Musicophilia

Musicophilia
Picture taken from the wall of The Mind Museum at BGC. The blog name "Poetophilia" was inspired by Oliver Sacks' book Musicophilia.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Dreamscape Reality

For Med. Because it is just so fitting.

The things I will never fully
Understand about my person:
One, that I hate goodbyes. I could never live with too many.
The sun sets; the sun comes back. People do not
Always; the world misses out on a lot.
Two, that I love _____ and I _____;
And I, never fully understanding,
Would often pause to wonder how or why.
But in all of this, I wish you knew.

Monday, July 08, 2013

When a Child Loves

For Med, to tell him that I'm sorry.

When a child loves, it is pure,
sincere, and founded on good reason, yielding
to what is true and becoming of love,
unfaltering. The child,
even without having the most structured build-up of rationality,
cares for what is noble and fine.
When a child loves,
he loves with all his heart, for he is innocent,
passionate, and kind.

I am no longer a child, but I know that deep
within me, a love had never died; a flame still ignites
deep within my soul. Love obtains with candor; I exude love majestically
from the depths and patterns of my nature,
even as I am no longer of that bygone innocence,
more prone now to affliction,
more impressionable now to misinterpretation,
and even more foolish now to beliefs in a delusion.
When hourglasses and wine glasses start to break,
there I will stand, at the center, as the child who is willing
to give and live and love, again, even as I am grown,
even as I learn to put on rationality to kill off my spirit, and even as I grow indifferent,
to grow to lose the passion I had once learned to love with.

Sunday, July 07, 2013

Control

For my hunting buddy, @LittleHuntress

This is me when I attempt to love in secret: the ball flings
to somewhere over the fence; my foot still thinks it did right,
and that it had never meant to strike a goal anyway. I lose control.
In my hand, I hold something that looks like a sword
or a fighting object, which I grasp tightly. Nobody
should ever take this from my possession. I use it to block people
away or hit them with, albeit not too often. Then I take my hoodie
and put on my cap. I will look like a rider for a whiledark, secretive,
mysteriousand with my weapon, I will destroy uncompromisingly.

But in my head, I am lying on the shoreline, loosening myself,
thinking of hourglasses and wineglasses unsparingly. And somehow,
I am able to bring the lost ball back again.

At the Table With You

I'm
at the table with you,
sipping coffee and passing time.
I gobble up packets of sweets while

trying
to keep my tongue from tasting
the sugar I had just popped
into my mouth,

not
being keen to facts like "sugar
has a bitter aftertaste" and "the tongue
is [usually] beyond our control," only

to
realize that time does not stop
for anything that melts fast.
I spit the particles out so as not to

fall
into a sugar rush, but the flavor
coats my tongue already, and the sensation
crawls around it irresistibly. Time never stops

for
anything at all, neither bitter nor sweet.
I excuse myself from the table, hoping that maybe
I could still wash the flavor away, but

you
stop me, hand me more sweets, and say it's for
my coffee. You have no idea: I really have to wash
this away. I have to resist those sweets.

Friday, July 05, 2013

Superorganism of My Days

Psalm 45:1
-
"Beautiful words stir my heart.
I will recite a lovely poem about the King,
for my tongue is like the pen of a skillful poet."
-

Superorganism of my days,
You make a lot of sense.
You feed the mind with wonder;
You are my sustenance.
With careful words, you satisfy;
I wake each morning in cadence.
You keep the poet’s song alive;
You are the difference.
My dosages are wisely spoken;
You penetrate in silence.
You unfurl deftly inside my soul;
You become my very essence.
As the heart writes with Your theme,
It blesses Your constant presence,
For You have first blessed this life of mine
With a craftsmanship of patience.

Twice Today, I Have Heard Your Name

"I hear people talking about you... XD 'med, come..." (5 July 2013; 01:30:02 p.m.)

For Med. Written after the PhySoc (Physics Society) Acquaintance Party.

There’s a sound that I hear that is loud in my ear,
And that sound is the sound of your name, my dear.
Past the crowds, down the hall, a subdued distant voice
Travels waves, resonates, calls above the noise.
Twice today, I have heard the same sound once again,
And I knew that I’ve missed you a lot since then.
First I heard was a group of young men in a game;
They had mentioned your name just before you came.
So I hoped that, again, I would hear what I’d heard;
I was keen to have heard a familiar word.
Then I saw, from behind, where you were, a lone star.
There you were, he whose name I’d heard from afar.
Overjoyed, I came near with good tales up my sleeve,
But the hour sped too fast, and you had to leave.
In my head, I had said, “Do not leave, please, not yet,”
But you left, anyway, though you would regret:
For the next that I heard was a girl dressed in white;
She had asked where you were—you were gone from sight.

Wednesday, July 03, 2013

Something About Her...

In the pool of the world,
She swims, and I watch her.
Underneath the surface is where I find her,
Where there is peace above all stillness
And feelings beyond comprehension.
Something about her is what I like about her.
There is light and darkness
In the span laid out before me;
She is Light, resisting buoyancy,
Underwater, and I see her.
There is no other sound
Than the sound she makes,
And I know very well that above the rest,
Her sound is loud,
Comforting, and intriguing,
Though there is nothing in the water
But silence.

Hives Days (Urticaria)

There is no better way I could think of the way I feel about you than by thinking that it is love...

Part I.

And I am the life of these creatures...
They cling onto my body and defile
My flawless skin, creating splashes of pale
Red and red all over...pure abstract.

And I am one grand of a bullseye
With dart holes all over... I have hives;
I am a walking hive (bees live in me,
In the balloon that is my heart).

Part II.

There were bees inside the balloon
(What felt like bees inside a balloon
Was tough love--suppressed,
Inside its shell, shy).

With a needle, you came
To burst the bubble. Bees flew out
(Love flew out--it was released
From its shell) quickly...

Part III.

They tried to make their way
To you (I tried to find you),
But they found me instead.
They flew to me, my skin...

They swarmed around me, my skin...
You have no idea. I wish I could fly
To you and tell you what I feel (those
Bees made a wrong turn) right now.

Part IV.

Five days of hives days... I wake, daily,
Without a smile to greet you. I have
Endured sleepless nights and dreamless.
The bed is a frightening place to be.

Then I would wonder to myself
If you ever wondered where I am. My heart
Is shut with feelings; I am consumed.
I long to be where you are, but I could not.