The Sun in Reflection

I see you carry this Love in your eyes

While you hold the moon in your hands

For I am the burning sun whose unforgiving fires

Will reduce to ashes your entire universe

At the slightest touch, the merest provocation

If you dare come any closer in my direction. 

I watch you watch me in awe, in silence

Contemplating ways to capture the warmth

Emanating from these pleading eyes

That light up at your smiles so sweet -

While mine are hot and cold, a curious thing

Erasing and drawing firm lines in the sands

Cos I know your heart is full, it is swollen

With little stars borne out of fire and ice

And my teardrops evaporate, disappear -

Before they hit the ground beneath your feet

Look, my dear - Darkness has fallen; Night is here!

All is good, all is well with this side of the world

Time I went - I have things to do - I just can't linger.

Zaie Hamzah

25th January 2019

Kuala Lumpur

Comments

Hello readers,

I've just realised that I'm facing problems with the comments. They are not showing up, so to those who have commented and not getting any response from me, it's because I am not getting them. 😩😩😩 I do apologise for not being aware of this technical difficulty sooner. 🙏🏼

I have reset the settings to let you all comment freely, but please adhere to basic common courtesies,  keep it civilised, and please refrain from posting offensive contents, or you will be blocked. ☹️

So...I look forward to reading what you all think about my blog posts, and do share with me what life's like in your parts of the world. Start commenting, people! 😃

Writer's Block

writer's block

noun [ U ] UK   /ˌraɪ.təz ˈblɒk/  US  /ˌraɪ.t̬ɚz ˈblɑːk/

the condition of being unable to create a piece of written work because something in your mind prevents you from doing it.

(https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/writer-s-block)

I guess I'm having what real writers call a 'writer's block' - the inability to proceed with a piece of written work, or works, due to my mind's unwillingness to cooperate with my need to produce a masterpiece chockful of clever play of words meant to suggest, to imply, to be so discreet you have to read carefully between the lines and then go back and reread the same sentence to try to make sense of the subtlety of the words and then you go 'aaaah, I got it!', when I deign to just be bold as I almost always am in my writeups and just say to hell with subtlety and finesse, let me just stop beating around the bush and just come out roaring and say what I want to say out loud and in your face, to shock you with honesty and truths, not half-truths, bcos half-truths are lies, and take it from a person who's been lied to in so many ways, I absolutely hate lies above everything else, so let me just write about my own truths, truths about stuff with emotions so raw you could almost smell the blood dripping from these words, about fears that are scarier than those monsters hiding under your bed and things that go 'bump!' in the night, about happiness that turns up at the door unexpectedly and makes itself at home in my heart, about anger that rises with every injustice I see and I just about manage to count one two three four before it turns into a storm that rages within and I have to retreat inside myself and ride the storm till it calms down, about Love stories that are much sadder than the tears of mermaids longing for their humans who don't realise that Love transcends colours and creeds, shapes and forms, humans who turn away cos they can't recognise Love staring them right in the eye, and so do not ask me to mince my word cos my words are mine to shape, to mould, to articulate with an esoteric diction and a fast conviction that roll off my tongue onto the page, and I hold them as gingerly as holding a fragile butterfly whose wings might tear at the slightest touch, and at times my words are as loaded as a gun pointed to the head, holding hostage vivid images and sounds and scents and moments, neither asking for ransoms nor leaving suicide notes, and if I am to be a writer with original thoughts, my words need to be my own, my words need to come out of a place so deep inside, a place of truth that hasn't seen the sunlight in a hundred years, a place so fathomless you'd have to close your eyes and jump in with both feet, just plunge in with something akin to blind faith that as you're falling down the rabbit hole, you'll pray that when you finally land, something much softer than piles of feather pillows will break your fall cos anything less will break much more than your bones, and the shock, the pain, the confusion of it all will make you feel such an outrage when you finally realise that I am here ranting ranting ranting it all in just one very very long sentence in the hope that after endless false starts and annoying stops, this one will finally break these chains of my accursed writer's block. Aameen! 😉✌🏼

Who Let Who Go?

Did I give you a way out

To just drop it

 To just turn and go

Back to your familiar 

People and things and such

Because facing our Love

Is too much upheaval

To your everyday comforts

That you falsely hold dear?

Did I make it easy 

For you to 

Just point and accuse

Me of breaching 

The sanctity of love

And in not so many words

I too turn and take 

my heart, long-suffering

And just slip away 

And disappear.

But, tell me one thing

Who let who go, here?

Zaie Hamzah

Hartamas

23rd Dec 2018