Age of Insanity

Stolen Moments

2012-01-05T21:18:00.002+08:00

What happened, happened once. So now it’s best
in memory – an orange he sliced: the skin
unbroken, then the knife, the chilled wedge
lifted to my mouth, his mouth, the thin
membrane between us, the exquisite orange,
tongue, orange, my nakedness and his,
the way he pushed me up against the fridge –
Now I get to feel his hands again, the kiss
that didn’t last, but sent some neural twin
flashing wildly through the cortex. Love’s
merciless, the way it travels in
and keeps emitting light. Beside the stove
we ate an orange. And there were purple flowers
on the table. And we still had hours.

By Kim Addonizio

The Love Cook

2010-09-25T23:50:00.002+08:00

Let me cook you some dinner.
Sit down and take off your shoes
and socks and in fact the rest
of your clothes, have a daiquiri,
turn on some music and dance
around the house, inside and out,
it’s night and the neighbors
are sleeping, those dolts, and
the stars are shining bright,
and I’ve got the burners lit
for you, you hungry thing.

By Ron Padgett
Taken from You Never Know

Home Visit

2010-08-18T23:55:00.005+08:00

Swollen sun,

a bald man opens the door,

naked.

Feedback

2010-08-10T21:03:00.004+08:00

The old woman,

flashed her middle finger skyward,

and it started to rain.

Quote Of The Day

2010-05-29T00:33:00.005+08:00

If you want to jump higher or further, you must be willing to bend your knees.

Alson Teo

Poem 1 From Twenty Poems of Love

2009-09-21T23:38:00.002+08:00

Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender.
My rough peasant’s body digs in you
And makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.

I only was a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and night swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.

But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
Oh the goblets of the breasts! Oh the eyes of absence!
Oh the roses of thee pubis! Oh your voice, slow and sad!

Body of a woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road.
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows
And weariness follows, and the infinite ache.

Pablo Neruda (1904 – 1973)
(Translated from Spanish by W.S. Merwin)

Two Baby Hands by Gilbert Koh

2009-06-21T22:36:00.006+08:00

Go get it! This is a MUST have poetry book!

The Revenant

2009-05-17T21:17:00.007+08:00

I am the dog you put to sleep,
as you like to call the needle of oblivion,
come back to tell you this simple thing:
I never liked you – not one bit.

When I licked your face,
I thought of biting off your nose.
When I watched you toweling yourself dry,
I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap.

I resented the way you moved,
your lack of animal grace,
the way you would sit in a chair to eat,
a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand.

I would have run away,
but I was too weak, a trick you taught me
while I was learning to sit and heel,
and – greatest of insults – shake hands without a hand.

I admit the sight of the leash
would excite me
but only because it meant I was about
to smell things you had never touched.

You do not want to believe this,
but I have no reasons to lie.
I hated the car, the rubber toys,
disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives.

The jingling of my tags drove me mad.
You always scratched me in the wrong place.
All I ever wanted from you
was food and fresh water in my metal bowls.

While you slept, I watched you breathe
as the moon rose in the sky.
It took all of my strength
not to raise my head and howl.

Now I am free of the collar,
the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater,
the absurdity of your lawn,
and that is all you need to know about this place

expect what you already supposed
and are glad it did not happen sooner –
that everyone here can read and write,
the dogs in poetry, the cats and all the others in prose.

By Billy Collins

Taken from The Trouble With Poetry

Take a stroll along the beach with me

2009-05-10T15:27:00.058+08:00

Out of boredom, I took a quiz “Who is your perfect match?” yesterday in my Facebook account. And here is the result,

Intelligent Thinker

Your perfect match is someone who is kind, creative and quiet. This person is a thinker, someone who enjoys observing and analyzing the world. This type of person is content to let you do all the talking, yet is intelligent and bright and can contribute a wealth of knowledge to any conversation. While this person might seem aloof or even shy, once you get to know them, they are incredibly interesting, full of life and their serious side will compliment your more out-going nature. The top traits they are looking for in a mate include someone who is supportive, compassionate and understands their introverted nature. While this person might be somewhat skeptical that love exists because they are not big risk-takers and the choose their friends cautiously, deep down they are ready and eager to fall in love and will fall deeply for you, forming a deep and eternal bond.

Afterthought

Either I am feeling extremely bored or I have been watching too many Korean drama series. But have you ever asked yourself, what makes a perfect spouse? Is there such a person in the first place? If not, why do so many of us take such a long time to tie the knot? Maybe we want to believe that such person does exist, and he/she is waiting for us somewhere out there. Sooner or later when the time is right, we will eventually meet. How romantic.

If I can select my perfect spouse, what kind of person will she be like? What about a soulmate? According to Wikipedia ,

“Soulmate is a term sometimes used to designate someone with whom one has a feeling of deep and natural affinity, love, intimacy, sexuality, spirituality, and/or compatibility. A related concept is that of the twin flame or twin soul – which is thought to be the ultimate soulmate, the one and only other half of one's soul, for which all souls are driven to find and join.”

Sound too perfect for me.

Or maybe she is my best friend? Or someone who shares my goals, dreams, faith, has similar interests, etc? Or maybe she is like my clone? I have been thinking about it, wouldn’t it be cool to meet a female version of me?

Or she is someone totally different from me?

I’ve discussed this question with my wife on a few occasions and we have come to a conclusion. We have almost nothing in common although we both like watching Korean drama, enjoy good food, strolling along the beach, etc. However, we don't share the same hobbies, goals, religions, etc, and she doesn't even read my blog and that is why I can crap about my mother-in-law.

But we are very good friends. We are very comfortable with each other. We trust and support each other and most importantly, we give each other the personal space so badly needed for one to grow, and to be true to oneself. That to me is one of the most precious gifts you can give to your loved ones.

Guess she is not my perfect spouse but she is good enough for me. Thank you my dear.

Fishbones Dreaming

2009-03-07T01:53:00.005+08:00

Fishbones lay in the smelly bin.
He was a head, a backbone and a tail.
Soon the cats would be in for him.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.

Back to when he was fat, and hot on a plate.
Beside green beans, with lemon juice
squeezed on him. And a man with a knife
and fork raised, about to eat him.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.

Back to when he was frozen in the freezer.
With lamb cutlets and minced beef and prawns.
Three month he was in there.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.

Back to when he was squirming in a net,
with thousands of other fish, on the deck
of a boat. And the rain falling
Wasn’t wet enough to breathe in.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.

Back to when he was darting through the sea,
past crabs and jellyfish, and others
likes himself. Or surfacing to jump for flies
And feel the sun on his face.

He liked to be this way.
He dreamed hard to try and stay there.

By Matthew Sweeney

Afterthought

This is really a depressing poem. When I am dying on my deathbed, would I be also dreaming about my past?

Take This Job And Shove It!

2009-02-15T22:23:00.044+08:00

Deathbed Test

Imagine yourself on your deathbed. From that vantage point, look back at what you did for a living.

Was it worth it?

You got three options:

i) Keep your job and seethe.
ii) Keep it and stop seething.
iii) Switch.

Keeping it and seething is simplest. Chances are, you’re already doing this. It affords you the frisson of venting – without having to risk anything or move a muscle. The ready-made “lazy and afraid” career-management strategy is staying and seething.

Staying without seething requires effort: the inner workout of exercising optimism and patience, of finding silver linings when your impulse is to shout “Take this job and shove it!”

Switching is the most strenuous workout of all. It’s not just mentally and physically hard but also terrifying, as it means learning new skills and routines and agreeing to take orders from and get along with a new set of strangers.

Yet switching is also easy in at least one sense. If one keeps switching at the first sign of dissatisfaction, one need never learn resilience, patience, or endurance. One is never forced to find inner peace. Instead, one just escapes – perhaps to face the same problems again in the next workplace. In which case one is not stuck in a job, per se, but stuck on starting over – stuck more on discontent, on the idea of being stuck at work, than actually stuck at work.

Taken from Stuck: Why We Can’t (or Won’t) Move On by Anneli Rufus

Afterthought

Two things caught my attention when I was reading this particular section a few days ago. Firstly the question

“Was it worth it?”

I love going for what I call “personal retreat” and during these retreats, I will take the opportunities to reflect on my past, analyze the present, and plan for the future. Occasionally I might simply do nothing, take long naps, go for walks, etc. But if I am in a reflective mood, one of the few questions I will always ask myself will be “Was it worth it?”

What do I mean by that?

I like to see life as a constant struggle between gain and sacrifice. For example, are you willing to spend more time at work and thus sacrificing the time spend with your loved ones? When will you realize that it is no longer worth it? When you no longer have time for dinner with them? When you realized that you hardly know the person lying next to you? Or when your idea of keeping in touch with your friends is sending them sms during festival seasons such as Christmas Day?

What about your health? How do you know it is no longer worth it to work through the nights so that you are able to meet the deadline the next day? Sure, you are a responsible person. You have to answer to the management. You will not allow yourself to be perceived as someone who is inefficient, someone who is unable to take stress, in a nutshell - a weakling.

Yesterday I could not made up my mind between spending Valentine's Day with my wife and going back to office to clear my reports. After some thought, I apologized to her and explained that as a responsible officer, I need to meet the deadline given by the management. My wife turned around, looked into my eyes and said, “You are responsible for me too.” I was totally caught off guard by her comment and we spend a wonderful Valentine's Day together. :)

Secondly the author is right,

"If one keeps switching at the first sign of dissatisfaction, one need never learn resilience, patience, or endurance. One is never forced to find inner peace."

There is no running away from heavy workloads, bitchy bosses, backstabbing colleagues, demanding clients, irritating emails/phone calls, etc. So what are you going to do about them? Trying to run away from your problems is like assuming that if you run away today, you will be problem-free for the rest of your life.

But guess who created all these problems? You and me, who else? We just can’t stop creating problems. World peace is an illusion. Go ask the politicians.

So what is the solution? According to the author, we have to find our inner peace. But the definition of inner peace is very subjective. What constitute as inner peace for a serial killer will be very different from my barber, I hope.

Well I am still in the process of finding my inner peace. And sure I am still working hard on my deadline, but not the usual deadline. We all have a date with Death. So before Death comes knocking on my door, I am going to do as much as I can to make my life worthwhile. And when I am on my deathbed, I can proudly look back and says, “It was all worth it.”

What about you?

Sit On Your Butt And Breathe

2009-01-30T00:00:00.005+08:00

I have recently finished reading A Thousand Paths to Zen by Robert Allen. The following are some of the quotes I find interesting.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

1. To get rid of your passions is not nirvana – to look upon them as no matter of yours, that is nirvana.

2. Zen poet Seiken-Chiju spent twenty years on a pilgrimage only to realize he had not moved an inch.

3. The less there is me, the more there is Zen. The more there is Zen, the more there is me.

4. How many things I can do without! – Socrates

5. When an ordinary man acquires knowledge, he becomes wise. When a wise man attains enlightenment, he becomes ordinary.

6. The master asked, “Who binds you?”
The pupil replied, “No one.”
The master rejoined, “So why do you seek liberation?”

7. “While I was meditating,” said the new student, “I saw a beautiful white bird come down and land on my head.”
“Leaving you with feathers for brain,” observed her teacher.

8. I asked a child, walking with a candle, “Where does the light come from?” Instantly he blew it out. “Tell me where it’s gone and I’ll tell you where it came from.” – Hasan of Basra

9. A Japanese girl called Satsume experienced an awakening while still only in her teens. One day her father found her seated on one of the scriptures meditating and scolded her for her disrespect. “How,” she replied, “does this scripture differ from my butt?”

10. If you want excitement, set fire to your pants. Zen isn’t about excitement.

11. As long as you seek enlightenment you will never see that you already have it.

12. Some people call Zen a ‘Way of Liberation,” which sounds very impressive, but who is to be liberated, and from what?

13. Zen isn’t the answer to all your problems – Zen is all your problems.

14. Even the greatest master never taught one word of Zen.

15. There’s nothing in this world that you can cling to. But how hard it is to let go!

16. Do as much good as you can, but do not be attached to doing good. It is not an aim in itself.

17. Don’t expect to understand Zen like a piece of conventional knowledge. It’s more like when you get the point of a joke.

18. Zen doesn’t make sense. But then life is under no obligation to make sense.

19. Seek a teacher if you wish, but you will only make progress when you realize that your real master stares at you from the mirror every day.

20. Anyone who tries helpfully to explain Zen to you is doing you a grave disservice.

21. Do not avoid life. Zen is not about drinking weak tea in musty parlors.

22. There is a story of a Zen student who cut his arm off to persuade a master that he was sincere enough to become his pupil. Why pay such a price for what is yours already?

23. It’s no good wishing you were someplace else, doing something else. This is where you are, doing what you have to do. Relax. Do it. Everything else is superfluous.

24. A friend asked, “In your Zen where do you go when you die?” There is nowhere to go.

25. Give something a name and you set limits on it. The name Zen is merely a convenience because you need to call it something. But people tend to confuse the name with the real thing and that can only lead to trouble.

26. It’s no good trying to be good, kind, and virtuous unless that is how you feel. The world has enough hypocrites. Let Zen fill you up and morality will take care of itself.

27. If you can’t get it, throw it out. Then you’ll have it.

28. Searching for Zen is like an old man using his spectacles to hunt for his spectacles.

29. There are no rules in Zen except that you keep exploring. If you think you’ve reached your destination you haven’t.

30. When someone makes a silly inconsequential remark and a friend says, “That’s very Zen” – it isn’t.

Everything Happens For a Reason

2008-12-29T00:48:00.018+08:00

A few days ago I tried getting a cab as I was really late for an appointment. After waiting for almost an hour I gave up and took a train instead. I could have called a cab, but being a stubborn person, well… On the way to my appointment I was cursing my luck, feeling miserable and down. It was not exactly how I wanted to start my day.

During lunchtime, while fumbling for my wallet, I realized I have left it at home. It suddenly occurred to me that if I have managed to get a cab in the morning, I would not have been able to pay for the fare. Gosh, it would be really embarrassing!

Currently my department is in a mess, morale is low, workloads are increasing, etc. To add insult to injury, the management is treating us like children, threatening to punish us with disciplinary actions for making minor mistakes, etc. I won’t be surprised if we might have to seek permission to take a piss in the future.

I really hope things will turn out well in the end and all these misery happened for a good reason. But I have a bad feeling that it won’t be long before someone feels that enough is enough and tenders his/her resignation, followed by another, and another ...

Wishing You a Merry Christmas & a Happy New Year!

2008-12-28T20:41:00.004+08:00

Snowflake

Timing’s everything. The vapor rises
high in the sky, tossing to and fro,
then freezes, suddenly, and crystallizes
into a perfect flake of miraculous snow.
For countless miles, drifting east above
the world, whirling about in a swirling free-
for-all, appearing aimless, just like love,
but sensing, seeking out, its destiny.
Falling to where the two young skaters stand,
hand in hand, then flips and dips and whips
itself about to ever-so-gently land,
a miracle, across her unkissed lips:
as he blocks the wind raging from the south,
leaning forward to kiss her lovely mouth.

William Baer

It feels good to fall in love with life again isn't it? :)

And This Too Shall Pass

2008-11-13T23:48:00.002+08:00

One day King Solomon decided to humble Benaiah ben Yehoyada, his most trusted minister. He said to him, "Benaiah, there is a certain ring that I want you to bring to me. I wish to wear it for Sukkot which gives you six months to find it."

"If it exists anywhere on earth, your majesty," replied Benaiah, "I will find it and bring it to you, but what makes the ring so special?"

"It has magic powers," answered the king. "If a happy man looks at it, he becomes sad, and if a sad man looks at it, he becomes happy." King Solomon knew that no such ring existed in the world, but he wished to give his minister a little taste of humility.

Spring passed and then summer, and still Benaiah had no idea where he could find the ring. On the night before Sukkot, he decided to take a walk in one of he poorest quarters of Jerusalem. He passed by a merchant who had begun to set out the day's wares on a shabby carpet. "Have you by any chance heard of a magic ring that makes the happy wearer forget his joy and the broken-hearted wearer forget his sorrows?" asked Benaiah.

He watched the grandfather take a plain gold ring from his carpet and engrave something on it. When Benaiah read the words on the ring, his face broke out in a wide smile.

That night the entire city welcomed in the holiday of Sukkot with great festivity. "Well, my friend," said King Solomon, "have you found what I sent you after?" All the ministers laughed and King Solomon himself smiled.

To everyone's surprise, Benaiah held up a small gold ring and declared, "Here it is, your majesty!" As soon as King Solomon read the inscription, the smile vanished from his face. The jeweler had written three Hebrew letters on the gold band: _gimel, zayin, yud_, which began the words "_Gam zeh ya'avor_" -- "This too shall pass."

At that moment King Solomon realized that all his wisdom and fabulous wealth and tremendous power were but fleeting things, for one day he would be nothing but dust.

Do You Think I Am A Serious Person?

2008-10-22T22:31:00.042+08:00

A few months ago my GM asked me to act my age [I am 36 years old]. Recently, I send an sms to a female colleague and ended the message with “Muhahahaha!!!" She is still recovering from the shock. Apparently, she has always considered me as a serious person with little sense of humour. [Hmm. I should have added ‘Kekekeke’, okiee, etc. in my sms.]

Out of curiosity, I decided to get some feedbacks from my friends/colleagues. Below are their sms replies to my question “Do you think I am a serious person?”

--------------------------------------------------

1) Yes, I think you are a serious person but serious in a positive sense.

2) Frankly, you are serious when it comes to work but as a person you can be playful.

3) I don’t think you are serious, but you like to do well in what you do, so some people might see this as being too serious.

4) Hard to explain. You know when to be serious and when to be playful.

5) I think you are seriously ill. Let me do a full checkup for you.

6) Basically you are not a serious person but you may at times take things too seriously.

7) You are not serious but you do have a unique sense of humour.

8) Not really serious, more like focus.

9) 60 % Serious, 40 % Playful.

10) Ya kind of. But you do have a weird funny side to you in hiding.

11) Serious most of the times but occasionally a bit too lame.

12) No, you can be crappy if you want to.

13) Not really.

14) You must be joking.

Senior Management. Muhahahaha!!!

Do not stand at my grave and weep

2008-10-13T23:44:00.011+08:00

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905 - 2004)

Afterthought

Hang on to your life, or whatever that is left.

From June to October this year, 5 officers from my department have either resigned or being transferred out. A few days ago, 2 more officers have tendered their resignation. In all, more than 40% of the original strength has left without any replacement. The management has been asking the remaining officers to hang on and assured us that help is on its way. Unfortunately, they told us the same thing back in June.

Out of frustration, I made the above poster this morning and pinned it on my workstation. I am not sure what the management will think of it but I really don’t give a damn. I am quite sick of those feel-good posters such as ‘Be Positive’, ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy!’ blah, blah, blah.

The Poetry of Magic

2008-09-18T00:10:00.011+08:00

The first magic book I bought was Theodore Annemann’s Practical Mental Magic. There are various types of magic but personally I prefer Mentalism. The temptation of appearing to be able to read someone’s mind is simply too cool to resist.

Card tricks that do not require difficult sleight of hand but have powerful effects are also my favourites. In fact, the first time I performed for my colleagues, about 15 – 20 of them, was my version of “Do as I do”. They really loved it! One of my colleagues later told me that she knows how the trick was done but she really prefers my version.

Currently I am in the process of planning two magic routines for my department. I have no ambition to be a magician and my sole goal is to entertain my family members and friends.

Frankly magic is an expensive hobby but seeing how much joy my audience derive from watching my performances, I think it is all worth it. :)

P.S. By the way my wife hates this image and insists that the eyes are evil. What do you think?

The Listeners

2008-08-28T00:15:00.014+08:00

"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grass
Of the forest's ferny floor;
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:--
"Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word," he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

By Walter De La Mare (1873 - 1956)

Olny srmat poelpe can raed tihs

2008-06-20T23:57:00.005+08:00

I received this from my colleague via email this morning, and it reminds me of the amazing qualities of the human brain. Check this out.

"Olny srmat poelpe can raed this.

I cdnuolt blveiee that I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd what I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in what oredr the ltteers in a word are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is that the first and last ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can still raed it wouthit a porbelm. This is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the word as a wlohe. Amzanig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt! If you can raed this psas it on !! "

So how about applying this to a poem? Will you still be about to read it? Let’s see.

Lesovilet of teres, the cerhry now

Lesovilet of teres, the cerhry now
Is hnug wtih bolom anolg the bgouh,
And snadts aoubt the wanolodd rdie
Warnieg withe for Earidtsete.

Now, of my trcesoehre yreas and ten,
Tentwy wlil not cmoe aigan,
And tkae form svetney srpgnis a sorce,
It olny lavees me ftify mroe.

And snice to look at tngihs in boolm
Ftify srpgnis are ltltie room,
Aubot the wnaolodd I wlil go
To see the cerhry hnug wtih sonw.

A.E. Hmousan (1859 - 1936)

Did you find it easier to read the poem compare to the passage? Tougher right?

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

A.E. Housman (1859 - 1936)

Mushrooms

2008-06-10T22:17:00.010+08:00

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot’s in the door.

By Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963)

Afterthought

One of the thing I like about poetry is that it is highly adaptable. Regardless of the poem's intended meaning, the reader is free to associate it with his/her own experiences. I am not referring to poems that fail to communicate to its readers, because interpretation is quite different from association.

To illustrate my point, whenever I read the poem “Mushrooms” by Sylvia Plath, it never fails to remind me of pimples. I can clearly visualize them as pea-sized aliens landing on my nose and with their chipmunk voice demanding to see the leader of the new-found land. To save my face, literally, I declare an all-out war and start popping them like nobody’s business. To my horror, they start spreading across my face; filling up any available pores and to this day, the battle rages on.

I suspect one of the reasons for this weird association is because I first read this poem when I was a teenager, a.k.a. the golden age of the Pimples Empire. And lines like “The small grains make room”, “Shoulder through holes.”, “So many of us!”, etc doesn’t help either.

Some of you might associate the word “mushroom” with food, while others might associate it with something naughty. The process can be quite spontaneous. Ask someone to complete the statement “Mouse eat …” and most likely they will tell you “cheese”. Followed by “Goat eat …” and “grass” will comes to mind. Now ask him/she “Cow drink …” and most people will tell you “milk”.

Are You Feeling Burnt Out?

2008-06-01T18:44:00.017+08:00

Recently I attended an event “Keep The Fire Burning: A Symposium For Professional Caregivers” organized by Institute of Mental Health (IMH). It was also a joint celebration of the 2nd Social Workers’ Day and IMH’s 80th Anniversary. The event involved group discussions and presentations by IMH’s Psychologist and Medical Social Worker (MSW). Overall it was a fruitful day, especially the presentation “Keeping The Temperature In Check: Balancing Your Multi-Faceted Professional Role In Mental Health” by Senior MSW Mr. Terence Yow.

Throughout the presentation, I have a strange feeling that it was prepared with me in mind. Let’s see what are the signs that indicate that you are feeling burnt out.

1) Frequently stressed and exhausted.
[Let’s see, more white hairs, dozing off during meetings, etc. Ticked.]

2) Dreading to go to work.
[Used to reach my office at 8.30 am sharp, then 8.45 am, 9 am, 9.15 am ... you get the picture. Ticked.]

3) Thinking about career change.
[Have been updating my resume on a monthly basis. Ticked.]

4) Neglecting other parts of life i.e. family, friends, hobbies …
[I’ve closed my online poetry forum recently. And when was the last time I have coffee with my friends? 2007? Ticked.]

5) No time to catch your breath at work.
[Catch a breath at work? More like catching a cold. Ticked.]

6) Losing sight why you chose this job/career.
[Under the heading "Occupation" I have started to declare myself as an "Applications Processing Machine". Beep beep. Ticked.]

7) No time to develop interests and hobbies.
[Unless you consider writing social reports as a hobby. Ticked]

8) Often feeling exhausted.
[Please refer to the 1st point. Ticked.]

9) Spending more and more time at work.
[Let’s see, although officially my working hours are from Monday to Friday, 8.30 am to 6 pm. I usually leave office at 7 – 8 pm and spend most of the Saturdays back in the office working. Never trust that HR guy during the interview. Ticked.]

10) Often bringing work home.
[Ha Ha, better than bringing woman home right? Just kidding dear, er dear? Darling? Honey? Ticked]

Okay, it is official. I am burnt out. Time to register myself as a missing person.

On Monsieur’s Departure

2008-05-18T18:26:00.006+08:00

I grieve, and dare not show my Discontent;

I love, and yet am forc’d to seem to hate;
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant;
I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate:
   I am, and not; I freez, and yet am burn’d,
   Since from my Self another Self I turn’d.

My Care is like my Shadow in the Sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands, and lies by me, doth make me rue it.
His too familiar Care doth make me rue it.
   No means I find to ridd him from my Breast,
   Till by the End of things it be supprest.

Some gentler Passion slide into my Mind,
For I am soft, and made of melting Snow;
Or be more cruel love, and so be kind;
Let me or float or sink, be high or low;
   Or let me Live with some more sweet content,
   Or Die, and so forget what Love e’re meant.

By Queen Elizabeth I (1533 – 1603)

Quote Of The Day

2008-04-15T21:01:00.005+08:00

How silent the woods would be if only the best birds sang.

Anonymous

Protagoras’s Wager

2008-04-14T23:43:00.007+08:00

Protagoras had a pupil named Eulathus, who arranged to take Protagora’s course in rhetoric and sophistry, a kind of law school, for partial tuition. So sure was Protagoras of his abilities as a teacher that he told Eulathus he did not have to pay the balance until Eulathus won his first court case. In fact, Protagoras guaranteed that Eulathus would win his first case.

Time dragged on and Eulathus neither paid up nor argued any cases in court. Not only was Protagoras out the money, he looked bad to his students and to other Sophists. After all, if winning is what counts, and if appearance is reality, and if the pupil can outmaneuver the old master, why should anyone continue to pay his high fees? Protagoras was compelled to take actions.

Confronting Eulathus (probably in a public place where he could use his crowd-pleasing skills), Protagoras demanded payment in the form of this dilemma: “Eulathus, you might as well pay me, since I am going to sue you for the rest of the tuition. If I win in court, the court will rule that you owe me money; if I lose in court, you will have won your first case, and you will owe me the money. Either I win in court or I lose, you owe me the money.”

Protagoras, alas, was a good teacher, and Eulathus was ready for him. He shot back with a counter dilemma: “No, sir, you have it backwards. If you defeat me in court, then I have lost my first case and so do not owe the money; if I defeat you, the court will rule that I do not owe you the money. Either I defeat you or you defeat me. In either case, I do not owe you the money.”

Afterthought

Ouch! Poor Protagoras. I wonder how we can apply this wisdom in our daily lives? Hmm.

Psychology Humour #6

2008-04-06T00:48:00.006+08:00

This guy lives near a mental hospital. Everyday on his way to the bus stop, he has to pass along the tall walls of the hospital.

One morning, on his way to work, he heard the psychos behind the wall chanting, "Seven! Seven! Seven!" The guy thought to himself, "Crazy nuts!"

Later that afternoon on the way home, he again passed the sanitarium. And again he heard the loonies counting, "Seven! Seven! Seven!" Now thoroughly intrigued, he went around the tall walls to look for somewhere he could peek in. He found a big boulder just beside the fence and he climbed it. And he stuck his head over the wall and looked down...

BAM!!

A loony waiting just behind the other side of the wall hit him with a big baseball bat. Down he went from the boulder and fell to the ground unconscious. And the nuts resumed their chanting, "Eight! Eight! Eight!"

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Two psychiatrists were walking down a hall.

One turned to the other and said, "Hello."

The other one thought, "I wonder what he meant by that."

--------------------------------------------------------------------

A woman went to a psychiatrist because she was having severe problems with her sex life. The psychiatrist asked her many questions but did not seem to be getting a clear picture of her problems. Finally he asked,

"Do you ever watch your husband's face while you are having sex?"

"Well, yes, I did once."

"And how did he look?"

"Very angry."

At this point the psychiatrist felt that he was really getting somewhere and he said,

"Well that's very interesting, we must look into this further. Now tell me, you say that you have only seen your husband's face once during sex; that seems somewhat unusual. How did it occur that you saw his face that one time?"

"He was looking through the window at us."

------------------------------------------------------------------

Things You Don't Want to Hear During Surgery

(Not really Psychology but I find them really funny.)

"Accept this sacrifice, O Great Lord of Darkness"

Bo! Bo! Come back with that! Bad Dog!

Better save that. We'll need it for the autopsy.

Wait a minute, if this is his spleen, then what's that?

Hand me that... uh... that uh... thingie

Oh no! I just lost my Rolex.

Oops! Hey, has anyone ever survived 500 ml of this stuff before?

There go the lights again...

Ya' know... there's big money in kidneys...and this guy's got two of 'em.

Everybody stand back! I lost my contact lens!

Could you stop that thing from beating? It's throwing my concentration off.

Hmm... What's this doing here?

I hate it when they're missing stuff in here.

That's cool! Now can you make his leg twitch?!

Well folks, this will be an experiment for all of us.

What do you mean he wasn't in for a sex change?

Nurse, did this patient sign the organ donation card?

Don't worry. I think it is sharp enough.

FIRE! FIRE! Everyone get out!

Rats! Page 47 of the manual is missing!

TeeVee

2008-03-26T00:28:00.038+08:00

In the house
of Mr and Mrs Spouse
he and she
would watch teevee
and never a word
between them spoken
unit the day
the set was broken.

Then 'How do you do?'
said he to she
'I don't believe
that we've met yet.
Spouse is my name.
What's yours?' he asked.

'Why, mine's the same!'
said she to he,
'Do you suppose that we could be - ?'

But the set came suddenly right about,
and so they never did find out.

By Eve Merriam (1916 - 1992)

Afterthought

This poem describes exactly what my wife and I are currently going through. We love watching TV like Boston Legal, Taiwan political news, Fearless Planet, etc. Anything that is more interesting than our local productions deserve our full attention. Unfortunately, we are spending lesser and lesser time communicating with each other.

Another major issue is the TV remote control. We believe that whoever controls it, is the master/mistress of the house. It is a fact - this harmless looking thing is actually a symbol of power. Whoever holds it decides what kind of programs the other party has to watch for the next 4 – 5 hours. With the TV remote control firmly in her hand, that means no more History Channel, no more Dogfights, etc, but programs about shoes, shopping, handbags, fashion, etc.

Although it is frustrating, but there is really no easy solution to our problem. I wonder if the nearby Family Service Centre is willing to take my case, “My wife deprived me of my freedom by holding on to the TV remote control. I want you to get it back from her.” Hmm.

But maybe what we really need is spending quality time with each other, you know like watching a movie, going to the library or maybe shopping for a bigger TV. Ya, I like the idea of having of a bigger TV.

If You Love Me, Carry My Handbag.

2008-03-15T01:46:00.019+08:00

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

A few weeks ago I attended a 2 days workshop and on day 2, my trainer decided to play a “Values Clarification Game” to demonstrate the evaluative process in compromising values.

We were told to read a story, then ranked the 5 characters from 1 to 5, 1 being the person you like most and 5 being the person you like least. Next, we had to get into small groups and discussed our ranking.

Below is the story,

“There was once a woman named Fiona who was in love with a man named Peter. Peter lived on the shore of a river while Fiona lived on the opposite shore of the river. The river which separated the two lovers was teeming with man-eating crocodiles. Fiona wanted to cross the river to be with Peter. Unfortunately, the bridge had been washed out. So she went to ask John the river boat captain to take her across. He said he would be glad to if she would spend the night with him.

Fiona promptly refused and went to a friend named Ben to explain her plight. Ben said he did not want to be involved at all in the situation. Fiona felt her only alternative was to accept John’s term. She spent the night with John and he then fulfilled his promise and took her across the river to Peter.

When Fiona told Peter about what happened Peter cast her aside. Fiona turned to Tom with her tale of woe. Tom then sought out Peter and gave him a good punch which sent him into the river.”

Before I continue, there is something you need to know i.e. out of 15 person in my class, 12 of them are women. Keep this figure in mind.

During the discussion, we did not have much problems ranking most of the characters. However when it was time to rank Tom and Peter, the discussion turned into a heated debate between men and women. All the women ranked Tom as the person they like most and ranked Peter as the person they like least.

In their opinion, Peter is a heartless bastard and deserves to be fed to the crocodiles. He must be severely punished for casting Fiona aside. As for Tom, what a hero! The women have no problem with the fact that Tom is a cold-blooded murderer who will not hesitate to take a life. Despite his act of brutality, those women fiercely defended Tom, who is their knight in shining armor and insisted that he should be ranked no. 1.

Gosh! What happened to World Peace?

Wait, what about John, the river boat captain? Believe it or not most of the women ranked him as no.2!!!

And guess what, according to a recent survey by the Social Development Service of 200 single women, they expect men to pay for their dates, meet them at least twice a week, etc. What’s unbelievable is they also expect men to carry their handbags for them. So what’s next? Throw their ex-boyfriends into rivers?

No wonder they are still single.

Feeling Horny My Fellow Singaporeans?

2007-10-15T23:44:00.006+08:00

I first came to know about the existence of “Best of Singapore Erotica” during a reading session held at BooksActually, a lovely bookshop, a few months back. Mr. Hari Kumar, one of the featured authors was there and he read an excerpt from his story, “Night At Passion Touch”. I am not sure about the rest of the audience but being a sensitive person I felt horny after his reading. No, not horny for him but horny for more erotic stories by local writers. Unfortunately BooksActually does not carry the title or I would have bought a copy on the spot.

Well I bought a copy last week and it was sensational! Some of the stories are totally wicked! Of course there are a couple of boring stuff but most of them are thought-provoking and make great bedtime stories for your spouse.

Allow me to quote from the book, according to Didier Bernardin, owner of Crazy Horse Saloon: “If there’s more art and mind, then it’s erotic; if there’s no mind and no art, then it’s pornography.” I am not sure if I understand exactly what he means by that, but here's my take: “If you dare to show it to your mother-in-law, it is art, if not, better read it behind closed doors because most likely it is pornography.”

So here are some excerpts from this amazing book. And by the way if you are below 18, please stop reading. As for the rest, get ready for some hot chili crabs, Singapore style.

Chloe, the 129-year-old, life-size nude painting of a Parisian nymph painted by Jules Lesebvre.

The Good Girl by Alice Lee Am

“She saved her thin cotton bras with their almost nonexistent support for Mr Lim’s PE class and she wore them under a white PE T-shirt that was too tight for her and barely contained her large, round breasts. Her mother had bought her a bigger, looser T-shirt that she hid. She was pleased with the winning combination of tight shirt and thin bra. Her erect nipples stood out and she was sure Mr Lim would want to take her nipples in his mouth, one at a time, and slowly lick and suck them. How could any man not want her nipples?”

Clean Sex by Ricky Low

“She was now down on her knees with a wet rag in her hand, but before she began scrubbing, she looked up and flashed me another quick smile. She then commenced with the cleaning. She swabbed the rag against the floor in small circles, her ass and tits rotating in syncopated rhythms to this entrancing motion.”

Night At Passion Touch by Hari Kumar

“She looked at me but said nothing. She hugged me tight and continued rubbing her body on mine. Her breath came hot on my lips. I could catch the whiff of Fisherman’s Friend mints, apple and cinnamon, I guess. Her hair fell around my face like a black curtain. My whole body tingled with sensations never felt before. Primal moans rose in my throat. Down below, I was hard as rock. Feeling my hardness, she asked breathlessly, “Do you want sex?”

Body Drafts by Rachel Loh

“Her eyes shut tightly, fingers squeezed into Narain’s shoulders, Michelle thrust herself on and around the fingers until, within maybe twenty seconds, she came.”

An MRT Chronicle by Weston Sun Wensheng

“With a gentle cough, the office girl slid further down her seat while still clutching tightly to her handbag and envelope. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, she spread her legs wide open. At this, it seemed like Oily Man stopped breathing.”

Well there are many more, too troublesome to post them here. So what are you guys waiting for, go grab one before some pricks from the government decided to ban this book! And don’t forget to get one copy for your mother-in-law, if you dare!

Afterthought

According to a recent study conducted by our beloved National University of Singapore (NUS), shopping can stave off dementia for those aged 55 years and above! It seems that productive activities allow the brain to be more stimulated.

Not fair! What about those who don’t like shopping?!!! Fear not my friends, besides shopping, other activities such as preparing meals, reading and listening to music, can too help reduce the risk of getting dementia by as much as 60 percent. Now that’s better.

Although I am no professor or expert in dementia but I strongly believe that reading erotic materials help to improve our quality of life and brain functions. Maybe I should conduct a study on this, who knows I might win a prestigious international award too.

So who want to provide me with the erotic, err research materials?

Disclaimer: The purpose of this entry is not to promote pornography in Singapore. The author is also not responsible for any sudden increase in sales for the above mentioned book. [Although he doesn’t mind some free book vouchers for his poetry writing contests] However, should you find this entry tasteless, well too bad, no hard feelings, pun intended.

Early Times

2007-08-27T20:34:00.001+08:00

Sing to me, your song, my song, our song.
Sing to me, Song for a free world,
like an image,
like a rolling stone,
Breathing –
Feeling –
Everybody needs somebody.
Song for a fantastic world,
don't let me down.

I promise you nothing gonna change.
Lady Madonna, don't give me
none of that preaching.
Your lips, rounded like a letter “O”.
Kiss me! Kiss me mama!
I will feel at ease if you shoot
me down in front of my door.

So life goes on.
Nothing is free from nothing.
Hundred times I fall,
Life goes on.
Guess this is my last fight.
Damn just what did I see in you?

I am just standing there, like a dumb
bird. Standing there forever,
killing the time.

Remember the silver dust lane?
It still lies in the bottom of the sky.
Those sweet and beautiful days.
Frankly I never look back again.
Miss you so much, Miss your last smile.
I wish we could see the light of heaven.
Just the two of us like spring leaves, green,
in neverland.

Hold on
Hold on
Hold on
Hold on

So long my memories.
Today I dream on the kitchen floor.
Today is gonna be a day for you.
Today it is time to set you free,
free you all!
Everyone, everyone!
But let me play back the music one last time.
Just one last time,
one last song -

Rosy.
Oh sweet little music.

You still make me smile,
Love Psychedelico,
You still make me smile.

----------------------------------

Sometimes, it is better to be a poet wannabe rather than a “real” poet especially if you have a reputation to uphold. Take the posted poem for example, it is created by extracting a line or two from my favourite Japanese pop album, add in a few phrases here and there and wa lah, you have a poem!

As some of you are aware, my new job requires me to work with people who are not favorably positioned in our society. Some of my clients are ex-convicts, cancer patients, homeless senior citizens, etc and most of the times they are either frustrated, bitter, or depressed. A few months in the job and eventually these negative energies start getting into your system.

Now what does this got to do with my poem? Er, nothing actually. However, what I want to share with you is my therapeutic encounter with this particular Japanese pop group i.e. Love Psychedelico. I am not sure why but somehow their songs suck all the negative energies out from me. (You have to use a headphone for maximum effects.) Take their “Early Times” album for example, some songs make me want to sing along, some songs make me want to shake my butt, some relaxes me but yet a couple makes me feels horny. An emotional roller coast ride indeed. Yet I feel refresh after listening to their music.

There is something in these songs that connect me. I feel comfortable and at home whenever I listen to them after a long day work. I think this should apply to poetry too, if your readers are unable to relate to your poems, well, you’ve failed.

But luckily for me I am not a poet. Even if I am, this poem is written for me, I am the intended reader. It is just my way of saying thank you, Love Psychedelico, you make me smile.

So if you like their music, quick go get their album! :)

Congratulation!

2007-07-14T11:43:00.000+08:00

Love Philosophy

The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle-
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another,
No sister-flower would be forgiven,
If it disdained its brother.
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea-
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Afterthought

“Life is the flower of which love is the honey,” said Victor Hugo. If that is true, guess who is the Queen? Hee hee.

Disappointment

2007-06-12T21:22:00.001+08:00

I was feeling pretty religious
standing on the bridge in my winter coat
looking down at the gray water:
the sharp little waves dusted with snow,
fish in their tin armor.

That’s what I like about disappointment:
the way it slows you down,
when the querulous insistent chatter of desire
....................... goes dead calm

and the minor roadside flowers
pronounce their quiet colors,
and the red dirt of the hillside glows.

She played the flute, he played the fiddle
and the moon came up over the barn.
Then he didn’t get the job, -
or her father died before she told him
....................... that one, most important thing –

and everything got still.

It was February or October
It was July
I remember it so clear
You don’t have to pursue anything ever again
It’s over
You’re free
You’re unemployed

You just have to stand there
looking out on the water
in your trench coat of solitude
with your scarf of resignation
..................... lifting in the wind.

Tony Hoagland
Taken from What Narcissism Means to Me

Image taken from www.bbc.co.uk

Afterthought

It took me a few days to accept the fact that I am finally employed. I’ve lost count on the numbers of resumes and applications forms I’ve send out over the past 427 days just to face rejection after rejection. They were like nails, brutally forced and twisted into my body with bare hands. I fought hard to stay positive, but it was not easy especially my saving was running low.

Let’s be honest, it sucks to be unemployed. And as a student of Psychology I am well aware of its negative effects. It sucks even more when it strips your self-esteem and self-confidence layer by layer day after day. That is when you start feeling depress, anxious and naked. It also doesn’t help when your friends and family members, out of good intention, advised you not to be too choosy and just pick ANY job that is available. Yah right, jobs grow on trees like apple, so what are you waiting for, quick get a ladder.

Sad but true, work provides an important context for social interaction and to a certain degree gives one a sense of identity; it positions us in the social structure. For example, when you introduce yourself to a stranger in a social function, it is common to talk about one’s job. Work connects people and is much more interesting than discussing the weather and income tax.

According to Warr (1987) loss of income is usually the most harmful effect. I totally agree with him. If I am a billionaire, frankly I don’t mind being unemployed. I might feel sad when they rejected my applications but I will soon get over it once I bought over those companies and fired the people responsible for rejecting my applications.

And as for social identity, no problem at all -

Friend: Hi buddy how’s life?
Me: I am doing fine, how about you?

Friend: Not too good, I hate my job. So what are you doing now?
Me: Well I am a blogger.

Friend: A blogger? What the heck is that?
Me: I am also a travel consultant.

Friend: I see, so you work for a travel agency.
Me: Nope. I am a freelance travel consultant.

Friend: Huh? So what exactly do you do?
Me: I travel around the world and write about my adventures in my blog.

Friend: Okay, I am getting confused; someone must pay you right?
Me: Nope, not a singe cent.

Friend: But without income how are you going to survive?
Me: Well the last time I check, I still have a room full of gold bars.

That would be so cool. :)

Think Your Situation Is Bad? Think Again.

2007-04-09T15:35:00.000+08:00

Some of you might have known that I’ve been feeling very down for the past several months. Recently a friend sends me an email with some jokes attached to cheer me up. Actually some of them are quite funny though I hope they are not based on his personal experience.

Read on and you will understand why I said that.

Good Verses Bad

Bad: You find a porn movie in your son’s room.
Worse: You’re in it.

Bad: Your children are sexually active.
Worse: With each other.

Bad: Your husband’s a cross-dresser.
Worse: He looks better than you.

Bad: Your wife wants a divorce.
Worse: She’s a lawyer.

Bad: Your wife’s leaving you.
Worse: For another woman.

Bad: You can’t find your vibrator.
Worse: Your son “borrowed” it.

Bad: Your wife is sick.
Worse: Of you.

Bad: Your unit only measures out to be 2 inches long.
Worse: Erect!!!

Bad: Your husband has become a playboy.
Worse: Centerfold.

Good: Hot outdoor sex.
Bad: You’re arrested.
Worse: By your husband.

Good: The teacher likes your son.
Bad: Sexually.

Good: You came home for a quickie.
Bad: Your wife walks in unexpectedly.

Good: You go to see a strip show.
Bad: Your daughter’s the headline.

Good: Your daughter practices safe sex.
Bad: She’s eleven.

Good: Your neighbour exercise in nude.
Bad: She weighs 350 pounds.

Good: Your wife likes outdoor sex.
Bad: You live downtown.

Good: Your wife meets you at the door nude.
Bad: She’s coming home.

Good: Your wife’s kinky.
Bad: With the neighbours.
Worse: All of them.

Good: Your wife just experience her first orgasm.
Bad: With the postman.

Good: Your girlfriend’s got soft, long, blonde hair.
Bad: Under her arms.

Good: Your daughter’s boss raves about her work.
Bad: He’s a pimp.

Judges' Choice Catgory

2007-03-11T22:18:00.000+08:00

Dear Contestants,

In the Judges’ Choice Category, three members from the judging panel will each select a poem. If more than one judge selected your poem, you will be declared the winner in this category. However if your poem was not selected, it doesn’t mean it is not good enough. The judges have the right to select, in their opinions, the best poem among the submissions.

They are here to help you improve your writing skills. To some contestants, their comments might sound a bit harsh. But do remember it is nothing personal; the judges do not know you personally. They are here to comment on your poems, not you. You can choose to agree or disagree with them.

Don’t be discouraged, and good luck!

Dead Poet
Your friendly Moderator

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest: Poem # 1

2007-03-11T22:16:00.000+08:00

As I Fall Deeper Into The Mist

As I fall deeper into the mist,
I find shadows everywhere,
Life as I had known them there,
Were like the afternoon air.

Though I may be reminiscing again,
I know what was there, was there,
Turning the wheels of time,
Was never worth the dime.

Image taken from www.baskinrobbins.com

Judges' comments:

Vance Roberts

I liked the thought behind this one. It was, however, let down by the obtrusive but irregular rhyme. Again, I would have suggested either a much more definite structure, or free verse.

"Them" in line three jarred with me. Does it refer to life, in which case it should be singular, or does it refer to the shadows. I felt that it needed a re-think to clarify the point. The final couplet was a nice idea but, for me, the shorter lines seemed to undercut, or trivialise, the validity of the serious point which was being made.

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest: Poem # 2

2007-03-11T22:14:00.001+08:00

A B C D for Thy Self

An apple a day keeps my heart
From being frozen
Its’ fiery and wet soul
Keeping me warm from within

Many berries a week keep my life
From being bitter
Its’ sweetness and huggable body
Keeping me happy from within

A few citrus a month keep my soul
From being dull
Its’ freshness and sour mood
Keeping me glowing from within

A few durians a year keep myself
From being false
Its’ foulness and fleshy seed
Keeping me grounded from within

Oh how these aptly describe ones’ self
For without these fruits
How shall I live
Small am I but great is life

Image taken from www.answers.com

Judges' comments:

Vance Roberts

I liked the idea of the simple things being sufficient but, yet again, it lacked structure. The constant repetition of "Keeping ... within" was overplayed. Had it just been used in the opening and closing stanzas then I think it would have had more power. Repetition is fine in the right context, such as a villanelle, but here I felt that it weakened the writer's premise. The final line deserved to make more of an impact than it actually did. Combining it with a revamped repetitive method as suggested above could have helped with that.

The misuse of the apostrophe should have been checked and remedied before submission.

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest: Poem # 3

2007-03-11T22:12:00.001+08:00

Such A Vulgarian

such a vulgarian- I know that.
my thoughts are so vulgar and crude,
no sense of taste, just a cheap shot at being,
knowing what beauty is.
perhaps I will transform some day
into a riffraff vulgarian,
one who slaps people in the knees
and explodes with laughter at meals.

and I will eat and eat,
forget my manners, laugh at prayers,
chicken, mudpies, samosas.
my friends tap me with their spoons
their enviable garbage friend who eats what she pleases
I will bulge as a whale plump and swimmingly
in the sea of discontent I reign free and happy
as a plankton.

Boys I have loved and who loved
come up to me
'ah, you're ugly,' they say
I smile my monsterous teeth and bite them in two.
I smile shiningly and kiss them on the head.
I tell them I am going to Tibet
through a medical miracle
I will suckle 300 children there,
a mother of rushdie proportions.

Sweet Shiva! They exclaim.
I am out of my mind, I am given to schizophrenia
they give me their cards to their specialists
Dr. V, Dr.D, Dr. S
My hugeness has made them kind and relieved,
I am jolly as a horse with bells on the street
they pat my hand with utmost pleasure,
I crush them like chocolate figures
into a bear hug, my monsterous dangs.

Judges' comments:

Gilbert Koh

In my opinion, it's the clear winner among this crop of entries. It's humorous, it has originality and it uses creative images. Apart from all that, it offers some interesting insights into social expectations and behaviour. The protagonist is crude, rude, fat and loud - yet there is a sense of joy, abundance and freedom about her. Ironically, the people around her think that she is a little crazy - it is as if it is a crazy thing to be joyful, abundant and free.

Cheong Lee San

At first read, this is not an easy work, one tends to dismiss it as “difficult” or “irreverent”. But somehow, I keep coming back to it, finding new images with each re-read. This is a sweet tale of a person who binges, carefree and happy, and I like the way the emotions are described.

Vance Roberts

I felt that it demonstrated a genuine sense of a personal voice and had not constricted itself by an adherence to a specific form. It was both a celebration of self and a gently self-deprecating piece of autobiography - be it real or fictional. It had a pleasing sense of humour throughout and I enjoyed the irony of being "happy as a plankton." Most importantly, I came out of it feeling that the writer had entertained me, shared something of him/herself with me and made me ask questions about human nature in general.

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest: Poem # 4

2007-03-11T22:11:00.001+08:00

The Two of Us

Something was there, that only they could feel,
the love for each other, so strong and real.

They were always together, never apart,
sharing almost everything, even their hearts.

Their hands met, clasped so firm and tight,
they were never out of each other's sight.

He was there when she needed him the most,
when everything felt seemingly hopeless and lost.

The day soon came when she had to go,
when they exchanged good-byes, he told her so.

"I'll wait for you, no matter what,
for you'll always be in my heart."

"With all my heart, I solemnly pledge,
with all my love, I solemnly swear."

Their lips locked in a passionate kiss,
she soon left, leaving him thinking of what he'll miss.

Image taken from www.gourmetfoodmall.com

Judges' comments:

Vance Roberts

Poor scansion gets in the way here and stops the poem flowing. There is not clear metrical pattern and line length appears almost random. Again, I would suggest that a writer either adopts a clear structure and maintains it, or chooses to let sense and/or layout rule and keeps to a free verse format.

I felt that this poem stated the "facts" of a relationship but gave the reader no emotional touchstones. If I had been allowed to share a secret - flowers, a ring, a meeting-place - then I would have felt an attachment to one or both of the characters.

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest: Poem # 5

2007-03-11T22:09:00.001+08:00

Twisted

Twisted thoughts and twisted days;
Twisted minds plaguing the new-mown hay.
I ain't born freak, and I ain't being clay;
I just don't wanna caught in this indecent play.

An innocent child, a smile so gay;
What have they done, that he led astray?
I ain't escaping, and I ain't gonna stay;
But, what have I done to be betrayed?

Like it or not, I'll be like yesterday;
Like it or not, I won't involve in this fray.
Pointless to argue and nothing to say;
All that I want is to do it my own way.

Call me queer, call me fag, call me gay;
Call me whatever, I never gonna be dismayed.
All you have to do is stay out of my way;
Then you'll be sure, I won't mess up your day!

Judges' comments:

Vance Roberts

This is another example of a poem that would probably work better if read aloud. Vagaries of scansion are more obvious on the page. I had the feeling that it was written as a challenge, a task, rather than because the writer had something specific to say. The use of only one rhyme became wearing.

What does line two actually mean? The "clay" image in line three was good but line two seemed simply to be there to keep the pattern going.

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest: Poem # 6

2007-03-11T22:07:00.000+08:00

For the Love of Pho
(Pho~ Famed Vietnamese Beef Noodle Soup)

Father, I must confess…

Lately I have sinned
And no matter how I try, it seems to me,
I cannot resist the ecstasy
Of a Pot of Pho, or two, or three

Father you don’t understand
My consuming gluttony?
I’ll lead you there and I pray you’ll see. Here’s the broth…
Yes, I did warn you the smell IS simply heavenly!

Here, taste these noodles with texture slippery wet
And taste this beef, shaved thin and cooked just-right,
It melts in your mouth
Ah yes…now you see the light!

Noodles, beef and broth served
With a garnish of basil, chillies and a squeezing of lime
Heavens! Father, isn't that your 10th bowl?!
I’m assured then…God won't see this gluttony as a crime?

Image taken from www.theage.com.au

Judges' comments:

Cheong Lee San

The rhythm and rhyme of this piece strikes me. I like the way the words roll off the tongue. It starts well and rather forcefully leads us on in the praise of this dish. This piece is flavourful, and I think, cooked just right….

Vance Roberts

This was an amusing idea but it was let down by poor structure and lack of detail. Someone eating a food they love gives lots of scope for comic detail: lips smacking, dribbling and general carefree table manners could all have been given more description to good effect. I think that the confessional aspect could have been built up rather more at the opening to give more of a sense of bathos when the reader realises the true nature of the "sin."

I also found that the rhyme was mis-handled.

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest: Poem # 7

2007-03-11T22:05:00.000+08:00

He Sits Alone Staring

He sits alone staring, just staring
“Pis Pis!” the perfume goes as She sqirt it on

He turns , considers games on the PC, games....
“Clink Clank Boom!” door closes as She hurried down the stairs

He shakes his head, makes a cup of coffee
“Taxi! Taxi!” She turns her head around frantically looking....

He sighs, strolls downstairs for cold milk first
“Oh No!” She's soaking in the sudden rain

He exclaims, what a gorgeous young lady, perhaps...
“Damn!” She hurried away as she spotted an old pervert leeching

He takes brisk steps, she's moving away, without...
“Taxi! I need a taxi now!” She glanced back and the old pervert is following her

He shouts, your keys, your set of keys
“Please stop!” She managed to stop an old London cab

He picks up the keys, turns towards the police station, in the bright morning sun.
“At last!” The taxi drove off away from the old pervert, in the late evening rain.

Image taken from www.math.hawaii.edu

Judges' comments:

Vance Roberts

This entry had so much potential. We could have been made to feel much more (or less if the writer preferred) sympathy for the old man. Instead we were left with a sense of disjointedness and missed opportunity and have to struggle to form the narrative.

The attempts at onomatopoeia in the opening stanzas were encouraging but unfortunate. Sadly, the resemblance of "pis" to the word "piss" took away the value of the first instance and in stanza two I simply felt that doors do not go "Clink Clank Boom!" If these sounds were actually a reference to the computer games, then a clearer structure was needed to clarify the point.

There was also some confusion of tenses.

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest: Poem # 8

2007-03-11T22:04:00.002+08:00

Food For Thought

Food for Thought
who lurks around the edges and shadows
Parsing
The etheral and incorporeal given life
and thus
death

Food for Thought
who hunts panther-slow-and-stealthy
And consumes
the Illusions and the Dreams
by dissection
You cannot see the starlight for the dust motes
You cannot see the starlight at all

Food for Thought
who prowls unseen
by Inspiration
who grazes in wide-spread, plentiful herds
The young, the wise, the fruitful ---
they are the first to die

And even the fiery will grow ripe someday

The predator is patient

Food for Thought
who feeds
and feeds
and feeds...

Food for Thought
whose vicious articulateness
burns me out
The hunt goes on forever
And I die a little inside
everytime

Judges' comments:

Vance Roberts

In many ways I liked this. The sense of personification of "food for thought" was a sound idea and I enjoyed the feeling of malevolence which came across well but, as with so many of the other entries, I felt that structure needed a lot more thought. The first stanza in particular was quite impenetrable. The use of "poetic" language is not sufficient. A poet's aim should be communication.

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest: Poem # 9

2007-03-11T22:02:00.001+08:00

Utmost Supremacy

Your hypocrisy has been put to rest,
yet my flame of hatred still contest.
You prove yourself to be not above the rest,
and now you utterly fail my test.

You fail to appease my anger,
and now you shall tremble.
For I use nothing but horror,
and fulfil them with great pleasure.

You thought no one could see through your lies,
but you forgot the person who saw through your rise.
Now, throw the dice,
and let it decide as to how you should die.

So here lies your fate,
did you think you would die this way?
And now, I hereby proclaim you...
Dead.

Judges' comments:

Vance Roberts

Once more, I felt that the chosen form obscured any meaning. The overpowering rhyme in the first stanza, together with the poor grammar in line two, put me off almost before I had begun. The formal, imperious tone also seemed, to me, to be a mistake and I was left with the feeling that the writer was thinking too much about "writing a poem" and not enough about what he/she really wanted to say. I confess that I did not really know what the intention was. There was clearly some sincerity in here but that alone is not enough.

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest: Poem # 10

2007-03-11T22:00:00.000+08:00

Anorexic Satiation

I. The Confrontation

Dinner again.
You fume in disdain.
Air grimed in greasy stain.
I am going insane.
Struggling in vain,
To shake this chronic pain.
I am no Saint.
Hard to abstain.
The taunt of this odious bane.

II. The Battle

Beyond the line.
Enemy in disguise.
The cheese is luring mice.
Smell of fries,
Full of vice.
Temptation, hard to deny.
I close my eyes,
Take a dive,
Tug you behind my mind.
And yet you rise,
Like a butterfly,
Trying again to entice.
I draw my knife,
And I cut, and I slice,
I skin you with all my might.
You hold your pride,
Strength subsides,
Retaliation is just unwise.
There you lie,
Like a flatten fly.
Beaten, unable to defy.

III. The Victory

I almost vomit.
Not because you bleed.
But for the oil you leaked.
Victory is sweet.
But we shall meet,
With you in another outfit.
Am I sick?
No, a meal to forfeit.
A gush of triumphant sweep…

Image taken from people.eku.edu

Judges' comments:

Vance Roberts

I found that the chosen form overwhelmed any real meaning. It would probably be more effective if read aloud but did not really work in this context. A phrase such as "this odious bane" seemed to me to demonstrate only an adherence to rhyme and added little to, in fact probably confused, the meaning. The rather high-sounding, declamatory tone also served to obscure rather than clarify. If the writer wished to make a point about the sense of paradox in eating disorders (or to use them as a metaphor for some other human condition) then a more straightforward approach would have paid dividends.

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest: Poem # 11

2007-03-11T21:58:00.000+08:00

Piece of Meat

Treat me well like your new-born child
and I would return favour as best as I could

Intoxicate me up with wine and sauce
and I would taste better than any other

Tenderize me with initimate care
and I would go soft at your touch

Put me to your flames with passion
and I would suffer the burns with delight

Chew me well so that you don't choke
and I would linger in your mouth longer

Swallow me but don't spit me out
and I would be reborn as part of you

Image taken from www.epicurious.com

Judges' comments:

Vance Roberts

I enjoyed the fact that it worked on more than one level. The underlying sexual metaphor gave the poem both humour and depth. On a critical note, I found that the new-born child image in the first stanza jarred somewhat and seemed out of keeping with the rest of the poem. However, I do accept that this is a personal view. "Intoxicate me up" also grated with me, but it could well be a vernacular phrase with which I am unfamiliar. Overall, I was left with the feeling that the poet had enjoyed writing it and had done so in a confident and unique way.

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest: Poem # 12

2007-03-11T21:56:00.002+08:00

A Bowl of Humble Maggi Mee

French shaved truffles are a famous treat
So are wagyu beef; for the uninformed-
That’s real expensive meat!
I have tasted every food from across these seas,
But I still prefer my humble (curry) maggi mee!

When life gets trite
And in this big bad world you feel like an insignificant
Mite!
Forget for a moment your misery,
Hey, it’s no big tragedy when there is (curry) maggi mee!

What? Nonsense and blasphemy!
How dare you say too much MSG in my maggi mee?
Eat too much become baldy?
So what, get wig...settle already!

Judges' comments

Vance Roberts

This had a gentle sense of humour which I enjoyed but I felt that there was no real depth to it. The idea of pleasure now being preferable can have much validity but I felt that the poem failed to explore this. I also felt that the use of rhyme and half-rhyme was obtrusive and detracted from the content; ditto the metrical structure.

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest: Poem # 13

2007-03-07T23:36:00.001+08:00

Someday

Someday, I’m just going to
say I give
up
And throw my hands
into the air
Cupping the stars and hoping that they
plummet

What a very mean thing to think
Santa Claus won’t be very happy
to find that you wished his
traffic lights dead
You’ll regret this
as soon as the first snow
falls
and the death of silent night
brings presents for everyone
but you

Someday, I’m just going to
pray to the air and the roads
And not to God
because they are here
deciding my fate
and He is Above
Me
Up there behind the clouds
Hiding
behind the shamed moon

Watch and wait, I will burn
up
like the stars
that you want me to become

Someday, I’m just going to
walk the plank
Because I’ve never seen sharks before
in real life
And who knows if they aren’t really
the kindest beasts
in the whole wide world?

Someday, I’m just going to…

Judges' comments:

Cheong Lee San

This is the type of free verse I like, cynical, edgy, yet not entirely without hope. The first strophe is interesting, giving an indication of the slant of the poem. This poem works because of the layers of emotions seething out from the words. It’s a bit abstract for my liking, but poetry is about how the readers see and interpret the work.

Vance Roberts

Once again, it was the sense of a personal voice which drew me to this poem.

I certainly identified with the sense of frustration and helplessness. I loved the image of "the shamed moon" though I must admit that I felt that the Santa Claus imagery in the second stanza was not a good choice and rather undercut what followed. That said, I enjoyed the overall effect, particularly the final line: "Someday, I'm just going to ... " which the reader is left to finish; perhaps pondering on those failed promises and ambitions which we all have.

Are They Recruiting The Right People?

2007-02-19T16:45:00.000+08:00

A few years ago as part of my Psychology assignment, I conducted an experiment to investigate the relationship between H.J. Eysenck’s personality dimension of extraversion-introversion and the personality trait of altruism. A strong supporter of Eysenck, I attempted to prove that a significant negative correlation co-exist between the two i.e. extraverts are less likely to be altruistic.

As you know altruism means having the characteristic of being unselfish, kind and willing to help others. And according to Eysenck’s theory of personality, it is possible to predict people's behaviours based on their positions in the extraversion-introversion dimension. This is because a person’s response to any given situation is determined by his/her traits, which in turn are associated with the type level. For example, the traits of shyness and subjectivity are associated with introversion while impulsiveness and lack of responsibility are associated with extraversion.

In short Eysenck believes that personality dimensions, traits and behaviours are all inter-related. A hierarchy of personality structure will be in the following order, i.e. type level (top), trait level, habitual response level and specific response level (bottom).

Researches done by Eysenck and others have shown that introverts are more easily conditioned. Their actions are more likely to be influenced by the norms of the society, for instance helping elders to cross the roads, giving donations to charity organizations, etc. These are all characteristics of altruism. On the other hand Eysenck believes extraverts generally lack reflection and responsibility which means that tend to be less considerate for others and thus low in altruism.

Other researchers also shared similar views, for example Midlarsky and Bryan (1972) which research demonstrated that social responsibility (introvert) was positively related to donating behaviour (altruistic) in children. Another study conducted by Rutherford and Mussen (1968) reported that nursery school teachers rated altruistic children are less fond of company and competitive than non-altruistic. Although Eysenck's theory also consists of another two dimensions i.e. neuroticism-stability, and psychoticism, however I do not have enough time to investigate them.

To my surprise, my result is a non-significant negative correlation. Although the result is non-significant, however it managed to establish that the personality of extraversion and altruism do has a negative relationship.

In view of this I have a question, so does being an introvert makes one a better social worker/counselors/volunteers since willing to help those in needs is a main characteristic of altruism? Out of curiosity, it is possible to conduct an investigation to see how many of those working in the community/social services sectors are introvert.

Nothing against extravert but with so many social workers leaving for other sectors, maybe the VWOs have being recruiting the wrong people for the job. Hmm.

1st MPC Poetry Writing Contest

2007-02-09T13:38:00.000+08:00

Original image taken from the Internet.

Please click here for more details.

Too busy to write a novel? Why not start with a poem? And if you are still too busy to write a poem, why not copied one from the Internet? Hey, just kidding okay, I am very serious about this, plagiarizing is a BAD thing to do and I am going to spank you if I catch you doing that. Ask Scavella.

Er is my poster considered plagiarism?

Poems From Rest In Peace

2007-02-02T17:57:00.002+08:00

I’ve decided to post some of my favourite poems from Rest In Peace here since Age of Insanity is about Poetry and Psychology.

Yippee! Lunar New Year is around the corner and is spring-cleaning time! Gee, why am I so excited about spring-cleaning, I don’t have a clue. ;p

To My Dear Children

This book by any yet unread,
I leave for you when I am dead,
That being gone, here you may find
What was your living mother’s mind.
Make use of what I leave in love,
And God shall bless you from above.

Anne Bradstreet (1612 – 1672)

--------------------------------------

Tablet of Stone
Written at Mount Vernon Crematorium

Coming to this lush green
Serenity, tucked away from the
Noise of city traffic, seeking
Telepathy, a reunion of
Minds, with those long dead –
Whose souls now reside amongst
The ashes in allocated cubicles,
Sealed with marble slabs – from
The living world – rows and
Rows lined with tablets of
Stone. One tablet, it seemed, was
Different from the rest. The
Visage of a little girl – Smiling –
Adorned its hard, smooth surface of an
Unearthly chill. Where flowers might
Have stood, a pink, fluffy soft toy
Sat accompanied by two plastic
Sticks of colourful lollipops, perhaps
The evidence of recent communion? In this
Dim, concrete structure built to house
The dead – an economical Mausoleum of
Sorts – comforting to find that the
Warmth of the living penetrates and
Punctures this otherwise eternal
Silence.

Tan Yi-Ling

--------------------------------------

In the Attic

Even though we know now
your clothes will never
be needed, we keep them,
upstairs in a locked trunk.

Sometimes I kneel there,
holding them, trying to relive
time you wore them, to remember
the actual shape of arm and wrist.

My hands push down between
hollow, invisible sleeves,
hesitate, then lift
patterns of memory:

a green holiday, a red christening,
all your unfinished lives
fading through dark summers,
entering my head as dust.

By Andrew Motion
(Taken from The Penguin Book of
Contemporary British Poetry)

------------------------------------

When Negro Teeth Speak

Everyone thinks me a cannibal
But you know how people talk

Everyone sees my red gums but who
Has white ones
Up with tomatoes

Everyone says fewer tourists will come
Now
But you know
We aren’t in America and anyway everyone
Is broke

Everyone says it’s my fault and is afraid
But look
My teeth are white not red
I haven’t eaten anyone

People are wicked and say I gobble
The tourists roasted
Or perhaps grilled
Roasted or grilled I asked them
They fell silent and looked fearfully at my gums
Up with tomatoes

Everyone knows an arable country has agriculture
Up with vegetables

Everyone maintain that vegetables
Don’t nourish the grower well
And that I am well-grown for an undeveloped man
Miserable vermin living on tourists
Down with my teeth

Everyone suddenly surrounded me
Fettered
Thrown down prostrated
At the feet of justice

Cannibal or not cannibal
Speak up
Ah you think yourself clever
And try to look proud

Now we’ll see you get what’s coming to you
What is your last word
Poor condemned man

I shouted up with tomatoes

The men were cruel and the women curious you see
There was one in the peering circle
Who with her voice rattling like the lid of a casserole
Screamed
Yelped
Open him up
I’m sure papa is still inside

The knives being blunt
Which is understandable among vegetarians
Like the Westerners
They grabbed a Gillette blade
And patiently
Crisss
Crasss
Floccc
They opened my belly

A plantation of tomatoes was growing there
Irrigated by streams of palm wine
Up with tomatoes

By Ouologuem Yambo
(Taken from The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry, Edited by Gerald Moore and Ulli Beier, 3rd Edition.)

To The Moon

2007-01-01T00:03:00.001+08:00

Image taken from starryskies.com

Now that the year has come full circle,
I remember climbing this hill, heartbroken,
To gaze up at the graceful sight of you,
And how you hung then above those woods
As you do tonight, bathing them in brightness.
But at that time your face seemed nothing
But a cloudy shimmering through my tears,
So wretched was the life I led: and lead still …
Nothing changes, moon of my delight. Yet
I find pleasure in recollection, in calling back
My season of grief: when one is young,
And hope is a long road, memory
A short one, how welcome then
The remembrance of things past – no matter
How sad, and the heart still grieving.

By Giacomo Leopardi (1798 – 1837)
(Translated from the Italian by Eamon Grennan)

Afterthought

To my parents, my brother, my friends, my wife.

Thank you for believing in me.

Thank you for being my friend.

Thank you for loving me.

It feels good to know that I am not alone. Wishing you guys a Happy New Year!

Wranglers And Stranglers

2006-12-28T18:40:00.000+08:00

Years ago there was a group of brilliant young men at the University of Wisconsin, who seemed to have amazing creative literary talent. They were would-be poets, novelists, and essayists. They were extraordinary in their ability to put the English language to its best use. These promising young men met regularly to read and critique each other’s work. And critique it they did!

These men were merciless with one another. They dissected the most minute literary expression into a hundred pieces. They were heartless, tough, even in their criticism. The sessions became such arenas of literary criticism that the members of their exclusive club called themselves the “Stranglers.”

Not to be outdone, the women of literary talent in the university were determined to start a club of their own, one comparable to the Stranglers. They called themselves the “Wranglers.” They, too, read their works to one another. But there was one great difference. The criticism was much softer, more positive, more encouraging. Sometimes, there was almost no criticism at all. Every effort, even the most feeble one, was encouraged.

Twenty years later an alumnus of the university was doing an exhaustive study of his classmates’ careers when he noticed a vast difference in the literary accomplishments of the Stranglers as opposed to the Wranglers. Of all the bright young men in the Stranglers, not one had made a significant literary accomplishment of any kind. From the Wranglers had come six or more successful writers, some of national renown such as Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, who wrote The Yearling.

Talent between the two? Probably the same. Level of education? Not much difference. But the Stranglers strangled, while the Wranglers were determined to give each other a lift. The Stranglers promoted an atmosphere of contention and self-doubt. The Wranglers highlighted the best, not the worst.

By Ted Engstrom

Wearing The Collar

2006-12-20T01:14:00.002+08:00

I live with a lady and four cats
and some days we all get
along.

some days I have trouble with
one of the
cats.

other days I have trouble with
two of the
cats.

other days,
three.

some days I have trouble with
all four of the
cats.

and the
lady:

ten eyes looking at me
as if I was a dog.

By Charles Bukowski (1920 – 94)

Afterthought

Somehow this poem reminds me of one of mine. No, no, I am not comparing myself to him. No sir, he is so much better than me, hell I am not even a poet. ;p

Another Reason Why I Don’t Keep a Gun in the House

2006-08-11T01:27:00.001+08:00

The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbor’s dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

By Billy Collins
taken from The Apple That Astonished Paris

Afterthought

There it goes again!

Just like that stupid dog in the poem, barks, barks, barks! Why does it have to bark so early on a Sunday morning? Unlike my wife I am a light sleeper. Most likely due to the training I had while I was doing my National Service. Imagine having to storm out of the barrack in the middle of the night and be combat ready in less than a minute. Looking back, it was kind of cool actually. But what the heck, I am now a civilian, can’t I seep in peace?

Wouldn’t it be nice if dogs could talk instead of these senseless barking? “Where is my breakfast? Are you trying to starve me?" or “Time for my morning walk so get your fat ass moving human slave!"

There it goes again! I can't even write in peace. If only I could just pinpoint its exact location, oh boy I will not hesitate to give a piece of my mind to its owner. It is driving me crazy! Arghhhh!!!!!

Why Won't They Come?

2006-05-28T02:34:00.001+08:00

Photograph contributed by LazerLordz

Why Won’t They Come?

For them, we gladly imitate animals
like those in corporate zoo.
Here a mindless monkey leaping
desperately, trapped in a urban cage.
There a grumpy duck stuck
between frozen lake and uncertain sky.

But why won’t they come?

If they want, we can even be more outrage,
just try us. Watch me pee
right here, right now -
the world is my private loo.
Perhaps now we have their full attentions?
Are we not expressive enough?

But still why won’t they come?

Maybe they are ashamed
of how others might perceive them.
Or maybe they’ve chosen
to be temporary blind.
They do have a choice you know.

But wait! An audience – a child,
sitting alone at the edge of reason.
Watching her, we held our breath
as if the purpose of our existence depends
solely on this little girl.

She yawns.

By Alson Teo
(For 5th DPS (S) Poetry Writing Competition)

Afterthought

Who exactly is my audience?

To a certain degree I am the first audience of my poems. I don’t mean the ‘I’ as the author but the ‘I’ as a reader. And to do this I need to step out of myself and disconnect emotionally from my works. Although that is important, what I am more concern is whether my poems are able to communicate with you, my intended audience.

But frankly as an author you do have a choice. For example if you wish to expand your audience's base, no point using words that only university graduates will understand. A couple of these words are fine but if the average readers need to refer a dictionary with every line, you might one to consider using simpler words.

I want to share with you an extract from INTERLOGUE, Studies in Singapore Literature, Volume 2: Poetry.

Mr Kirpal Singh* a respected poet both in Singapore and overseas, in the Introduction section commented that Mr Boey Kim Cheng

“ …writes from deep within, without compromise. His poems go down very well with academics and scholar-critics but not, I am told, with the general readers. His is a learned poetry and demands perhaps more of the contemporary reader’s time and effort. Does this mean that poets like Boey have lost their relevance? Or does it mean that readers today are less sophisticated or less discriminating? Boey Kim Cheng, like Yap, is reserved both in manner and person, and his poems while drawing one in, also let one out. Hence the complications.”

Frankly you don’t need a dictionary to read Boey’s poems. What you do need is some patience and perhaps as suggested by Mr Kirpal Singh, free time and efforts.

The thing is I am not a sophisticated reader. I just want to be entertained. I don't want to spend my time guessing what the author is trying to say. I want to feel the author’s heartbeats. I want to shout “Wow!” and yet be speechless at the same time because of what I've read. I want to cry and laugh with the poems. I am a greedy reader. I want to feel all these after my first attempt, okay lah, maybe after the second attempt.

I am not a sophisticated reader. If I want to read serious writings, I'll get myself a newspaper.

* Mr Kirpal Singh is the General Editor of INTERLOGUE and Editor of the first 3 volumes in the Series. He is internationally recognized both as a scholar and creative writer.

Rejection

2006-05-26T01:56:00.002+08:00

Photograph contributed by Liz

Rejection

As if her casual touch
Is as deadly as her tainted blood.
Daggered stares keep
............................. her at bay. Even her
Shadow weeps
............................. alone.

By Alson Teo
(For 5th DPS (S) Poetry Writing Competition)

Afterthought

I truly admire those who took part in the recent NaPoWriMo 2006. A poem a day for 30 days required strong determination and a never-say-die attitude. You do not need to produce world class poems during this period but still they should be presentable.

So how do you write a poem out of nothing?

During the past few weeks I found myself in the same situation. No I didn’t take part in NaPoWriMo but I did take part in my own 5th DPS (S) Poetry Writing Competition. And to some extent get a taste of what it would be like if I should particiate in NaPoWriMo.

With a total of 9 submissions and only 2 days before closing date, I decided to participate in the competition. The thing is although all 12 photograhs were selected by me, I just can’t seem to establish a connection with them. And with only a day left, I decided to write an acrostic poem. Maybe it is just me but I feel that acrostic poems are more suitable for writing excerice rather than for competition. But with so little time left, what choice do I have?

For this short poem to work, I need to take into consideration its title, content, form, and the photograph. Form has been taken care of since I’ve decided to write an acrostic poem. All I need to do is to form the word “AIDS” with the first alphabet of each line. Its content is straightforward enough i.e. a poem about isolation and rejection of an AIDS patient by the society. I decided on the title “Rejection” because I think it sums up the poem nicely and reinforces the ending.

Another reason why I decided on an acrostic poem was because I wanted it to be able to stand on its feet i.e. without the photograph.

PS. Liz, is the figure on the left hand side of your photograph a human or a stack of rocks? :)

This Is Boring

2006-05-25T19:16:00.002+08:00

For the past few weeks I’ve been reading poetry collections written by local poets. Of course I have not neglected my quest in finding the perfect job. To be honest I was a bit disappointed in what I’ve read. These published poets are supposed to be master in the craft of poetry writing. But why do I find their poems so unappealing?

Please don’t get me wrong. I am not suggesting their poems are inferior. In fact they are not. But somehow I just couldn’t connect with them. I know I may regret saying this but I find their poems very boring. There were times I was so bored by what I've read, I have this strong urge to throw the book across my living room.

Maybe these poems are meant to be read several times. Maybe they have profound meanings hidden beneath those lines, sort of like the subtext of a poem. Maybe my poor command of English has denied me the joy they have to offer. I don’t know. What I do know is after reading a poem for the third time and it still couldn’t grab my attention, hell I am turning over to the next page.

I am glad to say my favourite local poets are still Alvin Pang, Gilbert Koh, Daren Shiau, Cyril Wong and Tan Yi-Ling.

Afterthought

Okay how many enemies I have made with this post? ;p

Let me count,

Image taken from gosouthamerica.about.com

Kindergarten Snapshot

2006-05-02T00:59:00.000+08:00

Tumblers of Ribena, with tooth-marked caps.
Lined up by the window, where sun-drugged
Haywire ants navigated marshes of syrup,
The abacus was a grid of necklaces,
The globe the offspring
Of roulette-wheel and beach ball.
That Malay boy who bought tea to school
Was considered strange. So were those

Who came with squares on their sleeves –
Some black, some blue, for Ah Gong
And Ah Ma. And other bewildering relatives
Who bequeathed to them the badge
To the night school of mourning.

But no grief on their faces.
Not a trace, during afternoons
Of two-by-two, the teapot song.
And being called monkeys in the
Playground. We out-chorused one another
Through whistle-gap teeth. National Day:
Pom-pom hands and hula-hoop hips.

Other days: fractured crayons, a pencil
Sharpened on both ends, like a hex.
The girl who stared at the shut windows
Wishing for X-ray vision or a clock
With no hands. A puddle of shame-shame.

Sleeping time. Lay your head
On your arms. The wood of the table
Humming like underwater. If you opened
Your eyes you could see who else
Was disobedient. You could also drift
To the secret tapping of a friend,
Senseless Morse, galloping fingernails
Like firecrackers from a far-off holiday.

By Alfian Bin Sa’at
(Taken from A History of Amnesia
Published by Ethos Books)

Afterthought

The reason why I took so long to update my afterthought was because I couldn’t find my Kindergarten’s days photos. I’ve no idea where I've kept them. If I am not mistaken they should be somewhere in my new house but I’ve search high and low but still no sign of them. Arghhhhh!!!!

This is so frustrating!

Among Strangers

2006-04-15T00:39:00.000+08:00

Who are these white strangers
Upright in starched aprons,
Flannels ready in scrubbed hands,
With bright smiles stitched onto their faces,
Their blue eyes fixed on messes
Round her mouth, their noses held
Against her leaking smell?

A white porcelain bath stands
Antiseptic on a wooden floor.
Thin fingers turn the tap,
Measure out the lukewarm water.
She climbs into a brief assault
Of yellow soap, then shivers, thankful
For release to a coarse towel.

Black shadows creep around
Rows of creaking metal beds.
Humped beneath two grey blankets
She thrusts her knees towards her damp breath,
Clamps her arms tight against her flesh.
At last her urine seeps out
Warm, familiar, spreading into sleep.

By Elke Dutton
(Taken from Writing for Self-Discovery
by Myra Schneider and John Killick)

Afterthought

The above poem was written by Elke Dutton, a participant in one of the writing workshop conducted by Myra Schneider a well-known UK poet. She started off with Flow-Writing about silence and afterwards focused on a small part of it, which she later developed into a poem. I really like this piece and so do a search for her background or poems in the Internet.

Unfortunately none is to be found. If you have any links to her poems please let me know. Thanks.

A friend of mine, Liz has bravely taken up the challenge and participates in the still on-going NaPoWriMo 2006. To be frank I am quite tempted to do the same though not necessary during the month of April.

Feared Drowned

2006-04-09T17:13:00.001+08:00

Suddenly nobody knows where you are,
your suit black as seaweed, your bearded
head slick as a seal’s.

Somebody watches the kids. I walk down the
edge of the water, clutching the towel
like a widow’s shawl around me.

None of the swimmers is just right.
Too short, too heavy, clean-shaven,
they rise out of the surf, the water
rushing down their shoulders.

Rocks stick out near shore like heads.
Kelp snakes in like a shed black suit
and I cannot find you.

My stomach begins to contract as if to
vomit salt water

when up the sand toward me comes
a man who looks very much like you,
his beard matted like beach grass, his suit
dark as a wet shell against his body.

Coming closer, he turns out
to be you – or nearly.
Once you lose someone it is never exactly
the same person who comes back.

By Sharon Olds taken from Satan Says

Afterthought I

I had a very weird dream yesterday.

I dreamt that I was in a classroom. I think it was my primary school but I am not too sure. It was raining heavily and after a short while the water level reached the school’s third floor. I was standing near the window and saw a boy from the next class climbing out of the window. He started to run to-and-fro along the window’s extension, ignoring the dangers of falling into the water.

Anyway I yelled at him to get back in but he refused. Just then his teacher threatened to call the boy’s parents if he doen't get his ass back into the classroom immediately. In an act of defiance the boy jumped into the water followed by his teacher to rescue him. Surprisingly the boy was quite a good swimmer and swarm to safety. On the other hand his teacher seemed to have problems stay afloat.

After a while she stopped struggling and the water carried her motionless body away. All this while I just stood there, looking but not offering any help. I should have done something but I didn’t. I just stood there, watching.

Then I realized the rain had stop and the water subsided. The police came and out of guilt I rushed down to look for the officer in-charge to offer my help as I have witnessed the whole incident.

The officer told me the cause of death was not by drowning but due to the fall. Someone was crying behind me. I turned around and saw a young man in tears. The officer told me he was the boy’s elder brother. “Where is the boy?” I asked. “He has gone missing after witnessing his teacher’s death,” replied the officer.

End of dream.

It was really a weird dream.

(Window's extension: I am not sure if it is the right name but it is the extra areas just outside the window.)

Afterthought II

“Once you lose someone it is never exactly
the same person who comes back.”

The person you are today is not exactly the person you were yesterday or who you will be tomorrow. If this is the case, who is the real ‘me’?

Psychology Humour #5

2006-04-09T12:05:00.000+08:00

1-800-PSYCH

Hello, Welcome to the Psychiatric Hotline.

If you are obsessive-compulsive, please press 1 repeatedly.

If you are co-dependent, please ask someone to press 2.

If you have multiple personalities, please press 3, 4, 5 and 6.

If you are paranoid-delusional, we know who you are and what you want. Just stay on the line so we can trace the call.

If you are schizophrenic, listen carefully and a little voice will tell you which number to press.

If you are delusional, press 7 and your call will be transferred to the mother ship.

If you have a nervous disorder, please fidget with the # key until a representative comes on the line.

If you are dyslexic, press 696969696969.

If you have amnesia, press 8 and state your name, address, phone, date of birth, social security number and your mother's maiden name.

If you have post-traumatic stress disorder, slowly and carefully press 000.

If you have short-term memory loss, press 9. If you have short-term memory loss, press 9. If you have short-term memory loss, press 9. If you have short-term memory loss, press 9.

If you are menopausal, hang up, turn on the fan, lie down & cry. You won't be crazy forever.

If you have a masochistic complex, please press "0" for the operator. There are 200 calls ahead of you.

If you are depressed, it doesn't matter which number you press. No one will answer.

--------------------------------------------------------

A clinical hypnotherapist induced a trance to a large group of volunteers and ordered them to do whatever he said immediately upon command. Unfortunately, he tripped over his own couch and yelled… 'SHIT!!!'

-------------------------------------------------------

The mother of a problem child was advised by a psychiatrist, "You are far too upset and worried about your son. I suggest you take tranquilizers regularly."

On her next visit the psychiatrist asked, "Have the tranquilizers calmed you down?" "Yes," the boy's mother answered. "And how is your son now?" the psychiatrist asked. "Who cares?" the mother replied.

(Taken from all over the Internet)

A Madman

2006-03-31T00:19:00.001+08:00

West of Wan-li Bridge, beside our grass cottage,
Po-hua Stream would delight the angler of Ts’ang-lang.

Caressed by wind, bamboo sways – elegant, flawless.
In rain, red lotus blossoms grow more and more fragrant.

Old friends with fat salaries have stopped writing,
And the kids, forever hungry, wear faces of cold despair.

About to fill some gutter, he is carefree, the madman
Grown old laughing at his growing steadily madder.

(Taken from The Selected Poems of Tu Fu,
Translated by David Hinton)

Afterthought

It was not my original intention to post this poem. But the last stanza caught my attention,

“About to fill some gutter, he is carefree, the madman
Grown old laughing at his growing steadily madder.”

We were told that the madman is laughing at his growing madness.

But why is he laughing? Is he laughing because he is free from the harshness of reality? Is he laughing because he is free to do what he pleases? Or is he laughing because he knows it is the world that is growing steadily madder and only he is sane enough to realize it?

I wish I could laugh like him.

Quote of the Day

2006-03-30T23:45:00.000+08:00

Poets are maggots-infested corpses.

An Empty Purse

2006-01-15T02:45:00.001+08:00

Though bitter, juniper berries are food
For immortals, and cirrus flushed with morning
Light. But people are common things,
These tangles of trouble my only life:

A frozen well each morning and no stove,
Cold nights without quilts … In fear
Of shame an empty purse brings, I hold
In mine this one coin I keep, peering in.

(Taken from The Selected Poems of Tu Fu,
Translated by David Hinton)

Afterthought

I am going to be unemployed soon.

The first time I was unemployed, it was for a period of 6 months. After completing my National Service and with no working experience it was extremely tough to get a job. I felt so useless, a good-for-nothing.

The second time was for a period of 3 months. Although by then I had a couple of years of working experience, I still found it hard to get a job. To be frank although the second time was shorter than the first time, but for some reasons I felt deeply depressed, even suicidal at times.

The third time was for a period of 7 months. I resigned after my operation in May. Although it was a minor operation I took about 2 months to recover. It was an unforgettable experience. And 5 months later, I tendered my resignation. Luckily for me, I was too busy preparing for my examination (October), new house (November) and wedding (May). No time to be depressed.

But this time I have only my blogs and my poetry forum to keep me occupied. I am going to be unemployed again soon.

(Updated on 5 April 2006)

Boating

2006-01-10T22:48:00.001+08:00

Still a wanderer farming at the Southern Capital,
Spirit-wounded, I can’t stop gazing north out windows.

But today, I take my wife out in the skiff. Drifting,
We watch our kids bathe in the bright, clear river.

Butterflies tumble through air, one chasing another.
Sharing stems, lotus blossoms float in natural pairs.

Tea, sugar-cane juice – we bring along what simple
Things we have, our clay jars no less than jade.

(Taken from The Selected Poems of Tu Fu,
Translated by David Hinton)

Afterthought

I will be featuring some poems from The Selected Poems of Tu Fu in my next few posts. All poems in this book are translated by David Hinton. What is interesting about his approach was that although he tried to remain faithful to the content of Tu Fu’s poems, he have made little attempt to mimic the formal characteristics of the originals.

His translations read more like contemporary poetry, i.e. the way Tu Fu might have written them if he is alive today. Personally I welcome this approach because I’ve read translations that followed strictly to the formal characteristics of the originals and I think they sound forced and too artificial.

(Updated on 10 January 2006)

The Gold Cell

2006-01-02T01:19:00.001+08:00

Below are all the poems featured in Sharon Olds’ The Gold Cell. I’ve also included here the first line of each poem. Think about it, how important is the first line of a poem? After looking at them which poems caught your attention? Which poems do you want to continue reading?

I

1) Summer Solstice, New York City

By the end of the longest day of the year he could not stand it,

2) On the Subway

The young man and I face each other.

3) The Abandoned Newborn

When they found you, you were not breathing.

4) In the Cell

Sitting in the car at the end of summer, my

5) The Twin

He is a large man, with thick hair

6) The Food-Thief

They drive him along the road in the steady

7) The Girl

They chased her and her friend through the woods

8) Outside the Operating Room of the Sex-Change Doctor

Outside the operating room of the sex-change doctor, a tray

9) The Solution

Finally they got the Singles problem under control, they made

10) The Pope’s Penis

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate

11) When

I wonder now only when it will happen,

II

12) I Go Back to May 1937

I see the standing at the formal gates of their colleges,

13) Saturn

He lay on the couch night after night,

14) What if God

And what if God had been watching, when my mother

15) History: 13

When I found my father that night, the blood

16) The Meal

Mama, I never stop seeing you there

17) Alcatraz

When I was a girl, I knew I was a man

18) San Francisco

When we’d go to San Francisco, my father

19) Looking at My Father

I do not think I am deceived about him.

20) Why My Mother Made Me

Maybe I am what she always wanted,

21) Now I Lay Me

It is a fine prayer, Now I lay me

22) The Chute

When I was a kid, my father built a

23) The Blue Dress

The first November after the divorce

24) Late Poem to My Father

Suddenly I thought of you

25) June 24

I look at the date, and it has such a look of

26) After 37 Years MY Mother
Apologizes for My Childhood

When you tilted toward me, arms out

27) 201 Upper Terrace, San Francisco

We were up and down the sickening hills of the city

III

28) California Swimming Pool

On the dirt, the dead live-oak leaves

29) First Boyfriend

We would park on any quiet street,

30) First Sex

I knew little, and what I knew

31) First Love

It was Sunday morning, I had The New York

32) Cambridge Elegy

I hardly know how to speak to you now,

33) Still Life

I lie on my back after making love,

34) Greed and Aggression

Someone in Quaker meeting talks about greed and aggression

35) Topography

After we flew across the country we

36) A Woman in Heat Wiping Herself

High in the inner regions of my body

37) The Premonition

When we got to the island, I would drive the kids

38) I Cannot Forget the Woman
In the Mirror

Backwards and upside down in the twilight, the

39) Love in Blood Time

When I saw my blood on your leg, the drops so

40) This

Maybe if I did not have this

IV

41) The Moment the Two Worlds Meet

That’s the moment I always think of – when the

42) Little Things

After she’s gone to camp, in the early

43) The Latest Injury

When my son comes home from the weekend trip where he

44) The Quest

The day my girl is lost for an hour,

45) Our Son and the Water Shortage

When the water shortage comes along

46) Liddy’s Orange

The rind lies on the table where our girl has left it

47) When My Son Is Sick

When my son is so sick that he falls asleep

48) The Prayer

Today I remembered the dryness of the mouth as she

49) The Signs

As I stand with the other parents outside the

50) I See My Girl

When I see you off to camp, I see you

51) The Green Shirt

For a week after he breaks his elbow

52) Gerbil Funeral

By the time we’re ready it’s dark, so somebody

53) Mouse Elegy

After he petted his mouse awhile,

54) The Month of June: 13½

As my daughter approaches graduation and

55) Boy Out in the World

Our son at ten does not believe in evil,

56) Life with Sick Kids

One child coughs once

57)That Moment

It is almost too long ago to remember –

58) Looking at Them Asleep

When I come home late at night and go in to kiss the children,

(Updated on 2 January 2006)

When My Son Is Sick

2005-12-30T20:37:00.000+08:00

When my son is so sick that he falls asleep
in the middle of the day, his small oval
hard head hurting so much he
prefers to let go of consciousness like
someone dangling from a burning rope just
letting go of his life, I sit and
hardly breathe. I think about the
half-liquid skin of his lips,
swollen and nicked with red slits like the
fissures in a volcano crust, down
which you see the fire. Though I am
down the hall from him I see the
quick bellies of his eyeballs jerk
behind the greenish lids, his temples
red and sour with pain, his skin going
pale gold as cold butter and then
turning a little like rancid butter till the
freckles seem to spread, black little
islands of mold, he sleeps the awful
sleep of the sick, his hard-working heart
banging like pipes inside his body, like a
shoe struck on iron bars when
someone wants to be let out, I
sit, I sit very still, I am out at the
rim of the world, the edge they saw
when they knew it was flat – the torn edge,
thick and soil-black, the vessels and
veins and tendons hanging free,
dangling down,
when my boy is sick I sit on the lip of
nothing and hang my legs over
and sometimes let a shoe fall
to give it something.

By Sharon Olds

Afterthought

I know I am supposed to feature only 5 poems from Sharon Olds’ The Gold Cell, with Our Son and the Water Shortage being the last featured poem. However I have some difficulties regarding the above poem and hope you guys can help me out. How do you interpret these few lines?

“when my boy is sick I sit on the lip of
nothing and hang my legs over
and sometimes let a shoe fall
to give it something.”

What message is the poet trying to convey here?

(Updated on 1 January 2006)

Our Son and the Water Shortage

2005-12-23T13:57:00.001+08:00

When the water shortage comes along
he’s been waiting all his life for it,
all nine years for something to need him as the
water needs him now. He becomes
its protector – he stops washing, till dirt
shines on the bones behind his ears
over his brain, and his hands blaze like
dark badges of love. He will not
flush the toilet, putting the life of the
water first, until the bowl
crusts with gold like the heart’s riches and his
room stinks, and when I sneak in and
flush he almost weeps, holds his
hands a foot apart in the air and
says do I know there is only about
this much water left! He befriends it, he
sits by its bedside as if it is a dying
friend, a small figure of water
gleaming on the sheets. He keeps a tiny
jar to brush his teeth in, till green
bugs bathe in its scum, but talk about
germs and he’s willing to sacrifice his health
to put the life of the water first, its
helplessness breaks his heart, the way it
waits at all the faucets in the city for the
cocks to be turned, and then it cannot
help itself, it has to spill
to the last drop. Weeks go by and
our son is glazed with grime, and every
cell of dirt upon his body is a
molecule of water saved and he
loves those tiny molecules
translucent as his own flesh in the spring, this
thin vivid liquid boy who has
given his heart to water, element
so much like a nine-year-old – you can
cut it, channel it, see through it and
watch it, then, a fifty-foot
tidal wave, approaching your house
and picking up speed as it comes.

By Sharon Olds

Afterthought

Unlike my friends Cheong and Gilbert, I find it extremely difficult to write about my childhood. I’ve tried several times and they all ended up either too prosy or too sentimental. I seriously suspect I am trying to suppress certain episodes of my childhood’s memories. What could they be?

Was it that time when I “accidentally” saw some girls bathing along the river? Maybe it was that time when I “accidentally” played my uncle’s video tape assuming all tapes labelled Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs must be, ahem, about the fairly tale? Gosh, childhood is indeed a dangerous time where “accidents” happenes so frequently.

Like the boy in the above poem, I do have certain obsessions when I was a kid. One particular obsession stood out from the rest, i.e. I was obsessed with comma. Yupe, I was obsessed with this --> (,). I love to spend my free time counting commas in story books. Not only that, I organized competitions for my story books and declared the book with the most commas wins. Weird right?

Maybe I wasn't weird, maybe I was bored. I don't know. So who wants to count the number of commas in this post?

(Updated on 28 December 2005)

Christmas Wish

2005-12-20T00:17:00.001+08:00

Last year
they told him if he takes the pills
like a good boy, Santa Claus
would visits him on Christmas Eve
and turns those nasty viruses
into snowflakes;

and he can finally build
his first snowman.

This Christmas
his body lies deep
beneath soil and broken ice, stiffed
like a frozen tuna.

When Spring comes, his flesh
will slowly fades away as if
he is made of snow;

his wish finally
comes true.

Copyright 2005 Alson Teo
Instant Poetry
(Written on 20 December 2005, Tuesday)

Afterthought

Do I hate Christmas? Of course not, although I am not a Christian but like most Singaporean I look forward to this day every year. It is the time when everyone is in the mood to shop, that is if you still hold a job. It is also the time when your children fight among themselves to decide who get to put the angel on top of the Christmas tree, that is you still have a roof over your head. Do I sound pessimistic?

Like all my poems I started it off with an image or a line. In this case it was an image of a frozen tuna. Why in the world a frozen tuna I have no idea. It just popped into my head. Unlike sashimi lover, frozen tuna reminds me of fish market in Japan. It reminds of death. It reminds me of mutilated bodies. It reminds me of children dying in hospitals even during Christmas Day, and it reminds me of cruelties in life. I know I have a great imagination.

But again, there is still something positive in this poem; Winter will soon be over and Spring is approaching; he is now part of Mother Nature; he longer needs to take the pills which he hated. Most importantly, his wish has finally come true although not exactly what he had in mind, but that’s life.

Psychology Humour #4

2005-12-16T01:00:00.000+08:00

A noted psychiatrist was a guest at a party. His hostess naturally broached the subject in which the doctor was most at ease.

"Would you mind telling me, Doctor", she asked, "how you detect whether or not an individual is mentally challenged who appears to be completely normal?"

"Nothing is easier," he replied. "You ask them a simple question which everyone should answer with no trouble. If they hesitate, that puts you on the track."

"What sort of question?"

"Well, you might ask them, 'Captain Cook made three trips around the world and died during one of them. Which one?'"

The woman thought a moment, then said with a nervous laugh, "You wouldn't happen to have another example, would you? I must confess I don't know much about history."

---------------------------------------------

A group of psychiatrists were attending a convention. Four of them decided to leave, and walked out together. One said to the other three, "People are always coming to us with their guilt and fears, but we have no one that we can go to when we have problems." The others agreed.

Then one said, "Since we are all professionals, why don't we take some time right now to hear each other out?"

The other three agreed.

The first then confessed, "I have an uncontrollable desire to kill my patients."

The second psychiatrist said, "I love expensive things and so I find ways to cheat my patients out of their money whenever I can so I can buy the things I want."

The third followed with, "I'm involved with selling drugs and often get my patients to sell them for me."

The fourth psychiatrist then confessed, "I know I'm not supposed to, but no matter how hard I try, I can't keep a secret..."

---------------------------------------------

A child psychologist was doing a study of children's senses in a first-grade class using a bowl of Lifesavers.

He gave each child a Lifesaver and asked them, "What is the flavor, and what color is it?"

The children began to say, "cherry/red, then lemon/yellow, lime/green, orange/orange, etc."

Finally, he gave them all honey-flavor Lifesavers. The children sucked on them for a while, but they couldn't decipher the taste.

"Well," he said, "I'll give you a clue. It's what your mother would call your father."

One little girl looked up in horror, spit hers out, and yelled:

"Everybody, spit it out, they're assholes!"

(Taken from all over the Internet)

First Sex

2005-12-12T01:24:00.001+08:00

(for J.)

I knew little, and what I knew
I did not believe – they had lied to me
so many times, so I just took it as it
came, his naked body on the sheet,
the tiny hairs curling on his legs like
fine, gold shells, his sex
harder and harder under my palm
and yet not hard as a rock his face cocked
back as if in terror, the sweat
jumping out of his pores like sudden
trails from the tiny snails when his knees
locked with little clicks and under my
hand he gathered and shook and the actual
flood like milk came out of his body, I
saw it glow on his belly, all they had
said and more, I rubbed it into my
hands like lotion, I signed on for the duration.

By Sharon Olds

Image taken from www.learningtogive.org

Afterthought I

No I am not going to discuss my first sex, although I don’t mind if you do. What I am more interested are these two lines in the poem,

“and yet not hard as a rock his face cocked
back as if in terror, the sweat”

Do we men really look "back as if in terror" when we are reaching orgasm? Gosh, there is really something new for me. I mean I do experienced hardness, thank you very much, but not my face right? This is really interesting. I have yet to see my own “terrify” expression as described in the poem and I am really curious. Luckily there are a few ways of achieving that,

1) Asking my wife to use her hand-phone to take my photo during our lovemaking.
2) Videotaping our lovemaking.
3) Installing mirrors at the ceiling/side walls.

Let me see, the first option is out. My wife has a bad habit of sharing her hand-phone with her friends and occasionally her mum. And I think it will be unfair for her to be distracted during our special moment.

What about the second option? Personally I really don’t mind. In fact I’ve been toying with this idea for quite some time, but unfortunately my wife will have none of it. She is not really into the movie business especially if it is a XXX film and she is the main actress. I totally understand. Any volunteers?

And now for the last option, what do you guys think? Cool eh? Compare to the other 2 options this seems to be a better choice. Of course it will cost us some moneys but what the heck, it is a small price to pay to get to know oneself better. Guess it is time to renovate the house.

Afterthought II

Coincidentally First Sex is also featured in The Poet’s Companion. Let’s see what it has to say about this poem.

“This poem works on many levels, and for many reasons: it employs the use of repetition, opposition, the surprising similes of the gold shells and tiny snails, and the devices of rhythm and rhyme. But let’s take a closer look at the language itself. Re-read that third line: “… so I just took it as it / came …” The word “came” used in the context of the line doesn’t refer to sexual climax, but the word is there, to conjure up the idea. And later, “his face cocked / back …” is used to describe the angle of the man’s face. In both cases, words or phrases we attach to a sexual act have been slightly displaced. Also notice how those words are emphasized by being positioned at the beginning or end of the line. When the actual “climax” of the poem occurs in the line “he gathered and shook,” we are pleased and surprised by the similes describing the man’s semen as “like milk,” “like lotion.” On first reading we feel as if we’ve been given a rather graphic description of the sexual act. But have we? Body parts are mentioned: “his legs,” “his sex,” “palm,” “face,” “hand,” and “belly,” even each tiny hair and pore in the skin, and yet there is no feeling of vulgarity about the poem. What we feel is the magic, the wonder and surprise of first sex, the strangeness of its sounds and sights, the sensuality of it. We also sense the joy of it in the humor of the last line which is emphasized by the use of rhyme: lotion / duration. Olds has shown us a way into this material by making use of the old language in a new context.”

(Updated on 14 December 2005)

Freshly Chopped

2005-12-09T02:32:00.001+08:00

Within an hour
two more frogs
are going
to die.

My wife has just
expressed
her craving
for their
legs.

I must go now.
It is unwise to keep
a hungry woman
waiting.

She expects
them to be
fresh.

Copyright 2005 Alson Teo
Instant Poetry
(Written on 25 November 2005, Friday)

Afterthought

Do you love instant noodles? It takes about 3 minutes to cook them. They can be quite delicious (even without adding other ingredients) especially if you are hungry or when payday is still 2 weeks away and you have only 20 dollars in your wallet.

In fact I also love writing instant poems. Just like the noodles, it takes about 3 minutes to complete. These poems come fast and furious, usually without warning. Stand in their way and they will send you flying to the moon. I love these poems because I don’t have to work too hard to complete them. Of course they are not excellent poems but like my other not-so-instant poems, they speak to me.

Usually when I start writing a poem I have no ideas how it will end. Through my subconscious it slowly reveals my hidden thoughts and emotions. For example Freshly Chopped is not about frog’s legs. No, it is about my relation with my wife. It is about the tensions in our marriage. It doesn’t sound like a happy marriage right? Of course not, our marriage is the one that was being “freshly chopped.” But sorry froggies but you are still going to die.

Have you guys seen our legs?

(Updated on 10 December 2005)

On the Subway

2005-12-06T01:39:00.002+08:00

The young man and I face each other.
His feet are huge, in black sneakers
laced with white in a complex pattern like a
set of intentional scars. We are stuck on
opposite sides of the car, a couple of
molecules stuck in a rod of light
rapidly moving through darkness. He has
or my white eye imagines he has the
casual cold look of a mugger,
alert under hooded lids. He is wearing
red, like the inside of the body
exposed. I am wearing old fur, the
whole skin of an animal taken and
used. I look at his raw face,
he looks at my dark coat, and I don’t
know if I am in his power –
he could take my coat so easily, my
briefcase, my life –
or if he is in my power, the way I am
living off his life, eating the steak
he may not be eating, as if I am taking
the food from his mouth. And he is black
and I am white, and without meaning or
trying to I must profit from his darkness,
the way he absorbs the murderous beams of the
nation’s heart, as black cotton
absorbs the heat of the sun and holds it. There is
no way to know how easy this
white skin makes my life, this
life he could break so easily, the way I
think his back is being broken, the
rod of his soul that a birth was dark and
fluid, rich as the heart of a seedling
ready to thrust up into any available light.

By Sharon Olds

Afterthought

Singapore’s main subway system is known as MRT (Mass Rapid Transit). But there is also another subway system known as LRT (Light Rail Transit) which serves as feeders to existing MRT network. I have to take these 2 systems in order to reach my workplace 5 days a week, and each trip takes more than an hour. Thus each day, I spend more than 2 hours traveling in trains.

It is kind of boring if you have nothing to do during those 2 hours. Occasionally I take short naps but I tend to snore when I fall asleep. So I try doing things that will attract less attentions to myself such as reading poetry books. But sometimes it backfires because in this country it is rare to find anyone reading a poetry book in the public. I’ve yet to encounter anyone doing so.

Besides reading, another favourite pastime is analyzing my fellow passengers. But really I would love to see what some of the train drivers are doing hidden away from public’s view. From the way the trains jerk, I suspect the train drivers are masturbating while on duties. I know this is kind of sick, but it is the only logic explanation I can come out with to explain the unnecessary jerking of some of the trains I’ve taken. Besides, the transport companies constantly remind us that Singapore owns a world-class transport system whenever they want to increase their fares. So what causes these sudden jerks? Inadequate training? Faulty equipments? Don’t think so.

Back to the passengers. I love to guess what’s going through their minds, read their body language, etc. If I am lucky, I might encounter some interesting characters such as a man singing loudly to himself, a young couple in school uniforms conducting research on "Public’s tolerance level towards French kissing in the public" or children who can't decide if they are humans or monkeys. Cool.

(Updated on 10 December 2005)

Psychology Humour #3

2005-11-28T01:22:00.000+08:00

A guy had been feeling down for so long that he finally decided to seek the aid of a psychiatrist.

He went there, lay on the couch, spilled his guts then waited for the profound wisdom of the psychiatrist to make him feel better.

The psychiatrist asked him a few questions, took some notes then sat thinking in silence for a few minutes with a puzzled look on his face.

Suddenly, he looked up with an expression of delight and said, "Um, I think your problem is low self-esteem. It is very common among losers."

--------------------------------------------

The psychology instructor had just finished a lecture on mental health and was giving an oral test.

Speaking specifically about manic depression, she asked, "How would you diagnose a patient who walks back and forth screaming at the top of his lungs one minute, then sits in a chair weeping uncontrollably the next?"

A young man in the rear raised his hand and answered, "A basketball coach?"

--------------------------------------------

My therapist told me the way to achieve true inner peace is to finish what I start.

So far today, I have finished two bags of chips and a chocolate cake.

I feel better already.

-------------------------------------------

A woman who was depressed went on a vacation and sent a postcard to her psychiatrist:

"Having a great time -- Why?"

(Taken from all over the Internet)

Why God never received a PhD

2005-11-28T01:19:00.000+08:00

1. He had only one major publication.

2. It was in Hebrew.

3. It had no references.

4. It wasn't published in a refereed journal.

5. Some even doubt he wrote it by himself.

6. It may be true that he created the world, but what has he done since then?

7. His cooperative efforts have been quite limited.

8. The scientific community has had a hard time replicating his results.

9. He never applied to the ethics board for permission to use human subjects.

10. When one experiment went awry he tried to cover it by drowning his subjects.

11. When subjects didn't behave as predicted, he deleted them from the sample.

12. He rarely came to class, just told students to read the book.

13. Some say he had his son teach the class.

14. He expelled his first two students for learning.

15. Although there were only 10 requirements, most of his students failed his tests.

16. His office hours were infrequent and usually held on a mountain top.

17. No record of working well with colleagues.

Your First Hunch is Your Best Hunch

2005-11-25T02:14:00.013+08:00

Is it really true that ‘your first hunch is your best hunch?’ According to a study by Stoffer, Davis, and Brown (1977) this might not be the case. By examining the students’ answer sheets for evidence of changes such as erasures or crossing out the initial answers here is what they discovered,

From wrong answer to wrong answer --> 15%

From right answer to wrong answer --> 22%

From wrong answer to right answer --> 63%

Amazing! So when your teacher asks you to go through your answers again if you have the time, she knows what she is talking about.

Afterthought

We are generally unsatisfied with our choices. We change our jobs for better prospects, better salaries, higher positions, etc. Our next girlfriend/boyfriend must be better looking, smarter, richer, etc, than the previous one. We must constantly reach for higher grounds, better living conditions, bigger TVs, bigger cars, etc.

But is your next choice really going to be a better one? Will you really be more successful in your next job? How do you measure success anyway? When will it end? Yesterday I turned down an opportunity to be promoted two grades above my current grade. Yes, a double promotion and I turned it down. Sound crazy? Maybe, but I don't regret it.

I used to have a friend whose philosophy towards life is ALWAYS go for the better option. Whenever a better girl comes along he will dump his current girlfriend and go after the new one. (Ya he is an asshole) When he completed his National Service and started working, he never remains in the same job for more than two years.

I have no idea where he is now, what he is doing, or whether if he is married or still single. Maybe he is right in his quest to constantly seek for better things in life. But sometimes it is good to settle down, take a look around you and be grateful of what you have. There is always a better choice, but are you sure it is the right one for you?

Getting Out

2005-11-22T00:40:00.006+08:00

That year we hardly slept, walking like inmates
who beat the walls. Every night
another refusal, the silent work
of tightening the heart.
Exhausted, we gave up; escaped
to the apartment pool, swimming those laps
until the first light relieved us.

Days were different: FM and full-blast
blues, hours of guitar "you gonna miss me
when I'm gone." Think how you tried
to pack up and go, for weeks stumbling
over piles of clothing, the unstrung tennis rackets.
Finally locked into blame, we paced
that short hall, heaving words like furniture.

I have the last unshredded pictures
of our matching eyes and hair. We've kept
to separate sides of the map,
still I'm startled by men who look like you.
And in the yearly letter, you're sure to say
you're happy now. Yet I think of the lawyer's bewilderment
when we cried, the last day. Taking hands
we walked apart, until our arms stretched
between us. We held on tight, and let go.

By Cleopatra Mathis

Afterthought

Written on 20 November 2005, Sunday

Today is my 33rd birthday and our 8th Wedding Anniversary (Registry of Marriages). Nothing much, no birthday cake, no exchanging of gifts, just a simple meal in a Thai restaurant near our house.

On this day 8 years ago we decided to get married. Legally, we became husband and wife. However we waited for another 4 years to hold our Chinese custom wedding. We've been together for more than 12 years. When I first met her it was in July 1993. That was such a long time ago.

We were pen-pals, our 1st date was a blind date, it was love at first sight, and she was only 18 years old and I was 20.

Unfortunately we are from two different worlds; we have different goals in life, different beliefs, different characters, different hobbies, basically we have nothing in common. But for some reasons we are comfortable with each other, but maybe too comfortable. The fire that sustains our love flickers in the storm threatening to extinguish itself.

Our marriage is in a mess. We quarrel so often that we’ve lost count. “Divorce” is a word commonly used during our quarrels. We even calmly discussed our future after the divorce, for example what we are going to do next, will we remarried, should we continue to be friends, etc. But each time just as we were about to give up, something holds us back - a touch, an apology, a kiss on the forehead, a hug, and we decided to give each other another chance.

And also for some weird reasons whenever it is close to some important dates in our lives, we start quarreling. Maybe during these periods we tend to have higher expectations of each other. It is like a curse. The last time we quarreled was on my 33rd birthday and our 8th Wedding Anniversary, 20 November 2005. Yes today. This time our marriage narrowly escaped death. It was too close, really too close.

Somehow we managed to reconcile again, but next time we might not be so lucky.

But for now, Happy Wedding Anniversary my Dear.

P.S. Did anyone of you watch The Mexican starring Brad Pitt & Julia Roberts? Their characters in the movie, well to certain extent echo our situation, especially that part when Samantha asks Jerry, “If two people love each other but they just can’t seems to get it together. When do you get to that point of enough is enough?” and Jerry answers “Never.”

(Updated on 22 November 2005)

Michiko Dead

2005-11-18T03:02:00.002+08:00

He manages like somebody carrying a box
that is too heavy, first with his arms
underneath. When their strength gives out,
he moves the hands forward, hooking them
on the corners, pulling the weight against
his chest. He moves his thumbs slightly
when the fingers begin to tire, and it makes
different muscles take over. Afterward,
he carries it on his shoulder, until the blood
drains out of the arm that is stretched up
to steady the box and the arm goes numb. But now
the man can hold underneath again, so that
he can go on without ever putting the box down.

By Jack Gilbert

Afterthought

This poem is taken from The Poet’s Companion written by Kim Addonizio & Dorianne Laux, a book I highly recommend to aspiring poets.

Let’s look at what they have to say about this poem,

“The next poem deals with the aftermath of death. To describe how one goes on after grief, Gilbert uses the image of carrying a box. We all understand grief as heaviness; and in fact, the word for grief comes from the Latin gravis, meaning weighty, sad. The simile is introduced in the first line and then sustained and extended throughout the poem, to concretely and precisely evoke how the process of grieving feels from one day to the next.

The heart is never finished with grief; that’s the assertion of the poem. Though the burden is “too heavy,” we manage it. A box is an apt image; we might think of a coffin, or a box of ashes. A heavy box might be filled with all our memories of someone, of the time we spent with them. The box in the poem is painful to carry, yet precious to the man who cannot, or will not, put it down.” (Page 98 – 99)

Now let’s look at a short story, a story told to me by one of my psychology lecturers. (It can also be found in The Magic of Metaphor by Nick Owen)

“Two monks were on a pilgrimage. One fine day when they were about to cross a river when they noticed a young woman who was trying to the same thing. She implored the monks to help her cross, for her mission was urgent and the river, though wide and fast, was not deep.

The younger monk ignored her and looked away, the elder, however, said nothing but swept her up onto his shoulder and carried her across, putting her down, completely dry, on the other bank.

For the whole of the following hour as they journeyed on, the younger monk berated the elder, heaping scorn upon his actions, accusing him of betraying the order and his vows. Eventually, the elder monk stopped and looked square into the eyes of the younger and simply said: “My brother, I put that woman down an hour ago. It is you that are still carrying her.”

(Simplified Version)

I am no monk.

In most cases it is true that I can eventually put my burdens down if I try hard enough. But I choose not to, I refuse because they mean so much to me. I am willing to carry them for the rest of my life.

Psychology Humour #2

2005-11-17T01:13:00.000+08:00

Joe has been seeing a psychoanalyst for four years for treatment of the fear that he had monsters under his bed. It had been years since he had gotten a good night's sleep. Furthermore, his progress was very poor, and he knew it. So, one day he stops seeing the psychoanalyst and decides to try something different.

A few weeks later, Joe's former psychoanalyst meets his old client in the supermarket, and is surprised to find him looking well-rested, energetic, and cheerful.

"Doc!" Joe says, "It's amazing! I'm cured!"

"That's great news!" the psychoanalyst says. "you seem to be doing much better. How?"

"I went to see another doctor," Joe says enthusiastically, "and he cured me in just ONE session!"

"One?!" the psychoanalyst asks incredulously.

"Yeah," continues Joe, "my new doctor is a behaviorist."

"A behaviorist?" the psychoanalyst asks. "How did he cure you in one session?"

"Oh, easy," says Joe. "He told me to cut the legs off of my bed."

-------------------------------------------

Doctor, doctor, I keep thinking I am a set of curtains!
Pull yourself together, man!

Doctor, doctor, I keep thinking I'm a bell.
Well, just go home and if the feeling persists, give me a ring.

Doctor, doctor, people tell me I'm a wheelbarrow.
Don't let people push you around.

Doctor, doctor, I keep thinking I'm invisible.
Who said that?!

Doctor, doctor, nobody understands me.
What do you mean by that?

Doctor, doctor, People keep ignoring me!
Next!

Doctor, doctor, No one believes a word I say.
Tell me the truth now, what's your REAL problem?

Doctor, doctor, I feel like a pack of cards.
I'll deal with you later.

Doctor, doctor, people keep telling me I'm ugly!
Lay on the couch, face down.

Doctor, doctor, I keep thinking I'm a spoon.
Sit there and don't stir.

Doctor, doctor, I'm manic-depressive.
Calm down. Cheer up. Clam down. Cheer up. Calm...

Doctor, doctor, I keep trying to get into fights.
And how long have you had this complaint?
Who wants to know?

Doctor, doctor, I can't concentrate, one minute I'm ok, and the next minute, I'm blank!
And how long have you had this complaint?
What complaint?

Doctor, doctor, I feel so short!
No problem. Hop up on the couch.

Doctor, doctor, I've only got 59 seconds to live.
Wait a minute please.

-------------------------------------------

A Stanford Medical research group advertised for participants in a study of obsessive-compulsive disorder. They were looking for therapy clients who had been diagnosed with this disorder. The response was gratifying; they got 3,000 responses about three days after the ad came out.

All from the same person.

-------------------------------------------

A person walked into a New York bookstore and asked the salesperson for a book that was made into a musical, which is still running.

"Do you have Less Miserable?"

The salesperson replied, "Look in the psychology section."

(Taken from all over the Internet)

The Pope’s Penis

2005-11-15T01:03:00.004+08:00

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat – and at night,
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.

By Sharon Olds

Afterthought

I have selected 5 poems out of the 58 poems featured in The Gold Cell, Sharon Olds’ third collection of poems. These 5 are selected not because they are better than the rest, but because I feel they touch different parts of me as a reader.

You do not have to agree with me. The same poem will evoke different emotions in different people based on individual’s memories and experience. For example this poem The Pope’s Penis, every time I read it I come to a different conclusion. What do you think it is trying to say?

The Food-Thief

2005-11-14T01:49:00.003+08:00

(Uganda, drought)

They drive him along the road in the steady
conscious way they drove their cattle
when they had cattle, when they had homes and
living children. They drive him with pliant
peeled sticks, snapped from trees
whose bark cannot be eaten – snapped,
not cut, no one has a knife, and the trees that can be
eaten have been eaten leaf and trunk and the
long roots pulled from the ground and eaten.
They drive him and beat him, a loose circle of
thin men with sapling sticks,
driving him along slowly, slowly
beating him to death. He turns to them
with all the eloquence of the body, the
wrist turned out and the vein up his forearm
running like a root just under the surface, the
wounds on his head ripe and wet as a
rich furrow cut back and cut back at
plough-time to farrow a trench for the seed, his
eye pleading, the iris black and
gleaming as his skin, the white a dark
occluded white like cloud-cover on the
morning of a day of heavy rain.
His lips are open to his brothers as the body of a
woman might be open, as the earth itself was
split and folded back and wet and
seedy to them once, the lines on his lips
fine as the thousand tributaries of a
root-hair, a river, he is asking them for life
with his whole body, and they are driving his body
all the way down the road because
they know the life he is asking for –
it is their life.

By Sharon Olds

Afterthought

I have with me ‘The Gold Cell’, Sharon Olds' third collection of poems, and which the above poem was taken. This is the first time I have read a poetry book written by a single poet. I usually go for collections or anthologies. Like a charm it works its magic, enslaving me under its spell.

(Updated on 14 November 2005)

Psychology Humour #1

2005-11-13T01:53:00.000+08:00

On Classical Conditioning

An MIT student spent an entire summer going to the Harvard football field every day wearing a black and white striped shirt, walking up and down the field for ten or fifteen minutes throwing birdseed all over the field, blowing a whistle and then walking off the field.

At the end of the summer, it came time for the first Harvard home football game, the referee walked onto the field and blew the whistle, and the game had to be delayed for a half hour to wait for the birds to get off of the field. The guy wrote his thesis on this and graduated.

---------------------------------------------

What did the sign on Pavlov's lab door say?

Please knock. DON'T ring the bell.

---------------------------------------------

Stress Managment: A Visualization

Picture yourself near a stream.

Birds are singing in the crisp, cool mountain air.

Nothing can bother you here.

No one knows this secret place.

You are in total seclusion from that place called the world.

The soothing sound of a gentle waterfall fills the air with a cascade of serenity.

The water is clear.

You can easily make out the face of the person whose head you're holding under the water.

There now, feeling better?

---------------------------------------------

A psychiatrist was conducting a group therapy session with four young mothers and their small children. "You all have obsessions," he observed.

To the first mother he said, "You are obsessed with eating. You even named your daughter Candy."

He turned to the second mom. "Your obsession is money. Again, it manifests itself in your child's name, Penny."

He turned to the third mom. "Your obsession is alcohol and your child's name is Brandy."

At this point, the fourth mother got up, took her little boy by the hand and whispered, "Come on, Dick, let's go home."

------------------------------------------

What is the difference between a psychiatrist and a psychologist?

If you say to a psychiatrist "I hate my mother," he will ask "Why do you say that?" while a psychologist will say "Thank you for sharing that with us."

------------------------------------------

A guy goes in to see a psychologist. He says, "It seems I can't make any friends. Can you help me, you fat slob?"

------------------------------------------

Two psychologists meet at their twentieth college reunion. One of them looks like he just graduated, while the other psychologist looks old, worried and withered.

The older looking one asks the other, "What's your secret? Listening to other people's problems every day, all day long, for years on end, has made an old man of me."

The younger looking one replies, "Who listens?"

-------------------------------------------

When the new patient was settled comfortably on the couch, the physiatrist began his therapy session, "I'm not aware of your problem," the doctor said. "So perhaps, you should start at the very beginning."

"Of course." replied the patient. "In the beginning, I created the Heavens and the Earth..."
(Taken from all over the Internet)

How Many Times

2005-11-11T01:02:00.004+08:00

No matter how many times I try I can’t stop my father
from walking into my sister’s room

and I can’t see any better, leaning from here to look
in his eyes. It’s dark in the hall

and everyone’s sleeping. This is the past
where everything is perfect already and nothing changes,

where the water glass falls to the bathroom floor
and bounces once before breaking.

Nothing. Not the small sound my sister makes, turning
over, not the thump of the dog’s tail

when he opens one eye to see him stumbling back to bed
still drunk, a little bewildered.

This is exactly as I knew it would be.
And if I whisper her name, hissing a warning,

I’ve been doing that for years now, and still the dog
startles and growls until he sees

it’s our father, and still the door opens, and she
makes that small oh turning over.

By Marie Howe

Afterthought

Capital punishment is currently a hot topic among bloggers in Singapore. In fact it was also briefly touched on by local poets Gilbert Koh and Kirpal Singh during the poetry reading event I attended a few days ago at Central Lending Library.

As a freethinker I do not believe in the existence of Heaven and Hell. I do not believe that murderers, sex predators, etc, will go straight to Hell after their death. I do not believe in reincarnation and they will get what they deserved eventually in their next life. I believe in having justice done while they are still alive. I believe murderers should pay for their crimes.

Yes I’ve said it; I am for the death sentence.

Whether certain crimes deserve death is another matter. But if capital punishment continues to remain in this country, I strongly welcome adding adults that sexually abused their children or grandchildren to the Reaper’s list.

Jean Piaget: Six Sub-stages of the Sensori-motor Stage

2005-11-10T00:21:00.002+08:00

According to Piaget, the first two years of a child is very important as it established the foundation for his later developments. He called this period the sensori-motor stage, which consists of six sub-stages. In the first stage from 0 – 6 weeks, i.e. the reflexes sub-stages, the baby is only able to perform simple actions like sucking, turning towards sound, etc. These reflexive behaviours are innate and this stage is mainly concerned with exercising and protecting them.

From 6 – 16 weeks i.e. the primary circular reactions sub-stage, the baby starts to show signs of adapting his actions to the environment. For example circular reactions like putting his hand to mouth and sucking it in repetition. These actions are described as ‘primary’ because they are the first to appear and only involve the baby’s own body.

From 4 – 8 months old, i.e. the secondary circular reactions sub-stage, instead of just using his body, he repeats the actions because for their effects on the environment. For example shaking a rattle for the sound or pushing a toy truck to see it moves.

From 8 – 12 months i.e. the co-ordination of means-end relations sub-stages, the child now have the ability to act intentionally. He is now able to combine actions to achieve the desired results. For example, he will pick up the truck from the toy-boxes in order to play with it while previously he only play with the truck when it is given to him.

From 12 – 18 months, i.e. the tertiary circular reactions sub-stage, the child starts to experiment various actions to produce results. He may hit the rattle on the floor to produce sounds rather than than just by shaking it. The ability to use objects as tools start from here and at this point, adults are drawn into the child’s activities.

Finally from 18 – 24 months i.e. mental combinations sub-stage, the child begins to make use of language in his symbolic play and is now able to plan his behavior in simple ways. Not only is he able to combine various actions physically to achieve the desired results, he is now capable of planning it mentally beforehand. Interesting the child is also starting to imitate the behaviours of others. Thus it is extremely important for parents to behave properly when the child is at this age. If they do not wish their children to pick up the wrong behaviour, they better not do it in front of them.

Afterthought

I am a non-smoker and I have nothing against smokers.

But one thing I will not tolerate is having smokers puffing away in front of children like nobody’s business. It never failed to anger me whenever I see an adult carrying a baby in one hand and holding a lighted cigarette in the other.

What the hell is he thinking? Doesn’t he know that not only is he setting a bad example, he is also endangering the child’s health? Don’t tell me you are not aware of the numerous harms caused by inhaling second-hand smoke? Don’t tell me because you do not have a good education, you do not understand these, according to you, medical nonsense. This is pure common sense. Who in the right mind would puff away happily in front of a baby?

Give me a break.

Jean Piaget: Object Permanence

2005-11-07T20:21:00.004+08:00

As adults when we put certain thing in a place, we usually expect to find it later at the same location, even if it is accidently been hidden away under a cloth or newspapers. Although we are unable to see it, yet we know it exists. This is because we understand the concept of object permanence. According to Jean Piaget, a Swiss psychologist (1896 – 1980), young infants do not understand this concept. For them their world is totally impermanent i.e. they perceived object as real only when they are able to see it, or when perceived in some other ways.

During an observation with one of his children, Jacqueline, he observed that when the celluloid duck, which she was trying to grasp, fell behind a fold in the sheet thus out of her sight, she failed to search behind the fold. The same respond occurred even when Piaget hid the duck right in front of her eyes. And when Piaget offered her a crying doll, she laughed. But when placed beneath a handkerchief, again she failed to respond. To her, even though she could hear the sound of crying, the doll is not real as long as she does not see it.

An experience with my friend’s child further supports Piaget’s observation. When the toy truck he was playing rolled under the table, he went after it but failed to look beneath the table. He looked at the table for a while and crawled back to play with his other toys. To him the track just disappeared.

Image taken from Meyers Art Gallery

Afterthought

I have a friend who likes to use the concept of object permanence to support the existence of God/gods and the ‘backward’ mentality of non-believers. (I do not wish to turn this into another religions post so I shall not disclose her religion) During arguments with non-believers, she will bring in this concept and proceed to belittle them for behaving like babies. If you are unable to see God/gods, does that mean that God/gods don’t exist?

However, there is a serious flaw in her argument. In object permanence, the baby has actually seen the toy. It was only when it was taken away from him/her when he/she perceives it as non-existence. Religion is all about faith. To a religious person, he/she does not need to see God/gods to know that God/gods exists. As for non-believers, since they do not share the same faith, it is understandable that they would first want to be able to perceive God/gods in a certain ways before making a decision. It is really ridiculous to bring in object permanence to the argument.

Role of Play During Early Childhood

2005-11-06T02:10:00.004+08:00

It is always a joy to see children playing with each other, although sometimes such interactions might lead to quarrels and fights among them. Moreover, play during early childhood is necessary for the child to develop healthily. Before I proceed, I wish to touch on the concept of symbolic interaction. Basically it believes that the development of self and the person as a social being are inseparable. It became popular among psychologists during the 1930s and one of its supporters is Mead. He suggests that the self is a social product and the role of play during early childhood is extremely important during the developing process.

There are two general principles underlying his theory, firstly the concept of the ‘I’ and the ‘me’ and secondly of self-reflexiveness. A distinction first made by James (1982) and later followed up by Mead, the concept of the ‘I’ and the ‘me’ attempts to solve the problem of the complexity of human as a social being. The solution is to divide self-concept into two. Briefly the ‘I’, self-as-subject, is totally free from others’ opinions and capable of acting independently. It ensures our individuality and is immune to the perceived attitudes and perspectives of others. On the other hand the ‘me’, self-as-object, is under the influences of the society it is in. It consists of elements like reputation, social identify and whatever requirements the society demands from it. Thus the ‘me’ changes accordingly to suit its surrounding.

Another concept that influences Mead is the ability for individuals to act socially towards themselves i.e. self-reflexiveness. This ability allows one to act socially towards himself as if he is behaving towards another person. To achieve that we must be able to role-take, i.e. to put ourselves in other people’s shoes, and see ourselves in the eyes of another. This allows us to anticipate their responses, imagine how we appear to them and than adjust our responses to come into line with theirs. Mead believes that to understanding ourselves, we need to first understand other’s reactions towards us. The role of play during early childhood thus becomes very important. It provides the opportunity for children to practice role-play during their interactions which will help them to understand themselves better, and prepare them for the road ahead as social being.

To explore this concept further, let us look at Mead’s first three stages of initial development known as primary socialization. They are preparatory stage, play stage, and game stage. The development of these three stages does not depend on the age of the child but on the amount of exposures and nature of interactions he gets. An older child might not necessary shows greater role-taking ability compare with a younger child with more interactions experiences. The importance of role of play can be seen throughout all three stages but is more obvious during the last two stages.

In Mead’s preparatory stage the child starts off by imitating the behaviours of those around him. Slowly with the acquisition of language, children internalize the symbols through the words of the adult world around them. Although the role of play is not so obvious at this stage, it is the beginning of the development of the social self. Language plays a vital role in the developing process.

In the play stage, children begin experimenting with various imagined roles, such as parents, doctors, super heroes, etc. At this stage children also begin to view society and themselves from a different perspective. The concept of self-reflexiveness emerges at this point contributing to the developing of the social self.

In the last stage i.e. the game stage, the child takes into consideration the perspective of not just one person but many others. He needs to anticipate the intentions of others so as to plan his actions accordingly. He needs to assess others’ views on his actions and at the same time realizes that his teammates and opponents are also doing the same thing in order to plan their actions. He will also need to understand the concept of teamwork because he can no longer acts whenever he pleases. The role of play becomes more complex and is even more crucial in the development of the social self.

In his study of 3 years old preschool children playing in their nursery, Denzin (1977) observed that despite their age, they were able to engage in activities that required understanding of role-take and self-reflexivness. They were also able to step out of their shoes and take the perspectives of others into consideration when assigning roles as seen in the game stage. Surprisingly, they also attempted to justify their actions by using shared symbols.

The game stage provides the training ground to prepare the child to face society in the future. Mead believes that development of self is an on-going process and the role of play continues to play an important part throughout adulthood. In fact new perspectives of the self continue to change as one go through different interactions when forming or severing relationships. He termed these later developments that occurred during adulthood as secondary socialization.

By understanding the importance of play during early childhood in relation to Mead’s theory, we start to view such interactions in a new perspective. Firstly, we should encourage children to interact with each other more often. Secondly, we should create more opportunities for children to participate in groups’ play. Lastly, since the development of self is a result from the feedback of others, we should avoid making negative remarks like ‘Why are you so stupid?’ or ‘You are really hopeless!’ to our children. They may take is as a fact and carry this negative perception of themselves throughout adulthood. The role of play during early childhood is vital and it is time we take it seriously.

I remember playing ‘doctor’ with my younger brother and cousins when we were still children. The adults would start to get worried whenever the ‘doctor’ tried to undress the “patient” especially if the 'patient' is a girl. Of course we didn’t mean to strip each other naked, we were just trying to be as realistic as possible. But frankly, they should be happy that we were not pretending to be serial killers.

But seriously, role-playing in children should be under the supervisions of adults. Parents can also take this opportunity to educate their children for example by explaining the rational behind each action. However, child-molesters might use role taking as a disguise to satisfy their sick desires. Parents should educate their children in how to protect themselves against these perverts. To be on the safe side, there shouldn’t be any unnecessary physical contacts between the child and the adult during role-playing.

Home Visit

2005-11-05T00:05:00.005+08:00

The soup tastes terrible. Not
the first time she adds too much salt.

She pours another,
“I know you miss my cooking.”
You force a smile, your fourth bowl.
There is no rush. The kitchen

is a mini stage; frenzied fruit flies dance
around rotten bananas hanging on
naked wall. Below, bold cockroaches
play hide-and-seek among
unwashed clothes. She asks

about her grandson, and scolds you
for not bringing him here. You blame
the long distance, and try to cheer
her with stories about junior,
how he made a card for your wife
on Mother’s Day. Before you leave

she passes you a packet of instant-noodles
wrapped in crumpled newspapers – a gift

to her grandson. You will return it

unwrapped, together with packets of rice,

sugar, salt, and lies

a month later
when you volunteer
again to be her
forgotten son.

Copyright 2005 Alson Teo
(Written on 22 September 2005)

A Plate of Char Siew Rice

2005-11-04T18:49:00.005+08:00

My parents used to say it is sinful
to indulge in luxury, satisfied
with brackish water and burnt bread.
(God must be very pleased,
and soon called for them.)

My brother and I still attend church
for prayers and free buns. But today
they served luxury –
Slices of tender pork roasted
to perfection, lay upon fragrant rice
soaked in rosy sweet sauce.

Today we were late.

With only a serving left
to share, who could resist
such temptation?
Not me.

I lowered my head to avoid
my brother’s eyes and licked
that last grain
off the plate.

Copyright 2005 Alson Teo
(Written on 18 March 2005, Friday)