Stepping Into by Cyril Wong

the flat this evening,
something strange happened;


the veranda became a veranda,
the yellow lamp on the wall


a yellow lamp on the wall,
the mat on the floor turned red


instead of its present blue,
the woman who looked up


from the shelf of potted plants -
now a shelf of mangled bonsai -


became a woman with subtler lines
underneath her eyes, speaking,


as she had once spoken,
'Never forget.' I nodded,


as I had always nodded.
'I won't.' But that was then.

12am - dressing up naked - Joel Tee

layer by layer,
I peel off this
crumbling armour.
Dirty work. Mea culpa,
exposing the sin of
desire. My hands
bleed red. Show of face.
Throw away this Judas to the Jesus
in his head. Under this lonely state
we’ll all fade. So layer
by layer I strip this soul
naked, where is that Scapel,
where are the bandages?
and a surgeon gotta have his
gloves. My stars shine ahead
like lost sages, So layer
by layer I reopen resilient
wounds that just
wouldn’t heal. Layer by
layer I dress up by unclothing
the deceiving.

(It’s a mess of red
and white on the floor.
That is my body.)
My soul runs free.


(Information should be accurate at the time of poem submission.)

Joel Tee is currently a secondary four student studying in Singapore. His hobbies include reading, writing and playing the guitar among other things he likes history, literature, and music. He writes poetry for leisure in his spare time. (http://www.poetrybillboard.com/authorview.asp?aid=27)

Void Deck

Where the neighbourhood wives,
After a morning at the wet market,
Sit facing the breeze
To trade snatches of gossip
About leery shopkeepers,
The local louts,
(Like that fella who's always drilling his walls –
Gives me migraine)
And that mad woman
Who throws things from her window.
With careful put-downs they
Fashion boasts, about stubborn sons,
Lazy daughters, who by some miracle or mistake
Always score well in class.
When words falter,
Gestures take over: pursed lips, rolling eyes,
Animated hands adorned by bangles of
Gold, jade, steel, string.

And children orbit around them
Laugh without diction –
Their games of tag a reassurance
That there has been no hothousing
Of who is unclean, unwashed,
Untouchable. When they break out
Into some kindergarten song,
One almost believes in a generation
Cleansed of skin-deep suspicions,
And free from the superstitions of the tongue –

And old folks sit like sages
To deploy chess pieces with ancient strategies.
In a corner, a caged bird bursts
With the song of its master's pride
And wrinkled women breathe, through
Tai-chi-tuned windpipes, the operatic melody of the air...

All a wanton fantasy.

Eyes reveal a meeting-point
For loners and loiterers:
A sense of things reduced-
Conversations that trickle through
Brief noddings at lift landings,
Teenage rhetoric scrawled, in liquid paper,
On the stone-table chessboard,
(Where the king used to sit)
The grandiose house-selling dreams of residents
Compacted in anonymous letterboxes;
As an afterthought, an old man pees
Under a public phone.

A place to be avoided, this,
How in its vastness it devours hours.
Little wonder then,
Why residents rush through void decks
Back to the cramped comforts of home
As if in fear of what such open space might do
To cosy minds.

Singapore Literature

For those interested in reading what's been said about our local lit:

http://www.ethosbooks.com.sg/store/writing_resources/articles/article_spore.html


For those from NUS, there's an article by Prof. Patke as well! I realise that there's just a handful of resources on this site, but it's a start!


Cheers,
Nadia