Hi, and welcome! (Scroll past this post if you’re looking for the updates :))

This is my new thought and fiction diary! Here I’m going to be posting whatever comes to mind, experimenting with whatever I feel like at the time. There will be a lot of first drafts coming through here, but the quality of stuff should reach at least a decent standard. The first post (‘#1: for the sake of flow’) is actually an example of experimentation gone very badly, but you know what? Next time it’ll be better, and that’s the point of this secondary blog!

My previous blog is at ChasjngDreams, a blog that’s taken more of the spin of personal thoughts and rants. If you like what you read here, maybe you’d like the writer behind all of this too!

Hope you enjoy!

– j. NG

199: Extra-curricular Villanelle

I’ve always wanted to work on poetry with form, but I’ve never had the exact rules laid out for various patterns. Now I do! poetry booksAnyway. A villanelle that I churned out, hope you enjoy it.

Extra-Curricular Vilanelle

It’s time to go home
    the alarm bell shrieked
Go to the place where you are alone.

From the sidewalk’s shrubbery overgrown
    larger boys peeked.
It’s time to go home.

They tussled; the boy was thrown
    they emptied his wallet, bills, receipts
Go to the place where you are alone.

Shaven heads like wide domes
    bigger boys never bleed
It’s time to go home.

Skipping dinner? Watch your tone.
    I’m telling you, don’t get my ass beat.
Go to the place where you are alone.

He could finally reach the beams, he had grown.
    Noose tight, he leapt off his feet.
It’s time go home.
Go to the place where you are alone.

-j. NG

I once was a bully. I was also bullied. The basis for this poem though, was from wanting to learn the basics of poetic form. I usually write in free verse but I appreciate strictly structured poetry too, and there were lines in the introductions and prefaces of these books that convinced me that the skills to put poetry in a structure were skills indeed worth learning.

198: Introvert

Do you believe in magic?
I do. There’s this little curse I have.
“Be not around four souls or more
Else cower in fear and find solace
In solitude.”

Stumble upon the scene of a trio happily speaking.
I am there. Evoking laughter. Using charms,
A silver tongued monster.
But the fourth man comes and like a golem
With commands activated I maintain it a trio
By playing no part in that number.

The cauldron was too hot.
I shrink to a corner
and alone, concoct a new invocation.

197: Millenials

Our parents were born on clifftops
Held up into throbbing rains and flashes of light
Thrown down into the darkness where thrashing
They swam to islands
Discovered land in the darkness
Learnt each other
Held each other’s bodies
Made us.

Now today we are born in nets.
We lash out, kick to be free.
We see the clifftops
Mapped out in expert cartography.
The nets are sludge and muck that blinds
We see women, we see men
We know there are better
And know so many worse.
We kick at the waves lassoed around our ankles,
Yokes in the form of crosses, rattling chains.
We swim to ascend the clifftop sides
Yearning to see beyond creation.

196: HIM and HER

SHE’d only been gone for half a week
HE was going insane.
SHE and HE were to be married someday
HE knew it.

So, HE:

Wrote letters in texts
one each day – no doctor’s prescription
but to keep the blues away.


reminded her of love’s meaning
and that cheating while accessible
was not acceptable, and that
HE trusted HER.

So, SHE:

Read the first letter by phone
but having been on a plane for a day
and having had to bustle her way
through carriages and buses,
slept fitly

and by the next morning
two more essays buzzed her awake.

Quite annoyed, SHE

sent nothing back.


Quite rightly
once SHE read HIS cheating text

SHE kept her silence

and HE

assuming accessibility had become reality

cheated on HER.

195: What am I?

I was in my room, just chilling. Some thoughts came up that really stuck with me, particularly a phrase of ‘What goes in, comes out’. I thought about all of the time I’ve wasted watching reality TV shows (but also on the things I learnt from them). I made breakfast, wrote the first draft of this poem, came out, edited it, now posting it. I’m also going to finish the ‘Nostaglia’ poem by the end of the day, I missed posting about that I think for two days now on the other blog.

What am I?

You hunt me down like I’m prizewinning game,
and I am indeed a twelve point buck.
You scour through these wild days
(as if I wouldn’t scatter away
by the ruckus you cause)
But finally, you wait and hush.

Watching, you plan for my approach
and the silent anticipation
brings shivers to the air.
When I finally do pass, what a rush!
A gunshot! A crack like a whiplash!
The bullet’s sound echoes on
but when you’ve collected your prize
beheading me
you return to your tramping ways
the peace and quiet gutted. Gone.

What am I?

I flow on like a river.
To store me you plan ahead
like making a resevoir.

Dam me from my flow,
let me trickle on.
You save me even as you thirst in your work.

You sweat on other things
though what you really want is me.

By the time you die I still lie untapped
And you pass on, parched dry in my flow.

What am I?

I hide in empty rooms
Mostly in webs and in the corners.

I wait in open fields
Lonely, except for a pair of lovers.

They catch me in the sunset.
I make love with them with their gazing, open eyes.

Lost in me, they hold each other.
I am with them as their veins harden.

I watch them as their coffins
fall apart.

What am I?

-j. NG

If you still don’t know the answer – the answer is ‘Time’

194: Poems from made from scattered thoughts

I was tired. I had very little time today to write so in a haggard state of mind I rhymed till line after line I produced what I guess we can say is poetry. If you want an update on the ‘drill’ I’m working on, check out chasjngdreams for the latest update!


Have you ever considered
The form of poetic pillar
The box of a stanza standing
So still, so rigid, landing nothing
But firmness and rigidity?

Compare that form
to the rise and fall and the dash across the page
its melodies hampering its own travel in dissymetry
How many words per line you say?
Make no mistake, there’s value in flexibility.


To sleep to sleep
To feel the leap
From waking rise
And nightly fall
To none’s surprise
I heed the call
To sleep to sleep
To sleep.

193: The Bluest Eye

I was writing up a piece on a challenge I’m undertaking on my other blog, chasjngdreams when I decided to look up the Wikipedia page of Carol Ann Duffy, who I wrote about in my latest post there. Using a method reminiscent of how I stumbled through last minute university papers, I browsed through the citations of the page and found an article on the Guardian on Duffy (http://www.theguardian.com/books/2009/may/26/carol-ann-duffy-poet-laureate), in the citation for one of her earlier pieces of poetry. That poem that Duffy wrote as a schoolgirl made me think back to when I myself started to love reading literature, and began writing once again (I had stopped, having acknowledged my own incompetence).

The following is a poem about when I first began enjoying literature, by studying a book in high school by Toni Morrison, “The Bluest Eye”.

I hated you.
Hated your bluest eye, your minimalist cover,
the way that you shrunk from mind if I kept you at the bottom of the stack.
You were white at first glance.
You spoke of racism that I could never understand.
It was beating a dead horse to me.
Self-pity. Pecola. First person. Squashed berries.
I read other books underneath the desk
when we were taught you, in order to escape from you.
Then I read you in the same fashion in order to catch up.

How did you do it?
How did your descriptions of a fluttering, caged bird
broken, distraught, amongst the cans and garbage heaps
the girl that you had broken, you, you, you, for it was you who broke her
make me love you, as well as that destroyed girl,
that distraught, double blue-eyed girl?

I had already decided to roll in my hatred for you.
I was prepared to expunge you from memory
Fail a grade, if necessary.
But I could not stop reading you.
I wrote in you until the letterings of my text
written in black blue squiggles were mirrors to your lines.
Understanding you. Seeing you. Presenting you.

And so it was.
I learned to love Pauline.
I loved Cholly too, despite the fact that he was a bastard
in all senses of the word.
I learned themes in splashes of colors. Symbols in the juices of fruits.
You proved to me that captivity was something hidden in the guise of freedom
and you made me wear you.
In breaktimes and lunchtimes, your pages flapped in my hands, freely in the wind.

I learnt hatred from you
but you made me love you.
You and your blue eye.
I did not foresee that you would change me.