qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwert yuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiop asdfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfg hjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfghjklzx cvbnmqwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbn mqwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwe rtyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuio Uniquely Singapore? pasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdf Celebrating the Singaporean Spirit ghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfghjklz xcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbn mqwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwe rtyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuio pasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdf ghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfghjklz xcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbn mrtyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyu iopasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopas dfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfghj klzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfghjklzxc vbnmqwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnm qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwert yuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiop asdfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfg hjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfghjklzx cvbnmqwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbn mqwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnmrtyu iopasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopas dfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfghj klzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfghjklzxc vbnmqwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnm qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwert yuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiop asdfghjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfg hjklzxcvbnmqwertyuiopasdfghjklzx 8/29/2008
Ephraim Tan 3H3-17
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Uniquely Singapore?
Contents Hearts Drawing Back to home / Block 648, Ang Mo Kio Avenue 6 Accompanying Reflections Photo: our lighted tails wiring heartlands Accompanying Reflections our orchid children Accompanying Reflections This Playground Accompanying Reflections Mount Vernon crematorium Accompanying Reflections Photo: learning of magical singlehood through diversity Accompanying Reflections
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Uniquely Singapore?
Hearts Drawing Back to home an empty corridor waits where I patiently teach you, to lay bricks of knowledge cementing a better future of not just blackboards or chalk tears. but an ink-drop in this book of tomorrow. an education, whose walls children could pencil in dreams on this plaster canvas. little scribbles. paper scrawls of worded hope pocketed from warm homes in concrete void they say. I watched with you in hand, as an urban couple peeled from first touch of lips under this plastic slide. our playground moulded to carry young visions in a swings’ rubber and rope embrace. my arms. I sat on a deck with young, with old. with a relic of red, samsui tipping a lost headpiece in greeting to me. as she shared a lighted paper roll, spiralling a tired spirit up. hovering in that ash cloud, beside me, breathing deeply, contents of that empty beer can. no alcohol-tainted smoke. you stared in reverence. when I lay on that blue-tiled divan with this old soul; soon others came, the breath of a fishmonger from the next lane. the hopeful chatter of housewives airing gossip-linen on bamboo. the lady and I sighed an invitation to join us. the heartlanders’ club. to you, my son.
Block 648, Ang Mo Kio Avenue 6 Alternatively:
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Uniquely Singapore?
after school, you would join us – memories of present and past. I sniffed the air mongrelesque, hunting for the fragments of kampong pottery. hiding. or maybe a single strand from that old tailor’s shophouse in Chinatown, even a golden thread from the landlady who so often peacock-ed up those colonial steps. but that era slipped silent, away. like those merchant ships hovering with missing bricks and gunny sacks as coolies treaded feetless in cold ghost waters of Singapore. we were river guardians of those figments of past truth. past homes. by port. salt and sea. I missed those days of quiet bustle. yet today was better, I could hear the neighbours’ chuckles at a comedy. little snippets of singlish, hokkien and a distinctive black spot. mole. danced lightly across my blank screen. under one roof, we watched others. you wanted to switch it on. so we could weave threads from the Korean drama patchwork. to touch our souls tingeing it with emotions’ fire. lighting not kerosene lamps, but fluorescent tubes and halogen arches. tungsten glow? lighted sound. we dragged two stools out. young teach the old. blundering through the company of documents, files and books. each stack - testament to compiled school - work anticipations twined in the family nucleus. the single unit of life in this system. we inhaled concrete, pounded brick and sang this pillar to shape; moulding it with our tears and blood in this HDB heart, we lived differently. another whiff of peace. a house in many. at home.
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Uniquely Singapore?
Accompanying Reflections: Hearts Drawing Back to home Alternatively: Block 648, Ang Mo Kio Avenue 6 I have asked myself many a time; what really defines us as who we are; as individuals, as global citizens or as true Singaporeans? TS Elliot once said ‘Home is where one starts from’. Our homes are where our cognitive abilities were honed and trained, and where most memories are kept. To me, this can clearly differentiate us from others in our unique upbringing in a HDB flat. The poem’s first title is an acronym of HDB with Hearts Drawing Back; from a mere flat where occupants are accommodated in, this HDB is transformed into a community of sorts where we Singaporeans work together for common success in life. Since the 1960s, countless Singaporeans have lived and died under this concrete roof; embedding little vignettes of the past in its brick and concrete façade. As such, I thought it was not only nostalgic to infuse these elements of recollection into the poem, but also to highlight how history is definitive of our Singaporean identity. From a coolie to a samsui, I hoped that through our colourful past, the current could be conveyed through the vibrant hues of lost time. Only through this aspect, I feel we can proudly assert our unique Singaporean identity.
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Uniquely Singapore?
our lighted tails wiring heartlands
Accompanying Reflections: HDBs are a commonplace in the landscape of Singapore. I took this photo of an atypical Singaporean housing estate; however I blurred the image to give it a different feel. It’s almost as though we are looking upon our homes through a different dimension where there are pockets of light arranged in cuboid-fashion accompanied by the soft trails of a illuminated kite. Those are originally street lamps with the glowing scrawls an end product of my attempted displacement of the camera. I hope that this photo will allow Singaporeans to view what seems to be normal and boring in our everyday life through the third eye; where we can esteem the ordinary to the extraordinary.
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Uniquely Singapore?
our orchid children it’s difficult, I know to watch our orchid bloom struggle like a student stencilling his roots of life. during additional math he would scrawl not algebra but fractions of hope, hiding just beyond closed petal walls. could he catch another falling fruit? I wonder what pain it was to teach you not to bloom in the heat of this afternoon’s creation. she was like you, when you were just budding, now you exhale golden grains. an imprint of pollen would follow another, as I watched it line her head with fragrant success no need for a flowered grecian garment or a necklace blossoming purple teeth. but a sophisticated smile weaving this woman’s tongue, she should teach you how to speak, to orchard clouds. her beauty of words would condense on my skin. slow like honey, raining with her 5th Avenue tapestry strands, on Paragon’s granite marble cloth. her perfume leaves me with liquid pearls. I inhale the education of her ways. you told me later there was still learning potential even for the old. success in this elder balancing a cigarette between tightened finger strings. he would feed on this tar-pen, suckling on memories to write Singaporean stories under a concrete alcove. there were no pens, no paper, no ink. yet he grazed our hearts with emotion’s sheen of red and white. our petals would grow on watered hearts. in a boutique’s glass grasp or a domestic vase’s Ming encasement. our spring buds learn to sing.
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Accompanying Reflections: our orchid children I wrote this based on experience and encounters with people in Singapore. I feel Uniquely Singapore is not just a mere cliché but a powerful statement to give ourselves identity in our rapidly globalising world. We have to find a voice in this crowd and distinguish it from the rest. Not so much just to assert the ‘Singaporeanism’ within us, but more so to be true to our hearts and our heritage. This is what I tried to base my poem upon. Some poets use traditional portrayals of Singaporean life through perspectives exploring the Merlion, the Singapore River, our food culture or racial harmony. Instead I tried exploring the Singaporean identity with a different slant, one that involved the characterisation of Singaporeans from different social strata and educative backgrounds. However they are all enmeshed under the commonality of desire to learn. In our highly competitive nation, education may equate the road to success; most understand the importance of this and seek actively chances to further mental capacities. This needs to be done so as Singapore is handicapped due to the lack of natural resources, thus necessary to supplement for this inadequacy with human resources. This poem encapsulates how such learning should is integral in our lives if we are to elevate Singapore, and how it’s woven into our identities. Thus this poem touches on aspects on how Singaporeans need to learn and possibly re-educate themselves at every stage of their lives. The poem is somewhat a commentary of the different stages of life and learning. The first stanza is a portrayal of a student’s pursuits in the academic arena, whereas the second is insight into a successful career woman’s life. Such success is not overnight and is instead accumulation of hard work as illustrated through the use of the orchid imagery and blooming too early being detrimental; such a road cannot be hasty. The last stanza rounds up the poem with the transition from young to old, Singaporeans from all walks of life pursuing these ideals of excellence through education. My message here was more of how education was not limited by social boundaries but accessible to all in Singapore. We all have the right and the voice to and to share what we learn. What I tried doing was to present the different viewpoints of Singaporean life and how pertinent such education is to individuals from differing societal contexts, it cannot be ignored at the expense of success still. The orchid imagery is used not only to inject the Singaporean element into the poem, but also to highlight the significance of such learning in Singaporean identity. It stands not just as a symbol of Singaporeans but a near physical representation – with empowerment through learning, only then can we open from our bud of protection and reach for greater things in life. Although these traits are not delineated to Singapore alone, my aim was to share how our disadvantages physically can translate to other strengths thus illustrating the overall tenacity and creativity Singaporeans should possess. It may be the flurry of learning that we may embark on all the time or it may be leisure garnering of insights. Such values of education should be held close to our hearts simply because these are part of our nation’s heartbeat – our singularity as Singaporeans.
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Uniquely Singapore?
This Playground i.
flying flag
we would sit together on the plastic feel of an extended path. it was dusk always, watching the light sprinkles of sunsand across the dying sky. the red breath of mecurian dust kisses the ground beneath, melting soft powdered heat into each grain of sand. the warmth wraps lovingly like your arm gently flung in orbit around my waist, a foreign satellite of white. a long metal plane I held in venusian palms. each joint drawn in lightweight, steel. with my steady breath of living air flying you up that slide of clouds. your white. this pride swinging you to our stars above. winged flag.
ii.
celebration
as we folded over that rope swing, your sight would brush over those wooden seats. I traced your route to those eyes. not just a synthetic glance thrown at me, but one that stretched further than the archlight shadows in red fabric. they too proclaimed a love like me. louder than jazz souls belting a passion patchwork in night-hollows. 3 am stitches dotted in the shade of our devotion treesilk. they mushroomed like the seeds of mine I planted in the light of sunless days, thread and light woven into that red and white blanket. laid a second skin on your sleeping body, like nightstars, tonight’s sparkles leap from your fingers. like fireworks over a fluid dance - floor bay.
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Uniquely Singapore? homely joys
your fingers dove into mine, warm and dry. in the nest of sand and detached leaves. fluttering a dry sound of cricket feet exfoliating the metal legs of the see-saw. a seat darts : up and down. up and down we saw flags flit. paper wings attached to moth-stone. you, this tower I embraced with little flapping squares of cloth. your garment on this concrete façade, a riot of colour. red and white laundry pieces waft back to us, so they could be aired clean and bright like a ladybird’s wings, after a dew’s shower. red shell and translucent webbing in the eye’s shimmer of this early night. in a tiny beat of an insect’s soul, we shed sand shells of old voices splintering in the August’s warmth. yet calm. cold as; collected as the metal handles of your plaything – see -saw. our faithful exhalation going up, and down. in this playground, we heard our hearts.
Accompanying Reflections: This Playground What is a common feature in all HDB estates? We heartlanders do not have the privileges of a condo pool or a tennis court; but we’re sure to have a playground. I wanted to infuse the elements of childhood as a point of relation to our nation; more so to our yearly celebrations of national day. In this aspect, clearly we are unique. No other country celebrates their independence in singlehood identity of a nation; nor does it publicise so greatly about this day. I opine that this is done so to keep our ethnically diverse nation basis of relation; so we as citizens are work together for a better future for Singapore as a whole. I tried writing about our identity encapsulated in a flag for the first stanza while the second stanza covered on the celebrations of our national day. In the last stanza, all this emotions transcend to the citizen level, where we as Singaporeans take true joy in what we have achieved and how far we have come thus far.
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Mount Vernon crematorium my withered skin wanted not the touch of English oak but my oriental rosewood coffin preordered in that shop that little diner’s, home for seven month-ers to-be dropping by for a foretaste of ash tea, brewed in a furnace. its paper tea leaves pounded, powdered remnants that I wanted for afterlife storage in a ceramic urn, but you insisted on a earth-bound cage. why could you not respect my last wishes? I did not know the anatomy of Christian rites, its foreign chest of white candles grazed my shuteye, scraping blood from my red eyeshade, a hood hiding me in death, I had to hide. my different child. you did not leave gifts wrapped in dreamsilk for your poor mother, neither a sweet crumb, a coloured parcel of paper, or a sweet bun to put in my clutch of cherry fingers. did you forget words I taught in heartfelt fervour, Confucius left reminders: serve those now dead as if they were living. I departed yet I was with you still, you forgot. you gave me hymns, gifted rhapsodies in black satin: one dark melody after another rang in half darkness of an organ’s call, fingers scratched down the spine of mine cutting flesh as blood spilt, and each pedal pressed old joints, a foreign crotchet buried a nail in my night’s abode. rusty metal hammered deep in each hollow socket. I admit the songs were radiant, sincerity breathed in cold draughts still. as I desired the clamorous handshakes of metal gongs to fill that empty ligament. so I’ll stand tall to a cymbal’s clap, not limping as bronze palms herald my arrival to the western heaven where my lord waits, I certainly wanted no hades or even the black heart of satan, sin I touched naught still.
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my parents spoke of diyu. I rather had gone to a Chinese underworld instead of the false skies I ascended to on your feathers dear child. I named you not Michael but, god and peace in mandarin tongue my mercy child, you once spoke. rolling off calligraphy characters, yet you respected another. printing slanted scrawls on the marble canvas as you eventually entombed me under madonna and yew. not in ashes but stone. a final resting. hardly home, my grave sat silent atop a hill amongst white spirits, no red joss sticks bled smoke. no wind-touched paper stacks of hell-notes, fluttering like the wings of a single ghost moth. my soul lay unmoulted, only to spread wings. out of granite pupae, white wings open only when you too come to rest. at home.
Accompanying Reflections: Mount Vernon crematorium Singaporeans are unique. We are the only country with 4 of the major ethnic groups as racial composition. As such, I felt it was only appropriate if I highlighted some of the elements of racial and religious intermixing in Singapore. Although portrayed in a negative light, I hoped that this poem expresses more than just cultural and religious contentions cum dilutions, but more so how the old should embrace new traditions and conventions, whilst keeping to old time practices. Adaptation is the best way for survival. Although we may not accept another’s religious practice, we still can live in harmony by respecting what they do. Mutual respect should be the system by which Singaporeans work with, in our multi-racial, multi-religious nation. In essence, we should be true to our roots, and practice our beliefs whilst not imposing them on others, or treading on their toes in respect to religion and race. Mount Vernon crematorium is the resting place for dead Singaporeans, from all races and religions. Clearly the cliché of ‘death claims all’ applies here. We are unified ultimately, both in life and in death.
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Uniquely Singapore?
learning of magical singlehood through diversity
Accompanying Reflections: This photo was taken during a literature workshop where we were taught of magical identity of Singaporeans as a whole. The beautiful irony of sorts was how our apparent differences melded away as we explore the mysticisms of being Singaporeans. The lecturer was Irish by birth and she now lives in Singapore; even the students were of varying races and nationalities. The girl to the left is Vietnamese while the other beside her is Indian; and the one sitting in the right corner has Korean roots. Clearly we all come from different backgrounds and varying cultures; but the amazing thing was how we from all walks of life congregate together to learn and immerse in the uniqueness of the Singaporean identity. It truly was magical.