Neighbours

During Hari Raya she knocks on my conscience,
I knock on her door and I give her cakes.

She says she likes them and gives me
Sweets with gelatine inside. I throw them away.

Poor woman, doesn't know how to make cakes.
Her children eat Maggi after school everyday.

That's why the elder one is in Normal stream
And the younger one can't spell her name.

If I was her age I wouldn't be wearing shorts at home.
No shame, she doesn't know how to hide her womanhood.

When the children are naughty and I beat them
I close the door: I hear she's a gossip.

But she beats her children harder than I do
What to do her children are like that.

I once hear her scream she wanted to kill herself.
These people never value their own lives.

Other times I see her I smile and she smiles back
And her children smile and call me auntie.

But in our hands we hold with fists clenched tight
The keys to our homes, each night we slam the bolt shut.

                                                            

                                                                                       Alfian Sa'at

[Vicki] Love Songs - Mina Loy

I.

Spawn of Fantasies
Silting the appraisable
Pig Cupid his rosy snout
Rooting erotic garbage
'Once upon a time'
Pulls a weed white star-topped
Among wild oats sown in mucous-membrane

I would an eye in a Bengal light
Eternity in a sky-rocket
Constellations in an ocean
Whose rivers run no fresher
Than a trickle of saliva

These are suspect places

I must live in my lantern
Trimming subliminal flicker
Virginal to the bellows
Of Experience

Coloured glass 



[Vicki]

[Vicki] Tell Me About Yourself When You Were 17 - Naomi Shihab Nye

We would lie down on the grass in the steamy dark, cypress trees rimming our kisses, their stoic, silent height. Was it bad luck to kiss on a grave? No one could have told us how much would disappear within a year. The best cat, run over by the one who loved him. Grandmother, and the lady who owned the horses. My favorite field. I would stroke your smooth Mexican skin and you would not talk to me, hardly ever, but you would meet me on the plot of the 1924 priest and close your eyes. I could feel the cloud passing over the moon without looking up and I would never find you in a telephone book for the rest of my life.

Tell Me About Yourself When You Were 17 - Naomi Shihab Nye

[Vicki]

[Vicki] We Grow Accustomed to the Dark - Emily Dickinson

We grow accustomed to the Dark—
When light is put away—
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye—

A Moment—We uncertain step
For newness of the night—
Then—fit our Vision to the Dark—
And meet the Road—erect—

And so of larger—Darkness—
Those Evenings of the Brain—
When not a Moon disclose a sign—
Or Star—come out—within—

The Bravest—grope a little—
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead—
But as they learn to see—

Either the Darkness alters—
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight—
And Life steps almost straight.


[Vicki]

[Vicki] The Lady's Dressing Room - Jonathan Swift

  FIVE Hours, (and who can do it less in?)
   By haughty Celia spent in Dressing;
   The Goddess from her Chamber issues,
   Array'd in Lace, Brocades and Tissues.
        Strephon, who found the Room was void,
    And Betty otherwise employ'd;
    Stole in, and took a strict Survey,
    Of all the Litter as it lay;
    Whereof, to make the Matter clear,
    An Inventory follows here.
        And first a dirty Smock appear'd,
    Beneath the Arm-pits well besmear'd.
    Strephon, the Rogue, display'd it wide,
    And turn'd it round on every Side.
    On such a Point few Words are best,
    And Strephon bids us guess the rest;
    But swears how damnably the Men lie,
    In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.
    Now listen while he next produces
    The various Combs for various Uses,
    Fill'd up with Dirt so closely fixt,
    No Brush could force a way betwixt.
    A Paste of Composition rare,
    Sweat, Dandriff, Powder, Lead and Hair;
    A Forehead Cloth with Oyl upon't
    To smooth the Wrinkles on her Front;
    Here Allum Flower to stop the Steams,
    Exhal'd from sour unsavoury Streams,
    There Night-gloves made of Tripsy's Hide,
    Bequeath'd by Tripsy when she dy'd,
    With Puppy Water, Beauty's Help
    Distill'd from Tripsy's darling Whelp;
    Here Gallypots and Vials plac'd,
    Some fill'd with Washes, some with Paste,
    Some with Pomatum, Paints and Slops,
    And Ointments good for scabby Chops.
    Hard by a filthy Bason stands,
    Fowl'd with the Scouring of her Hands;
    The Bason takes whatever comes
    The Scrapings of her Teeth and Gums,
    A nasty Compound of all Hues,
    For here she spits, and here she spues.
    But oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's Bowels,
    When he beheld and smelt the Towels,
    Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd
    With Dirt, and Sweat, and Ear-Wax grim'd.
    No Object Strephon's Eye escapes,
    Here Pettycoats in frowzy Heaps;
    Nor be the Handkerchiefs forgot
    All varnish'd o'er with Snuff and Snot.
    The Stockings why shou'd I expose,
    Stain'd with the Marks of stinking Toes;
    Or greasy Coifs and Pinners reeking,
    Which Celia slept at least a Week in?
    A Pair of Tweezers next he found
    To pluck her Brows in Arches round,
    Or Hairs that sink the Forehead low,
    Or on her Chin like Bristles grow.
        The Virtues we must not let pass,
    Of Celia's magnifying Glass.
    When frighted Strephon cast his Eye on't
    It shew'd the Visage of a Gyant.
    A Glass that can to Sight disclose,
    The smallest Worm in Celia's Nose,
    And faithfully direct her Nail
    To squeeze it out from Head to Tail;
    For catch it nicely by the Head,
    It must come out alive or dead.
        Why Strephon will you tell the rest?
    And must you needs describe the Chest?
    That careless Wench! no Creature warn her
    To move it out from yonder Corner;
    But leave it standing full in Sight
    For you to exercise your Spight.
    In vain, the Workmen shew'd his Wit
    With Rings and Hinges counterfeit
    To make it seem in this Disguise
    A Cabinet to vulgar Eyes;
    For Strephon ventur'd to look in,
    Resolv'd to go thro' thick and thin;
    He lifts the Lid, there needs no more,
    He smelt it all the Time before.
    As from within Pandora's box,
    When Epimetheus op'd the Locks,
    A sudden universal Crew
    Of humane Evils upwards flew;
    He still was comforted to find
    That Hope at last remain'd behind;
    So Strephon lifting up the lid,
    To view what in the chest was hid.
    The Vapours flew from out the Vent,
    But Strephon cautious never meant
    The Bottom of the Pan to grope,
    And fowl his Hands in Search of Hope.
    O never may such vile Machine
    Be once in Celia's Chamber seen!
    O may she better learn to keep
    "Those Secrets of the hoary deep!"
        As Mutton Cutlets, Prime of Meat,
    Which tho' with Art you salt and beat,
    As Laws of Cookery require,
    And toast them at the clearest Fire;
    If from adown the hopeful Chops
    The Fat upon a Cinder drops,
    To stinking Smoak it turns the Flame
    Pois'ning the Flesh from whence it came;
    And up exhales a greasy Stench,
    For which you curse the careless Wench;
    So Things, which must not be exprest,
    When plumpt into the reeking Chest,
    Send up an excremental Smell
    To taint the Parts from whence they fell.
    The Pettycoats and Gown perfume,
    Which waft a Stink round every Room.
        Thus finishing his grand Survey,
    Disgusted Strephon stole away
    Repeating in his amorous Fits,
    Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!
        But Vengeance, Goddess never sleeping,
    Soon punish'd Strephon for his Peeping;
    His foul Imagination links
    Each Dame he sees with all her Stinks:
    And, if unsav'ry Odours fly,
    Conceives a Lady standing by:
    All Women his Description fits,
    And both Idea's jump like Wits:
    By vicious Fancy coupled fast,
    And still appearing in Contrast.
    I pity wretched Strephon blind
    to all the Charms of Female Kind;
    Should I the Queen of Love refuse,
    Because she rose from stinking Ooze?
    To him that looks behind the Scene,
    Satira's but some pocky Quean.
    When Celia in her Glory shows,
    If Strephon would but stop his Nose;
    (Who now so impiously blasphemes
    Her Ointments, Daubs, and Paints and Creams,
    Her Washes, Slops, and every Clout,
    With which he makes so foul a Rout;)
    He soon would learn to think like me,
    And bless his ravisht Sight to see
    Such Order from Confusion sprung,
    Such gaudy Tulips rais'd from Dung.



[Vicki]

[Vicki] Cynara - Ernest Christopher Dowson

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. 




[Vicki]

[Vicki] What Do Women Want? - Kim Addonizio

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.



[Vicki]

[Vicki] Poetry - Marianne Moore

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond
      all this fiddle.
   Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
      discovers in
   it after all, a place for the genuine.
      Hands that can grasp, eyes
      that can dilate, hair that can rise
         if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
      they are
   useful. When they become so derivative as to become
      unintelligible,
   the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
      do not admire what
      we cannot understand: the bat
         holding on upside down or in quest of something to 

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless
      wolf under
   a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse
      that feels a flea, the base-
   ball fan, the statistician--
      nor is it valid
         to discriminate against "business documents and

school-books"; all these phenomena are important. One must make
      a distinction
   however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
      result is not poetry,
   nor till the poets among us can be
     "literalists of
      the imagination"--above
         insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, "imaginary gardens with real toads in them,"
      shall we have
   it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
   the raw material of poetry in
      all its rawness and
      that which is on the other hand
         genuine, you are interested in poetry.

[Vicki] 

[Vicki] Remember - Christina Rossetti

Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.      [Vicki]

[Vicki] l(a... (a leaf falls on loneliness) - e. e. cummings

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness


[vicki]

Conscience

Conscience is instinct bred in the house,
Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin
By an unnatural breeding in and in.
I say, Turn it out doors,
Into the moors.
I love a life whose plot is simple,
And does not thicken with every pimple,
A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it,
That makes the universe no worse than 't finds it.
I love an earnest soul,
Whose mighty joy and sorrow
Are not drowned in a bowl,
And brought to life to-morrow;
That lives one tragedy,
And not seventy;
A conscience worth keeping;
Laughing not weeping;
A conscience wise and steady,
And forever ready;
Not changing with events,
Dealing in compliments;
A conscience exercised about
Large things, where one may doubt.
I love a soul not all of wood,
Predestinated to be good,
But true to the backbone
Unto itself alone,
And false to none;
Born to its own affairs,
Its own joys and own cares;
By whom the work which God begun
Is finished, and not undone;
Taken up where he left off,
Whether to worship or to scoff;
If not good, why then evil,
If not good god, good devil.
Goodness! you hypocrite, come out of that,
Live your life, do your work, then take your hat.
I have no patience towards
Such conscientious cowards.
Give me simple laboring folk,
Who love their work,
Whose virtue is song
To cheer God along.

Henry David Thoreau

[Rachel]