Poetry can offer consolation in the time of the coronavirus, said the Britain's poet laureate Simon Armitage as he penned the poem Lockdown last month.
As Singapore prepared to hunker down for the Covid-19 circuit breaker, The Sunday Times invited local writers to respond to the pandemic in words that could lift the spirits, serve as a sobering reminder or form a rallying cry. It received submissions from nearly 500 writers and publishes the top 10 entries here.
Each of the chosen authors will receive a one-night stay in a Raffles Hotel Courtyard Suite.
The hotel's general manager Christian Westbeld said: "Raffles Hotel Singapore has long played muse to renowned and budding writers alike.
"The refreshed Writers Bar and newly launched Writer's Residency Programme are set to reinvigorate the literary heritage that is embedded deeply in the Raffles ethos. Both play a part in our continued commitment to connect the past and present through the art of writing, while paying homage to famous literacy luminaries such as W. Somerset Maugham and Rudyard Kipling."
Diary Entry[hhmc]
I recognise the same nurse
behind the procedural ear-loop
mask: her eyes bearing
news I can read as well as her kindness.
The ventilator
I have taken selfies with
has been a friend of mine,
closer than any coronavirus
I hope will leave today,
along with the sedation,
that breathing tube,
body aches
and dreams of elsewhere.
This room has a window
with a view of other windows
to other lives
I can only guess
are freer than mine
for now. Even behind her mask,
I know she is smiling.
Negative twice in a row
is the only positive
result we need.
She nods. I want to hug her
but know I can't.
Then when she exits –
you'd think I'm crazy –
I turn to face the ventilator now
and give a grateful little bow.
CYRIL WONG, 42, is a Singapore Literature Prize-winning writer whose works include the novel This Side Of Heaven, published earlier this year.
Alarm[hhmc]
His motherland is far and his mother is further. Between him and her
there is a lack of signal, the overtime, the salaries missed,
the loans, the debts, the hopes, the threats that who he is is
to be dismissed. A matter of survival in the fight to exist.
"Stay inside, stay safe!" drowns his cries from a room with 12 others where
many come from the same place, and in leaving their family behind,
they become family here for one another. "Social distance"
is unknown to brothers who find their only comfort of touch in one another.
We thought we knew but we have only scratched the surface.
We walk on their bodies to claim our space in a land we call ours but
without them we have no land in the first place. And yet,
a riot and a virus are the only light shed on the struggles that they face. Those
whom we thought we saw every day, did we really see? To see is to search
beyond the rough hands and the dirty shoes, to acknowledge
not just the man who builds our foundations but
the man who left home to build a future for his children.
Now the alarm rings and we open our eyes. We donate our money and our time because
today we see for the "first time". But tomorrow, we say we have helped and once again
we close our eyes because to see that he suffers is a wound that runs too
deep. We wait for the next alarm to ring as we drift back to sleep.
SAVITHAA MARKANDU, 21, studies drama, applied theatre and education at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama in London.
Lockdown In Hell[hhmc]
Lim floated to his altar and picked up his entry pass to the mortal world. After a year of failed attempts at sending his regards to his family on the wind, he would be able to visit them for real this Qing Ming. He had spent the past few days planning his visit, ignoring the neighbours drifting past his door as well as the news.
At his touch, the yellow entry pass faded to black and disintegrated. Next to him, the communications wall lit up with a priority broadcast.
"Due to the large number of coronavirus deaths, the gate to the mortal world is facing massive strain," said the official Hell broadcaster, a ghost with bright red lipstick and a frozen smile. "All non-essential travel will be cancelled till further notice."
He jabbed the "off" button and began circling the room in frustration, until he saw the smoke coming from the wall of the room. It was an offering.
Through the smoke, Lim could see his flat in the mortal world. His heart clenched as his wife came into view. She pulled a lighter away from his grandson, who was holding the charred remains of a mask. "Aiyoh, Ah Boy, what are you doing?"
"Giving a mask to Gong-gong."
Lim brushed his fingers against the mask that had appeared in his hand.
"What?" She looked as if she didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. "Don't, it's dangerous."
"Teacher said everyone needs one," insisted Ah Boy, eyes bright and earnest in a way that brought a lump to Lim's throat.
Lim pressed his forehead and palms against the image of his wife pulling Ah Boy into her arms, but he could only feel cold stone instead of warm skin.
Sorrow flooded his body as he brought his fists to the wall, wanting to punch his way through. He pounded and pounded until he slumped in exhaustion. It was hopeless, he thought, and braced himself to ram his head into the wall until he lost consciousness.
Then he heard a rumble of distant thunder and looked up, heart leaping with hope.
Ah Boy ran to the window, stretching his hands out to the sudden downpour. Lim tightened his own fingers, trembling at the fleeting touch of a child's hands.
CHUA XIN RONG, 29, is a public servant.
Duty[hhmc]
(To the medical staff on the front line)
Sweat on my brow but I cannot wipe it
off. The mask that fogs my glasses
with warmth glistens on the dimple
of my lip but no one sees it slither
into the crevice of a silent mouth.
We don't know how long this will drag
on for, how many leaves will be cancelled, how many birthdays missed. Time
becomes the passage between two beds
and the hope that the patient still breathes.
My son misses me badly. He sits
at the dining table after washing the dishes,
waiting for someone to teach him
to count past 10, to tie a butterfly
knot so he won't trip over his shoelaces.
Mother turns up the volume, afraid
of missing out updates. New death tolls,
an increase in confirmed cases. She mutes
the TV immediately after, afraid of
hearing her daughter's name. When father's
cancer turned terminal and he came home
bald, I took the Hippocratic Oath
as an apology. I watched her wheel him
into the passenger seat of our sedan.
This time, ma, just sit back. I'll strap you in.
CRISPIN RODRIGUES, 31, is a teacher and has published two collections of poetry, Pantomime (2018) and The Nomad Principle (2019).
2 socially distanced mothers in a hdb playground[hhmc]
ah beng! you dun go so near to that kim cheong! dunno where his backside went –
i hear he still go for tuition corona until like this still can tuition what is his mother thinking ah?
lucky i got experience can help you with simi home-based learning so no problem one.
now you just play! play!
oi! dun run so far! come back! play around here, around here!
kim cheong! you oso dun go over there! that side not safe! that ah beng's mother mouth so smelly dunno what kind of thing their family eats.
must be they once pm make announcement run to ntuc type – now their house full of rubbish! you play with ah beng sure will kena morona.
maybe even corona they got still say other peepur! you see a bit siow-siow oredi means what.
come, cheong, play around here! around here can!
GWEE LI SUI, 49, has published books such as poetry collection Death Wish (2017) and humour book Spiaking Singlish (2017). This poem takes inspiration from Arthur Yap's 2 mothers in a hdb playground.
It All Depends On Your Perspective[hhmc]
I commute from the bedroom to the hall,
and end work with a backache every day.
I cannot cultivate my boss at all.
It's harder now to make my team obey.
I have to watch my children growing up,
and can't avoid expending time with them.
My electricity bill is going up,
and we're just getting crumbs from DPM.
I cannot get hold of my favourite food;
the restaurant might not survive intact.
So many problems seem to me systemic.
I know that we are fighting a pandemic,
but exponential counts betray the fact
not much of what we do is doing good.
I commute from the bedroom to the hall,
and earn two extra hours every day.
I do not have to see my boss at all.
He issues fewer orders to obey.
I do not miss my children growing up;
I take my breaks by spending time with them.
My bank account balance is going up
now we've got our refund from KLM.
I've learnt afresh how not to waste my food:
we eat potatoes with the skin intact.
We cannot eat outside, but that's systemic.
If not that we are fighting a pandemic
and news reports keep growing worse, in fact
I cannot help but think that all is good.
TOH HSIEN MIN, 45, is the founding editor of the Quarterly Literary Review Singapore. His poetry collections include Means To An End (2008) and Dans quel sens tombent les feuilles (2016).
What My Kids Said[hhmc]
January.
My five-year-old came home from school and said, Did you know the Wuhan virus is spreading?
February.
We decided to limit our excursions to outdoor places.
I love nature, said the five-year-old. This is boring, said the three-year-old.
March.
We ran out of nearby parks and found ourselves trying in vain to cook eggs in Sembawang Hot Springs.
We got used to Papa sitting in bed in his pajamas, On The Phone With The Boss.
The three-year-old dressed up with his sword and shield to go dragon hunting, then decided to work from home instead. Got virus mah, he said.
Red crosses mushroomed on seats overnight. You can only sit where there are no crosses, said the five-year-old. You can only sit on the crosses, said the three-year-old.
I told the five-year-old he would not have a birthday party this year. But why? he asked. I will only invite people without the virus. If they're wearing a mask, they have the virus, so I won't invite thRead More – Source
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