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.