So Many Things / A Short Book Review

So Many Things

There are so many things

I want to do but only with you

like watching the sea

so much time to kill.

There are so many things

we can be but only with you

I am everything

only in your view.

P.S.: Written in a half-drunk bout. Well, at least it has a rhyme scheme.

----

Currently reading "The Philip Yeo Story - Neither Civil Nor Servant". Now, where should I start? He is very focused on what he wants to do: creating jobs, by bringing in foreign investment with what I call "one-stop" industrial parks (Jurong Island and Batam are two good examples), and grooming local talents (him and his famous EDB, and more lately, the A*star scholarships - I know it, sex appeal sells! If you have seen his advertisement using a FHM model!). He is free-spirited, a law-breaker to get things done. And definitely not a typical local civil servant. He is just not civil enough. And a servant to our country he is, the way he always has his countrymen's interest in his heart.

Of Love, of Needs, and of What is beautiful...

Reading Cyril Wong's short stories collection, "Ten Things My Father Never Taught Me And Other Stories". Riveting. And perhaps, one only for the lonely soul. With residues of a not-so-quiet mediation with his past, his father, etc. There is no resolution, of course, contrary to the author's belief. The past serves as part of what we are presently; and naturally we are constantly reminded of that every single day of our lives, most of the time unconsciously, I realised.

Presently now reading the last second story in the collection, “The Vomiting Incident”, and was prompted to write this. One of the certainty in life that the protagonist un-learned was, I quote, “That marriage had to be founded on love.” There perhaps lies the incurable romantics in us all. It began with the “happy ever all” symptom you inherit from fairy-tales. In this short life, there are so many things we want, or in other words, desires we want to fulfill. So much so that love (one of many desires) takes a back seat. So much so that love becomes as insignificant (close to null?) as it can get in a marriage, considering other needs, like companionship, financial security, etc. Of course, this is just an erudite guess - none from personal experience, apart from what I observed between my own parents.

Then again, I may be missing the point. An air ball, in basketball term. For at least at one point in his life, the author believed in love in marriage. And I believe, at another different time somewhere in the future, he may look back at his childhood and suddenly remember one precious day, in their own little way, in a short-lived, private moment, one tiny glimpse of tenderness exchanged between the parents.      

==

Our Story

Everything is much more reasonable

because beauty cannot last
and is vulnerable.

Or what cannot last and is vulnerable

is beautiful.

And this is our story.

Ann Ang's Bang My Car

Local writer Ann Ang's first collection, "Bang My Car", is a literary form defined as micro-fiction. I must confess I haven't read any of such books or pieces before then. The closest, I guess, would be Yasunari Kawabata's "Palm-of-the-Hand" stories, where less is more. Going by my reflective disposition, I found that intriguing, where mind-wandering is rewarded, and most things are suggested.

A first for me is this: it is written in an exotic language. For the uninitiated, there is a now-famous local vernacular called "Singlish",  a local version of the English language. Yes, you read it right the first time: it's written in Singlish - well, a noticeable portion of it. But why Singlish, you may ask. Well, I am no linguistics expert, but my guess would be that it's for "one-half authenticity and one-half tongue-in-cheek". But, I must say, this is risky business using language to flesh out a character. So, is the author successful in her portrayal? My verdict has to be a resounding "YES!"

It isn't difficult to notice how the book can be read both as a whole and in its each individual story - I think that takes considerable craft. The main subject of our discourse: Uncle. To have a better grasp of the author's definition of "Uncle", kindly refer to the second piece in the collection aptly titled "Uncle (n.)" - not a word more or less, pure and simple. And through the eyes and mouths of "uncle", the readers would navigate or "topo" (Singlish? I can't help it.) the psyche of the typical Singaporeans like a road map, their heartlanders' attitudes ranging from our island's short history, to the future, on family, western culture, crowded space, and even social politics. Some of the pieces, like "Imaginary Geographies of the Singapore Heartland", had me nodding in hearty approval. My personal favourite has to be "Drink More Water".

A largely satisfying ride indeed, of familiar sounds and sights.

The Beginning of the End of Empty Talks

Oops...I did it again (okay, that's crappy): I forgot my yearly book/poetry review this year completely...till now, that is:

1) Yoko Ogawa's "The Housekeeper and the Professor" (It's really a short charming work.)
2) Alvin Pang's "Other Things and Other Poems" (One of a few local poet I was impressed with this term)
3) Margaret Atwood's "The Handmaid's Tale" (Such wit! Such an epic tale!)
4) Tomas Transtromer's "The Deleted World" (He is a master verse-weaver. But I've to admit that sometimes the translation doesn't really work here.)
5) W.Somerset Maugham's "The Painted Veil" (W.Somerset Maugham is a master story-teller. Period.)
6) Sylvia Plath's "Ariel" (I remember reading some of her earlier poems, and failing to grasp them. But this one was perfect.)
7) Boey Kim Cheng's "Clear Brightness" (his interview in ST just came out today, and I am still reading his book. He is, if I may say so, one of our best poet.)
8) Alfian Sa'at's "The Invisible Manuscript" (He is utterly underrated. I held on to his every word like my own breath.)

If I may, below is an excerpt from his "6 Notions of Intimacy":

2. (small undated voice)

Bored as hell you were.
In your school uniform, 
in that cubicle sitting on the lid
waiting for footsteps, penumbras,
tricklings, coughs. You
started reading the erotica
of vandals and between
"I never cum so much in my life"
and "It was so big and juicy"
you spotted, in faint ink:
"He never loved me."
You're still not sure
what made you think:
"Then I would." What made you
run out of that toilet haunted
by the idea that in all the times
you let a stranger unzip you
with his teeth or nervously
kiss your appendicitis scar
you had never allowed anyone
(this handwriting, untidy,
a left-hander?) come 
that close to you.

- Alfian Sa'at

-----

For the record, I am pathetic: I wrote all of nil book review in 2012! Just couldn't put fingers to keys. Still thinking of writing something about Ann Ang's first collection of micro-fictions, "Bang My Car" (yes, the "Ang" family has a published writer among us! Not just a pompous blogger like me.), and reviewing "The Painted Veil". 

Hopefully this is not going to be just another year of empty talks. 
  

Novels You Must Read Before You Die

With the speculation of the end of the world swirling, I wrote this in no particular order:

1) "To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee (Having stand the test of time, this must be in the list...)

2) "The English Patient" by Michael Ondaatje (This type of novel comes once in a blue moon - or never again!)

3) "Spring Snow" by Yukio Mishima (I was telling my 16 years old nephew..."Read this when you are old enough...")

4) "Narcissus and Goldmund" by Hermann Hesse (No one wrote with the breadth and width of knowledge of Hermann Hesse!)

5) "Watchmen" by Alan Moore (No graphic novel matches this one, to be honest)

6)  "The Old Man and the Sea" by Ernest Hemingway (I still, to this day, remember some of the scenes, and I know calling up them would bring tears to my eyes.)

7) "Metamorphosis" by Franz Kafka (I swear Franz Kafka time-travelled!)

On the filp side, the list shows up I have not read enough truly good novels. I was telling a friend that I was starving for a good read; he could only blankly stare. Then on a sudden, W.Somerset Maugham's "The Painted Veil" came in sight after "Life of Pi" and "The Housekeeper and The Professor". Now, I simply can't put "The Painted Veil" down, literally. Not...one...inch. Of course, words, especially mine, are very often confounding or implausible in order to intrigue.

Just Another Update

I thought I could advise Mr Ng Boon Gay on his court case. No, I am no lawyer. And who am I to advise a former CNB chief? But, seriously, it is as clear as day that he is putting his family through hell. And it doesn't take a judge to disbelieve his words in court. For starters, it's beyond me to imagine that he had no knowledge of the abbreviation of Ms Sue's company when he signed his authorisation. His lies, may I say so, are simply too glaring. And mind you, it is only when you have something to hide, that you lie. So as I read the news report online, I can't help but imagine the legion of unlawful affairs he keeps locked up in his astute mind. I have to said that it is just a matter of time before he trades his proud uniform for white shirt and blue shorts. Might as well just get it over with, don't you think?

Say, does having sex in a car save you from being caught? Any answer out there?

------

I watched a number of great films recently, though Cold War (寒戰) comes out top easily. Tony Leung Ka Fai's performance simply took my breath away and alone is worth the ticket price. Another was Skyfall. Hard to imagine that it was my first James Bond's movie. You wonder if you have walked into the wrong theatre: no babe, no gadget except for a James Bond's exclusive gun. But it has valuable assets like a great plot and relevance. Indeed, the greatest enemy that every nation now fears is the faceless terrorist that "hides in the shadow". The world of James Bond has to change, such are the progresses in the sexual revolution (such a primitive phrase, don't you think?) and technology. I must say that the director / script-writer (s) has updated the James Bond's tradition pretty nicely.

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Two good novels to recommend: "Life of Pi" (the big-screen adaptation by Lee Ang is highly anticipated) and Yoko Ogawa's charming "The Housekeeper and the Professor". I especially enjoyed the latter.     

About the Self-Ordained Guru of Poetry, Cantonese Rock, Among Other Things

It seems like a long time since my last post. A few things in mind, apart from the normal stuff like fellatio, and more fellatio, of course.

On my reading front, I am savouring some of Alvin Pang's poems from"Other Things and Other Poems" and having some good laughs at Yann Martel's at times roaringly humorous "Life of Pi".

In the End
(an epitaph)

the things we love give back
our names. One handed me a
plain stone to carve into something
better. Another returned  the long
lost user guide to my left brain.
Someone passed a slip of paper,
my inscrutable handwriting
on one side, and on the other
in bright colours, the words
"I Want It All". Others brought
flowers - irises, daffodiles,
the soft unpeeled heart of a rose.
None of the clothes fit any longer.
I put aside the books I'd read,
and hadn't read, they took flight
as endless stairs, circling
beyond my years. But I loved
most of all the quiet Sundays, when fingers of rain
would write themselves
on the clear page of my window,
dying to tell me their stories.

- Alvin Pang

I must have mentioned before how a poem is like a words puzzle to me. The poet would put a mass of simple words together -  some are of the most unlikely matches - and a new meaning, most original, is born. Poetry is all about figurative writing or speech, depending on how you see it - I have to constantly remind myself of this while reading.

Just attended "The Guinness Arthur's Day Concert" despite not being a drinker, but doubt anyone has been banned from the concert for not being there to celebrate such a special day. But Paul Wong was awesome. I mean really, really awesome:



Alright, now for the juicy portion: now, now, I am really, really disappointed in you as the star witness for the prosecution, Ms Cecilia Sue. Those SMS that you claimed to have sent by mistake have done you in, really. I think you are going down with your "lover", after going down on him. Oh, of course, you know who I am talking about

Random Talk

Now, is he back tracking, no?

Saw him a stone's throw from Queenstown Stadium this evening, with a lady on a park bench, but what saddened me was the white stick, lit between lips, burning stamina. Personally, I think a professional footballer should breathe like a professional footballer - both on field and off field. Still, look forward to him turning up for Tampines Rovers.

On my reading front. Finally, I started reading Margaret Atwood's "The Handmaid's Tale". Margaret's wit is knife-sharp, and the story addictive. And I read some of Tomas Transtromer's poems from "The Deleted World"; he is amazing, I think:

A Winter Night (excerpt)

The storm puts its mouth to the house
and blows to get a tone.
I toss and turn, my closed eyes
reading the storm's text.

The child's eyes grow wide in the dark
and the storm howls for him.
Both love the swinging lamps;
both are halfway towards speech.

-----------

Which brings me to "The Amazing Spider-man". I still can't believe that I wasted my dough and precious time on it. Amazingly, it is a hybrid of a teenage flick (think "Twilight", but more empty-headed) and a B-grade horror movie (no, this is nothing like Gozillia) sold as an intelligent re-make. Perhaps it was the timing, having watched it after eights days of great films from the Japanese Film Festival: off the top of my head, "Under the Pink Sky", "Chronicle of My Mother" and "I Wish" were all excellent and poignant.

I found an exciting new running route from Queenstown Stadium to Labrador Nature & Coastal Walk, continuing to Keppel Island before ending at Mount Faber. And my new love: nature walk, from Bukit Timah Nature Park to MacRitchie Reservoir.

Not much writing lately really - all of four lines.

lean against time
comfort, not feeling
the world turn
on its heel.

---------------

Other scraps of poetry, mostly written on bus journeys...

How does one write
With heart? You see
The sparrows of Spring
Flap across the ocean
Of your page? You hear
The sun rises over
Your shoulders? Or the
God of words comes visit
To bark down at
The sound of your sighs?
---

Tell me what
Do you keep in
Sight? You always
Answer, the road
Ahead, the road
Ahead. But, why,
Why are you looking
Back, looking back?
---

From One to Another

Untitled

I shut my door to outside
world, it replies with silence

familiar hence comforting
like morning's bird songs,

and the inked heart
slips out of its cage

a little afraid,
then sings along

like chance meeting
of old friends.

----------------

CNY is at our doorstep. Time to look back? A boy in a Superman's suit flew by, fishing a $10 note from his poor father's rumpled palm to buy his favourite food from Uncle McDonald - that is, if he is here, or does he even exist? Nevermind.

Digression sufficed. We are made, hence live on beliefs. Such thin ices. The world will not end tomorrow; that is what we think. Moral and value corrosion - an-old-man's-weary-world speaks. Yet, mind you, I am no old man. Just feel so - every now and then...a door opens, and words inundate. Like chance meeting of old friends.

Say, is a prolonged sigh at this age a sign of sanity? Or what about feeling like a society outcast? Perhaps neither. Perhaps, one is where there is unfettered expression of one's soul. Art, poetry et cetera, or sports, are different channels. In poetry, you scrutinise your own mental movements; in sports, your physical ones. You are made more aware of your existence.

--------------

Nothingness

Feather-weighed,
Time-heavy
Nothingness moulded
Repetitively in the mind
Never stays, flees
Along lines of logic,
Leaving no trace.

It's nothing, really.
Let's see.

There are old dust
Which turn golden
In retrospect.

There are dark shadows
Crouching in doubt
From stealing light.

Only time moves on
And on, but nothing
Changes, really.

-------------------

Say, how does one mould nothingness? It's all in the mind. Poetry is beautiful, but ultimately, pointless...

I forgot my yearly book/poetry review this year completely...

mrdes's recommendation

1. The Lake by Banana Yoshimoto (The author is clearly in her element, deploying a deceptively simple use of language to lay out love and emotions in all their complications.)

2. The Shadow of Sirius by W.S. Merwin

3. They Speak Only Our Mother Tongue by Theophilus Kwek (This is a period of poems of a local flavour - a passing fancy?)

4. The Trial by Franz Kafka (A satisfying journey into a dream-like landscape sculptured by crafty language usage as words are colours for an eerie portrait of society in Kafka's hand)

5. Disgrace by J.M. Coetzee

6. The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

7. Moving Words 2011: A Poetry Anthology (Some of the poems here are just so right on the spot.)

-end-

I guess the list is kind of short. There are others, though for one reason or another, just couldn't sit with me: Leonard's This Mortal World (some of the poems here are just great; may just pick this up again), Damon Chua's Traveler's Tale And Other Poems (some of the images are just too abstract for me unfortunately).

Last, but not least, go watch "The Great Magician" if you haven't - the narrative is just delightful.

And of course, a very happy CNY to all!

Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things

In many ways, Arundhati Roy's first and only book to date reminded me of Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird". There seemed to be a bomb of raw energy bundled between the pages. A wave of emotions flowed through. I enjoyed the way the bricks of the story are put together piece by piece in the life of one vividly-drawn character to another, all intricately intertwined. The setting being in India makes this a difficult read. Not least India is a complicated, diversified country, with all the caste system, political instability, and the legacy of colonisation, namely Christianity. It's interesting reading how modernisation and new political ideas such as Marxist's communism gel with the general conservative minds of Hinduism.

The conclusion came later that only a true-bred Indian would be able to truly understand the book. The terrible sufferings in life can only be experienced, not taught or read about. As for the victims of this dark time in humans history, nothing can be more painful. Everything else pales in comparison; everything becomes numbed.

W.S. Merwin's The Shadow of Sirius

Like the saying, "old is gold", indeed W.S. Merwin's old head (New York City, September 30, 1927) contains some of the most delicate imageries and wisdom. It made me study his every unpunctuated line over simple words, to come away enlightened, on the edge of knowing fully his thoughts, and never gratified, always wanting more. Some of its best poems trapped me in each tiny capsule of emotions, before bursting into inexpressible light. The more I read, the more I think that the magic in each poem, or what makes them click, should remain as it is: unreachable, a secret.

J. M. Coetzee's Disgrace

Read Disgrace within weeks, and thoroughly enjoyed J. M. Coetzee's lucid use of language. I think J. M. Coetzee is able to explain the complexity of matters in simple terms, and that is the hallmark of a great novelist.

It came to me that reading a novel set in another country, especially one still warped in its atrocious past, doesn't mean that I would be able to understand its people - I could only sympathise with them. This is, of course, not a statement on the Nobel Prize winner's prowess, neither does it debase the Booker Prize winning novel. Perhaps, what's important about J.M. Coetzee's novels - another I read being the unforgettable "Life & Times of Michael K" - is that it brings his birth land's plight to the readers' attention, and as a result blessings are counted. On another hand, knowing we are all not so different, despite our skin colours and dwellings, knowing that some of us have suffered because of these, yet doing nothing, stabbed some guilt into this quivering heart.

Disgrace's South Africa is portrayed through the eyes of David Lurie, a fifty-two of years South African professor of English. He escapes to his daughter's farm in disgrace from a lecturer-student's relation's scandal, of its consequences he obstinately refuses to protect himself from. And it is during this self-imposed exile, through the humility of rural life, community work, and the lowest form of disgrace in having his daughter raped by a black gang, that he slowly begins to let go. This world, after all, is too complicated for any single man to fully comprehend, to pass judgement on, let alone, to tell another how to live.

I believe, and sense J.M. Coetzee believes too, that a man shall be broken apart, descended to the lowest point of his life, before he can reconstruct to become a better self.

Min Lin's Mining for the Light

Published in 1999, Lim Hui Min's rather thin volume and only poetry collection, is a rare treasure hidden in the sea of library books. Dipping in synesthesia, where everything can be interpreted in colours, Hui Ming was lyrical, genuine, and even funny in her take on the small details of everyday, from her friends, colleagues, boss, to her personal thoughts. A thoroughly enjoyable read.

P.S.: The cover is a rather abstract landscape by the late Chua Ek Kay (21 November 1947 – 8 February 2008), who actually used Chinese ink on paper, far beyond what I expected. Though I am no artist, it looks somehow like western art to me.

Uwem Akpan's Say You're One of Them

"Say You're One of Them" is Uwem Akpan's first collection of five short stories. He wrote in a simple style, from the perspectives of children in an Africa split by poverty, religion and politic.

I first glanced through a few pages of its shortest story, "What Language Is That?", at Kinokuniya bookstore, and was easily entranced. Perhaps, because it was only natural to sympathise with those children bearing the brunt of our world's atrocity, as friendships, families were pulled apart by riot or war, where more precious things were lost or abandoned in the short-sightedness of man. Yet, something was gained, for me, in the knowledge of those dark places, the resilience of children, and their incredible desire to survive.

In my personal favourite, "An Ex-mas Feast", about a family living in the slum, the father is a thief, his teenage daughter a street walker earning from white tourists, all determined to send the protagonist, a street urchin, to school. The story follows his thoughts, as the family struggles with poverty and he, with his pain for them and their sacrifices.

Hermann Hesse's Peter Camenzind

"In the beginning was the myth. God, in his search for self-expression, invested the souls of Hindus, Greeks, and Germans with poetic shapes and continues to invest each child's soul with poetry every day."

- Pg 1, Peter Camenzind by Hermann Hesse

Without knowing how to see nature in all its beauty, how does one claim to know poetry? Yet, we are all blessed with a love for nature, hence are poets at heart. I was enlightened - as one always does reading Hermann Hesse's work.

I had forgotten the opening paragraph after finishing the book. Then I searched the Internet only to find this and that this was Hermann Hesse's first novel. It was easy to see that its themes resemble those of Narcissus and Goldmund - the path to self-discovery, my favourite - though less polished and evocative somehow.

Again, Hermann Hesse scrutinised his character's life: the suffering, the grieving and the short-lived happiness and friendships. In the end, we are always alone.

Peter Camenzind is a mountain lad with a dream and a gift for the language. As a lover of nature, he is rare as a sensitive poet, yet as an outcast of the city's overwhelming pretentious, intellectuals' circle, he fails to fulfill his potential, resulting in his inevitable return.

In the process, Peter learns about the ugliness of humans, how they are no different from the plants, except for their pack of lies. Then, from caring for an invalid, as his saint, St Francis, had done, he realises - as I realised - how humans are creations of nature too, hence, to love humans is to love nature no less. This knowledge is perhaps more important to Peter's life than all the limited success his writing brings, for this is the essential of poetry or art.

P.S.: One reason I took so long to finish this review is the knowledge of how little I understand about art and poetry, hence my inability to express them fully in my own words - as in "I know, yes, or do I?" Another reason was that I came to know about another translation of "Peter Camenzind" and began to wonder if I really had understood the work - and would do justice to it - as even the first paragraph differs. In eventuality, I just did what I always do: just write what I read it as.

Cyril Wong's Below: Absence

This is the second of Cyril Wong's poetry collection I read. So, what drew me towards it? More of the same, I guess: the lyricism, the tenderness in poems so personal, and the Singaporean quality which I can relate to. The last point was vague at first, only now I see it clearly.

One thing about reading published poems is, I realised almost immediately how little I know: the forms, the line-breaks, the use and order of words so diversfied. I got an inkling that maybe Cyril Wong himself was experimenting too, as if he too walked in the dark, looking for the light, even though he could not know when and what he would find. But deep inside himself Cyril seemed to look, so his poems resonate with anyone who opens up enough to connect and read his thoughts.

Reading poems, I realised, can be a humbling, yet enriching experience: you push your "self" out of the way to dive into another "self", such is the intensity.

As in "Like a Seed with its Singular Purpose", some of the longer poems really stand out, like "grandmother", "guardian angel", "this calm" and "blueprint". "what we may call this" is one of the shorter poems I like:

Holding each other's gazes
like lonely hands across a field of dark,
we may call this love
for the crippling inability to define this,
as our solitudes rise and fall like wings
on a single butterfly,
each destination in time a gratifying flower.

I rated "below: absence": 4.5/5

Cyril Wong's Like A Seed with its Singular Purpose

I believe, for a poetry lover and beginner - which I am - he'd surely find this Cyril Wong's collection engaging, as his poems are personal and evocative, and at times, breathtakingly brilliant: think "for nusrat fateh ali khan". Then, there is that stunning "before the Afterlife", though there are some rather abstract pieces, like "if...else", which escaped my mind's grasp like greasy eels.

I rated "Like A Seed with its Singular Purpose": 4.5/5

(Extracted from "before the Afterlife": Cyril wrote of the wind chimes in the apartment he lives with his partner.)

For now, allow me to only imagine waking
to that subtle, glowing tune, or dozing

to its lullaby in the dark. When you are off to work
or not yet home, it would be a kiss deep in my ears

when you are not there - a lingering comfort, shiny
echo of feeling, the distant music of stars.

Gilbert Koh's Two Baby Hands

Now, I am inclined to compare the two poets, Brian and Gilbert, having read their poetry collections consecutively, but then they are just too different: the former lyrical and rhythmical, the latter imbued with unexpected thrusts of emotions and ironies.

Another thing about "Two Baby Hands" is that some of its poems ignited my passion in poetry again - was it two years since? - years after leaving school, as a reader of Gilbert's blog (readerseye, not mrwangsaysso), so inevitably there was some sentimentality in this acquisition from Kinokuniya.

Some online critics claimed that Gilbert's poems flow like proses broken into lines. My only complaint is their lack of poetic form at times. Some are studious, rather than wistful, snapshots of social (or Political? I often mix up the two) commentaries: think "The Schoolgirl Kills Herself After Failing an Exam", "National Leadership", "The Bureaucracy" etc.

Yet, all the poems felt like home, warm, cosy and close to heart - even "The Bureaucracy", as I am too "a cold hard part of a necessary process, repeating through the years repeating". As surely as the sun will rise, you will know straight off the nationality of the poet (from "Train Ride to Singapore", it seems that Gilbert is educated in Singapore, but born up north.). So long after, reading "National Day Parade" again still put a knowing smile to my face:

(extracted)
"That one is me," I said,
Pointing at the screen.
I couldn't be sure.
Still we laughed and clapped
Our hands like children,
Knowing that it was not
Supposed to matter

On the other hand, coming from a beginner-reader of poetry, in this way, Gilbert's poems may lack international appeal; I am not too sure an Englishman would truly appreciate them, having limited knowledge of our educational system or the fuss surrounding National Day parades. Having said that, most of the time Brian Patten actually traverses such boundaries, though he writes mostly about love, a universal language I guess.

Still, there are pieces like "Conception", "What I Didn't Tell You", "Without You" and "Warning to a Lover", to name a few, which are on par with some of my favourite Brian's love poems. Pardon me, it seems that Brian Patten has set the benchmark for good poetry.

My guess is that the poems in this collection which will live long in my memory would be those about family's loves and lives, such as "My Father Growing Old", "My Father Takes My Son For a Walk", "The Widow", "Apples", "Mondays", "Grandmother's Garden", "Family" and one of my personal favourite, "Durian". As kids, we all knew that "nothing made pa happier than to know that he'd picked a good durian for us." Now, this one surely the English will not get it.

Though I finished the read in a week of bus rides, I realised that everytime I re-read Gilbert's poems, something new seems to pop up. For that alone, it's worth a place on my bookshelf.

Brian Patten's Collected Love Poems

I picked this up from the library, based purely on the first poem "Not Only". I liked the repetitions of these two words, and the twist at the end. And I thought the poet was kind of different. Brian Patten's writing proves to be lyrical, moving, yet accessible - nothing too dramatic.

Brian's astute observations of love and its lamentations filled my mind for the past month. They stroll into the core of the affairs of the heart, melt any indifference, at times with an elegant ease. I felt my life enriched by his poems, no doubt, and almost regret finishing this collection so quickly. I wish I could see everything in the smallest of detail vividly and in its beauty, as Brian must have.

Cormac McCarthy's The Road

The Road is a truly gripping read, amid its profundity, difficult narrative and superior language usage. A post-apocalyptic novel with frightening, vivid images of deaths, desolation and desperation.

Father and son set out on the road across a charred, barren America. How long have they been on the road, what are their names? We never know. And where are they going? Away from everything, the madness, the man-eating commune. Yet, where can they go.

They have only each other to live for. The few people they meet, mostly they avoid, scavenging and drifting from place to place, living with dignity, whatever is left of humanity. Then, the end. The inevitable end. A gleam of hope. A new beginning. We don't need much to live for really, just tender, unconditional love from our family, and in return, our devotion to them.

I love the novel's last paragraph, almost like an afterthought. Somehow prophetic. As if Cormac McCarthy is telling us something that we should know, yet choose to ignore, or forget. The destruction of our world is real, if you heed his words.

The mystery of life lies in the things older than man.

P.S.: I suddenly realised how lightweight my review turned up, despite the meditation, the urgency in Cormac McCarthy's writing.