I saw a tree a-falling...
I saw a tree a-falling
a-falling down on me
I had no way to turn
it was close on me
I thought it was a plot
to force me out
I knew I could not
even hold it or shout
It was a tree I sheltered
on many a longing day
And now it was so altered
coming to make me pay
I asked it why it longed
to touch its upmost brim
When all around no foe
turned the sun down dim
I touched its bark to hear
I thought I heard a cry
Two leaves it shed on me
and brushed its bark up high
I asked it why it stood
alone and left to brood
It shook its sticks in emphasis
as if to say it was good
(©: T. Wignesan - Kuala Lumpur,1957, from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: Rayirath Publications,1961.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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The Death of the Hindu
Chin cupped
on the ancient bone
of his elbow
he spread five fingers to the world:
and like a cat on zither strings
the hoarse voice of his fathers
issues from his forgotten children:
now he picks one tick
from the back of that suckling cow:
his failing fingers
find not the strength to crush
Not a single eyelash twitters
pass him by
pass him
'Wake not a man asleep
And tell him he has
Nothing to eat.'
(©: T. Wignesan - Paris,1957; from T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Night in the Eyes, Invading
I do not know if this is true what I see:
I see in some dim, distant, desolate rock-hold
gathering peoples, driven as though by common fear.
A low mournful humming drifts with the breeze
of manhood tread, and eyeless turban-headed
in the lambent darkness, fire-fly brands moving.
This symphonious humming fills my heart
with deep remorse I cannot quite understand.
In a winding never-ending line they keep coming:
mesmerically drawn as in a living dream.
They do not speak but it seems they are in
common bondage bound and move to words of order.
Someone is dying or some great catastrophe
has befallen these earthen men - for they do not speak!
So many seem to come, but only a few are here.
Yet they keep coming and around
a little rock are gathered cross-legged, naked
scalded knees jagged out, a cluster of brown skinny men.
On the rock someone is standing and a little
behind him - I do not know what - a tree, a ragged pole
or dolmen! and yet here it glows, now a moment paly.
Fading far volcanic lights skip engulfing the sky.
I cannot say what this is all about.
I have a fear the Aliens are here.
And in the middle of this funereal happening,
a voice bursts out crying - 'EMILIANO'...
'Emiliano', and then a choking whimpering
and again - 'Emiliano......
Is this all that is left for me! '
(©: T. Wignesan - Paris,1957 - rev.; from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: Rayirath Publications,1961.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Coal-Truck
I am a coal-truck
Carrying gold dust.
Someone threw some
Coal-dust upon
My gold-dust.
I am a coal-truck
In a gold mine.
Someone struck a coal vein
And piled me full in vain.
I am a coal-truck
Covered in subterranean dust.
Someone shovelled my soil
And found an ancient bone
All coiled.
I am a coal-truck
Waiting for the rain.
The sun is my rail
The night my shed.
I am a coal-truck
Rumbling all the way.
Wash me in the rain-storm
And fill me full of coke
Until I choke.
(©: T. Wignesan,1957 - Pub. in 'Forum Academicum', Heidelberg University,1957; from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
poem by T. Wignesan
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The Gnat Nebulae
Full pummelling fisticuffs
Stitch over stitch
In and out
Imperceptibly kaleidoscopic
Swirling from ear to ear
Sporadic
Thrumming mystical notes
Notes of whisper
Whisper in the ear
Now a bothered swish of clawing
Cleaving slipping fingers
Immalleable rolling universal ball
Microcosmic needle into
Macrocosmic wool all
Silently thudding kneading pulling
Sealing a sin all opened unforgiven
Eternally whispering to a few
And never really heard
Pummelling sewing the invisible centre
Round and round the darkless sun
Only the end that began
Only a scratch and a bother
What bother to scratch
For scratching bothers
Bothers a scratch
Scratch and not to bother
Scratch Scratch Scratch
Dedicated to J.C. Alldridge
(©: T. Wignesan - Paris,1957; from T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Unheeded in the spread of his name, quaking
Unheeded in the spread of his name, quaking
Through the knit brow cuddling the sombre eye
Twice buckled into the couch of his yearning
The mouldy cast of unsculptured hands, moulting
In the surging sweaty cries' unexpected sigh
Sooner lost than won with unrenewed longing
Every day, every night in chastened haste, calling
That one face, one hand trembling on bosomy thigh
Through all the twigs of his knotty brooding
Mighty log in the dismembered chips, raking
In uneasy orgasms of a protracted lie
The woman clasped in the memory revolting
Fleshy hair to press, hovering nostrils, drinking
In the incensing vapours, and that face a wry
Screaming in the rubbing spasm, a bloody cursing
All, all and more, and the biting shame, clawing
Now at the name, silently growing, that shy
Child of old hopefully shared and lingered moaning
(© T. Wignesan,1957; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957; from the collection: T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Little Clock
Why in pensive ticking, silent thoughts
You wile your time away
When all around huge swelling bells
Toll the days away!
Every hour that announced may go
Your silent hands take hold
And though the ages chimed in ears
Yours they never behold.
If all the clocks the world had known
Had struck one strong big note,
They would never still your plodding tone
Nor the working hearth you alert.
Do you wonder, wonder, little clock
What makes the grandfather tick!
Or his aching belly in the depth of sorrow
Cries to the world it's sick!
Thirty million years and Pleistocene dark,
They are one split second short!
And whimpering suns that rise and flop
Have scarce stolen your tick or thought!
So, my little clock, my faithful clock
When I hear the tall town bell,
I'll shrug my shoulders, one tiny moment
And know that all is well.
Dedicated to Gertrud Widmayer, my landlady at Heidelberg
(©: T. Wignesan,1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Pied à terre
Once within a break in brambly fields
something stirred its fearful head in sleep:
Though it be woman or child, work or vision
something that dares not hold me in derision
But till that lingering day bares your face
with prating breath I bide my bane
And even as I clear the brake, shift the trunks
hosannas crop up before you every dawn.
And someday as I have you in my arms
in osculation's brimming nirvanic bliss,
May I not then turn away empty handed
though warm in your inane atmanic face
Then as I wend my kindly way down the road
pitch my tent on this terraqueous matter-mind
Should I then go looking for my immortality
through doors that are forever locked to me
Or could I then lie upon nescience' impervious skies
upon some smoky grass unmapped or husbanded
And hear the awakening cries of spring born trees
then get up to wind my way to some factory blast
(©: T. Wignesan,1957, from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
poem by T. Wignesan
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The Snake Charmer and the Hamadryad
Piccolo and been-throated pibroch
Dilating dimpled hood
Spreading photometric darkroom eyes
Waxing waxing matching
Venomous lip to music's piping lip
O Queen of stung dragon-mouthed Po
Dancing girl of nuanceless ancient reliefs
The apotheosis Brahman curling on the neck
Must you now sink sink
Dread watched
Spineless
Into the winding womb wickerwork
Watching watching pipe-eyed watching
Until you slip
Over the sill of the pipe and the lip
Anathema!
Amorphous piteous anathema!
Amulet of Siva!
Licking the boneless air companionless
Then slithering to lie on the trodden path
Must you have this one last lick
A lick that
Stills the
Unheeding
Child astray
Or ripple tailless
In the reedy gust
To the squat charmer's
Hypnotical pibroch
(©: T. Wignesan - Paris,1957; from T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961; first pub. in 'Forum Academicum', University of Heidelberg,1957)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Pantun - Arus deras sungei Klang setelah hujan lebat (translated to English)
arus deras setelah hujan lebat
cepat ubah wajahnya sungei klang
bagai kuala lumpur di susuli ekonomi pesat
dulu pekerja ladang skrang towkay kilang
the water is treacherous after the rain
the klang river is fast to change her image
like kuala lumpur after the fast economic progress
those farmers some are now factory owners
arus deras sungei klang setelah hujan lebat
bagai kuala lumpur di susuli ekonomi hebat
bangunan tingi lambang pembagunan pesat
ibu kota yang mulai dari lumpur ke suatu pusat
river klang is choppy after a bout of rain
like kuala lumpur after its economic growth
high buildings are signs of development
the city that grows from a mud estuary to an important centre
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Paths in the Private Country
The memory in need
Is the implacable enemy of the creed,
Waits and watches its foe
The all-clawing frenzy on tip-toe;
Quiescent in the instant's repose
The thud of flurried gnawing years evoke.
The poet in his solitary moments, spoke
Those whispered words, memory's secret ear yoke.
His wares, his scares, ailments and balms
Suddenly at the oasis of his thirst, awoke
Transilluminating the hard wad of his private notes,
Clutching at the infant's murmurous innocence
The clear innocuous dogma of cries;
While his immodestly preened notes of travesty
Hark back; and the first poem playfully struck
Teaches him now too late the laugh, the critic's qualms.
Just as the poet had wandered away from childhood,
So will the child thwart the unspoilt man
And shyly, shyly he turns away from the poet
Coming in like a stray camp-follower to brood.
For who may ask which the supreme poet
The child's sweet ineffable musings disrespect
While language etherises meanings proudly sown:
The title in two is halved - one the art, one, lone.
And the man, memory's ill-begotten infant
Lurking round the corner, pranks the urgent moment
Or two - then restores the poet to the poem.
(© T. Wignesan,1957 - First pub. in 'Diskus', University of Frankfurt-am-Main,1960; from the collection: T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Leaves Compared with Flowers
A tree's leaves may be ever so good,
So may its bar, so may its wood;
But unless you put the right thing to its root
It never will show much flower or fruit.
But I may be one who does not care
Ever to have tree bloom or bear.
Leaves for smooth and bark for rough,
Leaves and bark may be tree enough.
Some giant trees have bloom so small
They might as well have none at all.
Late in life I have come on fern.
Now lichens are due to have their turn.
I bade men tell me which in brief,
Which is fairer, flower or leaf.
They did not have the wit to say,
Leaves by night and flowers by day.
Leaves and bar, leaves and bark,
To lean against and hear in the dark.
Petals I may have once pursued.
Leaves are all my darker mood.
poem by Robert Frost
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Feet, feet that walked away with the toes
Heavy the hoods of the eyes
that laboured the scan of horizons
Heavy the course of the thoughts
that sat unstirred on the sill of the stare
Heavy this ancient bottomed nose
sitting in judgment over this meat
Endlessly shunting the frenzied workers
now sniff-drunk and steam-bellowed in the street
This the scull careered through rutted scars
the primeval hair bushed in pathways
Where long tribes with long lances
prod the undergrowth for signs of lost bones
These the ears that heard the wake of worlds
wandering in the ever irretraceable tread
Ears though that admit the silent secrets
ever still and hospitable to the panicky refrain
This the assembled machinery, forging fire
have dropped the tongs
Down the corridors of investigation
hurtling in darkening diseases
These the loins, companion of time
stalked through fire, filth, and foam
Baked in the hot ovens of empires
wearied some morning in blurry depredation
Wobble-eyed, knee-tied, dragged with pacing company
through yesterdays that are forever lost indemnity
Heavy the larvae lipped throb, kiss and consider
heavy the molten strata ooze, consider and kiss
These the organs that prodded nations
and shrivelled up to curse them all in pain
Pursed its potency, convulsed the course of the vein
this the dismembered member of the tribe
Heavy, alas, these feet that thump
jog and reel in the dancing rhythm of millenniums
Trod on the will-less face of faiths
twitched their toes and walked their way
(©: T. Wignesan,1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
poem by T. Wignesan
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The Stringy-Bark Tree
There's the whitebox and pine on the ridges afar,
Where the iron-bark, blue-gum, and peppermint are;
There is many another, but dearest to me,
And the king of them all was the stringy-bark tree.
Then of stringy-bark slabs were the walls of the hut,
And from stringy-bark saplings the rafters were cut;
And the roof that long sheltered my brothers and me
Was of broad sheets of bark from the stringy-bark tree.
And when sawn-timber homes were built out in the West,
Then for walls and for ceilings its wood was the best;
And for shingles and palings to last while men be,
There was nothing on earth like the stringy-bark tree.
Far up the long gullies the timber-trucks went,
Over tracks that seemed hopeless, by bark hut and tent;
And the gaunt timber-finder, who rode at his ease,
Led them on to a gully of stringy-bark trees.
Now still from the ridges, by ways that are dark,
Come the shingles and palings they call stringy-bark;
Though you ride through long gullies a twelve months you’ll see
But the old whitened stumps of the stringy-bark tree.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Latches
Where there are complicated relationships
We are the latches
When there are bolted doors
We are the latches
Chances are mending
There are dying dreams
There are falling angels
We do not trail transgressed roads
Everything for us is a good expectation
We do not quail, we do not lose hearts
(written on August 4,2011 Kuala Lumpur City Malaysia)
poem by Chester Maynes
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First Encounter - Jackie Chan
wow, he thinks
everybody is hard out
to be a star
For whatever reason Jackie did not come across as a friendly person. I met him twice and he somehow gave me the feeling that he thought everybody wants to be a star and so treated everybody in such cold manner. Two years back, I asked to take his picture at the Mid Valley Megamall in Kuala Lumpur after he opened his own gym here but good lord, after the picture, he just walked away without even saying a word.
There were not even any fans around in the private function. The first time was way back in the 90s when he gave me a cold handshake. He made me feel he had the habit of snubbing people.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Tree
In an English forest on Nottingham’s Sherwood National Park
stood a large wide oak tree probably as old as the Ark.
Oddly enough I had never seen this old proud tree before,
it sort of pulled me to it, as though it wanted me to explore.
I slowly walked around the trunk and looked closely at the tree
admiring its form, its wrinkled bark, every inch fascinated me.
My fingertips touched its bark and felt its rugged texture and shape,
it seemed so alive, and I was overwhelmed for heavens sake.
The sturdy trunk appeared to be expanding and growing ever wide,
then I thought I heard a child’s voice coming from deep inside.
Against the deeply wrinkled bark I placed my hands and ear,
just in case by some strange chance a voice I really did hear.
It seems as though I heard nothing so I gradually stepped away,
as I did the tree trunk looked as if to shrink, shudder and sway.
I rubbed my eyes in disbelief; I couldn’t believe what I’d seen
I reached out and touched it to make sure it wasn’t a dream.
Several times I stepped back and forth from this unusual tree,
seeing it expand and contract was becoming too much for me.
On my last step backwards I definitely heard a child’s voice say,
“Help me, help me, I’m trapped in here, please don’t go away.”
Without thinking I answered, “What are you doing inside the tree?
How long have you been in there and can’t you get free? ”
Sadly she said, “I don’t know how long I’ve been in here,
but I can’t get out will you please help me to get clear.”
The little girl started crying and pleaded with me to stay,
“Please don’t go, please help me, please try to find a way? ”
“Try to stay calm, ” I said, “I’ll examine the tree once more,
you found your way in, so there must be a kind of door.”
As I closely examined the tree I asked the child her name,
“Martha, I’m six years old and my mother’s name’s the same.”
To stop her fretting more I asked what colour shoes she had on.
“I have no shoes upon my feet somehow they have gone.”
“I’m sorry Martha I cannot find a way in I’ve looked and I’ve tried
I just don’t know how you managed to get yourself inside? ”
Sobbing she said, “I don’t know either, but it seems like a very long time.
Could you possibly look inside the tree? You could if you climb.”
“Alright Martha, I’ll climb up to that branch sticking out to my right.
I’m sorry there is no way into the trunk; and soon it will be night.
Let’s go over this again and try to remember how you got inside.”
“All I can remember was lying in the tall grass, trying to hide.”
“Were you playing the game of hide and seek with your friends? ”
“No, my father told me to hide and later my mother he would send.
It’s slowly coming back to me now I had also been hit on my head
I remember I went very dizzy and then everything else went red.
I woke up with a headache and found myself inside this tree,
I never saw my mummy she must have forgotten me.”
“Now then Martha did this happen recently, or was it some time ago
was it yesterday, a couple of days since, or a fortnight or so? ”
“No, I think it must have been longer because of the way you’re dressed
I’ve never seen anyone with clothes like yours; you do so look a mess.”
“How can you see me Martha, is it through a nut-hole in the tree? ”
“No, I can see you through the bark, as you are meant to be.”
“Is it dark inside the tree trunk, or can you see any light? ”
“Well, It’s not wet, it doesn’t smell, but it is as dark as night,
but high above there is some sort of lamp shining really bright.”
“Alright Martha, if you can get to it, a way out is in sight.”
“Hello, hello, you standing outside the tree, can you hear me?
Thank you. I’ve entered the light and my daddy I can see.
I didn’t realise he was so close I could have climbed up here before
and how I got inside the tree will be a mystery for evermore.”
poem by Orlando Belo
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First Encounter - Najib Tun Razak
Najib Tun Razak
such big fat
palm
I stayed in Brickfields and never had I thought I would be at the same Indian restaurant with Najib the second day he was sworn in as Prime Minister. He had made it a priority to visit the Chinese and Indian sections of Kuala Lumpur to show his appreciation to the two communities. Everybody stood up when he entered the Kortumalai Indian Restaurant. When he shook hand with me, I suddenly realised that najib has such big fat palm. It is sign of prosperity for Chinese. Let's wish he could bring Malaysia to an era of prosperity.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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First Encounter - Ramli Ibrahim
Ramli Ibrahim
his advice that still caught my heart
'do what knocks on your heart'
Ramli is the foremost exponent of Indian classical dance, bharata natyam and Odissi in Malaysia. For more than 35 years, he has indulged in the arts, though controversial to his faith, Islam. Muslims think the dances of hinduistic elements are in contradiction to the tenets of Islam. However to Ramli, who has an engineering degree from Australia thinks the art is close to his heart and that he cannot live without choosing it as a profession.
Ramli was named the recipient of the 2004 Boh Cameronian Lifetime Achievement Award, the most prestigious arts award to those promoting the theatre and arts in Malaysia.
The first time I met Ramli was in Kuala Lumpur some 25 years ago. He was then a young man still in a dilemma as to whether to be a dancer or an engineer. He somewhat sensed I should be doing something what I really wanted too and gave me a similar advice.
Ramli this May and June organised the first Odissi dance festival in Kuala Lumpur featuring a series of interesting workshops, exhibitions, and performances of Odissi dancers from around the world.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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First Encounter - Leslie Cheung
when first meeting
is last meeting
Cheung leaps to fame and suicide
Young hopeful leslie cheung
he leaps to fame
and a suicide
The late Leslie Cheung was named Asian Biggest Superstar by China Central Television, and voted as The Most Favorite Actor in 100 Years of Chinese Cinema in 2005. When he came to Kuala Lumpur in the mid 80s, he was like any other young Cantopop singer, excited about fame. I however was not taken in by his talent and even wondered how he was going to make it in the tough and tumble world of showbiz. He did not seem to have an edge over other singers such as Alam Tam who was also a rising star then. But perhaps lady luck was with him.
It was a brief meet and one impression stuck - his legs seemed to be all on the move. What kept memory so fresh was that he even looked back as he walked away from us at one of the leading hotels in Kuala Lumpur. It was our only meet.
He walked away to a great acting and music career and surprisingly, a suicide at the height of his fame on April 1,2003. Cheung leapt from the 24th floor of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, in the Central district of Hong Kong. He left a suicide note saying that he had been suffering from depression. He was 46 years old
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Real Treasure
When did you last see a rainbow?
I asked my son, I really don’t know.
Have you seen frogs during the rains?
They were a familiar sight on our lawn and lane.
What about the fire flies?
No mom he uttered with a sigh.
I am sure you have seen butterflies?
Oh yes, in Kuala Lumpur, in butterfly park, I don’t lie.
Have you seen a moonlit sky at night?
I have no time after a hard day’s grind.
Have you ever watched the dawn?
No mom, he replied with a yawn.
On a crisp winter noon, have you felt the warmth of the sun?
Where is the time I am always on the run.
Oh mom. I am done
You have no clue, what you miss my son.
Come on son, let’s explore nature,
And together discover real treasures.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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