Han

Tag: Thoughts

19, and 19 only

was I at war both with myself and it all
sun and ocean blue
no place to call my home
their magnificence, it don’t make sense to you

to the nights we conquered
as lost souls of our society
with us we had Lana and Panes,
philosophy and Literature,
ambrosial quiches and sweet coffee,
unfounded laughter,
all in depressed drunkards

with every hour
we learn through time —
each suffering’s traded for a blessing
each person’ll teach us a lil’ something

we pull through the night
not because of insomnia but because
sleeping quickens the pace of time
thus we attempt to put it to better use,
somewhere mortal, somewhere breathing

so write,
write about our Singaporean society with a critical eye, but with grace
write about our changing proclivities
write about apprehension for the future
write about transient friendships
write about the sacred ceremony
write about college life

do go back to violins and pianos
don’t relegate talent
to rusty strings

death is anon
so celebrate in dark nights and sing at dawn
do what you do best, boldly

to you, friend
with deep love and illimitable gratitude

I knew, but alas

I am going mad, abysmally mad. I don’t know what’s about your profound and enthralling disposition that makes me want to write about you in the night and in the oddest times of day. I used to dismiss writings that dealt with emotional attachments, for I surmised them to be nothing but hackneyed synonyms of the popular ones that blew off the charts.

Imagine us in an ocean, water that is thickly charming, silent and content. I see you — far at the other end, approaching snow-capped mountains — like green light in the Great Gatsby. I wish you well. I did so in fact, without your knowledge.

What lulls me not is your ambiguity, your unforgettably idiosyncratic features.

I need to learn to smile, and let you go.

The boy who alighted at Beauty World

he drilled his head harmlessly
against a rabbit plush toy he placed
on his father’s thigh

carried a perfectly innocent white smile revealing charming gaps in between his milk teeth

oh sweet little one

he stopped abruptly

Father wholly engaged in whatever
duties his phone demanded of him

he changed from mindless play
to arithmetics
counted his tiny toes
1, 2, 3…. 4,5
and repeated silently
with burgeoning excitement

he is a fortunate child

but alas his father –
parents of this age –
will he regret today
he today
is redolent of other adults
lawlessly authorising their children to play with iPads insolently
on dining tables in restaurants

he is a fortunate child

but may he soon find deep love for books and family
not with his shadow, he thinks of as affinity

You make me discover faces I never thought I had

you make me discover faces I never thought I had
you spurred me to write amorous poetry
and elevated me
to another style of writing
that was fresh and something worth
discovering further
you were a miracle

tonight I am thinking of you
sans longing

there is so much more to write
I can now empathise with Plath’s pellucid descriptions

but I can’t put all of what I feel here —
every feature and poetic connection —
I catch you stealing glances
the world has too many pairs of eyes

everything shall be kept in secrecy
to be buried and kept alive
to be read once again
when I turn 30 or older

you make me sigh
and discover faces I never thought I had

Surgery

I was draped in green scrubs
face and body covered
eyes heavy with obscurity
tasting hot light

his fingers pressed strong on the left jaw
controlled vibrations
coupled with a penetration of a
long
and
deadly
sting

four
bloody
times
were due

rapidly released harmless yellowish toxic
in thick
malingently huge
transparent
syringe

stoic was the dentist
comforting was his sonorous voice
expelled warnings without spirit

there it comes
dreadful drillings
forceful adjustments of tooth
side to side

keep in mind
I lay vulnerable
deprived of sight and light
only came in through
a cloth catered for my mere mouth

it ended
with a release of a tightly clenched fist
and a silent heave of relief

and of course
an imbrued mouth in blood
and two craters in my gums

Gravity

my books are draped with dust
edges repulsively bent by humidity and lost touch
the more I straighten with force
the yellower they morph

on dead skin cells lie Hemingway and Bowen
on cinder-like newspaper lie written words that died
months ago — ink as dry as decayed bones
in my phone lie notes that were typed forcefully

tonight, I read Plath and the alluring pieces of other Singaporeans’ once again
undyingly, peculiar syntax and diction reflect the gravity
of poetry and words
the inexplicable interest in this elusive field;
a hybridisation of philosophy and language, bread and butter

it’s distressing to visualise
the possibility of losing my
metaphors

I don’t wish to delineate trees as biological agents that produce oxygen in sunlight
but
to see these seemingly ominous creations as
withering hands of earth and leaves that will
eventually fall like long nails

hopefully, just hopefully,
I’ll begin to see things in a polished literary lens
and write sans pain

Time and time again

I awake on weekends inhaling absolutely purged air and a sweet tasting of the morning sun. Everything seems to have changed — days are quieter, people are more morose and the shade of green on trees are darker. Rain now falls softly.

I find myself sleeping differently, my head now turns to the ceiling. I don’t read as much as I do before, regrettably. My heart is increasingly hardened by the blinding contrasts I witness in my military stint and perhaps this is why I find myself tougher to write longer; everything is truncated, emotions are evaporated dry almost immediately and while there is still a mess in the heart, there is no time to grab a pen and write it down.

Everything is faster, more sombre and less emotional.

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