April 05, 2009
sometimes you can see the darkness
slithering against the windows,
swallowing the emptiness whole.
you think you can see
A stranger
sometimes closer than a touch
sometimes further than the moon
taking flight on the wings
of the night.
No, you are never afraid.
slithering against the windows,
swallowing the emptiness whole.
you think you can see
A stranger
sometimes closer than a touch
sometimes further than the moon
taking flight on the wings
of the night.
No, you are never afraid.
October 30, 2008
I love to watch you sleep -
a stray tendril trailing across the
nape of your neck
drawing the curve of a petal
night weighs upon your brow
descending darkness more perfect than an
angel of light;
clothes you in naked vulnerability
somewhere farther, liquid light, liquid luck
rich saxophone notes of yearning quiver
drop into a soul
tugging against a dreamless sleep
each hour of your existence
measured against infinity
I want you to
watch for a fleeting shadow
drown yourself in a thirst
wanting more than just enough
I am watching you sleep.
a stray tendril trailing across the
nape of your neck
drawing the curve of a petal
night weighs upon your brow
descending darkness more perfect than an
angel of light;
clothes you in naked vulnerability
somewhere farther, liquid light, liquid luck
rich saxophone notes of yearning quiver
drop into a soul
tugging against a dreamless sleep
each hour of your existence
measured against infinity
I want you to
watch for a fleeting shadow
drown yourself in a thirst
wanting more than just enough
I am watching you sleep.
October 09, 2008
long overdue, from italy;
He pauses before the gate arches, suddenly conscious of the surrounding silence. In his right hand he holds a solitary flower, bent and unflinching against the mercilessly bitter cold of the wind. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if to hide the distance between them and the memory of a presence, but it is almost often never close at all. He steps through the gate, a momentous step of anticipation and acceptance, then shuffles up the driveway. His hands are tucked deep into his pockets, he attempts a studiedly casual posture. He sees them now, butterflies fluttering merrily about with an exuberant gaiety. They move in circles, spinning in circles, spinning in a never-ending carousel. He is, he always has been, the boy with no name, anonymous face half-hidden in the shadows, watching the chantreuse slide liquidly past. She is, she always has been, all charm - suite and light, nothing left over for him.
He kneels and places the solitary flower just above a name, a name that taints his lips for night after night when he goes to sleep. And then he wakes, mouth dry and heart hammering, reaching for something not there. The white of the rose is purer than the white of the snow gathering lightly on his shoulders -
Inside the high-domed cathedral, someone else catches a bouquet, celebrates a perfect union -
There is no death and transfiguration, only the certainty of a perfect darkness, a truce out of boundaries where nothing but the lines matter.
He pauses before the gate arches, suddenly conscious of the surrounding silence. In his right hand he holds a solitary flower, bent and unflinching against the mercilessly bitter cold of the wind. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if to hide the distance between them and the memory of a presence, but it is almost often never close at all. He steps through the gate, a momentous step of anticipation and acceptance, then shuffles up the driveway. His hands are tucked deep into his pockets, he attempts a studiedly casual posture. He sees them now, butterflies fluttering merrily about with an exuberant gaiety. They move in circles, spinning in circles, spinning in a never-ending carousel. He is, he always has been, the boy with no name, anonymous face half-hidden in the shadows, watching the chantreuse slide liquidly past. She is, she always has been, all charm - suite and light, nothing left over for him.
He kneels and places the solitary flower just above a name, a name that taints his lips for night after night when he goes to sleep. And then he wakes, mouth dry and heart hammering, reaching for something not there. The white of the rose is purer than the white of the snow gathering lightly on his shoulders -
Inside the high-domed cathedral, someone else catches a bouquet, celebrates a perfect union -
There is no death and transfiguration, only the certainty of a perfect darkness, a truce out of boundaries where nothing but the lines matter.
August 09, 2008
most nights it is an untasted sleep, blank and evaporating
lick the corners of a dry mouth
otherwise
cloying dreams; a bitter
aftertaste
suffocating corridors, spiralling staircases; caught in a vortex
look over shoulder, a disappearing back
or maybe
a composite figure of quick glances, stolen
last looks
what distance is -
the feeling of absence and
presence
withdrawal, a liberation from distraction
life races along, taking you in its slipstream
breathe;
like you're not wanting to.
lick the corners of a dry mouth
otherwise
cloying dreams; a bitter
aftertaste
suffocating corridors, spiralling staircases; caught in a vortex
look over shoulder, a disappearing back
or maybe
a composite figure of quick glances, stolen
last looks
what distance is -
the feeling of absence and
presence
withdrawal, a liberation from distraction
life races along, taking you in its slipstream
breathe;
like you're not wanting to.
July 01, 2008
seven days of definitive absence (and maybe agony)
and of long-gone opportunities -
agony, the double-edged sword
perpetually tormented when two pairs of eyes lock
unfathomable liquid depth
and just a second - maybe one more and one more and then forever
slides away
slight tug in the chest, a burning friction, constriction
inexorable erosion and then
a sour-rimmed release;
intransigence.
and of long-gone opportunities -
agony, the double-edged sword
perpetually tormented when two pairs of eyes lock
unfathomable liquid depth
and just a second - maybe one more and one more and then forever
slides away
slight tug in the chest, a burning friction, constriction
inexorable erosion and then
a sour-rimmed release;
intransigence.
April 29, 2008
like strangers just passing through
time ravages all -
it becomes even, casual, almost surefooted
in its uncertainty
a declaration of my veracity
time ravages all -
it becomes even, casual, almost surefooted
in its uncertainty
a declaration of my veracity
November 06, 2007
They were walking through an unknown yesterday, and a visionless tomorrow.
Distance, as often as not, was presented as a constant. Traversing the limitless boundaries of will and resistance, the space belonged solely to them and spanned only their understanding. A routine: a glance, raking through the familiar shapes of long hours of casual, coincidental, mutual deliberation. And then the turn away, difficult to initiate, hardest to take.
She tapped her fingers on the table surface in a rotational circular pattern which only he happened to notice, and made him glad to know she was withholding, and yet divulging this most intimate gesture that spoke beyond words.
“What are you doing now?” Like time, the question was frozen in their space.
He considered the question and its implications and answered, staring to some point beyond her.
“Waiting,” A bland reply, as though the answer was not apparent enough. Yet the answer was the truth, he had been waiting, and for her alone. To live each day was the completion of one more day towards their meetings, to live each day was to inch closer to the savouring of just one moment where their space mattered more than anything else in the world.
He was surprised to find that all along, both the knowledge of her presence at any given moment and waiting was a form of security. After all, waiting had become something to look forward to. An airplane in the deep forest was waiting too, wondering for its passengers and its destination.
The memories, they will eventually become stale and wholly not alive. Better still to wait, and to live in the waiting.
May 22, 2007
you are the chantreuse who
revels in the darkness;
your shadow grazes my skin -
it is liquid and fleeting,
slides across numbed form
leaving everything
and nothing
Untouched.
all this jazz;
free and unfettered,
leaves behind a distaste for decadence
something more
than this unexpressed ambivalence.
revels in the darkness;
your shadow grazes my skin -
it is liquid and fleeting,
slides across numbed form
leaving everything
and nothing
Untouched.
all this jazz;
free and unfettered,
leaves behind a distaste for decadence
something more
than this unexpressed ambivalence.
September 24, 2006
reserved, for him and for her.
August 09, 2006
remembered perfection
an almost studied apathy
we confront and speak
of what’s important?
prices and prizes
merits and only sometimes,
meanings
three hundred and sixty degrees
of greenery; pieces of
sky bordering the river
grey coats flecked with our
polychromatic expressions
six hundred million dollars on
durians by the bay
men at coffeeshops talking about
mundane, glorious
army days
women complaining –
men always talking about
army days
bound by need of security
our decision to love
to work for our destiny
roar the Kallang Roar
a better history
something ours
A/N: happy birthday Singapore! written for the Unabashedly Singapore poetry competition (which I submitted this poem late for), I thought it was appropriate to publish it on this blog for Singapore's 41st birthday. all our idiosyncrasies, all of what is unique to us, cannot be fully encompassed but every National Day reminds me of these. we may be so-called a young nation, a fledgling nation - some say we are still searching for our national identity but I say we have found it; it is in each of us, whether we recognise it or not. so here is to our speech of 'lahs' and 'lors', our passion for food, shopping, discounts and queues, and everything else that makes us Singaporean.
an almost studied apathy
we confront and speak
of what’s important?
prices and prizes
merits and only sometimes,
meanings
three hundred and sixty degrees
of greenery; pieces of
sky bordering the river
grey coats flecked with our
polychromatic expressions
six hundred million dollars on
durians by the bay
men at coffeeshops talking about
mundane, glorious
army days
women complaining –
men always talking about
army days
bound by need of security
our decision to love
to work for our destiny
roar the Kallang Roar
a better history
something ours
A/N: happy birthday Singapore! written for the Unabashedly Singapore poetry competition (which I submitted this poem late for), I thought it was appropriate to publish it on this blog for Singapore's 41st birthday. all our idiosyncrasies, all of what is unique to us, cannot be fully encompassed but every National Day reminds me of these. we may be so-called a young nation, a fledgling nation - some say we are still searching for our national identity but I say we have found it; it is in each of us, whether we recognise it or not. so here is to our speech of 'lahs' and 'lors', our passion for food, shopping, discounts and queues, and everything else that makes us Singaporean.
July 16, 2006
he would like to believe that today, the third time they have crossed paths in a week, is a coincidence. time is always a coincidence - for him, for the world, always something waiting to happen, never happening.
their eyes meet but they never speak; speaking is their taboo. he hooks his thumb over his belt, tugs at it quickly, almost nervously. her collar is the epitome of her perfection, stiff and unflappable, like her countenance - carved out of stone, with the afternoon sunlight glinting against her tightened jaw.
she gazes at him coolly, her relentless stare just enough to make him shift his eyes fractionally away, to the place where her face joins her neck in a smooth, slick curve. belatedly, he realises that his heart is thumping out a Wagnerian rhythm, strong and clinical. he wishes that she would acknowledge his presence, wishes for the liquid, melting feeling of her hand in his; it must be a gratuitous coincidence.
she is indomitable, and he? the Tim of timidity.
as always, they allow themselves to brush past each other, no recognition, no revolution required. as always, their synonym for acquiesce.
their eyes meet but they never speak; speaking is their taboo. he hooks his thumb over his belt, tugs at it quickly, almost nervously. her collar is the epitome of her perfection, stiff and unflappable, like her countenance - carved out of stone, with the afternoon sunlight glinting against her tightened jaw.
she gazes at him coolly, her relentless stare just enough to make him shift his eyes fractionally away, to the place where her face joins her neck in a smooth, slick curve. belatedly, he realises that his heart is thumping out a Wagnerian rhythm, strong and clinical. he wishes that she would acknowledge his presence, wishes for the liquid, melting feeling of her hand in his; it must be a gratuitous coincidence.
she is indomitable, and he? the Tim of timidity.
as always, they allow themselves to brush past each other, no recognition, no revolution required. as always, their synonym for acquiesce.
October 30, 2005
He sees swirling shapes in the distance, a misty grey, crackling sharply at the edges of his consciousness. The gravel beneath his feet crunches, and grates agonisingly against the muffled fog he's used to hearing. Dull brickstone buildings line the street, imposing themselves upon the figures hurrying up and down. Like these people, the season fade and change but the buildings never fade, never change, they remain just there. He wishes that he could walk on forever, stumbling away from the bright lights and dark nights, into that somewhere called dystopia.
May 14, 2005
I.
He leaned against the pillar, let the worn canvas fabric of his bag rub against his shirt, and watched her. Watched as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, watched as she absentmindedly spun the baby dino keychain hanging from her bag in circles, watched as she brushed her hair aside and smiled.
He waited.
She walked past him, barely acknowledging the fact of his presence.
He was somewhat surprised to find that he didn't mind that fact coexisting with the other unknown.
That unknown and what it encompassed happened to be the centre of his universe.
Like -
His legs remained rooted to the spot, not sure if they should follow her or move, away in the opposite direction.
II.
Literature. The class had sunk into its usual stupor, except the usual suspects who eagerly scribbled down notes of how Harper Lee had managed to bring out the main themes of the novel To Kill A Mockingbird through the process of growing up. Literature lessons were a rarity indeed, he mused, as he tore out a blank piece of fulscap and prepared to join the exclusive club of note-takers.
The teacher had spotted him diligently taking down the salient points of what she would have termed an "engaging class discussion". And she felt a growing warmth and pride; warmth and joy at the fact that a student she had classified as "lazy" had finally taken initiative to do his work and pride in her own teaching ability.
Or so it seemed. For all he had been doing was writing her name over and over again and whispering it softly and carefully to himself, afraid that anything else he did would spoil the beauty of those two syllables.
The teacher prowled past his desk and smiled self-indulgently as she read the heading on his piece of paper: "How Growing Up Relates to the Main Themes of TKAM".
III.
The bell rang. He stood, about to follow the throng of people filing out of the classroom. The incessant chatter and noise irritated him a little but he had long ago established that this was part of school life. In this jungle, the animals hunted in packs. People who were like him weren't considered threats; he was of the not-quite-understood-but-ever-present type whom everyone knew and always had a kind word or a smile for but if he wasn't there, nothing would change anyway. He wouldn't dare to change the order of things here. Better to leave it as it had been. That would keep him safe, in the shadows, and watching as always.
Every time you don't look at me, I crumble a little bit inside.
stopfalldrop
Hunched over, face set in a serious scowl.
He leaned against the pillar, let the worn canvas fabric of his bag rub against his shirt, and watched her. Watched as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, watched as she absentmindedly spun the baby dino keychain hanging from her bag in circles, watched as she brushed her hair aside and smiled.
He waited.
She walked past him, barely acknowledging the fact of his presence.
He was somewhat surprised to find that he didn't mind that fact coexisting with the other unknown.
That unknown and what it encompassed happened to be the centre of his universe.
Like -
His legs remained rooted to the spot, not sure if they should follow her or move, away in the opposite direction.
II.
Literature. The class had sunk into its usual stupor, except the usual suspects who eagerly scribbled down notes of how Harper Lee had managed to bring out the main themes of the novel To Kill A Mockingbird through the process of growing up. Literature lessons were a rarity indeed, he mused, as he tore out a blank piece of fulscap and prepared to join the exclusive club of note-takers.
The teacher had spotted him diligently taking down the salient points of what she would have termed an "engaging class discussion". And she felt a growing warmth and pride; warmth and joy at the fact that a student she had classified as "lazy" had finally taken initiative to do his work and pride in her own teaching ability.
Or so it seemed. For all he had been doing was writing her name over and over again and whispering it softly and carefully to himself, afraid that anything else he did would spoil the beauty of those two syllables.
The teacher prowled past his desk and smiled self-indulgently as she read the heading on his piece of paper: "How Growing Up Relates to the Main Themes of TKAM".
III.
The bell rang. He stood, about to follow the throng of people filing out of the classroom. The incessant chatter and noise irritated him a little but he had long ago established that this was part of school life. In this jungle, the animals hunted in packs. People who were like him weren't considered threats; he was of the not-quite-understood-but-ever-present type whom everyone knew and always had a kind word or a smile for but if he wasn't there, nothing would change anyway. He wouldn't dare to change the order of things here. Better to leave it as it had been. That would keep him safe, in the shadows, and watching as always.
Every time you don't look at me, I crumble a little bit inside.
stopfalldrop
Hunched over, face set in a serious scowl.