QCE52B NIE Lit 2018

Driving to your block, I slide in my father’s cassette of old Hindi songs and I am humming in twilight to the legendary playback singer’s baritone releasing those sounds in that language that makes me feel like I am home. In the back of my throat, I can taste my grandmother’s translucent thin chappatis that as children we would hold up to the light, the dough so evenly rolled out by her hands that not one lump would show. I never appreciated them till her hands shook so much, she could no longer grip the rolling pin. I hear the children from the slum that emerged behind my grandparents small two-storey apartment block. They are swearing in that deliciously punctuated rhythm only the born-and-bred tongue can dance to. I am home for a while. I can smell dust and kerosene in the air and hear high-pitched devotions to the gods blending without objection into the stone thud bass of the latest film song. Jamming my brakes at a traffic light, I realise h

ah beng is so smart, already he can watch tv and know the whole story your kim cheong is also quite smart, what boy is he in the exam? this playground is not too bad, but I'm always so worried, car here and car there.          at exam time, it's worse because you know why?           kim cheong eats so little. give him some complan. my ah beng was like that, now he's different, if you give him anything he's sure to finish it all up.          sure, sure, cheong's father buys him          vitamins but he keeps it inside his mouth          & later gives it to the cat.          i scold like mad but what for?          if I don't see it, how can I scold? on saturday, tv showed a new type, special for children , why don't you call his father buy some? maybe they are better.          money's no problem, it's not that          we want to save, if we buy it          & he doesn't eat it, throwing money        

Think of   a sheep knitting a sweater; think of   your life getting better and better. Think of   your cat asleep in a tree; think of   that spot where you once skinned your knee. Think of   a bird that stands in your palm. Try to remember the Twenty-first Psalm. Think of   a big pink horse galloping south; think of   a fly, and close your mouth. If   you feel thirsty, then drink from your cup. The birds will keep singing until they wake up.

We don't care: we like to speak it leh; When we end with lor, hor, lah, People say our English kana-sai Why do they care? Hard core kaypoh- Bo dai chi cho. It got rhythm- like when you say Who pass urine in the lift? Chau si! Aiyah; Chau Ah Lian; Chau Ah Beng; Chau Buaya; Chau Ah Kua; Chau Mamak; Chau kayu; Chau Goondu- Who else? It got reason- like when the secretary say You hold on arh, he's on another line; So you wait for him to finish- wah piang, talk So long, boey tahan, some more I kena Scolding from boss for wasting time. We say sorrysorrysorry to make sure we are: So pai say, we have to repeat two, three times; Then say excuse! When we overtake or cut in- Only once. Short cuts must be short and sweet, If sometimes we cannot cheat, so chia lat No lubang; so teruk. Kiasu cannot lose, Kiasi cannot die; machiam machiam words We also try. Proper English? So lecheh, So correct, so actsy for what? Wah lau, Already got your meaning before you finish

I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheeling high up in heaven, And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit narrowing, I understood then That I was under inspection. I lay death-still and heard the flight- feathers Whistle above me and make their circle and come nearer. I could see the naked red head between the great wings Bear downward staring. I said, 'My dear bird, we are wasting time here. These old bones will still work; they are not for you.' But how beautiful he looked, gliding down On those great sails; how beautiful he looked, veering away in the sea-light over the precipice. I tell you solemnly That I was sorry to have disappointed him. To be eaten by that beak and become part of him, to share those wings and those eyes-- What a sublime end of one's body, what an enskyment; what a life after death. 

Now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still. This one time upon the earth, let’s not speak any language, let’s stop for one second, and not move our arms so much. It would be a delicious moment, without hurry, without locomotives, all of us would be together in a sudden uneasiness. The fishermen in the cold sea would do no harm to the whales and the peasant gathering salt would look at his torn hands. Those who prepare green wars, wars of gas, wars of fire, victories without survivors, would put on clean clothing and would walk alongside their brothers in the shade, without doing a thing. What I want shouldn’t be confused with final inactivity: life alone is what matters, I want nothing to do with death. If we weren’t unanimous about keeping our lives so much in motion, if we could do nothing for once, perhaps a great silence would interrupt this sadness, this never understanding ourselves and threatening ourselves with death, perhaps th

l(a le af fa ll s) one l iness

Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down- who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Where the neighbourhood wives, After a morning at the wet market, Sit facing the breeze To trade snatches of gossip About leery shopkeepers, The local louts, (Like that fella who's always drilling his walls – Gives me migraine) And that mad woman Who throws things from her window. With careful put-downs they  Fashion boasts, about stubborn sons, Lazy daughters, who by some miracle or mistake Always score well in class. When words falter, Gestures take over: pursed lips, rolling eyes, Animated hands adorned by bangles of Gold, jade, steel, string. And children orbit around them Laugh without diction – Their games of tag a reassurance That there has been no hothousing  Of who is unclean, unwashed, Untouchable. When they break out Into some kindergarten song, One almost believes in a generation Cleansed of skin-deep suspicions,  And free from the superstitions of the tongue – And old folks sit like sages  To deploy chess p

And limbo stick is the silence in front of me limbo limbo limbo like me limbo limbo like me long dark night is the silence in front of me limbo limbo like me stick hit sound and the ship like it ready stick hit sound and the dark still steady limbo limbo like me long dark deck and the water surrounding me long dark deck and the silence is over me limbo limbo like me stick is the whip and the dark deck is slavery stick is the whip and the dark deck is slavery limbo limbo like me drum stick knock and the darkness is over me knees spread wide and the water is hiding limbo limbo like me knees spread wide and the dark ground is under me down down down and the drummer is calling me limbo limbo like me sun coming up and the drummers are praising me out of the dark and the dumb god are raising me up up up and the music is saving me hot slow step on the burning ground.

Anthem for Doomed Youth BY  WILFRED OWEN What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?        — Only the monstrous anger of the guns.        Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle  Can patter out their hasty orisons.  No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;        Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—  The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;        And bugles calling for them from sad shires.  What candles may be held to speed them all?        Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes  Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.        The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;  Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,  And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Funeral Blues Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Harlem BY  LANGSTON HUGHES What happens to a dream deferred?       Does it dry up       like a raisin in the sun?       Or fester like a sore—       And then run?       Does it stink like rotten meat?       Or crust and sugar over—       like a syrupy sweet?       Maybe it just sags       like a heavy load.        Or does it explode?

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries? Does my haughtiness offend you? Don’t you take it awful hard ‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines Diggin’ in my own backyard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I’ve got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise

I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide or press an ear against its hive. I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out, or walk inside the poem’s room and feel the walls for a light switch. I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author’s name on the shore. But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it. They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means.

The Moon By  Robert Louis Stevenson The moon has a face like the clock in the hall; She shines on thieves on the garden wall, On streets and fields and harbour quays, And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees. The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse, The howling dog by the door of the house, The bat that lies in bed at noon, All love to be out by the light of the moon. But all of the things that belong to the day Cuddle to sleep to be out of her way; And flowers and children close their eyes Till up in the morning the sun shall arise.

What nudity as beautiful as this Obedient monster purring at its toil; These naked iron muscles dripping oil And the sure-fingered rods that never miss. This long and shining flank of metal is Magic that greasy labour cannot spoil; While this vast engine that could rend the soil Conceals its fury with a gentle hiss. It does not vent its loathing, it does not turn Upon its makers with destroying hate. It bears a deeper malice; lives to earn It’s masters bread and laughs to see this great Lord of the earth, who rules but cannot learn, Become the slave of what his slaves create.

Fire and Ice BY  ROBERT FROST Some say the world will end in fire,  Some say in ice.  From what I’ve tasted of desire  I hold with those who favor fire.  But if it had to perish twice,  I think I know enough of hate  To say that for destruction ice  Is also great  And would suffice.

Old Folks Home By Gilbert Koh All day long they lie on the straight rows of white beds or sit in the heavy-duty wheelchairs pushed out into the breezy sunshine of the gardens. Resigned to the prisons of their own failing bodies, they drift in and out of the haze of senility, half-forgetting themselves in the patient wait for death. Still the bright-eyed teenagers come, on Saturday mornings, by the busloads, sent by their schools on compulsory excursions to learn the meaning of compassion as outlined in the ECA syllabus. They bring gifts of Khong Guan biscuits, they help to mow the lawns, they clap their hands performing happy songs and valiantly they attempt the old dialects trying to communicate. Later they will clamber noisily back up the departing school buses, and next week in class they will write startlingly similar essays on what a meaningful, memorable experience they had at the old folks' home last week.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud BY  WILLIAM WORDSWORTH I wandered lonely as a cloud  That floats on high o'er vales and hills,  When all at once I saw a crowd,  A host, of golden daffodils;  Beside the lake, beneath the trees,  Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.  Continuous as the stars that shine  And twinkle on the milky way,  They stretched in never-ending line  Along the margin of a bay:  Ten thousand saw I at a glance,  Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.  The waves beside them danced; but they  Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:  A poet could not but be gay,  In such a jocund company:  I gazed—and gazed—but little thought  What wealth the show to me had brought:  For oft, when on my couch I lie  In vacant or in pensive mood,  They flash upon that inward eye  Which is the bliss of solitude;  And then my heart with pleasure fills,  And dances with the daffodils.

Fossils by Ogden Nash At midnight in the museum hall The fossils gathered for a ball There were no drums or saxophones, But just the clatter of their bones, A rolling, rattling, carefree circus Of mammoth polkas and mazurkas. Pterodactyls and brontosauruses Sang ghostly prehistoric choruses. Amid the mastodontic wassail I caught the eye of one small fossil. "Cheer up, sad world," he said, and winked- "It's kind of fun to be extinct." 

The operation was massive; designed to give new life to the old lady. We have cleaned out her arteries, removed detritus and slit, created a by-pass for the old blood. Now you can hardly tell her history. We have become so health-conscious the heart can sometimes be troublesome Commentary: A possible debate could be on whether Singapore is too "artificial" (ie. lacking character, "sterile" or too clean-cut).

the ocean has no memory: it laps at the curling edges of continents, a labrador’s silent tongue on a quiet afternoon. it is a whiplash of saltwater on the mossy cliffs, the white chalk hills.

'The trouble with snowmen,' Said my father one year 'They are no sooner made than they just disappear. I'll build you a snowman And I'll build it to last Add sand and cement And then have it cast. And so every winter,' He went on to explain 'You shall have a snowman Be it sunshine or rain.' And that snowman still stands Though my father is gone Out there in the garden Like an unmarked gravestone. Staring up at the house Gross and misshapen As if waiting for something Bad to happen. For as the years pass And I grow older When summers seem short And winters colder. The snowmen I envy As I watch children play Are the ones that are made And then fade away.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me. Emily Dickinson