Five Poems by
Cyril Wong
Sun
Slumbering hull of this beach
pulses in the afterglow
of human activity. Unable
to determine where light
is growing from, no longer do you
feel alone. Or maybe the idea
of solitude is now
unnecessary. Like saying
the shore feels alone, or the sea.
Am I still here, listening?
Forgive me, I forget. I forgot
how distant we can be
over time. You the stirring world,
I the invisible sun rising.
Fly
Spiritual eternalism is the belief
that what moves the clouds, ruffles the waves
and combs the high branches
will always be there. Materialist annihilationism
insists that air is all there is and never
peer beyond that which nearly sends a fly careering
into my open mouth against its will.
Either or. Neither nor. How did we get here
between one extreme and another
and how do we stay in the unspeakability
thought and feeling make impossible?
Almost impossible. Sometimes I get it,
I do. And like that stunned fly, against my will
and better or lesser judgement, I do.
Fire
On another walk down a different stretch
of beach, Heraclitus reborn is doubting
and pointing at the waters, before he squats
to pick sand up by the palmful, analysing
the invisible factory of every grain, finger
by finger. He looks up at a child shaping
sandcastles so close to the waves and laughs.
But this is post-pandemic, so crazy
has become par for the course. Nobody
notices for long when he turns away now
to gaze back at the horizon. No longer
laughing or pointing, as if the present world
has defeated and dimmed his fire, which
in his mind could still be the source of all things.
Shame
Shy, shameful
shameplant or mimosa pudica,
touch-me-not or maybe-
not-right-now, no shrinking violet
yet withdrawing nonetheless,
blinking shut bashfully
against prying fingers,
shutting it down temporarily
before unclasping
like eyes, purses, mini fans
or low to high tide
and possibly tsunami, longing
making lips or legs
unseal themselves and open.
Moon
Let us walk until we reach a restlessness
in every aspect. A longing for more
or less the same longing. Unmagnificent grandness
of a beach amassing leftovers from the sea floor.
Disagreement and conflict: crab and tern,
wave and sand, downpour and triumphant heat,
cyclist in the same manicured lane as pedestrian.
I argue that although incomplete,
passing harmonies stay longest in this country
here on the beach in our corner of evening
where men lock tongues under a tree.
Families have gone home. A guitar keeps playing.
Let us rest here on this bench and know
that rest is not eternal. A dead moon glows.
Cyril Wong is a poet and fictionist in Singapore. His last book was Infinity Diary, published by Seagull Books in 2020.