Goodbye Shinjuku

Rosemary at Poets & Storytellers United would like us to write about "a city (or cities) you dream of — in whatever way." I drag a poem sitting quietly in my hard disc and dust it off...

photo of Shinjuku by dsnake1



Goodbye Shinjuku


goodbye Shinjuku
you have been a good host

though the cold rain
is another matter

and the times i have gotten lost
at your immense station.
there's a freaking town
under there i swear.

i drag my old samsonite shell
over uneven pavements
to catch a bus to Narita
and the flight home

Godzilla's head rears up
from the Toho Building
eyes glowing, nose smoking

and as the bus turns a corner
to exit for the highway
a tingle of regret

like leaving a lover
telling her a lie
after complimenting her

i am going to miss
your wet streets
your kawaii girls giving out fliers
the loud signboards
the neon on puddles
onigiri for breakfast
the hotel staff that surprises me
speaking perfect English
the cold winds
in the mornings
the 7-Elevens, Lawsons
at every street corner
the greetings
as you passed
through the norens
at the izakaya bars,
ramen shops

Goodbye Shinjuku, sayonara
you have been a great host
till we meet again.



written : Dec 2019
revised : 17/06/2023
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“All cities are mad: but the madness is gallant. All cities are beautiful, but the beauty is grim.”

― Christopher Morley

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2023

the city sheds its skin like a snake

This is a picture prompt from The Sunday Muse, prompt #168. Okay, I know it's a wee too late to post there.

image from The Sunday Muse



the city sheds its skin like a snake


change
you can see it
slowly surely
like the way dead skin cells
fall from the body
old houses
fall down
for steel monoliths
the way peasants
bow to kings
and
you are back in the city
it has changed
it has not changed
much
now we look for
a good cell signal
and the cafes
the way the signs
change their fonts
and the friendly old waiter
who serves you no more.

you can feel the sudden
rain that falls on you
cold as ice.

more broken asphalt
detour signs
they are still digging roads
to pile in more cables
to power
warehouses and schools,
penthouses and tenements
you sidestep orange cones
and puddles
the foreign workers in
luminous vests clawing
at the road in excavators
the smell of tar
rising from the summer road.

you can feel the city
shedding its old skin
like a snake.



21/07/2021
**********

Shared at Writer's Pantry #81 at Poets and Storytellers United.

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I love my city, even though it crushed our little shanty home and made it a container port. Now I like it's tree-lined streets, streetlights that work, 24-hour convenience stores, and air-conditioned malls to escape the heat. The whole city seem like a theatre, us brisk walking to the subways, the traffic lights changing red to green, the mother pulling her crying child along is an actor, the boys pushing a ball at the basketball court are living their dreams. And even at night the city never sleeps.

- dsnake1

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

nights on a thin mattress, redux

when you don't have much and need to live...

photo by Sarah_Loetscher at pixabay



nights on a thin mattress, redux


do not tempt fate with us, our tempers are thin
when 8, 9 people are crammed into a tiny flat.
sometimes the cops call, it is the neighbours.
they do not like our ugly faces, or something.
then they see some guys lounging, smoking
a little stand fan turning, oily fumes in the air,
a stale smell of dried sweat, dirty clothes on walls.
oft times we turn on the old telly, max the volume
watch what's in the box, like everyone else
argue about why Saturday Night Fever is so big
or we will just roll out our thin mattresses
trying to grab some sleep, thinking of money
loads of it, and the hot girls we had missed.

sometimes maybe around 2 a.m., deep sleep
there are sounds of breaking glass, taunts
mentions of human anatomy, crude language
some fearless drunks down at the coffee shop
they are playing at muay thai and jeet kun do.
we come out to the corridor, to the parapet,
lean out, kaypoh, shirtless in the hot night
see if blood is spilt, money or pride is lost.
then a hothead from upstairs, sleep interrupted,
would lean over the parapet,no malice lost,
nabeh, who the fuck is making noise,
i am coming down with a fucking knife!
and the night is suddenly all quiet again,
until the day takes over, the sun rising
over the bleak factories, the muddy sites,
and compounds we will all be going to
after we have rolled up our thin mattresses,
the dust motes, clear in the morning light.


19/06/2019
**********


this is one of the poems that i wanted to submit for a poetry competition. This is actually a rework of an older poem. Kind of a bit gritty and ugly for a competition. Maybe not.

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"You sigh too much," she said. "Sighing is a sign of defeat". We were sitting on a park bench, trying to decipher the stars in the dark blue night sky. I repeated her words again. I held her closer in the warm, sweaty night, hoping the world will not fail us both.

-- dsnake1

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

every morning the sun looks in

in limbo in the city...

photo by dsnake1



every morning the sun looks in


Every morning the sun looks in with the gaze of a bored child.
Today, a white cloud, with a face of Jesus, floats past the window.

Every second that passes makes me wiser, not necessarily older.
My poems are buried in my pc, they have served their purpose.

Today, a white cloud, with a face of Che, floats past the window.
Disinterested pigeons waddle past on the sidewalk, fat and mean.

My poems died in scraps of paper, they have served their purpose.
The neighbours do not talk much, just smile, we have our secrets.

Disgruntled pigeons waddle past on the sidewalk, fat and free.
The mound of cigarette butts in the ashtray starts to smolder.

The neighbours do not talk much, some smile, we have our secrets.
A blind musician sits on the worn stairs, plucking guitar strings.

The mound of cigarette butts in the ashtray starts to sputter.
At 7 p.m.a police cruiser slides by quietly past the 7-11.

A lady in yoga tights walks her pit bull down the worn stairs.
Late day shadows are darker, who may be hiding in them?

At 8 p.m. a police cruiser slides by quietly past the laundromat.
Late day shadows are darker, what may be hiding in them?

Every second that passes makes me wiser, not merely older.
Every morning the sun looks in with the gaze of a bored child.


18/01/2019
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“What's in store for me in the direction I don't take?”

― Jack Kerouac

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

please slow down

This is a response to the Midweek Motif prompt at Poets United, and the theme was "Food". I know, this is the weekend. The world is getting too fast for me.

photo by dsnake1




please slow down


all i had this morning
was a hasty ham sandwich
and a milo washing down
my meds

oh how i dream of my
steaming chwee kueh topped
with sinful bits of
preserved radish.

but time is a tightfisted
master swinging his whip
and there is a bus
to catch.




written 16/12/2015
revised 13/01/2016
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Note : chwee kueh is a traditional Chinese breakfast food in Singapore and Malaysia. Literally meaning "water cake", it is a steamed rice cake with an oily (and cholesterol laden) topping of preserved radish.

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"Ask not what you can do for your country. Ask what’s for lunch.”

― Orson Welles


Shared on Poetry Pantry #285 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

words on a dusty pane

I am very busy with work this week, so I am posting a poem that I had published here a few years back.

I kind of like this poem. It's moody, reflecting my mood when I wrote it at that time. It's about a district where I used to live. It was not a pretty place to live in. First there was the nearby gasworks. You wondered when it might flatten the whole place one day. Then there were the sawmills, backyard factories and workshops. And the denizens are just as varied. Besides the shabbily dressed workers of the area are triad members and leftist activists. And us poor folks trying to survive.

sketch and image by dsnake1



words on a dusty pane
circa 1970s, Kallang



Outside, the city lurches by
in frames of moving headlights
and mottled skies.

tonight there are no screams
from the shadows of concrete,
no clash of metal blades, no sirens.

through the windows the night
snakes in choking with prejudice
and soot from dying sawmills

when hours earlier the rain
had pelted the decaying streets
like swarms of stinging wasps.

soon it will be dawn,
the first slivers of light
promising hope

painting peeling walls
and rusted steel
with bold strokes of liquid gold,

shinning through
angry words
on a dusty pane.


09.02.07
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"Oh, I tell you baby this increases my paranoia
Yeah, like looking in my mirror and seeing a police car"

-- David Crosby, Almost Cut My Hair


Shared on Poetry Pantry #134 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

live rock at club woodstock

Yes, yes, another archaeological find from my NaPoWriMo archives.

Back in the bad 80's there was this club on the roof of Far East Plaza which played the hardest rock in town. I can't remember the resident band's name, but it was good, doing covers of Pink Floyd (Another Brick in The Wall was played to death), Scorpions. et al. Come to think of it, in our beer-drenched state, every song that exploded out of the speakers was good. :)







photo by FlyingPete
image from morguefile.com




live rock at club woodstock



i)
the band was gunning through
a pink floyd number
heart-stopping bass
rolling thunder
like a tribe
on the eve of battle
we punched our fists
into the smoky air
and as one uttered the call
another brick in the wall.

ii)
and the maori trooper rose up
from his rickety chair
like a dark hill shaken by a quake
said he gonna take a leak
(we suspected he was looking for trouble)
we parted like he was the plague
counting the seconds
before the first glass breaks.



written          : 22/04/2011
slightly revised : 12/01/2013
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"All in all you're just another brick in the wall".

-- Pink Floyd, Another Brick in the Wall - Part 2



Shared on Poetry Pantry #132  at Poets United.

Also shared on Poets Rally Week 77 at Hyde Park Poetry.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

what's left

This poem was published in the e-zine Concelebratory Shoehorn Review

I wrote this poem on one wet evening, after a bad day in the office. It's understandable why the mood is dark. :)



photo by gamerzero
image from morguefile.com



what's left



what's left
of the sunlight
on this bleak
wet evening
dances on
the gleaming
skins of
puddles on
bare pavements

as shadows chase
the day
up the
stone piers
of train viaducts
and the
damp trunks
of rain trees.

what are the
chances of
the silvery slice
of cold moon
cutting through
grey nimbus
like a scimitar?

until then
the last rays
dip and play
and dart
over the city

over the trains
pulling into
the stations

and

the tired
hungry masses
trudging home.


06/12/2007
**********



© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

Re-post : dawn comes (noisily)

It was a stock market at the office this week. Ran out of time. Ran out of ideas, ran out of gas.

So I will make do with another re-post, an old poem I wrote long ago, and which I had the audacity to submit to a national poetry competition. :)


image by dsnake1



dawn comes (noisily)


Six o'clock

The night sky daintily lifts its veil
& blotches of iron-grey smear
like peeling paint on an ancient wall
as cauliflowers of dark clouds
     splash around
         like flak.

No rooster crow
this is the city
but dawn comes noisily
sporadic janglings
rouse struggling brains
& carried over the morning air
     throats clearing
     bawling
     & somewhere a metal plate falling

On the streets below
smoke-belching buses
toil through overworked gears
never sleeps
and people scurrying through
     hard streets
     feet wearing asphalt
sleepwalking
to factories to schools to ports


Seven o'clock

The street lamps
sodium sentinels of the night
extinguishing
the duty guards
dismissing.



*** 01-08-1988 ***