[Sarah] Mr. Nobody

I know a funny little man,
As quiet as a mouse,
Who does the mischief that is done
In everybody’s house.
There’s no one ever sees his face,
And yet we all agree
That every plate we break was cracked
By Mr., Nobody

‘Tis he who always tears our books,
who leaves our doors ajar;
he pulls the buttons from our shirts,
and scatters pins afar,
that squeaking door will always squeak,
because of this you see:
we leave the oiling to be done
by Mr Nobody.

He puts damp wood upon the fire,
So kettles cannot boil;
His are the feet that bring in mud
And all the carpets soil.
The papers always are mislaid,
Who had them last but he?
There’s no one tosses them about
But Mr. Nobody

Walter de la Mare

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] Exorcism

Grace Chua

My mother believed (the Lord is my shepherd)

in ghosts (I shall not be in want).

Frangipani and jasmine (your rod and your staff),

the flowers of graves (they comfort me),

terrified her. Every seventh month

in the festival of the Hungry Ghosts,

she would send up burnt offerings

(you prepare a table before me)

to her mother’s mother (in green pastures)

her father and her father’s father (beside still waters)

and the third daughter (in the presence of my enemies)

who was never born

(you anoint my head with oil; my cup runs over.)

And when my grandfather died,

(he leads me in paths of righteousness)

the huge black moth (for his name’s sake)

that flapped at us across the kitchen table

(I will fear no evil)

and clung like wet hair (for thou art with me)

to the walls-

that was him (I will fear no evil)

also.

So when it came time

(yea, though I walk through the valley)

for my mother (the valley of the shadow)

to be a ghost herself

(yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of

death)

she would not go (though I walk) quietly

trailing through the house,

(surely goodness and mercy shall follow me)

haunted by (all the days of my life)

the ghosts of her live children

(and I will dwell)

and the memories of her days

(in the house of the Lord

Forever).

Grace Chua

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

                                                         W.H. Auden

[Sarah] Goliath and David (For D.C.T., killed at Fricourt, March 1916)

Once an earlier David took
Smooth pebbles from a brook:
Out between the lines he went
To that one-sided tournament,
A shepherd boy who stood out fine
And young to fight a Philistine
Clad all in brazen mail. He swears
That he's killed lions, he's killed bears,
And those that scorn the God of Zion
Shall perish so like bear or lion.
But . . . the historian of that fight
Had not the heart to tell it right.

Striding within javelin range
Goliath marvels at this strange
Goodly-faced boy so proud of strength.
David's clear eye measures the length;
With hand thrust back, he cramps one knee,
Poises a moment thoughtfully,
And hurls with a long vengeful swing.
The pebble, humming from the sling
Like a wild bee, flies a sure line
For the forehead of the Philistine;
Then . . . but there comes a brazen clink.
And quicker than a man can think
Goliath's shield parries each cast.
Clang! clang! and clang! was David's last.
Scorn blazes in the Giant's eye,
Towering unhurt six cubit's high.
Says foolish David, 'Damn your shield!
And damn my sling! but I'll not yield.'

He takes his staff of Mamre oak,
A knotted shepherd-staff that's broke
The skull of many a wolf and fox
Come filching lambs from Jesse's flocks.
Loud laughs Goliath, and that laugh
Can scatter chariots like blown chaff
To rout: but David, calm and brave,
Holds his ground, for God will save.
Steel crosses wood, a flash, and oh!
Shame for Beauty's overthrow!
(God's eyes are dim, His ears are shut.)
One cruel backhand sabre cut --
'I'm hit! I'm killed!' young David cries,
Throws blindly foward, chokes . . . and dies.
And look, spike-helmeted, grey, grim,
Goliath straddles over him.

Robert Graves

Little Boy Crying

Your mouth contorting in brief spite and
Hurt, your laughter metamorphosed into howls,
Your frame so recently relaxed now tight
With three-year-old frustration, your bright eyes
Swimming tears, splashing your bare feet,
You stand there angling for a moment’s hint
Of guilt or sorrow for the quick slap struck.

The ogre towers above you, that grim giant,
Empty of feeling, a colossal cruel,
Soon victim of the tale’s conclusion, dead
At last. You hate him, you imagine
Chopping clean the tree he’s scrambling down
Or plotting deeper pits to trap him in.

You cannot understand, not yet,
The hurt your easy tears can scald him with,
Nor guess the wavering hidden behind that mask.
This fierce man longs to lift you, curb your sadness
With piggy-back or bull-fight, anything,
But dare not ruin the lessons you should learn.

You must not make a plaything of the rain.

                                                        Mervyn Morris

[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