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

The Hands of My Father

This is another poem written, but not submitted, for the 2015 Golden Point Award competition. It was inspired by my father, a carpenter and construction worker .

photo by StockSnap at pixabay




The Hands of My Father



And I see my father
When he brings his hands
Down
From lighting a cigarette
I see his calloused hands
That had hammered nails
And sawn wood in the noon sun
His eyes
Like the eyes of a beast
Staring deeply into the dark.
Today, under the light
Of a pressure lamp
He reads the day’s news
The paper all greasy and crumpled
From passing through many hands

And his hands
Like the hands of his ancestors
Who only knew the rough feel of wood
How the grain runs and cracks
How to fashion them to beams, struts,
Pillars, tables and stools
The companionship of measures and
Saws, hammers, planes and chalk lines
Took that cigarette to his lips
Holding it between index and middle
Fingers
And in that brief moment
In that brief glow of light
I see what love and pride is


And even today after so many years
That he had left us
To join his ancestors,
When someone lights
A cigarette,
Cupping the flame in the palms
I see those leathery hands again.



Written 09/05/2015
Revised 19/11/2016

---

"as did my forebears before me
in America in Hong Kong
building railroads, harbours
hunched over camp fires,
drinking tea from grimy cups
swopping stories about home
in Canton half a life away."

-- dsnake1, Toolshed

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

Loss

I wrote and submitted this haiku for the January Free Format kukai at haikuworld. The subject was "Loss".

The results are out and this ku managed a total of ...two votes. Well, at least two readers like it. :)

photo by Alexas_Fotos at pixabay




loss



anniversary -

your photograph
greasy with my prints.


11/01/2011
**********





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

Golden Point Award 2007

image from www.nac.gov.sg

The Golden Point Award, 2007


It's here again, the biennial Golden Point Award. It is Singapore's premiere creative writing competition, open to its citizens and Permanent Residents. Click here for more details.

It seems that for this year's competition, authors who have published a solo work are not allowed to take part. Writers who have been published in journals or anthologies, whether on-line or print, are still eligible to participate. There have been some outcry over this new rule, as this is still a national competition. Previously, as long as you are a citizen or a PR, you are eligible.

I am not sure I will be taking part. (yes, I am eligible, I have no books to my name, and blogs do not count!). I have prepared, and in the process of editing some poems that I may be sending to the competition. In my opinion, the works are much better than the batch I submitted for the competition 4 years ago. I did not take part in the 2005 edition. If I do not submit them for the competition, I will be posting it on this blog. :D