For all the words in my head (those which drift to mind and those which elude), I don’t think I can quite capture the tranquility of spring. Sitting perched on K’s (ground floor) window sill, feet dangling out. Admiring the knobby gnarled tree which supports life on its rough bark, refrains of bird song clear and lilting, scent of virgin air (the freshest offering of every living green), blue sky and cottony clouds – moments like these slip through the cracks of my words. (Though is it not through cracks which light may enter?)
I can only look, and taste, and hear, and feel, with a tremble of delight, the brush of the wind; expand my lungs with desperate, longing, open-mouthed breaths and invite the moment deep, deep, deeper still – won’t you please leave your indelible mark on every fiber of my being?
Another brilliant day: I see picnickers dotting parkers piece, from end to end, children kicking footballs around, a cavalier king charles spaniel loping along with a very in-kingly tongue sticking out, short sleeve shirts outnumbering long sleeve ones, a girl lying under a tree with no book no work nobody just music (I exchanged an envious grin with her). Plans to take my bike for a spin, the hum of anxiety when I realise that I’ve missed a few days of an important-ish revision week (one I desperately need), plans broken, hours in a classroom with resignation hung on the tips of my lips, first conversation ever with D and the sun set and I outfitted my pretty bike and another talk with E (who’s jetting off again) and D. And revision.
I don’t think I’ve written many (if any??) Grand Reflection Pieces this year, but I shall endeavor to capture moments and freeze them, and one day I’ll gather a large handful and…
bask in their shimmer, knit them into a scarf, sow them in my garden, Do Something.
Singapore Poetry Writing Month 2017
Too late to switch on my laptop and hit the Ctrl+F, so I flick the screen down till my finger is sore. It’s quite amazing to see the poetry scene in Singapore coming to life; the breadth and depth of thoughts expressed – in English and Singlish, by amateurs and professionals, strangers and friends. I have 6 days of catch-up to do, perhaps my poetry kit will help.
Head over to the poetry convergence to check it out. Note of warning: poems may be dodgy or inspired, sleepy or stilted, bold or brilliant – no promises!
swaddled in the best I can find
(bubble wrap and cotton candy clouds)
it walks out the door with a mind of its own
it’s gonna show the world, it says
with a beam and a hopeful shine
I watch it go
my last glimpse shows
a stray tendril out of place
make a grab, come back!
make a snatch, regret
it’s too late
it’s gonna show the world
its mussed-up hair and cheeky dare
its courage rare, and treasured wares
shone with loving care
She dashes moisture from her eyes, hides a sniffle in a cough (or am I imagining it?). I shoot a startled glance, say something silly that draws a groan from my supervisor and a weak laugh from her.
Individual differences fascinate me.
Every other day I bury my face, half in despair, lost glances unanswered as he chugs on relentlessly. But it doesn’t scare me anymore (maybe it’s the constant pummeling), it’s a challenge I will learn to handle.
Pretty pale blue deepens into dusk.
A 7.6km cycle at 6am isn’t really my idea of fun – but it has given me some precious quiet morning time, and for that I’m thankful. It’s been a while since I’ve been rowing, and have consequently avoided both the joys and frustrations of a team sport (and an outdoor sport for that matter, because it felt too windy to row). But above and beyond the rhythmic clunking up and down the river, the occasional early mornings hold a charm of their own. There’s something special about floating effortlessly along (it’s an happy downhill coast there) in the magical minutes of half-light, accompanied by the music of the dawn chorus – little birds singing their hearts out to greet spring mornings. The little children of the earth rise at dawn, and make quite a show of it, and I’m their humble audience. The music setlist of the rosiness-inducing, uphill pant back is also one of wakening; this time though, it’s the deeper rumbling of machinery, lights flickering on in the neat rows of houses under the unruly trees and their now-silent inhabitants, the scent of bacon-and-eggs wafting through the air.
The fresh morning shower, the steaming cup of ginseng tea oddly paired with a bowl of crumbly milky muesli, the feel-good stretch, the bundling up in blankets make for a cosy morning. A book would complete the picture, but there’s work to do, so I’ll scoot. (Sigh, what an unquenchably dreamy little spirit I am ><)