It Doesn’t Conquer All…

 

a ring on your plate when i cooked you

eggs, our years apart summarised into one morning

of jars and jars, bottled up feelings

of you looking into me, looking into something

of me saying things without a sound

our lives in suspended compartments

bubbles of cliches against time voices people

 

it is kind, it is patient and it is all you need but

it doesn’t conquer all, it’s never the answer

 

my love for you, insincere and vague.

 

When Everything Was Everything

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there was a time when 

everything was everything and

we didn’t try to be anything

 

what do you carry around all day

besides a bucket of flowers

and heart full of promises of a new day?

 

here’s a tiny sting of guilt to share

there there, i’ve been there

nobody likes anybody in this town

forgive me i didn’t know better

The One Thing I Love About Love

These words have been kept, hidden, for almost eighteen years. She was born just to be, but never meant to be shared. But almost two years ago, her presence became urgent. She was cut in pieces and put together in a hurry but did made it in time to be read by people who needed them.

If there’s one thing I love about love, is that it expands as you grow. My love for her imperfection has never been this courageous, and I’d like to extend it to you.

Now celebrating her two years arriving into the world, she will be available to you lovely people in Asia. If you speak Bahasa and is interested in providing her a home, message me.

Love, Maia.

There Are Clouds in These Dreams

Letter to Sylvia Cover “…there are clouds in these dreams and i am flying hard between ashes,

did you not get burned at stakes?

there are words in these dreams but I am not one saying them,

to swallow alone is pain. to breathe, a sin.

not one word out but here are letters for when you wake up,

she said, you will tell them how to say it out loud,

even with tears in their eyes. tell them.

and so I write.”

 

Get this book here.

Remember This, Love, for Time is a Loop

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Right before our parting, mother sat me down in a meadow. She apologetically held my hands then placed a flower crown on my hair.

She said, “Remember this, love, for time is a loop. You will come back for me.”

Little did she know, time was in denial.

So suddenly as I realised this, she turned into a montage of old photographs between flashing lights.

I saw her,

the staggering girl between

dark webs,

I saw her vague fingers inside

his feathered glory,

such indifferent beak cloud,

white rush oh there there

brute brute blood!

here’s burning roof and tower

the centre cannot hold,

things fall apart…

____

Phrases in W. B. Yeats’ poems “Leda and the Swan” and “The Second Coming”, in this part of my book, are rearranged in an attempt of deconstruction. WB Yeats poems are an integral and essential part of my book, When I, My Own Daughter, available here.

Photo Credit: Alessio Albi

 

In Her Dreams I Was Her

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I have so much loneliness in me, so much more than I could bear. Mother gave it to me one night the first time she was standing on the ledge near the window in our 30 stories high two bedrooms flat. She was in love with heights, so every night she took the dragons out and played with them outside by the window. She’d learn to fly. And fall.

I got so lonely everytime she did, for this grave feeling seeping through my skin, that she would fly (or fall) and would never find her way back to me (and father). She had certain ways of seeing life and death. Most of the time, to her there was no difference in both. But at times she saw death as a release and life was a cage in which one could only see what was not and could never feel what was real. What was real she saw in dreams.

She shared these dreams with me. She wrote them in a diary. Tell no one, she said to me. In her dreams, I was born into her world. I was her.

When I, My Own Daughter coming to you this spring.

The Birds Never Tell You Why They’re Flying South…

Let me tell you about time: it doesn’t heal, it goes on. It changes you into different people and when you are in a different place, you see different things -and if you’re lucky enough, you see things differently (you might write about it too).

And that is it. There’s nothing about healing has anything to do with how time stretches between you and your wounds. They will always be there to remind you where you’re coming from.

My book went live few hours ago and everytime it always came down to this feeling of helplessness in letting go. And that is the only healing I could ever get from writing it.

Life always, always, gets you caught off guard and I am spent.

Flattery Does Me No Good. But These Are My Songs.

If words were breath and phrases life… I am rarely moved by other peoples’ poetry. It takes a truly unique writer to penetrate below my natural cynicism. I tell you all: this is the one book of poetry, the first in a long time, to feel authentic, brave and sincere. I LOVE THIS BOOK!

(Martha Humphreys, Amazon.com)

Within these pieces, you will find so much raw emotion and talent. The ink on these pages will soak into your skin and claw into your skull. You will never forget reading such a powerful book. Maia is destined for greatness.

(Anonymous, Amazon.com)

How do you describe a book as an experience? Letters to Sylvia is not just flattery words knitted together in a string of poems. It is a journey you want and need to embark. It is a sigh at the end not wanting to get off that plane of emotions. This is not just a book. It’s an experience. Read, woman!

(Anonymous, Amazon.co.uk)

This book was just like one of those Sunday afternoons when you just don’t want to do nothing but sit down and take a walk down the memory lane. This book reeks of nostalgia and heartbreak. My personal favourites were Period ( this one left me gutted and awestruck), Adieu ( made me sigh) and Feminine Mystique ( this one BROKE MY HEART). And I loved the fact that the poet somehow wrote it as an ode/ dedication to Sylvia, my all time favourite. The only thing that I would like to change would be the fact that it was just 85 pages long. I absolutely loved the tone and the flow so I guess I would’ve loved it a tad bit more if it included a few more poems!

(Mariah, Goodreads.com)

Get this baby here.