
Holding a piece of paper
Facing strangers
Am I meant to be here
Is this place where
My words will rub against
Other blue poems?
I am ready to crumble
The gray clouds
& unveil,
The Glimmering amethyst sky
& the blue blue moon.

And when I ask this question
My own words rain down like a song
Rivulets of India ink merge
On the paper
Dreams whirl
Forget -me -nots unfurl.

So you are here to listen to my story
& maybe search for a part of you in it?
We are here to anoint
Ourself with the words
Of storytellers & poets
We are here to listen
Wrapped in the blue orchids
forgotten songs
We are here to be lost Again
in another ancient fragrance
Of hyacinths.

So who am I?

I am from a place
They call Triveni - the land where three rivers meet &
The city which holds nectar
An elixir hidden in blue lotus

I have a thousand and one stories here
A dog eared book of fading ink
& a peacock blue quill
I, with a cracked sapphire -like heart
And turquoise In my pocket
With a mind that meanders

I scrape blue diamonds from
The stars
Crush them with lapis lazuli
And I give you this new blue
This is not indigo
This is not teal
but it has shades of
the aquamarine ocean
Which maybe you visited once
It has fragrance of
Lavender & Wildflowers
Kept in your diary.

This is me a wanderer
Trying to pull you in,

Through this mirage of words
Telling you my story yet again
Tinged in a different shade of blue
In the only language I know
Of love.

$25 Best Written Poem of the May 25 Singapore Poetry Slam™. Please post below.

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