Regarding E Learning

Dear All

If you're struggling to find something appropriate for the E Learning task, may I suggest looking for Rhythms (2000) (I think its some millenium poetry anthology). It has poetry in the 4 national languages, translated into the other 3 languages where possible. Its also just a nice read for pleasure!

Good Luck!
Huixin xx

The Sick Rose

O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy

The Merlion

"I wish it had paws," you said,
"It's quite grotesque the way it is,
you know, limbless; can you
imagine it writhing in the water,
like some post-Chernobyl nightmare?
I mean, how does it move? Like a
torpedo? Or does it shoulder itself
against the currents, gnashing with frustration,
its furious mane bleached
the colour of a drowned sun?
But take a second look at it,
how it is poised so terrestrially,
marooned on this rough shore,
as if unsure of its rightful
harbour. Could it be that,
having taken to this unaccustomed limpidity,
it has decided to abandon the seaweed-haunted
depths for land? Perhaps it is even ashamed
(But what a bold front!)
to have been a creature of the sea; look at how
it tries to purge itself of its aquatic ancestry,
in this ceaseless torrent of denial, draining
the body of rivers of histories, lymphatic memories.
What a riddle, this lesser brother of the Sphinx.
What sibling polarity, how its sister's lips are sealed
with self-knowledge and how its own jaws
clamp open in self-doubt, still
surprised after all these years."

"Yet...what brand new sun can dry
the iridescent slime from the scales
and what fresh rain wash the sting of salt
from those chalk-blind eyes?"

A pause.

"And why does it keep spewing that way?
I mean, you know, I mean..."

"I know exactly what you mean," I said,
Eyeing the blond highlights in your black hair
And your blue lenses the shadow of a foreign sky.
It spews continually if only to ruffle
its own reflection in the water; such reminders
will only scare a creature so eager to reinvent itself."

Another pause.

"Yes," you finally replied, in that acquired accent of yours,
"Well, yes, but I still do wish it had paws."

I Am A Rock

Listen...


I am Rock, it ain't no breakin' me
I am Rock, it ain't no shakin' me
I am Rock, that ain't no earthquake, it's me
I am Rock (ohh) I am Rock (ohh)
I am Rock, it ain't no breakin' me
I am Rock, it ain't no shakin' me
I am Rock, that ain't no earthquake, it's me
I am Rock (ohh) I am Rock (ohh) I am Rock


Know when you criticize me, before you try to, do me a solid
Take a short walk in my shoes
My boots, my kicks, my flip-flops, whatever
I done seen rain and I ain't just talkin' weather
But I'm a survivor
Shame on you if you thought I would ever leave
I'm a be right there where the legends be
I am unbreakable, I'm Rock, I am never weak now
I feel weak sometimes, but you'll never see
I'm going through one of the roughest times in my entire life right now
Still I got a slight smile
I'm knowin' it's gonna be better days, like Tupac said
And we go make it like Eve & them two LOX said
Whos not fed up with something
Life's about struggling and overcoming your shortcomings
Not about huffing and puffing and crying without doing nothing
Take them sour lemons, make lemonade, and stop sucking.


I am Rock, it ain't no breakin' me
I am Rock, it ain't no shakin' me
I am Rock, that ain't no earthquake, it's me
I am Rock (ohh) I am Rock (ohh)
I am Rock, it ain't no breakin' me
I am Rock, it ain't no shakin' me
I am Rock, that ain't no earthquake, it's me
I am Rock (ohh) I am Rock (ohh) I am Rock


Rock like coal is, old and dusty
But, y'all already know what's underneath
Give me some time, and keep applying pressure
Watch me shine like the ex-BadBoy
It'll all be fine (all be fine)
Just dig down deep, search for that energy
I can't lose, get in touch with that inner energy
Game face on, see this mug, you'll remember me
Focus out the pain, ignore any injury
Find More lyrics at www.sweetslyrics.com
Then again, I am Rock, can't really injure me
Chip off a piece, all you're gonna get is a little me
Got one from almost every tough time in my history
Hence the new team, ROCK BROVAAAAAAZ, are you still with me?
Got a bunch more, they're in my last stage of misery
My little Gz, that's strength in me, are you kidding me?
I get stronger every time they try to finish me
We don't die, we multiply, can I get a witness, please?


I am Rock, it ain't no breakin' me
I am Rock, it ain't no shakin' me
I am Rock, that ain't no earthquake, it's me
I am Rock (ohh) I am Rock (ohh)
I am Rock, it ain't no breakin' me
I am Rock, it ain't no shakin' me
I am Rock, that ain't no earthquake, it's me
I am Rock (ohh) I am Rock (ohh) I am Rock


Sure there've been times I feel I can't go on
But I am so strong, I really can go on
I ain't saying so long, I ain't goin' home
Rock Man goin' hard, 'til I can't no more

Tomorrow is Friday the thirteenth, me and bad luck
Been have beef, he can't hurt me, he can't serve me
I win every time I see him, even with all his undermining cheatin
Every time I beat him I think the odds must be his crew (huh?)
Word, they've always been against me, too (huh?)
They can't see me neither, anyone thinking he could, keep me out my championship, he fooled


I am Rock, it ain't no breakin' me
I am Rock, it ain't no shakin' me
I am Rock, that ain't no earthquake, it's me
I am Rock (ohh) I am Rock (ohh)
I am Rock, it ain't no breakin' me
I am Rock, it ain't no shakin' me
I am Rock, that ain't no earthquake, it's me
I am Rock (ohh) I am Rock (ohh) I am Rock

Me

I
I have blonde hair
I pluck my eyebrows
I have my father’s nose
my mother’s hands
I have crooked teeth
and green eyes
I play guitar
I used to get sick alot
I like the color of wine
I’ve cheated on boyfriends
I’ve owned fake ID
But my hair is still blonde
and my teeth are still crooked
and I probably won’t always like
the color of wine
II
I have firm breasts
I have lips that always smile
I have veins that bleed
I laugh when I’m nervous
I feel the pain of others
but cry for no reason
I like open flame
I’ve been selfish since a child
I’m from Alaska
but hate the cold
I’ve cheated on diets
I’ve faked applications
But I still bleed
and my lips still smile
and my breasts won’t
always be firm

Human

I did my best to notice
When the call came down the line
Up to the platform of surrender
I was brought but I was kind
And sometimes I get nervous
When I see an open door
Close your eyes
Clear your heart...
Cut the cord

Are we human?
Or are we dancer?
My sign is vital
My hands are cold
And I'm on my knees
Looking for the answer
Are we human?
Or are we dancer?

Pay my respects to grace and virtue
Send my condolences to good
Give my regards to soul and romance,
They always did the best they could
And so long to devotion
You taught me everything I know
Wave goodbye
Wish me well..
You've gotta let me go

Are we human?
Or are we dancer?
My sign is vital
My hands are cold
And I'm on my knees
Looking for the answer
Are we human?
Or are we dancer?

Will your system be alright
When you dream of home tonight?
There is no message we're receiving
Let me know is your heart still beating

Are we human?
Or are we dancer?
My sign is vital
My hands are cold
And I'm on my knees
Looking for the answer

You've gotta let me know

Are we human?
Or are we dancer?
My sign is vital
My hands are cold
And I'm on my knees
Looking for the answer
Are we human
Or are we dancer?

Are we human?
Or are we dancer?

Are we human
Or are we dancer?

TIME

friend/foe
heals and rush
you control : Controls you
More

The Lion King

The musical The Lion King comes to Singapore next September. It is spectacular and you have to see it! A masterful staging if it is anything like what I saw in London.

Cha-Cha & Fiction 55

I look at the patterns of my life
and
got
grieved
at how
some things
never change.

Is it a consistent
pattern of life?

Or is it me?

I
got
quite tired
of
recurrence.

Stepping back and forth
as though a dance.

A step forward,
A step back.

When will this dance end?

Will this
pattern
ever stop?

Back and forth
Forward and back

Cha-cha

Forward and back
Back and Forth

Don't really know what to take of
this
pattern.


Somebody,
anybody,
stop this dance.
Now.


FICTION 55

A red bomb.

She looked at the beautifully printed gold words on the red card, “You are cordially invited to our wedding..”

Call it fate.

In the sea of people and after the many turns in life, they met. Yet again, but too late – name of the bride today is not hers.


Created by: Candy Lee

What do they teach you in school?

Blackmail-able

Drama Workshop Group 1 - There's more where this came from ...

Reading List of Recommended Books

Sec 1-2
Seventeen (Colin Cheong)
Any book by Roald Dahl (Charlie, James & The Giant Peach, Matilda, Short Stories)
A Dip in the Pool (Roald Dahl)
Sing to the Dawn (Minfong Ho)
Red Sky in the Morning (Elizabeth Laird)
Any book by Catherine Lim
Toto Chan

Sec 2-3
Neverwhere / American Gods /Any book by Neil Gaiman
Lord of the Flies (William Golding)
Corridors (Alfian Sa’at)
Macbeth (William Shakespeare)
The Clay Marble (Minfong Ho)
Short Stories (D H Lawrence)
Short Stories (Goh Sin Tub)
Harry Potter series (J K Rowling)
Ten Little Pigs (Agatha Christie)

Sec 3-4
Robinson Crusoe (Daniel Defoe)
To Kill a Mockingbord (Harper Lee)
Me Talk Pretty One Day (David Sedaris)
Romeo & Juliet (William Shakespeare)
The Crucible (Arthur Miller)
The Book Thief (Markus Zusak)
The Bloody Chamber & Other Stories (Angela Carter)
Short Stories (Saki)
Interpreter of Maladies (Short Stories) (Thumpa Lahiri)
Joy Luck Club / Two Kinds (Amy Tan)
The Eyre Affair (Jasper Fforde)
Persuasion (Jane Austen)
Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
Frankestein (Mary Shelley)
Dracula (Bram Stoker)

JC
Parade’s End (Ford Madox Ford)
The Picture of Dorian Grey (Oscar Wilde)
Passion/Stone Gods (Jeanette Winterson)

Sixty

The gong continues as the troop followed the rites closely, paying their last respects to ah gong. dad. No, she had to refrain from it. His stroke depressed her. His death killed her as she silently stared at the last memory she have of him. How does life go on without him-husband of sixty years?

Bitcherel

You ask what I think of your new acquisition;
and since we are now to be 'friends',
I'll strive to the full to cement my position
with honesty. Dear - it depends.
It depends upon taste, which must not be disputed;
for which of us does understand
why some like their furnishings pallid and muted,
their cookery wholesome, but bland?
There isn't a law that a face should have features,
it's just that they generally do;
God couldn't give colour to all of his creatures,
and only gave wit to a few;
I'm sure she has qualities, much underrated,
that compensate amply for this,
along with a charm that is so understated
it's easy for people to miss.
And if there are some who choose clothing to flatter
what beauties they think they possess,
when what's underneath has no shape, does it matter
if there is no shape to the dress?
It's not that I think she is boring, precisely,
that isn't the word I would choose;
I know there are men who like girls who talk nicely
and always wear sensible shoes.
It's not that I think she is vapid and silly;
it's not that her voice makes me wince;
but - chilli con carne without any chilli
is only a plateful of mince...

Plum Blossom or Quong Tart at the QVB

Stroke by labored stroke my daughter

is discovering the sound of her name,

the new old country revealed under

her tiny preschool tentative hand.

She prints the pictogram mu,

a solid vertical stroke like a tree trunk,

a horizontal across for the arms, and a sinuous

downward branch on either side. That is

the radical for wood or tree. And on its right

she prints mei, meaning every, made up from a roof

over the pictogram for mother, mu,

with its nourishing embrace. Grafted on

the tree, it adds up to the talismanic

plum, tree and blossom.

It has been years since I have written

my true name. Watching

it appear in my daughter’s wavery hand

I am rooted, the calligraphy

performing strange magic.

No longer emigrant, foreign

but recalled home, and not to the country

left behind, but further back

beyond the South Sea.

Vague lost connections

somewhere south of the Yangtze.

Karst country, paddies

and mountains the color of jade

My daughter asks why the English

transliteration is Boey and not

Mei. I am stumped.

Many Chinese names

became strange or lost

in the crossing.

How did the first Mei, arriving

with his mother tongue in the colony,

find himself rechristened

Boey? How long did it take

him to grow into the name?

Did he shed it like his queue?

Did he roll it in his mouth, taste

its foreign plosive, swallow it

whole like a ball of rice,

and spit it out Boey,

the pig-tailed coolie in the new colony?

In a few years my daughter will press

for her family history and tree

and I will have nothing more to show

than the withered branch that is

her dead grandfather. So much

buried, irretrievable. It is too late

to ask my father about his father and the father

before. Broken branches. So little history

to go on. One of the homonyms

for mei is nothing. Mei as predicate

to another character erases

that character. The same rising tone

spells bad luck

which runs in the family, it seems.

Perhaps the plum will flourish

on this soil, like the white plum

in our yard, and transplanted,

my daughter can recover

what is lost in translation.

Perhaps she already has.

Last week, at the Queen Victoria Building,

we stumbled on an exhibition

of the life of Quong Tart, the Chinese

pioneer who made it good in White

Australia. A tea merchant,

he married a Scotswoman, sang

Border ballads and wore tartan kilts;

he fed the Aborigines

and played cricket with the whites.

The catalogue printed his original

name Mei, our clan. His face,

a replica of my father’s,

high cheekbones and well-shaped jaw,

had the same charming look. It was my father

made Mandarin of the Fifth Order,

costumed in silk tunic and plumed hat.

Somewhere in south-east China

the clan lived in the same village,

and broadcast rice seed

into paddies of broken skies.

Straw-hatted, they bowed

over plough and mattock,

planted in their reflections

like their name. Then news

came of richer harvests over

the South Sea, the white devils

and their burgeoning empire.

Perhaps great-grandfather sallied forth

with Quong Tart on the same junk,

and disembarked in Malaya, while Quong Tart

continued south. Perhaps they were brothers.

I see the other life my father could have had

staring out from the sepia shots,

if our forbear had travelled on

down-under. I could not explain

to my daughter the déjà vu, but her hand

was already pointing out the Mei

below Quong Tart’s portrait,

the tap of the finger

wiring us, connecting us

in a tremble of recognition.

She has finally learned

the character of her name.

Celluloid Gods

Now the gods reappear, as foretold.
Now a million eyes are held in trance,
a million bodies thrill to a communion
of light and sound, as the gods re-enact
The drama of grief, discrimination,
recrimination, slaughter and recompense.
A million beings pulse
 to the rhythm of one well-rehearsed passion,
a million hearts are in the same confessional,
subject to a single therapy.
(In obscure arenas, beyond the stagelights’ spill,
puny angers flare, combatants are restrained
from leaping out of windows, shadows lock
in mortal embrace, and desperate scholars worm
deeper into their books.) Tomorrow all tongues
will narrate the same cure, publish
the universal miracle. They will affirm
the truth of things witnessed, confirm
the prophesies of the tabloids, and when
the excitement subsides, there will be time
for these mortals to journey
to the paradises of merchandise,
to acquire the promises
flashed in the adverts
before their commerce with the gods
recommences.

On Turning Ten

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

Trapped

He had wanted a kiss from her. "Anybody..." White voices. Voiceless. She's been listening. Impossible. Forgetting time. She's afraid she's gotten use to this inbetween, to the tightness of stasis, atuned to signs of life more than ever but unable to live, to lift up from the heaviness. She wished she had. "Anybody..."

On Marriage

Girl met boy. Girl liked boy. Boy did not really like girl but they dated anyway. Girl made boy marry her. Boy did not want to but agreed anyway. Struggled but managed to live with each other somehow. "Thus grief still threads upon the heels of pleasure, marry in haste & repent at leisure".

Freedom

A light tap on the window. She looked out, gestured to say she knew it was time. Hastily, she tossed her things into a night bag--- her white Sunday frock, the little savings she had and her beautiful lock of hair. She shut the door behind her. The bright yellow moon shone overhead. It was time.

The Amazing Race

He nervously nudged closer to the line. The yellow arrows were not going to obstruct him. His competitors, strapped in their robust gear, gathered about him. With a jolt, it began before he realized it. A shove. From the left. Again. On the back.

Well, at least he still has his trusty ipod in hand.

The Sip

Circling her tongue along its rims; foam teasingly trickled down the curvaceous silhouette. A white coating slowly enveloped her lips. A concoction of tastes sent a rush of ecstasy down her spine. Their glances caught each other for a fleeting moment.

She raised her latte glass and saluted the barrista for a job well done!

The shillings sing a song

Shingalingaling.
The shillings sing a song.
A lucky day for the boggled beggar sitted by the bay.
Big wide grin.

Zehahahaha
Zipping through a throng.
A lucky day for a seasoned swindler counting in a lane.
Big wide grin.

Pussy cat steps. Pussy cat steps.

Swipe swipe swipe. Swipe swipe swipe.

Shingalingaling!
The shillings sing a song.
A lucky day for the thief who cleaned the beggar by the bay.
Big wide grin!

Zehahahaha!
Zipping through a throng.
A lucky day for the thief who swiped the swindler in the lane!
Big wide grin.

Stomp stomp stomp! Stomp stomp stomp!

Bang Bang Bang! Bang Bang Bang!

Shingalingaling.
Bullets sing a song.
Unlucky day for the thief – lifeless wealthless laid to waste
… …

Zehahahaha!
Bigger wider grin.
A lucky day the mugging thug who gave the thief decay
… …

Shingalingaling.
The shillings sing a song.

Se Peh Peh (Lecherous Ah Pek)

Nabe, stop looking at me. Sianz… this fucking old man ah… talk and talk and cannot stop. Just sip your fucking kopi and stop staring at my BOOBS. Never see breasts before issit!!? Cheebye. Every time I see him he talks to me.. “Socio-cultural factors, Sir.” “Very good Sheena”. Ka na sai… these lecturers.

Brussel Sprouts

For I have felt the joy of oak-brown toast
And caught the glint of honey in an eye
And swam with sardines by the ivory coast
Where shrimps and lobsters in their pot did lie
With salt and thyme the appetite to slake.
The reams of menu paper for to read
In dusky joints where yeasty bread was brake
By pasty facéd butlers gone to seed.
Tis much that I have known. And soared with kites
To Olympus where heavn'ly nectar flows
Ta'en gulps of bliss from divine spring, and bites
Of apples which in cloud-top gardens grow.
I've had my share of all the sensual rout
But stay all pure, and love thee, Brussel Sprout.

Once upon a time

Once upon a time I was a novel. I had characters, themes, pages. But the world changed. People could marry who they liked. Orphans found their parents not by finding themselves but by DNA testing. Cliff's notes took my themes with few well-chosen words, and deforestation took some, then all, my pages. Oh, I was a novel, once...

Mummy's Boy

Male, thirty-two, pale, immobile, naked, soaked in a tub. Mummy keeps me close to her, away from young ladies who loved me. After that day, today, everyday, Mummy smiles at me, sings for me, speaks to me. That day, my Mummy killed me. Male, thirty-two, suffocated, dead, preserved, still loved.

Synapses of Love

There was a boy who loved a girl who didn't love him back. So he carved out his hypothalamus and replaced it with some circuitry. But something went wrong with the wiring and he loved her still. Again, he begged her to give him her heart. Unexpectedly, she agreed. Reaching into her breast, she removed a motherboard and said, "Be sure to keep it dust-free."

Tangerine Dream (55 Words)

Once upon a time, there was a boy that dreamt tangerine dreams by night and lived the day without colour. Not too far away, there was a beautiful girl that lived in technicolour while her dreams were monotoned. They met and fell in love. While each alone in lack, in union both complete. The End. Joey

Mercy killing of a condemned mind (fiction 55)

Not asked if I want to be born into this world, something is wrong with me if I cannot fit in with humankind and never the other way round. Should I not be given a choice to decide when this ends? People who oppose are as selfish as the ones who have brought me here.

Dream of a Supermarket

She ran across the rows of canned food and maggi mee. Her cries reverberated through the walls of the supermarket while I ran after her. The chase seemed like it would go on forever but her legs gave up earlier than expected. I reached out and held her to me closely. “I… I’m so sorry…”

Fiction 55

The Crossing

The old man stands at the crossing. His destination is a mere road away. Yet, he hesitates. The traffic light turns red and green, red and green. Still, he stands at the crossing, hesitating.Are there things on this side that he might miss? Green. The cars are coming. He steps out, welcoming his death.

Mobile Phone by WQ

Her scent lingered long after she stormed out, the way it always had on his clothes after he left the bed. His world collapsing around him, he slumped into the sofa. Stronger scent here. Something poked him in his back.
The last audio-visual repository of their love!
He relived ironic bliss in clandestine video recordings.

What Ifs

Familiar stranger you
your indifference to my fallen arrows
on a shield of recognition
Is it time’s abjection?
Or am I fool again to venture
such courage
displaced
on his arm the artwork accessorized
Purveyor, has he made such inroads
to your heart
upon such holzwege my weary self
expired?
Would another time and space
grant me a lightening within these depths
if I had not another clearing sought
upon my own arm
here
This is she.

-    Andreas La Coeur

Fiction 55: He and She

She drank a glass of wine and walked out of the bar. He noticed her a second too late. Then everyday, he waited for her in the same bar, sitting on the same stool. She never appeared again, while he, killing time, fantasized over and over again how everything could have been different.