24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
These are my favorite kinds of mornings:
Gray dawn
Water on the air
Scent of wet dirt
Low clouds.
The thing about this kind of morning is that I could be anywhere.
If I sit still long enough, just sit in my own memory, you are there with me. You are always driving. My head is leaned back against the rest. We are both laughing, and I look over at you, and you are looking at me. Coy.
As if you know it won’t last, but you keep that secret to yourself.
The sight of raindrops soothes the nerves,
like the blissful smile of someone dear.
The petrichor of soaking pain down the earth,
To the parched and dead.
The feel of droplets pounding the bare skin,
Some bouncing back,
like the goodbyes of dear ones.
Some missing the hit,
like the unrequited love.
The sound of dropping rain, the first to greet.
Deferring the first sip of coffee,
Punctuating a book left open.
Evoking senses so heartfelt.
A sensation that yearns for more,
A thirst that satiates one and all.
Cleansing every part of body and soul.
It is a sustenance, a need of the hour.
How I miss the drizzles and downpours,
Like the love at first sight,
of a love so deep-dyed.
Snigdha
The day has been long.
And on the cusp of yet another,
Dawn will almost break,
But not my flagging, weary muse.
Though there are only street lamps,
And dark clouds marring my view
Of the beloved mountains on the North Shore,
I know I will see them soon.
So I have passed this final test,
Now let me put these last words to rest.
Another challenging 24 hours, I must confess,
My marathon is done and now, I convalesce.
© 2017 S Phua
A flower pot resides
next to my work station
Sometimes a flower blooms
with a red glistening texture
its subtle fragrance all over
Sometimes a thorn pricks
my conscience
its consequence all over
The crimson pot—
my muse
stays forever.
Is this what I really long for?
Not family nor even friends,
But only the many delights
Of the local cuisine back home.
From sock-filtered ‘Nanyang’ coffee roasted in margarine,
To the carefully produced nine-layered ‘Kuih Lapis’ cake,
And succulent chicken rice that’s pressure-cooked to perfection,
To the humble carrot (turnip) cake well fried in lard and black soy sauce.
All this I miss, and much more.
A glutton am I, no less,
The pangs of my hunger cannot be satiated,
Oh, that I would be able to partake of them once again!
© 2017 S Phua
The art is nothing
but a piece of life
incarnation
of beauty and love
The curves with the support
remind me of you soothing
touch yearning
for more.
-Snigdha
What do I see at my window?
I see birds playing and singing,
I see flowers trying not to wither,
I see you passing by every day.
And guess for whom do I look at
the window each and every day?
The lady in black,
A profile of superciliousness,
Her manner haughty,
Turning away in disdain.
Some may think Madame Gautreau merely demure,
Her manner just an artifice,
Instructed in this manner and artistic pose,
By Sargent, that society painter of superficiality.
And yet, this scandalous work remains his tour de force,
A masterpiece of portraiture.
Time and critical appraisal have indeed
Been kind to his fame. And her reputation.
© 2017 S Phua
I said all I had to say
Colour now erase the grey
Morning sun blazes creep
My eyes now heavy longing sleep
A journey now come to end
Blanket well in word you spined
Space
I’ve always been scared
of the space
I’ve seen myself
lost in its eternity
It was the thing you wanted from me
Blank and austere.
I was unable to survive
in the cold purlieus of your space
On the ebb of space,
there is space
and it will remain between us
forever.