Dinnertime by Weird Al Zaharankovich

Dinnertime,
And the eating is easy,
Parmesan cheese is in,
Tomatoes are lycopene,
Spaghetti is rich,
Raw onion is healthy,
The sauce is lip-smacking,
So rush in, my Muse-y,
Don't be shy,
Dinnertime ...

Jolly Good Porker

For he is a jolly good porker,

For he is a jolly good porker,

So said his clappers,

So said his clappers!

Belly up, belly ho,

Snug in the tub,

No bend touch toe!

Eyes porcine,

Keen on the wine,

Swills the swine!

A trotter a copper,

A clod a-twitter,

Cloven hooves,

Bristly hair,

Down Under,

Outer Underwear.

For he is a jolly good porker,

For he is a jolly good porker,

So said all of his clappers,

So said all of his clappers.

Tell a tale and go to jail

Gals can show off their wares and live to tell the tale,
But if men were to do the same, they'd be hauled to jail.

Nasi & Ilusi

Minda mencernak nasi,
Dapur menternak ilusi.

Dew Drops

At break of day,
Dew drops open their doe eyes
To greet the sun's ray.

The Art of not Giving Offense

by Zaharan Razak on Friday, February 25, 2011 at 5:32pm

In the land of the blind, it is not smart to tell you are sighted,

In the Third Reich, it was not smart to tell you were a Jew,

In a dog pack, the smart thing to do is keep your tail between your legs,

In Tripoli, it is not a good idea to talk at a tangent

From any group you happen to be with, just blend in;

If you happen to be in Taliban country, dress appropriately,

If you are among Calibans, don't quote Shakespeare,

Least not from The Tempest;

Among nuts, don't say you're a screw,

Faced with a Jakarta stadium crowd,

Don't say I'm Malaysian, loud and proud,

Remember, one wrong wong does not make all wongs wrong,

So don't go shoot your mouth and rant,

At FB not smart to fart outside your pants

And to many a wong gives offense

Invite to a teh tarik and make amends.

· · Share · Delete

• 
  
• Nusrat Al-Jafree and Syukri Ramli like this.

Zaharan Razak

Old Chinese saying: Where there is smoke, there is a Chinese.
New Chinese saying: Where there is an accident, there is a Chinese tow truck.
Latest Chinese saying: Where there is a mishap, there is a Chinese with a video camera.
Latest latest Chinese saying: Where there is a video of a gory accident, a Chinese will upload it to FB ...

11 hours ago · ·

• 
  
• Aida Marie Mohamad and Irene Nor Rashidah Shamsudin like this.
• • 

    Irene Nor Rashidah Shamsudin i wonder what inspired this..but it is true!

    5 hours ago ·
  • 

    Aida Marie Mohamad Give me some gore. Mana?

    about an hour ago ·
  • 

    Zaharan Razak AMM: See Joedrifter's wall ... he is a true blue chinaman ... gore and more smokes out from his nostril and belches from his belly like a dragon of yore ... another attempt at instant poetry ... g'dey?

    20 minutes ago ·
  • 

    Zaharan Razak Irene: Like a magpie, a writer is an incorrigible thief, but unlike the magpie who steals things, a writer steals ideas and put them into his own words and the result emerges/appears as instant literature after the blood, sweat and tears of inspiration ... try it ... good for your soul ...

    19 minutes ago ·

A Wolf & A Raven

Show me the range of a wolf,
Show me the flight of a raven,
And I'll show you the living proof,
Of the pathway to heaven.

Tarantula Shows Ayantula His Nuts, Screws, Camshaft & Piston ...

Ayantula:

Aku terpana!

Tarantula:

Mu spanar, aku skrew,

Mu pulas, aku tuas;

Mu nut, aku camshaft,

Mu berlubang, aku berbatang;

Mu rack, aku pinion,

Mu terlantar, aku hoister;

Mu universal joint, aku ball and socket,

Mu gyrate, aku dilate;

Mu silinder, aku piston,

Ada pelincir, ada action!

LOTFFPITAL!

(Lying on the floor feet pedaling in the air, laughing!)

Bull's 'I'

Bull's 'I'

There is nothing more musical to the ears of a released arrow than when it hears a thud.

***

The Critic in the Critter

It is not that we wish others, and ourselves, ill, but merely that we speak ill of ourselves, and others, so we may heal.

***
At FB, Thinking Is Optional

Caged Canary: We come to FB to enjoy and relax, not think!
Buzzard: So where do you go to think?
Caged Canary: We don't do thinking!
Buzzard: If you don't think for yourselves, then others will do it for you!
Caged Canary: Precisely, they are our think tank! We don't have to worry a thing!
Buzzard: You're not free!
Caged Canary: Freedom? Bah! It's just another name for responsibility. You're free but you have to find your dinner. Our needs are all provided for.
Buzzard: There's no challenge! You don't learn anything!
Caged Canary: We don't do those either!
Buzzard: So what do you do to earn your keeps?
Caged Canary: Take position, tilt our heads for the cameras, smile sweetly and tweet to their ears.
Buzzard: As a GRO!
Caged Canary: We are in the image and pleasure industries, no different from being an air stewardess or motor show model.

Rohaliza Abdullah

aku terpana
madahmu mencair bahang dendamku
kerinduan di kejauhan ini
bak tugu yang keras membatu
luruh dek kata-katamu
...yang indah berlagu

Zaharan Razak

Aku terpana?
Aku spanner,
Mu screw,
Aku pulas,
Mu tuas!
...
The above is my unglamorous attempt to join in the puisi-ing here, hehehe!See More

5 hours ago · 1 person

Rohaliza Abdullah ha ha ha
Good one Sir Z. Enjoy yr nite :))

Still Searching for a Heart of Gold

I want to live on,

I want to give one,

My pot of gold,

But I'm still searching for a heart of gold,

I've been a miner for a heart of gold,

And I'm getting old,

These expressions have never found a heart of gold,

Keeps me searching for a heart of gold,

I've looked in the neck of my woods,

I've been to faraway woods,

But I keep bumping into dead wood,

So I keep searching for a heart of gold,

And I'm getting old,

I want to live, I want to give,

Before I become old,

So I keep searching for a heart of gold.

(Adapted from Neil Young's song, Heart of Gold)

Hire a Maid, Find a Wife, Failing Which, Call Up a Poltergeist

Before you go to bed,
Say these words instead,
Fern leaf, ciku leaf and rice,
Nails of cats, whiskers of mice,
Spirit of the dead,
Shadow of the wise,
From the grave, rise!
Come to my bed,
Come to my head,
Be my poltergeist,
And claim your prize!
Now you can sleep soundly
Before you awaken energized
With a ghost comprised
In your enterprise.

Source of inspiration:

baca pantun ni setiap kali sblum tido "makan nasi pucuk paku,campur daun pkok ciku,dtg lah HANTU dtg PADAKU..dtglah engkau tido bersamaku"tunggu je nti dtglah hantu tu..hehe3... NORAINI ANIE.

Holy Howler

Wednesday, January 19, 2011,
Approaching midnight,
The moon is out in full,
If you hear a rustling sound,
A rasping sound,
A crackling sound,
A breaking sound,
Building up,
Ripping apart,
And it begins to feel a bit scary,
Don't worry,
It is probably
Just the recently
Moved in stranger next door
Molting into a werewolf ...
Imaginary.

A Poetun: Shy Desire

Burung merpati terbang seribu,

Hinggap seekor ditengah laman,

Hendak mati dihujung kuku,

Hendak berkubur ditapak tangan. - Song lyric, Latifah Omar & One Other.

This is my translation:

A hundred pigeons fly to the roof-top,
A lame one hobbles on the lawn,
Desire edges tremulously till the nail's tip,
Then hurries back to the security of the palm!

Ajai, My Departed Son

Jai, how are you?
You left this world on Thursday,
December 30, 2010.
I only got to know today.
You were 13 years, three months, and three days old.
Jai, you bore your affliction
from the day you were born,
the last sixteen months bed-ridden,
in a state of coma.
I cannot possibly know
how you felt inside your brain and body.
You fought a brave battle to live on for that long.
You held on for as long as possible, then it was time to let go.
I took care of you for 42 days from December 4, 2009
to January 17, 2010. Day and night, 24 hours a day,
seven days a week. Then I had to go.
Since then we had not met. Now you're gone.
Jai, I cannot experience you, but in my imagination,
I can see you seeing me as I write this.
Everyone living will go the way you have gone.
I too will go. After my time has come, I hope
to meet you "in person" again.
Hugs and kisses, Jai. Your Papa.

The World's Strongest Insect Is A Dung Beetle

The mating behavior of dung beetles is no less titillating than a tabloid ... such is the wiles of nature in its vast tapestry of creation ... read the story here: http://www.smh.com.au/world/science/sex-games-

Instant, Integrated Enlightenment Terminal

The dung beetle and the heavenly world of his own creation - a dung ball. Humble though the analogy may be ... snigger if it pleases you to do so ... the lowly insect and the even more lowly dung ball is a metaphor for ultimate reality - one that is not other-mediated but entirely self-fashioned ... by the power of your transcendental spiritual consciousness ...

The dung beetle aka scarab was an object of veneration by the ancient Egyptians.

'I' of the Dung Beetle

Like a dung beetle breaks forth from,
feeds and lives on a ball of dung,
so have I found my instant,
integrated enlightenment terminal
from the dung heap of received wisdom
piled on me from the day I was born
some sixty four years ago.
It took me that long to break through
the many layers of other-mediated cajoles,
threats, promises, betrayals,
conflicting, disjointed claims, and
harangues mixed with exemplary tales
with no seeming time nor logic lines.
Millions of people fall under its powerful sway
playing on guilt and dire punishment and promises
of untold rewards all, strangely, appealing
to the senses which were considered a sin in the first place.

A significant other is going to punish, emphasis is on punish,
me with unmentionable - and yet mentioned in the greatest detail -
forms of punishment which would make Bush's Guantanamo Bay
or Hitler's Dresden look like children's playgrounds just because
I beg to differ - a difference of opinion - from the forms
of the received wisdom. If I'm seen to genuflect
and mutter the correct formulas and mantras - the correct forms -
I'll be rewarded with objects of desire which I don't desire in the first place -
mansions, maidens and, heard tell, young males.
Hey, I just want to be a dung beetle and left alone
to roll my dung ball as I please ...
Am I a problem to you?
This dung ball, mind you, is one I fashion myself
and not given to me on a silver platter.
Don't want no silver platter from nobody ...
Just leave me alone with my dung ball.
If anyone is interested to know how do I conjure up my dung ball,
the answer is simple - it is the sum of my total awareness
which I discover for myself from experience, reading and thinking,
not repeating verbatim any received wisdom like a parrot
with little understanding. Received wisdom, in their corral or cage,
is easy enough to understand at the literal level
and it appeals to the mass mind or canary in-a-cage mentality
but placed under the scrutiny of objective studies, they fall apart.
Enlightenment is the ability to see the spiritual forest from the trees
made up of conflicting claims, life's varied events and subtle progressions.

Love, Play

Love's flow finds its moment,
Arching, dipping into the pool.

****

Before is foreplay,
During is in-play,
After is fatigue(y).

****

A relationship wanders down an avenue,
Poking into byways for insights into human nature,
Using a private language to delve into the matter.

****

Strange love meets stranger love,
All for the love of a proper stranger.

****

Love found, love lost, love found,
Love lost, love found, love lost,
Love found.

****

I look for one to love,
Found many;
I look to one to love,
Found it in many;
I look to many to find love,
I found it in me.

****

Nature inchoate,
Nurture explicate.

Take My Heart: Song & Lyrics by Soko

Great simple song; takes my heart and blows my mind away ...



You can take my heart for a walk on the beach
You can take my heart for a little trip
You can take my heart very close to your heart
You can take my heart forever if you like

But not every heart belongs to any other
You and I
You and I are meant to be
I'm the one for you, You're the one for me
You love me as much as I do
When you look at me and we're skin to skin
I want you so
Please come in
And you love me more and more
And my love grows up with you
And you kiss me more and more
And I kiss you, too
And I kiss you, too

If I take your heart, I will cherish it every day
If I take your heart, I will heal these old wounds
If I take your heart, it's to make it happy
If I take your heart, it's forever close to mine

But not every heart belongs to any other
You and I
You and I are meant to be
I'm the one for you, You're the one for me
You love me as much as I do
When you look at me and we're skin to skin
I want you so
Please come in
And you love me more and more
And my love grows up with you
And you kiss me more and more
And I kiss you, too
And I kiss you, too

(Violin solo! )

I don't care, I don't care
If I'm again carried away
If you swear, if you swear
To give me your heart in return

I don't care, I don't care
If I'm again carried away
If you swear, if you swear
To give me your heart in return
To give me your heart in return

And God Created Man To Validate Him ... And Women

What is a baby without a caregiver to look him in the eye?
What if the baby had been brought up by a pack of wolves?
What is a woman without a baby and a man,
To hug and be hugged?
What if the woman is in solitary confinement?
Is she a sight brave or sad to behold?
What is Emily Dickinson without her legacy of poems?
What is Helen Keller without her life story?
What is Mother Teresa without her slump in the slums?
What is a man making his way in life,
Without someone to talk to?
Will a wordless dog, a curt passerby,
A speechless bystander do?
What is Jesus without John?
What does the mocking gallery,
The baying in the bleachers,
To the fallen gladiator do?
Think of his Momma,
His children,
O, all so far away and long ago?
What is a writer whose gift is not received?
Who is Gaugain that he threw his life,
And his paintings, away?
What is the performer who plays to an empty hall?
To whom does the owl to-wit-to-woo,
A melange of melancholy and bellyful?
Is it to the moon as a pantunnaire would write?
Or is he seeking a mate for his soul, if not the night?
What is a book without an author,
Who is Brigitte without Roger,
Bardot without Vadim?
Does the tree in the forest falls,
If there is no Karam Singh Walia to report it all?
What is God without Man to scribe Him?
What is the girl, okay, woman,
With the killer looks at FB,
If this verse is not dedicated to her?

The Monkey In Humans

Do monkeys see humans as monkeys or humans?
Are we humans outside and monkeys inside?
O, why do monkey things happen in human affairs?
God gives the word and a higher level of thinking to humans
But still it is monkeys they turn up to be;
Why do bad things happen to good people?
God gives a flower to humans, but they turn into monkeys
And tear the flower up;
How do you love a human who has been scorched,
How do you love a woman who has been scorned,
How do you love a child who has been hurt,
Without the monkey in them snatching
It away and up a tree, defiant look and all?
How do you tame the wild when the wild does not want to be tamed?
Can you fashion a handbag from monkey skin?
Why o why do I have to fall for a love monkey?
Who teases, tears, tosses, tests and tricks?
Is a sense of love lost a signpost for a sense of new love found?
As in paradise lost, paradise returned?
And how would you like to bury a love lost
By conceding the ultimate irony:
"Let it be,"
Says humanity,
In the very same monkey?

Pouring A Hot Steamng Mug Of Coffee Into Another In Mid Air To Cool It To Beat Imsak

An eye on the clock,
An ear on its tick-tock,
Just over a minute
Before the call from the minaret
Signals the imsak onset;
The Davidoff coffee
Is still steaming hot ...
What to do?
Throw in ice cubes?
Changes the flavor;
Stand it in cold water?
Fret the seconds away,
Tempting a rising pulse,
An idea none too clever;
Do the tarik!
Pour the coffee
From mug to mug,
Hung in mid air,
Pulled afar,
Brought close,
Like playing an accordion,
Do it again, Sudin!
Like docking spaceships,
Easy does it now, no slips,
Balancing gravity,
With surface tension,
Getting right the rapidity
And rhythmic precision,
So as not to cause spillage,
Tarnishing the Davidoff homage,
Spoiling the imsak heritage.

The above verse is based on this message I posted at FaceBook:

While keeping an anxious eye on the ticker and ear on its tick-tick-tick, balancing between gravity and H2O molecular attraction by transferring the liquid from one mug to another separated by a foot of sky without spilling precious any, with the purpose of bringing down its heat to a level acceptable by the tongue, is... a better stratagem of achieving its purpose by virtue of being able to calm down a rising pulse by having something to do while waiting THAN standing the hot mug in cold water and just staring at the darn thing, indeed a stratagem worthy of a field marshal's, no less the foot-soldier's, battle lexicon, in the holy war against a ragged and unruly crowd of pangs, pains and pines rising from the trenches of our still developing soul population ... just some putar belit dari Kerling ... ROTFL ...

Where the Fakawi

Where the Fakawi?
On the edge of the Kalahari;
What dey do dere?
Dey looking for deer,
Dey looking for hare,

Dey caught any?
Yes,they caught many

but dey got lost
And plaintive cry,
Where the Fakawi ...
Where the Fakawi ...

Who the Fakawi

Who the Fakawi?
Cried the lost tribes of Galilee,
There were twelve at the start,
Ten were left when two lost heart,
Four got bogged in loose terrain
And were never seen again;
Of the six remaining,
Four showed lack of training,
And the trek their energy draining,
The last two, one headed east,
The other headed west,
One ceased to exist,
Leaving the twelfth the best
Fakawi among themselves.

Good Day To Die

I

T'day is a good day to die,
Y'terday would have been okay too,
But I stepped through the day
Without passing away;
If I don't die today,
Maybe I'll die t'morrow,
If t'morrow never come,
Then maybe I'll never cease
To exist but quietly
Make my exit
From this body transit
To the place of peace.

II

There I want to range the ocean like a whale,
Lurk among the sea anemone like a clown fish,
Soar over the coast like an eagle,
Gambol in the shallows like an otter,
Frolic on a rocky slope like a serow,
Lope the steppe like a wolf;
And like them sleep
With the stars as my roof,
With nature at ease,
With nurture at peace.

Not enamored with the scriptural
Mansion and maiden lure?
Naw, because it is a denial
Of Nature and my nurture
Wherein I feel one with the wolf
Who has no need for a mansion
And other possessions;
Maidens? Are people I'd meet
In my frolics and not keepsakes
To fill the mansion.
It is an appeal to the skeleton
In the basement, Mr Priestman,
But a suck to the spirit in my attic.
Take it to the the flock,
See if they buy your stock -
Happy evangelizing, Padre.

Listening to the Universe

It is past midnight,
Not a sound in sight,
Nor a sight within hearing,
But hark, the universe is heaving.

Paean to En Attendant Godot - Samuel Beckett

One is Gado,
The other is Godot,
One goes the way of the dodo,
The other does the dangdot,
One goes berserk-u,
The other is absurd-u,
A poetun, a haiku,
A cross between Ogden Nash
And Edward Lear, his peer,
But no, not Nooh, the Gadot.

Aaow!

July 4, 2007 by zveloyak

That was me howling as I popped out from inside of me onto this world of blogging. I may have just appeared here but actually I’m a reincarnate of my other selves – that’s right, plural – blogging at other sites. Somehow I stumbled onto this dimension and found the name WordPress has a resonant ring to it and decided to be reborn here and see how I will grow. I will not totally abandon my other blogsites and turn them into graveyards as I have quite a lot of lively and current stuff there. If I like it here, I might find ways to import them here but I doubt there as a free blog is not as resilient and feature-rich as having a web host. Why don’t I get a web host then? Erm, I’ve been thinking of getting one for a long, long time, but I kept postponing and balking because, one, there’s so many, and I felt lost, and, two, not being a computer geek, I felt even more lost in the alphabet soup of newly minted computer terms. Taking a course to find my way through the maze to my online mansion of a website is too much of a bother considering my needs are quite simple.

So I will maintain and feed all four sites – this and the other three – contemporaneously, and see them grow and compete among themselves as a litter of pups outdo one another for the fullest teat and biggest share of the food.

Two Poetuns Inspired by Zainal Jais

I

Went searching in the forest for quails,
Spotted instead a deer with ambition equestrian,
Looking up to a teacher who is interested in her nails,
Is as frustrating as looking at a politician jockeying for position.

II

Went hunting on the plain,
Caught a deer with striped limbs,
Want to learn from a saint,
Turns out to be a pompous pimp.

This is the original pantun written by Zainal Jais which inspired the poetuns:

Berburu di padang datar,
Dapat rusa belang kaki,
Berguru kepalang ajar,
Jadi pemimpin gila kerusi.

Nine A's Wunderkind Now

This is a composite profile of a Nine A's child genius
as an adult now. It is written by a One A idiot - me.
So what subject did I get an A for? English, of course.
Yeah, I got a Nine(!) - for maths. And an Eight for BM.
See? Told ye, I'm an idiot. I put two and two together,
I still get a four. Been trying for years to whack
two and two to get one without much success.
I've met a few of these smart ones,
in fact a number of them runs in my clan.
There are twins even,
and I tell ye, they are all out of whack -
from the mild to the wild -
not that I'm any better,
in fact I'm even worse
but then I was a One-A letdown.
I started this posting by saying I'll
draw a composite picture of one
but I've changed my mind
and will write about more.
One topped the state in maths and spent years in England
but now lives in a coop together with chicken writing a book
on Islam and dreaming to win the Nobel prize for inventing
a DNA deciphering machine.
This has been going on ten and four years.
Number Two topped her school in studies and sports -
news cuttings of her receiving prizes from the Sultana -
spent years in England to graduate as an engineer,
but is now working as a cook -
"I'm not a cook, I'm a cooking teacher!" she shrieks mutinously,
taking off her glasses with one hand and rubbing her face
vigorously with the other in a mixture of sebum and baby lotion
coming up with the same pasty as when
she grinds kunyit, cilli and such on a lesung.
Number Three is the only female marine archeologist in the country
and she is out of work and out of whack.
Number Four is an ecological weekend warrior
But frequents watering holes after hours during the working week;
Oh, she also has the gift of seeing elves jumping from behind trees.
No kidding, she says so herself ...
Number Five was a top surgeon of the heart
But dug into a rind of bacon on the side.
Number Six is an East Coast kampung boy,
raised on budu and ikan panggang tawar,
the first to spring from Kijal to be
a doctor, never mind a specialist,
vertically challenged,
with funny glasses that make his doe eyes look even rounder,
a curious cheek-lips mix of Kijal and Madras,
with a maddening stare if not quite mad-assed.
Yes, he is now number one in his field, and
yes, he's a relation, son of a cousin.
Now let's go back to Number Two for it is she
this verse - call this verse? - is all about.
Although I'm older than her ailing mother
and passed my driving test before she was born,
drove all the way from Istanbul to Amritsar
before taking the test,
this did nothing to discourage her from
telling me how to drive my own car
as she sat in the passenger seat
not having held a steering wheel in four years ...
There is no chip sutured under her skin
by some secret agency but there is one on her shoulder,
turning her into a governmental and familial mutineer -
"Merajuk big-time," as she herself puts it.
There are no tv set, makeup set, mirror, framed photos, newspaper,
tissue-paper and microwave oven in her house -
they are symbols of bondage and servitude, she says.
She put her foot down hard on polygamy
but was thrilled to shrieks when told polyandry
is what she is practicing - she has an AWOL husband,
a visiting boyfriend and a new friend rolling on the floor.
Meanwhile, over at her outdoor cooking class,
Learners from all over the English-speaking
parts of the planet keep arriving by the planelette,
and, at RM70 per head, keep the wolf from her door.

Verse In Waiting

Like puppies and guppies at feeding times,
Several poem ideas are body knocking one another
To make it to this blog page, but in the jostling
I forgot all of them like you forget individual
Guppies from the same hatching batch
And puppies from the same litter
As they dissolve and reappear in a frenzy
With a reared head above and ducked head under
And come up with this blank verse letter
To compensate for the lost litter, barely
Hatching up a gulp and a pulp
From another clutch
Of verses in waiting.

Dungeon di Dungun

After a filling dinner at nine,
I took an infrequent route home,
in the darkness near where Jalan Kenanga
and Jalan Melati intersect near the padang
not far from the graveyard facing the sea,
I spotted a remembered big bungalow
used to be filled with people
who scurried in the background
while only mama or papa talked with me;
the papa has been long gone
the mama carrying dem rich men's burden
her will to live bending under
no matter her adult children spending filial cash
paying RM180 for a 500 gm tin of colostrum
RM20 for a capsule of powdered egg yolk
with a bio-enhancing name such as ProforLife
or somethin' - but tonight,
the mansion-like house where
the late Cikgu Mang used to live
is in darkness with only the street lights
giving its silhouette a Gothic cast;
Where are the people gone?
I drove past with the songs
coming off the car stereo tugging me
from mundane matters
into an endorphin-stirred state;
I rounded a bend to head to the open sea
but my progress was halted by an unusual
congestion of cars parked both sides with
more cars and people in the middle of the road;
I almost instantly understood the urgency of the night -
someone had died earlier in the day
and must be buried without delay;
I turned off the loud stereo,
wound down the window
and asked a passerby: "Sapa?"
"Bini Wang Peng!"
I didn't know either from Chin Peng
but must be someone of clout
judging from the huge turnout;
I drove on without further ado
turning into the long and straight Jalan Pantai
with the moonlit sea on my immediate left;
I switched on the stereo again -
Timberlake, Akorn, Green-eyed Peas
took turns to put my mind at peace;
I went past the junction to my place
and drove on to the end of Jalan Pantai
near the UITM Dungun campus
where a nice spot to relax is and I did
for two or three more songs before
starting back to my almost finished new house -
Dungeon di Dungun.

The Thing Pops Into My Head

The thing that pops into my head,
Often I dismiss it almost at once,
Often with the recital of a handsmedown prayer,
Sometimes I let it linger a while,
Savoring its evil,
But NAW ... it gnaws ... and gnaws ...
Am I sick that it pops into my head,
Am I weak that I let it linger
And ever briefly identifies with it?
What if it is a recurring thing?
What if it is a lifetime thing?
Am I sick to the pits, alone,
Or shares the sickness with the rest of humanity?
With the difference between I and
Those who end up in the news,
Only a thin line over which I didn't cross?
Has it got something to do with brain chemistry,
Or is it a spiritual challenge,
To fashion your forming soul,
An adversary to pit your character against,
An exercise to build your identity,
A resistance to carve your destiny?
Yes, gentle reader, you guessed
The thing that pops into my head -
Negative thoughts.

Ant & Grasshoppie

I want to tell you a story,
About the ant and the grasshoppie,
One is sensible, the other is crazy,
One is rajin, the other is lazy,
All summer long the ant is busy,
Building its nest, collecting nuts and a daisy,
While play is the only thing does the 'hoppie;
Summer come, summer go,
Autumn fall, winter follow;
The first snow flake falls,
The ant gathers its last nut and daisy,
Its store full, its nest cozy,
While the hoppie goes hungry;
Knock, knock! Ant! Open the door!
Sorry! Opportunity knocked but is no more!
The poor hoppie keels over and is no more,
That is the end of the story
Of the busy ant and the lazy hoppie.
Oh, one more thing, the ant now,
Has more food in the freezer -
The dead hoppie -
To be eaten next summer!

My house an igloo

I have a pen, my pen is blue,
I have a friend, my friend is you;

I have a house, my house is an igloo,
I have a blouse, my blouse is new;

I have a shirt, my shirt is yellow,
I have a skirt, my skirt is mellow;


... to be continued

Stark the world,
Over which creatures,
High and low,
Stand sentinel,
Play-acting
To be little gods.

At ground level
A cockerel
Stands sentinel,
Ever alert
In the struggle
For survival.

Parody D'amour, Take This Verse To My Reader

The same scene on a different day ...

Under an overcast sky ...

Instead of piped music, cig smoke provides the accompaniment ...

Planted Townies

The men sit under the burning sun,
Whence all but them have fled to the bower,
Day in, day out, right on the hour, past the tower,
Right there in Dungun town
By the Pejabat Pos clover;
Their skins darkened like fishermen,
In the heat wave, smoke lingers
From their fingers,
The filtered tips of their cigs,
Wetted by their black lips;
This is the scene I see every day
Since two months I moved
Into Dungun town.

Malay checkers they play,
Every day by the day,
On their faces not a worry,
The only pictures gory
On their cig packets surely;
Their pockets must be in pay,
For they work not a day,
And yet can sit in the sun
And all day play.

Say Father!
When are you going to take them out?
As the statistics indicate,
And the Health Minister shouts?
Or am I going first,
Worrying to death,
About my health,
Jogging the beach,
Cycling the road,
Picking through the eateries
Vainly trying to clear up
My cholesterol clogged arteries,
Calm down my beating heart,
And tamp down my rising pulse?

O Father!
Life is so perverse!
I who cross my t's and dot my i's
When it comes to eat,
Jog, sleep - and no cig,
I who traverse fields and ford rivers,
Living the style of a scouter,
Am getting the bejesus out of life,
While these planted townies
Are setting an opposite example
And seeming to get away with it!

Spider and Fly

Spider and fly,
One is a sinner,
The other is dinner,
That is the reason why
Things have never been keener.

Photographic Verse: An Epiphyte

Hang on there, epiphyte!
Or are you a saprophyte?
I don't know how long
You've been, and will be, there,
Appearing out of nowhere,
Now sticking out like a lantern of light,
Against the darkness of the night;
Staking out a claim to existence,
However temporal and insignificant,
Your only claim to fame being spotted,
Photographed and here immortalized:
Would you have mattered,
Rising up out of decaying matter,
Had it been otherwise?
Then again, I'm no different,
What I've just said of you by inference,
Is also true of me and all en passant -
We come, stand up and move on.

Photography: Children

Balanced composition: dark background, light foreground; subjects centered, looking natural and on the trot ... Nina is leading the charge of the light brigade ... circa 1998.

Anna Mastura: Charge Of The Light Foodage

Sticks and stones may break bones,
But for Anna, six,
A fork and a spoon is the fix,
To separate fish flesh from bone;
By cheek in jowl,
Soup in bowl,
She attacks the food in her plate:
Elbow to the left,
Elbow to the right,
Anna piles the rice and pries the fish,
Filling grains and fleshy fillet,
Fork to the fore, spoon an added boon,
In the swoop to the dish of health;
In goes a sliver of flesh and a mound of rice
Into the mouth and jaws of death.
A klink now, then a klunk,
As fork misses the chicken
And slides off the bone
Follows the spoon
On the heel of the fork
As metal scrapes the dock.

Photography: Elements of Composition

The use of back light coming from the window helps to give radiance while the look of openness gives an expression of innocence to the subject. The clutter in the foreground lends the picture an everyday scene.

The vertical format of the picture putting the subject in the top half and the food in the bottom half brings out a touch of contrast and irony between the bounty of the fare and the ailing look of the subject.

A simple composition in which the two subjects are separated with an intervening space made up of the darkened doorway. The cup of tea in the foreground adds a point of interest.

Nasim

This is Nasim, Ajai's little brother,

They come from the same mother,

But he comes from another father.

Nasim's father met his mother

Upon a chance and a whim.

The chance was the first meeting,

The whim was in the ensuing.

The first meeting was through Ajai's father,

The ensuing whim came from Ajai's mother.

Nasim came into the world with Ajai's father

Flicking the first tile to fall on the next tile

In a domino effect which brought forth the tike.

Shall I end the story now, or add a surprise:

It is nice to play god even if god is only a dice.

Zain Azrai Zaharan

Jai, Jai, his Papa's son,
Comes home at half past one,
In the rain or in the sun,
Straightaway asks for lunch,
Is it ready, is it done.

Jai, Jai, his Papa's son,
Look at the way he runs,
Over a clean pair of heels,
Knocking a pair of buns,
As he disappears into the hills,
That is how fast he runs.

A Land Hog and a Sea Cucumber

Who says a dog and a cat cannot be friends?
Who says a land hog cannot make it with a sea cucumber?
Who says a pedal bike on land
Cannot hitch with a paddle craft on water?
As the Malays say, a rind of tamarind from the tree,
And a pinch of salt from the sea,
End up in the cooking pot,
Or, as in the case of the folder
And the hardshell in the picture above,
In front of the rider's front porch.

Ah huh, ah huh, I like it ...

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.

Late Pilate

I'm late, I'm late, says Late Pilate,
Koyak pisang makan kulit;
Late to bloom,
Late to blog,
Pilate comes lately -
Can't say yet,
But at the rate he's always late
He may even die late!
Now that is one slate
To elate late Pilate.

Al-Maari: Ronin, Rodin, Khayami

A ronin samurai out of kilter
goes in search of a new master
and found one, a Sufi
in the person of Al-Ma'ari
who is ronin, rodin and khayami.

A Woman, A Kayaker, In A Storm

When a storm brews up
In a woman's heart
She seeks an outlet and an entry;
When a paddler senses a storm,
He makes for the coast
Seeking an inlet
To point his kayak and enter.

Sara the Sixie, Bully to the Brontosaury

Sara, year six and a half,
Hold your back straight,
Keep your chin up,
Lock your eyes ahead,
Plant your feet square;
Mind your manners, maid,
Keep them fine and fair.

Of the mess you made,
No cause for fright,
Angels will clear in the night,
But you march off to bed at four,
And wake up past noon to
Make for the bathroom door!
Of the little crab I caught, if it is still alive,
A little brine water it don't deprive;
If it has died, give it a proper burial rite -
Here a stick green, here a petal bright.

Crabbie, can we turn off the tv now?
It is already past midnight -
But ...
Crabbie, can we turn the thingy off now?
It is already past three ...
But ...
Crabbie, last call, it's four!
About time you get it right, Papy!
Cries the bully
To the brontosaury -
Dimming the telly.

The Perfect Religion

God wound the perfect religion into orbit,
Humans then made pirate copies of it,
Even calling it, The Perfect Religion;
Hundreds of copies of the One
Have been made, each claiming
Theirs is the true religion, implying
Others are all homologated!
They may differ in details and deities,
But all essentially saying the same things;
Unbeknownst to one another,
Each and everyone staying within
The shell - coconut shell -
Of their faiths and not bothering,
Or allowed to step out and find out
What's cooking under the other
Shells dotted about on the barren
moonscape of faiths as surrogates
For certainty of knowledge;
Each jealously guarding their individual
Bubble of belief and if you
So much as peek out from under
Your own shell to ask or comment
On the smell coming from the pot
Of another shell, you'll be warned
In no uncertain terms not to interfere
In other people's shell matters!

Over the centuries the copied religions
accrue added beliefs, stories, history, myths
And legends to thicken the plot and
Add bricks to the wall of beliefs,
To become what a religion essentially is today -
A currency made valid by force of advocacy -
Like a coma patient dependent on apparatus:
Remove the props and he will be a different status;
The throne might as well be replaced by a chair
If everyone can be made to declare
The chair is the new symbol, like those
Emperor's new clothes,
Are a pretense to hide hypocrisy,
Or Solomon's dinner to euphemize cow patsy;
Just by giving it a set of vests
To engage humans in their fetish hex;
Just by giving it a set of liturgy,
In a language in which the clergy
Holds an advantage over the laity;
To catch humans at their most impressionable:
The more you understand, the more refutable,
The less you understand, the more inflexible;
Just by giving it a set of rituals
To catch humans in an ineffective gear -
Psychosomatic repetitive behavior.

In any plan grandeur to start
And sustain a conspiracy of beliefs,
A captive crowd is a basic ingredient
Providing the critical mass and lever
From initial resistance to deliver -
One converts, the bandwagon effect takes over,
This was what happened to Parameswara
In the Melakan clover.

Soon, the boundary between brick and belief blurs,
The brick is now the target of the kisser
And the wall the direction of prayer
To be pawed and wept over,
Each ritual act an entreaty for an
Easier entry into the ethereal pantry,
Rather like a student squirming in
An examination hall beseeching his
Subject teacher, the invigilator,
"Sir, tolong Sir!" for a tip or,
Better still, an outright answer!

Over time, if not right at the start,
The perfect religion is forgotten;
In pursuit of the copied religion,
The vestments, the liturgy, the rituals,
The historical experience,
Become an ignored-at-your-own-peril
Imperative all their own, God
Now an accessory after the act,
A footnote to the form and show of religion;
The means making a meal of the end,
The journey obscuring the destination,
The mercedes shoehorned into a collection,
Pasting piety in the skull cappy,
Making a religion out of religiosity.

And what, you may well ask, is the true perfect religion?
The answer, my fellow salikins, pilgrims and, yes,
Naysayers also, is blindingly simple -
An answer which the blind have seen
All along without even making
A song and dance of it,
As in the Blind Watchmaker
As in the footfalls of Al-Maari
Simply because they don't see
The visible copies;
An answer which the sighted
Cannot see because they
Are so hooked on the visible externals.

But before I tell you the answer, here is another story ... blah, blah,
Here is a bottle of my lintah oil ... blah, blah,
And here, and here ...
Alright, the answer:

Radiate the inner light beatific,
Patiently wait the final fix.

Hail the Human Body, Hale the Temple

Hail to thee, temple of the human body -
Like the ugly duckling to the swan,
Like a departure lounge waitress
To the globetrotting stewardess,
Like Cinderella, the Queen-to-be,
The human body is a made-to-wait,
Maid-in-waiting, made-to-order,
Abode of the gods, the true vessel,
playground, machine-shop and temple
Of the stepped, tiered soul's evolution plan -
Instinct, Self and Cosmos;
But pretenders, impostors,
And Petaling Street fakes
Abound - a bmw with low IQ,
- a range rover with manicure-n-coiffer,
- a mercedes raised from felled trees,
- a high-rise apartment
built on ill-gotten gains,
- a walled compound gained
from its feudal past;
a pile of mortar built on
the ruins of a previous pile
marked by a hallowed
halo made hollow
by its hard-to-swallow
Hollered out name -
these are the cow dung
euphemized as Solomon's dinner,
these are the Emperor's
new clothes to cover up
the bonkered-on-belief starkers.

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood is the title of a song first sung by Nina Simone, the American Civil Rights Movement singer, in 1964, and by many others since. I consider the versions sung by her, by the Animals and by Yusof Islam as the best three. The music and lyrics have a universal appeal and the potential to touch even the most hardened of hearts. Simone sang it in a slow tempo in her hard-to-categorize trademark style while the version by the Animals is outstanding for its opening and choral guitar riff setting off delectably the lead singer's deep voice. Sung by Yusof Islam with some lyrics changed slightly, the song takes on an added meaning in view of his conversion to Islam and his devotion to the religion. The lyrics:

Baby, do you understand me now
If sometimes you see I’m mad
Don't you know that no one alive can always be an angel?
When everything goes wrong you see some bad

Well I’m just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood

You know sometimes baby I’m so carefree
With a joy that’s hard to hide
Then sometimes it seems again that all I have is worry
And then you burn to see my other side

But I’m just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood

If I seem edgy
I want you to know
I never meant to take it out on you
Life has it’s problems
And I get more than my share
But that’s me one thing I never mean to do

Cos I love you
Oh baby
I’m just human
Don’t you know I have faults like anyone?

Sometimes I find myself alone regretting
Some little foolish thing
Some simple thing that I’ve done

I’m just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood

I try so hard
So don’t let me be misunderstood

God The Big Banger

Like the Big Bang,
God exploded into a
million souls and
has been exploding
and imploding in
a never ending
cycle - souls
scattered forth
souls sucked back in
as with the physical
universe, so
needs be done with
the soul perhaps we
can liken God as
the perpetual
bread-maker kneading dough
into bread, dough into bread
dough into bread
soul the dough
human the bread
man delivers
to earn his deliverance -
via la Delifrance!

The Untold Story

There are many untold stories out there,
buried in the boundless wastes called life,
by the sweeping winds of complacency,
an inability to reflect back on experience,
a failure to see the worth of acts and words;

It is as if a life is meant to be lived only
on the experiential plane unreflected back
by words put to paper, thus passing by
as if it is meant to be lived surreptitously, stealthily,
just like another rain drop same like any other;

Luckily there are also many told stories
through which we can share the lives of others -
to learn from them, be inspired by them,
and to enrich our own;

Here is one story rescued from the blackhole of the untombed untold -
First the reasons why it remained untold for so long - 75 years:

The principal cast of characters preferred it to be a secret,
They were poor and illiterate and had more
pressing priorities to tend to their days;
Ideas such as the pursuit of the afterlife
which unfortunately does not make the three
Rs - reading, 'riting and 'rithmatic - a perquisite,
Were more important than such worldly concerns
which were nothing more than an ego trip, a waste of time,
Excusable perhaps if it pertained
to the lives of society's upper crust,
But unheard of and completely unintelligible
when it came to their own ordinary lives.

The descendants of the principal players,
Marrying out and interlocking with other family sets,
Scattered far and wide in a grid of ever expanding diasporas;

This is a story of a woman who will never know her true roots -
She was born into a family of a particular ethnic group
who was in dire straits; she was given away for adoption
Presumably in her very first year of life to a family
from a different ethnic group.

(tbc)

but the oddity remains for and sundry to see
and dark whispers and even undisguised, raw jeers, ridicule
were the order of the day
she walked the extra mile to be the people who ridiculed her
She neglected her duties
she developed a victim mentality
was no angel
given away to be married off
many similar cases in kemaman
most notorious being the natrah story
Poverty pushed her biological parents
from southern China
Ending up in the Kemaman Bandi
iron ore mine
via Singapore.
She was presumably born in 1932.

Wong Yoke Kwan, an unfinished story

life of ridicule n mental anguish
uncalled for remarks n cold stares
WYK knew odd one out
put up a barave front
her heart cried out in pain
from callous tretment
of tronoh, in ipoh 70
people making fun n could offer no explanation
kept feelings pentup and did not ask parents
91 - got the answer when she attended
a gsthering and people commented
she looked remarkable to a friend in Jelapang
may 12, monday, mother's day
drove bike to jelapang
first stop
chinese lady sweeping
showed pic of anama who look
exactly like her mother
dna
of her pain n suffering

When Uranus Is My Scout Planet

Not that I know for a fact,
But presumably most people
Feel the need to hide behind
The skirts of authority figures,
The hooves of the herd,
Anonimity and conformity,
Mediocrity and piety,
To escape the unsettling -
To say the least - feeling
Of being slapped with a label:
Usually a descriptive tag
That highlights any departure
From the norm, be it physical,
Behavioural, attitudinal
Or concerning one's beliefs.

A label yanks
You out of the ranks,
Putting you in the line of fire
Of society's drill-sargeant-types,
Self-appointed echomen, and
YangDiKerah chorusboys,
For having stepped out of line,
Eating with chopsticks
At a table of fingers,
Speaking out of turn
At a caucus of coca clones.

They pelt you with dollops
Of disapproval, jeers, scowls,
Ruses of ridicule,
In a ritual refusal to look
At their own reflections.

Men will whimper, wilt,
And simply shrivel up,
When cast the hex
Of name calls ...

Or melt into the bagan -
Hitching their persona
Onto the bandwagon
To escape the stigma and stigmata
Of having inherited
A different set of desiderata.

But a few rebels, outcasts,
Survive the baying and shank nipping
And have enough chutzpah
To strike out on their own -
Or snap back.

In my time, I've been called a botak,
A bandit and an eccentric, a number
More than most would consider
A fair share, methinks.
Botak on account of Tun Abdul Razak
Having had more hair than my father,
Bandit on account of the common belief
In the 60's that all slant eyes were communist suspects,
And, yes, I do have slant eyes on account
Of having a Yunnan strain in my veins,
Eccentric on account of my preference to stand
On my head when everyone else is slouching on one foot,
Watching me do the heart turning Yoga asana.

Had I given in to the initial welling
Of emotion upon being thus slapped,
I would have have been cast in irons,
A fallen angel recalled to the ranks;
Mercifully, I had enough reserve in the tank
To recoil from the instinctive impulse,
Instead I stewed in my own juices for a while,
Long enough to scour the terrain of my mind
And resources for a way out and this was
what I found from astrology (There I go again,
Setting myself up for another mudpie in my face):

"Your scout planet is Uranus:
You view the world from an unusual perspective,
You have a link to hidden forces,
Giving you a deeper understanding
Of the mysteries of life.
Unusual things happen to you,
Often very abruptly and unexpectedly,
You have unique ways of getting things done,
Which causes people to think of you
As being eccentric."

Absolute Reality, Relative Reality

to conceal from one another
the unique and lonely world
in which each lives
terribly articulate, foolishly truthful
conventional men agree he is mad
what an extraordinary fella
thrown back on itself,
determined more
by the seer than the seen
instinct for the absolute
thirst for truth
a strictly personal affair
of vision not of argument
escape the stigma of ostracism
by outwardly attaching itself to a tradition
personal religion attach itself to a majority school
abounds in hints of wonder and mystery
of what lies beyond tables and chairs
are not what they seem
from naturalism to idealism to mysticism
naturalism - views the world as nothing
more than concrete things governed by natural laws
idealism - views the world as aggregates of thoughts

My Body Lies

From the top of my head,
To the tip of my toes,
I lie in my bed,
Neither am I dead,
Nor even in comatose.

But fully cognizant,
Of my body's prone position,
Parts and connections.

At the top of my pate
Is a hirsute suite
Just as a palm tree
Is topped off with
A canopy of leaves,
Without which we'd be baldy,
Shorn of our crowning glory.

My head sits atop a neck
As a watch keeps a lookout
From the watchtower,
As light shines from a lighthouse,
Giving reassurance to a returning kayaker.

This is my face,
The focal point of who I am,
By which I am known,
Greeted and graced.

My face is like a hallowed
Church pew, with all its parts
In their proper places -
The eyes, the nose, the mouth
None out of synch, not one askew.

Inside the mouth is a tongue chute
Leading to an antechamber -
An epiglottis, the gullet,
And, recessed out of view,
The larynx.

The neck joins the head to
The chest housing the vital organs -
the heart and lungs,
And below decks,
The tiffin-turning tummy.

The stomach extends
The body's range further south,
To the body's fulcrum - the hips -
Flanking the tender bits,
Before it fans out into the nether kicks.

As a centrepoint in my
Abdomen's washboard expanse,
There is a dry oasis locally known as Bellibuttoo,
It was once well-watered, a conduit of nutrition,
But now converted into a tourist attraction,
A jewel in the Saharan undulation.

Back up, echoing the fork to the
Lower limbs, the shoulders sprout out
The arms, giving balance and harmony,
Getting work done, and for doing workouts.

The arms with its elbows, wrists and hands,
Are for lifting, throwing and manipulating,
While the legs are for walking, kicking,
And complementary balancing.

At the bottom of the back
Is a pair of padding at my disposal;
Between the mounds
Is a hole for waste disposal.

Hidden away inside the body
Is a host of organs hung like
An intricate lattice of lanterns,
Bathed in fluids, charged by calories,
Doing vital work like coolies
In the innards of an East India
Company merchant navy.

Did I forget to mention
The brain enclosed in the skull
Inside the head?

That's funny, the brain
Is for remembering.

Salam the Suluk

TBC

Salam, a Suluk, is darting about
In the byways of the cavernous
Shopping precinct called Putatan Point,
Down here in Putatan town,
On the west coast of Sabah
Where the patent to the words wayward wind
Is being applied by the state government
In a long-drawn effort to fight the machinations,
Sleight-of-speech and machiavellian manoeuverings
By interested parties euphemistically called local politicians
Who wish to advance their interests
By using the illegal immigrants issue
As leverage, as target practice, to take pot shots at,
As a diversion from addressing more urgent needs
Such as education, poverty eradication,
environmental degradation and public sanitation
Which the illegals did nothing to ease the congestion
Adding a few more twists to the complications,
Churning up more froth to the mishmash of the state ethnic pot
In which every Sabahan sits comfortably
Milking the largesse of the blessed land
Fecundating under the long shadow
Of Mount Kinabalu, its high priestess
And godmother rolled into one,
Giving yet another mirror image
To the eclectic, syncretic, polyglot.

Take Salam, down at Putatan Point,
As a case in point:

A Wasteland Of The Mind

Below the high and mighty clouds
Of education reports and master plans,
That have been swirling above
Our heads since Merdeka,
Here I am down on all fours
On the living room floor
In an honest-to-goodness
Staredown with a year six mind
Who cannot write "with," "the,"
Or even "a" during an
English dictation class.

This after millions of ringgit
Have been expended,
Tons of textbooks -
Wooed in January, jilted in December -
Have been churned out,
Scores of teacher-training colleges -
A beehive to no-option jobseekers -
Have been expanded,
And six years of SRK classes -
Which parents who could afford the move
Turn their backs on in preference
To the system across the causeway -
Have been dumped,
All to no apparent valor or avail.

So where is the hitch?
Is it the fault of the lecturers
Of the trainee-teachers who write
Notes for them to copy?

Or is it the doing of the
Trained teacher who sits
At her desk after writing
Notes on the blackboard
For the pupils to copy?

Or maybe it is the pupils -
Who copy the notes from the blackboard
Or the exercise books of other pupils
In order to complete their school
And home work -
Themselves who are at fault?

Or maybe it is the parents who
Went through the same treadmill
Thirty score years ago and are
Now the proud parents of pupils
Whose school exercise books are
Full of copied notes?

Or maybe there is an unseen hand,
Who concertedly and persistently
Frustrate the efforts to get the pupils
To read, 'rite and regurgitate -
Because they are convinced
Mainstream education, for
The same reasons or reversed,
Is a self-serving ploy to secularize
The masses or beat them up
Into submissive footsoldiers
Of the prevailing ethos?

What if this unseen hand
Is right in our midst, nay,
Right in our own hearts?
A succubus, a worm,
A Trojan horse, the enemy
Sharing our mosquito net?
What then?

Does anyone care or dare
To point out that note-taking
And rote-learning, however convenient
A cover-up, a conspiracy,
Is no substitute for real learning,
Nay, it may even be a slayer
Of curiosity and enthusiasm,
The true call of learning?
Do you dare do the unthinkable -
Wrench out your diseased heart -
And replace it with a brand new
Bionic one?

Will the story of Hang Nadim
Be reprised here,
Or does the story of the Emperor's
New Dress ring too close for comfort?
Or is this vain verse of mine
Be the tree that fell in the forest
Which no one uptown could hear?

KL Traffic Junkie

TBC

If you think driving in KL traffic
Is stressful, meet Roby Rose,
She is the latest mutant thrown up
On the wave of KL's rapid rise

I know Kl best from the late 60's
to late 80's, after that I gave up.
Too stressful.

Then in July 2006, I had
Reasons to revisit it for
A month and befriended
This lady who live in Bukit
Antarabangsa, owns another property
In Damansara and works in Bukit Bintang.


In Bukit Bintang

Saddam's Story: From Hell And Back

The sight of Saddam's statue
Falling over was a grim herald
Of his own, and the form that it took -
Falling through the nooseman's trapdoor -
Might not have been on everyone's sighthole
But probably sighted in the minds
Of the thousands of his victims, at least
Those who survive, never mind a leg or two missing,
While in those who had passed on, the sight of Saddam
Falling through the trapdoor
Could still be watched on tv sets
From the divine departure lounge,
With the added bonus, presumably,
Of being able to watch the seamless sequence
Of the sight of Saddam - his soul, that is -
Passing on to the next sequel to his fate -
Entering the portal of hades,
In a souk drama that could easily be
Titled, Saddam's Story: From Hell And Back.

From ProtoMalay to Bumiputraism

wnfc

To raise chicken in a coop
Is for the single purpose
Of putting it in the soup;
To raise children in a box
Is for the single purpose
Of putting then into a convenience socks;
To remove the chicken from its free range
Is to deprive it of experiencing chicken hierarchy;
To forbid children from having a free run
Is to deprive them of learning social skills;
To tame chicken from its original jungle domain
Is to take it away from being nature's model;
To prevent children from being active in sports and games
Is to take away the development of form as nature designed;

Bloggers, Don't Unite!

tbc



When two bloggers got sued for defaming
a rash of bloggers parachuted
from the rafters of false anonimity
calling for unity and starting a fund
in defence of the doggone bloggers.

I say, whatever game you choose to play,
Be it a game of hockey or poker,
there are always basic rules to respect and obey
If one does not want to incur problems.

Having transgressed a rule and aggrieved
Someone who then decides to go by the law book,
You are set. Just count your lucky stars he didn't
Resort to taking the law into his own hands.

As a blogger, I don't like to hear that
Another blogger is asking for help from other bloggers
For a transgression in the name of freedom of expression
for all bloggers.

As a blogger I look askance at another blogger who ask
bloggers to unite in defence of all bloggers.
I begin to question whether he has an axe to grind,
wants to gain mileage, glory, be a hero,
advancing a hidden agenda, riding piggyback,
And other whathaveyous.




one would think blogging is the last bastion
where one may let one's hair down
for independent and free expression,
subject of course to the laws of the land
and the usual norms of decency.

For bloggers to feel the need to unite
and form a union of whatever sort,
that would be the ultimate betrayal.

Issued A Blank Soul

In the end, we all will be delivered
Unfettered and pure as a baby's bottom
To the hand that smites open the seas
Nurses the universe, and
Rocks creation's cradle,
But in this bend of the river of life,
There are gnomes out there
Whose nose is firmly fixed to the grindstone -
Not of an honest day's work -
How could they -
But of being defiant of simple decency -
Compassion even - and insists on and persists in
Ridiculing, bickering, backstabbing,
Bringing down, stepping on, betraying
And cheating fellow humans,
Especially when they know
They won't be hit back
By a mobster or a lawsuit.

Smirching is the order of their day,
Smirking is the end they seek to display;
Of the mind, charlatan; in the heart, nonchalant;
These are the vanity vultures
Perched on bloated carcases,
Of fly-blown cultures,
Committing the ultimate betrayal -
Handing over their mind's wherewithal
To be the handmaiden
In a witches' coven.

Raven-eyed for the slightest sign
Of non-conformity or vulnerability,
They turn on the mongol-eyed puppy
In a litter of doe-eyed brownies -
Driven by the same frenzy
As aquarium fish attack
The same spot of open sore,
To kill off the wounded guppy -
Elemental animals to the core,
Humans only at the door,
Their hearts besmirched,
Their faces besmirked,
In this bend in their river of life.

One wonders if they are not bearers of blank souls -
In the mirror their reflections deflect,
How could they then self-reflect?
Hey, am I not holding up a mirror of self-discovery?
For the things I said of gnomes
May be reverberating off the rafters
In my own home -
If I am not wary.

Jiggling In Interstitial Space

In between the twin fabrics of existence -
The protoplasmic and the cosmic -
Thrown and tossed any which way
By its constant motions
Like clothes on a line
Flapping in the wind.

I jiggle in its interstitial space,
Like a fly caught in a spider's cobweb,
Or a surfer lost on the Web,
A fugitive on the run from life,
Flailing down a time funnel,
Stepping on rolling waves,
Balancing to make my way
To the light at the end
Of the dimmed tunnel,
The toll exit to a waiting
Road which will take me
To my final destination -
The Perfect Form.

Need to say,
The journey takes only
A moment of eternity -
And the eternity in the moment.

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.