Fishbones Dreaming

Fishbones lay in the smelly bin.
He was a head, a backbone and a tail.
Soon the cats would be in for him.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.

Back to when he was fat, and hot on a plate.
Beside green beans, with lemon juice
squeezed on him. And a man with a knife
and fork raised, about to eat him.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.

Back to when he was frozen in the freezer.
With lamb cutlets and minced beef and prawns.
Three month he was in there.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.

Back to when he was squirming in a net,
with thousands of other fish, on the deck
of a boat. And the rain falling
Wasn’t wet enough to breathe in.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.

Back to when he was darting through the sea,
past crabs and jellyfish, and others
likes himself. Or surfacing to jump for flies
And feel the sun on his face.

He liked to be this way.
He dreamed hard to try and stay there.

By Matthew Sweeney


Afterthought

This is really a depressing poem. When I am dying on my deathbed, would I be also dreaming about my past?

Take This Job And Shove It!

Deathbed Test

Imagine yourself on your deathbed. From that vantage point, look back at what you did for a living.

Was it worth it?

You got three options:

i) Keep your job and seethe.
ii) Keep it and stop seething.
iii) Switch.

Keeping it and seething is simplest. Chances are, you’re already doing this. It affords you the frisson of venting – without having to risk anything or move a muscle. The ready-made “lazy and afraid” career-management strategy is staying and seething.

Staying without seething requires effort: the inner workout of exercising optimism and patience, of finding silver linings when your impulse is to shout “Take this job and shove it!”

Switching is the most strenuous workout of all. It’s not just mentally and physically hard but also terrifying, as it means learning new skills and routines and agreeing to take orders from and get along with a new set of strangers.

Yet switching is also easy in at least one sense. If one keeps switching at the first sign of dissatisfaction, one need never learn resilience, patience, or endurance. One is never forced to find inner peace. Instead, one just escapes – perhaps to face the same problems again in the next workplace. In which case one is not stuck in a job, per se, but stuck on starting over – stuck more on discontent, on the idea of being stuck at work, than actually stuck at work.

Taken from Stuck: Why We Can’t (or Won’t) Move On by Anneli Rufus

Afterthought

Two things caught my attention when I was reading this particular section a few days ago. Firstly the question

“Was it worth it?”

What do I mean by that?

I like to see life as a constant struggle between gain and sacrifice. For example, are you willing to spend more time at work and thus sacrificing the time spend with your loved ones? When will you realize that it is no longer worth it? When you no longer have time for dinner with them? When you realized that you hardly know the person lying next to you? Or when your idea of keeping in touch with your friends is sending them sms during festival seasons such as Christmas Day?

What about your health? How do you know it is no longer worth it to work through the nights so that you are able to meet the deadline the next day? Sure, you are a responsible person. You have to answer to the management. You will not allow yourself to be perceived as someone who is inefficient, someone who is unable to take stress, in a nutshell - a weakling.

Yesterday I could not made up my mind between spending Valentine's Day with my wife and going back to office to clear my reports. After some thought, I apologized to her and explained that as a responsible officer, I need to meet the deadline given by the management. My wife turned around, looked into my eyes and said, “You are responsible for me too.” I was totally caught off guard by her comment and we spend a wonderful Valentine's Day together.

Secondly the author is right,

"If one keeps switching at the first sign of dissatisfaction, one need never learn resilience, patience, or endurance. One is never forced to find inner peace."

There is no running away from heavy workloads, bitchy bosses, backstabbing colleagues, demanding clients, irritating emails/phone calls, etc. So what are you going to do about them? Trying to run away from your problems is like assuming that if you run away today, you will be problem-free for the rest of your life.

But guess who created all these problems? You and me, who else? We just can’t stop creating problems. World peace is an illusion. Go ask the politicians.

So what is the solution? According to the author, we have to find our inner peace. But the definition of inner peace is very subjective. What constitute as inner peace for a serial killer is very different from my barber, I hope.

Before Death comes knocking on my door, I am going to do as much as I can to make my life worthwhile. And when I am on my deathbed, I can proudly look back and says, “It was all worth it.”

Snowflake

Timing’s everything. The vapor rises
high in the sky, tossing to and fro,

then freezes, suddenly, and crystallizes

into a perfect flake of miraculous snow.

For countless miles, drifting east above

the world, whirling about in a swirling free-

for-all, appearing aimless, just like love,

but sensing, seeking out, its destiny.

Falling to where the two young skaters stand,

hand in hand, then flips and dips and whips

itself about to ever-so-gently land,

a miracle, across her unkissed lips:

as he blocks the wind raging from the south,

leaning forward to kiss her lovely mouth.

William Baer

And This Too Shall Pass

One day King Solomon decided to humble Benaiah ben Yehoyada, his most trusted minister. He said to him, "Benaiah, there is a certain ring that I want you to bring to me. I wish to wear it for Sukkot which gives you six months to find it."

"If it exists anywhere on earth, your majesty," replied Benaiah, "I will find it and bring it to you, but what makes the ring so special?"

"It has magic powers," answered the king. "If a happy man looks at it, he becomes sad, and if a sad man looks at it, he becomes happy." King Solomon knew that no such ring existed in the world, but he wished to give his minister a little taste of humility.

Spring passed and then summer, and still Benaiah had no idea where he could find the ring. On the night before Sukkot, he decided to take a walk in one of he poorest quarters of Jerusalem. He passed by a merchant who had begun to set out the day's wares on a shabby carpet. "Have you by any chance heard of a magic ring that makes the happy wearer forget his joy and the broken-hearted wearer forget his sorrows?" asked Benaiah.

He watched the grandfather take a plain gold ring from his carpet and engrave something on it. When Benaiah read the words on the ring, his face broke out in a wide smile.

That night the entire city welcomed in the holiday of Sukkot with great festivity. "Well, my friend," said King Solomon, "have you found what I sent you after?" All the ministers laughed and King Solomon himself smiled.

To everyone's surprise, Benaiah held up a small gold ring and declared, "Here it is, your majesty!" As soon as King Solomon read the inscription, the smile vanished from his face. The jeweler had written three Hebrew letters on the gold band: _gimel, zayin, yud_, which began the words "_Gam zeh ya'avor_" -- "This too shall pass."

At that moment King Solomon realized that all his wisdom and fabulous wealth and tremendous power were but fleeting things, for one day he would be nothing but dust.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905 - 2004)


Afterthought

Hang on to your life, or whatever that is left.

From June to October this year, 5 officers from my department have either resigned or being transferred out. A few days ago, 2 more officers have tendered their resignation. In all, more than 40% of the original strength has left without any replacement. The management has been asking the remaining officers to hang on and assured us that help is on its way. Unfortunately, they told us the same thing back in June.

Out of frustration, I made the above poster this morning and pinned it on my workstation. I am not sure what the management will think of it but I really don’t give a damn. I am quite sick of those feel-good posters such as ‘Be Positive’, ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy!’ blah, blah, blah.

The Listeners

"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grass
Of the forest's ferny floor;
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:--
"Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word," he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

By Walter De La Mare (1873 - 1956)

Mushrooms

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot’s in the door.


By Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963)

Afterthought

One of the thing I like about poetry is that it is highly adaptable. Regardless of the poem's intended meaning, the reader is free to associate it with his/her own experiences. I am not referring to poems that fail to communicate to its readers, because interpretation is quite different from association.

To illustrate my point, whenever I read the poem “Mushrooms” by Sylvia Plath, it never fails to remind me of pimples. I can clearly visualize them as pea-sized aliens landing on my nose and with their chipmunk voice demanding to see the leader of the new-found land. To save my face, literally, I declare an all-out war and start popping them like nobody’s business. To my horror, they start spreading across my face; filling up any available pores and to this day, the battle rages on.

I suspect one of the reasons for this weird association is because I first read this poem when I was a teenager, and lines like “The small grains make room”, “Shoulder through holes.”, “So many of us!”, etc doesn’t help either.

Some of you might associate the word “mushroom” with food, while others might associate it with something naughty. The process can be quite spontaneous. Ask someone to complete the statement “Mouse eat …” and most likely they will tell you “cheese”. Followed by “Goat eat …” and “grass” will comes to mind. Now ask him/she “Cow drink …” and most people will tell you “milk”.

Are You Feeling Burnt Out?

Recently I attended an event “Keep The Fire Burning: A Symposium For Professional Caregivers” organized by Institute of Mental Health (IMH). It was also a joint celebration of the 2nd Social Workers’ Day and IMH’s 80th Anniversary. The event involved group discussions and presentations by IMH’s Psychologist and Medical Social Worker (MSW). Overall it was a fruitful day, especially the presentation “Keeping The Temperature In Check: Balancing Your Multi-Faceted Professional Role In Mental Health” by Senior MSW Mr. Terence Yow.

Throughout the presentation, I have a strange feeling that it was prepared with me in mind. Let’s see what are the signs that indicate that you are feeling burnt out.

1) Frequently stressed and exhausted.
[Let’s see, more white hairs, dozing off during meetings, etc. Ticked.]

2) Dreading to go to work.
[Used to reach my office at 8.30 am sharp, then 8.45 am, 9 am, 9.15 am ... you get the picture. Ticked.]

3) Thinking about career change.
[Have been updating my resume on a monthly basis. Ticked.]

4) Neglecting other parts of life i.e. family, friends, hobbies …
[I’ve closed my online poetry forum recently. And when was the last time I have coffee with my friends? 2007? Ticked.]

5) No time to catch your breath at work.
[Catch a breath at work? More like catching a cold. Ticked.]

6) Losing sight why you chose this job/career.
[Under the heading "Occupation" I have started to declare myself as an "Applications Processing Machine". Beep beep. Ticked.]

7) No time to develop interests and hobbies.
[Unless you consider writing social reports as a hobby. Ticked]

8) Often feeling exhausted.
[Please refer to the 1st point. Ticked.]

9) Spending more and more time at work.
[Let’s see, although officially my working hours are from Monday to Friday, 8.30 am to 6 pm. I usually leave office at 7 – 8 pm and spend most of the Saturdays back in the office working. Never trust that HR guy during the interview. Ticked.]

10) Often bringing work home.
[Ha Ha, better than bringing woman home right? Just kidding dear, er dear? Darling? Honey? Ticked]

Okay, it is official. I am burnt out. Time to register myself as a missing person.

On Monsieur’s Departure

I grieve, and dare not show my Discontent;

I love, and yet am forc’d to seem to hate;
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant;
I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate:
            I am, and not; I freez, and yet am burn’d,
            Since from my Self another Self I turn’d.

My Care is like my Shadow in the Sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands, and lies by me, doth make me rue it.
His too familiar Care doth make me rue it.
            No means I find to ridd him from my Breast,
            Till by the End of things it be supprest.

Some gentler Passion slide into my Mind,
For I am soft, and made of melting Snow;
Or be more cruel love, and so be kind;
Let me or float or sink, be high or low;
            Or let me Live with some more sweet content,
            Or Die, and so forget what Love e’re meant.

By Queen Elizabeth I (1533 – 1603)

Protagoras’s Wager

Protagoras had a pupil named Eulathus, who arranged to take Protagora’s course in rhetoric and sophistry, a kind of law school, for partial tuition. So sure was Protagoras of his abilities as a teacher that he told Eulathus he did not have to pay the balance until Eulathus won his first court case. In fact, Protagoras guaranteed that Eulathus would win his first case.

Time dragged on and Eulathus neither paid up nor argued any cases in court. Not only was Protagoras out the money, he looked bad to his students and to other Sophists. After all, if winning is what counts, and if appearance is reality, and if the pupil can outmaneuver the old master, why should anyone continue to pay his high fees? Protagoras was compelled to take actions.

Confronting Eulathus (probably in a public place where he could use his crowd-pleasing skills), Protagoras demanded payment in the form of this dilemma: “Eulathus, you might as well pay me, since I am going to sue you for the rest of the tuition. If I win in court, the court will rule that you owe me money; if I lose in court, you will have won your first case, and you will owe me the money. Either I win in court or I lose, you owe me the money.”

Protagoras, alas, was a good teacher, and Eulathus was ready for him. He shot back with a counter dilemma: “No, sir, you have it backwards. If you defeat me in court, then I have lost my first case and so do not owe the money; if I defeat you, the court will rule that I do not owe you the money. Either I defeat you or you defeat me. In either case, I do not owe you the money.” 

Afterthought

Ouch! Poor Protagoras.  I wonder how we can apply this wisdom in our daily lives? Hmm.

TeeVee

In the house
of Mr and Mrs Spouse
he and she
would watch teevee
and never a word
between them spoken
unit the day
the set was broken.

Then 'How do you do?'
said he to she
'I don't believe
that we've met yet.
Spouse is my name.
What's yours?' he asked.

'Why, mine's the same!'
said she to he,
'Do you suppose that we could be - ?'

But the set came suddenly right about,
and so they never did find out.

By Eve Merriam (1916 - 1992)



Afterthought

This poem describes exactly what my wife and I are currently going through. We love watching TV like Boston Legal, Taiwan political news, Fearless Planet, etc. Anything that is more interesting than our local productions deserve our full attention. Unfortunately, we are spending lesser and lesser time communicating with each other.

Another major issue is the TV remote control. We believe that whoever controls it, is the master/mistress of the house. It is a fact - this harmless looking thing is actually a symbol of power. Whoever holds it decides what kind of programs the other party has to watch for the next 4 – 5 hours. With the TV remote control firmly in her hand, that means no more History Channel, no more Dogfights, etc, but programs about shoes, shopping, handbags, fashion, etc.

Although it is frustrating, but there is really no easy solution to our problem. I wonder if the nearby Family Service Centre is willing to take my case, “My wife deprived me of my freedom by holding on to the TV remote control. I want you to get it back from her.” Hmm.

But maybe what we really need is spending quality time with each other, you know like watching a movie, going to the library or maybe shopping for a bigger TV. Ya, I like the idea of having of a bigger TV.

Feeling Horny My Fellow Singaporeans?

I first came to know about the existence of “Best of Singapore Erotica” during a reading session held at BooksActually, a lovely bookshop, a few months back. Mr. Hari Kumar, one of the featured authors was there and he read an excerpt from his story, “Night At Passion Touch”. I am not sure about the rest of the audience but being a sensitive person I felt horny after his reading. No, not horny for him but horny for more erotic stories by local writers. Unfortunately BooksActually does not carry the title or I would have bought a copy on the spot.

Well I bought a copy last week and it was sensational! Some of the stories are totally wicked! Of course there are a couple of boring stuff but most of them are thought-provoking and make great bedtime stories for your spouse.

Allow me to quote from the book, according to Didier Bernardin, owner of Crazy Horse Saloon: “If there’s more art and mind, then it’s erotic; if there’s no mind and no art, then it’s pornography.” I am not sure if I understand exactly what he means by that, but here's my take: “If you dare to show it to your mother-in-law, it is art, if not, better read it behind closed doors because most likely it is pornography.”

So here are some excerpts from this amazing book. And by the way if you are below 18, please stop reading. As for the rest, get ready for some hot chili crabs, Singapore style.

Chloe, the 129-year-old, life-size nude painting of a Parisian nymph painted by Jules Lesebvre.

The Good Girl by Alice Lee Am

“She saved her thin cotton bras with their almost nonexistent support for Mr Lim’s PE class and she wore them under a white PE T-shirt that was too tight for her and barely contained her large, round breasts. Her mother had bought her a bigger, looser T-shirt that she hid. She was pleased with the winning combination of tight shirt and thin bra. Her erect nipples stood out and she was sure Mr Lim would want to take her nipples in his mouth, one at a time, and slowly lick and suck them. How could any man not want her nipples?”

Clean Sex by Ricky Low

“She was now down on her knees with a wet rag in her hand, but before she began scrubbing, she looked up and flashed me another quick smile. She then commenced with the cleaning. She swabbed the rag against the floor in small circles, her ass and tits rotating in syncopated rhythms to this entrancing motion.”

Night At Passion Touch by Hari Kumar

“She looked at me but said nothing. She hugged me tight and continued rubbing her body on mine. Her breath came hot on my lips. I could catch the whiff of Fisherman’s Friend mints, apple and cinnamon, I guess. Her hair fell around my face like a black curtain. My whole body tingled with sensations never felt before. Primal moans rose in my throat. Down below, I was hard as rock. Feeling my hardness, she asked breathlessly, “Do you want sex?”

Body Drafts by Rachel Loh

“Her eyes shut tightly, fingers squeezed into Narain’s shoulders, Michelle thrust herself on and around the fingers until, within maybe twenty seconds, she came.”

An MRT Chronicle by Weston Sun Wensheng

“With a gentle cough, the office girl slid further down her seat while still clutching tightly to her handbag and envelope. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, she spread her legs wide open. At this, it seemed like Oily Man stopped breathing.”

Well there are many more, too troublesome to post them here. So what are you guys waiting for, go grab one before some pricks from the government decided to ban this book! And don’t forget to get one copy for your mother-in-law, if you dare!

Afterthought

According to a recent study conducted by our beloved National University of Singapore (NUS), shopping can stave off dementia for those aged 55 years and above! It seems that productive activities allow the brain to be more stimulated.

What about those who don’t like shopping?!!! Well, besides shopping, other activities such as preparing meals, reading and listening to music, can too help reduce the risk of getting dementia by as much as 60 percent. Now that’s better.

Although I am no professor or expert in dementia but I strongly believe that reading erotic materials will also help to improve our quality of life and brain functions. Maybe I should conduct a study on this, who knows I might win a prestigious international award too.

So who want to provide me with the erotic, err research materials?

Disappointment

I was feeling pretty religious
standing on the bridge in my winter coat
looking down at the gray water:
the sharp little waves dusted with snow,
fish in their tin armor.

That’s what I like about disappointment:
the way it slows you down,
when the querulous insistent chatter of desire
....................... goes dead calm

and the minor roadside flowers
pronounce their quiet colors,
and the red dirt of the hillside glows.

She played the flute, he played the fiddle
and the moon came up over the barn.
Then he didn’t get the job, -
or her father died before she told him
....................... that one, most important thing –

and everything got still.

It was February or October
It was July
I remember it so clear
You don’t have to pursue anything ever again
It’s over
You’re free
You’re unemployed

You just have to stand there
looking out on the water
in your trench coat of solitude
with your scarf of resignation
..................... lifting in the wind.

Tony Hoagland
Taken from What Narcissism Means to Me

Image taken from www.bbc.co.uk

Afterthought

It took me a few days to accept the fact that I am finally employed. I’ve lost count on the numbers of resumes and applications forms I’ve send out over the past 427 days just to face rejection after rejection. They were like nails, brutally forced and twisted into my body with bare hands. I fought hard to stay positive, but it was not easy especially my saving was running low.

Let’s be honest, it sucks to be unemployed. And as a student of Psychology I am well aware of its negative effects. It sucks even more when it strips your self-esteem and self-confidence layer by layer day after day. That is when you start feeling depress, anxious and naked. It also doesn’t help when your friends and family members, out of good intention, advised you not to be too choosy and just pick ANY job that is available. Yah right, jobs grow on trees like apple, so what are you waiting for, quick get a ladder.

Sad but true, work provides an important context for social interaction and to a certain degree gives one a sense of identity; it positions us in the social structure. For example, when you introduce yourself to a stranger in a social function, it is common to talk about one’s job. Work connects people and is much more interesting than discussing the weather and income tax.

According to Warr (1987) loss of income is usually the most harmful effect. I totally agree with him. If I am a billionaire, frankly I don’t mind being unemployed. I might feel sad when they rejected my applications but I will soon get over it once I bought over those companies and fired the people responsible for rejecting my applications.

That would be so cool.

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!