Tag Archives: poetry

Poem: “For Whom Does the Alarm Bell Toll?”

Good night 6 a.m.
From staying up way too late
From getting out of my bed as the sun
Comes down with my feet as they meet
The ground, the morning, reality

The first solid truth since I went to sleep
All those years ago comes to light in a
Lightless room in the morning of the
Afternoon as my feet come to meet
The ground, the afternoon, reality

Alive or just breathing?
Awake or still dreaming?
Is it morning or afternoon?
Am I late or is it soon?
The waking truth is that
At the centre of the clock is I
And at its rims is death
Circling without cessation
Ignorant of irrelevant time
He is waiting

For whom does the alarm bell toll?
I couldn’t care less;
I’m getting out of bed

Written for going to sleep at six in the morning and getting up at four in the afternoon.

Poem: “Of Trudging Through Rain in Wintry Summer”

These are the truest blues
That I have ever felt

It happened in summer
Not quite summer
The rain still fell, albeit half-heartedly
From a decaying grey sky
That never quite died

Only receding, as an adolescent whim
Hastily, hesitantly, unsure
Pitter patter pitter patter

To reveal grand blue
And illuminating yellow
And free white

I learned it that summer:
Grand and illuminating and free were not
As permanent residents. They come and go
Vagrants that ought to have stayed

When I needed them more than anything
Pitter patter pitter patter

And I am alone again
And suddenly the walls crumble and fade
And suddenly I am without home nor heart

I am the vagrant
I have always been the vagrant
The light rain batters my bare skin
And no sky’s blue
Could ever be as true
As that which my eyes and soul and body now wear

Pitter patter pitter patter
It erodes me


Written for the first days of Melbourne’s summer of 2013, in which it rained like July. We had not seen spring that year.

Ekphrastic Poem: A Room of Paper

A room of paper,

Before and after,

And during the flight of planes.

 

A sheet of paper as white as milk,

Divided into right-angled shapes,

Individual sheets with aspirations and destinies.

 

Each individual blank page,

Shaped by the hands of their creators,

Prepared to take flight.

 

Wings folded, then folded again

A nose and tailed creased into shape,

Poised to wreak chaos and destruction.

 

The varied lives of human hands leave

The hands of their creator,

Filled with energy out into the world.

 

A quiet flap reaches a crescendo,

Following spiralling paths of their choosing,

Their travels create small creases and wrinkles.

 

The dull percussion becomes louder still,

The constant stream increasing,

A snow of paper covering the room for reading.

 

Those planes no longer fit for flight,

Compressed into a lifetime of events between covers,

The youngest the blank, the oldest the most written.

 

Eventually there must be an after, the planes must go away,

They will no longer leave and fly,

Sheets once blank and white but now all faded and wrinkled.

 

A room of paper,

Before and after,

And during the flight of planes.

 

 

 

Based on Ross Coulter’s 10,000 Paper Planes

The Green

I am everything, I am the Green.

I bear the everlasting cycle of life supreme,

As far as the eye can see, I am all clean.

 

I am pure, undeniably pristine,

Throughout me, life will harmoniously teem;

I am everything, I am the Green.

 

I wasn’t quite sure what it was supposed to mean-

When monkeys stand up, and speak and dream.

As far as the eye can see, I am still clean.

 

My brother, the Blue, carries an ugly black sheen,

All from a human oil ocean transportation scheme,

I am no longer everything, but I am still the Green.

 

These humans see me as nothing more than a latrine,

No matter how much I try, I cannot scream.

As far as the eye can see, I am a far cry from clean.

 

My body holds not life but the greasy dead machine,

Everywhere, destruction seems to be the recent theme.

I am nothing, in only name I am the Green.

As far as the eye can see, I am no longer clean.

 

 

This is a just villanelle I wrote. Just randomly.

Kevin Tang 10F

Suspicion

Me meeting you was surely propitious.

At first sight, my heart is desire-stricken

Your perfection is kind of suspicious

 

When I near, you seem to beckon, surreptitious,

Your overpowering presence forces my heart to quicken,

Me meeting you was surely propitious.

 

You aren’t prone, like some, to being capricious,

Before, meeting you was just pointless ambition,

You being here is kind of suspicious.

 

When you’re in here, I find it’s auspicious

That the mercury on those thermometers thicken,

Me meeting you was surely propitious.

 

Your succulent flesh would surely be delicious

I want to devour you, irresistible chicken

I don’t believe that would be at all suspicious

 

But although, for sure, you are very nutritious

Eating you has caused me to sicken

Me meeting you was surely propitious.

But, I guess now, it’s slightly suspicious

 

Some villanelle I wrote. It’s about chickens.

-Kevin Tang 10F

Vellum – Shourye Dwivedi

Vellum

A yellowed plane of being

Is turned by a furious hand

As I dance from scene to scene

Running amid the world of yesterdays.


They shout out to me:

“Save us!” The scream

As a jeweled tear drips from my eye

For poor the unseen, unheards.


Yet we are forgotten,

Permanently tethered

To the plane

As the world about us changes


I look about the edge of infinity

Upon our world,

Like none before


And for the last moment I dance

For the last moment I skip

For the last moment

My heart


Feels joy

The old man of yesteryear – Shourye Dwivedi

The Old Man of Yesteryear

 

Tick! Tock!

Sounds the clock.

It’s whispering voice

Does multiply, among the halls

It’s taunt and malice, divide and duplicate

To fill the hearts of all.

It’s empty predictability

Does resign the sane man to death.

 

Tick! Tock!

Yet the clock,

Is but an arm,

To a greater being,

Whose foul impassivity,

Whose obsidian eyes,

Whose very breath,

Is misery.

 

Tick! Tock!

An empty knock,

and at my door was he.

I saw him then.

I saw his face.

His fleeting image is clean’d not,

By even the beauties of nature.

For they reel at his sight,

And they melt at his touch,

Deforming,

Into beasts.

 

Tick! Tock!

An old man – Look!

Crumpled as a killed spider.

His uncouth bristles,

Two shriveled hands,

A valleyed brow,

And eyes empty.

His breath sojourned,

He lies in the street

Broken.

 

Tick! Tock!

It takes him

Grasping with its talon’d hands

And the candle

Dimm’d to eternity

Quietly dissipates

And all is as it once was

White.

Cold.

Lifeless.