and so the day is actually good

This was written for a poetry competition, about 'catharsis', or what makes you feel good. I thought this is not a poem to win a competition, and thus did not submit it.

photo by dsnake1



and so the day is actually good


I cannot escape the day's fatigue
nor the harsh words that were said.

So as I step out of the guarded compound
the night air kicks in like a sigh.

Spotlights bath the nearby church's steeple
guiding its poor children going home.

The street lights' poor reach
hides the waving weeds by my feet.

The legs heavy gait now jaunty
the vines grabbing them loosened their grip.

Now the welcome headlights of the bus
and a warm meal waiting at home, at last.



31/08/2019
**********


And so, this is probably my last post for the year, a little 'happy' poem. Happy Holidays to all my readers! 😃🎄⛄

---

Lucie,Too - Lucky

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2022

The Comet

Back in 1986, when Halley's Comet shot past the Earth, a newspaper organised a poetry writing contest to commemorate the event. The first prize was a telescope (a Baush & Lomb Cassegrain reflector), which I thought was cool at that time. Hey, the poem that I wrote won that scope. Tell me that it's good. 😁

photo by dsnake1 (that's the telescope I won)




The Comet


Like clockwork, you returned from an endless celestial journey
           Halley
And we, on this fragile planet, itself hurtling,
we wonder, we dread, we marvel

what you really are, a heart of ice, gas and dust?
           Ha!
Did tyranosaurus rex snarl at you on a visit to primeval Earth?
Or were you making your pilgrimage since the Sun's birth?

       Did you bring about Hastings?
       Did you fell the Qing?

And we, with our computers, our lasers, still call you a stranger,
           Wanderer.
Like a puzzle, you fascinate us, the ancient and the young.
You'll still do, in Twenty-sixty-one.



18.04.1986
**********

Maybe twice in a lifetime

---

Scientific American - Halley's Comet changed humanity. This is how.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2022

my father's clothes

there is always a strange silence at wakes.

photo by kytalpa at pixabay



my father's clothes



and i wonder if his work clothes
his heavy cotton jackets
                        slacks
                        boots
will ever miss his hammers
                        saws
                        and nails
and the sawdust lodged in the hems.

and there at his funeral, his wake
laid out on a wooden chair
in front of his coffin
         a white long-sleeve shirt
         a blue tie with stripes
         a grey pair of slacks, slightly frayed
         and a pair of black dress shoes, polished
a combination he seldom wear in his life.

how do you explain death to the clothes?
how to tell them how much we loved him?
that he is not going to come back to us anymore?
and as we, his children
sat around a table folding
paper gold and silver ingots
to ease his passage to the afterlife

his cloths sat still and silent
under the fluorescent lights
and the flicker of candles.


31/03/2019
**********

Written for the Golden Point Awards 2019 poetry competition. Never got around to submit it.

---

"and a light
from an
oil lamp

to guide

the way"

-- dsnake1, hell notes

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

no one thinks of politics when he is hungry

somehow, there is order in chaos...

photo by darksouls1 at pixabay



no one thinks of politics when he is hungry



i feel like
i am the crab in the glass tank at the zi char stall
staring at the raffia strings tied around the pincers
and trying to escape.

the waitress comes holding the menu askew and recommends the song fish head in black bean paste. the same fish that caused the poisoning cases some time back, no thank you i don't want to be another statistic. i order a plate of hor fun, you don't expect me to finish that damn fish head alone anyway? she saunters off, shouts something towards the kitchen and hides in the smoking zone to steal a puff.

The beer lady is next, walks over, smiles and asks how many bottles of Heineken I want. I blink. In my not too distant past, i can drink like a hippo, but no more. i tell her i just want a teh, she says something like uncle join that queue at the counter for your teh and walks off, swinging her bottle opener.

i feel like
i am the crab in the glass tank at the zi char stall
scratching at the thick glass walls before the chef
comes with the cleaver.




revised : 07/04/2019
*****************


actually, this is about politics. sorry, my foreign readers, lots of local terms.
This is also an intended entry for the 2019 Golden Point Awards poetry competition.

---

some foreign notes :

zi char - a hokkien term in Singapore (literally cook and fry) describing a Chinese food stall which provides a wide selection of common and affordable dishes, found in most kopitiams and hawker centres.

hor fun - Cantonese rice noodle strips stir-fry over high heat and served with seafood or meat.

teh - tea, from the Malay language, which was in turn taken from the Hokkien dialect.

song fish - Asian Bighead Carp, a freshwater fish.

uncle - no, not about relatives. any middle age or elderly man

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

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.

---

"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

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

slag

it is not just about the haze that rolls in from indonesia. perhaps it is more than that...

photo by dsnake1
of an art installation at a museum



slag



it does not look like red slag
from a furnace
red like a bruise on a face
after a fist fight
it has been like that
since september
a dragon's breath
it blows teeth
sharp as razors
the sweat rolling
down scalps
to sizzle
on dry asphalt
the words hot
           hot
scalding

the sky
a frenzy of grey hammerheads

           circling



30/10/2015
**********



this is one of the poems that i wanted to submit for a poetry competition. i think it is not too bad. and yes, what good timing, the haze has just rolled in from indonesia...

---

The sky is not falling
but it is growing teeth

*

from “All the Sweat Inside My Handshake” by David Greenspan


This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in hysterical ways.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

Golden Point Awards 2019

To plunge in or not?

photo by dsnake1



Golden Point Award 2019


Yes, it's back, the biennial Golden Point Awards, Singapore’s premier creative writing competition for Short Story and Poetry in its four official languages: English, Chinese, Malay and Tamil.

I am thinking of participating in the English Poetry category. Presently, I am working on five poems, in various stages of editing. They are good poems, I think. City life themed, a bit dark, angry, violence just brewing below the surface before it erupts. There's always uneasiness with these types of works.

The deadline has been extended to 16 August 2019, which is good news for tardy and forgetful people like me.

Update (14/08/2019) : The deadline has been extended to 26 August 2019. Slightly more breathing space.

Update (29/08/2019) : The deadline has breezed by and I am still holding on to the poems. So no entries from me. 😦

Update (14/09/2019) : Feeling a tinge of regret. Should have send in those 5 poems. I think they are pretty good. With titles like these, why not?
- all the road signs
- no one thinks of politics when he is hungry
- nights on a thin mattress, redux
- my father's clothes
- slag
- the old gangster
😶

---

SEND IN THE DAMN MANUSCRIPT!

- Reminder in my smartphone.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

because time

A question of identity then, a question of mortality now.

photo by dsnake1



because time



because
     the old block of flats is gone
     with its rusted railings, paint
     and love poems peeling from walls
     chipped concrete, vomit stains
     and flocks of contented pigeons
     in its place an intimidating
     30 something storeys tower
i lost my way

because
     these are the worn stone steps
     where we sat like buddhas
     talking our woes, and what ifs
     bummed a cigarette when poor
     at the only place we had then
     waiting for the long night
     to call off its foot soldiers
those stones are gone!

because
     It was here one of the boys
     brought along a parang one night
     "is it lovely?", (it was lovely)
     but careful with that, Ah Huat
     it is easy to end up in the CID
     if we could not explain that steel
     such were the streets we walked
those streets are gone!

and because
     i come back to look for you
     these streets now sterile
     with clean-cut girls and boys
     and people in coffee shops
     with lottery slips wishing
     of being instant millionaires
     and because time was not kind
i, an old man,

     stumble back into the noise
     and tunnels of the train station.




20/11/2018
**********

This was a poem submitted for a national competition. It was not among the finalists. No one wants to read about old men, I guess.

---

"I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

-- Sylvia Plath, Mad Girl's Love Song

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

National Poetry Competition 2019

image by maciiej326 at pixabay


National Poetry Competition 2019


I submitted a poem to the National Poetry Competition 2019 at the Poetry Festival Singapore. The theme was "Metamorphosis". I kind of like what I wrote. Perhaps I have softened to mush?

I submitted it on the deadline (you know i like to get things done on the last minute) and was supposed to get a confirmation email about the submission. There was none and I thought it was a minor glitch.

So recently I emailed the organisers regarding the confirmation. And gawd! no, they have not received my entry I submitted on their online form. Perhaps this is a lesson to be learnt for last minute work.

Anyway, the good people at Poetry Festival SG had kindly made an exception, and allowed me to resubmit my entry via mail. I am keeping my fingers crossed now.

Update 19/05/2019 : No, the poem I submitted was not among the finalists. It will be up on this blog soon. :)





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

Another beer

This one was written and submitted for the Golden Point Awards 2007 competition. Now you can see why it didn't impress the judges.

photo by manfredrichter at pixabay



Another beer


the table top was a map
of battle sites or
was it the rings
of an old tree?
anyway
the empty bottles
were lined up
like stacks of
brown chimneys.
my friend stubbed
out his cigarette
on the said formica top
chain smoked another
and
tried to jab a slice
of century egg into
his mouth
all at the same time
and i was thinking i
had had enough
of this shit.
i was leaning back
on the chair
trying very hard
not to fall
when the beer girl
with the tight t-shirt
came over trying to
convince us
to buy another beer.


21.07.2007
**********


For the blue-collar slobs like us at that time, the poison of choice was beer. There's nothing like a few friends emptying beer bottles rapidly at a table. :)

---

“You can't be a real country unless you have a beer and an airline - it helps if you have some kind of football team, or some nuclear weapons, but in the very least you need a beer.”

― Frank Zappa

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

going to work

I wrote and submitted this poem for a competition, "Moving Words", way back in 2011.

It was to present works by Singaporean poets in the media spaces in the trains (SMRT) and stations. Although my poems were not shortlisted, 3 of them were selected for publication in an anthology, "Moving Words 2011 : A Poetry Anthology".

photo/image by dsnake1




going to work


this city outside the moving bus
was a throbbing blur of walls
and trees and impatient traffic

they said sunrises and mornings
are beautiful but someone must be lying
it was just a razor that hurts the eyes

as i rubbed a two-day stubble on my chin
the lady in the opposite seat was nervous
pretending to read a book check her nails

i do admit i don't look friendly
but i am running late i miss my cigarettes
i still have to clock 8 hours in the office


july 2011
*********

If this piece sounds cynical it is because i have to work on a public holiday.

---

“You can't understand a city without using its public transportation system.”

― Erol Ozan


Shared on Poetry Pantry #309 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

The Comet

Okay, this is really something old. I wrote this poem a long time ago, and it appeared in this blog not long after I started it.

Way back in 1986, when Halley's Comet shot past the Earth, the Straits Times (our national newspaper) organised a poetry writing contest to commemorate the event. The first prize was a telescope (a Baush & Lomb Cassegrain reflector), which I sort of fancied at that time. Hey, the poem that I wrote won that scope, but it is now somewhere in my storeroom gathering fungi.





image from Wikimedia Commons



The Comet



Like clockwork, you returned from an endless celestial journey
        Halley
And we, on this fragile planet, itself hurtling,
we wonder, we dread, we marvel


what you really are, a heart of ice, gas and dust?
        Ha!
Did tyranosaurus rex snarled at you on a visit to primeval Earth?
Or were you making your pilgrimage since the Sun's birth?


        Did you bring about Hastings?
        Did you fell the Qing?


And we, with our computers, our lasers, still call you a stranger,
        Wanderer.
Like a puzzle, you fascinate us, the ancient and the young.
You'll still do, in Twenty-sixty-one.



18.04.1986
* * * * * *

Maybe twice in a lifetime.

---

Note : One of the rules of that contest was that the poem must be less than 100 words. Not much to wriggle about. But it suits me fine. :)


Shared on Poetry Pantry #152 at Poets United

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

and a time for love

This poem is part of a collection that I submitted to a nation-wide poetry competition a few years back.

It is actually part of a longer poem that I wrote. I chopped off some parts and this is the result. This poem is about some of the experiences I encountered while living in a rough neighbourhood during my younger days.

If you are wondering, no, I did not win any prizes in the competition. :)





image by dsnake1
drawn with Sketchpad from mugtug.com



and a time for love



the scimitar of a moon
hung delicately in a cobalt dome
of dancing stars

as the rain trees
spread their arms their leaves
rustled in a chorus of joy

her hands in mine
warm as morning's light, quiet
there was no need for words

through the chatter of
the crickets, the cicada bands
we tried to catch Sirius

in our hands



31/07/2007
revised 08/12/2012
**********

---

"Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye."

-- H. Jackson Brown, Jr.


This is for Poetry Pantry Week # 127.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2012

going to work

I submitted this poem for a poetry competition "Moving Words" in 2011. It was to present works by Singaporean poets in the media spaces in SMRT trains and MRT stations. Although my entries were not shortlisted, 3 of them were selected for publication in an anthology, "Moving Words 2011 : A Poetry Anthology".

This is one of the works.




photo by alvimann
image from morguefile.com



going to work




this city outside the moving bus
was a throbbing blur of walls
and trees and impatient traffic

they said sunrises and mornings
are beautiful but someone must be lying
it was just a razor that hurts the eyes

as i rubbed a two-day stubble on my chin
the lady in the opposite seat was nervous
pretending to read a book check her nails

i do admit i don't look friendly
but i am running late i miss my cigarettes
i still have to clock 8 hours in the office

---

This poem is for Poets Rally Week 68.


© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2012

spectator

This was a poem which I wrote as an entry for the Moving Words poetry competition recently. It did not make it to the trains or the anthology of poems, so here it is.

I quite like this poem, though.. Sigh.

I am posting this for Thursday Poets Rally Week 57.




photo by terranovesca
image from morguefile.com




spectator



silently

the blackbirds hunch
like paper cut-outs
on the edges
of the rooftops
in the smoky haze
drifting in
from the landfills
watching
the last rays
of the sunset
battling the oncoming

night


08/04/10
********







© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2011

jasmine

This poem was part of a series or theme I submitted for a nation-wide poetry competition a few years back. It was based on actual people and experiences I encountered while living in the Jalan Bukit Merah area, a neighbourhood with a reputation that was not too pleasant at that time.

I am posting this for Thursday Poets Rally Week 54.




image by dsnake1



jasmine


jasmine squatted with her friends
at the stair landing.
spiking her cigarette
with heroin,
pushing the white stuff in
with a ear-pick.

jasmine, not yet eighteen,
was pretty, even
in harsh fluorescent lights
but her eyes
spoke with a fury
darker than this night.

soon after her fix,
she would go down these stairs
and hail a taxi
to the cabaret,
to a world of masks
where she works.

you think i wanted this life,
she would ask me
let those lechers touch me?
no, she's in for the money,
where can she go,
not the factories?

it would not feed her family,
her useless junkie boyfriend.
there were always almost tears
in those mascaraed eyes.
that's why she smokes the smack
trying to forget the pain, the shame.

and carrying the weight
of her world on those
rounded shoulders
she stood up,
straightened her skirt
and walked down those grimy stairs

in her stilettos,
in clothes
that were not meant
for her age.




03/09/06
revised :
15/08/2011,
03/10/2011
**********

---

Life is the sum of all your choices.

- Albert Camus

---

to jasmine and serene, and annie and linda, wherever they may be.



© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

Moving Words - a poetry competition

I thrive on the last-minute, the deadline. Today, I fired off 6 poems for the Moving Words poetry competition.

This competition is open to all Singapore citizens and Permanent Residents. Twelve best entries will be shortlisted by a panel of judges, and the poems displayed in the SMRT trains and stations. (SMRT is a major transport provider)

It hopes, through this project , that the thousands of daily commuters in our city, will come to appreciate local poetry. The poems will be showcased from August to October 2011, the public will vote for their favourite entry, and the votes will decide the winning poem.

Oh yes, the closing date is 15th July 2011. :)




©cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

before the next day

I wrote this poem for a national (Singapore) poetry competition, the Golden Point Awards 2007. It was the concluding work in a series of 8 poems that I sent for the competition. The theme was about the experiences I encountered while living in the Bukit Merah area, at that time, a gritty and rough neighbourhood.

I am posting this for Thursday Poets' Rally Week 44.

In case you are wondering, no, my collection did not win any prizes. :)

photo by Alvimann at morguefile.com



before the next day



the day is done.

vehicles swept past honking
angrily, red tail lights flaring
in the darkening dusk.

a light rain began to fall,
cold and unfeeling
on lengthening shadows

that glowering street lights
wrung from trees and metal,
smacking them down

on hard concrete
to writhe in jerky throes
in the scattering rain.

we walked in the drizzle
out of the prisons of
the factories, the warehouses,

not really caring,
glad that the day
is over and done,

that it rained in June
that our cigarette tips
still burn red and hot

in the cold rain,
smoke trailing like lost dreams
as the world winded down,

going home to a hot dinner,
to sons and daughters,
to soft moments with lovers,


before the next day catches up again.



22.06.07
********




© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

The Stairs

This is one of the poems that I wrote for the Golden Point Award competition, but which I did not select for submission. One of the "rejects". :)




photo by Basela, enhanced by dsnake1
image from morguefile.com


The Stairs


just maybe 40 steps
of stained concrete
and a rusted rib
of a handrail
to reach my flat
on the 3rd floor,

but have to keep
those eyes wide open
not just for
the silly love poems
or death threats
on the walls,

but that pool
of rancid vomit
from some heroin junkie,
or the shards of
smashed bottles
from a gang fight.

sometimes slumped
in a corner
of two greasy walls, a kid
not more than twelve,
who thinks nirvana
is a can of glue,

eyes hollow, the brain
all slushed
by the fumes
the air, sour and putrid
from the turpentine
hangs like a heavy cloak.

you think this is a war zone?
these people with the wary eyes
the thin mean lips
taut muscles
ready to spring
as i go past these
this city in pain
telling myself
i am just passing through
i am just passing through


13.07.07
********

This piece is a little bleak, don't you think? And I am not too sure the last strophe fits with the rest of the poem.

That's it.

photo by Aidairi
image from morguefile.com

That's it, folks. The 8 poems I sent for the Golden Point Award competition.

I wrote about a dozen for the competition, but I chose these 8. I thought these were the meanest and strongest of the bunch. Well, maybe it was not mean enough (or it was too loud for the judges' liking).

Another 3 or 4 that didn't make the cut are languishing somewhere in my thumb drive. Maybe one day, I will post those rejects too, if I should run out of ideas or steam. :)