Radio Singapore

Radio Singapore

Radio Singapore

§
The words they use: perpetual summer,
endless growth, guaranteed survival –
as soon as there’s too much of anything,
your mind snaps shut, nothing stays natural.
 
Endless growth, guaranteed survival –
among so many flowers, loneliness:
your mind snaps shut.  Is nothing natural?
Copper light in the star apple trees.
 
Among so many flowers, loneliness;
some bloom for only a single day.
Copper light in the star apple trees,
torch ginger setting fire to green.
 
Some bloom only for a single day,
ribbed and veined like our own bodies.
Torch ginger sets fire to green.
Palms are fans, windmills, feathers.
 
Ribbed and veined like our own bodies,
all the trees are multi-tasking.
Are palms fans? Windmills? Feathers?
There’s garden and there’s its opposite.
 
All the trees are multi-tasking –
the labels they use.  Perpetual summer:
there’s garden and there’s its opposite
as soon as there’s too much of anything.
 
 
§
When the sun’s at its peak, what we need
is shade.  It makes squirrels of us all.
We are animal and contingent,
nosing down unfamiliar smells.
 
Shade makes squirrels of us all.
Tree roots are wily as crocodiles.
We nose down unfamiliar smells,
past palms with elephants’ feet and ears.
 
With tree roots wily as crocodiles,
this heat’s conducive to great stillness.
Up in palms with elephant feet, hear
insects beep like life-support machines.
 
In the heat, conducive to great stillness,
butterflies pretend to be petals,
the insect life-support machine beeps
while a beetle dribbles nectar.
 
Butterflies pretend to be petals.
The drongo displays his long black tail.
A dark blue beetle dribbles white nectar.
The turtles are always hungry.
 
A drongo displays his long black tail.
When the sun peaks, what is it we need?
The turtles are always hungry.
I too am animal, contingent.
 
 
§
You can’t hear what you’ve left behind
above the racket of birds, insects
and the endless static beyond                             
what you remember as silence.
 
Above the racket of birds, insects
illuminate the night garden.
All you remember is silence,
monochrome, a dream’s frequency.
 
Illuminated, the night garden
revolves around a banyan tree,
monochrome.  Don’t dreams frequently
replay old dramas of lostness?
 
Revolving round the banyan tree,
you negotiate arrival,
rewinding old dramas of lostness,
anchored by twisted aerial roots.
 
Once negotiated, arrival
fast-forwards into departure,
anchored only by aerial roots
or, on the wing, bats’ sonar instinct.
 
Fast-forward into Departures.
You can’t hear what you’re leaving behind:
on the wing, a bat’s sonar instinct;
endless static beyond listening.