Untitled BENL Poem

Being an English mojor, you gotta have a strong grasp of the languge.

You have to know its foundations from A-Z, the history,

The building blocks that make this language what it is.

All this sounds rather formal, no?

Well, I’m here to tell you, I’m here to remind you, that it doesn’t just end there.

‘Cause it’s not just what you know, It’s what you do with what you know.

Being a student of English, you gotta have a close

personal relationship with the language.

In a way, you kind of have to marry it in order to produce

Beautiful, praise-worthy linguistic babies, it’s true.

You gotta go beyond the boundaries of rhyme and meter,

Beyond the restraints of received pronunciation or RP,

If you’re an English major you’ll know exactly what I mean.

All these rules that bind the way we speak and express ourselves

Are very necessary, don’t get me wrong,

But that doesn’t mean we can’t play around with them.

Like when I say, “is you is or is you ain’t my baby?”

Lecturers say, “Where’s your Grammar, young lady?”

She’s at home watching TV.

See, this linguistic malady needs no correction,

‘Cause educational intercourse requires no protection,

Whatever it is, we ain’t begging for attention,

We’re here to blow your minds up regardless of convention,

So why not give this lingua franca a metaphorical erection,

Like putting a smile on Najib’s face after the general elections.

Being an English major tak semestinya kita lupa

Budi Bahasa Budaya Kita

Our mother tongue might not be superior in this world that judges the exterior

But we’re obliged to provide this language with some exotic flavour.

Don’t be slaves to this colonial lingo but rather be it’s master,

Throw some soil up from the air if it’ll make for greener pastures.

So come on, English students let’s dare to be different,

Let’s stick our skilled tongues out to our boring competitors,

You know the scientists, mathmeticians, I think you get my gist,

Because we have an upper hand: we are all cunning linguists.

But most importantly, and I quote the great Ms. Sheena B,

To be students of the English language you need these things,

Creativity and curiosity, kindness and respect, discipline and the strength to be (on occasion)

Absolutely madly wrong.

So join me, and let’s make history.

For the Boy Who Loved Me

For the boy who loved me but could never say it,
I say it enough for the both of us so why should you?
For the father who sacrificed for his family but still
wished his life turned out different,
I see the longing in the depths of your eyes
As you stare into blank space,
Exhaling cigar smoke from your lungs,
You need not regret.
For the daughter who struggles to be appreciated
And looked at as if she were a lone rose in a bed of thorns,
You forget that you have always made those who care
Proud of you, but you still need those thorns
To remind you that pain can shoot from any direction.
For the boy who loved me but could never show it,
You made you effort and I should know it,
But will that ever be enough?
For the mother who knew nothing but to give
and never ask for anyhing in return,
you have truly lived, and if there is a Paradise,
it awaits you with arms outstretched.
For the friend who thinks his cries are never heard,
I am listening, there is no need to yell,
I feel the silent rumblings that shake you from within,
That threaten to drive you to the brink of insanity,
Don’t follow it.
For the stranger who thinks so little of the world
and that it can be summed up in mere “isms”,
Tread carefully that you do not bite your tongue
when the ground swallows you whole.
For the boy who loved me but could never do it right,
Your only mistake was to think that I could ever love you any less.
For the girl who consistantly damages herself because
She feels she is unworthy,
You do not know what a difference you make,
Because you put the “shine” in “sunshine”,
You make the world dance and skip to the beat of your own drum.
For the man who loved me and whom I loved just the same,
You were the one who got away,
But you can take all the love I have given you
And God knows it could move mountains, it’s yours.
Just know that this well never dries up.
For every single soul that has ever loved,
You will never be weaker than the day before,
Because “you never truly give until you give of yourself”.
Don’t worry, you won’t run out,

"You"

You don’t want me, no
You don’t need me
Like I want you, oh
Like I need you

And I want you in my life
And I need you in my life

You can’t see me, no
Like I see you
I can’t have you, no
Like you have me

And I want you in my life
And I need you in my life

You can’t feel me, no
Like I feel you
I can’t steal you, no
Like you stole me

And I want you in my life
And I need you in my life

My Hero

Deaf, Dumb and Blind

a poem by Alana P. Azlan

I wish I could tell you that you meant nothing to me,
And that the time we spent was just a way of making myself feel unalone.
And I know you wish the same too.
But as stubborn as I am, I can't make it all go away,
I can't make myself forget the first love of my life..
And I wish this poem had a happy ending so I wouldn't have to be reminded
of what could've been.
Because baby, you left a gash at my centre
an inch of the way from being a through-and-through,
as if you stopped short of finishing a piece of cake.
You left a bit of me, and some crumbs.
And a year ago I was telling myself I could handle any heartache,
that pain was fine so long as I was not the one who dealt it.
I'll keep telling myself that anyway, because in a way I want to believe that's true.
And I want to believe that you left that small gap of flesh so at least
I have something left to help me heal.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if we were not so frightened,
If we could just let our hearts speak for themselves without the fear
of backlash, not from anyone else,
but from our own subconscious egos.

Because to love without fear is one of the greatest things we can ever learn.

But at the state we were in, we didn't stand a chance.
Because let's face it, you were mute:
you couldn't tell me you loved me to save your life.
But I guess that's okay, because God, He made me blind:
I could not see what you were trying to show me no matter how
desperately you were trying to pull off your vague little pantomimes.
I could not see what was right in front of me.
But sometimes people are just better at listening.
Boy, what a perfectly mismatched couple we were:
you couldn't talk and I couldn't see,
which just made the silence stretch so much it was deafening.
But the silence was not as terrifying as the forcefield of pride
which was the only thing standing in our way.
Just this one solid steel wall, cold and unrelenting that was
preventing us from reaching out, clasping hands and saying'
"I need you. Stay."

And it came to a point when you stopped trying to show me,

and I ceased all efforts in making you hear me out,

and waiting for a respond that would never come.

At times I can still hear the remnants of your mumbles and moans

that are stuck in my ears,

playing over and over in my head at a constant rhythm.

And when I play that broken record backwards,

I imagine deciphering three distinct words.

And though you walked away long before I broke your code,

I am still here, stitching myself back together again.

I am still here, still insanely in love with you.

And I'll be waiting.

Listening for your footsteps.

Dear Heart (Again)

Lip Movement Poetry - Words