If We Should Talk

If we must talk, let it be of purple twilights
and the way silence hobbles across the fields
like an old man comfortable with his rheumatism.

If we must talk, let it be dragons, unicorns, elves
hidden in crevices between the creeping leaves
and how the wind galloping over your back
are my fingers gently winding your wet hair
to curl the moisture out of its rope.

If we must talk, let it be nudges, caresses
and the small ways you push me from your body
as though too much contact was reserved for leaves,
the birds. They hold court with the wind, conferring on
who has the clearer rustling call.

If we must talk, let it be green lawns and taiji
we do as one at dawn. Growing old with you,
living in the city yet holding the retro thoughts
of kampong folk; long walks on paths, rain-dried,
a stray chicken or dog beside, and always, the
green green lawns.

If we should talk, let our peace with strangers
pervade the landscape, and us in quiet marriage
with slow dusk, savoring its dewdrops on our lips.

RIP 曾火桂 - Poems

棋敬诗

曾日光阴如盘棋
车战炮火逢贵人
百河汉边桂综师
只惜火燕归天榜

Moth Waltz

The moth eggs in my wardrobe have
vanished now. Not long ago, I found
a moth, mistook it for a butterfly
save for its law of attraction to light.

For months, moths of different shades
danced beneath my washroom lamp.
I sense them like ghosts in the shower, 
breaking reverie with water to admire

their soft fluff of wings, steep dive & climb
like lifelines patterned on my wall. That night, 
moths traced a new horizon on your cardio 
monitor. They might've danced over your face

before doctors drew the curtains over it. They
might've retired to waltz their transient waltz
in the shade of ceiling lamps at the void deck,
where you'd burnt the chess tables with
stubs from your cheap cigarettes.

The moths don't lay eggs in my wardrobe anymore.

For Old Fire Who Passed By
R.I.P. 曾火桂

1.
He passed like sparrows knew the wind
knew rough of leaves, knew the still landing
of dead twigs by your feet. He passed
like ghosts lost in corners of the void deck,
chanting & whispering their stories of living,
pushing pawns, puffing cheap rolled cigarettes,
sipping kopi or teh donated by white-haired kakis.

(Ah Gui ah? He never come for two weeks already)
(No one beats him at chess except you, ah boy)

He passed like fire, moths dancing beneath aged
ceiling lamps as old stooges push their last
pawn into foray with their final days: Time

chronicled its passing by tracing one more
line on his face snailing into dark wood
grains on the altar I have not visited.

2.
Joy for him was coffee, cigarette, xiangqi,
and later, teh, after he got worn of coffee.
Kopi-C his choice, humbug mouth soothing
the smoke-foam rising out of thousandth cup;

shaky finger pressing cannon too weak to
squash an ant braving the bombardment
of ceramic pieces on our chessboard.

Most of all his laughter, carefree, cantankerous
as only old men who's beaten cancer know how
to laugh; the dark snakes of his eyes seething
with cunning at slaughtering my other chariot.

Next game, and the next, through years I repaid
the debts of checkmates. They evoke his wild
laugh, that of defying his one more loss, that
of handing his baton of prowess to my youth,

his humbug smile framed at the altar
of memory.

RIP 曾火桂

His name is 曾火桂, former A division national player of Singapore in the 1980s.

Tonight, I got wind this old soul passed away less than 2 weeks ago. He's been my erstwhile chess opponent and indirectly, teacher for many years. We'd sit at the cosy little bird-filled corner at blk 263 Sengkang, later Hougang Interchange, playing chess merrily till the evening. His old friends would supply him with another cigarette, he'd light it & puff away, warning me of being thoroughly refreshed & that a good thrashing for me was coming. Initially, it was a miracle I could take him down in any game, given his old bag of 'street-tricks' picked up over many games and years. Now, I could hold more than my fort with him, but that's besides the point.

Truly, he's kept the flame of chess alive for me, more so the spirit of street chess: spontaneous, played anywhere without a care for the world. Zeng reminded me what it was like, being simultaneously young and old through a shared pastime.

Zen between two noses, two shared minds.

Last I played him was a month or so ago. Now he's mysteriously disappeared- I only got news tonight of his supposed passing.

I really owe it to him for my improvement in chess & the sheer pleasure of hours we exchanged rooks and cannons under the clouds. It is indeed my honor to have absorbed his skills.

If pawns could respawn at the end of the line, I'd trade all five on my chessboard for his renewed lease of life with God.

It is therefore only right I pay my last respects to him.

Moth Waltz

The moth eggs in my wardrobe have
vanished now. Not long ago, I found
a moth, mistook it for a butterfly
save for its law of attraction to light.

For months, moths of different shades
danced beneath my washroom lamp.
I sense them like ghosts in the shower,
breaking reverie with water to admire

their soft fluff of wings, steep dive & climb
like lifelines patterned on my wall. That night,
moths traced a new horizon on your cardio
monitor. They might've danced over your face

before doctors drew the curtains over it. They
might've retired to waltz their transient waltz
in the shade of ceiling lamps at the void deck,
where you'd burnt the chess tables with
stubs from your cheap cigarettes.

The moths don't lay eggs in my wardrobe anymore.

Why I Will Not Have Children

I.

Mynahs raining around the hawker centre,
families of black commotion. Nearby, a pair
of young parents feed morsels of fried
carrot cake to their toddler. He is a bundle
of noise, refusing tablespoons of something
like congee; quiets finally at the cradle
of mama’s loving arms.

Close by, I roll my eyes at houseflies
doing the courtship dance over
my cup of kopi.

II.

I did not wish to trouble my parents any farther.
Rented an apartment, stayed out and listened
to birdsong, insomniac near each dawn. Soon,
an affinity with early arising, taking the cool
and dawn-colored parks as acoustic hall for self-
repressed strolls. Loneliness was a dog held on a leash,
walked by an owner whose long hair flamed the
color of beng-ness. His arms and legs, tattooed to infinity.

III.

Age of three. 

In my mind is an image of me reaching up
for basketball. Then mother falling
ill after nursing well my fall and cold, 
sleeping on my dried patch of urine so I
could have the clean patch of the queen-sized bed.

IV.

I will never have children, I once told
a potential mate. She remains a lover
in my department of contacts, someone
to love away the cold and lonely nights.

October creeps on the dark roof of my hair.
I wait for the question my parents
will pop next about her; 

resigned, perhaps, to picking up
a guitar. Make my living in bars, singing
with her the long and lonely years away.

The Story Beyond a Song

The Story Beyond a Song

Summertime Sadness drowning the senses
and you're not satisfied, you confided,
unclipping your headphones to glare
like a chauvinist at buildings as if they
had offended the neon dark.

"We are slaves of this Age!" you rasped,
raising a hand as if denouncing the gods
of music. A twinkle found its star
in your stare and I was simply contented
to feel the static of my hand attending yours.

A lone star winked - or was it a passing
lamp? I could not tell. Neither did I care
if this soft hardness was your shoulder
or my pillow; contented, to close my eyes
and feel the trundle of train between us
like a live animal vibrating our wrapped thighs.

The Blind Er-hu Man

Blue is the color of heat

creeping up cheeks, the dewy 

waft of er-hu sounds to ears

strung with everyday industrial

noise, sound of an old man strumming

for a prayer of brilliance through sunglasses,

for a coin to shine his pocket

now lined with tissue waste and hungry days,

a dirty hanky used to wipe blue heat

off the pockmarks of his face. Time

is a race to serenade each passerby 

with aubades deep as subterranean streams,

cajoling folks to look away from phones -

look here - stay here and listen - 

for someday in the midst of meals or sleep

you and I will have the soft quilt pulled

over our faces - faces we tried to chisel 

our days of blue youth in -

the way the er-hu man covers his face

of seasons at nightfall, and sleeps beside
the walkway- repeats - his song of alms.

Bluebird in the Heartlands

That tree by the window grew
a blue leaf last night. The bluebird
sang on its branches, a phantom's
song that hung a blue mist around the sun.

The HDB blocks, flecked blue, white & blue
in the last general elections of residents
votes. Out of town, I missed my ballot.
These days, rain's ballads keep me going

beneath tin walkways painted blue, color
of peace disturbed at night by boys at playground.
They frustrate the bluebird in her sleep.

This is why she sang no more - until one
night, fearful of shadows, she burst into
song, a vocal flower in sudden bloom.

She moved into my chest this morning,
found birdseed & an old, low fire to
keep her going. I hear her sing in times
when the draught of days turns my nose blue,

when the public drift like leaves outcast
from trees of life, of being, dying infinite
deaths by their bowed heads & light
from tunneled screens.

Moonwatching

The moon hangs
like an orb of insolence against
the tides of day, changing
hue by hue.

Arms clasping heads we sync
 our thoughts beneath a canvas
of sky always helpful with stars dotting
dreams to eyes downcast an eternity

on devices. A long moment dies
like wind; we do not speak
nor feel the need of pouring
sounds to soothe a void. It

is there, this thunder of thoughts
wifi-ed between our heads, and I
bask in your strands of hair drawn
near by wind, perfumed by your presence.

A Bottle of Water

I.

Pigeons quenching thirst in a roadside puddle. You turn to face the sun, partake of too much
shine to be mistaken for wine – pupils flared
with fire like swallows spotting far-flung land.

Salvation is drinking too much heat to be sick. Where locals hide their faces on air-con buses
you conquer the roads on the rickety edge
of an old bicycle.

II.

Pigeons quenching thirst in a roadside puddle.
How glad I am for water
bottled in a secret compartment
of my haversack. On grassy edge,
an old pigeon flops wing-spread as if sun-
tanning, or burdened by too much heat.
(She does not appear to be laying eggs).

Around, her young broods jostle for
life in a puddle. My bottle cap could
serve as water-trough, yet the incoming
bus ploughs down my hopes and theirs
in a wheel-screech, taking a leak
on the road as it throws widespread
its wings of doors at the bus-stop.

III.

Pigeons quenching their thirst in a

roadside puddle. So you turn toward

the sun, partake of too much shine

like wine, spread your heart like birds

of joy, send a prayer for the water bottle

mom's troughed in your haversack.