O Ambition! Where Shall I Put Thee?

My ambitions overflow at night
inopportune times

Silence

My world is quiet now,
head filled with nonsense and cotton wool
I slow, stilling further,
feel keenly this war within--
one must die that the other may live,
and I know this dance of Death,
throat slit from the inside.
I succumb to silence.

Artist

Wherefore have I let this talent slumber?

I must unleash upon the world this great

and glorious purpose I have found today.

I must enlighten those whose fragile minds

can comprehend no thing of gravity

nor depth nor any sacred spark which may

uphold the soul and lift their instinct from

the base, primordial bog, that shallow thing
we gently call the human condition.

In other words, I mastered Paint and drew this.

Popcorn Thursday

I was informed that today was Popcorn Friday. Popcorn on a Thursday? This is madness! The world has shifted! But as I am a lowly bug in the ranks of the universe, unable to utter protest of any force or gravity, I write a poem to those from whom all declarations flow.

I feel as if the world has broken down,

been rent asunder by the forces far above,

Burnett, the Great and Mighty ruler of

us all, has shrugged and we have moved

to acquiesce upon the pain of death.
We bow before you, keeper of the corn.

Half Poem

I found this half-finished poem among my documents.

When will we walk the mountains,

stride the plains in brisk and steady rhythm,

hum as we cross borders, break the trails,

and

And what? I will never know! My train of thought has no end station; it is a frustrating, ghostly ride, a neverending journey that simply passes station after station after station. I am a rusting machine, grinding slowly to a stop, and I have a hard time completing my

Traveling, Delayed

I am map, spread flat against the world
too brittle to be rolled up without crinkles;
bending unkindly, paper burning,
fevered, my travels delayed by frailty,
that thin tissue of the human condition--

I burst.

The Call

Have you roused any rabbles today?
made any merries? larked any skies
or swashed any buckles? Come now,
firebrand, and burn! and let us together

light the earth.

Ang Moh

Because I miss home.

Singapore, that sun-soaked memory, threaded
with words that roll familiar off the tongue--Bukit
Gombak, Havelock Road, Dunearn, Jurong
Kechil, Sentosa--taking the 855 from Telok Blangah
to Bukit Timah in the morning, in the evening; I sit in
old buses, white slip pressed between my fingers,
paper tickets before the time of EZLink; buses that
slap metal, that grind and lurch their way around
corners, non-conditioned in the noonday heat. I
could not afford the blue Comfort cabs with pandan
leaves behind seats and bells that sound warning when exceeding
the speed limit. The jungle that smoldered in the sun;
cicadas, the non-partisan storms that gathered on
the horizon and broke over every creature; the
hawker centres with chicken rice and roti prata,
satay grilled over bright flames, red char siew--
the juice lady who finds me where I stand,
promises the best at lowest price; for Chinese
New Year, red envelopes and oranges, bakkwa
and white strands of coconut. Void deck shops
with metal shelves on wheels filled with prawn
crackers and Jack'n'Jills, counters of candy--tic
tacs and chocolate bars, jelly cups, racks of
cheap plastic toys beyond reach of the two
dollars gripped in my small hand; the cold glass
case, water-beaded, with tiny Yakult bottles
in different colours and tinfoil hats; dusky
evenings, crickets, cool mornings, and hot days.

Satay

Photos courtesy of my friend Trixia. Visit her blog here. 

Shadow

 

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

But my lazy little shadow, like an errant sleepy-head,

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

 

- Robert Louis Stevenson

Lake Haiku

A walk by the lake

Long strides through mosses beneath

us and sky above

" Path is not maintained during wintertime."

Wet birds seek shelter

Tucked away in wood houses

They wait for the sun 

Mushrooms spring up in

rain, in dark days to cheer us

should we go outside

She waits for bright boats

on the lakeshore to bear her

thence away, away!

The Cherry Tree

Do you have any cherries?

She shook her head, almost appalled that the bowl had run empty.

The only ones left are in the tree.

And without one more word between us I disappeared

from fine society, bored of grown-up talk at tables,

and climbed the cherry tree in my pink silk blouse

that I shouldn’t wear when climbing trees.

Shadow-dappled, I reached for cherries

that sang the last verse of their season,

dark burgundy, oozing red blood that stained

my lips and hands, my feet when cherries

tumbled and fell.

        Joined by finches, I feasted,

sucking sun-sweetened cherries and leaning

against cool branches to watch skies slide above

me, and there was no one to tell me not to climb trees

in silk blouses.

I HAVE TOO MUCH CRAP!

Packing, packing, packing, discovering old bits of writing,
papers kept from high school; dried, brown laurels crumpled
from being rested on for too long, a note from Pat written in
our secret language of eight grade--morcish; a yukata, pink
dancing shoes worn as a tree-spirit in my one and only CTC
production; not-used-once-this-year black lamp, course
descriptions for community college (which made me remember
my teachers: Steven Burik for philosophy--all the girls, myself
excepting, had a crush on him; Mathai Mathews for General
Biology, who would get our attention in class by calling, in his
heavy Indian accent, "Look at my bald head!"; Christopher
Hamilton, school's dean and my professor of American and
children's literature; Elizabeth Ong, environmental science;
Mandakini Arora, history of the United States II and Western
Civilizations; Elizabeth McDonald, the epitome of art teachers
with big glasses and loud jewelry; Professor Hazell, theatre
appreciation; Mr. Yu Chi Lam, computer class) movie ticket
stubs, a porcelain cat bought for my mom so long ago in
New York I can't remember what it's supposed to do
(something to do with tea pots); a poem scribbled on a piece of paper:

See the fierce and fiery eyes

See the glow and glimmer

Hear the tramp of pixie feet

Watch the fairies shimmer

a Simplicity dress pattern, Toy Story band-aids lost
amidst the jewelry box and q-tips and hair products, the
Manga Bible, Jesus pins, unnecessary amounts of book-
marks, vast mountains of empty journals (my intention
outspans my creativity); a flowered fan not used since
Japan; a collection of my poems--Professor Klatt has written
what I can only take to be 'Couscous' under the poem
"Element" (what my poem has to to with pasta is uncertain).

I Made This For You

The days of the school year are rapidly dwindling in number, though the expectations are rising--papers to finish, functions to attend, endeavours to plan, and every time I think to tire of my lot, I hear the voice of Gold Five, fighter pilot from Star Wars: A New Hope, in my head: "Stay on target."

Gold Two: [the Y-wings are running the gauntlet toward the Death Star reactor-port] The guns - they've stopped!

Gold Five: [realizes why] Stabilize your rear deflectors... Watch for enemy fighters.

Gold Leader: They're coming in! Three marks at 2-10!

[Gold Two is slain by Darth Vader and his wingmen; Gold Leader starts to panic]

Gold Leader: It's no good, I can't maneuver!

Gold Five: Stay on target.

Gold Leader: We're too close!

Gold Five: Stay on target! 

There is nothing better than a rallying cry, and thus I salute you with this poem. May it be a light to you in dark libraries, when all other lights go out.

Three cheers for the relentless! for the wild-

eyed readers, the red-eyed writers, paper-

eaters, persistent night-oil burners, midnight 

stalkers, bashful book-creepers, who scuttle 

off in corners to bow their heads and prey like 

mantises on texts, claw-handed, devouring 

whole the life and limbs of textbooks, journals, 

introductions, prologues, all! Three cheers for 

project-pushers, last-minute essayists, examiners, 

procrastinators, soft-spoken rebels, the last 

and lonely students of the library who scrabble 

fast and far into the night to catch that which

eludes them most--not sleep--but concluding

paragraphs, those finely-crafted words with

which to crown their work and let them

limp, ink-stained, war-wounded across the 

finish line to cast off from this Rock of Academia 

and fling themselves free, head first, into the gentle

days of summer.

A Spring in Your Step

Buds burst

as spring lives

again