I dreamt
I was taking pictures of the sky --
I saw marbled clouds
stretched from horizon to horizon;
a glorious expanse of whitish tints and hues,
of tiny specks of azure, cobalt and other blues.
And through my lens, at the centre of my vision,
a round pool of violet framed
and the smaller circle within, with its rays soft and tamed,
was the Sun.
An angel’s halo to me it seemed
Before a shape fell within ‘said pool --
The shape that lingered,
Of a plane, a Thunderbird of sorts,
From some Anderson puppetry show, gleamed.
Then the shape transfigured,
And it was a hawk with wings spread -- wings
Upon the sky -- a soaring black.
And then…
I woke up.
---- circa 26 February 2005
Sunday, March 13, 2005
There Is Something Hostile About The Entering...
There is something hostile about the entering –
the cold air blasting in greeting
when the doors slide open to let the hundreds in,
beep-beeping at every stop
with tireless unfailing;
and the many nameless faces –
cold and expressionless – save for the tired creases
the morning sun has yet to iron out.
Some nodding off in corners; others seemingly immersed
in their Streats or Today,
or the current bestseller from Borders;
and from some obscure spot, you hear
the faint harmonies of someone’s digital player
before the din of the rails
as the train enters its subterranean route
drowns it (and your thoughts) out.
What’s so good to be part of the hundreds
that get off at Tanjong Pagar, Raffles Place, or Novena –
coming up from the ground,
from multiple exits and across the streets,
rushing into crowded passageways,
into crowded entrances and crowded lifts
to get to their fluorescent-lit office spaces
with partitions to shut them out
of the hundreds everywhere else,
on the same floor, in the same high-rise building
who will crowd the same cafeteria somewhere
or other eateries across the square –
and the only thing to look forward to
is when you’re back in the lifts and in the streets,
into the crowded buses and crowded trains,
back to the place
where you started out?
---- circa 10th July 2004.
the cold air blasting in greeting
when the doors slide open to let the hundreds in,
beep-beeping at every stop
with tireless unfailing;
and the many nameless faces –
cold and expressionless – save for the tired creases
the morning sun has yet to iron out.
Some nodding off in corners; others seemingly immersed
in their Streats or Today,
or the current bestseller from Borders;
and from some obscure spot, you hear
the faint harmonies of someone’s digital player
before the din of the rails
as the train enters its subterranean route
drowns it (and your thoughts) out.
What’s so good to be part of the hundreds
that get off at Tanjong Pagar, Raffles Place, or Novena –
coming up from the ground,
from multiple exits and across the streets,
rushing into crowded passageways,
into crowded entrances and crowded lifts
to get to their fluorescent-lit office spaces
with partitions to shut them out
of the hundreds everywhere else,
on the same floor, in the same high-rise building
who will crowd the same cafeteria somewhere
or other eateries across the square –
and the only thing to look forward to
is when you’re back in the lifts and in the streets,
into the crowded buses and crowded trains,
back to the place
where you started out?
---- circa 10th July 2004.
The Rope Trick
Either he has grown weary of his circus act;
Or that he has reached the end of his rope.
So perhaps there is no more vertical climb to make,
no more tricks for his audience
who feeds on his Hope.
The magic hour has ceased suddenly
And the glamour that has all men beguiled
Falls away like the guises at a cheap masquerade,
Revealing the truth beneath
his ornamental smile.
Maybe he knows his game is up
And to climb downwards, he does not dare.
Thus seeing no more amusement, the impatient
Crowd disperses; leaving him
Suspended,
In mid-air.
---- 5th june 2004.
Or that he has reached the end of his rope.
So perhaps there is no more vertical climb to make,
no more tricks for his audience
who feeds on his Hope.
The magic hour has ceased suddenly
And the glamour that has all men beguiled
Falls away like the guises at a cheap masquerade,
Revealing the truth beneath
his ornamental smile.
Maybe he knows his game is up
And to climb downwards, he does not dare.
Thus seeing no more amusement, the impatient
Crowd disperses; leaving him
Suspended,
In mid-air.
---- 5th june 2004.
I have heard all...
I have heard all there is for you to say
Why must you reiterate yourself this way?
No accusation, I have not yet heard ----
Your droning voice is just another provocation.
I have no words of my own save these
Which I write in riddles and fragmented sentences.
Don't rattle off the "sacrifices" you've made
In the name of that "L" word you always mention.
Do not talk to me of the emptiness that fills
The very marrow of your existence ----
Do not list me all the mitigating circumstances
And then beseech me for forgiveness.
I grow weary of your conversations;
The relentless questionings and allegations ----
Could I shut them out as I shut the door?
And never have to pay heed to them anymore?
Do not ask me what is wrong with me ----
My mental soundness is a constant subject for self-dialysis.
Perhaps you could offer some sort of prescription
After you're done with all your exhortations?
But no, do not think of me at all ----
It'll only be a waste of your precious time.
Do not consider me on your schedule
For I've long ago struck you off mine!
---- circa 22 Jan 2004
Why must you reiterate yourself this way?
No accusation, I have not yet heard ----
Your droning voice is just another provocation.
I have no words of my own save these
Which I write in riddles and fragmented sentences.
Don't rattle off the "sacrifices" you've made
In the name of that "L" word you always mention.
Do not talk to me of the emptiness that fills
The very marrow of your existence ----
Do not list me all the mitigating circumstances
And then beseech me for forgiveness.
I grow weary of your conversations;
The relentless questionings and allegations ----
Could I shut them out as I shut the door?
And never have to pay heed to them anymore?
Do not ask me what is wrong with me ----
My mental soundness is a constant subject for self-dialysis.
Perhaps you could offer some sort of prescription
After you're done with all your exhortations?
But no, do not think of me at all ----
It'll only be a waste of your precious time.
Do not consider me on your schedule
For I've long ago struck you off mine!
---- circa 22 Jan 2004
A Letter to a Departed
I remember how your skin felt
as cold and hostile as marble
as I pressed my lips against your rigid forehead.
I remember the scented flowers
strewn across the floor where they laid you,
and you, were wrapped in sheets, pure and white as fresh snow.
I remember the brown earth and mud
that swallowed you... and thus you could not witness
the poignant beauty of the setting sun that ornamented
the sky on that sacred Friday.
Such a shame ---
that no more mortal suns shall you see; No more moons.
And we who are left behind,
have only fallible memories that dull with the years
and photographs in battered albums
as testament of your existence.
And now in feeble words
I try to frame these last remnants of a dream,
envisioned long ago, into an elegy ---
but so disjointed and garbled like puzzle pieces
that refuse to fit,
these fragments that resist my taming.
Hence, 'tis not my intention
to push blame,
but Time is the thief who has stolen from me
the clarity of my memory.
---- circa 10th November 2003.
as cold and hostile as marble
as I pressed my lips against your rigid forehead.
I remember the scented flowers
strewn across the floor where they laid you,
and you, were wrapped in sheets, pure and white as fresh snow.
I remember the brown earth and mud
that swallowed you... and thus you could not witness
the poignant beauty of the setting sun that ornamented
the sky on that sacred Friday.
Such a shame ---
that no more mortal suns shall you see; No more moons.
And we who are left behind,
have only fallible memories that dull with the years
and photographs in battered albums
as testament of your existence.
And now in feeble words
I try to frame these last remnants of a dream,
envisioned long ago, into an elegy ---
but so disjointed and garbled like puzzle pieces
that refuse to fit,
these fragments that resist my taming.
Hence, 'tis not my intention
to push blame,
but Time is the thief who has stolen from me
the clarity of my memory.
---- circa 10th November 2003.
Fly to Neverland
I don't want to see another tomorrow.
I don't want to stay here for one more day.
Let me fade away with the darkness
and crumble instantly
Like shattered clay.
Or would you have me leap from my fourth-storey window
and fly to Neverland
where the lostboys are at play?
Help me to listen to what my heart is whispering;
I can't seem to hear.
The silence of the night is so deafening
and the whirring fan in my lonely room
is spelling out my imminent doom;
telling me that if I leap from my fourth-storey window
I won't have to stay here for one more day,
and I would fly off to Neverland
where the lostboys are at play.
---- circa 8th November 2003.
I don't want to stay here for one more day.
Let me fade away with the darkness
and crumble instantly
Like shattered clay.
Or would you have me leap from my fourth-storey window
and fly to Neverland
where the lostboys are at play?
Help me to listen to what my heart is whispering;
I can't seem to hear.
The silence of the night is so deafening
and the whirring fan in my lonely room
is spelling out my imminent doom;
telling me that if I leap from my fourth-storey window
I won't have to stay here for one more day,
and I would fly off to Neverland
where the lostboys are at play.
---- circa 8th November 2003.
in the eye of a storm
She walks on tired feet, dragging along
a rusty cart that creaks.
Old cardboard boxes stacked in a heap
and aluminum cans that fill a red polythene bag --
These are her daily wares for all the world to see.
What care she --
even if her goods sell cheap?
There is no mobile bill to pay for;
What is Zara to her?
Or Goldenvillage or Swenson's or Carrefour?
A hole or two (or three or four) on her ragged habiliments
is not considered much of an impediment.
She stops at every garbage bin on the pavement
and unperturbed by the stares from passing teens
brought up with cable TV and the internet
and coffee bean ice-blended on weekends,
she reaches inside with her emaciated fingers.
And I wonder --
did her heart or mind ever linger
over her own unfortunate circumstance?
And she walks with tired feet, dragging along
a rusty cart that creaks.
At a snail's pace she moves through the throng,
oblivious to the bustle of the traffic and pedestrians.
This bent, haggard object of pity;
what care she --
even if in the eye of a storm?
---- circa 15th october 2003.
a rusty cart that creaks.
Old cardboard boxes stacked in a heap
and aluminum cans that fill a red polythene bag --
These are her daily wares for all the world to see.
What care she --
even if her goods sell cheap?
There is no mobile bill to pay for;
What is Zara to her?
Or Goldenvillage or Swenson's or Carrefour?
A hole or two (or three or four) on her ragged habiliments
is not considered much of an impediment.
She stops at every garbage bin on the pavement
and unperturbed by the stares from passing teens
brought up with cable TV and the internet
and coffee bean ice-blended on weekends,
she reaches inside with her emaciated fingers.
And I wonder --
did her heart or mind ever linger
over her own unfortunate circumstance?
And she walks with tired feet, dragging along
a rusty cart that creaks.
At a snail's pace she moves through the throng,
oblivious to the bustle of the traffic and pedestrians.
This bent, haggard object of pity;
what care she --
even if in the eye of a storm?
---- circa 15th october 2003.
prayer for the faithless
I am my own prisoner
But I know not where I hid the key
Perhaps I've discarded it down the rubbish chute --
Along with the rest of me.
These chains that bind me to this void
That I wake up to everyday
Hold me fast, unflinching,cold and cruel
'til I can't spirit myself away.
But then how could I
When all might and main have been cast aside?
I'd rather lie catatonic on my bed
Then take sprightly leaps with arms open wide.
So I am my own prisoner
With nary a care where I misplaced the key.
But perhaps You could help me recover it --
Along with the rest of me.
---- circa 11th October 2003.
But I know not where I hid the key
Perhaps I've discarded it down the rubbish chute --
Along with the rest of me.
These chains that bind me to this void
That I wake up to everyday
Hold me fast, unflinching,cold and cruel
'til I can't spirit myself away.
But then how could I
When all might and main have been cast aside?
I'd rather lie catatonic on my bed
Then take sprightly leaps with arms open wide.
So I am my own prisoner
With nary a care where I misplaced the key.
But perhaps You could help me recover it --
Along with the rest of me.
---- circa 11th October 2003.
the sound of dripping water
The sound of dripping water
Outside
is driving me insane.
Would God then spare me no respite?
Even in the late hours of the night,
must He so interrupt my thoughts in spite?
But alas
the dawn draws nearer
And I am not one step closer to being saner
Than before.
And
as the night comes to a close, I wonder
why in daytime
the sound of dripping water
Outside
never drove me insane.
---- 17th September 2003.
Outside
is driving me insane.
Would God then spare me no respite?
Even in the late hours of the night,
must He so interrupt my thoughts in spite?
But alas
the dawn draws nearer
And I am not one step closer to being saner
Than before.
And
as the night comes to a close, I wonder
why in daytime
the sound of dripping water
Outside
never drove me insane.
---- 17th September 2003.
there is no hell
There is no hell but I am the greater evil,
I am the darkest pit,
I am the fire.
I am the siren song that saps your mortal will
I am the curse, the monster,
and the destroyer.
I am the slayer who thinks he has won,
I am the Black Death,
I am the Reaper.
I trample the tragic, the tattered, the torn,
Wreak the dreamer
and the foolish believer.
I am the questioned but not the answer,
I am the silent flame,
the mutable fire.
I burn with a touch; I scorch and sear
Yet,
I am my own death,
And funeral pyre.
---- 19th August 2003.
I am the darkest pit,
I am the fire.
I am the siren song that saps your mortal will
I am the curse, the monster,
and the destroyer.
I am the slayer who thinks he has won,
I am the Black Death,
I am the Reaper.
I trample the tragic, the tattered, the torn,
Wreak the dreamer
and the foolish believer.
I am the questioned but not the answer,
I am the silent flame,
the mutable fire.
I burn with a touch; I scorch and sear
Yet,
I am my own death,
And funeral pyre.
---- 19th August 2003.
evanescence
But what right has even the smallest of mosquitoes to live;
2 hours, 2 days or 2 weeks?
Could it fly beyond its homely flowerpot
Before the arachnid ties it up in a knot?
Or could it buzz just above your delectable skin
And then, end up in a horrid splat like the rest of its pesky kin?
And thus our Fates perchance may be; No matter
young, old, strong or weak.
Could you live to see the next summer’s day
Before He, who gives, takes it all away?
Or is across the road your final destination
And have you courage enough to face your own evanescence?
---- circa 13th August 2003.
2 hours, 2 days or 2 weeks?
Could it fly beyond its homely flowerpot
Before the arachnid ties it up in a knot?
Or could it buzz just above your delectable skin
And then, end up in a horrid splat like the rest of its pesky kin?
And thus our Fates perchance may be; No matter
young, old, strong or weak.
Could you live to see the next summer’s day
Before He, who gives, takes it all away?
Or is across the road your final destination
And have you courage enough to face your own evanescence?
---- circa 13th August 2003.
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