wired fiction

St Kilda (United Kingdom) - Atlas of Remote Islands (Judith Schalansky)

2012-02-06T05:09:00.001+08:00

Who can stare into

a woman’s empty, hungry heart

and not go blind?

She is a loaded gun in

unsure hands. A seagull

that knows nothing

about the currents that buffet

her circuitous journey.

She can board a ship of promises

and still return empty-handed.

There is no woman that cannot carve

a hell out of heaven from the

miseries of her loves.

Give her your boxing gloves and

she’ll use them in her kitchen too.

When she finally answers your call,

you might want to hang up before she

speaks. For she,

cannot tell you the contents of

a rock anymore than she

can tell you how to be a man.

Such a woman is a ghost

that browns the letters of

the feminist’s manifesto.

Were there no God, she would

have grown the tree.

So pluck the dying

infant from her breast.

Give her nothing but the breeze

upon her rags and kiss her

once. Tell her,

how tomorrow’s eternity

is today’s exile

and trust her,

to keep the flames

burning - then

leave.

Rudolph Island - Atlas of Remote Islands

2011-12-30T10:25:00.001+08:00

Rudolph Island Franz JosefLand (Russia)

(taken from wayfaring.info)

On the dance floor in the 80s

with New Order in our blood

we named our pretties and

drinks in the syncopated missteps of

our drunken routine.

How many more can our eyes behold

till the bottle contents ferment into gold,

crackling between our toes

as its life drains away into the vastness

of our emptiness, as old as

the ice untouched, unmoved

in its passive aggression over

the liquid lines of bodies passing

through the night.

Bear Island - Atlas of Remote Islands

2011-12-30T10:16:00.000+08:00

Bear Island Spitzbergen(Norway)

(taken from wikipedia)

Every lonely man

travels to find a bird but

ignores the whale carcass,

the melting icebergs and

the empty nest.

Every lonely man shoots

for himself a bird and

pockets his treasured find

deep in his shattered heart

bludgeoned senseless by the

calls of home.

Every lonely man

documents his desire with

a taxidermist’s eye, under the

open glare of the artic sun. He

makes it back but leaves

the man behind.

No, that hand hold is for your mum

2011-12-07T03:48:00.001+08:00

Excerpted from "Hands" by Sarah Kay

"One time I grabbed my dad's hand so that our fingers interlocked perfectly. But he changed position saying "No, that hand hold is for your mum!"

Something special is
hidden
and given
to only one
or maybe
two.
What is special is not just the
glorious sunrise, the well-guarded
recipe, the aha-moments of life.
I'm reminded that they are found in everyday things, slipping through our fingers and lifting its voice to sing in the lazy afternoon. It is your hand in mine - still holding on
even when I'm flying away.
How wonderful the
imprint
of common
things.

Lonely island (Atlas of Remote Islands - Judith Schalansky)

2011-11-06T04:52:00.000+08:00

Frozen courage in a shot glass
tittering
in the hands of one whose knotted
nerves belabour the
slow. passing. of time.

The morning came.

... an old woman with no teeth,
no credit card, no reading glasses,
no watch, no words.

In the darkness it grew.

... this old woman with ,
jet black hair, stone raisined eyes,
varicose heart and livered soul.

And broke into silence.

... my old woman with wounds,
a siren's song, unfinished letters,
unbearing the gifts of hell.

To be forgotten once again.

long-distance

2011-10-31T10:32:00.002+08:00

our words are strung out one by one
on the winding cables crackling the
heart of this vast land. they say

these words will never run out
even in a storm of letters lost at sea;
a stream of videos drifting in space;
text messages jabbing the night time air with
okokokokokokokokokokokokokokok

how i look at the clouds every night and wonder
everything and nothing about us
any more.

the editor's letter

2011-10-29T22:32:00.004+08:00

getting a "no" shouldn't hurt this time.

there had been strings of them criss-crossing

the map of this journey; a whole

bumble of garden twine winding

itself around my son's fingers, hands, arms

and then a cry - it was easy to set him free.

sometimes it was nostalgic to look through

a chestful of "no" memorabilia; an empty

trunk would be more fearful but I don't know anymore.

They have no cries left - why should they be free.

Moonwatching with Duckworth at the science center deck

2011-10-14T12:12:00.000+08:00

watching the neon lights

from an elevated distance

with the cold wind threading

through your bones;

conversation haloed by the

moon's glow - the headlights

on the suspended bridge rising

from the fog of haunted dreams

and restful memories. my feet are

resting on the horizon but my head

is grounded, its muddled

thoughts meandering pencil lines of legs

and cold hungry hands clutching the last

warm sandwich.

somehow i am lost

in the hugs of old friends, the quiet

awe of curious minds and

the sensation of flying thoughts in

unsure hands.

Scarecrow

2011-09-23T12:26:00.003+08:00

tearing letters that

set on fire the

empty pages of

the night now only

appear in

lost-and-found

advertorials,

leaving traces in

speeches with

clipped consonants,

cracking vowels.

the piano with a story;

the wrinkled hearts in

smooth palms;

the frail morning light

fading in the growing shades

of denial still bleed

from the shredded letters

of my straw heart.

Fences

2011-09-23T04:20:00.003+08:00

what would tubers look
like if they were
words, budding in the
dark safety of brown life
lost in the white dream
of pristine purpose?

what would daffodils
look like if they were
metaphors, waving in the
breeze of tempestuous change
longing for the admiring eye's
caresses in daily commuters?

what would weeds look
like if they were
punctuations, stopping
the tide of best intentions
knowing little but the moment
of growing and being?

what would our lives
look like if they were
gardens, gazing out
from well-ordered chaos
remembered only in
the in-betweens?

writer's block

2011-09-19T03:51:00.000+08:00

if i cannot write

i cannot speak.

if i do not speak the

hates, loves and dreams

of the hollowed tree,

the synthesised emptied church,

the doll of nauseating

nostalgia...

if i cannot speak

i cannot see, taste

and hear.

if i do not see, taste

and hear

the bud in slow rot,

old age in burnt chocolate,

thorns ringed in youthful vows...

if i cannot write

i cannot be broken.

2011-06-16T22:07:00.004+08:00

cold udon with condiments

One broken
quail egg
poured
into a plastic saucer
quivers
as it captures
this grey reflection
poised
on the ends
of chopsticks
broken
for the
job.

2011-03-14T10:25:00.000+08:00

Somewhere

Somewhere in me is a person
listening patiently to the tireless tirade.
Somewhere she
lingers a little longer
in the lukewarm embraces.
Somewhere she still waits
to be answered when she’ll
be kissed.

Somewhere this girl
lives your endless day dreams
of being king.
Somewhere she never
fails to return your unseeing gaze.
Somewhere she still lives
to hear the keys jingle at the door.

I hear her lonely footfalls
after the daily sitcom. And
I follow her to that someplace
where you are.

2011-01-30T20:52:00.002+08:00

It's foolish
to see in a tea leaves' dance
the meaningless tales of love.
How odd
to have no wings but
wander far afield the
nightplains of heaven.
It can't be right
to solemnise the songs
of one lonely female persuasion
to the canon of verses -
And in our favourite key?
Oh desist!
Come, let us of sanctified taste
ignore the beastly tongues of flames,
the engorged prayers of peasants
and stay in our lifeboats.
If they really needed our help,
they will need to learn to swim
first.

2011-01-25T08:30:00.002+08:00

But busking in the reflected glory of the city I have never seen a star till I gazed at my own clamouring, ardent darkness and see its cold light emerge, a siren to my untutored heart

2010-12-26T21:32:00.002+08:00

waiting for an answer

stranded on the wrong end of the shore -
there lies before you last
night's flotsam and jetsam bobbing
merrily on the dying waves.

as the fragments wash up onto your feet
and make little nicks on your soles
and webbed veins - still you stand
on a bed of broken corals, holding out
for the stars above who have
wandered far afield to be brought
back into the sheepfold.

2010-08-28T23:02:00.002+08:00

garden

summer heat
drives the busybodies
underground.
the curious, foolhardy,
wander on footpaths
dizzy with mayflies courting
the warm embraces
of the humid air.
schoolgirls spring up
on mountain steps
calling us to follow them
high above the unwavering
sea caught between
our feet and dreams.

here cicadas will emerge
from unbroken grounds,
fallen pinecones will
find solace, ravens their
targets, and i
my quiet joy.

2010-08-22T00:24:00.000+08:00

I do not know

I do not know
how to keep up
with you-you holy,
productive, inspired chaos.
I am only one woman
to many, one daughter
too short, one worshiper
to date. Yet I am still
pruned to the scales of
economy, and left on a sheet
of grey shaved ice.
The desolate city of my mind
will only open its doors to
thieving car alarms, wailing
infant loud hailers and nursing
nutcases.
Your cheap miracles
need not apply.

2010-08-12T21:19:00.002+08:00

carpeted forest floor of moss
covers the misshapen earth.
i wander alone in a japanese garden
for paid customers.

the jeer of ravens on treetops unseen.
the tired stream beating through the heat.
a lonely pinecone fallen beside a maple leaf.
i pretend not to heed their calls and
pick them up.

the gardener's shed is off-limits.
the garden is bounded by metal fences.
high atop a distant hill,
an ancient fortress tethers on the edge.
i am wishing for more than a
garden to be.

2010-08-12T21:09:00.002+08:00

nothing breathes.
the senses are beaten dull
by routine marches.
i build my kingdom on
my iphone app.

nothing stirs.

nothing takes flight.
the dream of creation
carries the drowning cries
of herons sweeping
the manmade lakes.
i pass my burden onto the
arms of a hired help.

2010-07-07T21:53:00.003+08:00

3 AM night feed

alone with a sleeping
babe in arms, the only companions
are the pitiful wail of an alarm clock,
rattling closets of browning bones,
the death knell of a flat battery,
and the groans of locks burdened to keep watch.

I bear the weight
of a trepid night and wait
in hope of the dawn
sweetly nestled in the
bosom of life's beauty, lifted on the
curls of eyelashes gently resting
on the horizon.

2010-07-01T07:45:00.002+08:00

Lullaby

Baby sleep, the world
is unchanged.
The clouds may weep
but many still thirst.
The crops may grow
but many go hungry.
One man may die
but many do too.

Close your eyes, the world
is spinning.
No one is leading
but many still follow.
No one is perfect
but many are trying.
One man may live
but many do too.

Hush my baby, the world
is dark.
The stars may shine
but many are blind.
The sun may scorch
but many ignore.
One man may come
but who will be there?

2010-03-16T22:35:00.003+08:00

Two kingfishers

Two kingfishers call out to each other.
The morning is almost spent.
The noon bugs shake off
the morning dew.
The fishes in the canal
are sinking to the depths.

Oh how sad are their calls!
My lover sleeps and stirs not.
Though I travel with no more haste
than the clouds across his sleeping face,
he does not come after me.

I pass the rocking shells of old age;
the sleepy school boy keeping up with
six inch heels and wet flip flops;
the baby taking his mother
on a circuitous walk for fresh air.

And come to the end of the rambling path,
facing the busy cross-section before me
fidgeting at the red light.
I will have to go on without him.

But I will need more than the providence
of two kingfishers;
the pearls of morning dew painted on
the backs of noon bugs,
the silver threads of gleaming fish
to make me smile again.

2010-02-09T17:08:00.010+08:00

Living in a colony
of electrical lights,
one gets cynical when
looking at the sky -
every cloud is a smudge,
every star a satellite.

There is no light like
time-controlled fluorescence.
There is no power like
our PUB.
Behold the darkness
crowned in orange halos!
Its very heart in cinders-
There is no terror in
a greying ghost.

Beyond the defences,
the night stalks its prey.
Sinners and wise men keep it at bay.
The gospel of light must be preached.
The waking shall no longer sleep.
The blind shall always see.

And the stars of heaven
that direct pagans to their doom
with their siren calls
shall forever be eclipsed
by the light of our efficiency,
the truth of our practicality.

How my soul longs to be exiled,
to be overshadowed by the night,
to drown in the pool of forgetting.
And let my sight lose its way
among the fields of constellations
tracing the pigments
of ordinary lives scattered
across time and space.

There is no longing like
the glistening hole in the blackness.
There is no hope like
the washed eyes of heaven.
Behold the perfection of man's desires!
Burning in its cosmic light
for the heavens to envy.

And the stars in man's hearts
will course through the veins
of generations to come,
crashing overloaded systems,
flooding binaric defences
for the colony of electrical lights.

2009-09-09T08:28:00.003+08:00

the routine beats
of life must
be hard
to bear.
and the songs of
open graves,
the low groans of
the dry earth,
lay such
burdens.
light is
beckoned
to retreat.
praise of
babes are sealed
in glass jars.
the proud city
swallows all signs
and marches
to the beat.

somedays
you feel that
you are the
only one
standing in
its way.
you are the
compass needle
pointing
south.
you are the
block of
wood.
you are
edible.
you are a
superstition.

so they set
a date
for roadworks
to be laid upon
your heart.
who knows
they may win;
they may even
be right.
and when
the day comes,
know that
you are at
the doorstep
of the morning.
no more peeking
through keyholes.
no more tiresome
reports from others.
take the key,
walk the talk.

2009-09-06T00:00:00.002+08:00

malcontent

the future could
not be any brighter.
we have sunk so low
in their abyss of hope
that they cannot stop
praising us for
our god potential.

displacing authority,
they assure us
by their unwavering
faith that God will
make all things
beatific.

but we both know better.
we lead such commonplaced
lives where neither of
us is a husband or
a wife. we constantly
contradict each other
and our lands are
divided by barbed wires
of peace. on some days,
we curse at each other's
fashion sense as we
begin our day and
by all accounts,
wrestle with each other
even in our sleep.

surely He gives us
both good and bad
hair days. the sun
makes the shadows cringe
and dries our clothes.
the rain makes
your bones sing and
my hair soft. even
if we can't justify
ourselves to them,
and never ascend
the heavens and join
the chorus,
we should not be
ashamed of our
humble cloth.
it drapes us,
covers us from the
intrigues of men,
and is held together
by His love, greater
than what we had
promised that day.

2009-09-01T23:38:00.001+08:00

beginning of the rainy season

this wind is new.
the knotted thoughts
in my belly,
the unanswered smses,
the pristine
living room couch,
are pages that turn
with the wind.
even knowing that it
won't last for me,
i bear no grudges
as the rains
beat upon this soil
and warm the life in it.

when the morning tears
the new chapter open,
they shall invoke
their divine right
to reclaim me but even
they can't control
the weather.

2009-08-18T23:16:00.000+08:00

Mole

I have eyes that never
could see.
They were given with hindsight.
They were sewn onto
my face with the very first thought.
My hands busy themselves.
My hands extend themselves willingly
into the den of bewildered beasts.
They were crafted by the
noises between the first song
and the fall. They were
fashioned after the imprints
of my maker.
And all the senses I have left
are burning bulbs of tingling
sensations. They are worms
that make the lands fertile,
steal time from corpses and
forget the look of the sky for
the ungoverned dark halls,
ruled by jewels whose beauty
I no longer can taste.

Would my maker lift me
and save me from this grace?
Would he clothe my naked skin,
and whisper into this unending
peace? Would he want
To make a man out of me and give
me eyes that weep and
melt in the face of the sun?

How happy this life,
as I live each minute at a time,
that it can behold the glory
and never see it fade.

2009-08-12T21:58:00.004+08:00

this towering mass of
naked ambition desires nothing
more than the rushing
crowd's longing for absolution
from brighter lights and soothing
elevator tunes.
it chants its prayers; performs
its ceremonial dances
without the slightest attention
from its devotees who flow through
its veins with no expectation of
praise.

who am i,
this single unbounded atom,
to rave, lament and
sigh over its maker?
could i wish for my undoing
with little fear of the pain?
even so the night air of the
streets consumes the fringes of
my soul with its frigid candour.
could i have tears that will take
with them my unnamed shame and
leave me sanctified?
even so a babe's incessant cries
are quickly smothered by his
zealous caretakers.

As i turn to the
night, open my
fist and leave
the fray for good,
i smell the scent of
the sea amidst
the burning aromatic lamps
and steamed chamomile tea bags.

The unbridled sea left
in the dark,
tucked far away,
and hedged by government flats,
comes unbidden and
kisses the old men sprawled
at the void decks,
tickles the whiskers of
prowling tomcats and whispers,
to lonely husbands in front of
empty television sets.

i can never see that clear
nor far but you must know
we are still out there,
undiscovered islands in a sea
of humanity.

With hope,
the day comes and
robes we never deserved
will clothe our ambitions and
lay them to rest.

references:
1. ion orchard
2. sembawang park

2009-08-09T00:01:00.000+08:00

Again.
the flights of fancy
on crickets' wings
Again.
my fingers caressing
the tresses of the wind
Again.
humid starless nights seeping
from gaping souls
Again.
the sputtering ends of
convictions
Again.
the unborn born
for social conversation
Again.
tired wombs resting on benches
Again.
the cup that is always full
Again.
expanding cables of the human heart
Again.
your request my regress
Again.
my request your return -
Again.

2009-07-25T08:53:00.003+08:00

"polished detachment"

to Mark Strand

So i guess that I
am not here and
I am there and yet
nowhere but anywhere
and still not everywhere.

lesser fools have walked away
from this charade and unmarked
their calendars,
shake the dust off - Let us go
and be happy,
with the simplicity of
our complicit behaviour.
Knowing the cycles
of our emotions
that ride on rented
treadmills, let us
borrow an hour
and sleep in the
arms of unadulterated
rest. what we cannot
borrow we shall steal
in our foolish ways,
as familiar to us
as the people on the
daily commute.

But there might
still be the possibility
of getting caught
in the impossibility
of untested ability.

so at the very least
we shall agree,
that we are fools empty
of rhymes, waiting
for a second coming.

2009-07-18T23:50:00.010+08:00

we will have another
dance. before they
clear our tables,
before they charge us
for sentimentality,
before they hand us
a parking ticket.
just one more dance

before the rain finishes
its song. before the
citylights burnout.
before the night
hangs its stars.

one more dance
before the infirmed
are touched, before
the old remember again,
before the young
ones grow quiet.
just before your
hand gets entangled
in my hair,
before you do not
remember my smell,
before you turn
away from me in
your sleep

Let us have
one more dance.

2009-07-16T22:07:00.009+08:00

being in love
with an ordinary
girl, not a woman,
not a lover.
being in love with
this person
you could spend
a saturday night with,
not for the down
-town lights, not
for the vanity of
the stars.
a simple bond
of clay and twine,
it's the scent of
the earth as it crumbles
in your hand,
that vagrant tune
we find on the back
of rush hour traffic.
it's the sawdust of
every broken heart.

he is in love with
an ordinary girl.
what about you?

2009-06-30T00:03:00.002+08:00

rolling in the grass,
the scent of fresh game
rises from the earth,
opening our eyes
to the untamed
night: we rest on
our haunches,
reveling in the
release of
our spirit's rein.

2009-06-29T23:47:00.003+08:00

on any given night
the sky sulks in a purple rage
and storms the heavens.
we witness its tempestuous ways,
pulsating under phantasmic
lights. the byways
cower in the darkness;
the highways overload
our senses.
why don't the stars
come out at night? what else
could they
be doing?

2009-06-27T22:30:00.005+08:00

Under His wings

if i should never
feel the light upon
my face and blink
under her harsh gaze;
if i should never
feel her warm embrace
and welcome the needs
of hope newborn;
if i should never
feel upon my ears
the waves of her name
called out in the din
of voices thronging the streets;
this darkness i have
under His wings - the constant
beatings of His heart and
the presence of His voice;
a warm hand in mine
and a smile that i feel,
carrying me through the
tides of the day, lifting my
heavy heart once again
with love written by
unseen hands - ever as
clear as the first
day i remember.

2009-06-17T22:44:00.002+08:00

blackbird - kenny rankin

a sliver of
sound
resounded
in my heart. as it
stretched its limbs
and blinked at me,
i smiled at its
charming ways for
when he sang,
i knew my heart
had found a way
to dance again,
in audience of
the stars above,
a speckled host
of unquenchable witnesses,
to the foibles
of my heart. then i felt

my eyes moist again;

i felt a hand in mine -

still warm.

perhaps i am not
born too late.

2009-06-12T21:51:00.004+08:00

When we were monkeys

The mangrove swamp stretches as far as the eye can see from the riverbank where we stood. As we crossed the wooden plank and entered the trail, we smelled her musky scent as it enveloped our bodies. We were unruly school boys mimicking the cries of monkeys, pulling at each other and calling ourselves on deeper into her midst. A man would have caught the fragile gleaming scent of frangipanis and the dull numbing awareness of rotting wood and carrion in the undertones. But we could only feel her heavy breathing on our necks, the warm humid breath caressing, stroking our uninhibited desires to rush headlong into the direction of softly muted lights, where the chorus of cicadas weeping, praying, chattering, gibbering, dreaming aloud would be the comforting madness we longed for and had left behind, when we stepped into our uniforms, chasing the neighbouring school girls all standing in a line outside the shopping mall.

And we were afraid of her darkness, or the never-ending columns of trees and undergrowth spewing out over the innumerous unmarked trails with no beginning and end. Her darkness many of us peered at and quickly turned away. Ashamed, we were unmanned under the gaze of invisible kohl eyes alit by strange fires. We screeched, yelped and leaped past a startled group of tourists. We scratched at ourselves and each other as the mosquitoes got the better of us. When we grew tired of leading the pack, we skulked behind the tour guide and pelted her with our inane questions, taking a perverse delight in seeing her fumble over her answers. If we became long-limbed and grew a bushy tail, we would not have noticed. Our eyes blinked at the the beads of perspiration and were glazed a muddy green-gold over.

How we got back our uniforms, slingbags and water bottles as we boarded the bus home we do not know. Mr. Fong herded us to the gathering point, patted our backs and pinched some of us as if to bring us back to our senses. He had plodded the mangrove trail, eyes shielded by a cap emblazoned with the school's crest and motto. Occasionally we would turn around and call out to him, to hear the echoes of home, and we would catch the glint in his eyes as if the back of a huge catfish arose out of the muddy depths of the swamp to catch the light. His soccer jersey rose in and out of our sight and though we played target with it, he kindly dismissed us with a word and set us free to run ahead with our monkey business.

As he counted the unruly mob and gave word to the bus driver to take off, we asked him did he not think the whole nature walk useless to our education? He smiled and gave us what was the usual non-sequitur "What do you think?". We knew of nothing when we went there yet still had our possessions when we returned. We answered no call before but now we sat wondering at our own question. As boys, we gave up and after a few more lewd jokes and swatting at each other, we fell asleep under the blast of the aircon, the last dregs of the heated swamp air expunged under its chill.

2009-05-30T21:35:00.005+08:00

poems at borders

whilst reading, the tremours
of the underground subway
reverberate through the bones
of my feet: RJ girls set up squatters
in front of the 'A-G' section; a man
in a broad rim straw hat chuckling
to himself; the occasional
incursions of lonely man
weaving in and out of my line
of vision - sometimes they
stand too close and the smell
of human flesh still burning
in tungsten flames is inhaled
by my cotton blouse. i
take a breath back.

the familiars are scattered
like refugees; cyril wong
sits besides charles bukowski -
love is a dogged hell. sa'at
howls with ginsberg and spins
off my radar. neruda in a failed
conspiracy with plath.
Still their paperback weight
crushes me underfoot.

the subway
comes for me.

isaiah 50:10
Who among you fears the
Lord?
Who obeys the voice of His
Servant?
Who walks in darkness
And has no light?
Let him trust in the name of the
Lord
And rely upon his God.

2009-05-30T21:22:00.002+08:00

just something that was done for a storybook given as a wedding gift to my friends. i love rabbits.

2009-05-23T23:15:00.007+08:00

Artist: Utamaro
Title: Grasshopper and Cicada
Series: A Selection Of Insects
Medium: Woodblock Print
Date: 1788
Size (HxW): 8.25" x 12.5"
Notes:
The feelings of a cold-hearted lover
are like a cicada:
it cries constantly
but never shows its face
•Miwa no Sugikado•

Oh, grasshopper,
if you must cry so loud
as you make love
deep within the wall,
remember, it too has ears!
•Kurabe no Yukisumi•

cicada

i have never seen them;
cupped my hands upon
their startled faces and
squealed at their tickles
till i could calm us both
to place them near
my cheek and sneak
a peek - i have never
been in a place
where i could lie on my
belly and hold my breath
to actually hear the soft
clicks of their mandibles.
i never knew anything
about their place in our songs,
and how hollowed out eyes
once traced the outlines of
our life through their
wandering tales in the fevers
of insouciant afternoons.

so when i stand in
profuse sweat worrying
about other bugs and then,
trudging through
the reserve in mosquito
repellent and yes,
running shorts,
i wondered how
involuntarily
my ears picked out
their cliks, gackles,
glips and berrows.
i wondered at my
own muteness its
weight bearing upon
my lens trained upon
passing monitor lizards.

And even if i could speak
the words lost in the grains
of cement and tar; the words
that have passed through time
with such inconsequence,
ever spoken but
always forgotton,

when i sleep
tonight, i will hear
their chants and ramblings
in my ear,
whitewash the
columns aligned and
justified paragraphs,
leaving a trail of breadcrumbs
in my darkness.

2009-05-02T19:35:00.002+08:00

the magic dragon

i understand tea in
tea bags, one sachet
of sugar, black
and tangy as the afternoon
breeze on my salty skin.

i recognise tea
by its familiar names,
and the cellaphane wrapped
pop art scenes of tranquil
tea plantations promising
in every fragmented
tea leaf, vanquished
in the rush of scalding
heat.

then, i had no qualms
of subduing
that cup
as always with
my commonplaced
arrogance. but i
should have known better.
i was alone.
i could have backed off
at the price it
demanded.
i could have admitted
i was only human and had
made another mistake,
stand corrected.

but like a david
watching women go by,
i sat by its side
and watched the tea leaves
furl and
un furl
convulse under
the onset.
i bit my lip and
waited for my
sip.

swirls of heated
pleasure danced with
maddening joy,
in a cup of fine
porcelain china.
and the smell of
overheated fervour
repulsed me, as
the neighbouring
table cackled and grew
festive.

at the first sip,
the dragon loosened
its chains.
at the second,
the beast reared up as
if fire and
brimestone were thrust
into its gaping mouth.
at the third,
the shadow of
aftertaste fell like
nightfall and
the stars grew and
grew till the night
became a lonely
highway lit in the
confusion of
constellations - shakened.

not like balaam before
the face
of inevitable ruin,
i am just another
girl alone
in a teahouse
snugged up in town
watching traffic
in monochrome - waiting
for her husband
to come home drinking
pots of magic dragon,
late into another
night.

2009-04-28T21:54:00.003+08:00

redux: the finite soul's lament

it's so strange
that everyone
laments
on how
lonely
they are.
i hear the
strains of their complaint
in the vacant airs of
elevator music;
in the collision, emulsion
of polyphonic beats
to the time
it takes
for a good laugh to
become an echo.
This melody,
in its dull habit
and crusty ways, trembles
at the start
of the morning line
to take on
the runners lost
in their thoughts.
it glides under the noon sun,
and stops to
shimmy with
the symphonic whirrings
of photocopiers.
And oh the night!
no one can speak enough
of it. There is
only so much the
finite soul swallows whole:
the charms of wingless
lovers; the amblings
of dismembered love songs.
But memories,
do i recall of:
no
One
is
alone.

2009-04-27T19:52:00.002+08:00

the finite soul's lament

it's so strange
that everyone
keeps complaining
how lonely
they are.
i hear the strains
of their complaint
in the elevator music;
the beats between
the sighs
in the heart
of a good laugh.
this melody,
in its dull habit and
crusty ways,
comes early in the morning
and takes on the runners
in the streets.
it sings even in mid day
in accompaniment to
the computer terminal
humming with our
beating hearts. and
oh the night!
no one wants to talk
about it. there is
only so much
this finite soul can bear
at the sight of
wingless lovers and
dismembered love songs.
but i remember:
no
One is always
here.

2009-03-31T21:20:00.005+08:00

starbucks 730am

how lovely the morning
that walks by on a pair
of shapely legs,
plumped up flesh
bound in
indian cotton.
questions borne
on a pair of boney wings
peer into my face
and peck at the early crumbs.
the city drowses in the
half timed beats of
coltrane, blinks
at the flip of
the morning paper,
crouches in the
easy slouch
of bored tourists.
armed to the teeth
with caffeine,
soon i will join
the great march to
progress at
8am; forgetting
how through
the murmurs of
passing clouds,
worship of wordless
crickets, glimmering
daylight stars on treetops,
i arrived
exactly -
730am.

2009-03-08T00:55:00.006+08:00

Part V - continuation of prose entry "reminiscent"

The view of the fields, trees and reservoir lake kept shrinking. Over the many years that we stayed with grandpa and grandma, the surrounding empty plots of land had fallen into the hands of real estate developers who planted tall slabs of concrete, glass and electrical cables, blocking our kitchen view. When I was in the university and grandpa was still around, I’ll sit in the kitchen with all the lights out, gazing at the horizon, lights twinkling on the dark surface of the reservoir lake. The kitchen was never completely dark even in the silence of twilight. It was always swathed in this orange glow of streetlamps that lined the back road of the condominium. I found peace in the rhythm of my unhurried breathing. The tiles of the kitchen were cool and there were times, feeling so relaxed, I dozed right on the kitchen floor and woke up, feeling slightly apprehensive of grandpa discovering me as he stumbled, reaching in the darkness for the fridge door handle to get his ice cold beer. It took 4 years for the kitchen view to be reduced into a little patch through which I could still see the reservoir lake. By then, my eyes smarted at the piercing lights of the skyrisers and naturally, I directed my gaze only at the unfinished buildings with their cavernous holes, spikes of metal cable sticking out of its megalith shape, ashen grey. It was then I discovered that little patch, where my vision could continue to the lake and back. It took 4 years too for grandpa’s health to deteriorate. Months after his passing, we lost our kitchen view.

In the wee small hours of the morning, I still find myself going to the kitchen in my apartment. I don’t have a view too. And I reach out into the darkness to grasp the fridge door handle and get an ice cold beer too. The first sip of golden goodness brings cheer to my soul. Once Hannah sleeps, it is almost as if she leaves the world and its worries behind as easily as drawing one’s breath. She does not have a clue about what I do at twilight from time to time. I do think of the man. He was never affectionate but he was constant. Constant in his habits which never did made him the best of male figures but close enough to warrant some attachment to the old guy. I remember him giving me my first can of beer when they were asleep. He didn’t say a word but handed me a can while we were watching the late night movies on channel 5. Mid way through the woman getting seduced or the dead resurrecting from the graves transformed into zombies, I would feel the metallic chill numbing my elbow or making my arm rest slippery. And when I asked whether it was for me, he’ll just nod, refusing to say another word with his eyes trained on the face of the leading actress, either terrified or ecstatic out of her wits.

I asked that my long cherished he-man figurine be buried with him. So it was strange that when people came to pay their last respects, they saw he-man resting in grandpa’s arms. Mom was the only one who entertained all those annoying and prying questions about he-man. I excused myself to help grandma. On the last day of the wake, I led her to her room, put her to bed and left her door slightly ajar just in case. I went to the kitchen once again. Checked the fridge and found no more beer cans left. I sat on the kitchen tiles and took in the view and cold air. The morning will summon the hordes of construction workers, pilers and cement mixers. The last rites and prayers would be said before we committed his body to the fires. I hadn’t cried at all since the moment they declared it was beyond hope. Everything that I had held onto as a child, I felt them ebbing away with the flow of time and the darkness succumbing to the dawn. I heard the rattling of the keys and the door opening with my mum stumbling in. I got up and asked her to take a shower while I checked on grandma.

“Didn’t you sleep?”

I told her not to worry and take care of herself first while I woke grandma and cajoled her to take her breakfast. Before they sealed the coffin the final time, I had my last look of he-man resting in grandpa’s arms. I asked if they could wait for just one moment. I took he-man as gently as I could and dusted him the last time. If I teared, I must have at that point in time. But it was not for long. I heard the rumbling of the mini-bus as it arrived to transport our family and the mourners to the crematorium; I felt once more the vibrations of the steady pounding of the pilers. And it was just as well then, that my mum asked if I would like to give the figurine back to ah gong. And it was the most that I could do and have ever done since then.

2009-01-02T21:20:00.007+08:00

Part IV - continuation of prose entry "reminiscent"

I thought i saw the old man the other day. hannah was away in tokyo on a business trip. I decided to head to town and wander aimlessly. i walked from the soho like suburban centre, along the 4 laned road, under the shadows of overarching rain trees. it's so hard to find rain trees with such wide sweeping branches that are almost intertwined with the next tree's and see the innumerous petal-like leaves cascade in yellow, gold, envious green and brown. it is often the case that the town council or land transport authority would send foreign workers with their shears and chain saws to clear these trees out of the way. i understand the need for this like who wants falling branches to damage their cars. but sometimes i wished we people could just not be so pragmatically intuned all the time.

i walked for almost half an hour at dusk till i reached the main city centre with the blinking neon lights and crowds. i thought as i was about to turn into the cafe that i saw him - an old man in hawaiin shirt carrying a shopping bag. now that may seem like a dime a dozen scene but no one really wears hawaiin shirts anymore with the large red hibiscus prints. And even as i approached him i thought i could smell the coconut oil again. i couldn't see him clearly as the crowds blocked my view. But in that split second, which at first had sent my heart racing in anticipation, i was once again disappointed. He was holding onto a little boy's hand and now he was lifting him up to his mother who came from behind. Her shopping bags bumped against my elbow but she was in such a hurry that i guess she didn't realise it. I stood there just a few metres away watching him take the shopping bags from her as she carried the boy and walked a few steps ahead of him. If he was the very same uncle, he would not have changed at all. He still had a lithe frame and a full set of hair. His browned leathery skin stood out among the black and whites of the corporate crowd and pop colours of the latest teenage dressing. And most of all, the way he walked with that slight spring in his steps as if his soles treated the ground as a joke, reminded me of uncle. I don't recall what was uncle's name. I don't think i was even told.

Looking at him as he struggled to keep up with the mother and boy, disappearing into the maddening crowd, I felt that overwhelming sense of confusion and desperation. By now, the traffic light beside me had given the green light for the pedestrians and the oncoming human traffic swamped the pavements; shoulder blades and pads glanced off my sides. Perhaps some people stared. But none stopped. I felt that i should at least have followed him but everything in my mind told me that it was pointless and futile. Anyway, the light turned red and i turned around and returned to the cafe.

2008-12-23T02:40:00.013+08:00

part III - continuation of prose entry "reminiscent"

i've been having a lot of dreams lately. i have not been reading much and i have not been praying as much as i should be. but these dreams still keep coming. sometimes the numerous twists and turns in the action sequence of the dream leaves me with a hangover when i wake up in the morning. and then there are times when hannah hears me speaking incoherently in my sleep and i think during those times, i was actually shouting or screaming in the dream but the full throttle of the yelp or yell was suppressed and instead, groans and moans and unintelligible speech dribble from my lips.

but this dream that i've just had seems more significant than the rest. my dreams, more or less, consist of either one of these formulas like a nice hollywood action movie with the stereotypes and b-movie plotlines. the first set is always about being constantly chased by ghosts and vampires and barely finding the next exit strategy or attack combo to live, or sleep, for just one more second. the second set features me on a quest to find a treasure, to solve a murder or to discover the world's cure to some fatal disease but somehow i'll always get sidetracked by this beautiful girl or lovely souffle. if the formula to achieve REM works, my brain and hormones probably think it isn't worth the time to tweak it and give me a little more variety. hannah, ever my willing freud la femme, just simply thinks it's my outlet of escapism from the hour which i have to wake up and face the reality of working 12 hours with the-boss-who-has-a-turban-but-is-balding screaming vulgarities at you. she thinks i have this love-hate relationship with my boss which i am suppressing and my "desires" are manifesting themselves in my dream. But a beautiful woman does not wear a turban nor suffers from an overdrive of testosterones, and talking dirty isn't vulgarity. i don't think she gets it.

this dream seems more significant. just that day, i dreamt that i was about to start the very first day of my first job. being the usual lazy me, i didn't iron my clothes the last evening and promised to wake up early to do so. I did but what was the worst thing that happened was that after all the effort to choose the right shirt and iron it, the shirt just won't fit. Every shirt i tried out was too small. I looked at the clock and realised i was going to be late and i cursed and swore till i finally woke up. in the morning over coffee, hannah said that she was seriously thinking of moving back to her parent's place becauseof the noise i made at night.

and that dream keeps coming back to me. it might not always be about clothes. sometimes the cup for my coffee shrinks; sometimes the keys can't fit. The night before i left my mum at the shopping mall and boarded the bus with uncle, i dreamt that i did something really bad in my dream and that ah gong was trying to hide me from my mother's cane. As her voice became louder and louder and before she became hysterical, we found one of those moving boxes in the store room but i was too big for it. Ah gong with the wave of his remote control shrunk me just nice to fit into the box and when she finally flung the store room door open brandishing her cane and screaming at the top of her voice, i was out of sight.

ever since i was shrunk in that dream, everything else in my dreams keeps shrinking. even if i could find a way to undo it, ah gong passed away before i was ten. and that remote control has probably been smashed into smithereens and shattered a fragment of the ozone layer. if only i could one day meet that same uncle but he might have already gone the same way as ah gong. Yet, i thought i saw him the other day.

2008-12-07T22:15:00.003+08:00

some people are
looking for that
special
high - bringing down
heaven, crossing
rainbows, chasing
comets - dreaming.
some people are looking
for that
only break
from the grey hues,
the harrowing grins,
unrelenting storm - breaking.
some people are looking
to that hour -
their feet firmly
planted on newlands,
warm cups of promises
in their hands,
the choicest of company - at rest.
But none have I
these things and yet
You have made me -
just happy.

2008-11-27T11:02:00.002+08:00

rain drops dancing,
singing with metal, wood and gravel.
gently, it whispers
with each note
the day's happenings as it
unfolds crease by crease,
weave upon weave.
He sleeps - all is well
with my soul.
Oh to find sleep lying under
covers as the night rolls over
with its sound and fury.
sing low, sing sweetly into the
twilight awake.

2008-11-26T22:34:00.007+08:00

part II - continuation of a previous prose entry "reminiscent"

i remember standing at the bus stop, fiddling my pocket for some change. I had money enough to board the first bus that would come along. It didn't matter what the bus service number was or that i didn't know nuts about buses and where they went. It felt good for once to just get lost from her. i didn't like her very much then. And she was boring me out of my mind with all the browsing through the sales rack and girly stuff. As i tried to count my change just to check again that i had enough to get on the bus, a stray thought flashed and i wished i knew the bus service number that took me to my grandparent's house. it was almost 5.30pm and he-man would start in about an hours time. And their television was never switched off. even at this age when i have trouble sleeping, i will turn on my television and hear the sound of static and that would lull me to sleep. She did tell me that my grandparents had spoiled me and that they turned me into a tv junkie against her will. it can't be that bad since it beats taking a pill.

Anyway, that was the reason why I didn't board the first bus. i sat down on the orange plastic seat, wondering what could possibly be the bus service number to take and thinking of whether it was the 13 or 14 of June. That was the day (it was a saturday) when my mother told me that she would be taking me to live with grandpa and ma, away from dad. In my own way i thought that since that is the only day i can remember with some numbers attached to it, if I simply added up the number of the day with the number of the month, the total sum would dictate the number of the bus that i would take. Then, i saw an old man in a hawaiin shirt and khaki pants. I don't remember whether he was yellow, black, brown, or milky skin. When she found me much later, my mum would later tell me that i reeked of coconut oil, a smell that was probably rubbed off on me from the old man. Perhaps he did smoke and perhaps he did have a license to kidnap children and sell them off into slavery. But i just knew that if anyone could tell me today's date it would be this man who seemed like he had nothing to do except to be waiting for me. And even as I inched closer to him, why i could smell that same cologne scent that ah gong swathed himself with every morning - scent that was musky, heavy: old spices, damp leaves and rainy days.

"uncle".

2008-10-29T23:30:00.005+08:00

green mists and rolling fogs.
the hills drenched and pulled
through the sludge.
the journey is a roundabout,
a merry go round with lights
that twinkle in limbo -
the stars fade. oh curious blind eyes
that search the heavens
poured out into a cup of darkness.
it was the siren's call,
the faun's pipe
and the ticking clock
all rolled in one that
tickled the feet of pilgrims,
laden the bag with hopes,
blew on converted souls
and shipped them to
shores whose airs are
filled with wild cries and
bellowing noises in the humid night.

what strange journey does
a man take to lose
his possessions, his comforts,
his appetites, his senses
and his soul? and stranger
is the need that compels him
to travel into its very heart.
who made this man's image
and who named him yet took
the naming away and left him
unnerved, tormented -
a stranger to himself?
and names become the thing
that should not be spoken in haste
least it brings about more harm
than good.

the horror of great darkness
is the endless consuming fire
of an overturned mind who
in vain, tries to piece the broken
shards of one's soul.
in its centre a man is caught in
a whirlwind that never
carries him away. How the drummed
shut lids of his light strain to
see what was once.

But how the mighty are even those
who fall under its weight to feel
the crush of diamonds under
their feet. How the weak slip through
the cracks, filter all
this nonsense, fill up labels and tag them -
and move on.

2008-10-03T16:53:00.003+08:00

these thoughts
in my yellow box,
sticking close to oneanother
feeling naughty and presumptuous.
they stay in the yellow box
one by one they take turns
to slip away from sight
and creep into the night
keeping their brightness within
holding out even when the sun comes up.
oftentimes i think of
joining one of their romps into
the muddy fields and blowing
grass between our lips. i imagine
that we'll coax the others out
and turn the box inside out
and live long into the afternoon.
they'll promise to behave then
don't be so naughty now.
don't wink and don't spit,
no skiving and no lying.
but they are always in the box.
scream and put on the lid.
forget the summer and ignore
the winter.
here comes autumn
and i am alone again.

2008-09-12T23:16:00.005+08:00

dangers of reminiscing

feeling sad
empty
looking to
a string
of past events that
today,
mean
nothing.

there is no
more
"i" left in me.
No more.
the canker
bitter folds
of love
to gnaw at.
the raintrees
to pour nostalgia
on rush hour traffic.
oh-pain-stab-deeper
to feel
today. No
more...

the past you
splinters
in my palm.
the future you
burns
in the darkness.

-allthatcannotbeconfessed-

the present me
still missing.

2008-09-10T17:46:00.002+08:00

i don't need you to know that i'll be missing you. well in fact i don't even try to let you know in the first place. i don't even dare to look at where you sit coz i fear when you look at me, my eyes would give away my longings. So right now, i may even seem to you as cold, unfeeling, horribly pragmatic and incredibly busy... trying to forget you. Or at least, trying to pretend that you have already left. It's not that we did share numerous incredibly soul-shaking moments where my beginnings and endings took their mark from our conversations. It's not as if my heart is overflowing with gratitude to you for plucking it out of the darkness and smoothing its wrinkles. I wish such moments happened between you and me but it's no point wishing on the past - you were never that steadfast or saintly in that manner. In fact, now that i recall, there were moments when i was disappointed in you as i had certain expectations of you since we had worked so closely together. I even felt betrayed and horribly confused by your actions at one point and could not restrain my complaints and misgivings about our supposed friendship.

Despite the sum of all these things, I am going to miss you. It's not the highs and lows that i wished we had or possibly could have had. To put it simply without all these clauses and subordinates, i loved talking with you about what is right, what is pure, what should be the standards, what should be God's. And through our conversation, i guess we realised that we aren't always the saints we hope that we would be. But when we had such conversations, I just felt my faith in something that is beyond the expectations, the regulations and systems of this world lift up and take flight. The heaviness that weighed upon my vision and wrapped my senses in a blanket of fog was blown away by a fresh breeze that was sweet and pure. Talking with you was like taking a walk in His garden and sitting by His streams, reminding ourselves again why we should continue to believe in the things that we do.

So i miss your fellowship. And my gaze lingers at your seat when you're not around, wondering how will i ever find a friend like you in this world. I wish you all the best in this new adventure that you're taking and perhaps, that's why these last few months we were somewhat lost for words as we perhaps realised that we were slowly and inevitably ascending (hopefully for me at least) to different plateus with different mires and valleys. We perhaps both now have before us very different characters to take on in plays that are worlds apart in theme, directions and staging. But I hope that you'll always have a friend wherever you go. I can't say that i've been that kind of friend that you would want again in this next step. But i pray that you will find such strength and courage to keep doing the things that you believe in so much. I pray that even when there aren't such individuals around, you will still have all that is necessary to stage this next act. We're perhaps somewhere in the middle of Act III? But i can't wait till the final scene when i see you standing next to Him, the playwright, storyteller, dreammaker who has only just begun his magnum opus. And that gives me the hope to cling onto Him till i see you there. And arrive finally at our beginnings even as it should be.

2008-09-05T23:51:00.002+08:00

sometimes i wonder what my selfish monster would look like. It'll most probably have one eye, and many tentacle-like limbs with multiple mouths that just can't seem to shut up. On the surface, it seems pretty harmless as it does not have any venom. it can't strike out its limbs with bullseye accuracy cos it's only got one eye and can't for the life of it make the right calculations of depth and extensions its limbs should reach out to. And the mouths are just soft gums. the poor thing can't even afford dentures. So it can't really speak; it flaps its limbs helplessly and is more useless than an amoeba.

This apparent guise of helplessness and fragility is precisely why i can't seem to get rid of it. Don't you see it's about protecting the poor thing. It's always about how defenseless it is. Oh how easily it gets overwhelmed and how it needs my constant attention that I don't have time for anything else. And then it grabs you, clings to you, twirls you around its 10 tentacles and sucks you into this whole woe-is-me attitude.

That's my selfish monster. If i'm linus then the monster is my blue blanket. I've known it for far too long. At the beginning i'll hate myself for giving in to its whims, knowing that the more I spoil the rotten brat, the more it'll stink and never leave the putri-dish. But now, when there are days that i just don't feel like saving the world anymore, I'll use my monster as an excuse to slink my way out of my commitments to even those dearest to me.

i wish i could say that i want to be a better person and mean it. but i'll know there'll be that day when my monster will still be useful to me and i'll use it as my scapegoat once again. i guess every superhero needs a villian to find an excuse to wreck another building or fling cars and buses around. every government needs an economy or natural disaster as a reset button for their failing political agendas. And yes, every linus needs a blanket. so why not me?

2008-08-30T01:55:00.004+08:00

overwhelmed

And i come before You with
a perplexed mind and troubled
heart: In following Your will to the
letter, taking the words in
their entirety, stripping bare
the metaphors and imbuing the
literal with power - i still feel
more of a sinner than a saint.
What appears to be an ascent,
descends into notoriety,
monumental failure.
A violent twist at the end
transforms victory into a
cautionary tale.
i'm a pinup model,
a barometer for
lukewarmness, faithlessness
and barrenness.
Forget the wilderness, so
says the voice.
This is a box that i've
made myself a captive of
as my wings are struck
by needles for an
educational display.

But when i look
at the heavens - vermillion
shades and dusty blues,
calligraphical strokes
of clouds and wind kissing
the air - i still hear You
speak to me. I still feel
Your hands on my shoulders
and the weight of Your
love as it melts my anxieties
and awashes my vision.

We renewed our vows
even as the morning
was caught up in the
afternoon blaze. We sang songs
over each other. We were
all that really mattered.

And then, i forgot what i came
asking for.

2008-08-16T23:05:00.006+08:00

it's a wonderful night. the traffic is incredibly smooth. i'm speeding away with the windows wound down. the breeze flows through my new short crop of hair. i lean back and into the grooves of the driver's seat while my feet slowly increases its pressure on the accelerator. i'm not lost and trying to find my directions again. im on a familiar route and in my element enjoying the moment. i wondered aloud to my friend the other day how even at this age, the thought enters to our minds that it's not worth it to put in so much effort just to relive the pain of picking up something new again - a habit, an interest, a new vocation. it's such a drag; it's just when you think you've gone over the hill and onto a lovely plateau with the customary star dust floating in the air and white bunnies hopping on verdant plains then suddenly - change plunges you into this purgatorial brownish stench of perspiration and transforms you into a beast of burden, plodding away faithfully on good times and mechanically most of the time.

there is something to be said about what is familiar. instead of worrying about the nitty gritty and losing your bearings at the slightest hint of difficulty, one looks at it at a comfortable distance and gains a clearer perspective and.. didn't i mention the simple pleasure of just enjoying what you do? isn't this so hard to experience in our lives? the ability to let things be and still find it beautiful? What does joy really mean? if only there was a bottle of the stuff lying around..

i wish sometimes for a little bit of constancy in my life and not the constant expectation, desire and burden of the vision to move from one place to another. maybe i'm just tired. maybe the pastor was right. somewhere unknown to me even now, i am nursing a broken heart that only weeps when people call out its name. i weep everytime i hear the call. i cannot help it even though it embarasses me to no end. i was never strong. i always needed someone. but it's getting harder to find and just hold onto the sweet presence and even it's memory fades like a whisper. anyway if i ever do give in to these feelings, i know that i will only cry till i exhaust myself completely and still, there remains just silence. i've made up my mind quite sometime ago that hopefully the next time i cry, it will be because i'm eternally grateful and overwhelmingly happy. that's the only thing worth any tears and the rest, is just melodrama. just pat those tears dry and save the energy to turn the hands of time back, reverse the horrible mess, or just destroy and conquer the hardened ground till the pounding of cannons, guns, bombs and missiles split the sky asunder and pour out its blessings.

i return home and i unload the groceries into the fridge and give some treats to my pet. i'm thinking of doing work again. i am alone again. i feel lonely all the time. but it's tiring just to hear myself whining. I will like to get behind the steering wheel again. Face the possibility of taking the wrong turn, getting lost, feeling desperate, then determination coursing through my veins. Yah, i'm all game for change. i'm just tired of living for myself. i'll be a snail without its shell, a hermit crab no more. And what will you say to that?

2008-08-10T22:41:00.002+08:00

A wish spoken
in need, in love,
in vain - so incomprehensible.
I wish on brown pages signed
with blotches of stains.
I wish on the lights
of airplane wing tips.
On a cloud, thinking of my
toes tapping on thin air,
I'll wish then to take the
continental drift and get a
high sucking in the pressure.

I wish i could be so free from you.
Free from all my own expectations
and starched-out standards about us.
I wish then again
that i'll never be freed
from this tangled skein,
this cycle of pmses, the
bumbled bushes of bougainvillas.

If you could only follow me just
once as constant as the beats of
a humming bird's wings -
how much of me you would undo.
And you then can truly
love the real me.

2008-07-31T22:01:00.002+08:00

Halleluiah - part iii

and so i will sing
praises, halleluiahs
when the inbetweens
are much too long and far
too many. and the weight
that my soul carries breaks
my composure at the most
unlikely of times.

i will praise You and many
would hear and sneer
at what they see, this worn
out relationship where we
ingratiate ourselves to this illusory
thing that we call love.

But they will never understand
my praise for You. How banal it is,
is precisely how essential You are to me.
How every step in that long winding
stairs of Jacob through endless streams
of cloud and star dust, is a declaration
of nothing less than faith and love -
in things that weigh almost nothing
to this world but anchors
everything in me and carves out
a hunger in my soul, a desire that
takes a shade too brilliantly dark
for most eyes to look at.

I will praise You even as I
came to this world trembling
and in pain. I will praise You
even as I begin to forget You.
I will praise You when my head
is crowned with the morning dew
and i wake up less to see the world
renewed.

I know no other way, being floundered
beyond my depth. But in simplicity
I will always know, that I choose
to praise, to love, to give, to embrace
and to surrender, to yield, to fall under
and to dance, to laugh, to sing once more, once more.

2008-07-28T18:30:00.003+08:00

Halleluiah - part ii

Everything that breathes praises You.
Even when they don't understand
each other, nor speak with the
same grunts, pauses, inflections,
rolling r's and strumming l's,
each takes its turn in the silence
just before the aspirated 'p'.

Oh every breathing thing
struggles to fill this void.
In their inadequacies,
their insignificance,
their sorrows,
the long intermittent breaks
between prayers and answers.
Sometimes all that comes out
is a
squeak
of praise.

But even a squeak
is just as
precious as a teaspoon
of sugar in blackest waters.
And none will be poorer
in their craft as
every praise is an
act of creation, a homage
to their beginnings and
the Beginning.

And when the end draws
one's praise to a final curtain call,
and there is silence once again,
we turn our ears to the ground
and hear once more
the reverberations of
praise on a
different frequency, echoing through
the broken earth.

Perhaps we will then find
enough breath to praise You once more,
though our hearts weigh down with
thoughts of mortality,
though the almond branch does
not bear fruit.

2008-05-26T21:46:00.003+08:00

Halleluiah - part one

halleluiah, not some
politically correct word
like "halal", blazing in neon.
i bite my tongue when on
the brink of such praise,
the censor beeper blares and
mutes the tongue of angels.
somewhere there must be
a babe that gurgles in
halleluiah. somewhere
there are wordless prayers
that begin and continue
with halleluiah.
somewhere food is prepared
in halleluiah.
somewhere there
are sleepers that dream
of halleluiah.
somewhere a
cat purrs to the symphony
of halleluiahs.
somewhere tears
fall in between halleluiahs.

it is so much easier to relate to
amens than halleluiahs.
sometimes the end is better than
the beginning, the middle,
the litany and the sermon.
sometimes my soul
longs for silence.
Halleluiahs never make it
easier on the sinner.

2008-03-30T00:09:00.002+08:00

Italy (14th-26th mar)

Italy, a place
mired in antiquity -
how much your groans
resound, even as your hands
continuously lose their grip
on the slab of marble up the pyramids -
while the present decay of
spray cans and
drink bottles strewn
on the streets with the
brazeness of a harlot
threatens the scaffolding of
a bygone glorious mummified past.

When you are in a red dress,
and your halls are filled with
the scent of musk and the roars
of encores after each aria,
why do i hear your heart stop
in between the beats?
Your blood cools and your
skin feels like marble, Galatea, made
of twigs and ragged pieces of paper!
What is worse than a lover
who wears her passion like a millstone
round her neck - And wears it like a boxer
with his scars.

But i miss you even as
the sun renews itself
when the pomp of easter Sunday
is over.
I miss you and wait in expectation
for your return, even as
the vines stand transfixed
upon the wires, waiting to be
clothed once more in spring, waiting
once more for thewine to flow.

O how you must have desired
for one as well to
gather you into His arms,
and lay to rest your arms
for glory, power and fame.

When you stand unassumingly in what
He has given you, i see
star light mirrored in your waters,
lights that twinkle on mountain tops and
lonely church spires,
grass and moss that breath in between
the cobbled stones,
Frank Kafka on an alley signboard
overseeing the lake.

And every morning -
like the christening of a new born babe,
as it fills up the crevices between the monuments,
as it bathes the buildings that have turned brown at the edges,
with longing and promise -
gives just a glimpse of the eternal city, glorified,
and redeemed.

2008-01-03T18:45:00.000+08:00

when i watch you sleeping

it's strange that i think of so little when i watch u sleeping. i take in the details and the things that seem so important and weighty in the light of the day are distilled in the silence between each breath of sleep when i watch you sleeping.

the reading light casts its shadow upon your face. at all moments of such viewing, it is composed and beauty lies in the curl of your eyelashes, the natural ease in which your pair of lips graze each other, perfect in symmetry, blushed with the colours of the first mornings of the world. i may have my gripes about our relationship but there is no sense in taking up arms and being a disturber of the peace that cradles your jet black hair as it softens and loses its pretense. under a tungsten light that coos in harmony with the gentle whirrings of the air condition, my heart always returns to the arms that embrace the pillow. my desire to be just as loved does not smother me as it usually does like the sun in its merciful intentions and cruel means, disfiguring my dreams and casting my doubts a shade darker. in moments like these when you are asleep, i take liberties some might say in knowing that you love me more than words, the acts and the body can ever tell. And i believe i have such a liberty as night and sleep conspire to let me have that single unassuming faith in love as when beauty in its comforting glory is made known in such abundance and vulnerability, i know there must be a love akin to that which still lives between you and me.

so i choose to make my bed with you. how interesting is the phrase that presumes on so many things. but of all things, beauty and love shall be crowned in this fleeting moment. and in my mind's eye, our future can never be brighter nor more fragile than this moment.

2007-11-22T21:35:00.000+08:00

longings...
tied in a bunch like stalks
without their rose buds,
dangled from the ceiling like
confetti after the party.

how i wish i could cut them
loose and let them
just run away from me.
like birds that never know the
way home, crying freedom to the
four corners of the housing blocks,
soaring above the washing lines
and television antennas.

how i wish i could pour them out
like spaghetti strands from
the packet and boil them till they
lose their will and surrender
to the waiting mouths at the table.

how i wish i could make them yours
and never need to worry about
whether the librarian would lose the book
or whether the mail would really be
returned to sender.

i never had trouble with longings.
i'll cross continents and they'll live
out of my backpocket and never complain
even if my jeans were not washed
for two weeks.
i'll pack them up and leave them in the
freezer and still eat them after a
month.

longings...
like tears that never embarassed anyone.
like wine that never runs dry.

2007-09-26T18:27:00.000+08:00

Sometimes when you're praying, you hope that flashes of brilliance, some heavenly ephermeral cloud of His divine presence will flood your room and transport you to the third heavens - past the shame of man's first sin, past the reception area of the redeemed saints, and into the private chambers burning in liquid fire filled with the overpowering tangible presence of His love. It's just an affirmation, a comfort for the nights that you have wondered on your dirty sheets whether you'll be able to make it through the next day, for the early mornings when only desperate saints are awake to pray or to finish the backlog of their student's scripts and assignments.

it's like what Elijah must have felt, in his filthy rags, sweat dribbling down his beard, stained finger nails, rocking himself to and fro at the entrance of an inconspicuous cave, with the dim roar of war echoing from the bottom of the cliff. Even the best of us flee in the face of our own battles. If we had volunteered unknowingly for certain death or were conscripted against our will, we would still be able to have a reason for our cowardice as we turn around and brought our guns home. But as for me, i no longer have such reasons. i knew i had heard from Him and i knew how difficult the choice would be and in full knowledge of that, i took that step and taking that step, continued to walk through the valley.

How i wish i was like Elijah but i had no prayers left in the valley. And only a miracle, even something akin to a bunny popping out of a magician's hat, will help to ease the burden and bring relief.

such a miracle never happened to me. But the reason i'm still here is because He spoke. In a simple phrase, everything was put to right; gained a new perspective; realigned and found its footing. it came from nowhere. it was spoken just as a friend speaks to another with such familiarity and comfort. it was not a loud booming voice the reverberated my very bones. i didn't even have goose bumps after hearing it. i was on my cliff, at the entrance of my dark cave when someone said "everything will be alright". i remember lying down and that voice came to me as if my husband, sleeping by the side of me, just turned to me and said it.

there was no elaboration or evidence given, just a mere assertion that everything will be alright. what a relief that i didn't have to find the supporting details. sometimes it is a relief to know that one can absolutely trust another's authority and not wonder how i'm being twisted to be another cog in the machine.

so i hope that you will hear that same voice today, telling you that "everything will be alright". and if the angels were to manifest themselves and reap the souls out of our lives and toot their trumpets, i know that that voice and the truth of that statement will not change. Everything will be alright. And even if i were to sell it, it can never be bought because it is not even mine to give or to sell away. How do you sell a gift if you don't have the same ability, in this case, to give such a gift? Perhaps it does not make sense to you but His gifts never really make much sense to most people. It is only when we seek after it, even unconsciously as we stir our campbell soup, that we understand the essence of what He is trying to give us, then we can have the ability to receive?

sigh who am i to talk about such things with any authority. i am just a person whose flaws are sadly too apparent to my bosses and.. my plants. And my husband complained that i brought the wrong shirt to the dry cleaners. So that is my divine experience. it could just be a mosquito buzzing away that night and i read too much into it. But like i said, isn't it just wonderful to trust someone and know that even if there is an ulterior motive, it's just harmless afterall?

2007-05-22T19:20:00.000+08:00

my quarter life crisis is like revisiting the entire existential angst moment in my teenage years. then, searching for something beyond me to articulate the emptiness of the present, i found not the words that will transform my art into the tortorous beauty of galatea but a seed. And that seed was the kingdom of heaven birthed in my heart, tended by light both morning and night. i never found the words to express my sadness, and i never bothered. For a time i wrote, like a gardener, about things that grew. my passion my studies; my choice to love that which He instructs, which He demands, which He perceives; my marriage.

but at 25, it has found me once again and i can almost sense the truth of the words, "the axe is laid to the tree, pay heed". perhaps one pays when too easily things are achieved and happiness found. i've never felt the despair of hope that has been given so freely, slipping through my fingers despite all that i do. Before you think that i am knee-deep in a venture too treacherous for mere mortals, i must humbly remind myself and you that my problems are actually very common place: my job.

any divine and noble ambition begins and ends at my job. my friend aptly summed it up for me. there are only 2 ways to think abt this. my job can easily cause me despair but it can easily present me with opportunities to make a difference in the lives of students, colleagues and possibly, with a fool's luck, change that one cog that will turn the mechanics of the world around. but he was wise to gloss over the bit on despair for i face despair everyday with that same fool's luck and hope. A fool's hope in that God will ward off the despair like a lucky rabbit's foot. A fool's luck that does not know anything but makes it through by Grace and claims, "it wasn't me". He was wise to gloss over my soul and any dream or longing it had. my soul was dismembered, unlawful and ultimately, rendered sexless.

i expect people to understand the quarter life crisis. it's not unfair to assume this much. and so it is only me that does not understand it and so i am here, in front of my computer screen, trying to find my reasons and my soul. egocentric writing can only get you this far. the rest - i truly have no response for it. i miss the gardener. i want to give you something living and real but u just have to make do with porridge and cold noodles.

2007-05-05T20:49:00.000+08:00

when i woke up, it was 3 am. i hadn't bathe, brush my teeth, turn off the television and certainly not washed all the dishes. In fact, my dinner remains half-eaten. I could not even stay awake long enough to finish my dinner. it's just funny how i must appear to you, looking and smelling and sounding like a bum and some would most probably think i am. Blinking my eyes a few times - just trying to stall for time to find my will and drag my workaholic ass to bed. Forget about the dishes. Forget about the half-forgotten plants too who should by now have gotten used to the 3 day fasting routine. i always manage to save them from the brink of death during the weekend by watering, pruning and fertilising them just enough to get them through another hellish week. the husband is not back - let the sloth rule once again.

careening in and out of such a catatonic state really makes me wonder who to blame for all this. the other day i had the epiphany that the problem is not with my work but with me. if biblical characters like daniel could run a country and still pray and fast for 40 days then there must be something wrong with me who can't even put myself in a shower and keep awake, who can't survive on 5 hours sleep.

But here i am still wondering all this nonsence on my cheap ikea rug. I do get up eventually; motivate myself to brush my teeth at the very least without flossing. I do wake up for work at 6am and find myself standing in front of a board room, clicking the presentation slides and smiling to everyone. And even after the presentation, walking purposefully to my desk and begin the next proposal.

according to the workings of the universe where more than 3 dimensions are said to exist, something needs to happen to all of us that will defy the gravitational and stabilising attraction of these 3 dimensions. something needs to happen like aliens emerging from the 4th dimension to abduct us.

2007-03-31T16:55:00.000+08:00

this waking dream is not mine - i heard the other day that you've just quit your job so that you can write. You said it in such a matter of fact way and i was envious of the ease in which those words just flowed from your lips:

"so that i can write"

I'm wondering what did it take for you to reach that composure and confidence in your abilities without the lingering shame of doubt tripping the words on your tongue, rendering you speechless. Of course, there must have been some affirmation of this ability in no less than an authoritative manner that makes every word that you write, every witty phrase that you turn, legitimate and weighty.

Such moments to me can be held by two hands. On my left, the distant memory of coming in second in a secondary school creative writing competition. Not too distant perhaps since that is the only thing that my left hand is holding onto. And on my right, a teacher reading a paragraph that i wrote in 5 minutes and giving her consent marked by a sudden absence of sarcasm and a pause of thoughtful silence. I'm holding onto these so tightly as nothing else that i have done about my writing has ever yielded me with that divine sense of affirmation. I'm balancing my fragile ego with these two insignificant weights in memory. Pathetic (yes) but i hope you can see why my thoughts have constantly returned to that simple phrase you mentioned.

I'm wondering how many times you have failed in articulating this vision and cringed at every criticism that shrivelled your soul. Sometimes i'm quivering and see streaks of light racing before my eyes when this thing called "vision" starts to turn my will into ashes. Have you ever felt this burning sensation in your chest when you've realised something of such great significance that you just have to break out into a song and dance to tell the world what simply is on your mind? My self control crumbles; i fumble at the start and soon find that i can't stop myself; and i get the strangest stares or worse, no reaction from anyone. May i ask you how do you find your self-worth in such circumstances?

I will gladly admit again that i am envious - of confidence i never had, of affirmation that i desire but probably haven't deserved any, and of courage to say to hell and damnation with the expectations of the world. So that you can write.

2007-01-29T18:24:00.000+08:00

sky-scraper delirium

Longing to see once more the shimmer of light on your skin; the panels of glass contained within rigid structures and fixtures and the sudden arch of your hand as it caught -in a moment- the eye of the sun. it was the evening sun that crept towards the lonely hills covered in mist; the same that lingered beside the old ferry as it slipped away into the growing darkness; and the same that transformed the useless into timeless relics, the tramp into the monk. i am all alone but i love watching you - caught in the timeless moment when your gaze is fixed upon eternity. And when i stand alone and watch you like this, the sun brushes over the contours of your face like an ice-cube melting away in the sweetness that your lines architects have computed to a mathematical perfection yield when the sun sets. it is the lines that bridge the divide between my beginnings and endings; the same that sets me free from the tyrannical grip of emotions that govern me and easily i hum along with the traffic; the same that epitomises the beauty of strength in laws and nature.

And when i am in my prefabricated container box with regulated tea breaks and ration food, i see your magnificence in between the sheets of figures and embrace this waking dream.

2007-01-23T21:37:00.000+08:00

pain and promises

there's something that i will
never understand- how
you still answer every
wordless cry that wakes me
from my sleep;
how you behold in my emptiness
all the promises secured by
bands of gold.
oh my soul trembles and weeps:
it knows not how to let
things be and grow. it can see
afar the rising sun but in
this life, this side
of hell, i am subjected
to futility -
in hope, I will lift
my gaze to behold the fullness
of your grace.

2006-11-25T00:39:00.001+08:00

He breaks me,
like my enemies,
as if I was the final
hindrance to all His
good intentions.

He breaks me,
and it is a promise,
as if I meant everything
in the world to Him.

He breaks me,
oh the unbearable pain,
as if I had the faith
to witness after the nightfall,
the first rays of the cold
morning light.

He breaks me,
I am broken,
as if I were already
called, chosen and faithful.

2006-10-31T23:18:00.000+08:00

love for sale

this chair is worth
as much as the
pictures in the frames,
the cds on the shelves,
the bedsheets of the bed,
the strands of her hair on the dresser.

this view to kill is worth
as much as the
half-emptied bottles of red wine in
the fridge; the cracked
tile in the bedroom;
the perfume in her closet,
the stain on the portraits.

and this apartment is worth
as much as the
new girl in all the photos,
the cat that doesn't give a damn,
the takeaway food on the table, the
many slippers in the corridor.

This apartment is for sale
if you know
who and where my
love is.

2006-10-30T21:16:00.000+08:00

senseless

there's no point
wrestling God right now.
not when your body itches,
your belly skin stretches,
and your mind is full of
bugs and bread crumbs.

phone calls when they
get through are entertained
by my monosyllabic soul dispensing
rolls of recycled greetings and
goodbyes.

goodbye cruel world -
i need to bathe.

2006-10-10T18:38:00.000+08:00

What do you think? Good enough to win a competition? or too trite, abstract? My weakness is i'm always led astray by these "giddy" emotions and publish them too soon (when some really shouldn't see the daylight). what a little discipline could do for me.

sashimi

when I am depressed
I reach out for a
piece of flesh – naked
and cold on a
bed of clay. seasoned hands
undress the meat
,in silence,
the violence of my day
is measured in the executed
strokes, muted in
anticipation.

I prefer to eat my meat
in 2 rituals:
The dip in
salted ink
and the
culmination
of my pain
crowned with sweetness;
praises
to God almighty from
a satiated
conscience.

Or in simplicity,
the chillness of
thawed promises
savoured in the faith
of their coming glory:
sashimi without
sauce, wasabi, condiments.

And with these,
the plate is dutifully emptied;
the page always written.

2006-09-22T15:25:00.000+08:00

computer poem

in contact with artificial
intelligence, the exchange is mutual.
something soulful about the
glare of the monitor screen;
like a program scanning for a virus,
its metallic codes unearth
and order jumbled syntax.

whenever we're together in this manner,
a part of me is transposed into 0s and 1s.
my fingers jump in sychronised motions,
uncanny precision.
everything of me is neatly justified,
uniformly times new romans.
And errors are retrievable with
the strike of a key.

you and i: we've been together since
my early years, kinship forged
through empty nights burning out
countless of light bulbs. on paper,
nothing can do justice to what we
share - twisting of wires, imprint of fingers;
breathing together, keeping each other warm.

2006-08-30T18:44:00.000+08:00

Being alone
is like singing without
the accompaniment, eating
without ketchup.
There is simply no plot
as interesting as
the doubts in your mind,
no pairing as blessed as
cutlery,
no sight as moving
as two buildings joined like
siamese twins, standing naked
under the open sky.

That's what i see,
instead of the orgasmic moment
when friends greet and pair off.
I care that i'm jilted, spoilt and stubborn;
stuck on this spinning tea-cup ride -
deliriously wishing this would end.

2006-08-22T19:34:00.000+08:00

Leaving work early

cooking pasta:
as the evening wraps its
arms around the hills,
the breezes sigh with contentment.
Distilled, chilled tones of grey
bathe the surroundings in longing.

how i have schemed and manipulated others
for this moment to be mine:
to wait and watch the swelling
of the tide; my thoughts dancing
in the candle light; the birds' last
song in flight as words are printed
on the page.

and i have no regrets in distressing you over
and over again: the cars that caress
the sweet tar, the children with their
bicycles journeying
into the dusk, the altar lights of devotion
from pin-sized apartment windows.

Leaving work without guilt;
knowing my god-given right.

2006-04-22T19:21:00.000+08:00

Seeing groups of people
and only
wanting to avoid them, there's
something
even in that:
To deny the reality that crushes
you with expectations;
To lay aside our rituals of greeting
and lame jokes that thinly
mask disdain behind smiles.

Jaded in
most things, i've
been packaged as such,
after finding
the perfect place
beneath the grinder.
And if you could
read my label:
"life was nothing but a wearisome
toil where every song played
was a cliche
and every hug a physical contact
with transient value"

My emotions tug
me in all directions
and Religion,
is a dreary schoolteacher
prone to repetition.

but still I do find my solace and
sure footing
in a land where preaching
is everyone's hobby
and prerogative.

I find my comfort in
experiencing the moment
when Your hand
touched my eyes.
I saw
the light in shades of indigold
and violet,
the fact that You make all things.
Your motivation is not for
the sake of condescension and flattery
but an
honest display,
of power and majesty that are in
complete control.

I am grateful that you
quelled my rebellious
mumbings and made
me see,
how the mastery of things
is not my right
but your prerogative.

2006-04-15T17:26:00.000+08:00

standing beside my students who were receiving their results

how is it that when you are hurting,
i run out of words to say?
i run on empty words, jumping
over the yawning gap to find
some way to ignore our feelings.

i dare not slow down and take
you in my arms because i am
much too afraid. the long way
down the stairs to your heart
has been paved with pieces of
broken glass; i close my eyes
and turn away.

pain travels alone on busy trains,
across the continent and switches
trams with other tramps. That day,
when you received your results, I saw him
coming to us at a distance, leaping from
the slow-moving train, lapping up the
distance between him and us.

Both of us had no defence against his request.
i had my own experiences and knew it was
time to change carriages.
But you didn't move and pain was not alone.
the train gained acceleration
and sped through like a shaft of arrow
through the wheat fields.

But still i know you'll be safe.
my empty words always leave a
trail for his return. you will soon
be safe.

2006-02-21T18:39:00.000+08:00

Having found no more excuses,
my body resumed control.
To eat; to drink
a 100ml of sugar water.
To return home; to read
a thick pile of untouched newspapers.

i slouched on the sofa
and sang myself a hymn.
The words went right through me:
As if my soul was bound on a journey
that for today, I simply
could not follow.

2005-12-29T17:37:00.000+08:00

a poet?
one who does not understand
the limits of a sentence; who
cannot tell the difference between
the lie and the truth; in perpetual
flux and ends with a comma,

who tells fortune for entertainment;
who weeps for an art; who cancels
every appointment of men and still
makes the rules; who cannot
understand tyranny; in league with
passionate desires that never run
their full course,

i hate T.S. Lim and Shameless Honey.
But for all their accomplishments,
they are those who are still not poets.

2005-11-29T00:57:00.000+08:00

for those that try too hard

Slow fade in
and out,
the comforting stare
of the monitor screen -
Summoning the thoughts
that scuttle in the darkness
into its unswerving light.

I wish that there was
something more to this.
Even the dying ambers of
once
a raging fire
will have more meaning
than the constant droning
of my computer,
alter-ego of my crippled soul.

It strains to hear that
strain of melody once more:
One more time the beating
of the drums, the sounding of the
battlecry:
the wrestling of spirits driven
by a singular conviction: ungoverned
by fear, undefeated by doubt.

But all I have is the endless road.
The grey pilgrim's road which has
forgotten the sunrise and sunset.
It has forgotten what joy and sorrow
should be experienced like.
It is a path that many have described as
"For those that try too hard".

2005-10-27T21:44:00.000+08:00

how can one write
under 4 minutes of agony?

2005-10-27T21:41:00.000+08:00

grant me some peace of mind
in the eaves of the night
when breezes touch the bare edges
of my soul, whose wounds
have been picked for sport,
out of my ignorance, my willingness
and my willfulness.

oh where can i find You?
this fountain that pours
from the gaping wound
will wash me purer
than the rays of the early morning.

2005-10-12T19:33:00.000+08:00

oh what good thing
can i find in this life?
when i for a moment
leave the watchful gaze
of your eyes,
i find the darkness in
this degenerate heart
so overwhelming.

how can i then be always
in your presence?
in the holy place with
the world behind me,
why then am i still restless
and still, so deaf to
your counsel?

i fail to understand your
mysteries and am always
in need to be schooled in
the ways of God.
i will swallow my pride
and humble myself.
i do not understand
my God who made me.
i do not understand His
love for the lost.
i do not understand His
purpose for my life.

i do not have the strength
to bear the cross.
and if this is the only choice
i have, then God
let me not fail you.
for the many things i do not
know, and am unwilling
to bear,
let them be exposed and
i be freed from the lies.
let the horror be my conscience
and let then your reprieve be
my unfailing defense against
the enemy's accusations.

let the great darkness be my light
and my only proof of your greatness.

2005-10-12T10:49:00.000+08:00

it's the strangest thing that has happened to me. i've stopped reading. i've lost all desire to watch, observe, wander and to ponder. Yes, i'm becoming pedantic and predictable. I have fallen in love with watering my plants, picking up the trash, buying the groceries and slicing the carrot with geometrical precision. every angle of the knife that bears down upon the carrot has to be exact in terms of an unknown and mysterious mathetical equation that i have no idea about but have adhered to unknowingly. I cannot stand that onions, pork loins and green peppers are diced and sliced without understanding. I appreciate the fact that my plants are doing well with just my regular duties of watering, fingering the broad green leaves, getting lost in thought over a drop of water sliding down the blades, determining which side of the plant shall face the sun... I think my plants are doing well. Nothing is turning brown.

My life is consumed by the details that amuse me endless. And i cannot bear to write or read anything that will demand more from me; more from the need to be amused; to be lost in absolute mundaneness and simplicty; to be roland the teacher, roland the husband, roland the church goer, roland the friend, roland the son.

The antithesis to all that i had always dreamt that i would be, the dreamer, the writer, the bassist, the saint, is what i've become and who knows what has exactly transpired that resulted in this... person? Me?

2005-10-06T14:46:00.000+08:00

2 lines meet at the
point of exit.
When life finally takes
its last stand at the
closing hour,
the longing for a
satisfactory answer
is no longer
palatable to the senses.
How often have they
promised that when
the end is in sight,
my lines would meet
and i will exit from
the darkness into
the marvellous light?

No more the happy hour
is drained for all
such hours have been spent.
No more the awaited hour
for reckoning as
by the time these
thoughts die, the consequences
of the battle turn to ashes.

Death holds no answers
to the wandering pilgrim and
in the final moment,
upon the point of exit,
the 2 lines meet;
the green light flickers
and only one choice is left.

To remain before the door;
keep the record playing;
let thoughts and deeds compel
one back to the living.

Then to master the urge
to flee and as a stranger,
whose fortune now is this new
haven unchartered,
answers "what lives behind the door"
with GRACE.

2005-09-16T10:13:00.000+08:00

the numbing minutes
before succumbing to sleep.

2005-09-14T19:40:00.000+08:00

In watching, in waiting,
the thing is to remain
standing.

When listening and seeing
becomes an assignment itself,
i know my life has been
stretched too thinly.

But i cannot turn my back
and return as surely as
seasons themselves,
though they never fail,
never give in to repetition
and failure.

2005-08-11T22:41:00.000+08:00

The day beckons.
I open my eyes just
to watch it unravel.

2005-07-11T21:43:00.000+08:00

There is no breeze from
the small window of my house.

2005-06-24T18:11:00.000+08:00

My student just lost in the Plain English Speaking Contest today. I felt to write a few words about it.

i see that hope still
lives in you. When you
stood on that stage
and in that split second
between the applause and your
speech, silence:
i held my breath together
with you just to
relive that hope.

Hope that defies the logic
of one's age, your age:
To overcome the fear of nerves
and the unknown;
To exchange your glory for
another whose promised praise
is ever elusive and tenuous.

Hope that encapsulated what
courage meant to me, your courage:
A willingness to abandon the mental
crutches of your age;
A desire to reach the promised land
undefiled by the knowledge of human fallacy.

Understand the reasons behind, and not
the fact, that rome cannot be built
in a day.
Discover for yourself, in the measure
of time you have, what is your
purpose in life.

Then win or lose in this temporal
life is something to be lost.
For to gain the eternal weight
of glory, a life well-lived, is
far greater than just
the hope of one. In your failure,
it whispers to thousands of others,
speaking louder and clearer than
any cheer or applause.

2005-03-12T10:31:00.000+08:00

Gone Wrong

Something went terribly wrong.
The day i heard the news that
she jumped, Your covenant
and mercy landed with a thud,
smitten on the ground.

You do not change even with
all things going astray:
In a split second one steps from
liberty to bondage and the
seams of one's soul strain at
the edges to contain itself.

My heart can't stop grieving.
I see lands divided now in
Your kingdom. Some portions
remain in Your covenant and mercy,
eternal blessings and promises.
But some destinations end only in
judgements unrestrained,
ever consuming.

Her step off the 13th floor
has opened to me
an entire new vista.
Grief for a life lost,
misspent and misused
has brought some gravity
into my life such that I have
lost interest in weddings,
in billboard signs,
in commonplaced anxieties.

But You never change even when
all have gone astray. This
soul is restrained and revived
by Your gentle
whispers of "Grace, grace".

2005-03-07T18:49:00.000+08:00

Last Words
Written in response to "On the Last Day"

Precious memories of an ex
lure one's senses to think
that love still remains
for the other party.
The broken pieces of communication
strewn like petals over
the endless tides
and the occasional toast to
the joy that the living had brought,
honor the past that sadly,
unravelled too swiftly.

But still, these romantic
gestures can never put together
the love torn asunder
by your constant protestations,
your outbursts of wrath,
your malcontent and your
unquenchable desire to tie
the knot dead.

Truly, you wish not to return
but to read our memories
as a paean to your masterpiece.

2004-11-23T01:23:00.000+08:00

warning to the ephesus church

Outcry for truth:
Dresses itself up
for public appearances,
desperate in its
attempts to dislodge
from the crowd.

I may be hungry, naked
but not ashamed.
The endless
burrowings of my heart
embowel the pride
of life and
its empty show.

I look into the mirror
and expect to see
the glory. My pursuit
of You has never been
more steadfast, a mountain
that no faith can move.

A mountain with many caves
and deep, forgotten chasms:
In the end it is about
my Truth as I hug myself
to sleep, in comfort or
oblivion.

2004-11-16T21:50:00.000+08:00

too late
to be disengaged.
The line is open
for interruption,
misinterpretation,
intrusion
and secrets.

since i began
to write to you,
i have become lazy.
Thinking on my own
without the gadgets,
the distractions,
the night sounds
of passing cars,
dronning crickets,
plastic blades whirring
away buzzed on electricity,

the only thing dead
in this room
is me. Noiseless and
motionless: only
the tension in my
chest, only the
pain creased between
my toes.

But the pain has no meaning.
And I remain wordless.

2004-08-30T21:02:00.000+08:00

Understanding my rights

is it the right to feel wanted,
to know what you want:
reaching out from the far side
into the breaking of day.

is it the right to ask
and not be found wanting,
to corner the ends:
removing the lines that follow
and start all over
again.

is it the right to be,
to colour the empty spaces
that separate you and justice:
announcing the will that moves
the hand of God.

everything is picture perfect,
policing every thought into
harmonious endings
again.

But i am speechless in
the face of my own injustice.
Unable to kneel, to pray,
to admit my endings:
tearfully unwrapping
my salvation
in the darkness.

2004-07-05T18:44:00.000+08:00

a little poetry of our own

a little poetry of our own:
the gestures of humour circle
around him like a glow,
a light that makes the
darkness easier to bear.
her maiden song on performance
for all to recognise
except herself as she slips
away from the applause.
His enthusiasm that underscores
a life of wearying yet patient,
exacting perfection.
we write our humanity
with an inkless brush,
and it seems as if
all the strokes go awry;
especially when
foot steps falter,
the cheers die down,
and the spots of darkness
bore out sight from straining eyes.
we will never know how and when
our poem ends. The twists
and turns of the line
are not restrained
by a punctuation mark.
our little poems:
who can draw figures out
of them as our bodies intertwine
in dance and song?

2004-06-01T01:02:00.000+08:00

For your love, i would do anything.
Just to see the smile upon your face [Stevie Wonder - For your love]

This heart overflows
of all the things You have
placed inside of it.
Your love, Your deeds
of old and new,
Your words, Your promises
of things unseen:
they overwhelm me with
their possibilities.

With simple thoughts,
I make known Your miracles.
Of babes nursed in Your arms,
Of elders held in Your embrace,
how time and place gather all
in this single moment
to live in everlasting burnings,
incendium amoris.

But give care to the young men.
Where the sweet flame burns, let
your eyes always return.
Let your eyes relive
the beginning and the end.
The cares of the battle
rest much easier
in the brightness of
His coming.

So once more oh God,
let Your love come down
to flesh and bone, to
men whose spirits are
easily dismayed. Then,
new wine shall be made,
new songs shall be sung,
to Your praise and
everlasting glory.
For no deed shall ever be
as great, as those
that Your love has inspired.