“i trashed these pieces because they felt like cutting my heart out and showing the world my raw, bleeding chest, empty and unbandaged. i didn’t have the resolve to stitch myself back up without once again drowning in gore. or in other words, i couldn’t edit them into coherent strings of words without losing myself in the emotion i wrote them with. so they stayed buried at the bottom of my poetry document, messy and loose and raw. until now!!!”

“Why I never submit ‘Perhaps’ piece anywhere: Well, I’m very hesitant to really talk about love. It feels so…twee. I do write about it alot, but I hide it behind metaphor or oblique language. However, this poem was written as I was coming to terms with caring for someone who was aromantic, so I really couldn't figure out a different way to talk about it.  It’s very on the nose. But at least it’s honest.

Why I never submit ‘In The Park’ anywhere: I have a total love/hate relationship with this poem. The truth is, I do really like that last stanza. It makes me feel suave. If someone said that to me, I’d blush so hard!  But I’m convinced other people will just laugh at it- we all know rhyming poetry isn't exactly “cool”. So I don't think I’ve ever sent this one out.”

“You’re Not Her: It was a (secret) small shallow musing that I had for someone. It was all because she looked like someone I once dated and it was just truly the strangest thing. I was looking at this girl who looked exactly like my ex but she was so different at the same time, and I knew that being drawn to her at first for that reason was so shallow and they were feelings I didn’t like to highlight. Yet, I wrote this piece to air out my thoughts because I couldn’t help but look back at times that I remember with my ex even years later. Memories that are beginning to fade but I still feel under my skin like ink from a tattoo. It feels like a home I once lived in, but someone else lives there now and everything is different. 

College Town Musings: I used to be a poet that would revel in my own pretentiousness and it was..not cute. So I tried to still hold onto that fancy-schmancy persona while I began to grow out of it. As if to be like “Oh, hey! I can still write! Look at me!” It just never fit anywhere and that’s okay.”

“I rather like this poem, since it’s whimsical. But nobody else seems to like it, so I grudgingly tossed it into the cyber-scrap pile. A person can’t really relate to it unless they have a weird house with an orange bathroom.”

“These were written sometime between the 1985 - 1990 . This was back before the Internet and I was just beginning to try and share my work, navigating the world of postage and S.A.S.E. terminology. Back then I was even more thin-skinned so if a work was rejected or not returned it would be at least a year before I tried sending something out again, if ever. Of course, the critic's voice went for the easiest self-accusations when it came to what was wrong with the work: pretentious, trite, hackneyed, cliche, especially if a poem had an ekphrastic influence. In 1990 I moved geographically but it was not a cure for any of the hypersensitivity which went into my being creative, so it was a decade before I began sending work out again even while I kept on writing in secret. Even then the work sent was not from the earlier 80s, but selections stored from manilla envelopes written in the intervening years. Three years ago or so I came across the 1980s work that was typed (not sure if originally handwritten has been chucked) scanned them as Adobe PDF and revised after converting back to Word. Enclosed are three which went through that self-laceration process.”

“This poem was built painstakingly slow, written and rewritten line by line. I have a habit of leaning toward the melancholy in my art, and this was made with the goal of finding optimism in grief. Though I’m outwardly a bubbly person, it feels awkward to incorporate that into my poetry since so much of art praises “tortured artists”- as if you can only be deep by being somber.”

“Honestly, I really don't like the style of "I Am From" poems. This started out as something I wrote during orientation week for college, but after a couple of edits, I realized I really just didn't vibe with the way these sorts of poems focus on who you are relative to your past locations. As someone who's moved upwards of 7 times in the past 20 years, I'm not beholden to a specific location. Instead, I'm more attracted to the memories I have and what stories they tell about me. So, this version of an "I Am From" poem never saw the light of day.”

“I ‘trashed’ this piece because I felt that it would be difficult for others to relate to. Sometimes I like writing poetry that only I will understand. This piece happens to be one of these poems. While I enjoy this type of poetry, I do think it can be difficult for others to understand or grasp on to.”

“These are three poems from a map in my notes app that has been gathering both words and dust over the span of two years. They are strings of words, evocations of emotions that ran through me after a boy broke my heart. I always felt that publishing these somewhere would be too much and if he would see them, I felt like he would win in a way, certainly seeing how much I care in these poems, the hurt that runs through them. This boy turned out to be a very dangerous person who lied and emotionally abused me for a year, and I feel like all these words are an attestation to that, even if I wasn’t aware at the time. So, they gathered dust in my phone for a long time because I never felt that these specific ones truly rang out the sounds my voice was trying so desperately to sound out. I see now that they were trying to tell me something, that they were asking for help and I was ignoring myself. They might not be the best I have ever written, but changing them now after so long feels like altering the truth of what I was writing about at the time. The first poem was once supposed to be a song, but the words kept pouring, and no melody has yet found its way between the words.”

“The reason why I’ve not sent this out anywhere is because it feels kind of like a Frankenstein’s monster of a poem - like it should actually be two poems - or like it has some superfluous elements in it that render it unlovable to most readers.

There is a Cormac McCarthy quote to start off with - already a bad sign – especially if you consider that at the time of writing this poem, I had read exactly zero books by McCarthy and mostly just knew his work based off of all the quotes and tributes that people shared of him after his passing.
The stanzas seem to be kind of all over the place, tonally.
There is also a hyperlocal reference to the Singapore MRT line in the first stanza that readers outside Singapore would not relate to or understand. (Essentially, the MRT’s Circle Line is an incomplete loop at the moment, that is slated to be closed in 2026. As a result, if you, like the speaker of this poem, were to take the direct train on it from Dhoby Ghaut to One-North rather than transferring to a different line, you’d be stuck on the MRT for an extra 20 minutes or so.)
I confess that I like that it’s a bit of a hot mess and couldn’t bring myself to edit it further or to send it out to anyone who wouldn’t see that much like Frankenstein’s monster, this poem too wants to be loved for what it is.”

“I was unsure of this poem because it strayed from conventional African poetics. It did its own thing and I wondered whether it would be received well.”

“‘Beach Death’ is a poem I very much found as I wrote it, in that, I wasn’t quite sure who exactly I was writing about when the words began. The images that came to me, and their associations in my life, ended up blurring the lines between several people in my life, overlapping the ways in which they were all both meaningful and harmful to me. I found this personal mystery compelling and felt that any further intricate work with the poem would destroy my relationship with it.”
“'Muzzling’ came at a time when I was uncomfortable with the vulnerability that sharing it would require, both through sharing my own thoughts and directly referencing the people in my life. I put it away in hopes of a time when that discomfort would be entirely gone.”