pentacular

The Snow White Blood of Mahsuri.

2006-09-10T04:14:00.000-07:00

This legend is found on the island of Langkawi which is in a Malaysian archepelago. I have described the legend in the usual way. I will attempt a longer version from the perspective of each of the characters and maybe invent a new message, it seems this legend is worth it. Marble is the main product of Langkawi. The torch ginger (or Bunga Kantan) is a national flower of Malaysia. Gunung Raya is the highest point on Langkawi (which means Eagle Island). Makam Mahsuri is the tomb of Mahsuri which exists today in Langkawi. Also, the curse of Mahsuri was apparently for seven generations, and many in Langkawi today believe the present prosperity of their home (mainly tourism) has come after 7 generations of tragedy and poor harvests including the Thai (Siamese) invasion of 1821.

The Snow White Blood of Mahsuri

The beautiful Mahsuri shouldered iron buckets to the marble well,
met her husband Wan Darus under the palms
and the sun shone like an angel as they kissed.
Mahura the jealous crone watched, her eye-lids wrinkled in despair.

On her wedding day Mahsuri’s hair glittered.
Because the marble roads of Langkawi sparkled like her eyes
Mahura plucked from the apple tree
a fruit full of pain.

Mahsuri played in the ocean cupping the salty water
in her hands for signs of revelation
Will I be happy? What is my destiny?
How will Langkawi receive my progeny?

The foam followed the lines of her palm,
she knew her destiny would be strange.
Mahura coloured the apple blood red
and went to find Mahsuri.

She saw her by the well, alone, dancing for the beauty of love
the misery of worry, for Wan Darus was away at war.
Radiant child, life is hard. You dance now
but come the full moon you will know sorrow.

Mahsuri looked with pity on the hag
and knew sorrow slept in rags, felt no pity
and borrowed the owl’s eyes.
No matter, when Wan returns

we shall make love and the fields of Langkawi
shall twinkle like diamonds with torch ginger
and Mahura will find happiness too.
Laughter and anger stroked each other in a look

as the crone gave her apple to Mahsuri.
The night slipped its knife into Mahura’s grip,
she spied a traveller come to sell
Mahsuri the cloth to drape on her marriage table.

Who comes to the bride while her love is away?
Look people, she takes in her death wantonly.
Mahsuri grew plump with joy, a girl or boy,
she linked her hands with her sisters around the great palm.

The village rejoiced for Mahsuri was a greater pearl
than any found in the sea, more radiant than the sheen of moon.
Mahura’s rage found no friend in the spring
or in the open spaces of the wide ocean.

She called out to Langkawi, to its people, its ancestors,
screeching like the gull
Mahsuri wears the devil’s horns, her beauty
has ensnared her with adulterous seed, the seed of Deraman.

The winds bear our ancestors grief,
look how the Eagles grow black with their anger.
Mahsuri noses the sacrificial palm
bound with the ropes of Caliphate law. Mahura danced

around the tree, her madness joy, holding the knife.
Plant this blade between her shoulder blades,
our laws call for adulterer’s blood.
The people cried for pity, for Mahsuri must die.

People of Langkawi my blood will pool
red if I am guilty and feed the palm in
white if I am not, and if the blood of innocence falls
the rage of the ancient Eagles will strip your children poor.

Mahura screamed this beauty must die
and plunged the knife in to let the river flow.
Wan Darus and the people cried as
white blood pooled around Mahsuri’s weeping body.

For seven score years the curse of Mahsuri called the Siamese kings
to rape the land and cull the crops.
This beauty must die, this beauty must die,
Mahura cried as she flung herself from Gunung Raya into the sea.

Bunga kantan lie heaped on the Makam Mahsuri
Her curse now a memory of a terrible beauty
Wan woke Mahsuri with a kiss for the new world
and they dance there together, and riches come.

2006-09-04T06:35:00.000-07:00

here's one for all the fanatics of letters. Dont try teach this to the kiddies. The title reads alphabe -debater, in case you're wondering.

AlphaBedaBater

Z the sleep at the end of the world
Y the question before the sleep
X the spot that marks the answer
W the double you upon the bed, writhing
V the angle of two lovers who see eye to eye
U the you that is always you
T the crossing of you and double you
S the winding river of analysis
R the you you are
Q the question before you
P the you you are on one leg, standing
O the illusion of the double you
N in terms of logic, invalid UPON application
M lovers bending low to kiss their toes
L surrendering to the crossing of you and double you
K holding the waist in hard for a kiss
J the hook of you
I the question of you
H you on end, double backed you
G circling round to get a good look at the hook of you
F the corporal appearance of you on one foot, standing
E which is a mirror of the divine essence
D that holds the question of you in its finger tips
C but does not close the circle of the eye to see
B what you may be
A and what is A but a...?

2006-08-06T06:14:00.000-07:00

On the subject of what is good poetry there are many opinions, many held very strongly. The following is one person's view of the craft of writing. I will post it here because it may save some budding poets a little time and agony. Remember the critic always bows to the poet, one creates, the other simply reacts.

"10 golden rules:
· Show, don't tell
· Do more with less
· Exploit the senses
· Be specific
· Use memory
· Create vivid imagery
· Match sound with meaning
· Start with basics - not rhyme
· Use rhythm & line breaks
· Compare with similes and metaphors

On coming on the Internet a few years ago the first Site I joined was an academic-type one very highbrow. A cliché, or fragmented verse was treated almost as a sin. In the process they would tear peoples poetry apart until one was left with a wasteland of mere words without imagery. Its common sense to try to avoid clichés if possible. In a love poem it’s really ideal to avoid the word “love” find Your imagery to convey the love, this is important [though Personally one or even two references to the word “love” In my opinion is fine especially in longer poems. Again watch out for overuse of these classic cliché words “Soul, love, spirit, heart, sky, “ and repetition is to be Avoided we use words to link others very frequently in poetry “ I, it, and, and, or,” they can make a poem boring To the reader and predictable, to many “ and” can spoil a good poem. imagery lies at the heart of a poem. Much of any language is built of dead metaphors, and metaphors in poetry are more sleeping than dead. To put the matter concisely: imagery is the content of thought where attention is directed to sensory qualities: mental images, figures of speech and embodiments of non-discursive truth. Suggestions Consider using imagery to:
1. Externalize thought.
2. Create mood and atmosphere.
3. Give continuity by recurring leitmotifs.
4. Develop plot or increase dramatic effect by abrupt changes in imagery.
5. Exploit the etymology of words to subtly revive their original meanings. "

Four year old spelling bee

2006-07-28T17:13:00.000-07:00

My son S (4) just spelled out his sister's name. He has known how to spell his own since he was 3, but this was his first correct attempt at someone else's name. What a marvellous thing the human mind is, and how hard-wired we are for language. Of course, being a writer, my first reaction was "He's going to be a writer!!" My wife's C's reaction was typical "Oh, so you've got his life all worked out huh?". Well, one can only dream.

Too mindful of you.

2006-07-26T04:22:00.000-07:00

Should I ever destroy my wiles?
If need be, look in the broken closet nearest the classroom door where the subject of my strangest work is busy escaping from his bruises by hypnotically prattling out his name. I'm Robes Pierre, I'm Robes Pierre, I'm...
Crying until his tears wash him into hypothermic shivering.

"Some revenge is better than others, you councel others, you should know", Brumhilda retorted after I swerved over a road bump in her will.
She was chloric, cathartic in her spits and spats. "He was never there", "he was a right pimp",
and choking for the death of him.
If only it were that easy.

Turn the wheel, I intoned again and again,
recognize what is insufficient and excessive, deliberate.
Turn, cram the cranium with credulities, the wheel, turn.
She must have caught me looking in at pure Samadhi,
"I have a baby y'know; its his", her gaze falling like ice into water.

"I am not able to be surprised so this, my candour, is not indifference
but detachment for...", I shuffle forward thinking...otherwise, she
might be less imformative.
Brumhilda blanches, remembers how she is, so slapping desired destiny
wasting pot shots on a crack-pot, bearing the runt.
"I wish I was back on the Spirit of Tasmania, the shifts were hard,
but the travel was excellent". Her round pocked face now pallid
but then the colour of stress,. Her eyes, spectacle shadows.

"Turn the wheel toward the mind", I implored. "You face a closet
broken and bruised and your mantra is mumbled and jumbled
into incoherence.
Nothing for restoration.
Your attackers lie in the ditch you dug for trust, you but stike a dagger
into mirror".

Sensible mind, how I wrote you out.
The wheels of the bus go round and round, round and round...
Facts falcified, gnostic notions nullified, child's jargon jettisoned.
The wheels of the bus go round and round, all the living day

Opting for a good night's sleep

2006-07-18T07:30:00.000-07:00

Could I abandon my craft, ever? In the event of my dissemination
please refer to my previous itinerary. The setting of my latest work
is an abandoned building, the Narrator despairing for a good meal
a soft hand, a lonely bed, slips into a crack in the pavement,
and the whole open sky fits into the eddy he creates as he spins into

non-existence. Relax, I would say, hold on to breath at the top of your breath
then hold again as you breathe
out,
do not attempt to breathe just breathe, I would say.

The sessions as instructor are complete. At least now I can hang out with the silence
listening to John Lennon’s wheels, strumming at the internal drum machine
always on the make-out for a song.
What have you got to offer me? Jude asked at the beginning.
I could only offer the seat next to tomorrow

Tomorrow came and the questions came but I was writing
and the flow of elocution was adverse to conversation.
Jude mouthed out the same story as yesterday, his woman
loved him and wanted him exclusively but was marrying another
because Jude didn’t know if he wanted her.

There he goes throwing his hands back
slapping his balding head.
What was there to be sure of? I asked
noting the cast-away expression he used
to denote his nuptial umbilical.

For weeks I would say "relax" and he would run
panicking into tomorrow, finding ways
but never settling on the top of his breath
always attempting to breathe

Fiddling with the pen lid, sweat ribald on his lip
anger mounting, "but she loves me"
"Jude" I would say, "you are in an abandoned building
despairing for sustenance, a soft lip to caress, a bed
you are slipping through a crack in your bereavement"

As instructor I thought, "What of myself? How many cracks
does it take to fill the Albert Hall?"

She married.
Jude would not take her at the altar preferring
the might-be babe fate would concoct for him
out of pity for all the slighted lovers of fair-play.
"I blamed you" he ventured cheekily once the truth had hit
"you knew, you said, I would run, but now all I want is her"

I saw eddies spiraling inward as he talked
becoming smaller like an ink spill drying
until I soaked up the rest in my quill
for I could never abandon my craft.

What is Post-Modernism?

2006-07-18T06:20:00.000-07:00

What is postmodernism? Well, apart from the library of material you might encounter on a search to answer this question, one thing is for certain. No one really knows. Literally it means after-modernism, which means one has to know what modernism is before you can answer the former. So its better to get to know what modernism is first, but I want to skip this. Presume modernism has gone forever and has been replaced by another form of thinking. Just say that modernism at its last was, in the poetic world, an experiment that exploded the classical forms of poetry and ushered in a free-for all of form. Post-modernism attempts to fence in the 'voice' of poetic elocution because free-form has destroyed the boundary between prose and poetry. As one critic recently stated, "...poetry is not a different language to prose, rather, it is a use of the same language in a different way. There is no reason why one should use a "hightened" or mysterious vocabulary, or to aim for an emotional register that is different from the one you would use in commenting on someone else's poem in a crit". This is post modern understanding of poetry in a nutshell. The central aim is for the voice of the writer to be present without any rhetorical corruptions or abstract rendition. "Go for meaning first, and the music of rich sounds." he also stated.
The self consciousness of modernism turned abruptly (60's to 00's) toward un-selfconsciousness, and the prose revolution was complete. What Dicken's started back in post-medieval England with the Novel, is now as powerful an expressive force as anything the human species has constructed. The poetry that most associate with, what they were taught in school, are now museum pieces worthy only of a glass box. Most good poets will attempt to formalise, or use traditional forms (ie:sonnets or rounds) for the sake of crafting their voice and testing out their ability to word-craft. Yet the traditional forms are a curiosity, born of a long history of spiritual upheaval. Dicken's revolution has not yet revolved fully, and the flurry of new forms are still in the making. What is expected now is that if you have a voice, it better come from your experience and any wordplay must find a significance within the linearity of the text. Imagination is now no longer looking into the mystery of language but at its aesthetics. Un-selfconscious prose is at one extreme journalism, and at the other poetry. How far one walks the tightrope between defines the difference between being read and being remembered. If you speak plainly and yet condense your meanings, you will have found your post-modern style. Maybe it sounds a little easy? Probably, but who is to stop you trying!

I was no Evacuee.(Revised)

2006-07-12T03:00:00.001-07:00

This is a revision of I was no Evacuee. There are a few little details that have been changed, have fun finding them.

Grafting my bones to the antipodes I
could not leave that little country
The pulse from Her bosom beating me back
to my first open skies, Her cold misty moonlight

She was no mother but a place I could not venture from.
So She came to me, a river surmounting its banks,
and I had but enough sand on my edges for forgetfulness,
all but soon washed away as I saw your tears,

my mother,
for the lazy cobbles, the half-pinched puppet face crier,
slinging his bell, singing Milkoo, milkoo,
as he blew warm air into his writhing hands

The daft playing places left from the air strikes
the last tears of regret because Father was never coming home,
his body washed up full of the demon fire;
you were with the stolen generation of England

Not refugees, nor locked away on some tragic island
but worse, for you would return to the great city
that was no longer London,
but a river swept waif.

We wait for some un-named revolution.

2006-07-03T05:32:00.000-07:00

Some divide the day, unevenly
returning home in perfect stealth
when worry has placed a noose
around the neck of night.

Small noises infested with
dangers, the popping of girders,
the crackle of wood contracting
as the cold of early morning tightens.

Holding the head up from the pillow
for every cat-call, as the alarm clock
prepares the wake from sleeplessness
to the shower, troubled .

Is that a door opening? Voices?
Oh why every night?
The look of guilt is slowly becoming
defiance.

I was no Evacuee

2006-06-26T03:53:00.000-07:00

Well, on the inspiration of Tankeduptaco, I have written a small piece about my mother who was forcibly evacuated by the British government from London to Cornwall whilst the Germans were bombing London. It's title is "I was no Evacuee". Enjoy, please feel free to criticise.

I was no Evacuee.

Grafting my bones to the antipodes I
could not leave that little country

The pulse of birth beating bosem back
to Her first open skies, cloudy moons

She was no mother but a place
I could venture no further from,

so She came to me, a river surmounting
its banks, and I had but sand on my edges

enough for forgetfulness, but soon washed
away as I saw your tears for the lazy cobbles

the half-pinched puppet face crier, bell slinging
"Milko, milko", as he blew into his wringing hands

the daft playing places left from the air strikes
the last tears of regret because Father was never coming home

his body washed up full of the demon fire;
you were with the stolen generation of England

not refugees, nor locked away on some tragic island
but worse, for you would return to the great city

that was no longer London,
but a river swept waif

What's sort of critique will help you?

2006-06-14T02:49:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been critiqued so harshly that it blew your confidence out the window? It is a common problem in many areas and disciplines, but its not the critique that is the problem. The problem is when an artist feels so disheartened that he/she gives up in despair. Some poetry chat sites and forums are set up to give encouragement to beginning writers, some are set up for the heavy stuff. The heavy sites call the encouraging ones "vanity" sites, whereas the encouraging ones steer clear of the heavy ones in case they come across that damaging critique that might put them off. I think its good to have a balance. Critical analysis can both encourage and damage, but its up to the artist to keep going and take the advice correctly. One critique of a poem I recently posted went so far as to say, "don't ever write something as shit as that again!". It took me a while to come down from my rage before I read the other stuff he wrote about my poem that may have helped me with a re-draft. Because he was insulting I could have missed the opportunity to look at what else he said that may have been relevent and helpful (and was). Poets and artists in general are very touchy about their work, and can be very sensitive about negative critiques. My advice is if you receive a damning report about your work, take a few days to digest it before responding. Sometimes responding with damnation yourself will only make matters worse, and you might not get the critique that will help your work become great. If you are a writer and want feedback, the forums are fantastic, but something like The Gazebo can be a dangerous place to wade if you are a little sensitive about truthful (even if arrogant) critique. If you are afraid, seek out the more commonplace sites on yahoo, or the like, which provide for people's feelings.

Ncodes, saying what you didnt mean to say

2006-05-27T05:17:00.000-07:00

Here is a little puzzle for all you puzzle freaks out there. How do you write something without intending to? Most of the time I say heaps of things I dont intend to, and wish I hadnt. But when it comes to writing, well most of the time I consider what i am going to write well before it appears in print. That is unless you try this... now the aim of what i will show you is not simply for fun, although that is the intended experience really. The technique I will now share i have named Ncoded poems, and it really only takes a little imaginative exploration and a good first line. The result, as you will see, can be really quite suprising and the message that emerges from what seems like a relatively simple idea can make Da-Vinci blush ("Damm, I wish I'd thought of it" sayeth he).

First, just think for a moment of one 7 - 9 word line that might be the first line of a poem or statement. Anything will do, as long as its not too dry. Like, [I would have been first but for her...] or [ So the moment of my will did pass..] etc. Actually the example i shall use is this one

I would never have stolen her

Now you have to space the words out so that they are able to be put into columns. The second line is now positioned under the first line and the same number of words will be used. The trick is to keep making sense, even reading down, like the Chinese read up, so that line 2 reads...

I would never have stolen her
yearning I have known her will

so that each word under the other is still containing some sense. Then, to make the 'cube' you continue to write each line making sure that the sense of each 'column' is still intact. You may have to be a bit poetically liscenced to make this work, but the end result is a poem that reads across and down and has a little code set in the end. Read the last column and the darker or deeper (or less conscious) meaning of the poem becomes clear. This way you have circumvented the consious mind and delivered a statement you were not 'considering'. This is elemental post-modern (or deconstructionist) poetry. This is my complete poem, you will see what i mean. Try it yourself, its really amazing what comes out, even if youve never written a poem before, or considered yourself capable.

I would never have stolen her
Yearning I have known her will
Where should I, no heart is
Have I known peace knowing stillness
I have perfection since the beating
not known for the suffering drums
yearned of the day to come
for the day I come closer
sweet perfection here lied, yet I willed it on

As you can see the last column reads a little differently to the sense of the overall poem. See how i squashed 4 words into the last position, this is the licence I mentioned. Puns and word play is also good to consider when playing around with this idea. Happy Ncoding!

How good poetry works

2006-05-22T04:33:00.000-07:00

Contemplation, complexification, corruption, simplification, transformation. This is how poetry works in its dialectial application. First the reader contemplates the written word, then, just by being different to the author, the reader complexifies the inital message, no matter how simple it is. Then the reader, and really this is instantaneously occuring within complexification, corrupts the intial message because he/she is, again, different to the author. Once corruption has occured the reader has no choice but to simplify according to his/her own world view, which changes the message but retains (depending on how well the author has communicated) the original essential point. Then transformation, and this is the most interesting, because, like subliminal advertising, the message has been retained within the subconscious, and then works on the consciousness of the reader. This is the way that the reader has taken the central stage in poetry, the writer (apparently : see R Bathes "Death of the Author") has become obsolete. As I am writing this I am feeling more and more transparent, my readers eyes seem to be morphing into my mind, bye all........

The Great Unblocker

2006-05-19T05:27:00.000-07:00

Inspiration doesn't come easily to most, and then even to those bursting with it, it has a habit of dissapating for long periods of time. Why is this? Well there are many books on the market that try to answer that very question, but there is no golden rule. Inspiration comes when it comes is most peoples answer, and that is that. Ce la Vie. It is easier for some than others to come up with book after book. Tolstoy apparently mumbled just before his death, 'but I've only just begun to say what I wanted'. And he wrote libraries full of works. Shostakovich, the great Russian composer was interrupted one day at his desk by a masters student whom he was guiding, 'Master, please will you help me find a melody for my thesis?'. Shostakovich looked at his student non-plussed, 'why can't you just find one, look ....' and he motioned his student's eyes to his pile of notes which by all accounts were mountainous. Some of us just don't know the limitations of others, and some don't know their own limitations. But rest assured, they have all suffered from the 'block' at some stage or other. I think that in order for inspiration to come one has to have long periods of suffering in the blank stoney silence of thought-abscence. The build up might be difficult but what comes out is worth it. However, there are ways to break the battle with the blank. In my next few posts I will show you how it is done. The techniques are not new alltogether but I think may seem a little radical to some because they involve the use of intuitive development devices like the Tarot cards and Astrology. However this means of breaking dead-lock with the mind has been used in things like affirmational cards and flash cards, which are still used to teach literacy in schools right throughout the world.

Method 1 : The Primary System

Get a set of cards, playing cards, tarot cards, swap cards, anything with pictures, even a magazine. The first rule is to have a pen and paper handy, be relaxed, and have no distractions. Right, now you are ready. The second rule is that of random selection. Do not try to guess what will come up or turn up pictures on purpose that you know will be what you want. The idea is to shock the mind into working for you. Ok, turn over a card, or a picture. The Tarot is a great tool for this because each card (like the standard Rider Waite deck) tells a little story and evokes a feeling or idea. Third rule, write down immediately your impression of the card, do not think too long. If nothing comes, turn over another. Keep writing down the ideas that come until you have a little story. Most of the time a story will emerge on its own, and then you can put the cards down and off you go. This technique can be used for plot lines, character analysis, prose and poetry. Forth rule, keep going. Once inspiration is on the road the momentum is better to be maintained.

The primary method is pretty basic, I will go through some more complex ways of building plot lines and character amlysis for novel or short story writing later. I will also show how to use similar methods to develop poetry forms that can guarantee a high level of poetic insight even without training or percieved ability. All for later though, but first things first. If you are in need of a little inspiration, get out the cards and have a go.

Pentacular takes off Simply

2006-05-17T02:39:00.000-07:00

Pentacular takes off Simply
Pentimmaculate has had to disband due to password problems, so Pentacular will start with a word on the nature of the blog. There is so much information floating around the technouniverse now that the nature of the written and read word has changed. Books are not, though, a thing of the past. And they are not fast becoming a thing of the past either, they still feel better in the hand than a computer module or screen and there is still nothing like settling into an armchair with a nice cuppa to read a well worn volume of poetry, or a new novel. The Blog is like a newspaper diary, and is fly by night most of the time, which is great. So to get the ball rolling in Pentacular I will ditch the complex poem and concentrate on a simple idea. Once upon a time poetry was simple, Sufi, Sanskrit and other traditional forms were written as simple scroll adornments and mostly the calligraphy was more important than the actual words. In fact the calligraphy was an intimate part of the message, which is precisely not what can be done on the modern interface. The traditional Japanese poets and Chinese took years over presentations and their reputation was bound by the mastery of the quill. Messages, especially in Haiku and Sanskrit were mainly sensual, natural and mystical. The complexity of 20thcentury Westen poetry is a sharp contrast to these ancient forms. The direction of prose and poetry has become so enlarged with free form that the traditional forms are mostly forgotten, especially the content which was always viewed as rather simplistic and not helped by the fact that calligraphy as an art form had not made an impact on the understanding of the Westen masters, who could only see elegent brush strokes, not meanings. Most likely calligraphy as an art form has influenced modern painting and other visual media, but not the poetry. This is unlikely to return, but simplification in poetry that follows the content of the Sufis began with Ezra Pound at the beginning of last century, and has become more popular since due to the release of translations into English of the I-Ching (Book of Changes, China) and most notably, Haiku manuscripts from Japan and China. To kick of Pentacular I will post a number of simple ideas that follow the forms of the Sanskrit, if not to the letter, at least in mood and concept.

Sunscript Poems Nos. 1 - 11

Too easy the calm of love
Entrances, the passions soothed
So why should you not run at the sun?

So short the peace of the world
So long the struggle, no wonder
I take the rose and give the ring

So little gained for so much work
So much extra baggage, no suprise
I cherish the little I give

Quickly the mind moves to fool the heart
As if the mind were first
To touch the holy choice

Slowly the sands blow across continents
And I have been blowing
In your heart longer

Sweet love must always see only reflections
Of the greater love to come
So I make sweet love to you

The world, balanced, is fruitful
Unbalanced, barren, hot and cold
So I love to look in both your eyes

Sleep is close to death
For the peace it brings the soul
But for life, I would sleep with you

Sleep is not closeness to death for waking
Waking, not closeness to life, for sleep
For that, I enjoy both day and night

The rain seems to evoke sorrow
The sun, joy, a rainbow, faith
So why should I not believe your smile?

So easily passions are roused to anger
And drowned by pessimism
No wonder I love when migrating birds fly overhead

Pentacular has a new look

2006-05-16T05:47:00.000-07:00

Pentacular has a new look. Just sit back and watch this space.