Singapore You Are Not My Country

Singapore You Are Not My Country

Singapore you are not my country.
Singapore you are not a country at all.
You are surprising Singapore, statistics-starved Singapore,
soulful Singapore of tourist brochures in Japanese and
hourglass kebayas.
You protest, but without picketing, without rioting,
without Catherine Lim,
but through your loudspeaker media, through the hyp-
notic eyeballs of your newscaster, and that weather
woman who I swear is working voodoo on my teevee
screen.
Singapore, what are these lawsuits in my mailbox?
There are so many sheafs, I should have tipped the
postman.
Singapore, I assert you are not a country at all.
Do not raise your voice against me, I am not afraid of your
anthem although the lyrics are still bleeding from the
bark of my sapless heart.
Not because I sang them pigtailed pinnafored breakfasted
chalkshoes in school
But because I used to watch telly till they ran out of
shows.
Do not invite me to the podium and tell me to address you
properly.
I am allergic to microphones and men in egosuits and
publicwigs.
And I am not a political martyr, I am a patriot who has lost
his country and virginity.
Do not wave a cane at me for vandalising your propaganda
with technicolour harangues,
Red Nadim semen white Mahsuri menses the colourful
language of my eloquent generation.
Your words are like walls on which truth is graffiti.
This has become an island of walls.
Asylum walls, factory walls, school walls, the walls of the
midnight Istana.
If I am paranoid I have learnt it from you, O my delicate
orchid stalk Singapore.
Always thirsty for water, spooked by armed archipelagoes,
always gasping for airspace, always running to keep
ahead, running away from yourself.
Singapore why do you wail that way, demanding my IC?
Singapore stop yelling and calling me names.
How dare you call me a chauvinist, an opposition party,
a liar,
a traitor, a mendicant professor, a Marxist homosexual
communist
pornography banned literature chewing gum liberty
smuggler?
How can you say I do not believe in
The Free Press autopsies flogging mudslinging bankruptcy
which are the five pillars of justice?
And how can you call yourself a country, you terrible
hallucination
of highways and cranes and condominiums ten minutes'
drive from the MRT?

Tell that to the battered housewife who thinks happiness
lies at the end of a Toto queue
Tell that to the tourist guide whose fillings are pewter
whose feelings are iron
whose courtesy is gold whose speech is silver whose
handshake is a lethal yank at the jackpot machine.
Tell that to my imam who thinks we are all going to hell.
That that to the chao ah beng who has seven stitches a
broken collarbone and three dead comrades but who
will not hesitate at thrusting his tiger ribcage into
another fight
because the lanterns of his lungs have caught their own
fire and there is no turning back.
Tell that to the yuppie who sits in meat-markets disguised
as pubs, listening to Kenny G disguised as jazz
on handphone disguised as conversation and loneliness
disguised as a jukebox.
Tell that to all those exiles whose names are forgotten but
who leave behind a bad taste in the thoughtful mouth,
reminding us that the flapping sunned linen shelters a
whiff of chloroform.
Tell that to Town Council men who feed pigeons with
crumbs of arsenic.
Tell that to Maria Hertogh a.k.a. Nadra who proved to us
that blood spilled was thicker than water shed as she
was caught pining under a stone angel in the nunnery
for her husband.
Tell that to Ah Meng, who bore five hairy bastards for our
nation.
Tell that to Lee Kuan Yew's squint.
Tell that to Josef Ng, who shaves my infant head admidst a
shower of one-cent coins, and both of us are pure
again.
Tell that to my Warrant Officer who knew I was faking.
Tell that to the unemployed man who drinks cigarettes
smokes tattoos watches peanuts
unselfconscious of his gut belch debts and wife having an
affair with the Salesman of Nervous Breakdowns.
Tell that to Maya Angelou's who are screeching like
witches United Nations-style poems populated by
Cheena Babi Bayee Tonchet Melayu Malas Keling
Garagok Mat Salleh.
Tell that to the fakirs of civil disobedience, whose head-
phones are pounding the hooving basslines of Damyata
Damyata Damyata
Tell that to the statue of Li Po at Marina Park.
Tell that to the performance artists who need licences like
drivers and doctors and dogs
when all they really need is just three percent of your love.
Tell that to the innocent faggot looking for kicks on a
Sunday evening to end up sucking the bit-hard pistol-
muzzle of the CID, ensnared no less by his weakness for
pretty boys naked out of uniform.
Tell that to the caretaker of the grave of Radin Mas.
Tell that to Chee Soon Juan's smirk.
Tell that to the pawns of the Upgrading Empire who
penetrate their phalluses into heartlands to plant Lego
cineplexes Tupperware playgrounds suicidal balconies
carnal parks of cardboard and condoms and before we
know it we are a colony once again.
Tell that to Malaysia whose Desaru is our spitoon whose
TV2 is our amusement whose Bumiputras are our
threat whose outrage is our greater outrage whose
turtles are weeping blind in the roaring daylight of our
cameras.
Tell that to the old poets who have seen this piece of land
slip their metaphors each passing year from bumboats
to debris to sanitation projects to drowning attempts
to barbed neon water weeds on a river with no reflec-
tions a long way off from the sea.
O Singapore your fair shores your garlands your GNP.
You are not a country you are a construction from spare
parts.
You are not a campaign you are last year's posters.
You are not a culture you are poems on the MRT.
You are not a song you are part swearword part lullaby.
You are not Paradise you are an island with pythons.

Singapore I am on trial.
These are the whites of my eyes and the reds of my wrists.
These are the deranged stars of my schizophrenia.
This is the milk latex gummy moon of my sedated smile.
I have lost a country to images, it is as simple as that.
Singapore you have a name on a map but no maps to your
name.
This will not do; we must stand aside and let the Lion
crash through a madness of cymbals back to that dark
jungle heart
when eyes were still embers waiting for a crownless
Prince of Palembang.

- Alfian Sa'at, One Fierce Hour, 1998

.Fifty.Three. meaning..

ok emo frequency graph getting exponential here. have no idea what's been eating in lately.. tired of being an old wretched grouch.. but i really can't remember the last time i was truly happy, or what really mattered to me. am i still a believer or follower of a god?

i hate this way im living, hate the way this world is..

just awoke to the the reality of it.. and seeing the gargantuan mountain of trash i've left in my tracks.. not that there's anything i can do about it.. wat's the purpose of this living? is it gonna be just work, work, work, work, work and work, studies, money or wat?? what is truly genuine and lasting on this damned place?? don't give me that shitload of godly crap again.. i still can't fathom the meaning of life... the ultimate worth, what living for God? how to? what exactly does it mean? do you go on the road, meet any sane person and hear them telling you i'm blindly living for god? i need a cause to justify that!


dunno really know what matters to me, dunno what i'm living for now.. but the frustration beats having to be some stupid 'led-by-the-nose' ass.. nothing's worth sacrificing or living for.. call me a cynic, a skeptic, a pessimist.. watever.. this place is just pure hopelessness.. everything sucked the shit outta me.. hellish, brain-draining, suicide-inducing rollercoasters of lessons in life.. till nothing matters anymore. my world's exceedingly crumbled.

just as i give up hatred, i give up love.. that's only fair. no more room for either. escapism is the cure.

i dun wanna be a 'to be', a 'has been', or a 'must be'.. im afraid of falling, afraid of failing and afraid to pain somemore.. i'll just not succeed in everything i do.

I dont really have much to say though than this: "come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, I will give you rest" - Matt 11:28. I wrote this poem for you...
Watch the sun rise
It will soon set
Watch the oceans roar
It will soon be still
Such is life

Watch the storms rage
Calm will soon become its end
Watch the rainfall
It will soon stop
And here comes sunshine

Smile at the mountain
It will soon become a plain
Take a deep breath in sight of the valley
It will soon be filled
God holds it in His hands

The Lord grant you peace and cause His face to shine upon you!
We are praying for you

All You Got

All You Got

I heard you say that no one seems to care ‘bout you
It’s in your eyes, you think that life’s unfair to you
Just give it all you got, my friend
Just give it all you got, it’s not the end

CHORUS
Cause you oughta know
There’s a reason for these changin’ seasons
God only knows how much your heart can bear
So don’t you let go
Everybody has their up and down times
Everybody needs to know how much they’re loved
My friend
So hold on, it’s not the end

As I remember everything you touch
Would turn to gold
You held the secrets
To make your grandest dreams unfold
You were the very best of us all
But the sun that rises still falls

CHORUS

It’s just a love song
Cause everybody needs a friend
I’ll be right here for you
Just a simple prayer
It’s from the bottom of my heart
That He’ll never let you go

CHORUS

Friendship?

"Friendship is fragile. Please handle my heart with care." What seems like common wisdom turns out to an abstract concept to grapple with. What is true friendship? Who are our true friends? Do we really know and feel it? Have we really experienced it? Or do we merely think we know but have not the slightest idea what it truly is? We say we care but we trample on it, Familiarity breeds contempt and we begin to take it for granted? Then we subject it to the gift of neglect and without realising it, we lose it.

a simple gesture sometimes speaks volume and really doesn't cost much.

Father's Day Poems

A father and a dad are not the same:One can be a dad and not a father,Or one can be a father and not botherTo earn through love the more endearing name.Some find fatherhood a bit too tame,Leaving all the details to the mother,Or dumping the sweet burden on anotherMan with just a passing twinge of shame.You have been our dad so many yearsThat you've become the landscape that is home,The mountain that we look to from afar.No matter where we go we're not alone,For you remain within to still our fearsAnd be the word that tells us who we are.
How can I touch you when you're far away?A poem is not as salient as a kiss.Poems but poorly presences convey,Perhaps because of all that words must miss.Yet write I must because you are not here,Father farther from my eyes than heart,A face more frequent than it might appear,Tempered by the tyrannies of art.How might I be with you in ways that areEqual to the passion of my yearning,Reaching for a grace beyond the bar'Ere there's any word of your returning.So may the time between us quickly pass,Days of longing that long cannot last,A time when but through words we may embrace,Yet know that soon we will be face to face.

You feel the fortune of your years,I hope. For all your children's loveThis day must bring you happy tearsAnd thoughts that joyful music prove.
I hope, for all your children's love,There is an island, be it small,And thoughts that joyful music proveBeyond what years you may recall.
There is an island, be it small,Amid the passions of the sea,Beyond what years you may recall,Where you in silent grace can be.
Amid the passions of the sea,This day must bring you happy tears.Where you in silent grace can be,You feel the fortune of your years.

Mother's Day Poems

A mother casts her dreams into the sea;We, the words sent bobbing towards the sun,The eggs of stone, the shards of prophesy.
Because she must conclude her melodyAnd fall back to the sweet dark hush of One,A mother casts her dreams into the sea,
Hoping to cross that wild infinityAnd on some infant shore again to run,The eggs of stone, the shards of prophesy
Outside the fiery circle of memory,The howling surf, the incessant years undone …A mother casts her dreams into the sea
And then dissolves into a tapestry,Her rolling, helpless drift again begun,The eggs of stone, the shards of prophesy
Afloat once more upon eternity,Once more the alien fury, never done …Again, again, her dreams into the sea,The eggs of stone, the shards of prophesy!

Here are all your children in one place,Enshrined behind some glass within a frame.A picture's like a word, a sign, a name,Symbolic of a much more complex grace.Years of memories lie behind each face,A wild sea no blessing can contain;Years and years of love, of joy, of pain,Of mysteries no heart can hope to trace.Here are all the objects of your love,A frozen section cut away from Time,A summit between dreams and memories,Which you need only look this way to climb;An icon for domestic reveriesThrough which a thousand answered prayers move.

If I could give my mom the worldOr anything she wanted,I'd give her my own heart and soulAnd leave my own heart haunted.
I'd take upon myself her lifeWith all its strife and pain,And let her ease into some spaceWhere she could live again.
The pain for me would not be pain,At least not for a while;For I'd be doing it for her,And I would see her smile.
I wish that I could take her heartAnd cleanse it with my tears,And make her sorrow go away,And answer all her fears.
I wish, I wish, but then I can't,As I watch helplessly,And take her in my arms and sayI wish that it were me.
But loving is a hard, hard way,With all the pain it brings.And yet there is no other wayTo touch the heart of things.

You Are My Treasure

You are my treasure
The treasure that i tries to find for a long time
And now i finally find the treasure that i want
That is you , the one i love
You are the treasure that i been searching for so long
The more i cherish this treasure, i more i cherish you .
You are the treasure i will keep is forever..
You are very special to me my love ..
This treasure is worth for me to search...
This poem i made by myself,don't know why i know this poem ..when i start to sleep in my head this poem just appear..i didn't copy any one else poem but this is the poem i made for someone i cherish, which are my love ....The person that made this poem is me "Nha"....but well i don't know who is the person i love ,i don't love anyone but i just think this poem is good so i just write is now ..

A poem for you

I write a poem for you today, to get a place in your heart for ever
A poem that could tell you my love for you
I write my poem with emotion and affection
for you to understand my deep thoughts for you
A poem to love and a poem to understand its soul
A poem to enjoy and a poem to understand its happiness
A poem to think and a poem to understand its way of life
A poem to learn and a poem to understand its content
A poem to sing and a poem to understand its melody
A poem to cry and a poem to understand its sorrow
There are poems I have written but this is specially for you
The poem could tell you how important you are for me
There are words comes out freely from my mind to write poem
but there are no words to find my love for you
Those words can not missed as I miss your love today
Let me have all those words put in to my heart and
say I love to write a love poem for you

Feelings vs Reality

We speak with conviction. We speak through experience.

But what do we feel when we speak of the past?

A sigh of regret, a heave of relief or a shout of joy and thanksgiving?

Whatever we feel, it does not matter.

The work is complete. It is finished.

The victory is ours, in Him and through Him. Forever.

If I forget...

If I forget you,

help me remember you

in my memories.
And I can walk away,

if it helps you this way.


If I forget me,

let me live

in your memories.

And I can fade away,

while your world goes on this day.

What would I?

If I had one word, what would I say?

If I had one thought, what would I think?

If I had one dream, what would I dream?

And I have one life, what would I do?

The past, present and future

To the past, you make me who I am today.

To the present, goodbye.

To the future, here I come.

Friendship

Friendship:

The GARLIC is a friend of the CARROTS

the CARROTS are friends of the POTATO

the ONION is fickle and cannot decide where her loyalties lie and has hence formed a LOVELESS but PRACTICAL alliance with everyone except the BROCCOLI.

Do not ask about the BROCCOLI it will only MAKE YOU CRY.

Pluto

"Plutoed" was chosen 2006's Word of the Year by the American Dialect Society at its annual meeting.

To "pluto" is "to demote or devalue someone or something," much like what happened to the former planet last year when the General Assembly of the International Astronomical Union decided Pluto didn't meet its definition of a planet.

- Excerpt from Associated Press/Yahoo! News

Silence

I wish you would say something. But there were no words.

Now I hear your silence. Loud and clear.

What a deafening silence.