How do I tell a story to all
of the uninvited dust
that momentarily comes and dwells in the crevices of my life?
Will my question be answered
as the wind holds its tongue,
quietly sprinkling dust across the earth?
Dust…
Are you the rubble of civilisation that vanishes over time?
Or young tears hungry and thirsty for peace and beauty?
Or stains of greed that steep into the bones of the destitute?
Or remnants of lust from red lanes and their houses?
Or are you the reminder of my death?
Do away with plastic flowers
Spray no poison in the wide field
Avoid the fruit untouched by insects
Ward off the factories’ smog
Cleave not the atom’s core
Build not on estuary sand
For the soil to prosper
There is nothing you need to do
And if guilt stabs you anyway
Ignore the building interest
But just return the principal:
Plant the shade-tree’s seed
And offer the body as compost
Half-light,
Sky stained violet-pink
ball of flame
explosion rolling
into the ocean.
Pink sinking runny
into burnt orange
as melted crayon,
as leaky glow stick,
setting the sea alight.
Look up: home
Constellations
like a map
to the heavens.
The stars
nothing more
than curious angels
beaming down on us
Clouds
a giant shroud
of breath
of vapour
of risen water
embracing the Earth,
like hope,
like God-language,
like perfect balance.
Like a promise
that, once broken,
would make all corners
of the earth tremble
under our feet.
No more trees
Actually, this world is already indifferent to trees, but it’s just that according to the calendar,
Spring should see the valleys and hills filled with flowers, lush greenery and the joyous
singing voices of humanity……
The wind can’t find a corner to rest
This is Spring
Dusk is about thirty degrees from the horizon
Someone has chiselled a hole in the concrete floor
And has used fairy tales to nurture the sapling of a tree
And also, is feeling pleased
And the island has already lost track of a round of topics
Actually, according to a psychologist who was hurrying past, the remaining trees have
contracted severe schizophrenia, often mistaking themselves for broken lampposts, or
imagining that the falling of leaves was actually the disdainful expression in their eyes, being
hurled, like spit, at the barren land……
No more trees
With their lines of sight floating to the busy spaces
Many shipwrecked glances, shedding painful tears
Silence suddenly spreads
Their noses will soon be unable to bear these times
What more the birds
The earth holding her head in her hands, brooding
Actually, viewing earth from space, the trees are like the spines of a porcupine
defending humanity, constantly using their height to spy on the sunlight’s depth, because
the trees remember the lessons of history, and know that the sun will one day avenge its
nine brothers……
And the birds have lost track of the topic of conversation
Not knowing how long the chaos will last
The sun begins to yearn for its brothers, shot dead by arrows
All the ways of anxiety, losing one’s calm
Leaves of dry, skinny clouds hang off the branches of the trees
Distorting their life’s story
The streets are blanketed with numb houseflies
Actually, those waiting for the bus are wearing masks, and the flies are also uneasily
rubbing their noses, to dispel the unoxygenated air.
The earth is wrapped in thought
Very earnestly trying to ease the constriction in breathing
Those waiting for the bus are holding knitting needles
Weaving the stale air needle by needle into a web
Hanging it on tree branches
To mourn for those trees who’ve died of lung disease
Each perfectly straight trunk will never betray the moonlight
Actually, even though the trees know that they’ve been deceived by civilisation, still
they wholeheartedly hold to their places, deeply afraid that if they leave, it’d set off a
revolution; humans would come and use the tree trunks to manufacture stacks of paper and
print denunciations of each other……
The street is blanketed with numb houseflies
Buzzing round filling each other’s ears with sickening news
Someone took a whole pile of budget deficits and made fun of them
During a nationwide dialogue,
Ten of thousands of trees which had been cut down used their white innocent bodies to receive
the humiliation of tattooing
The posture of the trees while standing
Actually, I had never thought about the purpose of the trees’ unceasing growth, even
while watering them I did not know why we let them grow so tall; ever since the giant Kuafu
threw that club from his hands, entrusting the mission to the good trees, hoping that one
day they would lessen the distance between heaven and earth…
Each perfectly straight trunk will never betray the moonlight
Even as they work hard to heal
The difference in temperature between day and night
While waiting for the bus
Somebody glimpses a shadow
Imagining an afternoon where the leaves are swirled by the wind
History is, for a moment, left hanging
Actually, the physiology of the trees is definitely much more suited to containing
history than humans are. They don’t really cause themselves to look like they’re not trees,
nor do they deign to allow ornaments that don’t belong to them to be added to their
bodies. And they have even hanged themselves in anger, because humanity doesn’t allow
them the freedom of standing upright and looking to the distance.
The posture of the trees while standing
really puzzles the historian wearing thick black-rimmed glasses
About how to use the most precise scientific calculations
To complete each person’s powers of appreciation and imagination
When a tree’s shadow is as long as its actual height
is the sun at the 3.30 position?
As long as one tree lives on
Actually, as long as one tree lives on it is more than enough, because he will not commit
massacres, and is content to be alone. He will get along well with the wind, and humanity
will better understand dignity.
History is, for a moment, left hanging
Waiting for the seed to sprout
and successfully usher in a new era
my apathy. bless picnics that replace tupperware
and rattan mats with glassware and grapes.
bless walking around town, not to be seen
as liability. bless the chance to afford ride-hailing
when i do not need to.
bless my unbroken, nuclei family. that my worries
only involve self-improvement.
bless strangers, visibly relieved, when i say i am
majority. bless service staff who tense when
they see my partner
and relax when i hold his hand.
bless the boy who said i would be prettier if fairer.
at least there was consideration?
bless the privilege to skip cleaning house
because i was tired. how i need not think
about when i get to rest.
bless not being the target of disgust,
to be given the chance to oppose,
to protect our friends in this country
who need protection from us.
to protect their love for a place
that does not deserve them.
mine, unmatched.
bawlin is / the bigfeathered quill
mmm ignorance runneth over
yelling an every-word &
wound loudmouth slicey dice
bondage c/o each block of text
gift of pent-up prisonment
riddles each a safety barrier
blockade crisping shut all meaning
oozing thru these figures / of ink
delining each solitary operant / sonnet
& the treachery of the perfect prosaic
gouging thickthumbed erotic
the authority of a metaphor [&c., &c., …………….. ]
“Is my love nothing for I’ve borne no children?”
I’m with you, Sappho, in that anarchist land.
– Agha Shahid Ali
Move into a rented house in a foreign land and imagine that you are making a home.
Tie a toran on the door frame. If there is no garden, plant a Jasud and a Champa in pots. Here, you can even find a Mogra plant. In the Botanic Gardens you can see an Ashoka tree along with Orchids. Two years ago there was news of people flocking to see the bright orange flowers of an Ashoka in bloom in Choa Chu Kang. Not the tall False Ashoka that the British favoured in India, a real Ashoka. The kind they say the Buddha was born underneath. There are many large trees here. Far from buildings, far from me.
Move into a rented house in a foreign land and imagine that you are making a home.
Plant in a pot and imagine you are planting a tree. If not for your children, for yourself.
no crowds choke the streets
the traffic symphonic
and sleek and concrete
as the city’s own citizens
as the city’s sculpted monuments
as the city’s trees
lovingly watered and pruned
as the city’s children
the cuckoo sings from
the branches
as if this city was youth
or if the city
was spring’s riot
against the world
the city’s layers riot with the pungence of my labour and i dream
i love! love? this city / call me crazy / did i forget mother / motherland / bride / child / flag /
did i / do not / forget / perpetual subway dream. interrupted. final destination. never enough.
cash in hand. unknown. alone. in this dream i am umbra / penumbra / my son is a sodium-yellow voice
papa hold my hand walk with me to the bazaar let me ride upon your shoulders touching the
sky forget i have learned to walk to run to forget you
am i / i am a city
i remain sleepless like
night i am
more than
migrant
or worker
i am a lamppost for a family
Lily flutters her long pitch-black curly eyelashes.
In the middle of the night, clusters of rainbows bloom
From her ivy-like hair, from her cheeks and from her neck.
Wearing a thin curved hem top and tight mini-jeans,
Lily serves beer…
Lily bends her body more than necessary
And gets close to her customers a bit much.
Lily mixes herself in good proportions
And cultures her own yeast with her own formula.
The pose of a shecat in pencil heels is an appetizer Lily cooks.
The fancy necklace on her milky breasts is a dish of fritters Lily prepares.
Lily’s black irises make her look like a virgin crow searching for prey.
Lily moves like a piece of meat about to be snatched by a hawk.
Lily serves beer…
Lily promotes her beer with her scent.
Lily promotes her scent with her beer.
Lily serves beer…
When Lily uncorks her sweet and gluey laughter,
The faces in the crowd that buzzes like blowflies taking off
Will turn and stare with their fiery eyes.
Lily pours her frothy giggles to be forked at and swallowed.
With her lips in disguise of red berries, Lily serves…
With her seductive smile piercing their stares, Lily serves…
Cutting up their words with her little chats, Lily serves…
Flowing down their throats and then into their arteries, Lily serves…
Lily serves like a shaggy female terrier, cutely petulant.
Lily breaks herself until she fits into a bottle and she serves…
Pretending to be uninterested in the news of homecomings,
Lily grafts herself tree to tree and she serves another beer…
Lily puts herself on a fishhook and angles like there’s no tomorrow.
Lily quips, “Life is a little bitter just like this beer” and serves another…
“I am God’s typing error.” She serves another beer…
“I am a little she-snake from the snake charmer’s basket.”
Lily serves another…
It isn’t bedtime yet…another
Nights are still falling in rain…another
Dawn hasn’t budded…
No crack of light in tomorrows yet…
There’s only darkness…
Lily serves beer.
Lily has served beer.
Lily is serving beer.
a first memory
running from head to toe:
as the sun loses grace,
cheeky children return to their homes late
with a wipe of their brows and wind
playing in their ears.
in the garden alone,
a young pair of lovebirds
blush in shame.
the sigh of time draws close. in the early
hours of morning, youths arrive
in shifts. one by one,
a farm collapses, an anxious
field hears the thunder
of progress.
hills of trees are shaved free;
sweat off the backs of teenagers
becoming men. one by one,
we lose a thousand dreams
marching towards maturity.
The sky insists on unfurling
its vast emptiness overhead.
Today you are not here.
In your place,
the ghosts of our landscapes
raise the oceans in me.
Here is what floats up –
The riverside. The thickets,
the tamarinds. The derelict bridge.
Together on the endless beaches,
our hands outspan the moon.
Today you are not here.
Today you do not remember.
(What is to be remembered? how long
have I been an emigrant.)
Today you are not here by the silk tree.
Here we first fell in love,
here the first tree still waits.
Straits of Tebrau
I crossed you
looking for a friend
long unseen
because you are a witness
to an old story
when we used to love
fusing affection with faithful promises.
But …
Why now the lack of feelings
and warmth
when we’re together?
Even so
lips part with a smile
the heart is suspicious.
Hands wave with affection
But with feelings divided,
filling each word with a thousand meanings
filling every step with a thousand cares.
hands clasp tightly against a grip so cold.
Is all this …
because we used to
disappoint and fail in a love
still
sore, a wound full of pus
or
is doubt
unrelenting and dissatisfied
that we together
are friends loyal
to our ideals.
Straits of Tebrau
Understand
our love
never reached its peak
However
we are still tied
by bonds of friendship
that fortifies us
in the face of a turbulent world.
Not
enemies looking for conflict
or
nemeses seeking destruction.
Straits of Tebrau
can we strengthen the bond
of love and trust
in the coming days
as a close friend
in a world achurn with uncertainty?
They painted / dyed the building at the junction, some crows caught in the paint / To this day, black crows remain, nuclear shadows post-explosion eruption of our defences / To this day, the black crows / Paints are just colors, laughs the paint man, That’s why they set it alight / You know this What do you know?/ this is our stone building / Its three-cornered junctions have now changed / They have become sharks with sharp teeth / Their name is paint / This time the streets have not grown ears / But they have eyes like the sun / Long-nosed peoples lead mustached peoples across the three-cornered junctions / the sun laughs at their long noses / The sun’s laughter was like the sound of a raven, a brick building, an island, and a house / the ravens, painted many colors, had now grown noses / flew with them.
I, from all angles, looked at an apple
in the supermarket there, those naturally ripe fruits
dropped from different directions were reproduced
by the advanced biotechnology
another microchip was added to my brain
what I should have wanted to know
had already been known beforehand, and so this became a space
created to learn creation
I started to run along the runway
of a reservoir when independence
became the connotation
of isolation (or vice versa)
it was no longer possible to stop the legs with engines
I used a lift to get at the highest space
at the highest speed to be able to chat with the moon closely,
in the skyscraper standing,
several phone calls were thundering
with the pounding, heavy rain
I set off my shopping footsteps
by electric flowers at the urban river bank
I was being bewitched. I bought being accustomed to
neat and tidy offices, using my credit card.
I shut down my eyesight
only the hospitality of strangers
in the professionally-harmonized tune I heard
was recurring and recurring and recurring
in my sweet memories
as if they were pearls of pomegranate
cascading onto the wet floor
slipping between these moments of the past
snaking through the Sunday market —
the sea of people (grey-haired)
dissolves into the crowd.
negotiating a price,
Kokila (who had forgotten to ask
for the remaining money
from the shopkeeper selling anchovies)
finds the coins
(of change)
spilling out of her bag
yet again
their deafening sound of laughter
echoing off the walls
black chickens
like headless fools
are laid out in the butcher’s sink
hearing the price
of one shocks Michael,
but before he can speak
his granddaughter
marks a full-stop to his sentences
by extending an extra
two dollar note
at the fruit stall
lips sipping papaya juice
complained about not remembering the school
that was near the market
in the 80s
these new teeth, chewing on radish
complained about a Malaysian passport
that had been
mysteriously stolen from him
in the 50s
these memories evaporate like
water in a lake, slowly drying up
Are the ones who have lost
the last pages of their books
resigned to wear
new glasses
every
single
day
just to rewrite their ending?
1 How far is the market from home; the length of two feet spurred by rattan canes. 2 Hold your dollar coins tightly in closed fists. 3 Minimise the un-paring of rice and vegetables. 4 Learn your multiplications. 5 See how the canal overflows from last night’s rain. 6 Cats and dogs, planks of wood, even your mattresses; all things return to the sea. 7 The slippered will cross from market to school. 8 No worries for your vocation! 9 Exalt the learned; how to read, how to write, how to count. 10 Multiply! 11 Your parents are your parents. 12 There is value in the aged. 13 When of age, you will marry before the passing. 14 If it is willed, so is the child. 15 Even fish and vegetables is a kind of happiness. 16 If you wake from a dream, are you air-conditioned? 17 Hear the grand-children proclaim “prosperity, prosperity fish burger! Full of spirit and delight!” 18 A dream is a folded memory. 19 Day and night, let us pray for magic. 20 This is a world where fish turns from the sea.
I have heard that my mother’s nanabapu planted mango trees on his farm so that you could taste the the fruit from March to August. Such lush green in the Kutch desert.
Walking on the land, you could travel from Sindh to Rataul to the far south. Sindhri, Hafus, Kesar, Langdo, Dussheri, Rataul and Imam Pasand.
Here in Singapore I had the flavour of mangoes on my tongue from April to July. No, I gorged on mangoes. No journeying. The mangoes kept coming. Home delivery in the time of Covid 19. First the Hafus. Then Kesar. Dussheri. Langdo. Rataul. Sindhri.
i.
in the new city
a wandering river of
delivery bikes
throng canals of retail shops
drained of posh automobiles
ii.
are there angels
among the living
the air is thick
with the expensive smell
of sanitisers
let us raise our hands
lower our masks
open palms open hearts
all praise and glory
to the unclaimed
iii.
there is no comfort
in the wandering
only the waiting
find purpose
in the destination
Morning (Accelerated Shot)
Get up, brush teeth, wash face, drink tea, wear
clothes, shoes. Wait
until the need to take three steps
as two. In the driver’s seat, pause.
There’s dust on the windscreen and
the asphalt road beckons, widens.
Morning (Slow Motion)
The road keeps widening but
never feels quite wide.
In ordered rows, cars move, crawl,
stop at red lights, at forked roads, at
zebra crossings. Stop,
wait, time is waiting,
tired of waiting. It abandons me
leaps over cars, sprints away.
It leaves a trail of beaded perspiration,
glistening at the tip of my nose.
Evening (Accelerated Shot)
To write, to look at the clock, to write,
to pack up, to look at the clock, to pack up.
To walk to the lift to press G.
Down the stairs, behind the wheel,
another half–hour to home.
Evening (Slow Motion)
The road keeps widening but
never feels quite wide.
In ordered rows, cars move, crawl.
Those on the road shoulder stop.
Those in a chain collision stop.
Those commanded by the traffic police
stop. Always stopping, always
waiting, time is waiting,
tired of waiting. It abandons me
leaps over cars, sprints away.
Some drivers are like millipedes
Driving very slowly and cautiously,
Making drivers that race
Like centipedes
Furious.
Many drivers are similar to dragonflies,
They swerve from left to right
Without indicating,
Without thinking of safety
And without courtesy.
Other drivers are like lizards,
They are immovable on narrow roads
As they deliver goods,
Intent on their prey, they block
Other road users.
Why can’t they remember
The rules for drivers?
Have they become old
Or do they have amnesia?
Eyes thick with dreams. Sweat-slicked seats
wicked by breeze, a cockroach drowses
in the dusty cracks between. Outside,
a fugue of motion: people, cars
criss-cross roads trundling from
Paya Lebar to Kallang, lorongs swell
with stories split from Asia’s belly,
Geylang sighs of sultry nights,
laments its morals loosening.
Coffeeshops thunder with soft-boiled eggs,
roti bakar, hot buns, mushroom mee.
Heavy breathing steams the rubbish heap.
Massage parlours re-open at eleven,
mosques and temples bear sullen witness
as brothels sleep. Migrants flit to hi-card kiosks,
contraband cigs slip from fist to fist. The bus
pulls in shadows huddled in front of shops,
then suddenly whiffs tumble in:
stale Tsingtao, nicotine lacing
unbrushed teeth, prata soaked in dhal,
breakfast kopi. Sweat ripening,
earwax, grime wiped on pants.
Heads forward. Will not move
back. Red eyes patrol the space
from seats, tracing foreign scents.
Too many already, cannot come in.
The cramped journey suspends
in stifled air. The local driver is late.
Dreams stall at the entrance.
Stand up. Rage. Go
to the back! Go back,
go back.
This city is truly pure
The flowers have been sterilised
The moon inoculated
All the luminous shine of the mountains and colours of the sea
Have been distilled
Even car sounds and birdsongs have conformed to the norm
Footsteps on the streets
One following the other, one answering the other
Oddly enough, now behaving so well they are untainted
While poetry no longer causes any pain or stirs an itch,
The so-called suggestions, symbolism and ambiguity
All end up embalmed in ethanol
This city is truly pure
So pure it’s astonishing
Buildings adhere seamlessly to the ground
No sudden tantrums from the clouds
No startled wind
Not even a tendril of peculiar smell
Not to mention
Those sand grains so fond of sneaking into the eyes
the silence of night
is chased away
by the sun’s alarm
shoved into a train
in the middle
of shadows that appear
expressionless
I too, tremble as a ray
the mice shake their heads
while the bandicoots speak
conversing
without the need for understanding
like the lunch that had
long gone stale
laid out in front of us
these conversations are just as bland
I patiently await the time when I can rest
Either riding a bicycle on the East Coast tracks
Or waiting in lines outside restaurant entrances
Or watching TV in silence
Only in sleep
through my silent pilgrimages
am I allowed
to put on a façade
to become
a tiger, a dog or a space creature
and in some magical moments
also human
Tradition
Sixty-five thousand four hundred and thirty dollar advertisement
and one piece of mooncake
Office Block Lift
Up, a depressing morning
Down, an anxious sunset
Fast Food
rubbish that’s stopped breathing
quickly patching together
rubbish that’s still breathing
