Poems From Rest In Peace

I’ve decided to post some of my favourite poems from Rest In Peace here since Age of Insanity is about Poetry and Psychology.

Yippee! Lunar New Year is around the corner and is spring-cleaning time! Gee, why am I so excited about spring-cleaning, I don’t have a clue. ;p

To My Dear Children

This book by any yet unread,
I leave for you when I am dead,
That being gone, here you may find
What was your living mother’s mind.
Make use of what I leave in love,
And God shall bless you from above.

Anne Bradstreet (1612 – 1672)

--------------------------------------

Tablet of Stone
Written at Mount Vernon Crematorium

Coming to this lush green
Serenity, tucked away from the
Noise of city traffic, seeking
Telepathy, a reunion of
Minds, with those long dead –
Whose souls now reside amongst
The ashes in allocated cubicles,
Sealed with marble slabs – from
The living world – rows and
Rows lined with tablets of
Stone. One tablet, it seemed, was
Different from the rest. The
Visage of a little girl – Smiling –
Adorned its hard, smooth surface of an
Unearthly chill. Where flowers might
Have stood, a pink, fluffy soft toy
Sat accompanied by two plastic
Sticks of colourful lollipops, perhaps
The evidence of recent communion? In this
Dim, concrete structure built to house
The dead – an economical Mausoleum of
Sorts – comforting to find that the
Warmth of the living penetrates and
Punctures this otherwise eternal
Silence.

Tan Yi-Ling

--------------------------------------

In the Attic

Even though we know now
your clothes will never
be needed, we keep them,
upstairs in a locked trunk.

Sometimes I kneel there,
holding them, trying to relive
time you wore them, to remember
the actual shape of arm and wrist.

My hands push down between
hollow, invisible sleeves,
hesitate, then lift
patterns of memory:

a green holiday, a red christening,
all your unfinished lives
fading through dark summers,
entering my head as dust.

By Andrew Motion
(Taken from The Penguin Book of
Contemporary British Poetry)

------------------------------------

When Negro Teeth Speak

Everyone thinks me a cannibal
But you know how people talk

Everyone sees my red gums but who
Has white ones
Up with tomatoes

Everyone says fewer tourists will come
Now
But you know
We aren’t in America and anyway everyone
Is broke

Everyone says it’s my fault and is afraid
But look
My teeth are white not red
I haven’t eaten anyone

People are wicked and say I gobble
The tourists roasted
Or perhaps grilled
Roasted or grilled I asked them
They fell silent and looked fearfully at my gums
Up with tomatoes

Everyone knows an arable country has agriculture
Up with vegetables

Everyone maintain that vegetables
Don’t nourish the grower well
And that I am well-grown for an undeveloped man
Miserable vermin living on tourists
Down with my teeth

Everyone suddenly surrounded me
Fettered
Thrown down prostrated
At the feet of justice

Cannibal or not cannibal
Speak up
Ah you think yourself clever
And try to look proud

Now we’ll see you get what’s coming to you
What is your last word
Poor condemned man

I shouted up with tomatoes

The men were cruel and the women curious you see
There was one in the peering circle
Who with her voice rattling like the lid of a casserole
Screamed
Yelped
Open him up
I’m sure papa is still inside

The knives being blunt
Which is understandable among vegetarians
Like the Westerners
They grabbed a Gillette blade
And patiently
Crisss
Crasss
Floccc
They opened my belly

A plantation of tomatoes was growing there
Irrigated by streams of palm wine
Up with tomatoes

By Ouologuem Yambo
(Taken from The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry, Edited by Gerald Moore and Ulli Beier, 3rd Edition.)

To The Moon

Image taken from starryskies.com

Now that the year has come full circle,
I remember climbing this hill, heartbroken,
To gaze up at the graceful sight of you,
And how you hung then above those woods
As you do tonight, bathing them in brightness.
But at that time your face seemed nothing
But a cloudy shimmering through my tears,
So wretched was the life I led: and lead still …
Nothing changes, moon of my delight. Yet
I find pleasure in recollection, in calling back
My season of grief: when one is young,
And hope is a long road, memory
A short one, how welcome then
The remembrance of things past – no matter
How sad, and the heart still grieving.

By Giacomo Leopardi (1798 – 1837)
(Translated from the Italian by Eamon Grennan)

Afterthought

To my parents, my brother, my friends, my wife.

Thank you for believing in me.

Thank you for being my friend.

Thank you for loving me.

It feels good to know that I am not alone. Wishing you guys a Happy New Year!

Wearing The Collar

I live with a lady and four cats
and some days we all get
along.

some days I have trouble with
one of the
cats.

other days I have trouble with
two of the
cats.

other days,
three.

some days I have trouble with
all four of the
cats.

and the
lady:

ten eyes looking at me
as if I was a dog.

By Charles Bukowski (1920 – 94)



Afterthought


Somehow this poem reminds me of one of mine. No, no, I am not comparing myself to him. No sir, he is so much better than me, hell I am not even a poet. ;p

Another Reason Why I Don’t Keep a Gun in the House

The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbor’s dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

By Billy Collins
taken from The Apple That Astonished Paris

Afterthought

There it goes again!

Just like that stupid dog in the poem, barks, barks, barks! Why does it have to bark so early on a Sunday morning? Unlike my wife I am a light sleeper. Most likely due to the training I had while I was doing my National Service. Imagine having to storm out of the barrack in the middle of the night and be combat ready in less than a minute. Looking back, it was kind of cool actually. But what the heck, I am now a civilian, can’t I seep in peace?

Wouldn’t it be nice if dogs could talk instead of these senseless barking? “Where is my breakfast? Are you trying to starve me?" or “Time for my morning walk so get your fat ass moving human slave!"

There it goes again! I can't even write in peace. If only I could just pinpoint its exact location, oh boy I will not hesitate to give a piece of my mind to its owner. It is driving me crazy! Arghhhh!!!!!

Why Won't They Come?

For them, we gladly imitate animals
like those in corporate zoo.
Here a mindless monkey leaping
desperately, trapped in a urban cage.
There a grumpy duck stuck
between frozen lake and uncertain sky.

But why won’t they come?

If they want, we can even be more outrage,
just try us. Watch me pee
right here, right now -
the world is my private loo.
Perhaps now we have their full attentions?
Are we not expressive enough?

But still why won’t they come?

Maybe they are ashamed
of how others might perceive them.
Or maybe they’ve chosen
to be temporary blind.
They do have a choice you know.

But wait! An audience – a child,
sitting alone at the edge of reason.
Watching her, we held our breath
as if the purpose of our existence depends
solely on this little girl.

She yawns.

By Alson Teo

Afterthought

Who exactly is my audience?

To a certain degree I am the first audience of my poems. I don’t mean the ‘I’ as the author but the ‘I’ as a reader. And to do this I need to step out of myself and disconnect emotionally from my works. Although that is important, what I am more concern is whether my poems are able to communicate with you, my intended audience.

But frankly as an author you do have a choice. For example if you wish to expand your audience's base, no point using words that only university graduates will understand. A couple of these words are fine but if the average readers need to refer a dictionary with every line, you might one to consider using simpler words.

I want to share with you an extract from INTERLOGUE, Studies in Singapore Literature, Volume 2: Poetry.

Mr Kirpal Singh* a respected poet both in Singapore and overseas, in the Introduction section commented that Mr Boey Kim Cheng

“ …writes from deep within, without compromise. His poems go down very well with academics and scholar-critics but not, I am told, with the general readers. His is a learned poetry and demands perhaps more of the contemporary reader’s time and effort. Does this mean that poets like Boey have lost their relevance? Or does it mean that readers today are less sophisticated or less discriminating? Boey Kim Cheng, like Yap, is reserved both in manner and person, and his poems while drawing one in, also let one out. Hence the complications.”

Frankly you don’t need a dictionary to read Boey’s poems. What you do need is some patience and perhaps as suggested by Mr Kirpal Singh, free time and efforts.

The thing is I am not a sophisticated reader. I just want to be entertained. I don't want to spend my time guessing what the author is trying to say. I want to feel the author’s heartbeats. I want to shout “Wow!” and yet be speechless at the same time because of what I've read. I want to cry and laugh with the poems. I am a greedy reader. I want to feel all these after my first attempt, okay lah, maybe after the second attempt.

I am not a sophisticated reader. If I want to read serious writings, I'll get myself a newspaper.

* Mr Kirpal Singh is the General Editor of INTERLOGUE and Editor of the first 3 volumes in the Series. He is internationally recognized both as a scholar and creative writer.

Rejection

Photograph contributed by Liz

Rejection

As if her casual touch
Is as deadly as her tainted blood.
Daggered stares keep
............................. her at bay. Even her
Shadow weeps
............................. alone.

By Alson Teo
(For 5th DPS (S) Poetry Writing Competition)

Afterthought

I truly admire those who took part in the recent NaPoWriMo 2006. A poem a day for 30 days required strong determination and a never-say-die attitude. You do not need to produce world class poems during this period but still they should be presentable.

So how do you write a poem out of nothing?

During the past few weeks I found myself in the same situation. No I didn’t take part in NaPoWriMo but I did take part in my own 5th DPS (S) Poetry Writing Competition. And to some extent get a taste of what it would be like if I should particiate in NaPoWriMo.

With a total of 9 submissions and only 2 days before closing date, I decided to participate in the competition. The thing is although all 12 photograhs were selected by me, I just can’t seem to establish a connection with them. And with only a day left, I decided to write an acrostic poem. Maybe it is just me but I feel that acrostic poems are more suitable for writing excerice rather than for competition. But with so little time left, what choice do I have?

For this short poem to work, I need to take into consideration its title, content, form, and the photograph. Form has been taken care of since I’ve decided to write an acrostic poem. All I need to do is to form the word “AIDS” with the first alphabet of each line. Its content is straightforward enough i.e. a poem about isolation and rejection of an AIDS patient by the society. I decided on the title “Rejection” because I think it sums up the poem nicely and reinforces the ending.

Another reason why I decided on an acrostic poem was because I wanted it to be able to stand on its feet i.e. without the photograph.

PS. Liz, is the figure on the left hand side of your photograph a human or a stack of rocks? :)

Kindergarten Snapshot

Tumblers of Ribena, with tooth-marked caps.
Lined up by the window, where sun-drugged
Haywire ants navigated marshes of syrup,
The abacus was a grid of necklaces,
The globe the offspring
Of roulette-wheel and beach ball.
That Malay boy who bought tea to school
Was considered strange. So were those

Who came with squares on their sleeves –
Some black, some blue, for Ah Gong
And Ah Ma. And other bewildering relatives
Who bequeathed to them the badge
To the night school of mourning.

But no grief on their faces.
Not a trace, during afternoons
Of two-by-two, the teapot song.
And being called monkeys in the
Playground. We out-chorused one another
Through whistle-gap teeth. National Day:
Pom-pom hands and hula-hoop hips.

Other days: fractured crayons, a pencil
Sharpened on both ends, like a hex.
The girl who stared at the shut windows
Wishing for X-ray vision or a clock
With no hands. A puddle of shame-shame.

Sleeping time. Lay your head
On your arms. The wood of the table
Humming like underwater. If you opened
Your eyes you could see who else
Was disobedient. You could also drift
To the secret tapping of a friend,
Senseless Morse, galloping fingernails
Like firecrackers from a far-off holiday.

By Alfian Bin Sa’at
(Taken from A History of Amnesia
Published by Ethos Books)

Afterthought

The reason why I took so long to update my afterthought was because I couldn’t find my Kindergarten’s days photos. I’ve no idea where I've kept them. If I am not mistaken they should be somewhere in my new house but I’ve search high and low but still no sign of them. Arghhhhh!!!!

This is so frustrating!

Among Strangers

Who are these white strangers
Upright in starched aprons,
Flannels ready in scrubbed hands,
With bright smiles stitched onto their faces,
Their blue eyes fixed on messes
Round her mouth, their noses held
Against her leaking smell?

A white porcelain bath stands
Antiseptic on a wooden floor.
Thin fingers turn the tap,
Measure out the lukewarm water.
She climbs into a brief assault
Of yellow soap, then shivers, thankful
For release to a coarse towel.

Black shadows creep around
Rows of creaking metal beds.
Humped beneath two grey blankets
She thrusts her knees towards her damp breath,
Clamps her arms tight against her flesh.
At last her urine seeps out
Warm, familiar, spreading into sleep.

By Elke Dutton
(Taken from Writing for Self-Discovery
by Myra Schneider and John Killick)

Afterthought

The above poem was written by Elke Dutton, a participant in one of the writing workshop conducted by Myra Schneider a well-known UK poet. She started off with Flow-Writing about silence and afterwards focused on a small part of it, which she later developed into a poem. I really like this piece and so do a search for her background or poems in the Internet.

Unfortunately none is to be found. If you have any links to her poems please let me know. Thanks.

A friend of mine, Liz has bravely taken up the challenge and participates in the still on-going NaPoWriMo 2006. To be frank I am quite tempted to do the same though not necessary during the month of April.

Feared Drowned

Suddenly nobody knows where you are,
your suit black as seaweed, your bearded
head slick as a seal’s.

Somebody watches the kids. I walk down the
edge of the water, clutching the towel
like a widow’s shawl around me.

None of the swimmers is just right.
Too short, too heavy, clean-shaven,
they rise out of the surf, the water
rushing down their shoulders.

Rocks stick out near shore like heads.
Kelp snakes in like a shed black suit
and I cannot find you.

My stomach begins to contract as if to
vomit salt water

when up the sand toward me comes
a man who looks very much like you,
his beard matted like beach grass, his suit
dark as a wet shell against his body.

Coming closer, he turns out
to be you – or nearly.
Once you lose someone it is never exactly
the same person who comes back.

By Sharon Olds taken from Satan Says

Afterthought I

I had a very weird dream yesterday.

I dreamt that I was in a classroom. I think it was my primary school but I am not too sure. It was raining heavily and after a short while the water level reached the school’s third floor. I was standing near the window and saw a boy from the next class climbing out of the window. He started to run to-and-fro along the window’s extension, ignoring the dangers of falling into the water.

Anyway I yelled at him to get back in but he refused. Just then his teacher threatened to call the boy’s parents if he doen't get his ass back into the classroom immediately. In an act of defiance the boy jumped into the water followed by his teacher to rescue him. Surprisingly the boy was quite a good swimmer and swarm to safety. On the other hand his teacher seemed to have problems stay afloat.

After a while she stopped struggling and the water carried her motionless body away. All this while I just stood there, looking but not offering any help. I should have done something but I didn’t. I just stood there, watching.

Then I realized the rain had stop and the water subsided. The police came and out of guilt I rushed down to look for the officer in-charge to offer my help as I have witnessed the whole incident.

The officer told me the cause of death was not by drowning but due to the fall. Someone was crying behind me. I turned around and saw a young man in tears. The officer told me he was the boy’s elder brother. “Where is the boy?” I asked. “He has gone missing after witnessing his teacher’s death,” replied the officer.

End of dream.

It was really a weird dream.

(Window's extension: I am not sure if it is the right name but it is the extra areas just outside the window.)

Afterthought II

“Once you lose someone it is never exactly
the same person who comes back.”

The person you are today is not exactly the person you were yesterday or who you will be tomorrow. If this is the case, who is the real ‘me’?

A Madman

West of Wan-li Bridge, beside our grass cottage,
Po-hua Stream would delight the angler of Ts’ang-lang.

Caressed by wind, bamboo sways – elegant, flawless.
In rain, red lotus blossoms grow more and more fragrant.

Old friends with fat salaries have stopped writing,
And the kids, forever hungry, wear faces of cold despair.

About to fill some gutter, he is carefree, the madman
Grown old laughing at his growing steadily madder.

(Taken from The Selected Poems of Tu Fu,
Translated by David Hinton)

Afterthought

It was not my original intention to post this poem. But the last stanza caught my attention,

“About to fill some gutter, he is carefree, the madman
Grown old laughing at his growing steadily madder.”

We were told that the madman is laughing at his growing madness.

But why is he laughing? Is he laughing because he is free from the harshness of reality? Is he laughing because he is free to do what he pleases? Or is he laughing because he knows it is the world that is growing steadily madder and only he is sane enough to realize it?

I wish I could laugh like him.

An Empty Purse

Though bitter, juniper berries are food
For immortals, and cirrus flushed with morning
Light. But people are common things,
These tangles of trouble my only life:

A frozen well each morning and no stove,
Cold nights without quilts … In fear
Of shame an empty purse brings, I hold
In mine this one coin I keep, peering in.

(Taken from The Selected Poems of Tu Fu,
Translated by David Hinton)

Afterthought

I am going to be unemployed soon.

The first time I was unemployed, it was for a period of 6 months. After completing my National Service and with no working experience it was extremely tough to get a job. I felt so useless, a good-for-nothing.

The second time was for a period of 3 months. Although by then I had a couple of years of working experience, I still found it hard to get a job. To be frank although the second time was shorter than the first time, but for some reasons I felt deeply depressed, even suicidal at times.

The third time was for a period of 7 months. I resigned after my operation in May. Although it was a minor operation I took about 2 months to recover. It was an unforgettable experience. And 5 months later, I tendered my resignation. Luckily for me, I was too busy preparing for my examination (October), new house (November) and wedding (May). No time to be depressed.

But this time I have only my blogs and my poetry forum to keep me occupied. I am going to be unemployed again soon.

(Updated on 5 April 2006)

Boating

Still a wanderer farming at the Southern Capital,
Spirit-wounded, I can’t stop gazing north out windows.

But today, I take my wife out in the skiff. Drifting,
We watch our kids bathe in the bright, clear river.

Butterflies tumble through air, one chasing another.
Sharing stems, lotus blossoms float in natural pairs.

Tea, sugar-cane juice – we bring along what simple
Things we have, our clay jars no less than jade.

(Taken from The Selected Poems of Tu Fu,
Translated by David Hinton)

Afterthought

I will be featuring some poems from The Selected Poems of Tu Fu in my next few posts. All poems in this book are translated by David Hinton. What is interesting about his approach was that although he tried to remain faithful to the content of Tu Fu’s poems, he have made little attempt to mimic the formal characteristics of the originals.

His translations read more like contemporary poetry, i.e. the way Tu Fu might have written them if he is alive today. Personally I welcome this approach because I’ve read translations that followed strictly to the formal characteristics of the originals and I think they sound forced and too artificial.


(Updated on 10 January 2006)

When My Son Is Sick

When my son is so sick that he falls asleep
in the middle of the day, his small oval
hard head hurting so much he
prefers to let go of consciousness like
someone dangling from a burning rope just
letting go of his life, I sit and
hardly breathe. I think about the
half-liquid skin of his lips,
swollen and nicked with red slits like the
fissures in a volcano crust, down
which you see the fire. Though I am
down the hall from him I see the
quick bellies of his eyeballs jerk
behind the greenish lids, his temples
red and sour with pain, his skin going
pale gold as cold butter and then
turning a little like rancid butter till the
freckles seem to spread, black little
islands of mold, he sleeps the awful
sleep of the sick, his hard-working heart
banging like pipes inside his body, like a
shoe struck on iron bars when
someone wants to be let out, I
sit, I sit very still, I am out at the
rim of the world, the edge they saw
when they knew it was flat – the torn edge,
thick and soil-black, the vessels and
veins and tendons hanging free,
dangling down,
when my boy is sick I sit on the lip of
nothing and hang my legs over
and sometimes let a shoe fall
to give it something.

By Sharon Olds

Afterthought

I know I am supposed to feature only 5 poems from Sharon Olds’ The Gold Cell, with Our Son and the Water Shortage being the last featured poem. However I have some difficulties regarding the above poem and hope you guys can help me out. How do you interpret these few lines?

“when my boy is sick I sit on the lip of
nothing and hang my legs over
and sometimes let a shoe fall
to give it something.”

What message is the poet trying to convey here?

(Updated on 1 January 2006)

Our Son and the Water Shortage

When the water shortage comes along
he’s been waiting all his life for it,
all nine years for something to need him as the
water needs him now. He becomes
its protector – he stops washing, till dirt
shines on the bones behind his ears
over his brain, and his hands blaze like
dark badges of love. He will not
flush the toilet, putting the life of the
water first, until the bowl
crusts with gold like the heart’s riches and his
room stinks, and when I sneak in and
flush he almost weeps, holds his
hands a foot apart in the air and
says do I know there is only about
this much water left! He befriends it, he
sits by its bedside as if it is a dying
friend, a small figure of water
gleaming on the sheets. He keeps a tiny
jar to brush his teeth in, till green
bugs bathe in its scum, but talk about
germs and he’s willing to sacrifice his health
to put the life of the water first, its
helplessness breaks his heart, the way it
waits at all the faucets in the city for the
cocks to be turned, and then it cannot
help itself, it has to spill
to the last drop. Weeks go by and
our son is glazed with grime, and every
cell of dirt upon his body is a
molecule of water saved and he
loves those tiny molecules
translucent as his own flesh in the spring, this
thin vivid liquid boy who has
given his heart to water, element
so much like a nine-year-old – you can
cut it, channel it, see through it and
watch it, then, a fifty-foot
tidal wave, approaching your house
and picking up speed as it comes.

By Sharon Olds

Afterthought

Unlike my friends Cheong and Gilbert, I find it extremely difficult to write about my childhood. I’ve tried several times and they all ended up either too prosy or too sentimental. I seriously suspect I am trying to suppress certain episodes of my childhood’s memories. What could they be?

Was it that time when I “accidentally” saw some girls bathing along the river? Maybe it was that time when I “accidentally” played my uncle’s video tape assuming all tapes labelled Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs must be, ahem, about the fairly tale? Gosh, childhood is indeed a dangerous time where “accidents” happenes so frequently.

Like the boy in the above poem, I do have certain obsessions when I was a kid. One particular obsession stood out from the rest, i.e. I was obsessed with comma. Yupe, I was obsessed with this --> (,). I love to spend my free time counting commas in story books. Not only that, I organized competitions for my story books and declared the book with the most commas wins. Weird right?

Maybe I wasn't weird, maybe I was bored. I don't know. So who wants to count the number of commas in this post?

(Updated on 28 December 2005)

Christmas Wish

Last year
they told him if he takes the pills
like a good boy, Santa Claus
would visits him on Christmas Eve
and turns those nasty viruses
into snowflakes;

and he can finally build
his first snowman.

This Christmas
his body lies deep
beneath soil and broken ice, stiffed
like a frozen tuna.

When Spring comes, his flesh
will slowly fades away as if
he is made of snow;

his wish finally
comes true.

Copyright 2005 Alson Teo
Instant Poetry
(Written on 20 December 2005, Tuesday)

Afterthought

Do I hate Christmas? Of course not, although I am not a Christian but like most Singaporean I look forward to this day every year. It is the time when everyone is in the mood to shop, that is if you still hold a job. It is also the time when your children fight among themselves to decide who get to put the angel on top of the Christmas tree, that is you still have a roof over your head. Do I sound pessimistic?

Like all my poems I started it off with an image or a line. In this case it was an image of a frozen tuna. Why in the world a frozen tuna I have no idea. It just popped into my head. Unlike sashimi lover, frozen tuna reminds me of fish market in Japan. It reminds of death. It reminds me of mutilated bodies. It reminds me of children dying in hospitals even during Christmas Day, and it reminds me of cruelties in life. I know I have a great imagination.

But again, there is still something positive in this poem; Winter will soon be over and Spring is approaching; he is now part of Mother Nature; he longer needs to take the pills which he hated. Most importantly, his wish has finally come true although not exactly what he had in mind, but that’s life.

First Sex

(for J.)

I knew little, and what I knew
I did not believe – they had lied to me
so many times, so I just took it as it
came, his naked body on the sheet,
the tiny hairs curling on his legs like
fine, gold shells, his sex
harder and harder under my palm
and yet not hard as a rock his face cocked
back as if in terror, the sweat
jumping out of his pores like sudden
trails from the tiny snails when his knees
locked with little clicks and under my
hand he gathered and shook and the actual
flood like milk came out of his body, I
saw it glow on his belly, all they had
said and more, I rubbed it into my
hands like lotion, I signed on for the duration.

By Sharon Olds

Image taken from www.learningtogive.org

Afterthought I

No I am not going to discuss my first sex, although I don’t mind if you do. What I am more interested are these two lines in the poem,

“and yet not hard as a rock his face cocked
back as if in terror, the sweat”

Do we men really look "back as if in terror" when we are reaching orgasm? Gosh, there is really something new for me. I mean I do experienced hardness, thank you very much, but not my face right? This is really interesting. I have yet to see my own “terrify” expression as described in the poem and I am really curious. Luckily there are a few ways of achieving that,

1) Asking my wife to use her hand-phone to take my photo during our lovemaking.
2) Videotaping our lovemaking.
3) Installing mirrors at the ceiling/side walls.

Let me see, the first option is out. My wife has a bad habit of sharing her hand-phone with her friends and occasionally her mum. And I think it will be unfair for her to be distracted during our special moment.

What about the second option? Personally I really don’t mind. In fact I’ve been toying with this idea for quite some time, but unfortunately my wife will have none of it. She is not really into the movie business especially if it is a XXX film and she is the main actress. I totally understand. Any volunteers?

And now for the last option, what do you guys think? Cool eh? Compare to the other 2 options this seems to be a better choice. Of course it will cost us some moneys but what the heck, it is a small price to pay to get to know oneself better. Guess it is time to renovate the house.

Afterthought II

Coincidentally First Sex is also featured in The Poet’s Companion. Let’s see what it has to say about this poem.

“This poem works on many levels, and for many reasons: it employs the use of repetition, opposition, the surprising similes of the gold shells and tiny snails, and the devices of rhythm and rhyme. But let’s take a closer look at the language itself. Re-read that third line: “… so I just took it as it / came …” The word “came” used in the context of the line doesn’t refer to sexual climax, but the word is there, to conjure up the idea. And later, “his face cocked / back …” is used to describe the angle of the man’s face. In both cases, words or phrases we attach to a sexual act have been slightly displaced. Also notice how those words are emphasized by being positioned at the beginning or end of the line. When the actual “climax” of the poem occurs in the line “he gathered and shook,” we are pleased and surprised by the similes describing the man’s semen as “like milk,” “like lotion.” On first reading we feel as if we’ve been given a rather graphic description of the sexual act. But have we? Body parts are mentioned: “his legs,” “his sex,” “palm,” “face,” “hand,” and “belly,” even each tiny hair and pore in the skin, and yet there is no feeling of vulgarity about the poem. What we feel is the magic, the wonder and surprise of first sex, the strangeness of its sounds and sights, the sensuality of it. We also sense the joy of it in the humor of the last line which is emphasized by the use of rhyme: lotion / duration. Olds has shown us a way into this material by making use of the old language in a new context.”

(Updated on 14 December 2005)

Freshly Chopped

Within an hour
two more frogs
are going
to die.

My wife has just
expressed
her craving
for their
legs.

I must go now.
It is unwise to keep
a hungry woman
waiting.

She expects
them to be
fresh.


Copyright 2005 Alson Teo
Instant Poetry
(Written on 25 November 2005, Friday)

Afterthought

Do you love instant noodles? It takes about 3 minutes to cook them. They can be quite delicious (even without adding other ingredients) especially if you are hungry or when payday is still 2 weeks away and you have only 20 dollars in your wallet.

In fact I also love writing instant poems. Just like the noodles, it takes about 3 minutes to complete. These poems come fast and furious, usually without warning. Stand in their way and they will send you flying to the moon. I love these poems because I don’t have to work too hard to complete them. Of course they are not excellent poems but like my other not-so-instant poems, they speak to me.

Usually when I start writing a poem I have no ideas how it will end. Through my subconscious it slowly reveals my hidden thoughts and emotions. For example Freshly Chopped is not about frog’s legs. No, it is about my relation with my wife. It is about the tensions in our marriage. It doesn’t sound like a happy marriage right? Of course not, our marriage is the one that was being “freshly chopped.” But sorry froggies but you are still going to die.

Have you guys seen our legs?

(Updated on 10 December 2005)

On the Subway

The young man and I face each other.
His feet are huge, in black sneakers
laced with white in a complex pattern like a
set of intentional scars. We are stuck on
opposite sides of the car, a couple of
molecules stuck in a rod of light
rapidly moving through darkness. He has
or my white eye imagines he has the
casual cold look of a mugger,
alert under hooded lids. He is wearing
red, like the inside of the body
exposed. I am wearing old fur, the
whole skin of an animal taken and
used. I look at his raw face,
he looks at my dark coat, and I don’t
know if I am in his power –
he could take my coat so easily, my
briefcase, my life –
or if he is in my power, the way I am
living off his life, eating the steak
he may not be eating, as if I am taking
the food from his mouth. And he is black
and I am white, and without meaning or
trying to I must profit from his darkness,
the way he absorbs the murderous beams of the
nation’s heart, as black cotton
absorbs the heat of the sun and holds it. There is
no way to know how easy this
white skin makes my life, this
life he could break so easily, the way I
think his back is being broken, the
rod of his soul that a birth was dark and
fluid, rich as the heart of a seedling
ready to thrust up into any available light.

By Sharon Olds

Afterthought

Singapore’s main subway system is known as MRT (Mass Rapid Transit). But there is also another subway system known as LRT (Light Rail Transit) which serves as feeders to existing MRT network. I have to take these 2 systems in order to reach my workplace 5 days a week, and each trip takes more than an hour. Thus each day, I spend more than 2 hours traveling in trains.

It is kind of boring if you have nothing to do during those 2 hours. Occasionally I take short naps but I tend to snore when I fall asleep. So I try doing things that will attract less attentions to myself such as reading poetry books. But sometimes it backfires because in this country it is rare to find anyone reading a poetry book in the public. I’ve yet to encounter anyone doing so.

Besides reading, another favourite pastime is analyzing my fellow passengers. I love to guess what’s going through their minds, read their body language, etc. If I am lucky, I might encounter some interesting characters such as a man singing loudly to himself, a young couple in school uniforms conducting research on "Public’s tolerance level towards French kissing in the public" or children who can't decide if they are humans or monkeys. Cool.

(Updated on 10 December 2005)

Getting Out

That year we hardly slept, walking like inmates
who beat the walls. Every night
another refusal, the silent work
of tightening the heart.
Exhausted, we gave up; escaped
to the apartment pool, swimming those laps
until the first light relieved us.

Days were different: FM and full-blast
blues, hours of guitar "you gonna miss me
when I'm gone." Think how you tried
to pack up and go, for weeks stumbling
over piles of clothing, the unstrung tennis rackets.
Finally locked into blame, we paced
that short hall, heaving words like furniture.

I have the last unshredded pictures
of our matching eyes and hair. We've kept
to separate sides of the map,
still I'm startled by men who look like you.
And in the yearly letter, you're sure to say
you're happy now. Yet I think of the lawyer's bewilderment
when we cried, the last day. Taking hands
we walked apart, until our arms stretched
between us. We held on tight, and let go.

By Cleopatra Mathis

Afterthought

Written on 20 November 2005, Sunday

Today is my 33rd birthday and our 8th Wedding Anniversary (Registry of Marriages). Nothing much, no birthday cake, no exchanging of gifts, just a simple meal in a Thai restaurant near our house.

On this day 8 years ago we decided to get married. Legally, we became husband and wife. However we waited for another 4 years to hold our Chinese custom wedding. We've been together for more than 12 years. When I first met her it was in July 1993. That was such a long time ago.

We were pen-pals, our 1st date was a blind date, it was love at first sight, and she was only 18 years old and I was 20.

Unfortunately we are from two different worlds; we have different goals in life, different beliefs, different characters, different hobbies, basically we have nothing in common. But for some reasons we are comfortable with each other, but maybe too comfortable. The fire that sustains our love flickers in the storm threatening to extinguish itself.

Our marriage is in a mess. We quarrel so often that we’ve lost count. “Divorce” is a word commonly used during our quarrels. We even calmly discussed our future after the divorce, for example what we are going to do next, will we remarried, should we continue to be friends, etc. But each time just as we were about to give up, something holds us back - a touch, an apology, a kiss on the forehead, a hug, and we decided to give each other another chance.

And also for some weird reasons whenever it is close to some important dates in our lives, we start quarreling. Maybe during these periods we tend to have higher expectations of each other. It is like a curse. The last time we quarreled was on my 33rd birthday and our 8th Wedding Anniversary, 20 November 2005. Yes today. This time our marriage narrowly escaped death. It was too close, really too close.

Somehow we managed to reconcile again, but next time we might not be so lucky.

But for now, Happy Wedding Anniversary my Dear.



P.S. Did anyone of you watch The Mexican starring Brad Pitt & Julia Roberts? Their characters in the movie, well to certain extent echo our situation, especially that part when Samantha asks Jerry, “If two people love each other but they just can’t seems to get it together. When do you get to that point of enough is enough?” and Jerry answers “Never.”

(Updated on 22 November 2005)

Michiko Dead

He manages like somebody carrying a box
that is too heavy, first with his arms
underneath. When their strength gives out,
he moves the hands forward, hooking them
on the corners, pulling the weight against
his chest. He moves his thumbs slightly
when the fingers begin to tire, and it makes
different muscles take over. Afterward,
he carries it on his shoulder, until the blood
drains out of the arm that is stretched up
to steady the box and the arm goes numb. But now
the man can hold underneath again, so that
he can go on without ever putting the box down.

By Jack Gilbert

Afterthought

This poem is taken from The Poet’s Companion written by Kim Addonizio & Dorianne Laux, a book I highly recommend to aspiring poets.