This island. (to be revised)

‘Singapura, oh Singapura,
Sunny Island set in the sea.
Singapura, oh Singapura,
Pretty flowers, bloom for you and me.’


1.

I was washed up to golden land
On the waves of pauperism,
Backed by dank wind five-millennia strong
Back to the old deity in the old well
(Ling had better not forget the incense)
Whose ambrosia had gone moldy in the aftertaste.

Not like here, where the waters flow,
Like new born amniotic fluid, into the veins of
Newly wetted rivers, pumping life-blood
Into the montage of colours –
The gold tooth (and all his possessions)
Peeking out from opium-tainted teeth,
Courting the routine splashes of Dhoby men who bleach
Clothes, and skin into a fashionable white.
Women trot by, livelihoods on their heads,
In the colour of clandestine vows and brotherhood
Hundreds of francs away.

There is the letter writer.
‘Dear ling, I will be going home as soon as the ship fare is paid for.
Wait for me – and don’t forget the incense.’


2.

My dad told me a love story about my great grandfather
and his beloved. I watched as a tear (salty as
seawater), trickled down rills in his cheek,
weathered by age and the fingernails
of the Japanese man down the road.
I have seen many happy endings –

Men trooping off to a place so fine they loathed to return,
Deserting younger kin, who mourn
their absence with gomendasai and sumimasen.
Basking their frolics in syonan-to, a light so bright
Their faces never did turn from the ground.
But the older generation, they were veterans
Putting to shame apprentices, as shadows once more
Contorted with the fluidity of one long versed in the craft–
A simple adjustment from white to khaki.
We are the salt of the earth,
and to the earth we return-
Like what mother said to the bayonet.

Too bad the cherry-blossoms couldn’t survive the heat.
‘Tell me father, in your story,
Did the lovers’ ashes meet in the south china sea?’


3.

Singapore changed hands amidst my infant shrieks
Elicited by the doctor’s sharp smack on-
Bottom, raised high. ‘Ready, get set, go!’
We spurted forth, chubby legs a whirl. Me
And the nation, whose skeptic eye skewered
The promises of ‘greater heights’
In all but silhouette.

Both bibbed, marked with food and number.
Mouths open in a whine (gurgling milky froth)
A piteous purr for one’s own immobility
In this rojak of sand and sea.
It takes getting used to – like durian,
And its billion dollar image – how we always wean
Too soon; from cradle to cradle forgetting,
The Rock-a-bye fall. I think of –
Freddy the frog (green as the king of fruits )
With an overactive thyroid gland. Metamorphosis
Splatters the uniform of the SIA girl, smiling for
Countries so much a part of us.

Dad never did have a penchant for change.
“Oh no. not the same old story again.
I reckon he never did love her enough to go back.”

----

And the sun told the flower,
‘Stop stalking me, for I will burn your petals-
And you will be left bare.’