Creative Arts Programme Portfolio
Naomi Tan Shi Xuan
Sec 3-4 (2024)
Apricity
May found the irony of her surroundings almost poetic. Here she lay, on her deathbed,
and though not in the hospital, the shiny, modern condominium felt similarly clinical.
Cold marble and stainless steel at every turn, each corner furnished with the sleekness
of modernity, more a house than a home.
And though May’s memory had been muddled with age, her mind conjured up the
image of her old home, perfectly preserved, as if locked away in a time capsule.
During golden hour, soft rays of sunlight would stream through the lace curtains, casting
a radiant glow upon the red cedar shingles. Bathed in warmth, May would sink into
well-loved leather and sun-faded cushions and watch as day turned to night. Some
nights, she would meander across her garden and seek solace under a rambutan tree,
lulled by the chirp of cicadas and the tapestry of stars above.
May had found the night sky to be the most remarkable feature of the natural world, the
way it preserved the light of stars long perished, so their majesty and beauty could be
admired even millennia later– like the most marvellous museum of history, one forged of
constellations and nebulae.
Now, as she lay unmoving on a thin mattress, she recognised the naivety of her youthful
musings, for the modern world had no time to be like a starlit sky, and those who
passed did not explode into a wondrous, psychedelic supernova. They went quietly, all
at once, like a breath dissipating in cold air.
May rarely ever saw stars in the sky these days anyway, only the fluorescent glow of
screens speckling the urban wilderness. Gone was the high-pitched trilling of cicadas
and the rustle of leaves, the city’s heartbeat now hummed and rumbled with the chorus
of engines.
Though even as she reflected on her past days, May could not quite place when ‘then’
had become ‘now’, but somewhere along the way, the time had made its mark on her.
Her body had become a canvas vibrant with life, echoes of past joy etched around her
eyes and mouth. Her hands had been weathered by the passing years, dark spots
scattered across wrinkled skin from each time she had melted into the sun’s warm
embrace. May would often turn them over, eyes tracing the pale green veins visible
beneath her skin, to remind herself of the blood flowing through her, the miraculous beat
of her heart.
And despite the world’s contempt for the ageing body, she looked at hers through this
lens: Her body was a testament to the life she lived, every flaw and imperfection told a
chapter in her story.
The old woman thought perhaps she was like a well-loved book, like the fragile,
yellowing pages she used to thumb through while perched on a bench beside the
Singapore river. Even now, eyes glazing over, she could hear the crash of tides and the
distant hum of boats, the melodious symphony of tongues and dialects. Though the time
had slipped through her fingers, these simple pleasures were the constants in an
ever-changing world.
Even as the years fell away like leaves, and the shophouses became towering
skyscrapers, the beauty to be found in the world was undeniable– the scintillating sun
and the yearning of the flowers for its light, picturesque paintings and poignant poetry,
the reckless abandon of a child's laughter, and the spin of the earth beneath her feet.
Maybe the beauty of life was that it ended, and there was no paradise to be found in
perpetuity. Each moment was worth infinitely more when treasured like it would never
come again. May’s gaze drifted towards the shadows dancing across her ceiling,
watching as they morphed and melded into silhouettes of birthdays spent laughing,
tears shed on her bedroom floor, heartbreaks and hugs, turmoils and triumphs. Trying to
sift through a life well lived was comparable to trying to count the grains of sand on a
beach. The old woman opted to simply let the waves wash over her instead.
May’s eyelids fluttered shut, a soft smile like pure apricity on her face. Outside, the night
sky gleamed brighter than before.
Apricity Reflection
This short story was heavily inspired by my grandparents. The word “apricity” means the
warmth of the sun in the winter. I found it to be an extremely beautiful and poignant
description of the aging population in the winter of their lives.
It made me think of my Ah Gong, who despite struggling with dementia, was able to
animatedly recall and light up the room with stories of his childhood. Though not being
very proficient in English, the pure joy and nostalgia with which he spoke breathed life
into his tales. I think I owe a large part of my love for storytelling to him.
Earlier this year, my Ah Gong was admitted to the hospital. His condition worsened day
by day and my family feared for the worst. But even when he could barely keep his eyes
open, each time I came to visit him, the expression on his face was sunshine incarnate.
He would take my hand in his and close his eyes, chest rising and falling with shallow
breaths.
While he drifted in and out of slumber, I had a lot of time to reflect on life, death and the
human experience. I had time to feel his palm in mine, knuckles knotted, hands
calloused and wrinkled from the passing years.
I thought of my other grandparents too, of my Por Por, and the beautiful landed property
she used to live in, how she used to watch my siblings and I play in the garden from
under the shade of the rambutan trees. She still has photographs of us laughing and
playing up on the walls of her small condominium now.
Many fragments of my grandparents’ lives were stitched together in this piece, and it
was an emotional process, trying to reconcile their lives and stories. Writing has always
been an emotional outlet, a way for me to make sense of and reflect on the world and
people around me. This piece was truly a love letter to my grandparents, but also to life
and the miracle of human existence.
Life (and aging) is by no means a bed of roses– and my intention was not to excessively
romanticise or overshadow the struggles of it with this piece, but rather take each
moment, whether good or bad, as a richer life lived, a chapter in the stories you may
one day tell to your grandchildren.
My Ah Gong made a miraculous recovery and was able to be discharged from the
hospital a few months ago. He cannot quite act out adventures from his life anymore, so
I hold his hand and tell him my own.
galatea
pygmalion sits darkly in the afterglow.
he curses at the dying light,
clenches his calloused hands into fists
at the thought of my extinguished sun.
our twilight draws nearer yet
with the thunder of my pulse
and each request for the solitude of silence
is born of hatred for the cacophony
of my breathing.
he calls out in elysian echoes,
implores olympus on his knees
to make my mortality metamorphic once more.
for he had etched perfection into each line of my lips,
sculpted me in spite
of all the divine defectiveness
he scorned in my kind,
yet prayed for me to be one of them.
and so when i materialised at last,
fell like soft snow into his arms
the warmth of my skin scorched him,
scalded his eyes with the harsh reality
of my blinding, blazing femininity.
and all his fabled love was chiselled away,
eroded by the tide of my everflowing ichor
and his disintegrating dominion.
Galatea Reflection
I had been ruminating on the subject matter of this piece for a long time, though it took
me a long while to figure out how to turn my thoughts and feelings into words.
Eventually, when I stumbled upon the ancient Greek myth of Galatea and Pygmalion,
everything clicked into place. I thought it was an apt and fitting commentary on gender,
perhaps even more so in the 21st century.
The story goes that Pygmalion, a sculptor living in Cyprus, sought a life of isolation
away from women, disgusted at those around him. He instead decided to chisel a statue
of the ‘perfect woman’ from marble. The statue was snow-white with perfect proportions,
ultimately being so beautiful that no real woman could ever live up to it. The text read, “It
appeared in truth a perfect virgin with the grace of life, but in expression of such
modesty all motion was restrained.” Thus, Pygmalion became obsessed with his
creation and fell in love with it. Pygmalion eventually made an offering to the goddess
Venus to bring his statue to life to have as his wife. Venus granted his wish and
Pygmalion wed the now living statue.
The story is widely known as the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea, however I found it
interesting that ancient authors ignored the name Galatea, and simply chose to call her
“the Image”. It is also considered a love story, though I contest that title in this poem.
I found this myth to be a striking representation of antiquated gender roles; specifically
the way Pygmalion’s only true love was a statue whom he could project all his ideals
and desires onto and control, and how Galatea’s only value to him was beauty, marriage
and motherhood. I viewed his creation of Galatea as not born of love but hatred for the
real women around him.
It was impossible for me to buy into a supposed love story where one character was an
inanimate object with no sentience, autonomy or identity outside of Pygmalion’s creation
for virtually the entire story. Thus, I wrote this poem from Galatea’s perspective, seeking
to give a voice to her.
This poem is set in the aftermath of the story, and details what I imagine would be a
very likely breakdown of their relationship. As Galatea gains sentience, she also gains
autonomy and identity outside of Pygmalion’s possession. She is no longer just an ideal
but a whole woman, almost becoming the antithesis of what Pygmalion sought to create
in the first place. This shatters the illusion of love Pygmalion holds for Galatea.
I found it interesting to look back at ancient texts and see what still holds up in the
modern day. The myth of Galatea and Pygmalion still holds relevance, albeit not as a
love story. I find this to be true for many ancient Greek myths widely regarded as love
stories. Our definition of romance has definitely evolved for the better over time, though
these ancient tales still serve as a fascinating glimpse into the past.
merlion
i search for my reflection
in the iridescent waves
but they pull away from me.
i trace patterns
in the speckled sand
only for the silt to swallow them
it is maddening -
this suspension in the in-between,
taunted with the promise of entirety.
a freak of nature,
an abhorrent abnormality
like some monstrosity conjured up in a nightmare.
a jigsaw of jagged scales and fins
protruding like a splintering shipwreck,
a tangle of sand swept strands,
a gaping maw of serrated teeth.
how can this ugliness be forged from such beauty?
from a crystalline kaleidoscope
forever dancing beneath the moonlight,
or from which flowers bloom
and stretch their arms heavenward?
each day, the tide rises
and the earth spins
and i am still here.
walking this tightrope
and praying to plummet headfirst
into either side of the abyss below.
seafoam pours from my mouth
where a thunderous roar should.
but they tell me i am two halves
instead of broken.
Merlion Reflection
Going into writing this piece, I was well aware of the large shoes to be filled when
writing a poem about the Merlion. As an evergreen source of fascination for local
writers, and the inspiration for “Ulysses by the Merlion”, which requires no introduction, I
found myself conflicted on how I could bring something new or original to the table.
Thus, I sought to write this piece as an exploration of identity, using the Merlion as a
symbol for the struggle to reconcile one’s self, but more so through the lens of a
multicultural country like Singapore.
After researching the experiences of biracial/multiracial individuals in Singapore, and
talking to friends, I was struck by this interesting conundrum of struggling to feel whole
when your identity is divided in half, and other struggles that arise simply from the way
you are. Many of these themes are reflected in the poem.
Writing this piece was definitely more experimental for me since it was less
autobiographical than some of the pieces I had written previously. I hoped to challenge
myself by writing through a different lens than usual, and putting myself in the shoes of
others. I always find that writing helps to develop empathy and perspective, and this
case was no exception.
Perhaps the most challenging part of this process was exploring the identity of the
Merlion itself. Many local writers have objected to the artificiality of our national symbol,
which was interesting to me when looking at the wider picture of Singapore at the time
of the Merlion's creation. As a small, young nation, Singapore did have to essentially
concoct its own identity, crafting its image in a search for self. In this way, the Merlion,
though contrived and artificial, does not seem unfit as our national icon to me.
The Merlion’s purpose as a mythical creature and a national icon was a source of
fascination for me as well. Mythical creatures have long served as important cultural
symbols, staples in fantastical folklore and personifications of human experiences and
struggles. Many date back thousands of years, serving as a preservation of humanity’s
search for higher powers or otherworldly purpose in more primitive, less advanced times
than currently. Though we have now come a long way from these legends, even in a
rapidly moving digital world, I believe myths continue to hold fundamental truths and
epiphanies that are still relevant today.
The Merlion, however, does not quite have a mythology steeped in folklore, perhaps
representing dreams of the future rather than tales of the past; Forever looking ahead,
overseeing the shimmering water while perched high among the towering skyscrapers.
once upon a time
my mother is beside me,
eyes glinting in the candlelight,
words like puffs of smoke from her lips.
she tells me stories of fallen kingdoms and fairy folk,
and the great conquests of wizards and warlocks.
i fall asleep before hearing the ending.
but dream of happily ever after,
and rub the slumber from my eyes when i wake,
wondering if it was true love’s kiss that stirred me.
outside my window, a fire blazes in the distance
though i see no dragon amongst the clouds
and hear only its sonorous roar in the wind.
–
there are thunderstorms in my mother's eyes,
acid rain dripping from her words.
she whispers tales of monsters amongst men
and fabled beasts lurking in the shadows.
she summons the dark with a whisk of curtains,
presses a frigid kiss to my forehead.
“sleep soundly.” she says,
but it sounds more like a prayer than a wish.
the house shakes with phantom footsteps,
as midnight rattles my windows.
my palms cannot shut out the blood curdling cries outside
or the wail of a banshee down the hall.
–
they have taken everything.
they have robbed the sky of its snow
and replaced it with fire,
laid waste to the sun’s brilliant embers
and turned it to ash.
the roads have become
flesh and bone,
the rivers running red.
all the world is their battleground,
all the land is our grave.
my mother is beside me.
sleeping soundly amongst the rubble,
her eyes shut to this wasteland.
i hope she is dreaming,
dreaming up more stories to tell me,
more tales of wonder and mystery,
more worlds to escape into.
i hope this is not
the end.
Once Upon A Time Reflection
The subject matter of this piece has been weighing on my mind very much as of late.
Hearing and seeing all the news coming out of war torn countries has been
heartbreaking, especially when it concerns children.
With this poem, I wanted to highlight the humanity and innocence of these children. War
strips away any sense of normalcy or stability from them, depriving them of a proper
childhood and forcing them to grapple with the horrors and complexities of war at such a
young age.
The poem is broken up into three parts to show the gradual loss of innocence of the
speaker. As a child, stories helped me make sense of life and the world around me.
Thus, I framed the poem through the stories of the speaker’s mother. The piece also
tells the mother’s story and shows her struggle to shelter her child from the war all while
she herself grapples with it.
By the third part, the speaker’s mother has been lost to the war and the speaker is
forced to confront the horrifying reality of the war without the crutch of their mother or
her stories.
When reading a statistic of the number of children enraptured in war, I often have to
remind myself that each number is a life, a real person with dreams and hopes and
family. This piece was my effort to humanise and put those numbers into perspective.
I can barely fathom or wrap my head around all the suffering and tragedy of these wars,
and I cannot even begin to imagine the extent of the pain of those caught in it. In many
ways, I share the hopes of the speaker in the last few stanzas. I am willing with all my
heart and all my words that these people, and children specifically, may find a life in the
aftermath– that there will be an aftermath for them.
Like Father, Like Son
1.
3 years old
The little boy stared up at the photograph on the shelf, contorting his face into the
sternest expression he could muster. He squinted his eyes, crossed his arms and the
papery face of his grandfather glared back at him from inside the photo frame, as if
disapproving of his mimicry.
The old man’s countenance was weathered, marked by deeply etched lines around his
furrowed brow and creased forehead. His piercing eyes emitted a sternness that
commanded attention, gaze unwavering even through the grainy photograph. His face
was hardened and stoic, completely devoid of emotion– almost appearing soulless.
Next to him, a cheerful young boy’s wide eyes twinkled like sunshine, like the antithesis
of the old man’s stormy expression.
2.
6 years old
Most days spent in the boy’s house felt like creeping around the den of a sleeping
beast, tiptoeing around the slumbering titan with featherlight footsteps, fearing that one
exhale too loud might be his last.
His father was a Goliath, the boy reduced to Lilliputian in the resounding echo of his
footsteps. He stomped the earth, beer bottle gleaming green in his hand.
At night, the boy shrivelled in a dark corner, merely prey in the creature’s primal hunt.
The sound of footfall drew closer and closer, fast and heated.
The moment the boy was spotted, the world quieted to a whisper. Goosebumps prickled
his skin, and the steps became languid, taunting in their painstaking pace; the calm
before the storm.
His father pounced. His face was flushed red as he yelled in garbles of slurred speech,
the potent reek of alcohol and anger heavy on his lips. The boy winced at the scalding
heat of the man’s hands on his skin, squeezing his eyes shut at the all-too-familiar
sound of glass shattering.
The bottle’s fragments ricocheted off the floor, drowning the room in an ocean of
emerald, a sea of red.
The boy only dared open his eyes when he heard the heavy lumbering of retreating
footsteps. He cradled his knees to his chest with shaky arms, wiped the tears from his
face and did his best to stifle the sobs with his T-shirt, all while the yelling and crashing
blared on like a siren from upstairs.
The boy felt a hand on his head when the house finally went silent. His body flinched, a
knee-jerk reaction, but it was only his mother. She offered him a weary smile, shadows
hanging under her bloodshot eyes, and the boy blinked away tears.
Later, she would wash his wounds under warm water, gingerly place a bandage over
them and tuck him in. Later, she would sweep up the glass shards while ignoring the
sting of the cuts on her cheeks. She would pray for better times against all rationality,
and fall asleep in the shadow of a beast, dreaming of halcyon days.
But right then, she held the weeping child in her arms, mourning all that could have
been, and all that was to come.
3.
12 years old
With every night the boy sunk further into the bottomless abyss of beer bottles and
bandages, he began to learn there were fates worse than death. But then, perhaps he
had never truly known life.
The day his mother died was the greatest joy of the boy’s existence. Laying there within
wooden walls, she looked the most at peace the boy had ever seen her.
The car ride home was tranquil, quiet, like a pause to think. But when the reverie
inevitably shattered against the cold tile, the boy’s heart was full knowing his mother
was not around to bear witness to it.
And when his father screamed, “This is your fault” with the fervour of a rabid animal, the
man saw only his reflection in the wet sheen of the boy’s eyes.
4.
18 years old
The air was stale, yellowing wallpaper peeling as the boy padded through the home he
knew like the back of his hand. Everything was as it always had been, the cracked paint
on the walls, feeble rays of light that filtered through worn curtains, dim patterns dancing
on the dusty floors. Yet, something like unease hung heavy in the air.
The house waited with bated breath, the usual creak of the pipes and the soft flutter of
curtains unsettlingly absent. The silence was deafeningly loud.
The boy’s pace quickened, footsteps swift on the stairs as his nerves pulled at his limbs,
propelling him forward as if he were being puppeteered. The blood roared in his ears,
his stomach in knots.
As he ascended the flight of steps and skidded to a halt outside his parents room, all
colour drained from his face. The door was ajar, a sliver of light like a blade slicing
through the shadows on the floor. The boy pushed the door open, the mahogany
screaming at him.
There, the great titan lay, felled and brought down upon the earth at last. The shelf was
toppled over, green glass shards scattered like petals around him. The boy rushed to
his father’s side, gripping his hands so tight, his knuckles went white. Words tumbled
out of the boy’s mouth like boulders down a hill, but the ringing of his ears drowned out
each syllable.
The man said nothing, eyes watering, face placid like the calm waters of a lake. A small
smile rippled across the surface while the boy waxed on, worried. His speech trailed off
as he looked down at his father’s hand in his. Along the rough surface lay snaking scars
like the lines on a map. The more the boy looked, the more faded scars became visible.
The raised streaks ran across his father’s arms, and continued flowing onto the boy’s
own, as if they were tied together, connected. The man reached up to pat his son’s
head, “My boy” he whispered, and in that moment he was a little kid again, cowering in
a corner at the towering shadow looming over him.
The contents of the shelf were toppled over, shattered and in utter disarray on the floor
next to the man, yet the faded picture of him and his father was pristine, preserved in its
framed glass sanctuary.
The boy turned back from the picture to his father, his eyes shut, finally departed from
all his hurt, and all of his hurting. Their limp, scarred fingers intertwined, and the boy’s
face hardened, a piece of his soul gone with his father.
Like Father, Like Son Reflection
“Hurt people hurt people” was my thesis when writing this piece. I wanted to focus on
themes of intergenerational trauma and the cycle of abuse.
I found the phenomenon of children growing up to become exactly what they despised
in their own parents to be fascinating, and it really got me thinking about why and how
this cycle is perpetuated through the generations.
I sought out to break down the complexities of these complicated topics for myself and
the reader. I did not start out the story with each detail completely clear to me, but took it
more as a learning experience for myself. Delving into the layers of characters,
dynamics and exploring through my writing was insightful and fruitful, yet tedious at
times.
Still, stepping out of my comfort zone was a needed step for me to take to push my
limits and grow, and learning through creating was extremely enjoyable and cathartic for
me.
Tackling family and character dynamics was another thing I tried to push myself with. All
my pieces thus far had mostly been focused on one main character, without much
interaction with others. My aim was to flesh out and build convincing arcs for my
characters, and intertwine their stories smoothly.
Lastly, writing male characters and exploring father-son dynamics was definitely outside
the norm for me, but I firmly believe that gaining perspective and empathy through
writing in the shoes of others is extremely valuable. I was willing to push myself and
take risks for the sake of growth and experience. Immersing myself in these characters
and thinking outside the box made the struggle worth it.
I had found myself in a rut while trying to write this piece, feeling burnt out and lacking
creative juice a lot of the time. Much of my process was spent staring at an empty
document while the cursor blinked at me. Thus, to attempt to curb these challenges, I
tried to focus mainly on the heart and emotion of this piece instead of nitpicking over
language use like I usually do. I felt a topic like this should be approached with raw
feeling rather than shiny words or an embellished exterior but lack of heart.
I had previously gotten some feedback that my language sometimes overshadowed my
message, which I ruminated over, conflicted for some time. I hope this piece will be able
to connect with readers emotionally and evoke thoughts and feelings in them. I am
extremely thankful for this experience despite its challenges and going forward, I will
definitely try to balance style and substance, and improve on this area