The provision shop at Maju Avenue
has been around for forty-three years.
That’s half a lifetime.
In another forty-three years,
it’ll perhaps still be there, unperturbed
as the rest of the street moves onwards
into the lucrative modernity of KTVs,
wine bars and beauty salons.
- 25 April 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Speak for yourself
If we do not write
about ourselves
we will always be stuck with
reading the crap others write
about us.
- 25 April 2008
about ourselves
we will always be stuck with
reading the crap others write
about us.
- 25 April 2008
Ang Mo Kio Blk 424
Are there really
400-odd other blocks like this,
with the same
speckled green stone Chinese chess table,
flowery wrought iron benches,
earthy ceramic tiles and
solitary otah stand?
Maybe yes,
and that would make me happy,
because special spaces
do not need to be unique.
Or perhaps not,
and that wouldn’t be too bad either,
for uniqueness can be
for all to share.
- 5 April 2008
400-odd other blocks like this,
with the same
speckled green stone Chinese chess table,
flowery wrought iron benches,
earthy ceramic tiles and
solitary otah stand?
Maybe yes,
and that would make me happy,
because special spaces
do not need to be unique.
Or perhaps not,
and that wouldn’t be too bad either,
for uniqueness can be
for all to share.
- 5 April 2008
Note to the annual six hundred:
Yes,
please do leave this country
that for the past 20 years
has hemmed you in,
cramped your style,
and kept you from
truly being yourself.
Go,
discover the world,
drink of its pleasures
and dance in its generous spaces
where even light hearted fantasy
can blossom into fulfilling passion.
But do not
forsake
what belongs to you
and to you alone.
For even when you have
made the world your intimate
and familiar playground,
no-one else can ever own
what you now call home.
- 5 April 2008
please do leave this country
that for the past 20 years
has hemmed you in,
cramped your style,
and kept you from
truly being yourself.
Go,
discover the world,
drink of its pleasures
and dance in its generous spaces
where even light hearted fantasy
can blossom into fulfilling passion.
But do not
forsake
what belongs to you
and to you alone.
For even when you have
made the world your intimate
and familiar playground,
no-one else can ever own
what you now call home.
- 5 April 2008
Some things don’t change
I remember afternoons
when the air was
so warm you’d
sweat just sitting still
in the shade,
when happiness was
as simple as
listening for the hand-rung bell
that sounded the arrival of the
ice-cream man.
No-one outgrows potong ice-cream.
- 5 April 2008
when the air was
so warm you’d
sweat just sitting still
in the shade,
when happiness was
as simple as
listening for the hand-rung bell
that sounded the arrival of the
ice-cream man.
No-one outgrows potong ice-cream.
- 5 April 2008
云山 2:30pm
Above the horizon
no snow-capped mountains
but towering ranges of
cotton-white clouds
that soon will bring
a cooler evening
- 5 April 2008
no snow-capped mountains
but towering ranges of
cotton-white clouds
that soon will bring
a cooler evening
- 5 April 2008
Booking out blues
On some weekends
the army follows you out of camp,
rather like an unpleasant memory
or a minor hangover.
I couldn’t write this afternoon
even though I had the time.
Even though I didn’t need to book-in
for another twenty-three hours.
Despite my best efforts,
my mind remained cluttered with the
jumbled-up thoughts of a week spent in camp;
disorganised mental rubble,
twisting and overgrown vines that made
any attempt at directed thought
painfully pointless.
All I could think of was how tired I was,
how little I’d slept, and how my shoulders ached
from carrying that ridiculously heavy SBO
(the contents of which remind me of
Christmas tree ornaments).
I knew that the best thing to do
would have been to put down my pen
and let a good night’s rest clear my mind.
But I chose,
stubborn as ever,
to write this poem and not
let the army win again.
- 30 March 2008
the army follows you out of camp,
rather like an unpleasant memory
or a minor hangover.
I couldn’t write this afternoon
even though I had the time.
Even though I didn’t need to book-in
for another twenty-three hours.
Despite my best efforts,
my mind remained cluttered with the
jumbled-up thoughts of a week spent in camp;
disorganised mental rubble,
twisting and overgrown vines that made
any attempt at directed thought
painfully pointless.
All I could think of was how tired I was,
how little I’d slept, and how my shoulders ached
from carrying that ridiculously heavy SBO
(the contents of which remind me of
Christmas tree ornaments).
I knew that the best thing to do
would have been to put down my pen
and let a good night’s rest clear my mind.
But I chose,
stubborn as ever,
to write this poem and not
let the army win again.
- 30 March 2008
Smart Casual
None of the guests were offended
that their invitation cards contained
explicit instructions not to look silly.
- 29 March 2008
that their invitation cards contained
explicit instructions not to look silly.
- 29 March 2008
The imaginary line
I draw an
imaginary
fragile
wavering
and sometimes
obscure
line
between
reality
and
reality
It divides my everyday
separates the important from
the inconsequential
Keeps the pointless and unpleasant
away from the
inner sanctuary
At times it’s tough
and the days
wear
me
down
with
jackhammer-like
stubbornness
At times I lose track
of the many realities that
ricochet haphazard among the multiple
mirrors and prisms of perception
That’s when I remind myself
that there lies
beyond the imaginary line
a space of peace
a place of solace
- 27 March 2008
imaginary
fragile
wavering
and sometimes
obscure
line
between
reality
and
reality
It divides my everyday
separates the important from
the inconsequential
Keeps the pointless and unpleasant
away from the
inner sanctuary
At times it’s tough
and the days
wear
me
down
with
jackhammer-like
stubbornness
At times I lose track
of the many realities that
ricochet haphazard among the multiple
mirrors and prisms of perception
That’s when I remind myself
that there lies
beyond the imaginary line
a space of peace
a place of solace
- 27 March 2008
Birds
Mynahs are tufts of
asphalt-grey feathers on
double-yellow legs.
I’m sure they make fun of pigeons.
- 22 March 2008
asphalt-grey feathers on
double-yellow legs.
I’m sure they make fun of pigeons.
- 22 March 2008
Our Space
In our Chinatown,
Chinese shop owners will tell you that
tailor-made cheongsams are
reserved for Europeans.
I say let it be.
For today we live
tomorrow’s nostalgia:
And there lies
too much promise
for us to be bitter.
- 28 February 2008
Chinese shop owners will tell you that
tailor-made cheongsams are
reserved for Europeans.
I say let it be.
For today we live
tomorrow’s nostalgia:
And there lies
too much promise
for us to be bitter.
- 28 February 2008
Feeling cheated
Heel!
Sit!
Down!
Good Girl!
The dog looked up at its owner, expectantly,
accusingly, as though trying to form words
with its canine mouth.
“I did what you told me to do,
now give me the damn food!”
- Feb 2008
Sit!
Down!
Good Girl!
The dog looked up at its owner, expectantly,
accusingly, as though trying to form words
with its canine mouth.
“I did what you told me to do,
now give me the damn food!”
- Feb 2008
Other side of Kovan
I’ll meet you on the
other side of Kovan,
away from the teeming madness
of the mall, the hawker centre,
and the motorised sushi restaurant.
There, along Simon Road,
stands a line of old shophouses,
strung together by a cracked and stained alleyway.
At the corner sits a greasy kopitiam
that time seems to have left behind,
where the floor is still paved with blue and pink mosaic tiles,
the kind that was fashionable a generation ago.
There, every night, a wrinkled old man
clad in a white cotton singlet and
a pair of faded grey shorts
wrestles amidst shooting flames with his
enormous cast-iron wok,
selling fried oysters for three,
four, or five dollars a plate.
There, just metres from the road,
rests an aging plastic table where I
like to sit in the evening,
just before sundown, watching
as people make their way home.
Come down the road after you exit the station,
you’ll see me there.
- 24 February 2008
other side of Kovan,
away from the teeming madness
of the mall, the hawker centre,
and the motorised sushi restaurant.
There, along Simon Road,
stands a line of old shophouses,
strung together by a cracked and stained alleyway.
At the corner sits a greasy kopitiam
that time seems to have left behind,
where the floor is still paved with blue and pink mosaic tiles,
the kind that was fashionable a generation ago.
There, every night, a wrinkled old man
clad in a white cotton singlet and
a pair of faded grey shorts
wrestles amidst shooting flames with his
enormous cast-iron wok,
selling fried oysters for three,
four, or five dollars a plate.
There, just metres from the road,
rests an aging plastic table where I
like to sit in the evening,
just before sundown, watching
as people make their way home.
Come down the road after you exit the station,
you’ll see me there.
- 24 February 2008
Stories and clichés
No sense of history, you say?
Well, it’s true that I
don’t like taking pictures
or having my picture taken.
Indeed, my children will not see
snapshots of me forcing a smile
at the zoo, beneath the Eiffel Tower,
or next to long-forgotten classmates.
Nor will my shelves be filled with
dusty photo albums kept as
trophies of overseas vacations,
evidence that I’ve really been to
Paris, Rome, or some seaside resort.
I prefer instead to keep my own memories,
the kind that’s captured by my own eyes
rather than the photosensitive arrays
of some digital camera.
I’d like to be the author
of my own story,
picking out treasured moments
the way a jazz musician
plays only the most stirring notes,
the way a painter uses each colour
only where it has its place.
My history will not be a
series of clichés,
but rather,
a painstakingly woven tapestry
of thought and experiences,
a continuing tale that one day
will flow effortlessly
into my children’s possession.
- 23 February 2008
Well, it’s true that I
don’t like taking pictures
or having my picture taken.
Indeed, my children will not see
snapshots of me forcing a smile
at the zoo, beneath the Eiffel Tower,
or next to long-forgotten classmates.
Nor will my shelves be filled with
dusty photo albums kept as
trophies of overseas vacations,
evidence that I’ve really been to
Paris, Rome, or some seaside resort.
I prefer instead to keep my own memories,
the kind that’s captured by my own eyes
rather than the photosensitive arrays
of some digital camera.
I’d like to be the author
of my own story,
picking out treasured moments
the way a jazz musician
plays only the most stirring notes,
the way a painter uses each colour
only where it has its place.
My history will not be a
series of clichés,
but rather,
a painstakingly woven tapestry
of thought and experiences,
a continuing tale that one day
will flow effortlessly
into my children’s possession.
- 23 February 2008
Lazy Saturday morning
In the lily pond,
a single bead of water,
clear as crystal,
glittering like a precious stone,
lay lightly on its idyllic pad,
indifferent to the sky that shimmered beneath it.
We quietly sipped our coffee,
blissful in our own world.
- 23 February 2008
a single bead of water,
clear as crystal,
glittering like a precious stone,
lay lightly on its idyllic pad,
indifferent to the sky that shimmered beneath it.
We quietly sipped our coffee,
blissful in our own world.
- 23 February 2008
Jazz and Poetry
I miss Europe.
Have you heard of Langston Hughes?
I believe we read
one of his poems together
one evening in London,
when both of us were
a bit drunk on
cheap wine.
You tried to imitate a southern black accent,
and pulled it off pretty well.
- Jazz is my religion -
And so it may have been,
Even though we both agreed that
Aaron would have been more convincing.
I read something to do with Miles Davis.
Kind of Blue, shrill trumpet sound
Caressed into a minor key velvet.
With the music playing it wasn't too bad.
All that seem so far away now,
Like memories viewed through frosted glass
On a rainy evening.
Rain gentle and persistent,
The kind that gently paints the
cobblestone streets a watercolour grey.
- 20 April 2008
Have you heard of Langston Hughes?
I believe we read
one of his poems together
one evening in London,
when both of us were
a bit drunk on
cheap wine.
You tried to imitate a southern black accent,
and pulled it off pretty well.
- Jazz is my religion -
And so it may have been,
Even though we both agreed that
Aaron would have been more convincing.
I read something to do with Miles Davis.
Kind of Blue, shrill trumpet sound
Caressed into a minor key velvet.
With the music playing it wasn't too bad.
All that seem so far away now,
Like memories viewed through frosted glass
On a rainy evening.
Rain gentle and persistent,
The kind that gently paints the
cobblestone streets a watercolour grey.
- 20 April 2008
Life!
Sunday morning is
having kopi at home,
going straight to the Life! section,
and contemplating going out for prata.
- 18 February 2008
having kopi at home,
going straight to the Life! section,
and contemplating going out for prata.
- 18 February 2008
Three Green Lights
Outside my window, in the distance, where Hougang Avenue 2 meets Yio Chu Kang Road, at that junction where chapel and mosque stand almost side by side, I say, as I have countless time before, three green lights. They glow amidst traffic, tell drivers it's okay to go ahead, and illuminate a slice of quintessentially urban asphalt, traced with lines white and double yellow. They glow as beacons, of modernity marking its presence beneath old rain trees.
One starts flashing. I can't make it out from this distance, but it's that little green man perpetually caught in mid-stride, all of a sudden hesitant, undecided, lingering at the edge of the sidewalk.
The lights turn amber, then swiftly red. A parenthesis in the ebb and flow of the city night. In cars paused as though for breath, drivers adjust the volume of their stereos, tune into FM93.3 or Class 95, change a disc, lean back into their seats. Couples clasp hands, exchange quick glances, smile at some familiar tune chance sent their way on the airwaves. I'm listening to Django, letting Paris blend with Hougang and its lights, wondering what Jean Danker and Glenn Ong are up to these days. Everyone's strung together by music.
The lights turn green again and for the millionth time the cycle is complete. If Bob Dylan had grown up in this city he'd have written odes to peace based on the never-ending repetition of traffic light cycles. In it's chaotic clutter and mad scampering the city finds its own regularity, its little mechanical islands of peace.
I wait for the lights to change, more patiently that the drivers behind their wheels.
- 9 February 2008
One starts flashing. I can't make it out from this distance, but it's that little green man perpetually caught in mid-stride, all of a sudden hesitant, undecided, lingering at the edge of the sidewalk.
The lights turn amber, then swiftly red. A parenthesis in the ebb and flow of the city night. In cars paused as though for breath, drivers adjust the volume of their stereos, tune into FM93.3 or Class 95, change a disc, lean back into their seats. Couples clasp hands, exchange quick glances, smile at some familiar tune chance sent their way on the airwaves. I'm listening to Django, letting Paris blend with Hougang and its lights, wondering what Jean Danker and Glenn Ong are up to these days. Everyone's strung together by music.
The lights turn green again and for the millionth time the cycle is complete. If Bob Dylan had grown up in this city he'd have written odes to peace based on the never-ending repetition of traffic light cycles. In it's chaotic clutter and mad scampering the city finds its own regularity, its little mechanical islands of peace.
I wait for the lights to change, more patiently that the drivers behind their wheels.
- 9 February 2008
22nd March 2008
For those of you
who like me
were born in 1983,
it's already 2008!
How does time
still manage to fly
when everyday
I feel that
my life is bolted to the
firm and solid earth
as though under some
restraining order,
told to put off living
until the truly important things
are accomplished –
studies, career, wealth?
What happened to 1988,
when,
five years old,
I dreamt of becoming a policeman,
like so many other young boys
without trees to climb?
And 1998,
when,
all of fifteen
and caught up in
adolescent rebellion,
I wanted to become a
rock guitar player,
because at fifteen
almost everything
is still possible?
Why is it that
when today arrived
ten years later
I still find myself
waiting,
putting off
to yet another tomorrow
my accumulated
ambitions and aspirations?
Will I really be older and
wiser, more established,
more secure?
The clocks keep spinning
and the world turns away.
- 22 March 2008
who like me
were born in 1983,
it's already 2008!
How does time
still manage to fly
when everyday
I feel that
my life is bolted to the
firm and solid earth
as though under some
restraining order,
told to put off living
until the truly important things
are accomplished –
studies, career, wealth?
What happened to 1988,
when,
five years old,
I dreamt of becoming a policeman,
like so many other young boys
without trees to climb?
And 1998,
when,
all of fifteen
and caught up in
adolescent rebellion,
I wanted to become a
rock guitar player,
because at fifteen
almost everything
is still possible?
Why is it that
when today arrived
ten years later
I still find myself
waiting,
putting off
to yet another tomorrow
my accumulated
ambitions and aspirations?
Will I really be older and
wiser, more established,
more secure?
The clocks keep spinning
and the world turns away.
- 22 March 2008
Happy Daze Bar
I close my eyes and
lean into my chair.
The radio plays a funky tune.
Above,
lush green leaves dance
against blindingly white clouds.
- 17 Feb 2008
lean into my chair.
The radio plays a funky tune.
Above,
lush green leaves dance
against blindingly white clouds.
- 17 Feb 2008
Empty days
Five young men,
no older than twenty-one,
sitting around a bare table
on cheap palstic chairs,
exchanging stories about sergeants,
field camps, PT, turn-outs,
route marches, exercises,
comparing how siong their training was.
Every story has been told
a million times before
by other young men
haplessly serving their nation.
Every story has been told
a million times before
by other young men
idly killing their time.
416 more days to ORD.
-3 February 2008
no older than twenty-one,
sitting around a bare table
on cheap palstic chairs,
exchanging stories about sergeants,
field camps, PT, turn-outs,
route marches, exercises,
comparing how siong their training was.
Every story has been told
a million times before
by other young men
haplessly serving their nation.
Every story has been told
a million times before
by other young men
idly killing their time.
416 more days to ORD.
-3 February 2008
Débussy in the morning
Sounds terribly pretentious, doesn’t it?
Like having fine wine at a French Restaurant
and commenting that it’s
got a hint of blueberry.
Charmant.
It should be a simple pleasure, really,
like looking out the window at the brightening day
and marvelling at how the night’s rain
had softened the urban landscape.
- 19 January 2008
Like having fine wine at a French Restaurant
and commenting that it’s
got a hint of blueberry.
Charmant.
It should be a simple pleasure, really,
like looking out the window at the brightening day
and marvelling at how the night’s rain
had softened the urban landscape.
- 19 January 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Pétaouchenok
Or was it pétaouchnoque?
A word a friend taught me
back in France,
meaning somewhere far away,
nowhere in particular, really,
off the map,
in Siberia perhaps,
bleached away by endless snows.
I’d like to go to Pétaouchenok,
somewhere far away,
anywhere but here, where
the army’ll leave me alone,
and then maybe give up looking for me.
I close my eyes and
make an effort, imagine
silent snow-covered fields,
not a soul in sight.
I open my eyes and I’m still here,
in the same old training shed,
nowhere else,
nowhere new.
But then I ask myself,
why run and hide
when it’s so much better to
stay and live?
- 12 Jan 2008
A word a friend taught me
back in France,
meaning somewhere far away,
nowhere in particular, really,
off the map,
in Siberia perhaps,
bleached away by endless snows.
I’d like to go to Pétaouchenok,
somewhere far away,
anywhere but here, where
the army’ll leave me alone,
and then maybe give up looking for me.
I close my eyes and
make an effort, imagine
silent snow-covered fields,
not a soul in sight.
I open my eyes and I’m still here,
in the same old training shed,
nowhere else,
nowhere new.
But then I ask myself,
why run and hide
when it’s so much better to
stay and live?
- 12 Jan 2008
Aging air-conditioner
The air conditioner hums,
hisses,
shakes,
breathes,
shivers,
sweats,
whispers,
pops and creaks sometimes,
sighs,
grumbles,
coughts even,
yet covers the room
with
a
hushed
silence.
Until I open the window and let the night in.
- 12 Jan 2008
hisses,
shakes,
breathes,
shivers,
sweats,
whispers,
pops and creaks sometimes,
sighs,
grumbles,
coughts even,
yet covers the room
with
a
hushed
silence.
Until I open the window and let the night in.
- 12 Jan 2008
A simple observation
All it takes is
to drive down Holland Road,
past Napier Road and Tanglin,
and then through the soaring glass
and granite of Orchard Road:
to realize that
our greatest monuments are
the living trees.
- 8 March 2008
to drive down Holland Road,
past Napier Road and Tanglin,
and then through the soaring glass
and granite of Orchard Road:
to realize that
our greatest monuments are
the living trees.
- 8 March 2008
Life is fair
Things even out
in their own strange ways.
I had four mosquito bites,
but my girlfriend had
a single enormous one.
- 9 March 2008
in their own strange ways.
I had four mosquito bites,
but my girlfriend had
a single enormous one.
- 9 March 2008
As the day mellows
The magic hour
starts at 6:30pm.
That’s when the evening breeze
awakens birds and crickets
and makes even the roar of traffic
sound as gentle
as cats purring across a windowsill.
It’s when the sky, relieved of
the glare of the afternoon sun,
becomes blue again,
a playground for clouds that drift
blissfully above envious treetops.
Then, streetlights come ablaze and compete
with the fading daylight, which,
not to be outdone,
retreats only to reveal
the glimmer of the first stars,
defiantly radiant over the urban twilight.
We sat in the yard,
drinking soju and talking
about tomorrow and all the days after.
- 9 March 2008
starts at 6:30pm.
That’s when the evening breeze
awakens birds and crickets
and makes even the roar of traffic
sound as gentle
as cats purring across a windowsill.
It’s when the sky, relieved of
the glare of the afternoon sun,
becomes blue again,
a playground for clouds that drift
blissfully above envious treetops.
Then, streetlights come ablaze and compete
with the fading daylight, which,
not to be outdone,
retreats only to reveal
the glimmer of the first stars,
defiantly radiant over the urban twilight.
We sat in the yard,
drinking soju and talking
about tomorrow and all the days after.
- 9 March 2008
Frustration and I
Sometimes frustration wins.
Like yesterday, when,
fleeing the institutionalised stupidity
that NS can sometimes be,
I ran over to Empress Place,
and saw, across the water,
a row of our history painted over
with the plastic colours of the tourist industry
Or when, last weekend,
after supper at circular road,
I saw girls confidently
offering themselves to passing expats,
savouring their objectification,
proudly stripping off
every last shred of pride.
But then I tell myself to take things
one step at a time.
To know that history
is ours to repossess;
that mine is a generation that,
having discovered the world,
now longs to find itself;
that we can be who we are,
and proud of it.
That’s when I win.
- 3 March 2008
Like yesterday, when,
fleeing the institutionalised stupidity
that NS can sometimes be,
I ran over to Empress Place,
and saw, across the water,
a row of our history painted over
with the plastic colours of the tourist industry
Or when, last weekend,
after supper at circular road,
I saw girls confidently
offering themselves to passing expats,
savouring their objectification,
proudly stripping off
every last shred of pride.
But then I tell myself to take things
one step at a time.
To know that history
is ours to repossess;
that mine is a generation that,
having discovered the world,
now longs to find itself;
that we can be who we are,
and proud of it.
That’s when I win.
- 3 March 2008
Caught in the rain
It’s raining
and I’m stuck
at the bus stop
again, just like
back in Primary school,
when I’d wait a little,
then run all the way home to my mother’s disapproving embrace.
I wait until the rain stops.
And then realize
just how much I wanted to run.
- 30 December 2007
and I’m stuck
at the bus stop
again, just like
back in Primary school,
when I’d wait a little,
then run all the way home to my mother’s disapproving embrace.
I wait until the rain stops.
And then realize
just how much I wanted to run.
- 30 December 2007
Painting a new memory
Along the Canal Saint-Martin, Chez Prune,
she painted a scene familiar to me,
from the time I’d spent years ago in this foreign city.
As she laid down her brushstrokes, gentle colours,
the cold canal and its stone-paved sidewalks
no longer looked as they had all those years.
She’d sprinkled the trees with an orange shimmer,
thrown generous blues and greens onto the frozen waters,
and left streaks of poetry on the weatherworn cobblestones.
She’d taken away the harshness, the bleak and the lonely,
and left behind nothing but simplicity and colour.
She’d taken a blank and distant gaze
and painted upon it a smile.
Across the table, two coffees away,
I sat mesmerised as her painting took form,
and scribbled down as best I could
this scene of a memory shared and remade.
- 21 December 2007
she painted a scene familiar to me,
from the time I’d spent years ago in this foreign city.
As she laid down her brushstrokes, gentle colours,
the cold canal and its stone-paved sidewalks
no longer looked as they had all those years.
She’d sprinkled the trees with an orange shimmer,
thrown generous blues and greens onto the frozen waters,
and left streaks of poetry on the weatherworn cobblestones.
She’d taken away the harshness, the bleak and the lonely,
and left behind nothing but simplicity and colour.
She’d taken a blank and distant gaze
and painted upon it a smile.
Across the table, two coffees away,
I sat mesmerised as her painting took form,
and scribbled down as best I could
this scene of a memory shared and remade.
- 21 December 2007
Wingline at 2137 hrs
Fall in!
Fall in!
Faster fall in!
Two minutes!
RO already!
Sierra wingline at
nine thirty-seven and
twenty-eight seconds.
Hurry up,
go fall in!
Platoon 1, got hear
my announcement or not?
Double up!
A hundred young men
lined up in neat rows,
staring blankly ahead.
Don’t move in the file!
Hurry up!
Report strength!
Wing sedi-ah!
Wing diam!
The new moon,
set against the night,
rose brilliant and unseen.
- 20 October 2007
Fall in!
Faster fall in!
Two minutes!
RO already!
Sierra wingline at
nine thirty-seven and
twenty-eight seconds.
Hurry up,
go fall in!
Platoon 1, got hear
my announcement or not?
Double up!
A hundred young men
lined up in neat rows,
staring blankly ahead.
Don’t move in the file!
Hurry up!
Report strength!
Wing sedi-ah!
Wing diam!
The new moon,
set against the night,
rose brilliant and unseen.
- 20 October 2007
Joy in a watercolour sky
A tune softly playing on the
tiny speakers of my phone
cast minor sixths and major thirds
onto the deep blue sky of morn.
The notes painted the clouds
red, indigo, orange and violet,
and ushered in a new day with
your smile sketched across the dawn.
- 7 October 2007
tiny speakers of my phone
cast minor sixths and major thirds
onto the deep blue sky of morn.
The notes painted the clouds
red, indigo, orange and violet,
and ushered in a new day with
your smile sketched across the dawn.
- 7 October 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
十一月, 下着雨
November caught me unawares, came up to me like an old friend, placed a hand on my shoulder, whispered into my ear the gentle sound of rain, and unloaded a bagful of memories.
In the pre-dawn air, i saw - or smelt, rather - memories of the last weeks of school. I must have been seven or eight, and we played on the bare concrete floor of our classroom, between plastic tables, as umbrellas dried by the corridor and cats and dogs fell from the sky.
Sometimes, the rain would come in through the windows, forming puddles that traced rivers and lakes, an imaginary monsoon world. At home that seldom happened. At the sound of thunder, before the clouds gave way, we'd run for the windows - 小心喷雨! -and slam them shut. We kept the rain outside -
- at night, I'd keep my face against the window and let my gaze blur against the rain, as the falling droplets became an orange-hued haze as they passed before the streetlight outside my third-storey room. I was older then, and had discovered melancholy, and nostalgia.
When I was far away, summertime thunderstorms would bring me home, as if their wind driven sheets fell not on the nineteenth-century cobblestones of the Canal Saint-Martin, but along Hougang Avenue 2, between the bougainvilla and the playground.
I looked up at the brightening sky above, and down at the slick grey ground beneath, as the raindrops sprinkled colour on so many faded memories.
In the pre-dawn air, i saw - or smelt, rather - memories of the last weeks of school. I must have been seven or eight, and we played on the bare concrete floor of our classroom, between plastic tables, as umbrellas dried by the corridor and cats and dogs fell from the sky.
Sometimes, the rain would come in through the windows, forming puddles that traced rivers and lakes, an imaginary monsoon world. At home that seldom happened. At the sound of thunder, before the clouds gave way, we'd run for the windows - 小心喷雨! -and slam them shut. We kept the rain outside -
- at night, I'd keep my face against the window and let my gaze blur against the rain, as the falling droplets became an orange-hued haze as they passed before the streetlight outside my third-storey room. I was older then, and had discovered melancholy, and nostalgia.
When I was far away, summertime thunderstorms would bring me home, as if their wind driven sheets fell not on the nineteenth-century cobblestones of the Canal Saint-Martin, but along Hougang Avenue 2, between the bougainvilla and the playground.
I looked up at the brightening sky above, and down at the slick grey ground beneath, as the raindrops sprinkled colour on so many faded memories.
Monday, October 29, 2007
From Pulau Tekong
The stars were out tonight,
shining crisp and brilliant,
hanging indifferent over our tired faces.
Their bluish light fell gently over me
as a spring rain caresses the skin.
I let them wash away fatigue and frustration,
and dissipate the haze of worries that clouded my mind
I close my eyes and there you were,
smiling beautifully at me,
over me.
I smile too, with all my heart.
Remember our two stars, darling?
Whether in wintry Manchester
or tropical Singapore,
they are ever in our sky,
sharing their light as they journey
together towards
endless new dawns.
-- -- --
I started writing this before going outfield, and finished it up after i came back. It's for you, and i hope you like it. 사랑해, 민주, and happy birthday. I wish i could be there with you.
shining crisp and brilliant,
hanging indifferent over our tired faces.
Their bluish light fell gently over me
as a spring rain caresses the skin.
I let them wash away fatigue and frustration,
and dissipate the haze of worries that clouded my mind
I close my eyes and there you were,
smiling beautifully at me,
over me.
I smile too, with all my heart.
Remember our two stars, darling?
Whether in wintry Manchester
or tropical Singapore,
they are ever in our sky,
sharing their light as they journey
together towards
endless new dawns.
-- -- --
I started writing this before going outfield, and finished it up after i came back. It's for you, and i hope you like it. 사랑해, 민주, and happy birthday. I wish i could be there with you.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Blu Jaz
Another Bali Lane gem, Blu Jaz café has decently priced drinks, food, funky furnishing and decor, live music, and on Mondays, a 10-piece jazz band! Seems to be experiencing expatrification, which would really be a pity. I've yet to properly spend an evening there, so well, there'll be more to come on this post.
11 Bali Lane, and there's music on other nights, too. Check out http://blujaz-cafe.blogspot.com/
11 Bali Lane, and there's music on other nights, too. Check out http://blujaz-cafe.blogspot.com/
Straits Records
Tucked away on the cooler side of Bali Lane is Straits Records, a gem of a CD store that i discovered only yesterday. Occupying the first storey of a conservation shophouse in the Kampong Glam area, it manages to be urban, edgy, cosy, grungy, and all-round oozing with character, without being the least bit pretentious. Best of all, it specialises in local and regional bands, and boasts an impressive collection of both CDs and cassette tapes. If your knowledge of the local music scene starts and ends at Humpback Oak (my case), Din, who runs the place, won't hesitate to give you recommendations, explanations, introductions, or just a bit of conversation. There's even a sofa inside the store, a comfy little bench right outside, and a table soccer in the five-foot way.
Straits Records is the essence of what this blog is about: Local art, local tastes, local people. Those of you who already knew of its existence should have told the rest of us, and those of you who have never heard of it before, it's time you did. 22 Bali Lane, Bugis MRT
Straits Records is the essence of what this blog is about: Local art, local tastes, local people. Those of you who already knew of its existence should have told the rest of us, and those of you who have never heard of it before, it's time you did. 22 Bali Lane, Bugis MRT
Monday, September 17, 2007
Work-in-progress
Here's an exerpt from what i was telling someone very close to my heart about my ideas for this blog:
...I've been thinking about the local arts blog that i told you about... I'm still not completely sure as to what the fundamental message the blog should communicate. Well, actually i do... i want the blog to tell people that they should be proud of being singaporean, regardless of who they are - as long as they grew up here. i'm hoping that i can communicate this by featuring local artists, who express (in my opinion) the city's soul, and local cafés and pubs (local as opposed to starbucks, hooters and other imports) that are modern, urban, and distinctly local in their flavour and clientele, and thereby express this city's life. I'm still thinking of what to call the blog, and how i can best express the blog's purpose as simply and as succinctly as possible. I'm also thinking about how exactly to go about featuring those artists, musicians and places. I think i'm going to have to try and find like-minded people who can help me: hence the importance of coming up with a clear statement of purpose.
Items that should appear in this blog:
Local poetry. Links to local music. Interviews with local artists. Photography. Links to good singaporean blogs. Reviews of good cafés and pubs. A bit of political commentary. Reviews of plays. Playwrights. Local composers and jazzmen (yes, they exist). Singaporeans overseas. And everything else in this vein.
I hope this actually happens. If you're interested in collaborating, email me: jf.khoo@gmail.com
If anyone has a better title than "Art for this city's soul", drop me a note.
...I've been thinking about the local arts blog that i told you about... I'm still not completely sure as to what the fundamental message the blog should communicate. Well, actually i do... i want the blog to tell people that they should be proud of being singaporean, regardless of who they are - as long as they grew up here. i'm hoping that i can communicate this by featuring local artists, who express (in my opinion) the city's soul, and local cafés and pubs (local as opposed to starbucks, hooters and other imports) that are modern, urban, and distinctly local in their flavour and clientele, and thereby express this city's life. I'm still thinking of what to call the blog, and how i can best express the blog's purpose as simply and as succinctly as possible. I'm also thinking about how exactly to go about featuring those artists, musicians and places. I think i'm going to have to try and find like-minded people who can help me: hence the importance of coming up with a clear statement of purpose.
Items that should appear in this blog:
Local poetry. Links to local music. Interviews with local artists. Photography. Links to good singaporean blogs. Reviews of good cafés and pubs. A bit of political commentary. Reviews of plays. Playwrights. Local composers and jazzmen (yes, they exist). Singaporeans overseas. And everything else in this vein.
I hope this actually happens. If you're interested in collaborating, email me: jf.khoo@gmail.com
If anyone has a better title than "Art for this city's soul", drop me a note.
Jazz and Coffee
A first post on a new blog owes it to itself to have at least a smidgen of symbolism. Here's a poem by siaunuren, a good friend of mine, who's poetry I've only recently discovered. Visit her site, there's some good stuff there!
- art class-
they said, we want bright colours
and we want the sun yellow
and the sky blue
and the flowers red
but what if i don't see it like them
and i want the sun bleeding
and the sky jaundiced
and the flowers cold
i'll colour it my way but
they'll tell me i messed up, screwed up, fucked up.
and then some.
ho-hum.
For more, visit http://siaunuren.blogspot.com/
- art class-
they said, we want bright colours
and we want the sun yellow
and the sky blue
and the flowers red
but what if i don't see it like them
and i want the sun bleeding
and the sky jaundiced
and the flowers cold
i'll colour it my way but
they'll tell me i messed up, screwed up, fucked up.
and then some.
ho-hum.
For more, visit http://siaunuren.blogspot.com/
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