Singapore Poetry Series

By Q.Y.

I. Storm 

Wild winds bring storm from the east, 

a black mass crawling slow 

across the Straits of Malacca. 

Batam and the ships beyond are swallowed 

Raindrop taps the balcony 

I turn, and the sky is clear. 

Where have they gone? 

II. Again 

Rain again, with heat in tow. 

I shut the windows, high and low. 

The dark cloud's herald finds a crack, 

and wails, and wails, and will not go— 

announcing what comes at his back. 

My bolted latch, it seems, delights his pride: 

Look—this girl I've scared again. 

III. Fallen Leaves 

Fallen leaves in endless summer 

shape no scene, 

no view. 

In the ditch beneath the gardenias, 

no quiet depth, no distant blue 

only rot, in darker hue. 

IV. Noon and Dusk 

Noon light through glass upon my desk, 

Heat— 

shimmer rising, fuming, wild. 

Heat— 

all things annoy. 

Dusk wind pushes me to walk. 

Turning an unusual corner, 

on iron rails a purple flower climbs, 

so small— 

adorning the sky, 

so small— 

making me pause. 

Warm wind lifts my hem. 

Perhaps, I'll give summer a chance.

V. Half a Biscuit 

Last night I left half a biscuit on my desk, the one I keep to go with coffee. 

I wake—

ants have come from who knows where, climbing the nightstand, the desk, 

circling, circling the biscuit's edge. 

Thirty-one floors— 

the distance they left the earth behind

for a biscuit. 

For days the ants have troubled me, 

endless, two or three at a time, 

hunting the biscuit I already cleared. 

I press them with my fingertip, 

then gather the small black dots. 

Looking up, 

one ant walks among the dots, its antennae brushing, perhaps, 

the crumpled bodies of its kin. 

In its world, is this grief? 

How does it find its way home from here? Does fear linger in an antenna's touch? 

No— 

this one walks on, 

still searching for the biscuit. 

VI. Spring Breaks Out 

For no reason, 

I opened a hometown verse. A cicada-wing-like petal flies from the page, champagne-hued, 

a pink that comes and goes, its fine veins lit with life. 

In burning summer, 

spring breaks out. Well then. 

Well then. 

VII. Basement 

Something hooked in the air 

tugs at my lower lid. 

The basement floor shifts after long silence, no—it is sinking. 

After long silence it writhes, it breaks, some rising vapor 

tears the thinnest skin across my chest, trying through the crack to return below, to find itself in dark, burning fever.

How did it come to this— 

till I curl in the soil, 

till I walk alone in a pale, white rain, 

till I seek a corner 

to hide among the faces turned toward me, till I drown beneath my skin with the sharpest music I can find. My heart is like a street at dawn, 

dazed, full of lost people. 

The vortex turns, and turns, 

takes the dust and dirt of the world, 

but takes not numbness, 

but takes not homelessness.

热带集 

新加坡七作 

一、暴雨 

狂风带着暴雨从东方来， 

黑压压一片， 

自马六甲缓缓前行。 

远处的巴淡岛与航道上的轮船， 都被雨蒙藏在了身后。 

滴答雨水先行敲响阳台， 

转头望去，天却大晴—— 

哪还有他们的踪影。 

二、雨又来了 

雨又来了，与热气一起。 

我忙把门窗上上下下关起。 

黑云的使者，还是找到缝隙， 呜呜呜地尖叫，昭告他身后之物临近。 好像我落锁的举动使他得意， 看呐，这女孩又被我吓到了。 

三、永恒夏日中的落叶 

永恒夏日中的落叶， 

拼不出什么风景。 

在栀子花丛下的沟渠中， 

哪有什么幽远宁静， 

只是腐烂的深色。 

四、给夏天一个机会 

正午的阳光透过玻璃照在我的桌面， 热浪形成烟雾似的光斑不停翻涌， 闯进屋内。 

炎热过量，一切都令人烦躁。 

下午，照旧走过巴士站的小道， 街角建筑的铁栏杆上， 

爬上一种紫色的小花， 

像是喇叭，又像绣球那样 

拥簇着天空，向阳光盛开。 

热风吹开裙角， 

我想，也许还能给夏天一个机会。

五、半块饼干 

昨晚剩了一半饼干在书桌上， 

那是用来配咖啡的点心。 

一觉醒来，蚂蚁不知从哪里来了， 

爬到床头柜上，书桌上， 

围绕着，围绕着 那半块饼干周围。 

三十一层，是它们愿意为了饼干远行的距离。 

之后几天，我都被蚁群困扰， 

源源不断，总有蚂蚁两两三三， 

寻找早已被我清走的饼干。 

不忍心，但又不得已， 

我总得用食指碾死他们， 

再把小小的黑点放在一处。 

在抬头时，一只蚂蚁行走在密密麻麻的黑点中， 颤动的触角时不时好像在碰撞 

被我碾成一团的同伴。 

在他的世界里，会哀悼吗？ 

独行至此它如何归去？ 

黑点会在触角中留下恐惧吗？ 

不会吧—— 

因为这只还在行走的蚂蚁， 

似是还在寻找饼干。 

六、炎夏中蹦出了一片春色 

不知哪里来的兴致， 

翻开了漂洋带来的诗集。 

一片蝉翼似的花瓣从书页中飞出来， 香槟色的，似有似无的粉， 

透着光时，细小的脉络带着生命力。 炎夏中蹦出了一片春色。 

不错，不错。 

七、地下室 

空气里钩子一样的某物 

拉扯着我的下眼睑。 

地下室的地板在良久的沉静后蠕动，破开， 一些升腾的气节， 

撕扯着我胸膛上最薄的一层皮， 

试图通过地下室的裂缝回归地底， 

在滚烫的压力下找回自我。 

事情如何发展到了今天这一田地， 

直到我蜷缩在泥土之中， 

直到我独步在一片惨白的雨下， 

到我试图在面朝我的人群中找到躲藏的角落， 到我使用最尖利音乐盖过皮下的痛楚。

我的心就好像朝阳初升时的街道， 恍恍惚惚，都是迷茫的人。 

漩涡地里不停地转， 

转去凡杂的尘与土， 

却转不走离家与麻木。