Poems

Its time to tear the scabs from our suffering

to let the pain burst into flame, to find meaning;

I want to collect the brief scraps of happiness

which survive from our pain and misery.

This land is too lovely for tyranny,

jealousy, or, worse

pointless stupidity and hatred

for tall talk and valleys filled with rubbish. (1)

I refuse to run marathons with snakes,

ready to poison our spirits, or scorpions

with large claws, waiting to blame others

for the sins of the nation.

I’d rather clean drains

plant vegetables, yams and fruit

tend fish, ducks and geese,

be prepared for the worst,

clean away weeds, try to find

some safe place for us all. (2)

I hope our grandchildren won’t be

pirates, drifting with the tide,

prepared to set sail at a moment’s notice,

to fly the skull and cross-bones, praise

other lands, and curse this one

as fit only for monsters and demons

when our tin, rubber and oil

are done, and the jungle reclaims its own. (3)

I hope their love never dies,

that their conscience will be clear and keen,

that they will never feel compelled to mock

the spirit of 1945 or our parliamentary democracy;

I hope they will fight for justice, and dignity

without vicious slogans, mean posters,

without insulting our other races. (4)

I hope the reporters gathered

in expensive bars, laughing

among their whisky, Reggae music and fancy women,

learn to leave their telex-machines,

their reports of chaos and predictions of disaster,

instant-millionaires and communal tensions,

which they eagerly send to Asiaweek, Newsweek,

Time and the Far Eastern Economic Review,

I’d like to talk to them, even if I am 72,

and live in poverty in railway quarters,

not much more than a stall, a squatters’ village. (5)

I’m proud of my country,

even if we’re not that well off,

we live on scraps of fortune

with nothing for our kids.

The land is hard but we’re happy,

it is only the cowards who run away. (6)

I’ll build more shanties, and

I’ll use the giant loudspeakers to tell the world:

I love this country,

in good times and bad.

I’d rather start in hell

than end there;

no matter how hard life is,

there is laughter and hope,

this is our home. (7)

1984

1. This stanza is about confronting collective suffering and pain. The metaphor of "tearing the scabs" symbolizes the necessity of addressing unresolved wounds rather than ignoring them, allowing the pain to transform into something meaningful. The speaker seeks to find significance in hardship and to salvage moments of joy amidst adversity. The second part of the stanza shifts focus to the land, described as too beautiful to be tainted by oppressive forces like tyranny, jealousy, and hatred. The speaker criticizes empty rhetoric ("tall talk") and the degradation of the land ("valleys filled with rubbish"), emphasizing the need to preserve its beauty and integrity.

2. This stanza is about rejecting association with harmful and deceitful individuals who harm society, symbolized by "snakes" and "scorpions." The "snakes" represent those who poison the collective spirit with negativity, while the "scorpions" symbolize those who shift blame onto others for the nation's problems rather than taking responsibility. In contrast, the speaker declares their preference for honest, humble labor, such as cleaning drains, farming, and tending to animals. These tasks symbolize productive, meaningful work that contributes to the well-being of the community. The speaker emphasizes the importance of being prepared for challenges and finding a safe, nurturing place for everyone, reflecting a vision of self-sufficiency and unity.

3. This stanza is about the speaker’s hope for future generations to remain rooted in their homeland, rather than becoming opportunistic "pirates" who abandon it when resources like tin, rubber, and oil are depleted. The metaphor of "pirates, drifting with the tide" represents individuals who are unanchored and self-serving, ready to leave their country behind without loyalty or gratitude. The "skull and cross-bones" symbolizes betrayal, while "praise other lands, and curse this one" reflects the fear of future generations idolizing foreign nations while disparaging their own, especially once natural resources are exhausted, and the land is left to deteriorate. The phrase "the jungle reclaims its own" hints at the inevitability of nature taking over abandoned lands, underscoring the importance of sustainable stewardship and pride in one’s homeland.

4. This stanza is about the speaker’s aspirations for future generations to maintain love, morality, and a strong sense of justice. The speaker wishes for their descendants to possess a clear conscience and sharp awareness of right and wrong, ensuring their actions are guided by ethical principles. The reference to "the spirit of 1945" and "our parliamentary democracy" highlights the importance of respecting the historical sacrifices made for freedom and the democratic system. The speaker hopes future generations will uphold these values rather than deride or disregard them. The stanza also expresses a desire for progress through unity and dignity, urging against the use of hateful slogans, derogatory posters, or racial insults. This reflects a vision of a harmonious society where justice is sought without perpetuating division or prejudice.

5. This stanza is about the speaker's critique of reporters and media figures who are detached from the struggles of ordinary citizens. The "reporters gathered in expensive bars" symbolize a privileged class indulging in luxury, disconnected from the harsh realities of the people they report on. The mention of "whisky, Reggae music, and fancy women" further emphasizes their carefree lifestyle, in stark contrast to the hardships faced by the speaker. The speaker condemns the reporters for focusing on sensationalism—spreading narratives of "chaos," "predictions of disaster," and societal issues like "instant-millionaires and communal tensions." These reports, eagerly sent to prestigious international publications, are portrayed as shallow and exploitative, highlighting how the media capitalizes on the nation’s struggles. Despite their own modest circumstances ("poverty in railway quarters," "not much more than a stall"), the speaker expresses a desire to engage directly with these reporters. This reflects the speaker's hope to convey an authentic perspective on their country, contrasting the sensationalized portrayals propagated by the media.

6. This stanza is about the speaker’s deep pride and love for their country, despite its economic struggles and hardships. They acknowledge the scarcity of resources ("we live on scraps of fortune with nothing for our kids") but emphasize that happiness and resilience can still be found in such challenging circumstances. The speaker highlights the strength and perseverance of those who stay and work to improve their land, contrasting them with "cowards who run away." This line implies that true courage lies in facing adversity and contributing to the nation, rather than abandoning it in pursuit of easier opportunities elsewhere.

7. This stanza is about the speaker’s unshakable commitment to their homeland, regardless of its difficulties. They express their intent to continue building, even in modest or difficult circumstances ("build more shanties"), symbolizing the ongoing effort to improve and endure. The use of "giant loudspeakers" reflects the speaker's desire to make their voice heard, declaring their love for the country in both prosperous and challenging times. The phrase "I'd rather start in hell than end there" suggests that the speaker is willing to endure tough beginnings for the sake of a better future, emphasizing resilience and optimism despite hardship. In the final lines, the speaker underscores that no matter the struggles ("how hard life is"), there is always room for joy ("laughter and hope"). This expression of pride reinforces that, despite challenges, the country remains the speaker's home and a source of strength.

Conclusion

The poem is a passionate declaration of love and resilience for the speaker’s homeland, even amidst hardship and struggle. The speaker rejects negativity, opportunism, and betrayal, instead embracing a life of hard work, dignity, and hope. Despite the challenges of poverty and limited resources, the speaker remains fiercely proud of their country, condemning those who abandon it or exploit it for personal gain.

Through vivid imagery and metaphors, the speaker conveys a sense of loyalty to the land, calling for future generations to uphold its values of justice, unity, and respect for history. The speaker ultimately emphasizes the power of community, the importance of perseverance, and the enduring belief that, no matter the struggles, there is always room for hope and love for one's homeland.

The poem stands as a tribute to resilience and a call for individuals to take responsibility for their country’s future, ensuring it remains a place of dignity and hope, despite the difficulties it may face.

We need to come down

from our towers,

take off our shoes

and walk barefoot,

feel the earth

as it heaves

in agony. (1)

We are trapped

by other men’s hatred,

edged aside

by those who despise us, 

mocked

for our gentle ways.

We are rich

and poor

at the same time. (2)

We need to learn

how to be angry,

how to stand tall

in our own land. (3)

If we sing

let us sing

the truth.

If we speak

let us speak

honestly. (4)

May our grandchildren

be proud

that we were men

of courage;

may they too stand tall

in their own land. (5)

It is time

to rise up

in defence

of our rights. (6)

Kuantan

1987

1. This stanza urges a return to humility and reconnection with reality. The "towers" symbolize privilege, detachment, or arrogance, while "walking barefoot" suggests vulnerability and authenticity. The "earth... in agony" metaphorically represents the suffering world, highlighting a need to empathize with its pain. The stanza calls for introspection and grounding to address societal or environmental issues. 

2. Here, the poet explores oppression and marginalization. "Other men's hatred" signifies external forces or systems that confine and alienate, while "mocked for our gentle ways" emphasizes the struggle of staying true to one's values in a hostile world. The paradox of being "rich and poor" at once may reflect material wealth versus moral or spiritual poverty, or vice versa. The stanza expresses frustration at societal injustice and a yearning for dignity. 

3. This stanza emphasizes empowerment. The call to "learn how to be angry" advocates channeling righteous indignation to resist oppression and reclaim one's rightful place. "Stand tall in our own land" underscores the importance of asserting identity and sovereignty, rejecting subjugation in one’s homeland. 

4. The poet insists on integrity and authenticity. "Sing the truth" and "speak honestly" reflect a commitment to transparency and courage, even when inconvenient or dangerous. This stanza serves as a moral guideline, advocating for genuine expression as a form of resistance.

5. This stanza looks to the future, emphasizing legacy and inspiration. The poet wishes for future generations to honor the courage of their ancestors and inherit the strength to uphold their rights. It conveys hope for a continuity of dignity and resilience. 

6. The final stanza is a rallying cry for action. It underscores the urgency of defending one's rights against oppression. The use of "rise up" evokes unity and determination, encapsulating the poem’s core message of resistance and empowerment.

Conclusion

The poem addresses themes of humility, resistance, integrity, and the fight for justice. A. Samad Said critiques societal inequalities and calls for courage, unity, and honest action to create a future where dignity and rights are preserved. The tone is reflective yet defiant, emphasizing the need for collective responsibility and empowerment in the face of adversity. 

Few men live as long

as they hope.

We cultivate the tree of life,

yet its leaves still startle us

when they drop in our yard.

It is hard not to be sad. (1)

Today we feel compelled

to return to the forest,

to conquer our uncertainty

by finding treasure caves

long covered with dust,

to know why Dayang Fina sinned. (2)

We need to probe

beneath the false questions,

to go beyond the angry and confused replies,

We need to know

why the hills are bare

and the animals have died. (3)

Here we must pause

before a headcloth covered in blood,

we must share the wounds

of an age we no longer understand,

we must be careful of those

who pretend to be our friends. (4)

Those who rest

in the impossible past

should not be surprised

if, suddenly, the hills

and rivers vanish

in a sea of flame. (5)

Few men find freedom

fully grown on the tree

of vigorous nationhood.

The blue sky seldom weeps 

for mankind's failures.

The charter shall be forgotten, 

knowledge wasted,

no matter which way the tide flows

you shall never return. (6)

Here I stand.

The incense burns.

I hope that you there

will one day understand

what I say to you now. (7)

1. This stanza reflects on the brevity of human life and the inevitability of death. Despite our efforts to nurture and sustain life, we are unprepared for the moments of loss and decay. The motions of sadness and surprise underscore humanity’s struggle to reconcile hope with mortality.

2. Here, the forest symbolizes a journey into the unknown or the past, where people seek answers to their existential uncertainties. The “treasure caves” represent buried truths or forgotten wisdom. The reference to “Dayang Fina sin” suggests a specific historical or mythical wrongdoing, hinting at humanity’s need to understand and address past mistakes.

3. This stanza calls for deeper inquiry into the roots of societal or environmental decline. The “false questions” and “angry replies” suggest superficial or misguided attempts to address problems. The barren hills and dead animals symbolize ecological destruction and the consequences of neglect or exploitation.

4. This stanza reflects on the trauma of history, represented by the “headcloth covered in blood”. The “wounds of an age” evoke collective suffering from war, violence, or oppression. The caution against false friends points to the betrayal or exploitation that often accompanies such turmoil.

5. This stanza critiques nostalgia and the inability to adapt to change. Clinging to an "impossible past" can lead to destructive consequences, symbolized by the hills and rivers vanishing in flames. This imagery warns of the potential for irreversible loss due to inaction or misplaced priorities.

6. This stanza explores the challenges of achieving true freedom and nationhood. The "tree of vigorous nationhood" implies that freedom and progress require cultivation and effort. The indifferent "blue sky" emphasizes the vast, uncaring natural world, highlighting humanity's insignificance. The "charter forgotten" and "knowledge wasted" suggest disillusionment with societal or governmental systems.

7. The final stanza shifts to a personal and contemplative tone. The speaker, amidst a ritual act ("the incense burns"), expresses hope that future generations will understand the wisdom or warnings embedded in the poem. This closing reflects a yearning for connection and understanding across time.

Conclusion

The poem explores themes of mortality, environmental degradation, historical trauma, and the complexity of human progress. It critiques humanity's failure to learn from past mistakes and adapt to present challenges, warning of the dire consequences of inaction and ignorance. At its core, the poem is a call for introspection, resilience, and meaningful change.

Origanl

Sebelum kau mati, Dayang Fina 

perlu kau sedar dirimu berdosa sama 

membakar nafsu jantan-jantan istana 

Kini jejak Jebat kejam menghukum 

dia kesasauan amuk gagal 

mentafsir keris dan tengkolok; 

dirinya sukar mengerti mengapa 

harus ada kesetiaan yang buta.(1)

Sesudah kau mati, Dayang Fina, 

kan segera kuhembus asap dupa 

merenggut batin bangsa 

Dan jika aku masih di istana 

kan sedarkan keruntuhan mereka 

tipis bezanya antara

Jebat mengingkiri setia buta 

dengan Tuah patuh membuta setia.(2)

Akan kucuba syahdukan segala ini. 

sebelum bangsaku dungu kembali.(3)

English

Before you die, Dayang Fina,

you must realise that your passion

was too grand for the men of the palace.

If Jebat has punished you so cruelly, 

it is because, in his madness, he

 understands neither the sword nor the crown.

He has no regard for true loyalty. (1)

When you die, Dayang Fina, 

I shall burn incense

and call my people home again.

If 1 remain in the palace,

I shall show them what they have lost.

There is no difference 

between Hang Tuah's foolish obedience

and Hang Jebat's misguided friendship. (2)

I must work quickly, 

before they fall asleep again. (3)

Kuala Lumpur

13 September 1987

1. This stanza introduces Dayang Fina, a figure whose ambitions or ideals ("your passion was too grand") clash with the societal or political norms of the palace. The mention of Jebat—a historical or legendary figure often associated with rebellion—suggests betrayal or conflict. His madness symbolizes a lack of understanding of power ("the sword") or governance ("the crown"). The stanza critiques the inability to appreciate genuine loyalty, possibly reflecting broader societal struggles with fidelity and integrity.

2. Here, the speaker acknowledges Dayang Fina’s impending death and promises a ceremonial act ("burn incense") to honor her. The act of calling people home signifies reconciliation or a return to unity. However, the speaker reflects on the palace's loss, possibly referring to the values or ideals represented by Dayang Fina. The juxtaposition of Hang Tuah’s obedience and Hang Jebat’s rebellion underscores a critical commentary: blind loyalty and reckless defiance are equally flawed. Both figures, iconic in Malay folklore, represent opposing ideologies, yet neither offers a perfect solution.

3. This concluding stanza is a call to urgency. The speaker feels compelled to act decisively before the people become complacent ("fall asleep again"). It suggests that the lessons of history and the sacrifices of figures like Dayang Fina risk being forgotten. This line emphasizes the fleeting nature of awareness and the need for immediate, impactful action to preserve truth, justice, or progress.

Conclusion

This poem can be interpreted as an allegory about the tension between individual ideals and societal expectations. Dayang Fina symbolizes a visionary whose aspirations surpass the understanding or acceptance of the prevailing powers (the palace). Hang Tuah and Hang Jebat, central figures in Malay folklore, represent contrasting forms of loyalty and defiance, highlighting the complexities of navigating power structures. The speaker’s role as a mediator or witness underscores the importance of preserving wisdom and taking action to ensure the lessons of the past are not lost to complacency.

The poem critiques rigid hierarchies, blind allegiance, and thoughtless rebellion, advocating instead for a nuanced, thoughtful approach to leadership, loyalty, and societal progress.

In the morning it is hard to leave

Dayang Fina's tambourine.

I dreamed strange dreams 

of falling castles.

One shouldn't take much notice

of rumours and lies.

The boats clash against each other

 on the bitter harbour waves.

The storm rages stubbornly,

 bearing its own message.

I wish for an end to the quarrel 

between history and myth. (1)

I want to stay here,

watching the cruel hunters,

 and the boats carrying stories

 from another land, lies - no doubt,

 I want to examine

the few remaining scraps of our treasure, 

perhaps it can tell me something. (2)

One day, a long time ago,

 I set a tinkling deer free, 

and in the storm, which 

might have been a prophecy, 

or merely meant 

to confuse us, I tried 

to decide which of my comrades

 deserved my trust. (3)

It is hard to leave

Malacca; I feel like a boat

 adrift on the seas

to Lamiri. I do not know

 what to believe. (4)

I am a poor traveller.

Tuah and Jebat parted bravely.

Perhaps I will find a forest 

filled with incense.

Perhaps I shall discover

 what I need to know, 

be able to judge truly 

between history and myth. (5)

I would like, somehow, 

to find out

 who I really am. (6)

Kuala Lumpur

22 September 1987

1. The opening stanza sets a tone of longing and unease. The tambourine, a symbol of music and joy, represents Dayang Fina's allure or influence, making it difficult to part from her. The "falling castles" evoke a sense of instability and the collapse of established structures or ideals. The "rumours and lies" highlight the unreliability of narratives, while the clashing boats in the bitter harbor signify ongoing conflict, both external and internal.

2. This stanza captures the persistence of turmoil, symbolized by the storm, which carries a cryptic "message"—a metaphor for unresolved truths or conflicts. The desire to reconcile history and myth reflects the poet's yearning for clarity in understanding the past and its impact on the present.

3. This stanza introduces a personal memory, symbolized by the "tinkling deer," perhaps a metaphor for innocence, freedom, or an act of compassion. The storm, ambiguous in its significance, mirrors the speaker's internal conflict and uncertainty about trust and loyalty among their comrades. This reflects the broader theme of navigating complex relationships in tumultuous times.

4. The difficulty of leaving Malacca represents the speaker's attachment to a place steeped in history and cultural identity. Feeling "adrift" conveys a sense of disorientation and a lack of direction, reflecting the struggle to discern truth from myth in the face of competing narratives.

5. This stanza reflects the speaker's humility and acknowledgment of their limitations as a seeker of truth. The mention of Tuah and Jebat—figures representing loyalty and rebellion—underscores the moral and philosophical dilemmas faced by the speaker. The "forest filled with incense" symbolizes a place of spiritual or intellectual enlightenment, where the speaker hopes to gain clarity and reconcile the dichotomy between history and myth.

6. The final stanza reveals the core of the poem: the speaker's quest for self-identity. The desire to "find out who I really am" ties together the themes of historical reflection, myth-making, and personal introspection, emphasizing the universal human need for self-understanding.

Conclusion

The poem is a poignant exploration of the interplay between history, myth, and personal identity. It reflects on the instability of historical narratives, the challenges of discerning truth, and the speaker's deep longing for self-discovery. Through its evocative imagery and references to Malay history and culture, the poem captures a timeless and universal struggle: the search for meaning in a complex and uncertain world.

He is flung back to the past, and fondly recalls the SITC, Jerai Mountain, Winstedt's dictionary, Raden Mochtar, Rough Rider, Miss Tijah, Shihang Gakko,

Nagasaki, Robinsons in the afternoon, The Maria Hertogh riots, Awang Bakar, Jah Ranggi's

beautiful blouses, moneylenders, pawn-shops, Sputnik, cap-ji-ki sticks, the excitement of Independence, polygamy, R. Azmi, Leopoldsville, Yap Ah Loy Road, bank loans, We Bule, Nafeesah Bee's beauty spot, court summons, teh tarik, bankruptcy,

and the cemetery on Ampang Road.

He is caught between Noreen Nor's eyes 

and a flashing computer, he is back 

in the land of memories. (1)

He would like to see the land grow,

its roots nurtured by the labour

of each of its citizens, nurtured 

by their love and dedication,

if that were possible. (2)

He would like to see

those things the leaders promise

come to fruition in their own lifetime,

so they can tend the roots 

and strengthen the branches. (3)

He would like to see

retired Members of Parliament

continue to visit their constituencies

interested in farming

and the fate of the children; 

he despises those who come 

selling second-hand machinery.(4)

He would like to see the new elite

- grown fat on the Five Year Plans -

 wind down the windows of their cars, point at the people and proudly say;

"These are our brothers,

there is still much to be done."

He sits at the crossroads, aware of the conflict between truth and evil. (5)

Last week's clouds have gone, last night's crow has flown away.

He dreams of what his country might be.

He believes in wealth for all. (6)

II

He would like to see

intellectual debate, new ideas, 

genuine love and dedication, the gentle rain of a new idealism for the doubting and the foolish.

He cannot agree

with everything the politicians say - 

on the contrary.

For him, a smile is a smile, 

an axe is an axe.

Otherwise, a smile 

can cut like an axe, 

can destroy what it says, 

confuse the boundaries

between the known and the unknown, 

mock dedication ... it can cut

truth's banner to shreds, 

and leave the people lamenting

that the banana has thorns like a durian,

there is a drought in the midst of the monsoon.(7)

III

Standing beneath the last girders

of Dayabumi,

listening to the call to prayer

from the National Mosque, 

and the shunting of the trains, 

he is proud of Malaysia, 

despite the dirt 

and the roaring cranes.

He knows the future depends

on hard work, a willingness

to get our hands dirty,

and not on a few fine words.

Caught between Noreen Nor's eyes 

and a flashing computer, he would like

to recall it all: SITC, Winstedt's dictionary, Rough Rider, Sputnik ...

Have mercy, Lord, on my fortyfour years!(8)

1. This poem is about the speaker’s nostalgic journey through memories of the past, as they are suddenly transported back to a time filled with significant events, places, and people. The mention of various references like SITC (School of the Indigenous Training College), Jerai Mountain, and Winstedt dictionary evoke a sense of personal history, culture, and education. These references suggest a connection to history and identity, possibly rooted in Malaysia's past, particularly during the period of British colonial rule and the early years of independence.

The list of names, places, and events, such as Raden Mochtar, Nagasaki, Robinsons in the afternoon, The Maria Hertogh riots, represent moments of local and international significance. They are landmarks of a bygone era that have shaped the speaker's understanding of the world. Awang Bakar, Jah Ranggi's beautiful blouses, moneylenders, pawn-shops offer glimpses into daily life, social interactions, and struggles, while Sputnik, cap-ji-ki sticks, and the excitement of Independence point to both the global influence (such as the Space Race) and the local milestones of the time.

The inclusion of polygamy, R. Azmi, Leopoldsville, Yap Ah Loy Road highlights personal and political themes—social practices and historical events. The speaker also references the cemetery on Ampang Road, suggesting the passage of time and the inevitability of mortality. These elements create a rich tapestry of personal and collective memory, reflecting the speaker’s connection to their past.

In the final lines, the speaker seems caught between two worlds: the eyes of Noreen Nor (a possibly romantic or symbolic figure) and a flashing computer (representing modern technology). This juxtaposition illustrates the tension between past memories and the present-day reality, where technology and nostalgia collide, leaving the speaker "back in the land of memories," lost in a space between the old and the new.

2. This stanza is about the speaker's deep hope and desire for the land to flourish, symbolizing a vision of prosperity and growth that comes from collective effort. The metaphor of the "roots nurtured by the labour" of its citizens suggests that the foundation of a successful and thriving society depends on the hard work and commitment of its people.

The idea that this growth is also "nurtured by their love and dedication" emphasizes the emotional and moral investment necessary for the land to prosper, not just physical labor. The speaker's longing for this ideal outcome is tempered by the acknowledgment that it may be difficult or even impossible to fully achieve, as indicated by the phrase "if that were possible." This introduces a sense of longing for a better future, while recognizing the challenges that may stand in the way.

3. This stanza is about the speaker’s hope that the promises made by leaders will materialize within their own lifetime. The "things the leaders promise" refer to the commitments made for the betterment of the land and its people. The speaker wishes for these promises to be realized, allowing the leaders to actively "tend the roots" (symbolizing the foundation or core of society) and "strengthen the branches" (symbolizing the growth and expansion of society).

The imagery of "tending the roots" and "strengthening the branches" suggests that, just as trees require careful cultivation and attention to thrive, so too does a nation need careful governance and leadership to flourish. The idea of fulfilling these promises within a leader’s lifetime conveys a sense of urgency and responsibility, as the future of the land depends on the actions and dedication of its current leaders.

4. This stanza is about the speaker’s desire for retired Members of Parliament (MPs) to remain active and engaged in their communities, even after leaving office. The speaker envisions these former MPs continuing to visit their constituencies, showing genuine interest in the well-being of the people, particularly in areas like farming and the future of the children. This highlights the speaker’s belief that leadership should be rooted in service to the people and should not end with the term of office.

The speaker contrasts this ideal with a disdain for those MPs who come back only to "sell second-hand machinery." This critique suggests a view of these MPs as opportunistic, using their return to the constituency for personal gain, rather than focusing on the welfare of the people. The imagery of "second-hand machinery" could symbolize the low-quality or unhelpful initiatives they bring, which fail to address the real needs of the community. The speaker is critical of leaders who neglect their duties and exploit their influence for profit, instead of working towards the long-term good of the people they serve.

5. This stanza is about the speaker’s critique of the new elite, who have benefited from government policies like the Five Year Plans, which likely refer to initiatives aimed at economic development. The speaker imagines these elite individuals, who have "grown fat" (a metaphor for having gained wealth or power), rolling down the windows of their cars and acknowledging the common people, but doing so with a superficial sense of pride. By pointing at the people and declaring, "These are our brothers, there is still much to be done," the elite display a sense of distant paternalism, without truly understanding or addressing the needs of the people.

The phrase "there is still much to be done" seems to highlight their recognition of inequality or unmet needs, but also implies that they might not be genuinely committed to addressing these issues—perhaps viewing the people more as subjects to be governed or helped rather than equals.

The final line, "He sits at the crossroads, aware of the conflict between truth and evil," introduces a moment of reflection. The speaker is at a crossroads, a metaphorical point of decision or contemplation, where they are confronted by the conflict between truth (the real needs of the people, and the sincerity of the leader's words and actions) and evil (the potential hypocrisy, exploitation, or corruption of the elite). This suggests that the speaker is wrestling with the difficult truth about the disparity between what is said and what is actually done, and the moral struggle between genuine leadership and self-serving power.

6. This stanza is about the speaker’s vision and hope for a better future for their country. The imagery of "last week's clouds" and "last night's crow" suggests that the past is fleeting and has already passed, making way for new possibilities. This could symbolize a sense of moving on from past struggles or disappointments, focusing instead on what lies ahead.

The speaker dreams of what the country could become, implying a longing for transformation and progress. "He believes in wealth for all" reflects the speaker's idealistic hope for economic equality and prosperity, where wealth is not concentrated in the hands of a few but shared by everyone, allowing for a fair and just society. This line captures the speaker’s belief in a utopian vision where the benefits of development and growth reach all citizens, not just the elite or privileged.

7. The first part of the stanza is about the speaker's desire for a society where intellectual debate and new ideas can flourish. He hopes for "genuine love and dedication" and a "gentle rain of a new idealism" to help guide the people, especially those who are uncertain or naive. This idealism would refresh and inspire the doubting and the foolish, suggesting that he believes society could benefit from a resurgence of thoughtful, meaningful discourse and purpose.

However, "he cannot agree with everything the politicians say" reflects the speaker's skepticism and critical view of political discourse. He acknowledges the gap between political rhetoric and reality. The metaphor of "a smile is a smile, an axe is an axe" suggests that the speaker values honesty and clarity. If a smile becomes deceptive or an axe is disguised as something harmless, the consequences could be damaging. The "smile cutting like an axe" illustrates the potential harm of false kindness or promises, which can destroy trust, distort truth, and blur the boundaries between the known and the unknown.

The speaker further emphasizes the destructive nature of dishonesty with the image of "truth's banner to shreds" and the absurdity of situations, like "the banana has thorns like a durian" or a "drought in the midst of the monsoon." These are paradoxes that reflect the contradictions the speaker sees in the way society and politics are currently functioning. The "banana with thorns" and the "drought in the monsoon" are metaphors for the chaos and confusion that arise when reality does not align with what is promised or expected.

8. This stanza is about the speaker's complex relationship with Malaysia and his reflections on the country's progress and challenges.

The speaker begins by describing a scene where he is "standing beneath the last girders of Dayabumi", which suggests he is observing the changing landscape, perhaps in a city undergoing construction or transformation. Dayabumi might refer to a notable building or a symbolic representation of progress, but "the last girders" could also imply that the country is nearing the completion of some significant phase or that the foundation of progress is still being built. The imagery of "the call to prayer from the National Mosque" and "the shunting of the trains" brings in sounds of both tradition and modernity, illustrating the coexistence of the old and new in the country. Despite the imperfections—"the dirt and the roaring cranes"—the speaker feels a sense of pride in Malaysia. The "dirt" could symbolize the messiness or roughness of development, while "roaring cranes" symbolize ongoing construction, development, and change. The speaker finds pride in this dynamic process of growth, even if it is not entirely clean or easy.

The next section shifts to a reflection on what the future requires. The speaker believes the country’s future will rely on "hard work" and the willingness to "get our hands dirty", which means doing the difficult, often messy work necessary for progress. He dismisses the idea that the future depends on just "a few fine words", highlighting his skepticism of political rhetoric or empty promises. This underscores the idea that real change requires action, not just talk.

The speaker then shifts his focus to his personal reflections, expressing his internal conflict between the present and past. He is "caught between Noreen Nor's eyes and a flashing computer"—perhaps a metaphor for being torn between personal connections (symbolized by Noreen Nor's eyes) and the rapid pace of modern technology (represented by the flashing computer). The speaker wishes to recall the past, perhaps a simpler time, by naming several specific things: SITC (likely a reference to a place or institution), Winstedt's dictionary (possibly referring to an influential resource), Rough Rider (a historical or literary reference), and Sputnik (which symbolizes a time of scientific or technological achievement). These names evoke a sense of nostalgia and yearning for the past, a time that may have felt more certain or anchored. The closing line, "Have mercy, Lord, on my forty-four years!", indicates a sense of weariness, as though the speaker has lived through much and is seeking mercy or understanding for the struggles faced over those years.

Conclusion

This stanza expresses the speaker's pride in Malaysia's growth despite the challenges and imperfections. The focus on hard work and action over rhetoric reflects his belief that true progress requires tangible effort. The speaker’s reflections on the past show a longing for a time before the current complexity, but he is still deeply connected to his country and its journey. His prayer for mercy is a humble plea for understanding amid a life full of changes and challenges.

Falling leaves

rot,

giving life

to the tree -

reminding us

that life

and death 

are one.

Kuala Lumpur

1985

The poem "Falling Leaves" is about the cyclical nature of life and death. The image of "falling leaves" symbolizes the end of one life cycle, as leaves fall from the tree. "Falling leaves rot" suggests that even in death, the leaves continue to serve a purpose. The decomposition of the leaves provides nutrients that "give life to the tree," which highlights the interconnectedness between life and death, where the end of one process leads to the continuation of another.

The line "reminding us that life and death are one" reflects the central theme of the poem: life and death are inseparable and part of a natural, continuous cycle. Just as the falling leaves nourish the tree, death can be seen as a necessary process that feeds and sustains new life.

Conclusion

This short poem expresses the philosophical idea that life and death are not opposites but intertwined processes. Death gives way to new life, and this eternal cycle is a natural part of existence. It reminds us of the transient nature of life, but also the vitality that comes from accepting the interconnectedness of both life and death.

I need light 

to see

shadows;

they vanish 

in the dark.

But when 

seven lamps 

shine

in seven different directions, 

my shadow 

again 

vanishes.

Beware

of too much 

light.

Kuala Lumpur

1985

This poem is about the relationship between light, shadows, and perception. The first lines express that light is necessary to see shadows—shadows are defined by light. In darkness, shadows "vanish" because there is no light to cast them. This highlights the importance of light in creating contrast and allowing us to perceive different aspects of our surroundings.

The second part shifts focus to seven lamps shining in seven different directions, which can be interpreted as an overwhelming amount of light. When "my shadow again vanishes," it suggests that the more light is spread out in all directions, the less we are able to perceive it. In a sense, too much light leads to a loss of the distinct boundaries that shadows create.

The final warning, "Beware of too much light," carries a deeper, metaphorical meaning. Too much clarity, too many perspectives, or overwhelming truths might blur the boundaries that help us make sense of things. Just as the shadow vanishes in excess light, the complexities or nuances of life, identity, or understanding may be lost when overwhelmed by too much information or exposure.

Conclusion

The poem conveys the delicate balance between light and darkness, suggesting that while light is essential for seeing, too much light can obscure or distort our understanding. The metaphor of the shadow represents the parts of life, identity, or truth that need contrast to be seen, and too much light—whether in knowledge, opinions, or clarity—can erase those subtleties. It warns against seeking excessive clarity or understanding at the expense of the complexities and mysteries that make life rich and meaningful.

 Original 

Dilihatnya gagak yang lara

kini kejang di parit

antara pejabat pos dan pangsapuri.

Disaksinya cungapan seorang

pesara, sawan seorang bayi

di klinik sesak sepagi,

semakin kurang dimengerti

inti kemakmuran jasmani.(1)

.

Kerana di sini hanya kawasan

bersih bagi kehidupan cicitnya,

dituntutnya usah

dungu mencemari rimba

yang tak akan dapat lagi

subur menyegari buminya

tanpa sedia bermaruah,

beratus tahun, merancangnya.(2)

English

He saw a dead crow

in a drain

near the post office.

He saw an old man

gasping for air

and a baby

barely able to breathe

in a crowded morning clinic.

This land is so rich.

Why should we suffer like this? (1)

I want clean air

for my grandchildren.

I want the damned fools

to leave the forest alone.

I want the trees to grow,

the rivers run free,

and the earth covered with grass.

Let the politicians plan

how we may live with dignity,

now and always. (2)

1985

1. A crow is usually a symbolism for death, however, in this context, the dead crow symbolism refers to the polluted atmosphere whether it is air pollution or moral pollution (rampant corruption). The air is so polluted that the animals started to suffer from them. “An old man gasping for air” and “a baby barely able to breathe” refer to the old and generations suffering from the polluted air and society due to the corruption that has spread across the land. Therefore, when both generations are suffering, the middle ones tend to suffocate between the two. This scene marks the corruption of nature and morality tends to affect the common people rather than the higher ones. The crowded morning clinic also refers to the flaw in the healthcare system. The persona strikes an irony that how can the people dwell in suffering while the land is abundant with riches like natural resources. It ties well with the underlying theme of corruption in the poem as it implies that the riches are not even distributed to the people properly. Hence, the suffering of people can be caused by the natural pollution in the poem and the corruption behind it that is suffocating the commoners.

2. With the themes of pollution and corruption, the persona demands the “damned fools” to leave the forest out of their corrupted nature because he wants a better future for the next generation to come. Perhaps referring to the people of power, he urges them to not cause any more corruption in the land so nature can naturally operate without human intervention and pollution. The persona blames the politicians for the corruption that the society lives in. He uses sarcasm to attack on how people keep on allowing the politicians that control the way people live with such “dignity” and will always do as long as people worship them. Therefore, the last three lines encapsulate the themes of corruption and pollution throughout the poem by calling out the people in power that plague the land with their tainted agenda.

Conclusion

The poem tells a tale of corruption that pollutes nature and morality of people and it will always affect the people rather than the people of power. However, this translation has been criticized as changing the whole message of the original poem itself. For example, there are no “politicians” being mentioned in the original Gagak Parit, rather it is just “dungu” or fools that are open to interpretation to the readers. The last lines of the original poem only criticize how these fools corrupt the land without any dignity or “maruah”. Thus, it is important to check the original Malay version of this poem as there are bounds for something to be lost in translation.

Sons and daughters of Palestine:

your land is cracked and troubled, 

oppressed by weapons and hatred; 

your souls are crushed

by unrelenting bitterness.

The broken sun hangs over your deserts.

At night you eat the husks of love.

The earth is scarred and broken, 

poison coursing through its veins.

Among the thorns and rocks, 

the fighting and the conflict, 

young mouths bleed. (1)

Restless sons and daughters of Palestine: 

your land is covered with coals,

your faces are bloodied and bruised, your pain is extreme.

Blood red flowers floating

on a sea of anger.

Confusion gnaws your souls.

Smallpox. Diarrhea. Fever.

Despair and rage. The dead are dead.

The fire still burns. The fire still burns. (2)

Sons and daughters of Palestine: 

your fortresses are strong, 

your fathers died for the faith, 

your mothers taught you to be strong; 

they gave you the power 

to withstand tanks, helicopters,

and bullets. They showed you the essence 

of holy warfare.(3)

Wandering victims in your own homeland,

fighting against those who would take away your freedom,

patient sons and daughters of Palestine, children 

forged of iron, in love with each grain of sand: 

day by day you face the desert-storms 

of demons who rage across your soil, 

tearing your land with their sharp claws, 

beating your bodies with their fists, 

stealing your houses and villages.

It is an age of destruction.(4)

Valiant sons and daughters of Palestine: 

you are like wounded camels - 

headstrong, and violent,

mocked and tormented.

But you live bravely, 

covered with your own beauty 

and dignity, fed with the scraps 

of your turbulent past.

You are like young dates 

growing by a lake

in a hard-won oasis.

You bow to the truth, 

you honour the struggle, 

Your people 

shall never surrender.(5)

I stand here, listening to the winds

of Ranau, the breezes of Sematan, the waves of the Straits 

of Malacca, and it is your hearts 

I hear beating.

Brave sons and daughters of Palestine, 

wounded camels, pain coursing through 

your veins, your voices merge

with the winds of Ranau, the breezes of Sematan, 

and the waves of the Straits of Malacca, 

our traditions and our common faith.

We honour you,

in your anguish and suffering,

your dust and poisoned air,

your unending struggle ...

They shall never defeat you.

You will never surrender.(6)

Kudat, Beaufort, Keningau, Kuala Lumpur

March 15-27, 1989

1. This stanza of "Sons and daughters of Palestine," sets the tone for a poem that vividly portrays the suffering of the Palestinian people. It captures a land fractured by conflict and oppression, where violence and animosity have left both the environment and its inhabitants broken. The poem conveys emotional and spiritual devastation, with love and hope reduced to hollow remnants, and emphasizes the innocent, especially children, enduring unimaginable pain amidst the chaos. Through vivid imagery of a scarred earth and bleeding mouths, it serves as a poignant lament for a people and their homeland, evoking both empathy and a call for recognition of their enduring hardships.

2. For this stanza paints a harrowing image of relentless suffering and turmoil. It symbolizes a land consumed by destruction, where physical wounds and emotional anguish reflect the depth of the people's struggles. The "blood red flowers floating on a sea of anger" poignantly conveys beauty overshadowed by violence and despair, while the listing of diseases—smallpox, diarrhea, fever—underscores the harsh realities of life amidst conflict. Despite death and devastation, the repetition of "the fire still burns" signifies enduring pain and unresolved anger, encapsulating the ongoing cycle of suffering and resistance.

3. This stanza emphasizes the resilience and enduring strength of the Palestinian people, forged through generations of struggle and sacrifice. It highlights the legacy of courage passed down from parents to children, where fathers sacrificed their lives for their beliefs, and mothers instilled fortitude and determination. The imagery of withstanding tanks, helicopters, and bullets underscores the people's defiance in the face of overwhelming military force. The reference to "the essence of holy warfare" conveys a sense of spiritual conviction and a deeply rooted sense of purpose driving their resistance. This stanza portrays both the hardships and the unwavering resilience of a people bound by faith, history, and identity.

4. This stanza portrays the Palestinian people as enduring victims in their own homeland, struggling against forces that threaten to strip away their freedom and identity. The imagery of "children forged of iron" emphasizes their resilience and unyielding love for their land, symbolized by their attachment to "each grain of sand." The poem juxtaposes their steadfast patience with the relentless onslaught of oppression, depicted as "desert-storms of demons" tearing the land and its people apart. The references to violence—sharp claws, fists, and the theft of homes and villages—highlight the physical and emotional toll of displacement and destruction. Ultimately, the stanza frames this period as an "age of destruction," underscoring the enduring struggle and heartbreak faced by the Palestinian people.

5. This stanza celebrates the resilience and courage of the Palestinian people, likening them to "wounded camels" who, despite being tormented and mocked, remain determined and fierce. It acknowledges their bravery and dignity, even when enduring hardship and surviving on the remnants of their turbulent history. The metaphor of "young dates growing by a lake in a hard-won oasis" symbolizes their ability to thrive and endure in a harsh and unforgiving environment. By bowing to truth and honoring their struggle, the people are portrayed as unyielding in their fight for justice and identity, with an unwavering resolve that ensures they will "never surrender." This stanza is a tribute to their enduring spirit and strength in the face of adversity.

6. This stanza expresses deep solidarity and empathy, with the speaker connecting to the Palestinian people through the sounds of nature—"the winds of Ranau," "the breezes of Sematan," and "the waves of the Straits of Malacca." These natural elements are used as metaphors for the voices and hearts of the Palestinian people, whose pain and struggle resonate across borders. The reference to "wounded camels" ties back to previous imagery of strength amidst suffering. The speaker acknowledges the shared traditions and faith, emphasizing a bond that transcends distance and hardship. The stanza is a tribute to the Palestinians’ enduring resilience, recognizing their anguish and unwavering fight, while pledging that they will never be defeated or forced to surrender. It is an expression of unity in struggle, rooted in common humanity and shared conviction.

Conclusion

This poem serves as a powerful expression of solidarity with the Palestinian people, highlighting their resilience and unwavering spirit in the face of ongoing suffering and oppression. It conveys a deep sense of empathy, emphasizing the shared struggle and common faith that unites people across different lands. Through vivid and emotional imagery, the poem honors the strength of the Palestinian people, acknowledging their pain while reaffirming their determination to never surrender. The poem is not only a tribute to their endurance but also a call for recognition of their fight for justice and freedom.

The mountains are angry now …

We come, compelled

to find the map, to understand

ourselves and our world.

         One terrible century of destruction

         has taught us nothing. Greed

         made us sinners. Our knowledge

         did not show us how to love.

We were bewitched. (1)

We are lost in the jungle, living

with lizards and scorpions;

fighting lions and crocodiles.

We planted no flowers, read no poetry,

         ignored Rabi’a Balkhi

         when she told us to clear our robes,

         disdained the environment.

We were tricked by demons, caught

in passing spells.

We exchanged doubt

for disbelief, honour

for confusion.

         The wind blew where it wanted.

Perhaps the answers were hidden

in a cave somewhere, we found only

dazzling lies.

         In each of us is a rainbow –

         we were blind to the light.

The world was alien to us,

we poisoned it, rather than

try to come to terms

with a realm we disliked.

         We were caught in illusions,

         enchanted by rank,

         taunted by lust.

         We were dynamite

         waiting to be lit. (2)

Dimly through our dreams

we saw rainbows shining

across a glittering silent lake.

We thought they were an illusion.

We let the deer run free …

they never came back.

         We were too busy talking

         to hear any answers,

         and too afraid of the noise.

The maps were wrong,

we trusted them even though

they led us to islands covered with scorpions.

         We made offerings, and wore turbans,

         but never listened to the sermons

         or believed in the wrath of God.

         We followed evil winds.

We ignored the rainbow.

This should have been an age of wisdom,

when all men would live in peace.

We should have been saints,

we should have unlocked the mysteries

of God’s love and human endeavour.

         Instead, we watched the forests burn,

         the map of wisdom fall to pieces

         in the swamp, and listened

         to the hidden delights of sin.(3)

Did we fail, or were we

tricked? We laughed

as the light of conscience faded,

we were lost

on the endless sea.

         Over and over again

         we whisper:

         what

                     did we want?

         what

                     have we found?(4)

Kuala Lumpur

October 1-11, 1988

1. The stanza starts with the personification of angry mountains to suggest nature retaliating from the destruction that we have wreaked upon it. The persona uses “the map” because we always try to make sense of our violence in the process of modernizing and urbanizing that brought environmental degradation around us. “One terrible century of destruction” is referring to the 20th century that witnessed the two most destructive wars in human history (World War 1 and World War 2), but ironically, it is futile as we continue to be indifferent to the damage they caused, as “Greed made us sinners” and the knowledge we gained is only to satisfy our intellects rather than taking into account the wisdom within it to vitalize our empathy and spirituality. 

2. The “jungle” symbolizes the chaos we inhabit after rejecting beauty and culture by failing to “plant flowers” or “read poetry.” This loss of harmony has reduced us to mere survival. The mention of 10th-century poet Rabi’a Balkhi highlights our indifference to moral guidance, ignoring her warnings to clear the “robes” of sin, which has distanced us from purity and disrupted the environment. Humanity is seduced by worldly desires—greed, lust, and hollow promises of modernity—leading to moral decay and uncertainty, while nature remains steadfast, indifferent, as “the wind blew where it wanted.” The answers may lie in history, “hidden in a cave,” but we choose comforting lies over confronting truth. The “rainbow” represents our innate beauty and diversity, tragically ignored due to greed and fear of the unfamiliar. Caught in illusions and enchanted by status, we have become agents of destruction, waiting for a spark to act violently.

3. This stanza explores humanity’s disconnection from nature and spirituality, capturing both fleeting hope and tragic failure. It begins with a dreamlike vision of “rainbows shining across a glittering silent lake,” symbolizing peace and harmony as well as a potential for renewal and coexistence with nature. However, humanity tragically dismisses these as mere illusions, reflecting a lack of faith and rejection of opportunities for change. The imagery of letting “the deer run free” but never seeing them return signifies the loss of innocence, grace, and balance in nature—something precious that cannot be reclaimed. Humanity’s fixation on superficial noise is evident in “we were too busy talking to hear any answers,” emphasizing self-centered distractions that drown out meaningful resolutions. Yet ironically, we fear this “noise,” avoiding truths that demand uncomfortable action. The “maps” symbolize flawed systems or ideologies humanity clings to, even as they lead to harmful outcomes like “islands covered with scorpions.” The stanza critiques hollow spirituality, where “offerings” and “turbans” are mere rituals without true faith as we never “believed in the wrath of God”. Humanity follows “evil winds” of greed and temptation instead. In a tone of regret, the poem reflects on what could have been—peace, wisdom, saints—but laments how humanity instead succumbs to destruction and “the hidden delights of sin” of greed, lust and power.

4. The last stanza carries a heavy sense of reflection and remorse in existential questioning. The form in the stanza is fragmented, like “what / did we want?”, suggesting a hint of confusion and fractured thoughts, as if the pieces of a puzzle are scattered. The repetitions at the end emphasize the cyclical pondering on what does humanity actually want in this world. The metaphor of getting “lost on the endless sea” encapsulates the whole poem as we recount losing directions and becoming adrift in the violent, endless sea of modernity.

Conclusion

The poem encourages the reader to ponder upon our conscience, as we let destruction keep occurring in our world. As it explores humanity's flaws and disconnection with nature, the poem is also hopeful, in a way, that it hopes we ponder enough for us to take actions in order to transform and heal our natural surroundings.

I touch its earth and feel the warmth

of the elds of Belimbing; the grass is as familiar

as my own beared. The waves roar

like buses racing to Subang; the wind sighs

like a woman in love. And sometimes these poetry festivals

remind me of the Kland Bus Station.

Sematan, half awake half asleep, warm

with smell of human bodies, restless

when sudden storms strike, a community –

sometimes brave and sometimes afraid.

I cannot keep what you offer me, but

I will come again – the sad turtles

on Talang-Talang Beach, the hornbill dance

of Kampung Pueh, the talk of poetry, the jokes,

our late night conversations drinking coffee beside the

bridge …

No, all I can take are a few shells, to small

wooden shields, a copy of the Hikayat Nikosa,

the memory of a smile, an inviting glance, a few secrets.

If I do not return, Sematan will merge

with another island on the mainland,

we share the same past, the same memories,

the same treasures. If I do return.

in answer to your call, Princess of Santubong,

it will be because I love you, I miss you,

it will be because I am unhappy with that wilderness

they call ‘civilisation’ over there.

Thank you, Sematan, for reminding me

how beautiful Malaysia is, how vast.

How gentle. I am still a man

who has much to see

and much to learn.

Sematan, Lundu, Sarawak

Each day opens new wounds.

Trapped in the cage of everyday activity,

he begins to prefer silence,

to listen to its voice, to feel

its soft skin.

Those things he has loved,

and remembers, have gone.

There is a beauty in nostalgia,

there is a wildness in the world.

Sitting at a stall near the bus stand,

it is himself he waits for. He hears

voices, not all of them easy to understand,

not all tell him the truth about himself.

The room has waited all day

for him to come home. There is no one

here. The walls. Boards on the floor.

Somewhere else in the world

an aircraft has crashed. He wonders

what it would be like to die.

He knows how hard it is to live.

It has taken him a long time

to begin to understand

experience. It is easy

to forget. The past,

a man’s precious memories,

are nothing

if he has no time for them.

Sometimes he would rather

lose his pen, mislay his glasses,

than force himself to read and write.

The stuffy room, dirty singlet,

scattered books, unread newspapers,

provide no welcome

to a lonely man

In a jungle

to the south of the cruel city

he built a mosque

and a school,

he taught men

to be holy,

to be patient,

to endure,

to survive pain,

he taught them

what their ancestors knew.

Each month

brought new dangers,

he was questioned …

abused,

his cupboards ransacked,

his pupils beaten.

He learnt

to be strong,

he learnt

what his ancestors knew.

His secret antenna

brought messages

of hate and pain.

The city in the north,

the city of lies,

was filled with snakes.

The seasons changed,

he suffered

and grew old.

He knew that one day

his life would fall

to the axe.

But in the years to come,

decade aer the decade,

the mosque and the school

would stand firm,

would teach the young

to live with dignity.

He slept, dreaming of sleep,

his robe beside him.

Each day he woke

full of energy …

a free man

The sailed the same ship

and felt the lash of the sail together;

terried, they swore to be comrades-in-arms,

no matter what should befall them.

Once ashore, their friendship

made them more aware, happier,

and more cunning.

Time changes everything,

brings new challenges,

set their nerves on edge.

One twilight, a tree

fell across the jetty. Neither man

said a word. Both

lost faith in each other.

If he does not respect

the facts, he will not respect

me. Appearances can be deceptive.

Their friendship shattered

like the broken jetty.

They became careless.

Indifferent. Blind.

They once sailed the same ship.

Now the boat lies burnt on the beach.

He had loved her for so long,

that he could not forget her now.

Experience brought pain,

the memories made him restless.

It was not easy

to be strong. The raft

of their lives was still tethered

to the shore. The coals

still glowed brightly.

Then, one day, he found the strength

he had been searching for. He realised

the relationship had been of no consequence.

Neither its beginning

nor its end

had been important.

Had he never met her,

should he die tomorrow,

would make no difference.

His long suffering

was over; it had all

been a matter of chance

mere fate; beyond his control,

what is man, that God

should be mindful of him?

A cold rain falls across Jalan Ampas,

flowers drop wearily among the long grass,

the sky is scarred with pain. Wearing

sandals, a long shirt and sarong,

his hair combed back from his forehead,

he pushed his chess pieces between the broken

squares of his films. We hardly noticed him,

we thought he would soon be forgotten. The pieces,

like timid dear, are secure

in their settings. We can still hear

his pocket-watch ticking.

The drains from Jalan Ampas

to Hulu Kelang

have gathered much rubbish,

but his work has not been forgotten,

he was more than a simple countryboy.

He gave meaning

to our hills and vallies,

he believed in our culture,

helped in grow, and

waving it like a flag before him

stormed unknown heights, 

he has gone

and we are everywhere aware of him,

we are everywhere aware of him

because he has gone

his death is our misfortune.

It is hard to tell

whether his passing is a tragic comedy

or a comic tragedy,

or both together.

Running between Azizah and Baidah,

“The Grizzled Bachelor” and “The Man with Many 

Wives”,

matured, “Caught Between Two Worlds”,

his memory sometimes startles us,

late at night … when we remember what he looked like,

his spirit, the rhythm of his songs,

the innocence of his laughter –

these remain

in A. Sattar’s dreamy tangos

in Mustarjo’s silat movements

in Saloma’s gentle sway

in Latifah’s haunting smile.

His worth and dignity are gathered like jewels,

his jokes were like treasures, cargo

carried on the boat of his soul –

sometimes when we laugh

we can hear his heart beat,

sometimes when we cry,

we can feel his songs around us.

We owe his so much.

Our lives are filled with the stories he told,

a man in patched trousers

and faded check shirts

climbing impossible hills. He tried,

he struggled, he believed in himself and

never deliberately hurt anyone else. He

never gave up.

He was a brave sad crow,

a guitar threaded with history.

an unfinished legend, a man of art

who lived in the lonely jungle.

He died a simple death

in the blaze of twilight.

Praise the Lord

he never stole

from the state;

no, he gave us

our heritage

and our dignity.

Now that he has gone on before us

we can begin to appreciate

what he left us,

he has gone

and we are everywhere aware of him,

we are everywhere aware of him

because he has gone,

his death

is our misfortune.

We owe him so much.

Hey, brother Mar! This is my fourth shit,

its full of blood and muck. I’m tired.

My piss is red. I fell over once,

what a mess, you should see my jeans.

And I’ve still got that pain in my chest

… Hey, Mar, can you hear me or not?

Hey, brother Hain! I can hardly shit,

what a pain. The can is broken in three places,

the floor is covered with muck,

its a wonder I don’t have worms.

I’ve run out of money. And I’m miserable.

… Hey, Hain, can you hear me or not?

Brother, lets send dysentary to our M.P.,

make posters, draw handbills full of fire, 

write memos, circulate stinging letters,

let the people speak! Tell him

Mar and Hain have nothing,

we sweat for each dollar we get. O.K., Mar?

Sure, sure, O.K.

We’ll send him scorpions with iron pincers,

one from you and one from me. We’ll shout:

“Thank you, noble leader,

for our nation’s debts, especially

as you’re not the one 

who has to pay for them. O.K., Hain?”

Sure, sure, O.K.

We’ll send him king-sized centipedes,

one from you and one from me. We’ll scream:

“Thank you, we know you’ve enjoyed

playing games

with our national resources. And even more thanks

for the way you made it all sound legal.O.K., Mar?”

Sure, sure, O.K.

We’ll send him poisonous snakes,

one from you and one from me. We’ll say:

“Thank you, wise leader,

for our burdens. We’re glad

your children can dine in Taipei,

Zurich and the best hotels. We are

only poor squatters. O.K., Hain?”

Sure, sure, O.K.

“I’d like to thank the forces of history,

for tearing down our hills,

polluting our rivers,

and ripping down our forests,

for sending us ravaging tigers

and the scourge of disease.

“Thank you, history, for being with us.

The vallies are restless now,

the rivers and seas are angry,

the kills cry out in pain.

We can hear them protest

at the way our clever leaders

have oppressed us, and brought us low.

“It is time everyone knew

who ruined the land,

who took out the loans.

We need to know

where their money came from,

how much they earned,

how many shares they bought,

who sold them their land.

It is time to tell

who bled, who lied,

and who will pay for it all.”

I

It is twilight. I pause in my search.

There is something I need to confess.

Proud questing eagles wing their way

over the Keningau Mountains.

Banks of cloud

scud across the darkening sky.

I want to talk about the past;

I’m not sure if I’ll get it all right.

Once I found a pair of your old shoes

hidden under the stairs,

and a piece of poetry you tried to destroy

because I wouldn’t tell you

where I was during the week

of the Natrah Riots.

It wasn’t something I wanted to talk about.

You listened to Farid-il-Atrash instead. We

wrestled, argued, wrestled and argued some more.

The boat landed on the beach some seven times

that night, I recall.

We were each feeling sorry for ourselves.

I wouldn’t tell you about Confrontation

either. What a fuss you made.

The secret boxes I took down to the bridge,

still locked, as the seagulls sang over the water.

I watched the eagles cling to the clouds

and the sky slowly turned blood red.

We became more sullen after that, didn’t laugh

as much any more. Your eyes were full of fire,

I spent more time at the surau.

Perhaps you were a questing eagle, while I 

was a restless cloud. Perhaps we were both 

forests, full of mystery.

Two bushes able to flower

only outside the house.

You didn’t want to hear 

the real story. You said

the truth was never settled

as far as we were concerned. 

The truth – your father died

at Tanjung Pagar. your grandfather vanished

somewhere on the straits of Malacca. Your mother

and grandmother died at Simpang Renggam. While

your great-grandfather was an orphan.

The only struggle you were interested in

took place in the bedroom.

You sang marvellous songs

on the hill of dreams,

magic touched the clouds

and fell like dew in the night.

The next morning, I would

search for meaning

in the mist on the mountains.

I wanted too many different things.

You weren’t interested in politics.

You called me a dreamer. You wanted a boat,

with a tall sail. You forgot about the rudder.

You wanted a flute. You wrote the music.

You never asked who would sing it.

You hid the keys.

There were times I felt stifled.

I wanted more than your love.

You were happy with what we had.

Your demands oppressed me,

afraid that the fire within me

would be refused to ash.

Somehow, as I grew older,

it got harder to talk

about love and loyalty.

There were thorns in the forest at night

and I bled, the past constantly changed.

I felt trapped on Noah’s ark,

with wild beasts rushing all about me.

Things change, I said, you can’t trust

the truth. You didn’t believe me

and you didn’t care.

There was anger in your eyes,

so I stayed further away from you.

You didn’t want the real story.

I took your shoes and my poem

and went back to the ark.

I flew the flag

but sailed without a map.

I was lost

in the incense.

I told yo the letter you found

addressed to the widow with two plaits

(you said her name was Roekiah),

wasn’t mine. You laughed.

(I went to Perkins Road on business,

not to see a woman. That sort of thing

was for the young. I was eating, as best I could,

at the stalls near Pasar Minggu. I was waiting

for a leader to emerge. So I prayed,

worshipped God, and stayed true

to our love. I heard them whispering

about “Independence” in the old Council rooms.

I saw the storm coming. I heard the Tunku, 

Burhanuddin and Doestamam talking. I was there,

the First Congress.) We wrestled,

argued, wrestled and argued some more.

We forgot the moon outside our window,

we forgot the slow march of history.

Instead, we wrestled, argued, wrestled 

and argued some more. When the storm broke,

and the windows shook, we were stunned

by what happened after the Riots.

It was terrible to treat a girl like that.

The letters I sent to you from Keningau

still sit beside the vase. The purple orchids

I bought on the third day, after the storm,

still dance in the wind. Do you remember the Theatre Royal?

the men with their cigars, the women with their betelnut?

I marched with the others in Minto Road,

carrying pictures of Muhammad Abdul Wahab

and posters of Heer Ranjha. I wasn’t

in bed with some widow. (We gathered in Perkins Road

to defend the honour of the Malay community. I loved you

too much

to waste my time with such nonsense.

A policeman knocked me down.

Perhaps he said something about things changing

and no one knowing the truth. Perhaps

he said something about commitment. 

“Who was she?” you wanted to know. “Who? Who?”)

I forgot all about you –

your father, your grandfather, your mother and your

grandmother.

A policeman knocked me down, in Minto Road.

Not Leela Chitnis. Not darling Roekiah.

(I went to defend the honour of my people.

We surprised the British that day.)

Things changed after that.

I can remember just by looking 

at your shoes (made by H.M. Ali),

changed a lot. Perhaps it was the War.

The broken houses, the families destroyed,

the holes in Desker Road,

dead men and animals along the footpaths,

the sena trees and the funerals. We lived

by the marshes and scrapped rice

from the barges at Kallang.

I still have the wounds.

I could hear you laughing (with your new husband?),

while I, restless and uncertain, read pieces

of an old poem you liked. Bidasari?

Siti Zubaidah? I imagined the widow’s plaits,

that you knew so well. I prayed.

And felt guilty for not loving you as I should,

for not having told you

about the Natrah Riots.

I am a man.

I have suffered.

I have a right to my secrets.

I hid your shoes under the stairs,

left them to the spiders and the lizards,

and went back to my dreams

of a Black Crow come from Acheh,

armed with a long golden dagger.

I was confused, angry, bitter …

because of the widow? or, maybe,

because of my part in the Riots?

Am I making this up,

or was it all true?

As I turn the pages of my poetry, 

searching for a familiar voice,

I find a piece of blue paper

touched by your lipstick … perhaps,

with a trace of your eyeshadow. I was worse

once Confrontation started. The windows

seemed to shake. The Tunku and Soekarno

shouted at each other as the Archipelago burned.

We were married before the War. It was

hard times. Our feast was rice, yam and bread.

But in the dark shelter we enjoyed the secrets

of the night. I could see your feet.

As the bombs screamed around us,

drops of dew formed pearls

for your neck. You smelled so good.

I was a good sailor, lost in my dreams,

and the harbour was always here, waiting for me.

We were patient children of the night,

we prayed to Allah, we cared. We made love,

then prayed side by side. Sometimes,

we wrestled, and argued, and wrestled again.

When you showed me the photo of the widow, 

I didn’t know what to say. I was tongue-tied.

Bombs fell around me. The B-29s seemed to thunder

overhead. I was caught in a seething cauldron.

You had the boat. You had the sail.

You closed the door. When I opened it,

you were gone. I felt as though

a bomb had exploded in my face.

We had come from different worlds.

Different backgrounds. Different histories.

With different ideals. Uncertain memories.

Been wounded in love. Sometimes we cheated

when we played chess. We pretended worms

were pythons. We were too full of ourselves,

too stubborn. I thought too much,

you thought too little. I had too many secrets

which were never really secrets. You always

threw the key away too quickly. Imagine,

they call you “Lady” now!

We splashed some colour on the world,

and the walls around us, we forgot the war

and the people it killed … we were sane,

and mad, often both together,

we forgot about shoes, bad poetry,

and the children we never had.

I was born in Aljunied, you in Kampung Gelam,

we met in troubled times. The nation was divided,

I no longer had a map to follow.

Malaysia is independent now.

I keep your shoes, my poetry,

and hope for better days,

try to remember the good things,

the fun we had,

ignore the storms and the rattling windows,

the trees on the Keningau mountains,

I know I loved you, so why

do I still feel guilty?

Why does it hurt

to think of you married to someone else,

and your three children? Proud eagles emerge

from among the clouds. I envy your confidence,

and your certainty. I’m sorry the truth

seemed to change so often. I guess there is no point,

any more, in talking about the riots.

I’ll close the door. Perhaps when you open it,

I’ll be gone. I’m old now.

I am a man.

I have suffered.

I’ve lost my way.

II

I know you suffered. I never left you.

You were a good husband. I knew

you took part in the Riots.

You were always too much of an idealist.

I’m not a “Lady”. The three children

are ours. I was the widow

with the two plaits. Have you forgotten?

You proposed to me.

You couldn’t change history.

You loved the colours on the butterflies’ wings,

and the butterflies still live in the forest.

I was happy being your wife …

it was all I ever wanted.

Let me pray by your grave:

Al-Fatihah.

A teacher is a beautiful low cloud

pouring rain onto the parched ground;

touching the seeds of knowledge, bearing wisdom;

She is dew on the field of talent,

the conscience encouraging weary humanity,

the still centre in a world of turmoil.

A teacher is a shelter in a time of storm,

the past and the present come together,

offering solace in a time of troubles,

she is a gently flowing river,

bearing others in tune with nature,

her sails filled with the winds of virtue.

A teacher is a diligent seeker,

using the world as her lodestar,

providing the world with its lodestar;

she steers the boat, sets it free

on the rolling ocean, waits patiently

while her pupils dive for hidden treasure.

The teacher is roots in the ground, wings in the air,

a fresh mind, a pure spirit,

in a world where love seldom means much;

and just when we least expect,

she tells us we do not need our books

for we know all that matters.

A teacher is the heart of humanity,

a source of morality, a woman of faith,

the pure light which guides the  nation.

On er birthday last Friday

a scorpion bit her left index-finger.

Her weary eyes saw only soot

and ash. A world filled with sadness.

Sometimes the wild wind

drew back the blouse from around her neck,

revealing dead white flesh.

Such terrible sadness.

A woman of sorrow.

Her body tortured by old age

and self-pity,

she shivered for almost a week,

surrounded by centipedes, wind, and dirt.

A peaceful shanty town, full of grief.

A woman of sorrow.

Between her kitchen and the toilet block,

the shallow drain,

her future held a cake of soap, mud, and an empty

metal tin.

She stared at the black clouds, and blinked

at the number she could no longer hear.

She was deaf in one ear.

Large snails chewed

at the spreading pegaga herb

in the basket of her memory’

She had long hair and a big backside,

life was fun before the War,

until, one day,

a man unbuttoned her blouse.

She lost her head

and was no longer a maiden.

He lied, of course.

Love and history

clawed at her door

weaving subtle spells

“I remember the first time I saw you.”

Do you? Will you always?

She liked Sanisah Huri’s sentimental music,

and R. Azmi’s melancholy tunes,

the rhythm of the thorny jungle

soother her uncertain dreams.

Each promise seemed written in stone,

more definite, better able

to survive the light of day.

The bruises never hurt.

Four men failed her,

left her a widow each time,

in her shanty behind the railway line.

In time she imagined herself living in a block of flats,

with a nice garden, and a tiny pond

she laughed in the mornings,

thought of herself as a mini-bus

pulling off to Dayabumi

to earn herself some money.

When her child died

her life became a terrifying tale,

a tragedy.

Her lips grew pale,

her cheeks hollow,

she stood under the lamp

and no one stopped,

she stood under a tree

and no one cared.

She was no longer young,

she had lost four husbands.

She was a widow,

chained to her pain,

a lonely boat

drifting from Bidong to Langkawi.

She learnt to be happy

with a candle to light her room

and a skinny cat for company.

During the earthquake in Armenia,

last Friday,

she celebrated her birthday,

listening to R. Azmi and Sanisah

as the poison spread through her body.

A woman for whom night was day

and day, night.

In the darkness

men became animals,

animals became men.

She no longer know who she was.

There was no one she could trust.

One twilight, the neighbours

took turns to side by her side.

As they prayed, the fever reached its peak.

She shivered seven times

and vomited blood and slime.

The room was lined with newspapers,

the window squeaked, the floor was covered with

moss.

She coughed.

Gasped. Shook. And it was all over.

Beside her lay a half-empty plate of rice,

a broken book-stand, the ear-rings

she wore at her wedding.

and a photo of her only child.

No man would ever cheat her again!

“Jamban, jamban, jamban. Adun, Adun!”

Oops, sorry husband, forgive me. Keep dreaming.

The night is hot. I am old.

You`re still snoring.

I`ll shift your Koran-stand and your scarf.

Look at this singlet. Here are your glasses,

you were looking for them before.

Sleep to your heart content.

I`ll put them beside your beads.

I touch your arm, watch you for a moment,

and write something cheeky

in your open diary.

There are so many little things

left to do. But you know that, don`t you.

This house is full of many precious memories,

our love, our laughter, the things

we worried about too. 

Sometimes we pretend to be asleep,

just so we could feel the other`s caress.

teasing … and even pinching too!

They were good times. It`s amazing

how quickly you remember things

when you’re old.

Pity this tired old mattress!

We notice our birthdays more,

become more aware of death.

Our grandchildren still live in this swamp,

among the broken glass, rusty tins and rubbish,

the stink of cats, the endless quarrels,

and the pungent, familiar smells.

We’re happy, even though we don’t have a car,

a telephone, an ice-box, a record-player,

and we don’t have a machine to watch pornographic

videos.

Sometimes well, sometimes sick.

In the silence we often wonder

how well we have loved each other

and what we have really achieved.

Yes, my husband, we often think about

death, I mean … our birthdays,

and sometimes about death too, I guess.

“Jamban, jamban, jamban. Adun, Adun!”

Oops, sorry, I was blathering again.

I touch your arm,

smell its comforting sweat.

My throat hurts. My heart beats

too quickly. I want to cry,

for sorrow, and joy.

If you die first (if, I said),

I’ll remember you as a good wife should.

If I should go first, promise me

you’ll take another. I won’t mind.

Do you remember how we used to joke?

Hungry all night for love …

and thirsty all day;

I’d take off my blouse for you anytime,

you went around all day stiff as a board.

You men are all the same, I suppose,

the sun never sets …

“Jamban, jamban, jamban. Adun, Adun!”

Oops, sorry, I’m getting worse.

Late at night like this,

we used to stare at the moon, lost in our thoughts.

Sometimes you said I was a zoo, full of lions.

I said you were a museum that lived in the present.

At times you called me a market, full of spicy herbs.

I said you were a minibus … with a punctured tyre!

Then, late at night, just like this,

we would laugh and tease each other,

just like a couple of kids we were.

You were the lion, I was buried treasure

We would laugh and laugh …

it used to embarrass our children, I know.

There are a lot of men,

with no morals, no style

and no future … They pretend

to be pious, but they’re only interested 

in horses and hockey …

But you’ve always been a good husband.

I’ve been happy with you … Hush, sleep now,

before the dawn, before you rise for prayer.

At last we met again,

two old men – who had argued about love

read poetry together, prayed side by side,

debated theology and history.

I saw him in the Central Markets, his eyes

restlessly studying each passing stranger

– he was weary, his body tired.

There was much he no longer understood.

We ate at the Benteng food-stalls,

his hair tossed by the wild wind;

there was lightning in the air, he

was worried. From his pocket

he took a few sheets of crumpled paper.

The words were his –

tired, neglected and lonely.

The wind tossed his hair again.

We studied at the same schools

in the forties – Kota Raja, Victoria Institute …

we were young then, healthy and strong,

heroes on the playing fields, we

made some records between us.

We sailed on the same ships,

around the Equator, and met 

in Singapore, the Philippines,

and again in Malaya.

Then one night, during the Emergency,

just before Independence,

he vanished, without a trace.

His life was a tightly-shut door after that.

Everything seems the same now.

Almost. His voice is a little rougher:

“I can tell you my story

in just three poems.

Each man is a mystery.

Read them before you go to bed.”

Slowly, he began walking back

in the direction of the general hospital.

We passed through stinking lanes.

Beneath the light of an electric lamp

three dogs fought beside an overtuned

rubbish bin. Coughing, he turned twice

and waved goodbye. Then vanished

into the harsh rain and the cruel thunder.

As he opened his umbrella, I thought

of his three poems, the story

of his life. As the rain ran amok.

Later that night

I read his three poems:

“Hope”, “Old Age”, “Despair”.

Hope was the pain

of wanting love

and knowing rejection.

We used to joke about that

when we were kids. Old age

was falling asleep on the bus,

your head dropping onto some young woman’s shoulder

and being pushed rudely away.

Despair was carrying a torn umbrella

through a storm.

I don’t remember how late it was

when I finally fell asleep;

all I know

is that I dreamed

of umbrellas.