of memories and reality

of memories and reality
i have plenty
locked behind a wooden door
with a missing key

memories like droplets
hanging on contorted aged twigs
mingled with the notes of a singing bird
the sleepy sky above a forgotten creek

reality is
the blades from the morning sun
will soon be consuming the comforting dews
one by one

The Letter Box

remains empty
and so much depends
on it


inspiration from The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams

The sound of my breathing

The sound of my breathing
interrupted by the noise
of the drawn curtain

The sterile scent of the nurse
brought some comfort
to my aloneness

basil and chilli

basil and chilli

as you can see

they are bought by my wife

from a nearby nursery

in my balcony they sit

side by side

watching the world

as the clouds roll by

basil is a herb

and this fact I'm sure everybody swears

chilli is a fruit or a veg

I'm pretty sure you've never been aware

we know a nursery is a place

where they grow different types of plants

it can also be a place of fun

where they grow children, making them run under the sun

"children are plants"

this you might not know

just leave them unattended

they'll soon become weed-infested souls

inspired by the pots of basil and chilli my wife bought

if life is a window

if life is a window
i want it to face the sea
to watch the boisterous waves dancing
to the rising midnight moon

i'll draw the curtain
when the sun is over glaring
close my eyes and see the clouds evaporating
to the scorching heat at noon

dreams can sometimes reach sky high
and dash to piece unexpectedly
whenever there is a storm impending
i tell myself it will be over soon


written after reading the essay of my student

this spring

are you coming back
this spring

a friend asked

not knowing how long
the relationship would last

she held the line
i held back the reply

since daybreak

since daybreak
unremitting drizzle
has been streaking my windows

relentlessly

seamless tears meander
like delta rivers
feeding an insatiable hungry soul

obliviously

forming puddles in my mind
that takes eternity to loose
from its latent bounds


An afterthought from the book, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, a translation of the French memoir Le scaphandre et le papillon by journalist Jean-Dominique Bauby.

next to the hospital bed

when I looked out my window
I saw an old man fishing

waiting
waiting for the catch

one more minute
he told himself
one more minute

when I rolled over my pillow
I picked up the pieces of my dream

piecing
piecing the missing pieces

one more day
I told myself
one more day

when the nurse pulled the curtain
and turned off the lights

silence
accompanied the sound from the fan

one more night
she said
one more night

I closed my eyes

waiting
waiting for one more daylight

the rain, the flowers and the sun

the rain, the flowers and the sun

it waters
it blossoms
it arches across

stretching my shadow of doubt
till I no longer comprehend myself

it waters
it blossoms
it scorches

parching my scalp
till the thoughts in my mind runs dry

it floods
it withers
it rises and sets as usual
nothings has happened
but everything has changed

memories and luggage

memories are
indeed
the most beautiful thing
one can keep in a luggage
along the journey

however,
at times
the luggage gets lost
in transit

memories could also be
the most dreaded thing
that lurks in one's mind-
a luggage that refuses
to get lost
in transit
along the journey

we called
life

created after reading an email from a good old friend

good-byes

what does it mean
to say good-bye
twice in a week

every step
leaves behind
a trail

for the tears
to water the flowers
that once have blossomed

a neighbour left
on Friday
another colleague left
3 hours ago

when every boat
has sailed away
when the sun has dropped

beneath the evening line
and even the moon
has not slept in the night

with sunken eyes
will someday say
the final

good-byes

one, a neighbour, the other, a colleague, who passed away on the same week

breathing canvas

it inhales
as the wind
slithers between

on the cinema wall
the movie canvas breathes

a garden frog

a garden frog
bewitched by the harvest moon,
a sculpture
resting on a moistened rock
echoing familiar songs
from a forgotten well

Hilda found this poem i gave her before i left Nagoya and she sent it to me to have it it included. it comes with an analysis: the garden frog is a symbol of the 'at-homeness' we ought to be acquainted with in life, the harvest moon symbolises recurring hope - a certainty of the days to come, the word 'sculpture' encapsulates the state of rest and stillness which anchored itself onto the moistened rock - the element that speaks of things which are both firm and refreshing; and the last two lines refer to the reflection of the beauty of the past, and the present, a reminiscence to be kept for the future.

the pink man

i am a pink man
walking down the street
passing by an ice-cream seller
bidding me to choose a flavour

i tell him
"i'm a pink man
walking down the street
nothing in my mind
with no intention to buy"

he looks down
and tries to hide his frown
I can see it now
because i'm a pink man

it's not easy to make a living
with melting ice-cream
perspiring ice box
crying out for rest

he says
"i'm a boy
making a living
i know no pink
my sky is grey
mr pink man
won't you choose a flavour
from me"

"give me a pink
the flavour that i like
because i'm a pink man
walking down the street"

inspired by a man in pink who took the same lift

self

i am
the self
i am
the self hidden
inside
another
self

in the middle of the night

when passion becomes

addiction
it consumes the soul
sucks dry the bone marrow
drains the spirit
invades the mind
diverts all thoughts
and evaporates the zeal
to live a life of
passion

written during a seminar on anxiety disorder in children and adolescents by Prof Cecilia A. Essau

東京タワー - a distant intimacy

between my dad and mom -
brokenness,
late nights and drunkenness

between my dad and I
is but a magical moment:
the day
he made me a wooden boat,
a white, unfinished wooden boat

between my mom and I,
a separation of 15 years
and a killer

between my mom and dad
is a strange happiness,
a moment of contentment
by the hospital bed
and a 333-metre tall Tokyo Tower

between us,
a distant intimacy

written the next day after watching with my wife 東京タワー:オカンとボクと、時々、オトン, a movie based on the autobiographical book by Lily Franky, which is about Franky's family and the time he spent with his mother

of memories, dreams and reality

in the passage of time
there have been many exchanges
of letters and postcards,
gifts and conversations
till late into the nights and
till the dawns call it a day

we wrote of the Black Bird or
the Yellow Bird
of which age has not permitted me
a vivid image of them both
we wrote of the English Patient,
the French Patient, the Swan Feather,
and many other objects of our focus
carry a symbolic element
of the ‘self’ the resides beyond the daily grind
or should I say
the extension of the ‘self’ that stretches from reality to fantasy

and memory is one of such content
memory cannot and will not
exist in the absence of time
and time is a scale
that finds itself
anchored on the rising and the setting of the stars

with the rising and falling
memory evolves into new meanings
it is able to reach into the inner recesses of the past
although the past does not evolve and
it cannot evolve
memory continues to do so
for one simple reason:
the present
is capable of shedding light
into the past

hence between life and death
time finds its meaning
and such meaning is often registered or lost
in a stoic drift or confusion between
memories, dreams and reality

based on the correspondence with a friend in Toronto between 1998 and 2000

an exit to heaven

limits are everywhere
every now and then
every here and there
you see the sign
green and white
every exit spells
a limit
but
the limit
is unreachable
when you have
an exit
to heaven

a shot taken from the place i work at. enlarge the picture to see the green and white

feather trees

for winter
has stripped
them bare

in bitter cold
they stand
as

giant feathers
against the blue
and white

awaiting
the promises
in spring

this shot was taken at Hakuba, Nagano in March 2004, during snowshoeing

my dream hangs

a thousand
colour threads and yarns
i use
a single dream to weave

upon the mobiles
it hangs still
till the wind brings
joy to the golden bells

in quietness
my dream drifts
between the breeze,
the tinkles

and the stories they tell

a display outside a shop in Little India, Singapore

a child's mind

whatever is raw
is pure
whatever is pure
is beautiful
whatever is beautiful
has to be simple

fluorescent lamp

life is like a moth
caught in the casing
of a fluorescent lamp

trapped in the light
waiting for the days
to be consumed

for freedom is between
the pair of wings
frozen in space

inspired by the dead moth which was not removed from the lift I use at work

future in the past

in looking for a future in my past
i conceal the past to hasten the future
and in the midst of it all
i lose the present

the directions i seek
come from the voices
around me
they speak of confusions and illusions

so i stable my mind
by fixing my gaze
on a boat which i hope has it's
anchor sleeping on the ocean bed

it bobs gently
on the sea of ignorance
subtly and hypnotically
like a spell

i am drowning within myself
directions no longer hold any meaning
my zeal has died
i am lost


shot was taken in December 2006

half-filled cup

The cup with a print of four puppies
and a bee,
half-filled,
was on my working table
over the weekend.

After the weekend,
the same cup
was left on my working table.
I emptied the cup.

And start the week afresh.

the cup I use in my office

under the same sky

the faces that look into the past
are telling their story
into the present
under the same sky
since the beginning of time

these giant stone faces of Bayon was taken in May 2007

blue and orange brown

on the line
between the sky
and the sand
they sit

with every line
in the conversation
evaporating away
in the scorching heat

the distant laughter
has melted
to quench
the thirst

far above
from the madding crowd
they wait to exchange for
something

other than
the blue
and orange
brown

this shot was taken at Mui Ne, Vietnam in May 2007

ballon girl

the balloons
dance above the crowd
in the air

she moves
and searches
through the noise
for the laughter of children
to paint her days
orange, red, blue, yellow, pink,
green and sometimes grey

for a living
she moves and searches
through the street
into the nights

a boy stops her
points to the yellow, the green, then the orange
and finally the blue

joy lights up
on their faces

the blue ballon
dances above the boy

and the balloons
dance above the crowd
in the air
into the nights
amidst the demands of the day

this shot was taken in Đà Lạt, Vietnam in May 2007

Under the Crescent Moon

The sinking sun gives the cue
The ridge lines run

From mountain to mountain

On these lines
The pine trees stand still

Between the trees
A crescent moon drifts

Under the crescent moon
My hope hangs

When the moon is full
My hope shall float

Inspired by the culture and heritage of the Arab World and Turkey, written during a symposium on ICT and Education: International directions in research and application, 2pm to 3.30pm on 24 April 2007.

She lies there with her past

Mouth open wide
Head to the sky
Tilted at a side

Eyeballs roll up
Towards her scalp
Dust on her hair
She offers a tacit prayer

As her whole shell
Concaves
Her hollow mind
Becomes an empty hallway

Sending echoes
From her footsteps of self-pity
they swallow her, they follow her
Into eternity

Waiting for death
To consume her past
As guilt keeps dripping
From the upper bulb of the hourglass

Her thoughts are sand
Shifting uneasily, she knows
When the bulb runs empty
And so shall her soul be


Inspired by a picture from the Geographical Magazine on 11 April 2007 and written on the next morning.

Dance of a Tumbleweed

The wind cries
In the deep blue sky
Bidding the dance to begin
Imbuing the days ahead
With hues from a old vague dream

Too vague to remember
The leaves tinged red in November
Were once emerald green
No one recalls
The rhythm pulsating life into the dead
Dried up stream

There is only the sun-bruised and desiccated mind

Bobbing on the sea of ignorance
Like an aimless fishing float in the naked ocean
Up and down and up and down

In rolling, it rolls
In dancing, it dances
In tumbling, it tumbles
Till the wind dies down


Inspired by the tumbleweed picture and written on 4 April 2007.

The Porridge and I

My back facing
Where the sun
Is rising

With a spoon
In my hand
I fed myself

A bowl of chicken porridge
Alone
In the crowd


Inspired by the time at canteen A and written on 2 April 2007.

Cold Fire

Light
a cold fire,
by my soul.

Let it burn
till my heart
is frozen.

Inspired by the emergency exercise in JWPS and recorded on 1 April 2007.

the road to the library

this is the road
to the library

along
hangs many picture frames

the wind blows
to bring them to life

they sway
in the reflection

of my dreams

this picture was taken along the road to the community library in Fujimi, Nagano in December 2006. click on the picture to get the view of the Nagano alps captured by the safety raod mirror

haiku 4

by the well -
a garden frog
singing to its echoes

haiku 3

the autumn wind
races the prairie grass -
laughter in the air

We are where we come from

Along the undulating ridge
Towards
The uncounted days beyond the horizon
A day of certainty
Balances with another day of improbability
The old horizon we tread
A new line we see
Counting days
Eventually
All new things become
Old


Written on 13 October 2005.

‘Today’

is
not
‘yet another day’

because
‘today’
might not have come
at all.


Written on 13 October 2005.

my mother-in-law's living room wall

against the wall
newspapers
stacks of them
hidden behind
the electric heater
getting ready to work in winter

the flowers from summer
dried and forgotten
a few stripped coats
and a flora lace hat
hung at the edge of a locked store room
the silver door nob inviting

next to the heater
an expired box of noodle　（てのべそうめん・手延素麺）
unopened
a bottle of Japanese tea　（お茶）
no one drank
boxes with unknown contents

on the wall
a picture of her daughter when she was ten
and a picture of her favourite preacher
who brought her the Good News
and the art work done
by her daughter in the elementary school

a collection of things accumulated
to be discarded
to be kept
a collage of the present and the past
where daily life and memories blend
on the living room wall

this shot was taken on my first visit

in the deep blue September sky

I look up the deep blue sky and ask myself
If I can find courage in the wind
To fly beyond what is beyond me
Or I have forgotten the songs of my wings
Nothing can I give
No more than what is within me

Bring me a bottle and I will fill it up with memories
Red, blue and green
And pour them out in the sun when my days are dry
And watch each image dance and swirl
Soaring up high deep into the blue September sky

What will the future bring?

Since you’ve asked, I will search for an answer
Under the rocks and behind the curtain of the waterfall
The mysterious lines joining the stars in the night
Paint me a map for my journey that disappears in the day
What is left are lines seeking directions on the earthen clay

Where are my dreams, where are my dreams
My dreams lie somewhere
Somewhere deep
In the deep blue September sky

inspired when I was embraced by the deep blue September sky in Nagoya

dancer in the dark

I see with my ears
and hear with my heart,
I’m blind when it’s silent
whether in the day or in the dark.

A tear may fall
when no one sees,
darker than the darkest
is the sound of it.

Into the endless pit it falls
till it touches the surface of my soul,
in quietness I hear
the liberation of the imprisoned echoes.

The echoes resurrect remembrance
of many forgotten songs
and I begin to dance in the room of my mind
where every step of mine never goes wrong.

I dance like falling autumn leaves
having an affair with the wind,
the melodies fill my heart
with colours I could only imagine.

Endless are the ripples
in the cycle of life:
spring, summer and winter chill-
a thousand colours in my mind.

I hear the time ticks away
with every beat of my heart
I breathe in the colours of the air
till the day my body and soul depart.

inspired by the movie, dancer in the dark, watched in 2003

haiku 2

empty tea cup
on the table
waiting to be filled

haiku 1

falling cherry blossoms
last dance
before the next spring

written during the usual seminar (zemi)

Mondays at Helda’s Cafi

The cookie-maker
sits beside her cookie-jar
and thinks of yet another recipe
to enchant
her cookie-lovers

inspired by a friend who is good at baking cookies

silent companion

The drone of the persistent night rain
devoured every inch of silence
in the room.

Soon,
it became the usual nightly silence
in the room

when everything was drowned,
except the residue of my thoughts -
my only companion.

written when it rained in the night while i was staying in 日本愛知県名古屋市昭和区萩原町コーポ幸201号

why is this so

why is this so
when the time I have is racing against my will
why is this so
when my life is directed by people
who do not exist

as the hour presses against me
I begin to see
that I have grown weary
having to respond to the protocols
between the rising and the sinking

as the hour passes by
I close my eyes
so I do not see them anymore
why is this so
when my will is lost in this life

buried and unfounded
are the reasons I find
surrounding me are lies
waiting to be told
why is this so

waiting

sitting all alone
waiting for someone
but no one came

and the rain
continues
to pour

Cicada Calls

Stars shimmer
to the calls
of the cicadas.

Their voices
drills into rocks
that arrest the

reflection of
the moon on
their moistened skin.

Silence becomes
a multitude of
calls before the
sounds of dawn.


Inspired by the creatures of the night on 10th August 2000.

Self-portrait of a Neurotic

If I could keep guilt in a bottle
If a candle could burn forever
If the valley could contain all my grief
When will I ever learn to breathe

I’m consumed by the anguish of many yesterdays
And I’ve run out of words when I pray
I’m lost in the countless failures of the past
When will I ever learn to trust

I took my turn to throw the dice
Followed the rules and dared not ask why
Perhaps life is just a lazy game
Why must I shoulder all the blame

If only I could sing to the beat of my lacerated heart
If only I could understand why I am a piece of priceless art
The truth of the matter is but a lie
Until I fly out of the limit of this life

The kite in the sky could never realise
The cord that limits its freedom is the one that gives it life
It struggles to free itself when the strong wind blows
Should I hold on to it or do I let it go

Self-portrait of a Neurotic
I’m a fool to believe that life is good
When everything did not turn out as it should
Wished all things could come to a stop
Why should I try when I know I could never reach the top

I look at the mirror and ask who this ordinary guy is
Whom people say he’s one who could never in anything achieve
They say I put the blame on everyone else except myself
Why do they choose not to see what I’m going through is hell

I walked past a lonesome tree one night
It seemed to glow in the faint moonlight
The tree was old, twisted and worn
Where did it get its glow in hours way before down

I stood for a moment to behold its stature
It has a posture that points to a future
The beauty of it makes me wonder
Why couldn’t my life be better

When can I get the answers to my questions
How can I ease my inner tension
The endless whys will never be satisfied
Until the day I lay my head to die


Written in the style of negaspectivity. Negaspective is coined by Tan Eng Hai to describe the negative introspective often taken by those suffering from acute neurosis. Written in 2000.

A Backward Glance

Through the window of the train
The hills shift
Gliding away and
Yawning into a slightly bent horizon
Extending and disappearing into a thin line
Where the sea kisses the azure sky
Everything moves
Except my longing to stay

The trees brush across
Every now and then
Sweeping every wild imagination
That conjures itself
Upon the canvas of my mind
A myriad of confusion
I miss…
Will I be missed in return

In a continuous random beat
In an undulating rhythm
Before snaking into the belly of the next hill
The core of heaviness
The centre of dark memories
My heart faints
Sinking deep in this inconceivable bottled pain
Pulsating within the lines of a fractured porcelain

An over-stretched spring
Has no returning to its beginning
The only connection I have
Is in this railroad
That tracks into the past
It tucks away the creases and unwanted folds
All hidden in this tunnelled blackness
A pot of Indian ink smeared on my path

The scream from the train echoes
In the canyon of my soul
A chasm created since the wind stirs the desert sea
Bellowing through the fumes
Dry and insatiable
Depositing every residue of muted words
Picking up every tangible grain

I try to grip the ray of hope at the other end
Must every light ahead cast a shadow in a backward glance


Inspired by the title of a song and based on the experience of the daily train commute, written in 2000.

Shadow Dance

The shadow
Dances
When the flame
Flickers
When the candle
Dies
That’s the end
Of
The shadow’s
Life


Created on 6th February 2000.

A Caged Bird

A pair of forgotten wings
Colourful feathers
Could not match the beautiful songs I sing
Sheltered
From the dangers of the world
Barred
From living out my unfulfilled dreams
Slaved
To a caged love
Locked in this piece of art
Filled with showers of tender touch
Traded my songs
But couldn’t buy the freedom I longed
The reflection of the sun
Captured by the sprawling sea
Hanging by the lazy breeze
That carries the melody
To the clouds aloft
That seemed foreign
So far off


Written in 1999 winter with the inspiration from a book.