near drowning

image by Shona Nelson Studio

I'm not afraid of water. Not since my hands
slipped off the tiled edge of a swimming pool,
where one pauses at the sidelines, feel the
buoyancy without any need to tread water.

(Writing this down, I remember how my dad,
the swimmer, held my girl's body, skin on skin,
treading crystal water. His aura of protection,
tied like a locket, in my woman's memory.)

I was a beginner swimmer, dog-paddling,
frog-kicking, till I thrilled to float. The day
I sought the deep end, it was surreal.
No one knew I had quietly slipped away.

Opening my mouth, like a fish. If only
I had gills. Sheer panic. I was thrashing,
swallowing buckets. I did not think of
whales, dolphins and sea urchins.

A quicksilver slideshow the speed of
light: the life of a twelve-year-old.
Drowning, I thought it was prosaic,
a child's tune, without contrasts.

I thought, oh no. This is the end.
As I thought, I felt my hand hit
a solid wall. The forsaken edge.
In a second, I was above water,

embraced by the mundanity of being
one in a sea of people in a public pool.
Out of the amniotic pool, surfacing
on water washed in mellow sunlight.

The moment was clear as day. Even as
memory started blurring, like undulating
ripples stilled, turned consciousness inside
out. The hands of the clock started moving.

first school recess

image by mickbab


A tiny bob entered the field.
Above the boisterous chatter,
she could just make him out,
in his fresh pressed uniform.

He’s alone in a big field,
clutching the sandwich
ziplock bag, his water bottle
swaying awkwardly.

A soccer ball strayed to him.
Making a run for it, he slammed
the ball back, to the bigger boys.
It volleyed past, a tracking orb.

First school day. A young mum waited
by the window, found her son through
nosey binoculars. Did a double take,
when she saw her rookie conquer.

tithe

image by oasisseatlechurch

A red velvet purse the shape of a
pitcher, fixed on the end of a metal
pole, reached the length of each pew.

My grandmother thrusted a psalm of
a note in my small palm, taught me
by hand softly, how to give is to receive.

Denominations in dollars and notes
jangled heavily, nestled in the compact
glove, richly laden with gratitude.

our nation's fireworks

We’ve outshone ourselves. How our little island state
leapt from third world to first. From attap houses
and tenements to five-roomers and fitted condos.
A rags to riches story. Some say, an economic miracle.

Our immigrant forefathers came to seek their fortune.
Our parents put in the first building blocks. In just two
generations, we grabbed our lion’s share, filled our rice
bowl to the brim. Some say, our land is shaped like a dragon.

Fantastical fireworks will pulverise our senses as Singapore

turns forty-four. Exploding penumbras of light over Marina Bay,

a barrage platform for an august celebration. Every year,

streaking our precious indelible joy over the magical night sky.

homunculus

I couldn’t quite figure the chanting
taking on a life, ooga-chaka ooga-chaka.
A bobbing, naked baby, amorphous
and dancing to a biological beat.

Then, that monster urge towards hubris,
mould the shape-shifting body to its purpose.
Overwhelming desire tingling every cell, as
the first egg cell split, heeding a primordial chant.

So I’m hooked on a feeling. So powerful
I would give anything to feel the pulsating
baby, a homunculus tap-dancing inside.
Those cell-splitting days shifted like a fog.

Read Write Poem

girl meets stranger, in dream

image by Fractal Artist

I’ve no idea where I am. Feels like disembodied
consciousnessness but I have a body. Murkily
wandering in a place which refracts everything
I’ve ever thought about, filled with phantoms.

Wait, it’s sculpturing a plot. I like this, falling
into the arms of a male stranger, the close orbit
with another body. A magnet of desire pulling me.
A delicious physical sensation washes over me.

Oh shoot. I’m thinking it’s only a dream.
I try with my mind to hold on to the sweet plot.
Already, the dream's quickly slipping away.
What a spoiler. Mind games, that’s all.

Discovery & Living, India and Laos: encounters with humanity

Plain of Jars image by Andrea Peverali

Sheesh Mahal image by lumiere

Travel the Wright way, douse the trip with humour.
Rollicking fun in a vintage car. “To the palace, please.”
At the Udaipur palace, Wright sipped tea with the Princess.
More British eccentricities. “How do I address you?”
Maharani answered casually, a proper Anglo-Indian,
“Whatever you’re comfortable with.” A tour of the palace,
the Rajput legacy enjoyed by present-day descendants.
They peered into the sheesh mahal, the room with shining
plates of mirror-work. They gazed upon the palatial grounds
through intricate window balconies. At night, the City Palace
bathed in technicolour, an elaborate light and sound show,
the lights of modernity against the silhouette of an ancient
civilization. In typical rambunctious fun, Wright, dressed
in white tights, saddled a horse playing polo with royalty.

No reservations needed. Urbane, poetic. Food taster,
Boudain explored the markets of Laos, slurped soupy noodles
with chilli paste. He did more than that. Travelling to the Plain
of Jars, the stone urns dotting devastation in the northeast
bordering Vietnam. More bombs dropped here than anywhere
else. Rural folk still paying the price of the Vietnam War with
an arm and a leg. Sat in a ramshackled hut. Here’s a farmer
whose shovel had hit a hidden shell. So many like him. A buried
minefield, the land the Lao people till for a living off dirt tracks.
Boudain’s thinking how this place passes for normal. He puffed
a cigarette as he watched the UXB team detonating collected bombs
in surreal puffs of smoke. Millions still lie buried. Early morning,
the travel host watched reverently the people donating rice balls
as yellow-robed monks held out their empty bowls. The forgotten land.