Deathbed Tour

Arthur Rimbeaud was the quinessential French romantic poet, young and somewhat handsome, yet despondent and cholic, which towards the end of his life, was to prove a fatal combination. The young poet had caught the eye of Verlaine, his mentor of sorts and fled him to the wastelands of Egypt, Abyssine, as it was called in those Napoleonic heydays. There, he was to be a journalist of sorts, fall seriously ill and continue with his poetry while carried about in his deathbed. Among his anthology which we are bequeathed, "La Saisons des E'nfer", or the Seasons in Hell gained him fame. I think I first got acquainted with his poetry when reading the English Romantics, and chanced upon a comment on him, and when I read up, found myself remembering numb references from the days I read the whole Britannica. Definitely one of the best things to do for any young mind, is to pursue reading the encylopedia from bookend to bookend, or at least browse it. The other definite benefit I was to enjoy later on when I was frequently travelling for work, was to visit the very places described into old, yellowed pages, and touch, smell, hear and swallow the minute of the experience of being actually there. But as I myself crawl towards the inevitable death that awaits, in these good moments when drug or hormone, lisping voices of the past or sobering calls to awake from stupour, I do find myself venturing to those great places. New Delhi is complete irony, and what I really liked best was being there in Spring, which is ideal and cool, with the misty light creating an atmospheric feel about those long tree-lined boulevards where the diplomatic houses are, and getting into one of the consulates for Mass in English. The roads, and its distinct pungent spicy odour almost reminds me of my childhood, except that the strength of the fould stench was never so thick. But there was a sense of familiarity about the scent, honestly. Singapore did not always smell like Hong Kong - the fragrant harbour! It took me 4 and a half hours to get to New Delhi, and precise another 4 and a half hours by a rickety tour bus to Agra, just to visit the Red Fort, and the ethereal Taj Mahal. Walking around on the grounds, the fountains, and to enter into the cool shade of the white marble shrine, was incredible. I think that the commercial aspect of the guides and entry fee collectors robbed the grandeur and prime significance of the place from the experience of visiting and marvelling there. Even as I got into the tomb chamber, there is a sense that you are entering into some attraction concocted for the Disney tourist, or some prop backyard. The spirituality of a sacred resting place is "gone", perhaps because it was not a religious shrine but a monumental mausoleum. Comparatively, the resting place of Saint Catherine Laboure of the Sisters of Charity at Rue du Bac in Paris, was by far less majestic, but because of the presence of her incorrupt body, you immediately sense the Divine. In the same chapel where her reliquary rests beneath a side altar, is the famed location where the Virgin Mary appeared to her in a series of apparitions and sat on the chair of the Mother Superior as they spoke, like Mother and Child. That splendid wooden chair is preserved at the corner of the chapel. It took me some effort to locate this small street, which despite the fame of the apparition that led to the popular "Miraculous Medal" being struck and used by many Catholics to honour the Immaculate Conception of the virgin Mary, the location is hardly known to most Parisians. But once you have found the large wooden door and pushed it open, you immediately enter into a large space which leads to the chapel. The chapel itself is very, very splendid, baroque in flavour, but restrained somewhat because of the simplicity of the story of the apparitions. But to be in that same space where the heart of Saint Vincent de Paul is preserved and honoured, and in the actual location where this event took place was already the fulfilment of one lifetime's dream, honestly. I think I can happily accept the dread human fate more easily from having had the chance to touch the gold of the place which seems to be the foretaste of the better world. In the same respect, I found myself very lucky. Cancer, asthma, diabetes, heart palpitations, the frame of a weakling, and all the vagaries of being so human and imperfect, is just a mind trap. I think the strangest thing is that all human being die, and it is weird that so many actually think they won't. If we were to understand that we all die, no matter when, surely then the way we care for others, and the way we relate with others, should matter much, much more? What does it say about the myth that now pervades modern civilisation? The same it did with the Hellenists and Romans of lore, like all flatulent wealthy peoples, that Life is meant for merry-making, drunkeness and debauchery, simply because we will die. So despite the imminent death that looms over my head, what am I peacably managing my life and spiritual presence here in this liminal world for? I guess the physical effort is to give my own physiology a favourable chemical balance, and the reading and study is to steady the intellect, while the heart retreats in to the hermitage of poverty so that in the emptiness and absence it learns to be open to possibilities, the greatest of which, is love?

The Rites of The Wronged

I am reading Richard Rohr ofm's splendid book, Adam's Return, on recommendation of a friend, a Francisan Friar. This refreshing and utterly thought-provoking book is wrangles much of the misconceptions that have prevailed about what it means to be a man in today's world. Part of the problem we have with masculinity is bred from incompleteness, which in turn has much to do with the way we are parented, as much as the way the world at large influences us with concepts that aren't always meant to lead us to fulfilment. Hence, we feel a great deal of frustration, and even among my own friends and brothers, there is always those layers within which are layers - denial, pride, repression, etc. Here is an excerpt from Rohr's proposition, that it is not in the perfect image of ourselves that we find completion or fulfilment, but if the Jesus idea of manhood is to prevail, it is one which is very distant from the Hollywood version of modern Man: "We must live our lives in a painful cauldron of transformation, inside a mixed blessing, not in any enforced utopia. We are a mass of contradictions longing to be reconciled. We must live with the wound and learn from the wound, until it becomes our sacred wound. I remember the shock of being in a Spanish art museum and seeing a full-size painting of a wounded body of Jesus ascending into heaven. I finally got it! Heaven is not for angels at all, but for the wounded ones."

Now Past The Throes Of Death

I have finally got down to disposing all the notes and original copies of work I have scribbled and jotted down in my early life, to trash these into the wastebin finally. For time and events have its own way to provide wisdom and insight which the vigour of youth is quick to presume non-existant. So, we throw away all the vagaries of our own juvenile indulgence. But I have blogged them here as well, part testimony to bear witness to my own folly and foolishness, fantasy and longing. For too long I have held on the wasteful notion that Love is what we yearn for, etc. the sad gothic lamentation of the Romantics. In truth, it is only in joyful obedience and self-sacrifice that we find ourselves ready and fulfilled, not in the manner of intellectual will or psychological contention, but through the interior life that we awaken, where a greater Power and Life is conceived and made incarnate in our own weak human shape. This is the fundamental element of truly "being". Those who seek this "enlightenment" through being still find the door open, but not to contemplate emptiness and the void. What is the "void" to human perception must yield to the infinite "light" of that experience, as the mind unfolding to the heart, as the heart dissipates into the reality of the spirit. This is the essence of experiencing our True Life! It is nothing like what all fake fakirs and gurus purport about meditation and "being" still and "becoming" one with nothing etc. Honestly, when they awoke back, what and where did they become? Falsehoods, are brazenly being preached to those "seeking" a higher "consciousness" in their yogic practices. In fact, the best yogic gurus do teach that the spiritual life is the final goal, and yoga is the ascetic diet by which the human form makes itself available to this Truth. Well, well. Anyway, it is along discourse in my own odd human journey. It is like I am finally at the threshold of Life's end. Death is one form, and the transformation of life from one stage to another. I feel ready finally for Death. Unafraid. This conquers life, too. We really need to fear less, especially those who preach nonsense to us and cause us to veer off what our plain, and truest nature makes of us. Who am I? I think the past two years I have struggled very much to listen to many voices that claim to guide and to illuminate. It was a great, and very difficult time, to feel abandoned and isolated, forgotten and disparaged, to have people who are lesser than oneself lay siege to our own courage by insinuating our faults and flaws. What they only really want to do, is subtract our dignity. For if they truly intended to give and enrich us, where is the reality of it? Nothing? Precisely, and that is the plain truth. I was asleep, and now I have awoken. Death was dealth its blow, and I am no longer held abay by fear of its sting. It feels terrific, finally, to trash all that garbage that has bottlenecked by life this past year, and let Life flow through once more, and breathe free.

The First Rains (1995)

The first rains of the monsoon have burst overhead,
Filling the evening air with cosy countenance;
The streets awashed with reflective glows and threads
Of fairylights aroar with colour at the mall entrance.
People hustling with shopping bags into taxi queues,
Forming perfect rows of silent pews.

The chiselled cityscape and hooting cars beckon me
Explore the festive revelry which mocks my solitude
Passing couples in hands and awkwardly see
What I miss out on while Cupid stays mute.
I gather my thoughts to warm my heaving heart
Knowing what comes to naught as hope falls apart
I choke silently, my voice stuck as such
Against the notion that Love’s at large…

No soul should have to bear the brunt of life alone!
No heart should be rent from ever having known
Healing consolation which cherished friends afford;
Nothing as warm as love given not affection bought.
Then startled, suddenly with a thought;
(I walk on) but it’s you, I realise, that I sought.
Yes, to love, affect, embrace and caught
To create some scheme to lure and have wrought
From idea to opportunity my soul thirsts
Of unquenchable desire, released just as heaven burst
Reigns, neighs, unbridled rain, nay no worse.

Who would silence all cars, break bottles by case and casks!
Hear the whisper, now a storm, which urges on
Wreak the senses from solace to solitude’s sullen mask;
To feel the aching pain of one forlorn,
To trim the fear and not hesitate.
Should I call, no, later, or wait?
Lose another moment once lit by hope,
That you might be, too, alone, in bed
Longing the same, while cuffed in the silken envelope
Expecting my call, and tempt fate.
How I now wish to kiss you and erase
Pain of missing you, anoint with caresses your face
That we might be grace to bless that inconsolate bed:
From emptiess to lottery and life, create
Prized beatitudes to realise are worth the wait!

What a joy it would be to awake, turnaround, and feel you tight,
A cluster of the earth’s finest roses in your huddled form,
Perfume in the morning light, smooth stems with thorns shorn –
Your skin like washed sand, after the storm.
What a joy it would be to awake, reality, derived from this vision,
Of sleeping with an Angel, banish bland reason
And find the senses, sweet from the Four Seasons
To be unearthed and tossed tumultuously like incense
Filling out time and space its drowsy shroud
Wherein I see you lift and whirl about
Like the phantom dream, love is, dismissed into the hollow crowd.


Thursday, 9 November 1995
2245 hrs
Shopping and then slipping back into the Four Seasons, to awake and find the other left had left already for the day. I drove a Ford Laser 1.6L then, and for official business entertainment, would have a black Audi A4 to use. Quite a fine life, then. I think there is something about mobility with a car that makes up for the emptiness that follows a good night without breakfast in bed…

History (1990)

(A preliminary critique of a people challenged by a future impossible.)


History is boisterous in her lessons of Age,
Makes no pretense of favour or rage.
The little, the limited, the lone is lost,
The lessons are that such are the cost.
Yet did an isle an exceptional precedent set -
Battled her fate and abated a bet.
Lone, little and limited became a cause,
To pursue the challenge and chart her course.
The rhythm of the people set upon the beat
Of cultures diverse like flotsam of a fleet.
Amassed, clashed but finding a form,
Deliver themselves from the ideas of norm.
Break free from the thoughts that mar,
Challenge these forces and drive them afar.
Like gongs in unison that beg the gods unleash,
Favour, benevolence – end fasting with feast.
Perhaps Fortune herself did smile on this isle,
The march of folly passed by and while;
Necessity borned of survival inspired diversion,
To a different drumbeat and to Nation.
Should odds be nigh and were nigh again -
When hope is low, do we unite in vain
Battle disdain with sovereignty hard won
Set sure in belief as brothers, we are strong
Then hence, to weather the storm.


4 July 1990

Love's Absence (1990)

LOVE’s absence deprives life’s brazen frame –
     leaves an abyssal void which maims:
VISIONS erotic the heart cannot deny,
     awakes yeraning, demands a sigh,
     should courageously wait and unhappily lie
     ( a silhouette on a pyre
     engulfed by silky sheets of fire)
     tries in vain, remain, kiss your eye
     the muse awakes, fleet-footed flies
     discovers too late, an empty bed
     scent marks where you have laid
     arouse the senses, might not placate
     must bait, or patiently wait
     instigate, create or contemplate
     (this desired union
     an improbable return)
     to the gilded state
     and thus avert Fate.


London
19 March 1990


This is a recollection of Mark McCallum, who adopted and used his maternal surname, Carter. He inherited some small fortune, and was clubbing in tee-shirt and denim dungaries and jacket, I think somewhere near Max’s off Bayswater. He was with some British Airways pilot, but was always out on guys’ night for a good time, which he knew very well how to get it. He was, by all accounts, an English “party boy”. He brought me to London’s famed boys’ strip club, then run by a famous Singaporean “queen”. Impressive getting around with him.

Another thing Mark did after we caught Les Miserables together, was bring me to the cast’s favourite restaurant after the show, where I got to meet some of the chorus members, saw Angela Lansbury, and I was literally checked up Joan Collins. This splendid restaurant near Covent Garden is wholly unmarked, and distingished by the red brickwork walls.

If I Should (1990)

If I should, my woven history, bare
kindly appreciate, nay, not compare.
The visage full but where threadbare,
do gently fill, if you care, not dare.
If I should be bound by my workèd past,
creativity is checked by the last (not leash);
must untangle the knot that was cast (not released),
smooth the thread taut and fast –
for what is life’s greatest freedom, be
OF CREED, OF SPEECH, OR, FROM FEAR, FROM WANT. **
(If one should be asked, say certainly)
the liberty to start, create apart from what’s done
and to do so freely, in perpetuity.

Letter to Brett C. Callis
Singapore
16 March 1990

** The Four Freedoms declared by US President Roosevelt in World War II, c. 1943. See also the Norman Rockwell painting inspired by the same.

One Doesn't (1989)

One doesn’t have to be good-looking
To feel beautiful;
It is enough to be loved and be
Surrounded by all things wonderful.
Life is more than mere feelings
Whether of pride or insecurity
A realisation and experience
Of all beauty that Nature can give
Is Expressed
And worth more than appearances
Which can deceive.
Beauty, Love, Life still requires
One, even the very least –
To Appreciate.

Therein is all that Matters.


Frankfurt 1989


When I re-read these musings, which to edit and re-write is to lose the crisp juvenile sensibility of that period in my own life, I realise how immature my outlook then was. I blame it now, mostly for the lack of the benefit of growing up with strong paternal affirmation, which would have made any boy confident and whole early in his adulthood, and thus prepared for relationships that would be able to give. Instead, people who are seeking wholeness and expect or belive that relationships with bred that in them are often deceived by this heresy, and then to be very idealistic, painfully sensitive and often languish in melancholy. They are easily devoured by the idea of beauty, too often seduced by the prospect that wholeness in personhood lies in being appreciated. It may be more true to say that young boys become good men when they have been affirmed by their Fathers.

Uit Rusten (1989)

In silence, in stilte,
     darkness of my bed I sit
Cold of winter invades my feet;
Beneath, onder de deken I miss the feel
Warmth, of love’s familiar face asleep –
Thoughts so dear feels so real:
Ogen sluiten, glimlach zitten on lips,
Skin on skin, silky sheets sing
Leaves impressions echte as ink.
Love’s infinite longing for a friend
Vanish like dreams too quickly spent,
Left listening to the whispering wind
What does this hurting mean?
‘t advises gentle as falling snow
Begs the heart to let go.


Roma, Italia
27 November 1989

If I Should Die (1989)

THE WORLD IS A STRANGELY SMALL PLACE AND IF ONE DOES NOT THINK OF POLITICAL BOUNDARIES AND CULTURAL DIFFERENCES THEN IT BECOMES EASY TO COLLECTIVELY REFER TO WHOLE PEOPLES AS ONE CATHOLIC AND ANIMATED ENTITY.
THE WORD EMPIRE, KINDGOM AND UNION ILLUSTRATES SUCH AN ENTITY. ONE VISIONARY 1900 YEARS AGO PROCLAIMED IT AS THE KINGDOM OF GOD. ITS NATURE HUMAN, ITS MYSTERY DIVINE. THUS:


If I should die, I die a catholic first:
My life a play, my simplest thoughts a verse.
The dreams, faith, hopes quietly nursed
Might, mistaken seem ageless;
Immortality a call of thirst
Should suddenly, mightily burst.
Redeem a soul from the curse,
Gild an effigy with ashen dust;
Feeble these senses must
Labour the heaviest task:
Document thought, deed, emotion past
Realize the littleness of vast
A shapeless mould cast
Love’s furnace, inflame, passion’s blast
Mettle glazed to last
Reveals my spirited lust
Rambles, punctuates my play thus.


6 oktober 1989

While sitting in early Autumn in front of the Habsburg Palace, Wien
(Vienna, Austria). It was also from the foyer balcony of this very palace where Hitler returned to the land of his birth as dictator-ruler of the Third Reich, and addressed the people as victor and liberator. The film of the event that survives and is sometimes replayed in documentaries, is so stark that you cannot immediately associate it with the sereneness of this place. Perhaps, all storms do erupt somewhat from serenity.

Some aspects of the sonnet represents great personal importance, by way of its confessionary nature, to me. It is beyond denial that the concept was inspired by Rupert C. Brooke’s excellent if idealistic War Sonnets.

I Live With The Possibility (1989)

I live with the possibility
that soon shall I meet one
whose nature would cause mine
be aroused to passion and
excite to matchless permutations
of risky computations;
perhaps tomorrow or the day after
little does the “when” matter
except that I’m ready
best and collected
for such opportunity.
You, whom I had stolen
once a glance, across the pool
whom I chance to stand shyly
in the elevator with
one, as good as dear as You
whose lips formed words of love
as I fell
ideal of beauty, as you
physical and ethereal,
whose open heart and perfect hands
I can only dream is my good fortune
someday to welcome with mine own.



1989
I remember writing this in Dubai, on the way to London, and reflecting on my other recent summer flights to Europe. Again, based on the notes on the original scripts and copy, it was a time which was just a few years since I found myself familiar with the continental lifestyle, being just 24 years old, and very, very impressionable.

One Night (1989)

éèn nacht

Could I help not noticing
Beauty himself standing
by the window
hands in pockets
dreamy eyes wide

Could I help not to think
youth himself enjoying
the happy beat
of music rapping feet
dancing to dawn

Could I help not dreaming
heaven himself staring
a tastefulness
love awaiting chance
an invitation to dance

Could I help not asking
love himself awaiting
heart be still
skip a beat
contemplates defeat

Could I help not smile
laughter himself teasing
frolicking night
revelry till light
a thoroughfare

Could I help not hope
child himself laments
brief is the while
to hold and to smile
kiss a while

Could I help not repeat
opportunity himself passing
lasts one night
might never knock again
I remain
You gently, quietly, abashedly ease from sight



Expansion of an idea of one guy trying to pick up another guy at the dance floor at EXIT, a gay disco in Amsterdam, popular among the young local and foreigners especially in summer. There is some inspiration based on how I met Hans de Wit of Schiedam in mid-June, one weekend in 1989 during my three week vacation there. This guy is the epitome of Dutch youthful handsomeness, with a sauveness and pensiveness that was disarming. We became fast friends, and definitely the envy of many.

Blik - A Moment (1989)

Let my heart heave a sigh
If only I had kept that glance
And now need not deny
Myself dazed in a trance
If you only knew yourself
Unexpected cause of my vanities.

I love the way the sun did dance
Upon fair hair brushed back
I dared not breathe, lest chance
I should miss your glance looking back.

Your acquamarine eyes
Pools of azzurial light deep set
I long and search for dyes
To match the brilliance mine has met
And capture the light that gleams within
In memory and constant recollection.

Feel the heat of flint
An improbably transaction
With one as beautiful as you
And how would I have loved,
How if you knew!




Frankfurt-am-Main
1989

A Sure Smile (1989)

A sure smile
that twitch on the edge
of lips, lifted
like accents over the unspoken word
caught my happy eye and cannot deny
this delightful sign
an endearing look
and hope longingly
a repeated chance
capture that rapture
of departed lips
breaking into smiles.

Downtown Amsterdam
donderdag, in juni ‘89

O My Friend What Have You Done (1989)

O my friend, what have you done?
We have thought of you, the One
Above all the anguish pangs
Hero whom poets sang
When I was blind, you made me see
Notice wintry wonder around me
You dragged me out to appreciate
Express all I left unsaid.
How you liberated me
Whilst quiet, you, Prometheus bound
Tortured you whispered not a plea
How your performance astounds
Heave my heart to my mouth
Invent new hymns fit for you
Mightier than a cry, breath, hue
A reflection on true
You have robbed us of Life!
Unwarned, mocked us of love
Break from conformity
This deed you have done callously
Shatters fraternity
Weep I must, mourn this musk
That stings my memory
Sleeping, sulking, to saunter each dusk
Finds cause in this heresy.
O Beauty! Marred by deed.
Be cold as snow, silver as sleet
Love you as you go
Even ever more
As dampness invades my feet.



22 August 1989
0111 hrs

I have not known anyone personally, who have committed suicide. Yet the statistics suggest that there must be someone in the course of our lives whom we might know who would have attempted or succeeded in suicide. This is an exploration, if someone I knew were to have done it. It is possible that this was also inspired by the shock effect after watching Dead Poets Society, which I recall watching alone in a theatre at Surfers Paradise, located against the backdrop of the sea. I left the theatre close to midnight and had to walk back to the hotel complex, and stopped by the beach front where the wind, sand and surf was blowing in hard, and penned some of these words. It was just meant to release some very strong feelings aroused by some scenes in the film’s plot.

What Last Thoughts Should Haunt (1989)

What last thoughts should haunt
“Think of those who mourn”
Greater deeds need be done
I am not necessarily the one.
At least I am I, who needs me
Wise, foolish, honest, free
My chimed and fluted symphony
One act to end all suddenly
My sorrow, joy, life, friends and toil
Are important but never as much the need
To fall
Out of the Frame of Life
And bleed.
Then, late understood
A glimpse to be Free
Silence, deafening of my plea.
Release Me.



22 August 1989
0043 hrs

I think everyone at some point thinks of, contemplates, the idea of ultimate control over one’s life, and that inevitably means, death. Can we determine the how, when (details), and the consequences. But it is ironic, because if one prefers death, then what follows as a result, and the order of arrangements, should not matter. I think, then, anyone who explores this, is crying out for affirmation, the symptom of something gravely missing in their human experience, whether we call it healing, completion or release.

The Unknowing Love (1989)

The unknowing love of life within
     The breadth of unseen
Love that dictates, not understands
Compassion that awaits but never mends
A serpent’s tongue that begs kinder gift
Of trusted faith that lifts
Steps in darkness to certainty
Let me, let me, be.
I cannot answer, my voice falters
To have been heard at least was good
I cried out loud as I could.
Naught understood
But, “I was good!”
Winter, long past the summer of youth
Determines my fate, marks little use.
Cannot resist, unable to refuse
Allow me this one chance to choose
Nothing to gain is neither to lose
I shall face, naked, the Whip O’ Life
Rip open my heart, ride me of strife
Blank forever this thinking mind
Cut-off (they say, from the) production line.
Explore the dark choice consciously:
What will the world think of me?
Who scribbles short of poetry
In death invents a society.


1989

Quick reflections then of the odd futility of the experiences we seem to gain from mistakes in relations in our lives, where perceptions don’t match. Then in seeking catharsis, reads and writes poetry, to only to find other more eloquent voices from the past who have spoken of the same weakness of heart (Dead Poets Society?).

No One Listens (1989)

No one listens, only hears
     the lyrical whispers of my years.
No one knows, tastes the tears,
     discovery of love and fears.
Away from my family
     I am simply plainly truly me.
My laughter, hunger derision, voice
     leaping, hawking, none are false.
With those who let me be
     I am unchained, unbridled free
Yet those who claim loves me most
     Their sacrifice and affection boast –
I am endangered most of life
     Deceived by their dire action.
Oh within me is such strife!
     They being sorest of affliction
For me; I have been given best
     Wealth was never contest
All was ever wanted, met
     Their ways and thinking were set!
I felt all hate and anguish
     No prompt or reason to cease;
Until exhausted, then found extinguished
     The rabid rage released.



1989

My Senses Revel At This Fact (1989)

My senses revel at this fact:
Imagine the vast littleness of life
Which necessarily exists
For continuity
And must
Invent
An
Eternity.



The Esplanade
Surfers’ Paradise, Queensland

21 August 1989
2205 hrs

Address (1989)

Open your mind, release your heart’s passion
Fling wide the riddled doors of your imagining.
Deliver your soul with the rapture of lips;
Welcome that vision of deepest blue disappearing
     in the distant flash of lightning,
Like One, a Lover who discovers
     Love’s disguise.

Ride on, beyond the cold and blurring fog.
Pick-up your heels, rage, and be gentle – not!
True visions are blind!
These lead us to dare
Where only those who hope, have faith – would fare;
Blinded by what I saw
     yet still want more.

Must I awake to the calm
Borderline between
Truth – Imaginings – Mortality’s realm
And forge dreams, far-flung fantasies
Within these portals of Void and Reality
Thus be True as False might serve
For what is worth denying must exist
By the simple principle governing all Things
All that is named, IS
All that is, even of thoughts the least
May cease, but did exist.

I learnt too late and violently awake:
Struggle my denial that we are fruits of fate.
I decide, certain, shall not wait –
To run the course my passions make
From a widening dream awake escape
Hyperion unveilled dismay
Question the markings Time make
That all things are, or existed true
Still are by some imagined frame
Congealed and concealed in another World.
There is nothing firm, so permanent
Or fixed, for all past is alive, safe in me;
It dwells in ethereal urns and lucent orbs
Where consciousness sleeps, minds are free
Reality and fantasy in harmony
Make melt, mould, shape tumescent forms
Infinity of all things, here are born
Nourished by Word, Thought, in active tense
Make verse and rhyme echo common sense
Then release the wealth of Humanity
Which gathers wind, like storm and hail, inexorably
Awakening within, and creating anew Memory
Like trains of leaves blown askew by Nymphs
And Muses to breed a posterity,
Seduced by learning
To gain, Knowledge
of Everything.



1989

Rencontre d'spirit (1989)

In some corner of Existence I sit
Silent, complacent, clear:
Invitating all whom pass, to meet
Find rest here, endear, forget fear,
And listen, indulge one’s part, express
The myriad worlds of each our Imaginings.
All given, told, shall be worth the note
Melodies afloat on this Life’s rough dwelling
Tossed by fleet Time’s angry mode
Weathers chance to opportunity the epic
Stay course, the plot, denouement of intrigue
As each Act ends thus meet the applauding sky
Whence I entered in and shall exeunt by.

1989

I Have Dreamt Of You Much Of Late (1993)

I have dreamt of you much of late
which disturbed my sleep, left me awake.
These visions of you, wide, hollowed through
Filled with trees, shrubs and rose bushes leaden with dew.
What air, fragrant, moist and pure
A settling mist greets me with calm allure.
What magical lair, gleaming, inviting
Me within, feeling close and secure.
     There is my secret valley, winged by hills
     Where life is abundant, abandon and free
     Where rocks speak, and leaves whistle
     Longing for me, beckoning me.
Is there a realm where tired heart finds peace,
Away from rueful, urban seige?
Naked where I’ll life, pelased with the least
Desire nothing else, save far from reach.
Clouds, though sparse, lace the awakening sky
Dawn dances on, let the first light fly.
Then darkness is lifted like a sheet of grey
As the valley reappears, a great foray.

I toss and I turn denied of my sleep;
Determined to wrest this awakening dream
Now safely described, my visions slip
Into quiet retreat, to that far distant realm.


2.25 am
30 November 1993

I could not get any sleep and so at 1.03 am, I penned these words, after tossing while trying to get a wink, all the while seeing this vision of a green valley illuminated by a moonlit mist.

Mykonos (1993)

Π  ΜΙΚΟΝΟΣ

At Mykonos, I remember you
Your beauty framed by the blue;
Your cotton shirt stained by the hues
Of the Aegean sun, whom Night pursues.
     Evening falls; silence broken by marble walls
     Scattered among laurel and olive shrubs;
     Amidst which I sit, longing to hear, words overdue.
     Night deepens and darkness floods;
     Andromeda, Orion now rise; flies, and fleetingly falls.
     Far flung below, coastal lights blinked and withdrew.
By morning my memory of you is refreshed
Stirred by Siren breeze, washed by dew
Filling with musk, citrus, and your sweet caress;
Strengthened, resolved to the test –
But disarmed completely as you tease –
Drawing me, helplessly, to your breast.

Far from Skiathos, Mikonos – the Ionian Sea
I have forgotten you, found myself roaming free.
Yet neither the potency of Styx nor puerile Cupid
Could vex me from that bid
Hear cherished words, revive this ailing spirit
Sorrow, your embrace, loving, gentle, passionate, true
Which call out from my dreams and draws me close to you.


29 November 1993

I Know Tonight (1993)

I know tonight
that love, when it means anything, is most terribly obscure
like a flickering light
which burns constantly, yet fails to illuminate.

I feel, I know, and I should understand
Life’s all but imperfect, and
Meanders, wavers, stirs then deflect
Aspirations, desire, passion; reflect
My own anger and hate
And discover too late
The terrible emptiness after an impassioned wait.

Is it possible to love without full comprehension
Add patience, and build that grand illusion
That time alone should yield and tell
Of the dark, empty, abyss into which I fell.

I am but devoid of comprehensibility
This nadir of silliness makes all life grand
For no lower has foolishness ever put me
Floundered and keeled over much and sand
A wasted iota of love vanquished
I am happier dry, affection extinguished.


28 November 1993
After leaving The Westin Plaza, 12 am

I Thought You Were Great (1993)

I thought you were great as little Nikita
Talented and intense like lovers who
Knew instinct and a trick or two
Blew stereotypes apart and raved afar
River, look who you are!

I dispensed with the idea we might meet again
Shocked by the informal revelation of pain
To read of your death with tame disdain
And ponder the truth and feel insane
River, wish’d you remained!

I guessed at least we’ve met more than once
A couple of laughs and tears sampled too
What else could anyone ask of you
Who spoke softly, watch that frown
Now freed, a’last, from Earthen bounds!


2 November 1993

I Think Of You (1993)

I think of you, a bright gem in life’s treasury
A glistening shard of crystal, blazing luminously.
Every facet reveals visions clear, sublime
Abberates distance, fact and splinters time
River running, leaughing, paled by light
Should fall victim in autumn’s flight
Leave a wintry world wrought with grief
Desperate for a relic, aching for relief.
Drowsy, I’m drunk, emptied of you
Impaled by sadness, enchantment of rue.

The world is now a poorer place
Heaving sighs borned by wistful hearts
Hymns to whom was struck by grace
Strong, beautiful, unjustly barred
From time’s promise to relish, taste
The grandest tour of life should undertake
In a thousand minds where fantasies awake
For a quiet sojourn in your erotic race.

I mourn your leaving
And celebrate your gift
To have known you deeply
And bear that sting
That you, youth, should love and leave
Like a river running, drowning me…


30 October 1993

Dream State (1993)

my own private idyll, was one night spent with you
alone, dishevelled, shivering cold
no fire could ever warm this platonic soul
until you invade the quiet desert of solitude
no moon, star, cloud pierce the open silence
to smell your hair, taste your sweat and spit
feel your unshaven chin beneath
shovelling, withdrawing sweetness and seed
and lovingly embrace that gushing stream

running on empty, loneliness was peace to you
your embrace, kisses were passionate and bold
no lover, could ever imagine as you unfold
your vulnerable, slender, shape without lassitude
no words describe the beauty of that season
not any breath feel the joy of deliverance
to taste the salty hot gush as you come
shrilly, convulsing, where pleasure and soreness meet
feel your swollen pangs cleave
shivering, desiring a tight embrace and sleep
and breadth to breadth fall into another dream


1 November 1993
11.50 pm
Surfers Paradise

Death On The Sidewalk (1993)

1 am, West Hollywood


I cannot do justice, I know, to your passing.
It hurts crazily, to think, you are suddenly gone.
What? Dead – one so joyously alive, intriguing!
When beauty’s gone; dead on a bed of stone.

I think of your blonde head, yes, that fringe falling.
It seems completely, vainly insane, you should slip away.
Where? Gone – once glittering, burning, brightly blazing!
Where few trails have ever shone, melt and decay.

I miss the thought, the hope, I should see you again.
It stings wryly, that fact, your unfulfilled promises.
How? Done – your laughing eyes, thin lips stain
How handsomely adorned; a vision which fades, blurs.

I have long kept you in my heart, a niché in a wall of stone.
It moans of empty, ruined by an absent prospect of you.
Who? You – your youth, an autumn-spring, thrown
Who have taken flight of the earth, the River who flew…



30 October 1993
While at Surfers’ Paradise, Queensland

Sidewalk Jane (1993)

I am propositioned, constantly, for my company
I am liked, I supposed, for various parts of me.
There’s James, Leonard, Han, Jon and a few
Who think I notice, wish I knew
That they like me, and I, them too.

It’s silly, this game; appreciate me, appreciate you
When does it end, how I wish’d I knew
Yet there’s one distinct person within view
Who draws my attention, my fancies too
Oh, rather unbecoming to expect him to
Engage my stares and pension his cares
Heed my attention, brace for action
Our eyes across the room drew
Into each other’s, the spectre reveal
A deafening sensation, of wild abandon
Desire, pangs, for communion
Such as experienced by a rarer few
A consumate passion, utterly real.

Who cares for propositions, they mean nothing you know,
What with changing partners, passing to and fro.
There’s hope, faithfulness, trust and love yet
A surmountable task, a complete fiat
That I should love you, and let it be, at that.


26 October 1993

I Have Been Wounded (1993)

I have been wounded, Love, by thee
Struck ineffably, a promethean ecstasy;
To revel in company, ay, a pageantry
Unwound by time, a cursed infirmy.

Thus, ached and anxious I have longed your embrace
Kissed, desired, longed patiently to caress your face:
And, gently to slip and glide within these sheets
Healed, kissed, enjoin where beating hearts meet.
Am I, deserted, parched like aged paper
Longing, waiting, inks to illuminate;
Ruminate, sigh, until a time safer
In closed, company, love germinates.

I have been patient, indeed, for you
Struck silently, maintained a curfew;
In anticipation, yes, love is true
To receive your call, and come to you.

You, a wonder, a prophecy fulfilled –
A measure of eternity, time stilled.
As I hapless, think of you
Come afresh, pure, as morning dew –
A dainty drop, a generous cue
To fall, unabashedly, in love with you.



26 October 1993
JFT

Brent Fialka

apollo with gold-gleaming crown’d head proud above
those of men who plea storm crowd around stands
tall aloof as god not fiend if his sinewy fingers
sound summon weak spirits arise stand: declare
ourselves weaklings bound released by the wave of
his hand fear most his fiery-form grace a remedy
a bane to bend makes us clowns to fall down
exhausted from his games of god-man where
sickness mar feigned apollo abounds master
of muses send healing poetry-music which astound
weaves life’s fragile frabic then reigns discord to rent.



Letter to Brent
New Prince Takanawa Hotel, Shinagawa, Tokyo

1 September 1988

Will You? (1983)

will you, so fresh, so young
with eyes deep, distant, wide
wait patiently?
know, i where life has flung
a shell-hole to hide
waits painfully?


September 1983

on the maimed beloved, the Great War 1914

There (1983)

there – out to the end of the sea
where     lines of wave and cloud
freely     mingle in the failing light
there – shall my future wait patiently
where     past, present flings whirl about
and fall from the greatest height
into the oblivious abyss of
deep… sweet night


September 1983
Pulau Tekong
Reflections while sitting on the breakwater at the reclaimed land, watching aircraft lights over Changi Airport.

CAMBRAI (1983)

CAMBRAI


in silence you sit
your form, gentle, young and fresh
will you mourn?

the leaden times will not let go
the painful aches of love
but wither will you run?
or yield to the heart’s bright sun

will you walk me by
and hapless cast your eye –
watch flesh and earth weave
the fabric of mine grief

so hum me a tune as you walk sadly by
think not of my foul wound as mangled i lie
forget me, lady love – as i silently die


14 September 1983

(reflections of the Great War 1914, of the Fallen)

He's A Life Quickly Spent (1984)

he’s a life quickly spent
walk gently, do not run
thus all distances end
let’s not run

venture he does, let it last
wise, thrifty, a life planned
time swiftly shall pass
understand

in life’s every stride, decide
disappointments, fallen
perchance snared by hidden pride
plays silent

simply himself he’s all free
snug, easy, plays along
loyal, honest, wills to be
Eye of Storm.


August 1984
Pulau Tekong Camp III

On thoughts of a friend (Sgt Chua)

Even The Longest Day Finds An End (1984)

even the longest day finds an end
time’s cruel stride builds then rent
the fabric of hope once woven by hand
to be spun again, when?


therefore strive now for the distant
images of your aspirations to materialise
into reality



August 1984
Pulau Tekong Camp III

Some handwritten notes:
I realise how easily, how often we imagine the most wonderful goals to achieve but if these cannot be accomplished with the resources and tools at hand it as as well as building a castle in the air.

Timeless (1984)

Timeless Our Problems Flow
One Speaks But Who Listens?
One Cries And Who Knows?
Hear O Man, Do You Dare
Silent-suffering Bear?



1984

Load! (1984)

‘load!’
i pressed the magazine in
the hands of my wife gave in
and gladly gripped
          the open lips (of my gift)
that touched the heart of all belief.
readily i put my hand to her
and drew her warm steel near
my cheek to rest on her butt
eyes to pierce through her heart
i breathed and let go gently
aimed into the hart standing free
‘i’d squeezed burnt metal into thee!’
a crack and thump, splendid symphony
a cry of love, instant fatality
this soul of mines speeds on fine
twisting air in an arc of line
bursting through with certain weight
the orgasmic groans quickly fade
          her chambers fume with infernal air
          another round is there
          through her proud sights i stare
          fiercely aim with greatest care
          thrust my stud into her piped frame
          then feel a grip most tight
          my spirit, passion, incensed, inflamed
          comes as fire in an arc of flight.




1984 Trainfire exercise, Rifle Range III
Pulau Tekong