Wednesday, April 20, 2011

If I Wrote A Masterpiece

If I wrote a masterpiece
I'd want it to be the quiet kind
not the kind on every channel and website
where it would be raped by haughty eyes.

My words would make you selfish; when you saw them you wouldn't share them
you would cling and grip till the whites of your knuckles show.
There would be no fanfare, no short-lived top 40 hit
just a quiet, unwavering brilliant glow

I want my work to make you muse and mull
overrun, overflowed and overfilled,
till it's goodness seeps in,
till the inspiration is distilled.

It would make you just a little depressed,
while you debated why I was someone to stay away from.
But then you would unfasten the top two buttons of your shirt
to be as open as your heart had become

You would want to know how I did it.
And I would answer without missing a beat
It was a series of sacred events that
I kept secret.

- Daryl Goh

Monday, April 11, 2011

Dream Catcher

I saw a woman step into the train
her breathlessness catching every eye
she was on a mission; dressed to kill.
Or at least with a point to prove.
And as I continue to study her,
and as she caught my gaze
and as I caught a glimpse of her soul,
I saw her spirit blackened by burnt desires.
Broken, Razed.
And for that moment we lay open like books
craving to be read, begging to be known
not wanting to be alone.
and yet our pages, browned with time,
remain unturned and untold.

Maybe one day, I'll draw enough courage
in situations like these.
to admit that I don't have it all figured out,
that I might have gotten it all wrong
and that is all right.
Let me crawl across your time zone
so these moments may be in sync.
Instinct tells me that
if You are the vine,
and we are the branches
So why are are your leaves so low?
and where is your fruit?
Are we nothing more than trees with withered roots?

Although her eyes betray her silent look,
the images that adorn her body
like pictures in a children's book.
Her tattoos each tell a story.
A geisha on her arm represents discipline,
to bring art in environments that cannot see past bare skin.
Flowers on her wrists show that deep within
is a girl waiting for her prince.
And on her foot,
a tattoo of the finest detail; a dream catcher.
To pick those that have fallen unfulfilled.

- Daryl Goh

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Woman in a Shoe by Marge Piercy

There was an old woman who lived
in a shoe, her own two shoes,
men's they were, brown and worn.
They flapped when she hobbled along.

There was an old woman who lived
in a refrigerator box under
the expressway with her cat.
January, they died curled together.

There was an old woman who lived
in a room under the roof. It
got hot, but she was scared
to open the window. It got hotter.

Too hot, too cold, too poor,
too old. Invisible unless
she annoys you, invisible
unless she gets in your way.

In fairy tales if you are kind
to an old woman, she gives you
the thing you desperately need:
an unconquerable sword, a purse

bottomless and always filled,
a magical ring. We don't believe
that anymore. Such tales were
made up by old women scared

to be thrust from the hearth,
shoved into the street to starve.
Who fears an old woman pushing
a grocery cart? She is talking

to god as she shuffles along,
her life in her pockets. You
are the true child of her heart
and you see living garbage.