Garden City By Gilbert Koh

Let there be trees, the man said, and lo and behold,
there were trees – rain trees, angsanas, flames of the forest,
causarinas, traveller’s palms and more – springing up against
the steel and concrete of the expanding city.
Even as the true towers of the city climbed higher
and higher for the heavens, the trees were planted, replanted,
transplanted, watered, fertilised, and groomed to grow
and grow. They appeared overnight, abandoned the
chaos of jungle, bent to the will of man, grew in straight lines,
in squares and rectangles, in allocated corners,
in car parks, along highways, outside banks and buildings,
faithful to the commandments of urban developers.
The hard lines of architecture were softened,
the rain did fall, the green did gently, gently grow,
and in his seventieth year, the man was pleased,
as he rested, as he viewed his work, as he felt the weight
of a nation’s soil run slowly through his old green hands.

[Winifred] the coffee house, cockpit hotel

not a daily occurrence:
a bride waiting, 7.30 pm, at a coffee house.
you, shifting eyes, forkfuls into mouth,
stop. stop & watch the bride,
2 bridesmaids & an elderly chaperon
at the little round table
having a respite before the dinner.
her eyes, downcast, become modest behaviour.

immediately one floor down
dragon room is taken for the reception.
relatives line up at the entrance,
the men clutching proffered tins of rothmans.

twice, a hand gently steals out & pats
any suspected flaw of coiffure into perfection.
most of the time, looking at her gloves,
her eyes are downcast, cast downwards
one floor immediately below.

at the end of an elastic hour
will she rise, raise her eyes,
descend one floor, ascend the low platform
elevating the tabled 10 courses,
smile gently at the groom, post-sharksfin
& pre-crispy chicken & mark out clearly
her domain, right here & right up there?

-Arthur Yap

[Winifred] The Merlion

"I wish it had paws," you said,
"It's quite grotesque the way it is,
you know, limbless; can you
imagine it writhing in the water,
like some post-Chernobyl nightmare?
I mean, how does it move? Like a
torpedo? Or does it shoulder itself
against the currents, gnashing with frustration,
its furious mane bleached
the colour of a drowned sun?
But take a second look at it,
how it is poised so terrestrially,
marooned on this rough shore,
as if unsure of its rightful
harbour. Could it be that,
having taken to this unaccustomed limpidity,
it has decided to abandon the seaweed-haunted
depths for land? Perhaps it is even ashamed
(But what a bold front!)
to have been a creature of the sea; look at how
it tries to purge itself of its aquatic ancestry,
in this ceaseless torrent of denial, draining
the body of rivers of histories, lymphatic memories.
What a riddle, this lesser brother of the Sphinx.
What sibling polarity, how its sister's lips are sealed
with self-knowledge and how its own jaws
clamp open in self-doubt, still
surprised after all these years."

"Yet...what brand new sun can dry
the iridescent slime from the scales
and what fresh rain wash the sting of salt
from those chalk-blind eyes?"

A pause.

"And why does it keep spewing that way?
I mean, you know, I mean..."

"I know exactly what you mean," I said,
Eyeing the blond highlights in your black hair
And your blue lenses the shadow of a foreign sky.
It spews continually if only to ruffle
its own reflection in the water; such reminders
will only scare a creature so eager to reinvent itself."

Another pause.

"Yes," you finally replied, in that acquired accent of yours,
"Well, yes, but I still do wish it had paws."

-Alfian Bin Sa'at

[Winifred] ULYSSES BY THE MERLION

I have sailed many seas,
Skirted islands of fire
Contented with Circe
Who loved the squeal of pigs;
Passed Scylla and Charybdis
To seven years with Calypso
Heaved in battle against the gods
Beneath it all
I kept faith with Ithaca, traveled,
Traveled and traveled,
Suffering much, enjoying a little;
Met strange people singing
New myths, made myths myself.

But this lion of the sea
Salt-maned, scaly, wondrous of tail,
Touched with power, insistent
On this brief promontory . . .
Puzzles

Nothing, nothing in my days
Foreshadowed this
Half-beast, half-fish,
This powerful creature of land and sea.

People settled here
Brought to this island
The bounty of these seas.
Built towers topless as Illiumâs.
They make, they serve
They buy, they sell.

Despite unequal ways,
Together they mutate.
Explore the edges of harmony.
Searched for a centre,
Have changed their gods,
Kept some memories of their past
In prayer, laughter, the way
Their women dress and greet.
They hold the bright, the beautiful,
Good ancestral dreams
Within new visions,
So shining, urgent
Full of what is new .

Perhaps having dealt in things
Surfeited on them,
Their spirit yearned again for images,
Adding to the dragon, phoenix,
Garuda, naga, those horses of the sun,
This lion of the sea,
This image of themselves.

- Edwin Thumboo

[Sarah] Chinese Workers on the Evening Train

their tongues are rough, but fluent. They carve

our silence into syllables that explore the crowd,

fingers scouring thick curls in search of roots.

there is disquiet at this intrusion. leave us alone,

our lips say. we are pressed and drained by the office;

you are from a different world.

but they stay, and continue speaking, voices raucous

and very dusty. the safety patches on their vests

 ring loudly against our suits.

we have learnt your words before. Our lips open

in protest. We have no time for them now; they

are so full of bad memories.

still they take no notice, even joking among them

selves. some of us turn to look, but dare not stare

too long. they are an island in our sea.

we lower our eyes. what do you want, our lips ask.

take it, and then leave. we are a generous but tired

people; you are strangers on our way home.

the question passes unanswered, beneath the breathing

of the train. their steady chatter never stops,

and is unnaturally loud.

we censor them with pretended sleep, soon

our lips fall silent. we cannot comprehend them;

they speak only our mother tongue.  

Theophilus Kwek

[Sarah] What Is It To Write?

It is not a vacation

from your life

when you weary of meetings and rain,

waiting for the bus

and cursing your luck

It is a vocation

that curses your life

and can’t wait for luck

but must meet head-on

the bus weary and rain.

It is not to scribble

a granted sky

by a tree

in the evening park

with your dog running free.

It is to run the dog inside,

scribble the evening into the sky and park

your tree between

the granted and the free

Felix Cheong

[Sarah] Tick-Tock

There lived a couple

who lived by a couple

of clocks beside their bed

As newly wed

as two could be,

things soon turned otherwise,

the problem being

splitting hairs between

promise and compromise.

Now being so civil

and servants to time,

naturally they were upset

when, hard as they tried

they couldn’t get

their two clocks synchronized.

No matter how

they altered their rhythm

just before they slept,

she’d go through periods

when she’d still be

two hours in the red.

They re-paired the clocks

and pillow-talked

but still couldn’t agree

whose clock was off

and, on that count,

they figured time was ripe

to call it quits

and leave, let leave,

a match unstruck, unwon.

The sting in this tale

of a vow that failed –

love is more than the feel

of being together

in the same room

but never at the same time

Felix Cheong

Neighbours

During Hari Raya she knocks on my conscience,
I knock on her door and I give her cakes.

She says she likes them and gives me
Sweets with gelatine inside. I throw them away.

Poor woman, doesn't know how to make cakes.
Her children eat Maggi after school everyday.

That's why the elder one is in Normal stream
And the younger one can't spell her name.

If I was her age I wouldn't be wearing shorts at home.
No shame, she doesn't know how to hide her womanhood.

When the children are naughty and I beat them
I close the door: I hear she's a gossip.

But she beats her children harder than I do
What to do her children are like that.

I once hear her scream she wanted to kill herself.
These people never value their own lives.

Other times I see her I smile and she smiles back
And her children smile and call me auntie.

But in our hands we hold with fists clenched tight
The keys to our homes, each night we slam the bolt shut.

                                                            

                                                                                       Alfian Sa'at

[Sarah] A Grandchild’s Monologue

How am I called to say all that I feel?

She speaks a tongue I was told not to learn.

We are the dumb and mute,

Conscious of Warmth though we cannot share in it.

You push a little candy, and a bit of fruit,

An egg, a piece of cake made with real cream,

Things you could not have when you were young,

Starved by war and parents too early leaving,

Into my hand, and gesture “Eat, eat”

In hoping to place on my tongue the sweetness

Yours cannot express

And my ears cannot receive.

So I look at you, and you at me;

Neither speaking,  and neither called to speak.

Each other we now more than understand.

Bryan Cheong

The Planners - Boey Kim Cheng

They plan. They build. All spaces are gridded,
filled with permutations of possibilities.
The buildings are in alignment with the roads
which meet at desired points
linked by bridges all hang

in the grace of mathematics.
They build and will not stop.
Even the sea draws back
and the skies surrender.
They erase the flaws,

the blemishes of the past, knock off
useless blocks with dental dexterity.
All gaps are plugged
with gleaming gold.
The country wears perfect rows

of shining teeth.

Anaesthesia, amnesia, hypnosis.
They have the means.
They have it all so it will not hurt,
so history is new again.

The piling will not stop.
The drilling goes right through
the fossils of last century.
But my heart would not bleed
poetry. Not a single drop

to stain the blueprint
of our past’s tomorrow.

Old House at Ang Siang Hill – Arthur Yap

an unusual house this is
dreams are here before you sleep
tread softly
into the three-storeyed gloom
sit gently
on the straits born furniture
imported from china
speak quietly
to the contemporary occupants

they are not afraid of you
waiting for you to go
before they dislocate your intentions
so what if it is
your grandfather's house
his ghost doesn't live here anymore
your family past is
superannuated grim
which increases with time
otherwise nothing adds or subtract
the bricks and tiles
untill re-development
which will greatly change
this house-that-was
dozens of it along the street
the next and the next as well

nothing much will be missed
eyes not tradition tell you this

Seventh Month – Cyril Wong

August: time of death, a path opens
to the past like a wind through grass,

the way lit by sparks, flaming paper.

Yet rituals only displace our desire
to mourn. Let us remember the dead,

but more importantly, persuade them
to ensure no harm may visit us.

We leave a row of chairs for the ghosts
to take our places for just one night.

Wayang actors hide their exhaustion
behind painted faces, dusty cymbals

trailing the bright arc of their voices.

We think how the dead would take this –
foibles of a life sung by archetypes,

reduced to grave, inflated gestures.

Would they grumble to each other
in their seats, complain of a lack

of synchronism between the music
and the action, the noise of traffic

eating into their illusion of narrative?

When it is finally over, would they
linger to gossip amongst themselves

about those who moved on to the life
to follow, sighing upon the mention

of the ones who have chosen to stay?

Past Midnight – Boey Kim Cheng

I turn the light on to see if i am still there
the bulb creeps to life, resentful
at being roused to work. The dreary repertoire
which a discordant band went through a dozen times
during a neighbour's funeral, is stomping
in my head. I hum a classical tune, summon
the words of a sentimental song
to expel the stubborn band. The blaring trumpets
cut them down with a single blow

Life is perpetual unrest
inthe housing estates. the endless knockings
the stampeding feet, the hurricanes of bad temper,
the eternal television, the thrashing bodies,
the endless rituals of life and death
where is the point of stillness
mature art directs us to?
my mind veers crazily.
i turn the light off.
the bulb goes on burning inside.

Kopitiam

Sit with a polystyrene cup
of kopi-o and kaya toast.

Watch the auntie sweat and smile
as she struts between
plastic chairs, tables --
coin clinking furiously.

Her incredible memory --
threads that link faces, names
in this clean neon
makan place.

Ah Peh says,
Last time got more butter. 

By Lau Peet Meng

Old Folks Home

All day long they lie on the
straight rows of white beds or sit
in the heavy-duty wheelchairs
pushed out into the breezy sunshine
of the gardens.

Resigned to the prisons
of their own failing bodies,
they drift in and out of the haze
of senility, half-forgetting
themselves in the patient wait
for death.

Still the bright-eyed teenagers come,
on Saturday mornings, by the busloads,
sent by their schools
on compulsory excursions
to learn the meaning
of compassion
as outlined in the ECA syllabus.

They bring gifts of Khong Guan biscuits,
they help to mow the lawns,
they clap their hands performing happy songs
and valiantly they attempt the old dialects
trying to communicate.

Later they will clamber noisily
back up the departing school buses,
and next week in class
they will write startlingly
similar essays
on what a meaningful,
memorable experience they had
at the old folks' home
last week.

By Gilbert Koh