cheesy '90s rock ballad

November Rain

When I look into your eyes
I can see a love restrained
But darlin' when I hold you
Don't you know I feel the same
'Cause nothin' lasts forever
And we both know hearts can change
And it's hard to hold a candle
In the cold November rain
We've been through this such a long long time
Just tryin' to kill the pain
But lovers always come and lovers always go
And no one's really sure who's lettin' go today
Walking away
If we could take the time to lay it on the line
I could rest my head
Just knowin' that you were mine
All mine
So if you want to love me
then darlin' don't refrain
Or I'll just end up walkin'
In the cold November rain

Do you need some time...on your own
Do you need some time...all alone
Everybody needs some time...on their own
Don't you know you need some time...all alone

I know it's hard to keep an open heart
When even friends seem out to harm you
But if you could heal a broken heart
Wouldn't time be out to charm you

Sometimes I need some time...on my own
Sometimes I need some time...all alone
Everybody needs some time...on their own
Don't you know you need some time...all alone

And when your fears subside
And shadows still remain, ohhh yeahhh
I know that you can love me
When there's no one left to blame
So never mind the darkness
We still can find a way
'Cause nothin' lasts forever
Even cold November rain

Don't ya think that you need somebody
Don't ya think that you need someone
Everybody needs somebody
You're not the only one
You're not the only one


(Guns 'n' Roses)


Funny how i've never known the lyrics to this, especially since it has to be one of the top 5 rock ballads of my generation (i grow old, i grow old...). Ah well. Better late than never.

Seamus the Famous, Italo Calvino, Stephen Dunn, Derek Walcott, Milan Kundera... in the august company of Guns 'n' Roses. Heh. Some people are clearly moving up in the world. :)

Posted here more due to a wave of nostalgia than anything else. That, and, of course, the cold November rain.
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half empty / half full

In Raissa, life is not happy. People wring their hands as they walk in the streets, curse the crying children, lean on the railings over the river and press their fists to their temples. In the morning you wake from one bad dream and another begins. At the workbenches where, every moment, you hit your finger with a hammer or prick it with a needle, or over the columns of figures all awry in the ledgers of merchants and bankers, or at the rows of empty glasses on the zinc counters of the wineshops, the bent heads at least conceal the general grim gaze. Inside the houses it is worse, and you do not have to enter to learn this: in the summer the windows resound with quarrels and broken dishes.

And yet, in Raissa, at every moment there is a child in a window who laughs seeing a dog that has jumped on a shed to bite into a piece of polenta dropped by a stonemason who has shouted from the top of the scaffolding, "Darling, let me dip into it," to a young serving-maid who holds up a dish of ragout under the pergola, happy to serve it to the umbrella-maker who is celebrating a successful transaction, a white lace parasol bought to display at the races by a great lady in love with an officer who has smiled at her taking the last jump, happy man, and still happier his horse, flying over the obstacles, seeing a francolin flying in the sky, happy bird freed from its cage by a painter happy at having painted it feather by feather, speckled with red and yellow in the illumination of that page in the volume where the philosopher says: "Also in Raissa, city of sadness, there runs an invisible thread that binds one living being to another for a moment, then unravels, then is stretched again between moving points as it draws new and rapid patterns so that at every second the unhappy city contains a happy city unaware of its existence."


from Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino (translated by William Weaver)
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hopeless Romantic

'I have asked my mother if she regrets her marriage, her choices, and she has told me it is pointless to regret. That she did what she could do. What more can we ask of ourselves? I want to tell her, but do not, that we must ask for so much more, for everything, for love and tenderness and decency and courage. That we must be much more than comfortable, that we must be better than we think we can be, so if in some foreign tongue we are confronted by those childhood questions - "Qui êtes-vous?" "Qui suis-je?"* - we will not be afraid to answer.'


(from "Mastering the Art of French Cooking", by E.J. Levy, originally published in Salmagundi, anthologised in The Best American Essays (2005), pp 130, ed. Susan Orlean)


* "Who are you?" "Who am I?"
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the stairway

The architect wanted to build a stairway
and suspend it with silver, almost invisible
guy wires in a high-ceilinged room,
a stairway you couldn't ascend or descend
except in your dreams. But first —
because wild things are not easily seen
if what's around them is wild —
he'd make sure the house that housed it
was practical, built two-by-four by
two-by-four, slat by slat, without ornament.
The stairway would be an invitation
to anyone who felt invited by it,
and depending on your reaction he'd know
if friendship were possible.
The house he'd claim as his, but the stairway
would be designed to be ownerless,
tilted against any suggestion of a theology,
disappointing to those looking for politics.
Of course the architect knew
that over the years he'd have to build
other things the way others desired,
knew that to live in this world was to trade
a few industrious hours for one beautiful one.
Yet every night when he got home
he could imagine, as he walked in the door,
his stairway going nowhere, not for sale,
and maybe some you to whom nothing
about it need be explained, waiting,
the wine decanted, the night about to unfold.


(Stephen Dunn)


Architecture fascinates me. i love the way it allows the mind to wander and to dream, and then makes those dreams reality. i love the way it marries the abstract and the concrete. And most of all, i love the beauty of its forms, the way everything is put together to create, if done well, the perfect balance between form and function.

i found this fascinating architectural blog, BLDGBLOG, a couple of weeks back, and have been hooked ever since. In fact, it was this post on a nylon staircase that inspired this particular post today. Highly recommended, even for people who are totally clueless about architecture.
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little red dots

One of the good things about having funky friends is that you never run out of interesting ideas and cool things to toss around and talk about.

The latest from my idea larder:

"Small nations. The concept is not quantitative; it describes a situation; a destiny: small nations haven't the comfortable sense of being there always, past and future; they have all, at some point or another in their history, passed through the antechamber of death; always faced with the arrogant ignorance of the large nations, they see their existence perpetually threatened or called into question; for their very existence is a question...

Ah, small nations. Within that warm intimacy, each envies each, everyone watches everyone. "Families, I hate you!" And still another line from Gide: "There is nothing more dangerous for you than your own family, your own room, your own past.... You must leave them."

(from Testaments Betrayed: An Essay in Nine Parts, by Milan Kundera)


This is Singapore. How comforting to see it written of the European nations too. We are not alone.
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sexy poetry

Finally! A poem by a woman. i was starting to get a little concerned about the most-male poetic presence on this space.

Ok, ancient Chinese sage say, thousand mile journey begin with single step. Let this be the first step in my long journey towards bimbonicism.


The Hummingbird: A Seduction

If I were a female hummingbird perched still
And quiet on an upper myrtle branch
In the spring afternoon and if you were a male
Alone in the whole heavens before me, having parted
Yourself, for me, from cedar top and honeysuckle stem
And earth down, your body hovering in midair
Far away from jewelweed, thistle, and bee balm;

And if I watched how you fell, plummeting before me,
And how you rose again and fell, with such mastery
That I believed for a moment you were the sky
And the red-marked bird diving inside your circumference
Was just the physical revelation of the light's
Most perfect desire;

And if I saw your sweeping and sucking
Performance of swirling egg and semen in the air,
The weaving, twisting vision of red petal
And nectar and soaring rump, the rush of your wing
In its grand confusion of arcing and splitting
Created completely out of nothing just for me,

Then when you came down to me, I would call you
My own spinning bloom of ruby sage, my funnelling
Storm of sunlit sperm and pollen, my only breathless
Piece of scarlet sky, and I would bless the base
Of each of your feathers and touch the tine
Of string muscles binding your wings and taste
The odor of your glistening oils and hunt
The honey in your crimson flare
And I would take you and take you and take you
Deep into any kind of nest you ever wanted.


Pattiann Rogers
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catching the heart off guard

The last 2 lines give me the goosebumps.


Postscript

And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of a flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.


Seamus Heaney
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to take a life (part 2)

Just a little drama-mama-ish, perhaps, but definitely worth a thought.

Here. A thought. Catch.


Praise

Praise be to God who pities wankers
and has mercy on miserable bastards.
Praise be to God who pours his blessing
on reactionary warheads and racists.

For he knows what he is doing; the healthy
have no need of a doctor, the sinless
have no need of forgiveness. But, you say,
They do not deserve it. That is the point;

That is the point. When you try to wade
across the estuary at low tide, but misjudge
the distance, the currents, the soft ground
and are caught by the flood in deep schtuck,

then perhaps you will realise that God
is to be praised for delivering dickheads
from troubles they have made for themselves.
Praise be to God, who forgives sinners.

Let him who is without sin throw the first
headline. Let him who is without sin
build the gallows, prepare the noose,
say farewell to the convict with a kiss.


Harry Smart
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antifreeze

This poem scared the hell outta me a couple of years back. It felt so cold. Almost hate-filled. Now i'm looking at it again and thinking, So, where's the poetic antithesis to this? Where's the antifreeze? Actually, i daresay there aren't too many good poems on the process of thawing and melting. Most thawing people would probably be too busy savouring their ability to feel again to waste any time on writing.

Hmm. Looks like i'll have to write one myself.


Freezing

The coldness isn’t sudden, and at first you notice
Only a little drop in body temperature, as if you’ve come
Into a small museum’s air-conditioned rooms
Early in summer. And you may blame it on
Changing eyesight if you step somewhat nearer
Paintings of lovers, locking your eyes with theirs
Before you move off. As the months, sometimes years,
Pass and more and more you draw
On your childhood to warm you, until what’s left of it
Is only a raised hand or an August beach,
You start to shiver on the warmest days,
Become good at palming cards; a slight touch of frost
Forms on your eyebrows and you find yourself
Thinking almost too clearly. One afternoon
In a high windy park of seesaws, chain-rope swings
Emptily dangling under tossing maples,
You feel how stiffly you’ve begun to stand,
Arms crossed, regarding the traffic
Below on the viaduct. There’s a numbness
When you fold the paper into subway-reading squares
As you head home at evening, an unwillingness
To touch or be touched. Still, you can take command
Of an office in seconds now: Mary Lou buttons
Her upper blouse as you approach her desk,
John rolls up his sleeves. You grow precise
With money, its snowdrifts, its crystallizing—
You, who said you couldn’t add for anything
To a friend long ago. And you begin to hear
Ice crack in your voice; your smile becomes tight-lipped;
Your eyes promise nothing. In a bookshop,
You snap for assistance, your thin arms trembling like
They were about to break; and by now, when you glance
At couples clinging together under streetlights
In a web of glowing mist, you think yourself haunted,

Pretend they aren’t there. Then what was anger
Turns to cold rage. You hate softness,
Pastels and fruited drinks, the bundles of homeless
Like puffballs in the city’s corners,
Read only an inch or two of type down into any story
Concerning forgiveness. At the end of a winter
You huddled through in sweaters with mountain rams
Woven into the wool as they prepared to leap
Across deep crevices, ridges of snow lie under
Your half-open windows. Your hands against glass
Do not melt the rippled glaze, and tears
Freeze on your waxen cheeks as you stare out
Over trees growing full and all the running children.


Dick Allen
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approaching expectations

i've been such a failure at this bimbo business. Sigh. Look at the way this blogspace has turned into a literary soapbox, despite its pinkness and all the combined force of my very best intentions.

Must. Try. Harder.
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to take a life

Another storm in the media - this time about a 25 year old Vietnamese-Australian man who's been sentenced to death for attempting to smuggle 396 grams of heroin into Singapore.

Here are the facts pertinent to the case:

Van was caught in transit at Singapore's Changi Airport in December 2002 on a flight from Cambodia to Australia. He was in possession of the drugs because he was trying to raise money to clear drug-related debts incurred by his twin brother in Melbourne, Australia.

Van was convicted on 20 Mar 2004 of trafficking 396 grams of heroin and sentenced to death by hanging. On Friday Fri 21 Oct 2005, Singapore's President SR Nathan rejected Van’s appeal for clemency. He will be executed within a fortnight.

Ever since I've started thinking about these things, i've been troubled about Singapore's laws on the death penalty for drug-traffickers. From what i understand, the rationale is that drug trafficking can have multiple negative, or even fatal, effects on a disproportionately large number of people. If you think about it even further, it can even be argued that a disproportionately large number of drug addicts belong to the lower classes, and that the last thing they need is a drug addiction to further lock them in the vicious circle of poverty. Furthermore, addiction affects not only addicts, but their families as well (think dependent spouses, children, even unborn babies). It is indisputable - drug trafficking has ugly, ugly, potentially life-destroying consequences.

But a drug trafficker does not deserve to die for his crime.

Many arguments have been put forth against the death penalty being used on drug-traffickers. It has been rightly pointed out that most traffickers are no more than lackey-middlemen, and that it is the drug-lords in Colombia, Cuba, Thailand, and other far-flung locations who should bear the blame for the existence of the drug trade. It has also been pointed out that, in some cases such as the one currently in the news, the extenuating circumstances make it necessary to temper justice with mercy, and to give the criminal a second chance.

These, and other arguments, are certainly valid and compelling. But as far as i'm concerned, the real crux of the issue lies elsewhere. With or without easy access to drugs, the choice of whether or not to take drugs still lies with the individual. The drug-trafficker cannot be blamed if someone makes that choice, just as a gun-manufacturer cannot be blamed if someone decides to use a gun to kill another person, or even to kill himself. The drug trafficker does not do what he does with the specific intent of killing another human being. Drug trafficking is not murder, and does not warrant the same degree of punishment that is meted out for murder.

For these reasons, i have always been opposed to the death penalty as a punishment for drug trafficking. And if you, Gentle Reader, feel the same way, i urge you to sign the petition at the following website to register your views.

http://stophanging.com

Frankly, my dears, whether or not we give a damn will make no damn difference in the final outcome of this case. The guy is going to die, and there is nothing any ordinary citizen is going to do that will change that. But sometimes the mere act of standing up for what you believe in is a necessary step in itself, regardless of the outcome.

Stand up and be counted.
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sea canes

Half my friends are dead.
I will make you new ones, said earth.
No, give me them back, as they were, instead,
with faults and all, I cried.

Tonight I can snatch their talk
from the faint surf's drone
through the canes, but I cannot walk

on the moonlit leaves of ocean
down that white road alone,
or float with the dreaming motion

of owls leaving earth's load.
O earth, the number of friends you keep
exceeds those left to be loved.

The sea canes by the cliff flash green and silver;
they were the seraph lances of my faith,
but out of what is lost grows something stronger

that has the rational radiance of stone,
enduring moonlight, further than despair,
strong as the wind, that through dividing canes

brings those we love before us, as they were,
with faults and all, not nobler, just there.


Derek Walcott



Somehow the second half, though admittedly beautiful (oh the words... *swoon*), doesn't quite ring true. For one thing, the 'something stronger' that is gained from the speaker's loss and grief is never really identified - the abstraction of 'rational radiance', 'enduring moonlight' etc just doesn't cut it for me. It might have worked if not for the first half of the poem, which makes the loss seem too real to be redeemed by vague airy notions of spirit-conjuring sea canes.

Hmm.

It's still a beautiful poem nonetheless. The only problem is that it doesn't quite make sense.
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the syntax of things

i have always paid attention to the syntax of things: to the orderly arrangement of words in a sentence, sentences in a paragraph... Even my habitual use of the ellipsis represents an attempt to bring openness to a closure, or at least to mark it, pin it down, give it a shape and a name.

Perhaps there comes a point in every life when all those paragraphs have to turn to forests of ellipses, springing up fresh and green and untamed in a verdant flourishing of broken syntax.


since feeling is first

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other:then
laugh,leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis


e.e. cummings
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wanting...

Cyclamen

They are terribly white.
There is snow on the ground,
And a moon on the snow at night.
The sky is cut by the winter light.
Yet I, who have all these things in ken,
Am struck to the heart
By the chiselled white
Of this handful of cyclamen.


'Michael Field'


Lit-lust. i want i want i want.

i want writing that is like the cyclamen described in the poem: writing that is terribly white, that compels with its blankness.

i want i want i want...
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