Body, Mind & Spirit

The body and mind, in mutual care,
Is full of spirit and spare;
Taken for granted or abused,
The spirit becomes canted and confused,
Leaving a vacuum state,
To be vied among a pack
Of impostors, pretenders and fakes:
- casting furtive glances at one's own shadow,
- cat chasing its own tail,
- grasping at straws,
- symbol-literate, significance-illiterate,
- chasing the shadow, overstepping the substance,
- seeing the mercedes, missing the diabetes,
- shallow waders, surface skimmers, depth-scared,
- barking at the wrong tree,
- failing to see the woods, or the trail, for the trees,
- stuffed on scandals, sporting navel-rings, shunning literacy,
- chasing the glitter, throwing the litter,
- muddying the rivers, cutting the trees,
- congesting the streets,
- adding to the clutter;
Of playing to pride, prejudice and ploy - in abundance,
Of harmonizing the body, mind and spirit - in abeyance;
Slowly, slowly weakens the body,
Slowly, slowly declines the mind,
Slowly, slowly shrivels the spirit ...

Then out of the lump,
Unfurls a clump,
Out of the kindling,
Fans a fire flaming,
Out of the detritus,
Grows a lotus,
Out of the matrix,
Rises a phoenix,
Out of the infernal,
Rises hope eternal -
Providing renewal -
A new trajectory
From its unfulfilled category
That was the human spirit,
Mind and body,
Back to its glory.

And God Created Women

And God created wimmin -
With apologies to Roger Vadim:
And that's when the troubles began
With eulogies to born-every-minute men -
Yes, men, as in male of the species -
For a reason stark and simple,
Pure and precise -
To put him through hell,
And send him to - well - hell.

Hell!

A woman is a vortex of colliding currents,
Driving a man, hilly-billy,
Willy-nilly in as many directions,
While the center of the vortex -
Woman - symbolized as serpent,
Reserves the right to remain silent,
Casting a look defiant,
Her face unsmudged,
Her heart - there isn't any - untouched,
Her posturing calculated,
To lure the man of the house,
Male of the species, master of none,
To do her bidding,
Disguised as her doing his bidding.

Dressed up on the periphery,
To tear the heart of the unwary;
To a woman, a man is a quarry,
Nature's agent to cull the
Sickly, miserly and needy.
Many a man will go through this sifter,
Succumbing to the age-old siren serenader;
Those who survive become strong,
Those who fall will hurtle headlong
Onto the pyre of self-immolating fire.

Verse, The Poor Cousin of Poetry

tbc

Verse is an illegal immigrant's street child
Giving the hard eye to poetry's Kikko-clad Japanese lad
Striding out from the local International School;
Verse is the poor country cousin to Poetry's urbane depth
and reach;
Verse is the manual drive to poetry's Auto Manual Transmission;
Verse is the flat dry plain to poetry's temperate mountains and valleys;
Verse is Mitsubishi's outphased Colt Gallant reproduced and rebadged as Proton's Waja,
While poetry is a OEM, Fully Imported, Limited Edition Mitsubishi Lancer Evo VIII 360;

My versical writing verges on poetry,
Sits on its fringe, in the shadow of its centre stage,
Talented kids perhaps imitating the superstar doing his
routine;

tbc

On Semi Home Exile

Since my retirement,
I've put myself on semi home exile,
The metaphor is a bit loose,
But is still valid;
I banish myself from main stream,
To escape the heat, the traffic jam,
The striving and strutting -
Chasing and being chased;
I put myself out of circulation
From the social circuit and
The climb up the social ladder;
I still go out,
Out of necessity,
But more and more,
I stay home, comfortabilist;
I don't go out to look
for a paying job, but stay indoors
Bending hearts, nurturing minds,
Not for the money
Which is paltry,
But to till a mind-field,
Theirs and mine;
I don't travel as much
As I would like to,
I don't go to a karaoke lounge,
Bowling alley, golf link,
Pub, club or study KK's nightlife;
I hate cinemas, claustrophobic;
I confess I enjoy shopping some,
But there is a neurotic element to it,
So I try to reduce the trips
To the marts and complexes -
Vortice of material and people deluge -
And make my home my shell,
Sanctuary and refuge.

Fly And God

It has been said -
Quite on the sly -
God made the fly
To make us figure why;
Well, here's one possible lie:
A fly on the food you are about
To put in your mouth
May at first appear
To have an agenda completely
Incongruent from yours;
No doubt the fly is having its mush,
With utter panache,
While you view the invasion into
Your personal space as
Utterly incongruous;
Similarly the agenda of
A bunch of youngsters,
Out on a joy ride in a rented Kancil,
May be rudely knocked out of kilter
By God's differing agenda;
When the Muar river
Decides to break ranks
With its banks
And pulls the breath of
A few souls going about
Their mundane lives
Into its murky depths -
God, like the fly,
Has a different agenda;
Saddam had a vision of being
the paramount Arab leader,
But God saw otherwise,
Like the desert fly
That settled on the nose
of his videotaped corpse.

Land Rover: A Grand Delusion

World reknown is the Land Rover,
To many a 4WD vehicle driver;
Launched in 1948 by an English company,
An unashamed copy of the American jeepney,
Though now left in its wake by the Humveed,
It is considered still, by the moneyed,
The best four by four by far,
Which for the course, is par.

Many an adventurer in Africa,
Camel Trophy competitor,
Estate manager, fire fighter,
Whether in Surrey or Sahara,
Agrees and chooses no other.

The list of rivals is long and impressive,
Mitsubishi, Nissan, Toyota, all Japanese,
Volkswagen, Niva, Mercedes;
But the Landy,
From Sungai Siput to Sydney,
From Cameron Highlands cabbage packer,
To National Day salute taker,
Has notched its own market niche,
And became, in the process, cultish.

And so to the LR showroom at Resort Paradise,
I headed to see the best and brightest of the enterprise,
After having done the round of seeing the other merchandise,
It was the Double Crew Cab my eye settled on,
In keeping with the growing trend in the zenre,
There's the Frontier, the Hilux, the Ranger, the Storm,
All decently spec'd and going for under 100K.

A sales ex placed a promo booklet in my hand,
Person and paper share the same narrowband,
Detailing the oft repeated tagline,
That the LR is the best 4 by 4 by far,
I nodded, not wanting to appear
An out of sorts commissar.

And so I turned to the actual tab,
The object of my visit and interest mad,
The Land Rover Double Crew Cab.

I looked hard at the legendary mud plugger,
A workhorse to the world, wildlife protector,
Outside, inside, the truck bed, the seater,
The cockpit, the dashboard, the wiper,
Ah the wipers, wimpy dared I to whisper?
The truck bed, rivet, metal edge, rougher
Than a Frontier's covered with a spray on liner,
The seats, interchangeable with those from a schoolbus,
The cockpit, dashboard - spartan, ordinary,
Looked like they were homologated from a Pahlawan lorry.

The canvas canopy did nothing
To make the impression contrary;
This is no lifestyle statement, being all utility,
Next I peered at the performance sheet -
Well below that of the competition;
Then I took it for a testing,
Nowhere near the driveability
Of the under 100k family.

Finally I peered at the feared -
The price is 160k!
All in all the looks and performance of a 70s Mahindra,
With the price tag of a 2005 Toyota Fortuner.

So, whaddaya think, Sir?
Cried the sales supervisor!
Dared I demur and be wiser?
It's the best 4 by 4, said I, miser,
Not wanting to be original, nihilistic,
Or stick out like a sore dick.
I made my purchase,
It made me sick.

Not long after,
During a LR owners strut,
We passed a posse of Lanun Darat,
Did I imagine a gleam of admiration,
In the eyes of the pirates,
Or did the gleam signify commisseration,
At our collective delusion?

Overheard under the Jolly Roger,
Cost of spare parts for the Land Rover,
Are stratospheric,
Oh dear, that, for me,
Is news catastrophic;
Soon, I can already imagine,
I'll be back to being
Carless, peripatetic.

Mahathir vs Anwar

Just when one thought the worst
Happened in distant times and climes,
Faraway lands and different chimes,
It dawned on Malaysian sensibility,
That a bathos of the lowest order,
Was ascending from the depths,
To shock society at the highest level.

What was this assault
On our smugness?
It can't be!
How could the Number One
From the ruling set,
Be accusing his Number Two
Of kacang putih acts,
Normally scrawled on toilet walls,
And whispered about in
Fully residential halls?
How could this be happening,
To songkok and tudung wearers,
Who pride themselves
As moral standard bearers?
How not courtroom details,
In collusion with thick denials,
Served to rake up forgotten
Historical baggage?
From Hang Tuah to Tun Teja,
From Pahang to Melaka ...
Or its appendage?

Disclosures this sensational,
In recent memory were too risible,
To appear in mainstream media, sensible,
Though standard fare for Bacaria,
Street talk and Bukit Aman cafeteria.

As the sandiwara among the saudara
Unfolded, the line between sleazy street
And prim print turned effete,
Marking a watershed,
Since when the Press
Had not been able to look back
On the good old hack;
Now previously unprintable matter
Has become common media barter,
Rivaling Mastika banter.

The country's highest institutions,
Bystanders and partisans,
Jostled in the corridors of credibility,
Who to believe, who to give sympathy?
Do you believe in the conspiracy theory?
Or do you accept the guilty probability?
Are the courts' hands smirched?
Or are our faces wearing a worrying smirk?

If I Were Blind

If I were blind
I would've seen thru you
But as I could see
I was blinded by what I saw
I could have put my act better
Committed no wrong
But I did not count
You could be other than strong
Your capacity to misconstrue
Recognized no sides of words
I would be asleep when you scream'd
Scream'd when you dreamt
Wasted was the word that befell your ear
Worse was your word that no one could hear
Weary were they who you pulled to your breast
Worse was the love that sought a figure gone to rest.

The Camera Is Too Much Between Us

I lift the camera and veil my face,
The camera is intimidating and suspicious,
Nobody understands or has any use for it;
You reach for your cigarette
Like you clasp your breast in sleep;
I lift it up chary of the world
Who chide me for keeping
A widget in the house.

Down the fallopian barrel of the tele lens
You crouch in prenatal mindlessness
Kuhlick! A magic spell,
Pronouncing you a lilliputian,
A foetal captive
In a little black hell;
But the camera is only an instrument of birth,
I lift it up in an act of love,
I dream the transformation on your face,
When I bring back in a week, a year,
A crisp gloss of your regained loss.

Bringing Up Sara

My little 'un is no Princess,
For I'm no Yang Di Pertuan;
Of her Dad, she seems to agree,
But of herself, she thinks she's one;
Admittedly, in abetting the case,
I'm guilty;
What can I do,
I have no plea,
Sara is only three.

Between queenie and subject loyal,
Between Dad's attempts futile,
To get the tiker to mend her style,
And give up her ritual,
Of being a little tot feudal,
There develops daily a battle royale.

The battle field is the settee
In front of the tv,
Which she hounds,
Refusing to give ground.

This is where she pitches
Her ensemble of imaginary
Pots, pans and dishes,
Made up of my toiletry,
Stationery and gadgetry.

This is where she scrimps,
Eyes glued to the screen,
Grubby fingers wiggling
To find the mouth;
Half enters, the rest goes south;
Mopping up is Dad's deed
Mashy, messy but necessary.

RC in her free hand,
She commandeers
All the cartoon channels,
Disney, Nickelodean, CN.

In the shadows Dad
Stands back, egad,
His is to nibble,
The dry biscuit Sara swivels,
Signalling his lot
Is not to quibble
Over the stuff from the pot
Or the missed tv news slot.

Gunung Kinabalu Climbathon 2005

The occasion was the 19th Mt Kinabalu Climbathon 2005,
The last event in the annual Sky Runner World Series mountain race,
Prestigious, publicized, offering prize money,
Attracting top names of the world athletic fraternity.

So what right had a crotchety pensioner,
Sea level aspirant, pushing sixty,
To have his name mixed up,
In the international cast of altitude runners?
Even if only in the above forty?
Why, they even required him to have a medical,
Before his name was put on the entry decal.

Well, as much right as the other recreational participants,
Who were runners in need, walkers in deed,
Who not only had no hope of winning a dime,
But might not even make it to the peak,
In the allotted time.

The route is 21.4 km long,
Climbing from 1.8 km to 4 km high;
Touristy trekkers only cover 17 km of the trail,
Done over a two-day round trip;
But for the race you are to complete,
The longer stretch in less than half a day,
With the cut-off time as six hours and a half,
And the record a little under three.

The pensioner, at the back of the straggling line,
Picked his way up,
Step, pause, step;
Step, pause, step.

He saw in awe,
The lead runner,
On his way down,
Bounding from boulder to boulder,
Bridging the intervening space,
As though helped by a bulldozer.

What diferent breed of animal is this?
What separates a runner of under three hours
From one who lurches home in seven?
What lungs, what heart,
What single-mindedness,
What knee ligaments,
What oxygen uptake?
Is it more a gift? Extra gills, Sir?
Or just the training factor?

A race is to the swift won,
And a rescue, rapidly deployed,
Is often successful;
Fortunately, no runner needed rescuing,
The pensioner to the finish line trudging,
One and a quarter past noon,
In a straggling line from the veteran unit
Who failed to reach the summit.

But my hat went to the senior ladies,
Elizabeth, Katie and one more,
Who traipsed behind the runners,
Sometime holding hands,
Often with hands in pockets,
Who made it to the finish line,
Ahead of the pensioner.

Your Thoughts Never Die

You can stop to think,
But you cannot stop thinking,
Even when you are asleep, or dead;
Awake, you think to process the mundane,
Asleep, you think to dream the insane,
Dead, your soul, pure consciousness,
Rises from the blushes,
To rummage memories,
Individual and collective,
Review historic files
From the Cosmic Archive;
Soar over scapes as an eagle's eye,
Hover in the clover as a dragonfly,
Slide down a chute as an otter,
To a sunlit spot underwater,
Grow as a sapling, gracefully
Into an old Tualang tree.

Far-flung are the reaches,
Limitless are the riches,
Greater is the sum
Of Thoughts Incorporated,
Whether awake, asleep,
Or Transformatted.

Fakawi

Fakawi's Unforgettable Cycling, Kayaking,
That's the tagline for my blog
Where I deposit promissory notes
Expressing my interests and pursuits.

One of which is long postponed,
Circumambulation of Africa,
From the Sahara to the Kalahari,
Where I hope to meet my nemesis,
The legendary lost tribe of Fakawi,
Whose name lends its mystique,
To my otherwise prosaic site,
Fakawi's Unforgettable Cycling, Kayaking,
Whose acronym is not my doing,
But may yet be my undoing.

Smsing Whisperer

Scene: Smsing through airwaves/radio/cyberspace/infrared signal?

Characters: ZR is the lynchpin. All other characters are in communication with ZR but are unknown to one another. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely poetic and to truth, coincidentally coincidental.

ZR: Pampering, after achieving, is a good strategy,
But, if indulged in, will turn you into a softie,
Physically, mentally and spiritually;
Neither a slob, nor flabby be,
Better be hard, mean and lean,
Sinewy, synapsy, soul squeaky clean;
So put on the running shoes,
Put word to verse, pen to use,
See the weather in a bead of water,
The world in a clump of sand
Then sit back and wonder,
Is not the First Source close at hand.


To be able to smooth out the bumps and potholes of life,
Essence of existence
To have a purpose in life, one must love;
To love, one must have discipline.

Nee: ??? Apa tu? Salah hantar ke?

Ruby: You send me 38 smses.
I'll only reply to the 38th.
Then you can have teh tarik.
With me. Nothing comes cheap, lor!
Not my time, but as in my name.

Rus: I'm on the road from Kemaman to Kapar.
Catch up with you later, Papa.

Roby: Deeply stimulating words,
Mostly saintly, but some are absurd.

Pady: I couldn't agree with you more!
Your ideas flow, your words score.

ZR: Today I was goaded,
The provos to be loaded
With ammo to surge forward.


Pady: Who provoked you, pray tell?

Zr: My agent provocateur
Is always generic,
Never specific,
Whatya fink?

Hani: Haha, very funny!

ZR: Trust you, Hani!
You only one to see the sunny.
One was moved to tears;
Another was unmoved;
Number 4 nodded approval;
Five will reset her time table;
Six set to rearrange her priorities;
Seven wanted to know more possibilities;
Eight changed the subject,
Nine didn't bother to contact,
Not even to yell - go to hell.

Anis: Changed the subject ...
That's me, right?
Were I really like that?

Zr: Nolah, you were driving on your way someplace,
Mana ada konsentrasi nak sembang deep-deep.
I know you are not a superficial gal
Incapable of wading into a subject deeper than your ankle.
Or talk like Tarzan -
Briefer than his jungle brief.
Or Eve with her fig leaf,
Now I know how Jane must have grieved.

Anis: Mm.

ZR: Today a new art form is born
But between art and you
My heart is torn
For you were not there
To tamper the tempest
To pamper before the Pampers
To sooth the pain in the gain
To hear the cry in the netherness
To witness that Art R Us.

Survivors After The Tsunami

The world above,
The world around,
Is ruined and desolate,
Something cataclysmic,
Something tsunamic,
Something pandemic,
Took place.

Here and there,
Survivors few -
Osama ben Laden
Holed up in a cave,
The gopher in its burrow,
A blighter in his bunker;
Anis A Shukor ensconced
at Regency Court Hotel,
The blurter plastered to Blogspot.

All and singly in sundry air pockets,
Instantly formed by and
Amidst the tangled ruins,
Interlaced in force field biospheres,
Safe havens like mounds on tidal beaches,
Like prenatal homes,
Laced up in supporting tapestries,
Bathed in nourishing light,
Pentagrams to the second coming drawn.

Osama ben Laden in a nameless cave,
Anis A Shukor at Regency Court Hotel,
The blurter in a lucid interval at Blogspot,
Three contrasting survivors,
At the transit lounge of life,
Thrown up by an existential wave,
Caught in a resistant kink,
In the frayed fabric of life,
Waiting for Heavenly Airways
Flight 69 to take off.