On Poetry: Final Notions

Adrienne Rich, one of my favourite poets, had sadly passed away a few months ago. I thank her, gratefully, for the beautiful words she has left behind.

It will not be simple, it will not take long 

It will take little time, it will take all your thought 

It will take all your heart, it will take all your breath 

It will be short, it will not be simple 

It will touch through your ribs, it will take all your heart 

It will not take long, it will occupy all your thought 

As a city is occupied, as a bed is occupied 

It will take your flesh, it will not be simple 

You are coming into us who cannot withstand you 

You are coming into us who never wanted to withstand you 

You are taking parts of us into places never planned 

You are going far away with pieces of our lives 

It will be short, it will take all your breath 

It will not be simple, it will become your will

- Final Notions; Adrienne Rich

On Postcards

(Inspired by Sarah Kay's 'Postcards')

It started from the empty space

That you and I created

On one glorious day

It swallowed us

Consumed, in consummate veracity

To leave us wanting in between

I write words to fill that emptiness

Because I know no other use for it

And from those sentences

Strung into matter, shaped into, forming

A likeness of you

How I want to remember you to be

Do not leave it to waste

For everything, anything shall expire some day

But not this; not us

Not this memory

It crumbles now as we speak

Words you and I will never hear

I still send letters into space

Hoping someone somewhere will track you down

And recognise you from the descriptions

He will place them in your hands and tell you

- There is a girl who still writes to you

She does not know how not to -

On My Favourite Reading Spots

I read everywhere and anywhere, but rarely do I find the perfect reading spot. What makes a good spot - the ambience, the absolute concentration on the task at hand, the silence and peace? Or the simplicity of knowing that it feels just right. Sometimes, or rather most occassions, they are memorable because of the moments you attach to it.

A selection of my favourites:

1. On a rusty bench by the River Avon in Bradford-Upon-Avon (United Kingdom)

There is a rusty bench by a small stone bridge that I once spent a good few hours sitting on. I perchanced upon it when I decided, at the spur of the moment, to take the train to see what a village with hyphenated names would look like. Typically English, glorious summer's day; these factors I believe were essential for my aimless meanderings. With a box of fresh raspberries from the local grocers and Vikram Seth's 'An Equal Music' purchased from a small bookstore close by, I walked, and I found, the most perfect place and the most perfect book to let time pass idly by.

2. Squashed in commuter trains, sitting or standing (Tokyo and Singapore)

I love reading in Tokyo trains because everyone is doing the same. It was also where I realised I wasn't alone in attempting Sudoku with a pen. Blending in the literary masses is empowering, like a secret acknowledgement that you and me are really quite similar, without knowing through conversation.

In contrast, in Singapore, I read to escape from reality. Time passes quickly, my station comes and I exit through the doors, gasping for freedom.

3. By the River Torrens (Adelaide, Australia)

Hardly a river most times, especially in comparison with the busty Yarra and Swan. And yet the most intimate, particularly when the ducks come past to see if you're hiding something worth tasting. A river forms a reflection of her city, and the Torrens I believe, beats in asynchrony - subtle, independent and impervious - as Adelaide's quiet charm hums the familiar tune of a town I love dearly in my heart.

Not recommended in the evenings, for drug abusers are abound.

4. Inside a cafe, on a very cold foggy winter's morning, facing the Edinburgh Castle high above, sipping a hot chocolate and eating a croissant (Scotland)

You must understand: all those factors are very important. An equation is an incomplete statement without its expressions. This perfect reading spot is impossible without all those qualities caressing a melancholic heart.

I remember the book distinctly - David Nicholls' 'One Day'. A book I would, in perfect honesty, not have purchased if not for its abundant presence, the exuberant signs extolling its position atop the bestsellers' list and a promise that love, really, is something that no one understands. When Emma and Dexter were orchestrating their musings on Arthur's Seat, I turned my position eastwards and stared at said hill, wondering, just thinking, if that moment was frozen in time because of the weight of its emotional beauty, or because the icy winds had solidified the bollocks out of it.

5. With someone you love by your side, also reading. (Anywhere)

The wonderful thing about this statement is that it defies person, logic and time. For example, someone I used to love may not fit in so nicely now because, understandably, I would not want to be in the same radius of existence as he. It is just a description of a particular time, in any particular place, when a particular person brings about a particular side of you that you never knew existed.

But what is so amazing about this is the creative utilisation of comfortable silence - the hallmark of a beautiful relationship in my eyes. If a bunch of Japanese in a subway reading together with me is empowering (read point 2 above), this is mind-blowing.

It spells independence without loneliness, warmth regardless of weather and a sense of belonging without burden.

It is about two people enjoying the things that matter: each other and a bloody good book.

On Poetry: Sleeplessness

All you who sleep tonight

Far from the ones you love,

No hand to left or right

And emptiness above -

Know that you aren't alone

The whole world shares your tears,

Some for two nights or one, 

And some for all their years.

- All You Who Sleep Tonight; Vikram Seth

On the 100% Perfect Person

Fictional. Based on Haruki Murakami’s ‘On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning’

One beautiful balmy winter morning in June, in a park by the river, in the leafiest suburb south of the city, I found the 100% perfect boy.

I don’t know what it was that attracted me to him. He was, in fact, not very good looking. Dressed in casual jeans and a T-shirt (the slogan: ‘Video games ruined my life. Good thing I have two extra lives.’), he was walking his dog, a small Jack Russell Terrier. His cropped blond hair was peeking from underneath a cap, his glasses perched high atop the bridge of his nose. His face was serious; he must be deep in thought. He wasn’t young too – early thirties perhaps?

I had always thought that my perfect partner would be this: physically - tousled hair, tall and reasonably fit; character wise – funny, smart, emotionally sensitive, respectful.

But between the 100 metres or so that separated me from him, it didn’t matter anymore. My heart was pounding, my mouth dry, taking it all in, greedily absorbing all the pleasures from that moment my eyes first caught sight of him. I knew then: he is the 100% perfect boy for me. And he was looking at me too.

“After all, attraction is emotional, not logical.” I told a friend the day after.

It reminded me of a story, of a boy and a girl. He was 18, she 16. He was not exceptionally good-looking and she was not particularly pretty. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl. But like everyone else, they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere out there, lived the 100% perfect partner for them. Yes, it would be a miracle. And one day, it came true.

They met in a park by the river, in the leafiest suburb south of the city, one balmy winter’s morning in June.

“This is amazing.” He said. “I’ve been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you’re the 100% perfect girl for me.”

“And you,” she said to him. “are the 100% perfect boy for me. You are as I have dreamt you to be.”

They sat on a park bench, the city skyline framed by the blue river. They introduced themselves, held hands and talked for hours on end. In those snatched moments, they filled the other in about all that has happened in their lives, as if catching up on lost time. They were hungry – for stories, for opinions, for laughter and life. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect partner. What a wonderful thing to have happened.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts. Was it really all right for one’s dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, “Let’s test ourselves once more. If we are really 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, when we know for certain that we are a 100% perfect, we’ll marry then and there. What do you think?”

“Yes.” She said. "Let us do that."

And so they parted. She to east, and he to west.

They should not have considered the test; it was utterly unnecessary. They should never have done it for they were truly 100% perfect for each other. It was a sheer miracle that they had met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent ways of fate was waiting to toss them unmercifully.

Time passed with shocking swiftness. They both grew to become respectable citizens, holding respectable jobs. There may have been moments when they nearly could have met: she was entering the train whilst he was exiting from a different carriage. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love. Soon, the boy was 32 and the girl 30.

One beautiful June morning, whilst in search for a cup of coffee, the boy was walking from east to west and the girl from west to east, in a narrow street in a busy city. They passed each other, right at the centre. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of those years earlier. He was thinking about the exams that he was sitting in a few months, she was worried about applications into specialist training. And all that had passed over those years, those wasted moments loving others and being loved so momentarily, it had numbed them, for the pain was far greater than the pleasure. There were other things in life that they could control, and love was not one of them.

And so, without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

“A sad story, don’t you think?” I said to my friend.

“So what happened between you and your 100% perfect boy?” she asked.

“We had eye contact, we smiled. We spoke casually for a while about ourselves and our future. For that short moment, we connected. And then we moved on in our lives.” 

On: What is a Religion?

 This was my final essay for a course I did with Oxford University (Philosophy of Religion) early last year.

What is a religion?

Since the dawn of time, Man and his ever inquisitive nature would continually wonder about his purpose and existence in this world. Always, just every so often, this question would fascinate him, and in time Man developed ways to seek an answer. Ancient civilizations started to worship nature; physical idols were later created; spirituality then took root, worshipping an unseen God.

Religion was born out of such a state. It comes packaged in many forms – to name a few: monotheism, polytheism and may I even dare say, atheism. Religion is a cultural belief in an organized order; where a higher being may not necessarily lie central to its faith. Monotheistic religions believe that everything is due to and revolves around the one God’s will. Polytheism believes the responsibility is shared by many Gods. Buddhism has a huge philosophical influence, focusing on the awakening of the self, to strive to release oneself from suffering in this world. Atheism on the other hand is unique, their sense of bewilderment is steered towards a less personified version of a higher order; in most instances, they believe in the laws of Science.

Religion is a practice. Karen Armstrong wrote quite satisfyingly in her book “The Case for God” that ‘religion is like art or music; that with much practice comes appreciable devotion and in due time, a revelation that life is not quite whole without it'. It is a matter of practice, and she quite rightly states that without delving deep into its rituals, one may never be given a chance to understand its benefits (or discover the lack of it). And even so, she adds,is there any harm if one subscribes to his religion in solitude, for his betterment and satisfaction, bearing in mind that the whole is the sum of its parts, and would not a society full of content individuals be beneficial indeed?

But Religion can also be a weapon of conquer and destruction, as some may argue. Atheists state that religions do not aim to unite, but persevere to divide. For years, war and conflict have been linked to the sword of religion – the Crusade for one, was a religiously sanctioned military campaign to restore ownership of the Holy Land to the Christians. Till today, the discussion of true ownership of Jerusalem leaves a bitter taste in one’s mouth. Even now, the Middle-East conflict seems to be a problem impossible to solve. Polarisation and conflicts still arise from militant extremism. So much blood has been poured into the ruined wastelands of what were once peaceful empires.

Religion is also a sense of identity. Christianity and Catholicism were once predominantly nested within the boundaries of Europe. Islam and Judaism were born in the deserts of the Middle East. For a significant period of time, it stayed there, till the machinations of Globalisation and a keen desire to expand power distributed religions to all corners of the Earth. Europeans used to force Aboriginals to embrace Christianity (in addition to interbreeding programs), to make them appreciably more European. And now, when the world is integrating at a rapid rate, it creates a sense of familiarity when one is part of a small religious minority in a distant land.

And yet, religion is more than just a manifestation of culture, it is also a projection of self. Believers would say that they are products of their culture and their religion: their habits and social decorum, their morals and approach to life, all seeded and rooted in their social environment. I am a Muslim and Malay. My religion has been intertwined into my upbringing. I am trained to lower my head and gently kiss the hands of an elder, for this is my culture’s way of showing respect, but no, never to an individual of the opposite sex, for my religion prohibits it so, unless he is a close family member. I do it now with little thought, with machine like precision; to omit it would feel strongly odd indeed. Perhaps I still mind my Ps and Qs because growing up, I was constantly told that I was representing my culture and my religion.

Why do religions differ so much from the other? Quite ironically, it seems to be borne out of evolution – influenced by culture and the social situation of the time. When Islam was established during Muhammad’s time, some revelations compiled in the Quran would describe a certain political scene or an adjustment of a practice that was deemed prevalent at that time. For instance, the Quran, although it did not abolish slavery, certainly prescribed rules that made slaves more autonomous and more respected. Alcohol was initially allowed, but subsequently banned because it prevented individuals from performing prayers. It is a logical affair: religion exists to address the needs of the people at a certain time, to build some structure and order. For some reason, some scriptures are deliberately left vague; allowing open interpretation to cater to current needs.

Religion is not a Scientific Theory, and so it is appreciably difficult to measure its mass, its density in ‘evidence-based’ truth. God is our way of symbolizing the higher being, the greater hand that keeps our lives in order. For many years, we have attempted to personalize him – the Mayans used to worship the Sun; our attempts evolved further with religious scriptures that describes God’s revelation to the relevant prophets. Prominent scientists like Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking have stated that if there was a God, then He would be the impenetrable laws of physics!

Ultimately, religion is a difficult term to define, for it is a subjective ideology that infers different meanings to different cultures. But what is it for? Religion is an answer. It was initially derived, and is still continually used, to make sense of the world we live in today. It proclaims a set of rules and laws to provide an ideal framework in life; it provides an avenue for one to weep in sorrow in times of distress; it sets a direction for one to pray for hope or give his thanks. It is a beacon of light for those who need it for strength in darkness.

As stated before, religion is akin to art. We may come out of an art gallery or musical concert feeling joyous and serene. We may fancy ourselves better individuals, enlightened by such a brief affair. Unbeknownst to others, this internal feeling is an ember that burns, that comfortably warms our souls. And quite rightly so, like Love, it is a difficult feeling to put into words. It is near impossible to describe it to another. But does it matter, should it be a matter to infinitely debate upon; for when a quiet smile creeps slowly onto one’s lips, shouldn’t the coming of such a tranquil state matter the most?

On The Wind

He glances across his shoulder and views the vastness before him. It is grim and damp, but it is home, it is where he grew up. All his life, he knew no other world. And so, it must be natural for him to want to die here too.

His hands grip the basket handles beneath his feet. It has been too long that he has lived alone. Since the passing of his father, he had taken over the work. Barely months after, his mother died of heartbreak. “Is this what it feels like to be reunited?” her last words whispered.

He had fallen in love only once. The neighbours had moved in when he was a child - how wonderful it was to have a friend to play with. She had curls, just like his mother, with the sweetest of temperaments and the jolliest of laughs. They played boats by the river, they dangled their legs high up above trees and ran across paddocks in chase of the other.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” She had asked, and he had looked away. His life was, and has always been, predictable. A farmer’s son should know no other. She, on the other hand, had the world lying beneath her feet. And that was what he liked about her - the indifferent difference in the way that she saw life.

He began loving her when he started feeling longing in her absence. She would return from trips beyond the farthest reaches he had been, and she would tell him of the adventures she saw. ‘The cigarette smoke that frames the Eiffel Tower in moonlight; the pebbled paths of Edinburgh knobbly under your toes; the lights and sounds of London bathing your senses.

Years moved past and one day, she came home without that sparkle in her eye. She had whispered softly. “There is so much more to life than what is here.” His heart sank for the worst had come. She was not his to keep anymore.

His father once told him that the winds brought him and his wife here. A land that gave them happiness; a life that was comfortable and secure. The wind had made it happen. “Don’t go against it.”

“Come with me. You are a part of me. You cannot stay here.” She cried as he set her suitcase on the floor. The train was slowly chugging its way into the station. The first time they were here, he had kissed her and said he will wait. As it occurred more often, each parting kiss was only sweetened by the hope that it will be met with an exciting tale and another kiss on return.

“The wind is against me. I cannot leave; the soil here runs through my veins.” And as his hands slowly lost her grasp, as she turned to climb up the train steps, as she sat down and watched him steadily move away from her, it then hit him that there will be no more.

And then the war happened, and what should not have been lost, never came back. He had seen enough in life, he wondered, and it was time to move on. Letters had grown stagnant; what memories he had, he kept them in his heart. Crops were tended, milk was filtered into bottles. While the world, and his heart, were in ruins, he moved along in rhythm without pauses.

But that was long ago. Now, he sets the basket by the door. As usual, it will be picked up and money will exchange hands. His hands; they are old and wrinkled, scarred and well-worn like his body. But his mind retains the sharpness of its youth; he could still remember the way she smelled, how bright her laughter was. How comforting it was to have her near.

The next morning, as the sun drenches the pale sky, a knock on the door comes. It is the postman, a white envelope in his hand.

Inside is a short letter. One of the paragraphs reads: I still think of you all these years, but I never had the courage to write. I am old now; I wanted to grow old with you. Is this too late?

He will not reply. He will not know that there is a train ticket and an address. For as he is about to open the envelope, a short blistering gust blows the letter up into the air, up into the amber sky.

The wind will always be against him.

On Poetry: Twenty-One Love Poems - IX

This poem meant something once, many years ago. And now, because I am no longer the same person, it touches a very different part of my soul.

I dedicate this, simply, to You.

Your silence today is a pond where drowned things live

I want to see raised dripping and brought into the sun.

It's not my own face I see there, but other faces,

even your face at another age.

Whatever's lost there is needed by both of us -

a watch of old gold, a water-blurred fever chart,

a key.....Even the silt and pebbles of the bottom

deserve their glint of recognition. I fear this silence,

this inarticulate life. I'm waiting

for a wind that will gently open this sheeted water

for once, and show me what I can do

for you, who have often made the unameable

nameable for others, even for me.

- Twenty-One Love Poems - IX; Adrienne Rich

On Returning to Blogging

The very reason I am back is mostly because my previous blogs have disappeared from existence. The strange thing about the Internet is that it hardly leaves a trace - no gaps, no musty emptiness, no faint whiff of life - and so, when I discovered that all my writings had vanished, all ten years worth, it felt like a part of me that is now gone, had never really been there in the first place. How bizarrely cathartic.

I wrote mostly during uni just to inform friends and family that I was still alive. And then it became a good way for me to remind myself that I needed to live (and not study). But it soon became difficult to fit into my routine when I started working.

It didn't mean that I stopped writing, for if you know me well, you would know that I breathe through the written word. I published my articles for others, my musings and thoughts were graded for credit and at times, in the night, I wrote to myself to sleep.

I'm still doing that, by the way. But I miss blogging; for some strange reason. Perhaps it's this innate desire to immortalise myself somewhere (yes, we are all inherently narcissistic, to a degree). This doesn't mean that I have converted to the masses, their antics splashed across the screen - what did I eat today; look at what I'm wearing; why, guess what my boyfriend bought for me. None of that, please.

And so, I'd thought I'd let you know that I'm back. If it mattered, of course. :)