Friday Poetry: “The Sun’s First Gift to Her Lover”

Scrawled 27 November, 2015, 4 Comments

Happy Thanksgiving, lovelies!

This is perhaps one of my favourite days of the year – not only because it is now socially acceptable to break out the Christmas melodies (because, if we are being real here, my holiday records have been out since September!), but also because I believe it is so very important to find gratitude in our lives. Thanksgiving is such a beautiful way to do just that, no?

Today I am thankful for poetry, and for good music, and for lovely covers of classic books and lovely covers of classic songs. I am thankful for tea and Hachii and stars and sweaters and my own privilege. I am thankful for the Internet and its lovely little communities. I am thankful for cameras and children’s stories, for Marvel films and happy babies. I am thankful for small coffee shops and for Tchaikovsky and for strangers in love and for travelling and winter and rain and sleep. I am thankful for my beautiful friends, and for Half Mysticand for cute nicknames, and for therapy and the ocean and student discounts. I am thankful for scented candles. I am thankful for feminism. I am thankful for unexpectedly kind people. I am thankful for good teachers. I am thankful for writing, and for stillness, and for ice cream, and for Roald Dahl. I am thankful for fanfiction and flowers and laughter and all of my books. I am thankful for good days.

And I am thankful for you. It is a good thing that you exist.

Here is a poem for you. It is a thank you, as well.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. xx


The Sun’s First Gift to Her Lover

tell me the name you chose for dawn(eyelids flutter
soft solitude)i know no greater joy than honeysuckle song(no
brighter blush)nor the pronunciation of light(always
falling always falling)kiss like a sun aglow with melody
kiss like you know the taste of fire hazard(kiss like you’re
staying anyway)hold tight to tissue paper sky(in the meantime
call it moth wing call it lavender)no moon not quite time to sleep
(perhaps perhaps perhaps)something bright in this static(call it
the trembling of your body)bone deep limerence(transfixed
in sleep)treble clef lover darling(i sing it from my rose-stained
mouth)and you erupt like the truest alchemy(curve
around sunrise softly blushing)don’t come in yet i am
still not finished painting in(the details of morning)

The Anchoring

Scrawled 24 November, 2015, 1 Comment

Vinyl 01

Headphones 01

Headphones 02

i am (stubbornly, constantly) a record-listener.

it is perhaps not the most practical thing in the world. (why don’t you try finding a decent record store in singapore.) it is, however, a true thing. a good thing, the kind you can feel seeping through you, knocking on open doors. i believe music (if nothing else) deserves to be felt. the (heart)beat of it deserves to be heard, thrumming, humming. music is an entity of atoms unable to sit still, shivering, shimmying. i think it deserves to be held.


i started paying attention to the (many) ways in which i change.

i am a teenager, and so it is perhaps not such an illogical thing that a great many aspects of myself are achingly transient. this is (they tell me) a part of life: you are familiar for a moment, and the next (too soon, always too soon) you are a stranger.

but here: have this music. (this music that begs to be felt.)

(perhaps) this is the loveliest thing of all. i am holding the records and there is a song of knowing: there are some things that are too deft to be caught by the jaws of change. (and music is one of them.) and i am an ocean, and these are the tides, and the music is the anchor. hold it. feel its lightyears of lightning. of this certain relief in the act of staying the same.


and it is like this: there are the records. and there are the headphones. and then there is the music. (the music. the music. the music. always the music.) and the music is real, dancing, endless, spinning on the record player, spinning through the heart-place. and the rest of the shitty stuff is (for the most part) tucked away.

it will be here later. (it will not disappear forever. there is nothing that really, truly disappears forever. for better or for worse.)

but here: have a music that is endless and a disappearance that is (too) ephemeral. tie them together. (perhaps they will not go easily. that is okay too, i am learning. chaos is the way of the universe.) and you have this magic: the singing ringing thrumming humming shivering shimmying song.

hold it in your hands. sit still.

the act of changing (and of disappearing, and of coming back, welcome or otherwise). and the act of staying the same (and of the realness, the solidness, the anchoring). and (impossibly, inevitably) both all at once.

it is all here, in the records, in the music. listen for it. it is beckoning, calling your name.

Friday Poetry: Little Horoscopes for November

Scrawled 20 November, 2015, 8 Comments

Oh dear, I’m sorry for disappearing this week.

It has been a rather tough week in terms of depression; I’m afraid I haven’t really been feeling up to coming online much, and so I hope you’ll forgive me in that I let blogging fall to the wayside. (The dragons didn’t cause too much mischief while I was away, did they?)

I am here, though, with the long-awaited horoscopes for November! These ones are coming well into the month, but I hope you enjoy them anyway, for the couple of weeks we have remaining.

As always, I do love hearing your opinions + feedback, so please do feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments section. I’d love to hear your impressions of this month’s horoscopes. (Also, if you can catch the literature reference in there, we will officially be best friends. So there’s that, as well. ;))

Have a lovely weekend and a lovely rest of November, everyone. I’ll see you on Monday. xx


Little Horoscopes for November

Virgo, put on your own oxygen mask before assisting others.
Aquarius, it is never too late to revise.
Aries, pursue knowledge.
Pisces, you can be your own greatest ally.
Leo, commit mild acts of mayhem.
Gemini, you are made of something bigger than the ashes.
Sagittarius, there is no darkness bigger than your light.
Capricorn, you cannot abuse the power to say no.
Scorpio, you belong to nothing.
Taurus, courting the sun will always come with a few burns.
Libra, the universe is lucky that you exist.
Cancer, stay as long as you need to.

Snapshots | November 16th

Scrawled 16 November, 2015, 0 Comments

The world has been bruised and battered this weekend.

Honestly, I am mostly just sad. Deeply, achingly so. I don’t really know what else to say; I feel as if so many places – Japan, Beirut, Syria, Paris, likely far more than just those I can remember off the top of my head – have received such an unfair helping of heartache.

So really, I have spent these past few days trying to keep busy and not focus on all of this sadness. There is just so much to go around, it’s rather tough to ignore it. I’m not sure how to process all of this. Or how we are meant to pick up the pieces and keep moving forward.

But I think what does help a little bit is all of these stories of the goodness of humanity. I feel like times like these seem to bring out the worst as well as the best in people, you know? So I have tried to immerse myself in the latter rather than the former, and it is making things a little more okay. There is always light somewhere; I think perhaps it is just difficult to see it.

In mental health news: my therapist has broached the idea of starting on antidepressants. I am already on anxiety medication, which has certainly helped with panic attacks – but she believes that antidepressants might speed up the healing process more, especially with hyperacusis.

(Which, I might add, is a beautiful thing to hear. I cannot tell you how horrible it is to have such a rare disorder – no one really seems to know what to do with it, if they know what it is at all.)

But my therapist thinks that perhaps antidepressants combined with the anxiety meds could also help with hyperacusis. And so we are going to discuss with my family and talk to a psychiatrist – it certainly isn’t confirmed yet, but I will let you know once progress is made.

Those two things took up most of my weekend, and so I really don’t have much other news to share with you lovelies today. (Other than this: I have been wrangling MailChimp! I still have not gotten around to sending my first newsletter yet, but you will be pleased to hear that I have made progress on conquering the beast of technology.)

How was your weekend, then? Let’s chat in the comments. I would love to hear about it. xx

Friday Poetry: “#PrayForParis”

Scrawled 13 November, 2015, 8 Comments

I heard the news of the Paris attacks this morning.

I don’t know what to say, to be honest. I have close friends in Paris (who are shaken but safe, thank goodness).

I am just so angry and sad and scared. My heart is breaking into a million pieces. And I think poetry is the only way I know how to put that into words right now.

If you are a visitor in Paris: the #PortOuverte hashtag is here for residents offering shelter. If you are a witness from the outside: you can offer your support through the #PrayForParis hashtag.

I’m praying that tonight finds all of you safe, and quiet, and warm, and in the arms of someone you love, wherever you are. I’m praying that you aren’t afraid or grieving.

This poem is… inadequate, I know, but for now it is all I can do.



city, transparent. footsteps are the only birthmark. unwilling
warriors. casual casualties. city, lonely. another nickname
for fear. another nightlight moulded of darkness. city, scared.
just selfish enough to want forgiveness. city, whole.
look closely: all things, when tarnished, could pass for surrender.

city, bleeding. tears another kind of afterthought. thinking
about the time when we all lived next door to happiness.
carving the story out of the gravestone dark. city, hiding.
wishing calamity would stay chained in its brutal cave, howling
in the distance. knowing the links are already broken.
telling the story that starts with it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay
we’re okay. lying

because it has to. city, insomniac. awake until it sleeps. alive
until it’s not. call it divine cruelty: once upon a time the stars
discovered that heaven burns brighter than any kind of hell.
city, dust. city, ashes. city, almost there. city, never close
enough. another war story. another incarnation of mercy.

city, wounded. skyscraper bones learning the sound
of breaking. never knew that light could taste so dark.
never knew that peace could be past tense. city, losing. city, lost
already. somewhere in a place we once named home, the sky
moulding itself into a shape we are still alive enough to call