From Category: poetry

Since reading Shakespeare in secondary school, and briefly touching upon the war poems of Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen, the seed of my love for poetry was soiled. But it didn't grow the same way that my love for books grew. I've since been following Instagram-famous poets such as Atticus, Rupi Kaur, and r.h.sin, and as much as I read and adore some of their poetry, I sometimes think to myself is this considered "real" poetry?



What is considered "real poetry" anyway? Poetry is art through language and, like many other art forms we know of, there's no real meaning, real purpose, real anything. It is simply a unique and creative creation that we make and we enjoy – and since everyone is unique in their own way (differing opinions, experiences, and perspectives on life), everyone has a different understanding of what is considered "art". So, in truth, there really is nothing in this world that would finitely define what "real poetry" is. 


For me, what I consider "real poetry" is something that takes me into another world or through an experience. Like how when I'm reading a book, I'm immersed in that universe through the imagery and language: the distinct voices and traits of the characters, the rich narration, and vividness of the descriptions. Poetry that is able to do that, and sound like a song sung from the tongue, is what I consider "real poetry". 


However, the poets like the ones I mentioned – Rupi Kaur, r.h. sin, Atticus, as well as Nikita Gill and Courtney Peppernell – all produce poetry that seem generic. Ones that follow the same themes and motifs of self-love and terrible relationships and heartbreak, or - even worse, imo - going into the "manic pixie dreamgirl" where it's like "she used to drink the wine / like how she used to love me" or something like that (basically anything by Atticus). From what I've read in their aesthetic looking poetry books and beautifully designed Instagram posts, they all seem to use the same recycled words of "she", "love", "drug", etc. and follow the same pattern or "design frame". 


Poetry is one of the most beautiful art forms, and perhaps my favourite, but with the new wave of Insta-poets, I feel this art form has been filtered down into commercialized poetry


Commercialized poetry? How I see it, it's poems that are a short and quick read that is direct and objective so anyone can read it/be universally understood. To me, this goes against the subjectivity and poetic language that poetry is well known for; as pointed out by this article. I don't want to say that poetry is an academia (which I don't think it is), but Insta-poems have ruined the core and true artistic nature of poetry that I grew up learning about through Shakespeare, Sylvia Plath, and Emily Dickinson. 


I applaud Rupi Kaur and Atticus for pioneering this new wave of poets and bringing poetry to the mainstream media, making it as popular as it was before the age and evolution of technology. But the fact that poetry had to be dialed down into something more consumable for readers, rather than as the complex expression of the nature of the artist, just kind of shows that, really, there is a lack of appreciation for poetry. 


Maybe people have different ways of expressing themselves, but something that I noticed was how easy it was to create an Instagram handle, type a bunch of words about falling in love whilst drunk on a plain white background, and become an Insta-poet - this guy did it, and he did it successfully.  


I think that there are many other great poets who definitely deserve more recognition in the mainstream, some of which includes Solmaz Sharif (she wrote a fantastic collection of poems that played with fragmentation and white space), Eileen Myles, Mary Oliver, and Jericho Brown (whose collection of poems "The Tradition", won the Pulitzer Prize in literature). If you want to take a break from short, forward, and generic Insta-poems, I highly recommend looking into these poets! 


What are your thoughts on this topic? Do you think Insta-poets are too generic and commercialized? Or is it just a new way to express in poetry? 

12.05.2020

Throughout this self-isolation, I've been doing nothing but tapping away on my keyboard and scrawling ideas and words out on my piles of A4 and A5 notebooks. And it's not just homework, finals, project planning, and journaling - but writing poetry.


April is National Poetry Month, and I wish I'd share some of the work that I've been writing up this past month, but I will be (hopefully) soon self-publish my collection. I have yet to spill the beans because my manuscript and the whole concept of my first book is still in development. Although, I've shared some of my favorites already on my Instagram which you could check out. :)

And, since I haven't posted any poetry in a while on my blog, here is also another favorite that's inspired by how I've been feeling in this quarantine-phase.

at eight in the morning
i sit outside with a cup of coffee
staring at the hanging daffodils
as they sway in the spring breeze
from the darkness of my kitchen
by myself at the table under the chandelier
at eight in the morning. 


i stir my cup, watching the froth 
gather in the centre as my spoon creates 
a whirlpool, stirring my cup. 
i think about my day ahead, staring
at the spinning froth, wondering
when i’ll get that assignment done;
wondering where i’ll roam to next
in this empty house, which room to go to,
which wall or ceiling to stare at. 


at noon, the beginning of peak sunlight,
i bury myself in my pillows, wondering 
when the day will become night. browsing
through the meaningless selections on netflix
looking for which book to read, what to write.
thinking about that assignment and when i’ll
get it done, especially on a day where I feel
lost and lonely under the peak of daylight. 


at six in the evening,
i awoke from a nap, looking at the time
and thinking about what to eat next.
i don’t have money for food and only
an unfinished pack of chips under my bed.
And frozen pizza in the freezer 
with red sangria from 1988. 


it’s almost midnight
the streets are usually sound and people are asleep
but the fluorescent light of my lamp
is keeping me up and i won’t sleep
the days just feels like it’s dragging
and i don’t feel like me
i want this night to end

i don’t want to feel lonely.
- n.i

What have you been writing for National Poetry Month? :)



Book Club


Soo, what some of you may have noticed, I'm starting a new book club! Read more about it here, or sign up right now!



*We are also still looking for people to submit their work to The Wallflower Collective as well as people to join our team! If you're interested, please go here for more info :)

4.30.2020

sunset at eight 
sunset at eight
brings enchanting golden light;
watching fate as it seeds
Cupid’s breath for the night.

the cicadas soothing buzz
with tranquility’s serene sea,
with rose radiance of clouds as 
soft as the brushstroke of da vinci.

the touch of the fingertips
like a stroke of an old painting;
the colour of love washing over you
with sensation and opaque beauty.

what is beauty?
being impassioned by life?;
the breeze of summer making your heartbeat high; ?
when a hummingbird feeds from lavender lupines?;
or the sinking of the heart at the speckle of stardust
in one’s eyes;
the kiss from a mother when a child cries…;

amongst the doves at dawn,
where lovers thrive,
beauty is sunset at eight,
in glimmering golden light.
- n.i

Related image
tsunami
gushes of water
flooding the streets,
an unceasing moment where
there's nowhere to flee.

trapped,
like a lonely sailor
in a cyclical wave,
feeling the water rise up
in my lungs
and then over my face.
- n.i
the lonely stream
black-stained tears stain her pretty pale face
running down her pretty blushed-cheeks
like dead-watered creeks
with a ghostly haze.

no more rainbow rings as
the sun sink in the horizon
red robins no longer sing...
as the autumn wind hushes
to silence.

the sky cries rain
while grey clouds clash
and the flowers wither in pain
from the surge of the storm's lash.

dead fish, she finds, with bulgy eyes
like her puffy and desperate cries.
- n.i
Related image
your touch
your touch on my soul
is like a hidden shadow -
a cold, heartless sin,
shading the flowers in the meadow.

you brush my hair
only to harvest my daisies,
you take them bare
but never remember to water them.

your touch on my soul
is like ice that never melts -
a bitter pain
that never sweats.
- n.i


11.30.2018

In honor of Asian/Pacific American Heritage month, I've written several poems about my Filipino culture. Through metaphors and imagery of nature, these poems I've written explores the issues of south east asian cultures (as well as south asian, west asian, etc.) being subjugated by east asian expectations and standards; therefore looking into racism as well as unfair stereotypes amongst the asian community. Here are a few I've written, and that are also featured in my Poetry blog. I hope you enjoy 





To further delve you deeper into this literary and artsy celebration of APAHM, I suggest you go check out Tiger Balm Project; a beautiful zine that provides a platform for the unheard voices of South East Asians, featuring many crazy talented artists, poets and writers of south east asian descent! You can find more work similar to these literary pieces I've written, so check it out!! Link is here.

I am also writing a column over at adolescent.net about biculturalism. Through the lens that is my personal experiences from growing up in a bicultural family, I explore this uncommon topic of discussion and shedding light to the potential benefits it may have to society. I use examples of my life, as a Filipino young woman growing up in a British culture. More can be found under "Cross-Cultured" through this link

Do you have other ways to celebrate Asian/Pacific American Heritage Month? Let me know in the comments below :D

5.19.2018

Now that it's the beginning of May, before starting off the month I would like to share a little poem I wrote. Since April was the National Month of Poetry, I wanted to honor one of the oldest and the most inspiring literary arts. Due to the Spring semester's Final Exams, I hadn't had the time to write anything but here I am, on summer break, and here's a little sonnet I wrote!

My sampaguita flower is lost in the wind,
with clouds blurring the sun she cannot see,
eternally running in an endless field,
confused and flightless like a broken, blind, bee.

Like the heedless cat, blue butterflies and yellow
dahlias are monotone to her eye,
she patiently watches the sunflower grow
striving for heaven's clouds in the sky.

But subdued by nature's raincloud,
she falls torpidly in an empty abyss,
trapped in the Labyrinth, unable to get out;
desperate as desiccated lilies, the sun's hand she seeks. 

A kiss by the watchful sun, she feels relief;
but wounded by confusion, her petals begin to sink. 
- n.


Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! You can look at more of my poetic works over at my portfolio: nicolespoetry.tumblr.com

5.01.2018

Being inspired and motivated, I wanted to expand my writing experiences and, so, I learned to write a sestina poem! A sestina is a poem with six stanzas of six lines and a final triplet. At the end of each stanzas is the same six words, written in six different sequences that follow a fixed pattern. It was definitely a challenge to write a sestina, but I enjoyed it and loved the experience of learning something new!

I finally polished a new one about the notion of "time" which explores the ideal that contradicts the concept: immortality.



Beyond 

As the hand turns, the precious
chime of time murmurs 
with the wings of birds as they
fly around the cage only
opened by a key which would turn 
by someone with an unfathomable yearn,


And when they yearn
for something more precious
than the chime, the birds will likely turn
towards the right path where only
the valiant can hear the murmur
and cry of lonely musings by they,


the Gods, and their lonely lullabies for they,
like the trees, yearn
for something only
attained by those with the precious
gift of listening to the murmur
of silent birds as they cry; but when they turn


the key, they turn
the key to a future where they,
the birds, are free to dance and murmur 
silently around those with the yearn
for something more precious
than an imprisoning idea, which only


the courageous can conquer, where only
freedom is at their door for which they can turn
the key to and sacrifice their precious
memories of love, for they 
desire the thing they yearn
for, which is to hear birds flying and hear the bird's murmur,


and the sound of the bird's murmur
would be like the sound of freedom. We are only
humans with the longing yearn
for something beyond our ambitions but are too rigid to turn
to the path towards they,
the Gods, with the ideal that's unattainable and too precious.

For the silent cry and murmur
of the flying birds may only
be the fiction that we, humans, falsely yearn.


- n


I'm hoping its concept is understandable - let me know what you think!

9.10.2017

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