shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault?

Dear Readers,

It has been some time since the last post, and during this time, tkwek has re-visited his primary school, watched Money No Enough 2, jogged at MacRitchie, gone for YS rhsl, gone for KS team-building, and went shopping at KINO (: it's been a productive friday-saturday, and here are three poems from the visit to the primary school, jogging at mcritchie, and the mrt ride to Kino respectively.

If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears? (5.1.75)

The Straight Times Editor.


Memory lane

Locked out of the teachers day
celebration, in my own primary school
(which they once told me would always
Be my second home, by the way;)

I took my own walk of memories,
exploring the shelves of childhood mystique,
brushing the miniature palms – once
twice my height –

in the forgotten labyrinth of the school garden,
hearing the pledge, miraculously melodious
under the chorus of yet-unbroken voices,
soaking my feet (too large for the

hop-scotch mat now) in the
spongy running track. It
was miraculous, rediscovering
the little twitters that

used to penetrate the thick
humidity of my classroom, finding
the same bushes, enclaves,
and secret tunnels that I

once escaped to.

A yellowed leaf fell to where I sat, recollecting,
and even that
brought a simple, wonderful, joy.



Reflection

See how the water –
captures
the legacy of a skimming mudskipper,
a thousand breathless trees, and
a couple sitting stony-faced on a bench
by the reservoir.

It is a pity;
that poetry can never tell the same stories.



In the Melting-pot

I whisk my sun-baked sandaled feet
from under the riveting glare of
six-inch heels and
lightning-rod umbrella ends,
pushing against mobs of individuals –
faceless, but each with his own hairstyle –
in an almost primitive struggle
as I strive for a spot
under the air-con.
And

when I find it, the delicious
frost
melts me.