Posting this here because it’s one of my rant-y pomes, and therefore not really the kind I’d submit anywhere!

(c) Nin Harris 2012-2013

I smooth warpaint on
my features as a mark of
war, not of seduction.

It is a reminder that the inner face
remains for the intrinsic me.

The warpaint is read as
an invitation for conquest.

There is no happy ending
for this tale; no rant
against being objectified
will be effective.

I have elected to be
a woman and by being a woman,
I mean painting my features
not hiding my curves
and letting my hair flow
like a war-general
rather than a seductress

Naturally this means
I cannot be a feminist
because I have not
decided to be gender-neutral
because I have not decided
to obliterate everything
that is womanly about me.

*

I have had a lifetime
of having a boy-cut hairstyle;
dressed in little girl clothes
chosen by an abuser
aimed at suffocating
any sign of sensuality
or womanhood.

I choose beauty not so I
can be prey or victim.

I choose beauty as an
act of aggression.

*

I choose love,
not because I like being vulnerable
I choose love because there
is nothing more empowering
or as humbling
as true knowing
and encountering.

I choose love — and this is a
fine distinction. I choose it.

Poets have written about
love being an animal
that chases you down
dark alleyways
but the truth is that in love
as in war, there is always choice,

There are many loves,
and one does not need to be
the recipient of a love given
grudgingly, against the
better nature and inclination
of its giver.

If love is not to be war then
love must be given freely
or not given at all.

If beauty is not to be war
then we should be allowed to wear
all of our colors boldly without
anyone insisting that
we remain weak and vulnerable
for them alone

Love is not the fetishising
of unnatural and imbalanced
power dialectics.

Love is not of imposed
choices by those who do
not know the strength
and complication
of our individual hearts.

If Love is not to be war
then let us choose to
be powerful and glorious
in all of our unions.

by (c) Nin Harris 2013

This is a poem that is not meant to be taken seriously. It’s a tongue-in-cheek piece of Austenite gender-roles-bending geekery. Because not all #mythicfolk poems are serious ones.

*

White shirt, green lake;
an image etched in the vision
of many would-be Lizzies enthralled by
dark curls and introspective eyes that
flash across your screen, accompanying tea at 5pm
followed by a dinner of asam pedas and rice.

Wet plastered against white cotton
and on powerpoint slides in lecture halls;
inducting a new crop to the creed
of genteel and governed love.

I smile over clenched teeth
and tell them over tea and tapioca cakes that I am like Darcy
because my good opinion, once lost is lost forever.

*

Perhaps I will be punished by
a Lizzie Bennet in a man’s form.

Perhaps, I will treat him to an awkward proposal
that despite my better judgement…

…which he will then spurn with heaving chest
and moral indignation at not being
marked a superior and highly amiable species,
like Keira Knightley in a tropical downpour
wailing his wounded anguish to the overcast skies.

*

This is before he is wooed by
bounteous estates, and massive tracts of land.

My worldly possessions
and tasteful collections will merit praise
moreso than my lordly demeanour,
introverted arrogance , and mordant wit.
He will fall in love with the lustrous green
of moneyed gardens and the white sheen
of Grecian artefacts.

Of course, quite naturally,
a wet white shirt will clinch the deal.

(c) Nin Harris 2012

When I was a some-teen, I dreamed
about a soulmate sitting on
a chair facing me in a room
filled with empty seats that
had no relevance.

There was only me and
the man who sat on the other chair.

It could have been a classroom, a conference,
a panel, a course, a strange cult meeting
in a sterile environment, or a room in
an asylum.

A chair has never been just a chair
for most of my life
And then, I started
disregarding and forgetting dreams;

a chair became just another chair.

It could have been a public lecture
in the 25th century on a space ship
as they recollected how humans first
settled on the moons of Saturn.

It could have been in a service hall
somewhere in Moscow in the 1960s.

Or, it could have been an asylum
all along, and I am still asleep
avoiding the moment
when I awaken to gaze
at white walls, to be brought
into the next room
where you await me
on the other chair
with a syringe and a kidney dish.

No.

No.

And then I started forgetting and
disregarding dreams; and every
chair lost its meaning and mystery.

My paranoias fed upon different sources,
and when they ran away,
so did my soulmates.

*

Instead I feed on soulmates that exist
on pages, in ASCII: words and numbers
that make mockery of meaning, defying it with multiplicity.

In this universe of consonants and vowels,
ambiguity between the signifier and the signified
a chair becomes whatever you say it is
and I become whoever you want me to be.

I am not Magritte’s Pipe
but you are not Magritte.

I am the Beloved, seated on the other chair
and you may paint me or smoke me or dream of me
because paranoia loves company.

(c) Nin Harris 2012

Do you know me so well
after all?

I have bared my neuroses
like Ginsberg.

My self-destructiveness
in symbolic colours
and contours like Plath.

My love is an open sore
that weeps copiously
like a troubadour’s
crocodile tears
at the disappearance
of a mistress.

And will that be all
if you can judge me
lacking like Prufrock
or childishly diabolical
like the man who
had just consumed
his Last Duchess
on the mahogany dining table?

Do you know me yet
if I have symbolically bared my breasts
like an Amazon in the woods?

Do you know if I have
been naked at all
or if I have been fully
clothed the entire time?

by (c) Nin Harris 2012

Cadence, she said.

Cadence and rhythm
and meter; timed glottal stops
for some and an almost
child-like singsong for others.

Sitting at the back in poetry readings
listening to other poets express
their words through the music of their own
voices, I am struck silence.

I do not write poetry for a year.

Cadence, she said.

Solitude births poesy;
I exhale when I read, then I inhale –
gulp and let cadence envelope me.

A one-woman poetry reading in a messy bedroom.

This is how my words are birthed.

—
Note: This is a sister-poem to Shame, both are about attending open-mic readings.

(c) Nin Harris 2012

Rapid words escape lips
and I both fume and exalt
at the fury and the cadence and the rhythm
of another’s innermost everything.

I have not had that freedom –
my words are etched in
the silent dark to sometimes
be spread out to others;
often ignored.

I imagine me at open mic;
shy, rotund, stammering,
the south east asian
accent interfering with diction
my double chins merging
into themselves and into
the apprehension of cruel wit.

I imagine the immediacy of
my words disappearing off
the parchment and ricocheting
against the cold malice
of a microphone;
the shame of my
Otherness amplified
for ridicule.

—

Note: This poem is the ghost of a memory of attending my first open-mic event and does not represent me as I am now. It is left intentionally raw.

This is somewhat belated, given that we have less than a handful of episodes to go before Season 1 ends, but I shall be posting my thoughts and spoilerish gushings here in comments. If you’ve watched the latest episode(s) or would like to discuss random things concerning previous episodes, here’s the thread for you to do!

BEWARE, HERE BE MASSIVE SPOILERS!

What is more, this thread ENCOURAGES SPOILERS! (do not read until you’ve watched the most recent episode for the week!)

This thread exists because I am likely to explode with excited spewage throughout this season, and I’d rather not be a spoiler-fiend! The thread is open for everyone who would like to rant, squee, ask questions or debate stuff to do with each episode of Season Two, Game of Thrones. I shall post my own thoughts in comments periodically.

BEWARE, HERE BE MASSIVE SPOILERS!

Or, there should be! Tally-ho!

(c) 2012 Nin Harris

I used to fear unicorns would run away from me,
because I had lost the innocence of sunrise-tinted meadows,
the first blush of dawn reflected on billowing white gowns.

Now, I roam the marshes, sometimes in watermaiden green;
others in tunics of the deepest, most tragic purple.

Some days I dance for them, in swirling red;
jangling bronze coins around my hips and ankles.

They said unicorns would forsake me.

But they come, through wind, through earth, through water.
Narwhals with their liquid song, draconic solo-hornlings from
the archipelagoes, sparkling lilac gazelles with spiralling ivory,
the dark, stolid obsidian pony from the depths of the Himalayas,
and the dappled mare from the Steppes.

When I curl upon my nest of words, they shed me of every hue
and I am left in billowing white, often tinted with the colour
of my sometime-equine companions, elected to protect
the innocence of my dreams.

Okay, okay. Spoilers, I get it. Everything else is under the “more” tag if you haven’t watched till the end of Lost, the first episode of Eureka, or until the fourth episode of Once Upon A Time.

(continue reading…)