Poem: No Matter How Old

To the grandmas from Bury who spoke to me on Zoom during the lonely pandemic

My heart sang its last slow
hallelujah
in tongues but
comprehension slips
memories ebb
with time like waves
despite my best
cold sleep’s caress was all I had
and the four lonely walls
of a present without hope
disaster and disaster again
eating away at future life

But a gentle truth
“we can fix
everything
and we can always mend
what is broken”
though you said it entirely offhand
I listened to the closing tide
and the cold water drew away
from body and shipwreck
I finally breathed
as we wrote poems together
about the beach and things we loved
even though they were in history
and a million miles away

And the dove in my chest
awoke
to church bells ringing
with repose of a simple painting
a chorus drawing
workshopped
pencil strokes holding hands
since the old are neat guides
and motherly sounds
unaware of their affection
and protection
unabashed to build with soil
and tired hands
my imagined cathedral

I quietly began to believe since then
since my heart gave up
and tongues descend
a hallelujah once again
I still think of them some years now
and how it’s okay, it’s really okay
to find yourself in pain
yet accept those same words again
“to mend”
to be comforted
and none of those words or wants
of trying or falsely accused unjustified living
of remembering what was lost
and writing it down with love
will ever be in vain

First written in 2021, edited and published in 2024

Poem: Money

Money, that weightless thing. So invisible,

So undiscernible in value except maybe for the size

Of its note or the braille printed just before the edge

Meets invisible space. Money is so heavy, that fleeting thing

Constantly oppressive. More than its entire weight in gold.

Gold shines so that you can feel, taste, smell and pretend

It’s worth more than the collective weight of things

You have since let go to hold more money.

Poem: It’s not me it’s you

I’m always heartbroken

In memory of you and me. All

The time, happy. Sad.

They are the same.

To me, all tears flow downwards

Like rivulets to the ocean.

Happy crying becomes sad. So too

Heartbreak slips into

Times we had each other.

Someone else in this big blue world,

At least one.

Like my heartbeat, the water cycle

Passes along,

The rain seeps into the soil

It kills, it kisses. All

Blended as if it is one thing.

Poem: Abot-kamay

Translation.

Abot means reach. Kamay means hand.

Abot-kamay means within reach, something you’re aiming to have, or something you worked hard for is almost at your fingertips.

Abot-kamay

When you will be born on that fateful day,

Wrapped in sterile white blankets

And the heavy caress of a tired body,

I will remember dreaming of you today,

As I gaze into those brown eyes that awoke

Drowned wet with tears this morning for the dream

Of having you far off in the grey future and not being

Able to hold you, all bloodied and crying, in the small

Of my hands now, so wrinkled and far from worthy,

Smelling of oranges and lemons, feeling softness.

Poem: Babel

I was always fascinated by the story of Babel

Which could be said to be the story of mankind:

“To become Gods” or “To find God” or “To kill God”.

It is the story of ascent like that of mystics

But with the spirituality of warriors, kings, and conquerors.

I am a man, just a man, so I too think I know how men

Think. We want to climb the tower, holy or not

To achieve. Maybe we were uncomfortable in our baggy skins,

Disgusted by our flesh that is so easily bruised… and our egos.

As if in our old souls, we knew. That earth

And our allotted lotteries were not enough—

That there was something in us unfinished. Well, ironically,

It took someone stepping down, somewhat from that

Broken tower of ambition, to show us in all humility,

Clothed in our skin but not in our ancient weakness,

Not like Superman from the comic books but instead a poor criminal

Broken to show us that to be truly human is to truly be like God.

Haiku: December

December again

My blanket smells of rainfall

My pillow is cold

Poem: Moving On

When I tried to walk,

Softness and the smell of apples

Tug at my feet like small hands.

They pull me into the concrete. So cold,

Like the other side of a pillow.

I hoped I’d recover

At least the motion of walking

From whichever drawer I kept

Your “I wish you were happy”s

Before I forget.

Poem: Cosmopolitan

It haunts

            The glint between my spectacle lenses

                                    I am far away

                                                            No more plastic smiles

                                                            No more concrete

                        Stony faces

                                                                        Crack in the ground, the road

                                                hidden differently

            Hearing

                                    Knowing

                                                                        Not understanding

Forever given to the future             

Poem: Lamentations

I only know
you breathe my breath
that to be
I am not worthy
despite my unloveliness
torn shawl and drawers
the spite and adultery
the cheating and scandals
you have kept me with you

As written in the book
I do not know
why for
how far I have turned away from you
but admonishing
with all
I am
and where I want to be

Poem: Images of the Contemplative Inner Life

A rocky cliffside
jagged and beaten
hides a reservoir
as water drips
through moonbeams
the cracks of clenched fists
a candle wanes with dignity
wax melting
stronger than electricity
listen explorer
the cavern speaks
tremors
fear its rumbling
swaying everything
hold still
the ripple
from a drop
as mountains melt
submit
rocks fall into water

Poem: John 13:14

Quiet room
Deathly
Cold
Silent steps
Starless night
Still air
The night before
Bathed
In water
Wine
Before blood
A wedding eve
Hard
On dust and sand
Sobriety
Uninvited
Simple
Not just my feet
Stops
Time
Kingship
Everything
Unprotected

If heaven is as good as it sounds

If heaven is as good as it sounds

then take me there

to a place that is forever

white and green with eternal springtime

like in stories where bread fall from the sky

like ash flakes after a campfire in the morning

like hope descending and unbecoming

where there is only love

where we are going

and more than I love

as good as it sounds

than impermanence

our life here below

our sadness

beyond present dissatisfaction

raised up to heaven

won’t I gawk

on the table unspent

forever mirthy

a joy that lasts

for nothing dies

like flowers

alive and held

so unweary

undemandingly

A Covid-19 poem

Things are feeling better now but I don’t know
whether they actually are better. Nothing
has changed – the cogs continue to turn.
The home is panopticon. State is self-surveillance
in the disintegrated human-
every mistake, a crushing boulder,
when one hope is lost, a faint firefly
I still hate myself I still feel like I need help
Have you forgotten how to live? Why
try to do everything yourself? Trauma shrugs
it doesn’t go. Ribcages tighten and collapse
It is much easier to hate and remain inside
to not move forward.
Lungs are out of breath
become again.
“I’m worried about you.
Let’s talk.”
as if talking would change anything
but remind me that I am loved
All I want to proclaim is that I don’t recognise myself.
Love – a question or an open invitation?
What is the answer to suffering?
Not death. I don’t remember much of it anymore.
Only love, always suffering, union this side of the veil.
Always love. Who? I was looking at faces in RGB.
I didn’t expect the outside world to be so green.

Singapore returns to Phase 2 of Covid-19 restrictions after an influx of community-spread cases.

Poem: Tobacco – B

why did she remember
his favourite brand of cigarettes
when she
tried to remember
their distance
when she questioned
how much she loved him
choking
between wafts
staring at her curtains
the breeze rustles
the balcony
his disheveled hair
his smell
his shirt
his favourite spot to flirt
if only
she loved better
or never asked
she should never have asked
for more
than the smell of tobacco
from him
for him to love her more
if she loved better instead
if
to breathe
more than
oxygen tinted memories
in between bursts
burning polyps
but why
it never mattered
would he have stayed
not her tears or his promises
nor the spot he left behind
where she still revisits
if she looked at him more
would he still be there
at the balcony
smoking his favourite
the last thing he left behind
other than her
now melting
burnt to throw

Poem: Tobacco

she lit a cigarette for the first time
it hung in between the space
of her middle and forefinger

smoke haunted the living room
where she sat crossed legged on the floor
inhaling quietly

she never took a puff
but let it burn away
because she missed the smell

it choked her and clogged her eyes
it always had
it hurt

she let it happen
the night turned grey and passed
with slightly bitter tears

Poem: To Die

Twiddling my thumbs at the midsection of noonday, I gave up on life
and all that it promised: green edible leaves, the cornucopia, fresh water.
I didn’t know who I was anymore after relinquishing control
so I decided to just walk away from everything in my mind
I couldn’t quite comprehend the sensation in my fingertips, the sweat
rolling down my skin, traversing through the canyons of raised
hair follicles. I know I am not that good a person but I never
expected to see such a broken figuration, my guts spilling out.
My brain. I had a hernia once, it almost ruptured my genitals
when my large intestine fell into a place that it shouldn’t have.
I look back. I could have died. My brain is also empty. It echoes
with the silence that nothing mattered if I wasn’t rushed to the hospital
or if I didn’t live up to this gift of life, this great surprise.
I look at the potted plant on my counter. It is a money plant
dropping down like all crawlers do. It is the ultimate household plant
Money plants do not require much watering or sunlight. I wonder why it tries so hard.
My phone buzzes. I read everything but there was nothing of note or
nothing to note. No duty, no responsibilities save the ones I make up
for myself in my head, these foreigners. To God, family and country. Never did I
ever feel so selfish than at the dark noon of midday when in the middle
of my siesta that I decided to drop the ball. To die like everything mattered
and accepting that I couldn’t lift even a finger to die.

Could you pass through this pain?

A single branch
peers
down a cliffside

whispers
cut
into its splinters

rocky
dry
a leaf falls

cold
victorious
a single branch

Spoon-fed

spoon-fed a stomach-full of gold

coins lost in its ghastly pit

surely you know by now

I have been bleeding

from my intestines below

and I have nothing in me

but shiny gold and mint

cracked with churning

from my final bellyache

parsed in yearning

Today is not a good day to write

Today is not a good day to write;
rejoice! till, then, till I wait — when
in melody, we met
each other, outside;
of the city,
of our skin,
so cold, like rain dissolving in
this path, sweetly in mud-stains
left behind at a bicycle lot
as the evening billowed-
by. I know,
I know and we knew,
we ran,
for a moment to-
the end.

From Punggol

shines
her
invisible
waterfalls

night
the kampong
in bedrooms
the bazaar

will suffice
alone
for tomorrow