[pathopoetry] Mmm (my edible baby)

Mmm, my edible baby, that indelible smell -
I dreamt you turned into a chocolate cake
and I ate you.

You came, a cross-species conglomeration:
kitten cries, froggy legs, feeding like a nestling -
how we discovered, sampling chipmunk cheeks,
that around you, we all turn cannibal

what alarm I felt in that dream halfway through
my indulgence of you - tried to reverse you to existence -
such relief when I awoke and I saw you lying there -
sweet little chocolate peach

with soft breadroll ankles

darling, you consume me, but I can't do the same
instead, I will sip you with kisses.

[pathopoetry] I am glad you are coming

I am glad you are coming
not quietly, but with fervour
reminding me of your presence
with strong insistence
don't forget me, you press me
I smile, reassured

not still, but with urgency
don't forget me; I imagine
your feet kicking out
to imprint my abdomen
just to make sure
and I'm proud

both of us nameless
love's double-blindness
I lay my hands to feel
you searching inside me
I am here, I am waiting
you have claimed my remembrance
you have gripped me in love

come out strong
come out screaming
I will be weak
and lost for words

Something fresh

Goodness, I just realized that this blog hasn't been updated since January, 2010 (read: 6 months, half a year, approximately 180 days give-or-take).

Ce n'est pas mort.

Let's go through a chronological list of major occurrences that may explain this (read: excuses, albeit reasonable ones).

January 2009 - Got married
November 2009 - Got pregnant
August 2010 (pending) - Giving birth (God willing)

Throw in a significantly increased workload, planning a delayed wedding reception, the logistics of your spouse moving to a new country, the 360 degree shift in perspective that comes out of sharing your life with someone, and all the wonderful and not so wonderful changes that are part and parcel of having a dependant foetus inside you, and you can see how consistent blogging loses its place on the priority list.

But does poetry?

There's the beauty of it. It simply can't, because poetry is lived. Just like you demonstrate science every day through simply going through your daily functions, you can't escape the poetry of your daily life. And honestly, I've been living poetry far better than anything I could possibly record in writing. For the first time in my life, I don't think I can capture my feelings and experiences during this whirlwind time, even in the medium I have always turned to in order to express the innermost sentiments of my existence.

Hmm. Well, now that I have a bit of time, maybe I can try.

So, whatever decent thing I can pen will go here, of course. But count on, perhaps, a complete disregard once more of this cherished space, once my baby – God willing – comes home.

Because the one thing I love more than writing poetry, is living it.

the fly in the kitchen

There are dishes in both sinks, and a fly
glides languidly through the kitchen air
In multidimensional sweeping curves
glorious to graph on every plane

a casual audacious promenade
incriminating the state of my affairs

love, though perturbed, kept silent for the peace
sliding me through on sympathy
not knowing how to coast on this affection
confusedly I idled, then careened
in self-expanding potholes
my dazed tires spin

stalling myself by discovering
excuses with elaborate taxonomies
distancing them from a feared common node -
a soul undisciplined

so watch me with your thousand-shards of eye
as you land, dexterous horizontal, at the window
like a shuttle on Mars, to survey
an undisputed territory you claim -
to challenge my response at your reign

and will I say again I'll deal with you in time
or make no answer, mute my mind, and drive