• Published on

    [poem] Tormenting reprise

    A wince-inducing poem about an ex-lover. We all owe one, right? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
    Some context to explain the embedded imagery: Living in the same university dormitory, I came to know a unique knock on my bedroom door, and their pitch-perfect whistling down the staircase. Like all passionate relationships among emotionally unequipped teenagers, it ended. Beds, to phones, to nothing. For good measure, I was tormented by unwelcome, nostalgic dreams which threatened to keep me hung up, and keep me awake in protest. And this went on far too long for an adult supposedly not fond of being miserable every other day. This poem began as a codified plea to my closest friends to keep her name unheard and unspoken, but during writing, became itself an attempt at catharsis. I like to think it worked.
    From cheek-filled smiles, tight embraces, 
    gentle tapping through the door
    to teary telephonic vying 
    voices pleading "are you sure?".
    No more would waking mean mistaking 
    morning yawns for song; forsaking
    venturing beyond; taking for 
    granted every soft kiss planted.

    Now, instead, upright in bed, two 
    tight clenched arms outwardly reach
    and in the darkness, wrangle, strangling 
    ghostly necks of ghouls beseeched
    to haunt and rouse from drowse hijacked; 
    invading gentle taps attack;
    unhouse my dozing narrator and 
    render me insomniac.

    I'm sleeping lightly; weeping nightly; 
    leaving lately lit lamps throwing
    shadows over weary walls and 
    eyes, fixated; searching glowing
    screens for scenes which in between 
    each whimper, simpler sorrows bring
    a brief relief from greater grief, 
    beneath preparing morning's sting.

    Then up, ensuring bags don't show.
    Unsure of woe's kept camouflage.
    Assuring though, to every new
    relationship's ult sabotage.
    Enduring wistful wandering,
    distracting day dreams. Squandering
    each chance to re-evoke romance,
    and none for mopey maundering.

    Enough! If help of poltergeists
    is priced at five years yearning, earning
    undiscerning poems, turning
    bedmates back to unconcerning
    strangers; scrap the whole affair.
    I'll damn my dreams myself, and daren't
    sleep if creeping in, come illeg-
    itimate concessionaires.

    Expelling treasured portraits, over-
    seeing cherished film's erase
    and from my mind, expunging every
    trace of the offending face.
    Declaring war when aired, are more
    nostalgic propogandas, scored 
    by perfect whistling choirs, screening
    nightmares shot in sophomore.

    Each time her name, in stupor, came 
    clumsily tumbling out, begetting
    tearful ends, dear friends, amend
    through surreptitiously forgetting.
    Blue outbursts; to bury. Longing
    sighs; decry. Flogging to follow
    every woeful wallow. Sorrow's
    wrenching grip to firmly pry.

    And soon enough, once toughened, sturdied;
    curing of the curse contracted.
    Fervent feelings fettered; poems
    ended 'bruptly; names redacted.
    When at last, a peace - with every
    longing part deceased - at least
    by then I can pretend again
    I've forgotten
  • Published on

    [music] My Favourite Things

    Working hard with the talented Suguru Endo in the Oxford office. Yes, we scrubbed all the important research secrets from the whiteboard first, and no, you shouldn't treat your classical guitar this way.
  • Published on

    [poem] Farewell Lucidity

    A poem written in the throes of depression.
    ​I - lament lucid's leaving: lonely
    muddled musings followed only
    woozy nights; when clouded thought
    intruded moods already frought
    with feelings, hung, and livers, harmed.
    Combating torpid mornings armed
    with discontent for time ill-spent
    in scenes which now disorient.
    I ponder fondly flashbacks past
    of lost lucidity.

    Ab-sconded, not before abetting
    the delirium onsetting.
    Had it snuck night at midnight's chime,
    a stealthy exit aptly timed
    as other sorrows, lingering,
    kept dulling senses tingling
    and masked its absence, thereuntil
    abating to this numbing still.
    Woe, did you flee as escapee,
    captive lucidity?

    Per-haps if I struggle a little
    harder, restlessly, then it'll
    pity torsioned pillows twisted
    sleepily and sheets insisted
    feverishly to the floor.
    Perhaps then it'll visit for
    not my relief, at least instead
    get respite to this ruffled bed.
    Please come, if sympathetically,
    clement lucidity.

    How - long until bed-sores start sporing
    if I lie forevermore in
    mourning; early warnings flashing;
    choosing snoozing; teasing thrashing
    limbs with lamps just out of reach
    and light behind curtains beseeched
    to put a stop a wasted day;
    another morning thrown away.
    I gravely, waving on, concede.
    Farewell lucidity.
  • Published on

    [music] Butterflies and Hurricanes

    My favourite of Muse's piano solos, on Corpus Christi College's auditorium Yamaha. Didn't have enough energy for the final avant-garde key slapping!