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Roses, they wilt so quickly! What are days?!   Today I wish to introduce the poetry of Marianne Moore. Marianne who? The thing with poetry is that it is full of men! Don't get me wrong, I love men, but why are the women in poetry still often seen as minor figures? Because they are not obstinate enough? Because they are not difficult? Because they are not "intellectual" or "political" but "domestic"? Because they are not... Or only when they are sarcastic and philandering - like bad stereotypes of men - or else, "neurotic" as one expects of women. Rant over. Marianne Moore (1887-1972) was a poet's poet: worshipped for her innovation, intelligence, rigor.  Her poetry is tough yet intricate. Her personal life was uncontroversial. She was friends with contemporaries Wallace Steven (insurance executive in the day) and Ezra Pound. She detested and spoke against the fascism he was drawn to, and was also vocal in the suffrage movement. She was a

Every Saturday night the BBC world service devotes a full hour or more to soccer commentary. I don’t understand a word of it and recognise none of the names. But I always leave it on and attempt to follow each episode like its own self-contained drama. It is like an alternative fiction to the usual depressing news of incompetent or downright evil governments, and squabbling nations.  Today being Sunday, I thought to share one of my favourite and very short books in the Bible - Habakkuk. Like many books in the Old Testament, such as the beautiful Psalms and the sensuous (or some say sensual) Song of Solomon, Habakkuk is written in unrhymed verse. And whether in biblical times or the present, the world is still in a mess and injustices prevail.  The book of Habakkuk opens with his first short complaint that God hasn’t heard him and is tolerating injustice. God replies with a quick terrible vision of Babylon rising up to destroy and torment all other nations. But Habakkuk complains again

Of course the view from this flat’s balcony was the main attraction when I first saw it. Previously inhabited by a couple, three young children and their domestic help, the flat was packed with lots of built in cupboards and beds and the general mess of family life. It wouldn’t be how I would do it up. And with three young children, it wasn’t in the neatest or cleanest state. But I thought, as I spoke to the previous owner and walked through the house, that it was loved. It was a happy flat. And so this was how I had described the flat to friends - the view is amazing and it was well-loved.  Today I share one of Robert Browning’s most popular short poem from his 1855 collection Men and Women . Browning had a long and serious career as a poet and writer. His long form poem “The Ring and the Book” is a standard text for any student of Victorian writing. But he was probably outshone by his wife Elizabeth Barrett Browning in her time. She was 6 years his senior, and despite being semi inva

Friends have often asked if there was an artist or work I would really like to see on Esplanade’s stage. It is the second most popular question, losing only to “which is the best seat in the house”, to which I will smile coyly “Every seat in Esplanade is a good seat” haha. In similar “why you asking me to name my favourite child” way, my answer to the first question would always be, “you know I don’t make the programming choices!” But I know my answer would be Leonard Cohen, that Canadian poet, singer-songwriter, charmer. And since we cannot call up the dead, I may now answer Bjork, as well as share with you this poem by he who sings “I’m your man.” Gift by Leonard Cohen (1934-2016) You tell me that silence is nearer to peace than poems but if for my gift  I brought you silence (for I know silence) you would say This is not silence this is another poem and you would hand it back to me ( Video taken exactly this time 2018 during a rehearsal for a short piece performed by SYC ensemble,

Online shopping is like going to the supermarket and your eyes alone can cause that packet of chips to fall into the cart ... MAGIC! If our eyes are windows to our soul, then our soul must be riddled with desires, whether we recognise them or not. When I chat with my colleagues in HR, we often land on this one trait we know allows for growth, change and, eventually, leadership: self-awareness. And in that vein, a degree of self-doubt. It makes room for humility. It also helps keep you honest...because we can fool ourselves about our motivations. There's a lot of "be kind" mantras going around. But knowing and accepting what and who you are or can be, that allows for a more genuine kindness to yourself and others. It is a kindness built on the necessity for forgiveness. Rumi, that mystic Sufi poet, often writes of God in the language of a lover. He is enthralled, in love and worships this absolute God. So Rumi is commonly quoted, out of context, in celebration of romantic

Last evening, a friend shared some relationship woes Not hers. But many have gone to her with such woes. Another friend had asked if it is indeed true that Covid would bring about more divorces and that question: “why must I tahan this person?!” I was blessed with a loving marriage - my only complaint, why so short! Haha. So while I really enjoy being alone, I now also fully appreciate the struggles of being single - having been on both sides! You don’t have that one person to run to for all of life’s mundane or deep or pleasurable or silly moments - that two-man banter in your head must stop or else find its way to a wider network of friends. And there are things that friends, however dear, cannot satisfy. So my response when I hear of Covid divorces are such - do you really want to get through this time alone? How much un-love must happen that a person’s presence would so repulsive? Where in the foundations of that relationship is the worm, the cancer? What is it that is lost you ha

So I have been watching Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather trilogy. It’s grand - the hubris, the betrayals, the loyalties, the cruelties, and of course, the greed. The world vacillates between “its only business” and “its family.” And many times our choices are like that too - the selfish disguised as the pragmatic, a degenerate love that becomes fear, power and folly.  Literature and the arts have many lessons about such downfalls. In the simplest form, they are fables. Little stories, mostly of animals, that illustrate perfectly well man’s wisdom and folly. Today’s poem is a fable by French poet Jean de la Fontaine (1621-1695) who wrote lots of these humorous, ironic and witty fables in free verse. This poem contains a lesson that the Godfather would endorse: “Mutual aid”! The Ass and the Dog For beast, as for man, to help when we can Is almost a law of nature. An ass defied it, I don’t know why, For he’s a good enough creature. With the dog his friend, no thoughts in his mind, Th

Every Saturday, a lady comes to help me with my housework. A PR after being in Singapore for the last 10 years or so, she helps out at a small handful of homes now and then. She first came to Singapore to be with her son, who is now already 18. Last Saturday as she was finishing up her work, she stood by this print and declared in mandarin: “Of all the paintings in your home this is my favourite. These are the hands of the labouring class/proletariat. My hands are like that.” The phrase she used was 勞動公民. The painting she was referring to is actually a print from Tan Zixi’s first show in 2006 (?) after she graduated. The show was called 「台上一分鍾，台下十年功」（for every 1minute on stage there are 10 years offstage) and the text on the print reads 「有苦自知」(the suffering only one knows). The drawings were of a group of lanky gymnasts and contortionists. I bought this print for J’s birthday years ago after we got to know Zixi because I remembered him raving about the exhibition.  This being the sta

I was lazing on the rug watching “The Godfather” yesterday afternoon when I looked up and saw the balcony floor bathed in this beautiful light. Today is Sunday. While Saturday was a day for lazing, Sunday is a day for rest. In rest, we give thanks and praise. We find and search our hearts for thanks and praise, even if we do not wake up in it. And i share this poem on Sunday because it is a poem of immense light. I found this poem in a my favorite anthology edited by Czeslaw Milosz. It is written by Polish writer Anna Kamienski (1920-1986). Milosz wrote: “Anna Kamienski was a Christian deeply living both the Old Testament and the New Testament. In her old age she achieved much serenity and acceptance of the world created by God. I find this a very good poem.” A Prayer that will be Answered Lord let me suffer much and then die Let me walk through silence  and leave nothing behind not even fear Make the world continue let the ocean kiss the sand just as before  Let the grass stay green s

Are you feeling extremely lazy today? Maybe it is the weather. Maybe it is the “excitement” of the last couple of weeks watching COVID numbers climb; anticipating changes; prepping work, people and life for what may come; listening to a world of bombings as well as post-lockdown cinema queues...: being on edge. And on a grey quiet Saturday, the mind and body seeks and calls for rest - yet addicted perhaps to excitement, desires that bite of vinegar, that taste of honey, that salty kick of being alive.  And so I leave you a bonus today, not one but two poems!  Both poets lived in different times and continents. But both poems are about that fuzzy space between a life of action and thought, between living and dreaming (or death), between knowing and wanting. This in-betweenness of human consciousness creates some angst. But only for a while. Because both poets, I think, by looking on these tiny fragile creatures, finds that it is best to simply be - and in being, one is free. The Fly By

A song can be a poem set to music. Hence the word "lyrics" (words of a song) is akin to the word "lyric" (used to describe some poems). And so today's "poem" is actually Beatles' song, "Norwegian Wood (This Bird has Flown): I once had a girl Or should I say she once had me She showed me her room Isn't it good Norwegian wood?     She asked me to stay And she told me to sit anywhere So I looked around And I noticed there wasn't a chair     I sat on a rug biding my time   Drinking her wine We talked until two and then she said "It's time for bed"   She told me she worked In the morning and started to laugh I told her I didn't And crawled off to sleep in the bath   And when I awoke I was alone This bird had flown So I lit a fire   Isn't it good Norwegian wood? John Lennon described this song as him writing about his extramarital affairs. And in this case, "Norwegian Wood" is from the perspective of a guy who

A copy of her collected poems I had since a teenager and the open page from The Gorgeous Nothings . This gorgeous book shows the slips of envelopes Emily Dickinson wrote on. She opened the envelopes and re-used them, composing the poems around these oddly shaped papers. It is fascinating. This poet is “perfect” for Covid amidst all the kopitiam chatter of another lockdown. She lived most of her life in Massachusetts, America without stepping out of her house! We know her posthumously from more than 1800 poems she wrote. She also wrote tons of letters and in them we know she kept deep friendships. Her poems are wise, almost always witty, and some extremely humorous. Many of them are about death, but also nature and spirituality. This one poem is well known and very simple. I like it because in it you have such a clear sense of her playfulness and the childlike joy in this relationship - but also the yearning in that one phrase "be with me". Oh, in our digital age of WhatsApp m

This image I stoke from J's IG.  ecause I knew he took beautiful photos of flowers. But as I looked through them I found instead this photo of fireworks - flowers in the sky. So typical of him that he captures fireworks not for their usual colour and wow-factor, but as a shower of light. The word for fireworks in Japanese and chinese for fireworks is Fire Flowers. Today’s poem is by Polish-American writer in exile Czeslaw Milosz (1911-2004). He is my favorite poet, as can be seen by the number of his books on my shelf! Try reading this poem aloud City of my youth It would be more decorous not to live. To live is not decorous Says he who after many years Returned to the city of his youth. There was no one left Of those who once walked these streets. And now they had nothing, except his eyes. Stumbling, he walked and looked, instead of them, On the light they had loved, on the lilacs again in bloom. His legs were, after all, more perfect Than nonexistent legs. His lungs breathed a

Are you afraid of poetry? I think most people are, even literature students! I enjoy reading poetry. It is like cracking a puzzle. Or like listening to someone tell you a secret. All poetry is somewhat intimate in that sense. They are small, but sometimes their world is large. They can be funny or sad or stirring or intellectual. Packing my library over the weekend, I realized the shelf that gave me greatest joy was of poetry books. Amongst them I found this handbound compilation of poems I made when I was much younger! It was made for a boy, haha. Last night re-reading the poems I was surprised I knew them all so well! I encountered an old friend. During this “notCB” period, when we are all spending more time at home. Perhaps for some of you, a feeling of anxiety has crept in again about your finances, your future, or your alone-ness. As such I would share a poem each day. No boys, just words. The same way that poems open up a world both outside and in, maybe these poems will help cre