These three poems were written by Chrystal, read at Contradiction IV. We thank the writers for allowing us to publish these works on our site.
INK ON SKIN
self-expression or self-release?
ink on skin more like blood seeping through
art and architecture colliding
on surfaces and within
the body
is beautiful. her body is beautiful.
a landscape genius with shading
and smooth curve. Read the rest of this entry »
We shall be publishing the works read by the speakers at Contradiction IV in a series. We thank all the writers for allowing us to do so!
Both these poems are by Zhuang Yisa.
The Tough Guys
It is a serious matter. This spying
from behind a shower curtain,
across the ginger corridor of desire.
It is real business, and only real men
do it: show me what you have, and what I show you
will leave a bittersweet aftertaste
in your mouth. An open mouth
begs the question: what makes us real, as men?
You steal a glance
in the sauna, at the stud’s
towel-clad reserve, to observe the stoic,
unreciprocated silence
that might answer the question for you.
Ask and thee shall receive. A hunter’s credo.
The waiting isn’t ritual; it is mental.
Out of the gym we carry weights.
We are the tough guys. We are the soldiers,
the husbands, the fiancés,
the boyfriends and the secret lovers
bracing our souls, to march on under
a sky willed cloudless into monochrome, blue as soap
held in a dispenser, pressed disinterestedly by so many hands.
Dog Lover
The best breeders love their dogs
to the point of exclusion
of even the slightest possibility of loving
another human. They are at one
with their dogs; they cannot tell what is worth loving
beyond the merits of their own species
except, perhaps, this potential in the rest: the ease
of being manipulated, bought over
by blind devotion to the superiority
of their breed. Knowing this,
I followed you home. Knowing
what I knew then, I put a leash
over every resistance
in my body, and put it in a cage; I pushed the key
into your hand, then lay next to you: we spent the night
in the hot stench of dogs
not knowing if the night would outlive either of us
should we bare our teeth and bark.
This poem was written by a Guest Writer, Judith Sarah
Dear Singapore,
Do you know who I am?
Perhaps you already know me
By my name, and 7-digit ID
But I guess that’s where your knowledge ends…
So well Hello, I’m on a mission.
To help you understand
That I will be who I am;
So please Singapore, just listen.
___
I’m a girl birthed from your Singaporean soil
Right into your ideal Singaporean family-
2.2 children, HDB flat, parents,
And of course, bill-paying perennially.
I’ve spent a lifetime going to your best schools,
Won all your book prizes, and scholarship money;
Now at eighteen, and none the wiser,
But somehow with you, I’m still quite happy.
I’m the girl who used to think
That you and I were through,
But who now just can’t help writing
To you, about you, for you.
___
But really, who am I to you?
You scrutinize me through your prescribed glasses,
In this great nation of myopia;
You ruthlessly label me a criminal,
In this law-and-order-Utopia.
So to you I am simply that delinquent
Who craves cigarettes and thrives on rage;
Who somehow managed to break 5 of your laws,
Before her legal age.
You see me as one who can never fit
Into your perfect mould of ‘living’;
The woman who may never bear you
Those children you’ve been so badly craving.
To you, I will always be the eroder of your social fabric.
I want to love you, Singapore.
But can you ever love me back?
To commemorate our 2nd Anniversary, we go back to our roots and have a heart-to-heart with the author of the book that inspired us - Giti Thadani, author of Sakhiyani.
This entry for the Writing Contest of February is written by ebelle
I met her during a school camp. She was my camp leader and I was utterly swept away. She had the most engaging smile and an adorable way of looking like she was stalking when she walked. Almost like a panther in an urban jungle. So confident, so graceful, so attractive.
For the purposes of this story, I shall call her Q.
Q was a student leader. A prefect who was well-liked, played badminton for our school, had straight A’s and was a natural over-achiever in everything she did. She could light up the room with her smile and I was instantly smitten by her amiable nature. Read the rest of this entry »
This entry for the Writing Contest of February is written by Centaur, and is the winner of this month’s contest. Congratulations centaur! We will be publishing the top 2 entries for the contest.
Over and Over Again.
Sitting apart from you, with my bowl-cut hair and dirty fingernails. I was worlds apart from the immaculate you. You in your prefect outfit and neat pony-tail. There was something strange going on. As you laugh with that high-pitched voice and chatter with childish enthusiasm, I found myself without ground beneath my feet. As though I was being sucked under, into somewhere.
Where?
I don’t know. But this new feeling was both pleasure and pain. No words could label it. I wasn’t even conscious of it. All I knew was that you were incredible, fragile yet beautiful.
But I had no balls to tell you that. Read the rest of this entry »
Please be reminded that the deadline for the writing contest for the month of February is 11:59 PM, 13th February. Late entries will be only be given secondary consideration.
Send your article in to admin@sayoni.com before the deadline!
I’ve always found it uncomfortable attending family weddings and reunion dinners as an officially single person but family funerals are worse. Plus I never thought I would feel nostalgic for the days when people called me ‘Sir’ by mistake. Here, in this very cold room at my mother’s funeral wake, the staff of the Singapore Casket Company are calling me ‘Aunty’.
My Mum died alone. I know I should feel more upset than I do but I think it hasn’t sunk in yet. I didn’t realize people die so fast.
The problem is, we don’t schedule dying the way we schedule other family activities. When my mother died two nights ago, my brother was away on a business trip and I had gone to Phuket for a weekend to get over a break up; what’s known in the community as the annual break-up. The one that begins with,
“Don’t you care about anything?”
“Why do you have to be so intense about everything?”
Foreword by Yawning Bread
This is the “tall tale” that Ng Yi-Sheng was planning to relate on Sunday 5 August, at the planned event “Tall Tales and Short Stories” during the Indignation Gay Pride Season 2007.
The Media Development Authority (MDA) deemed such an event an arts performance, and insisted that the organisers obtain an arts event licence.
Yi-Sheng, who had planned something a little more spontaneous, then had to put down his story in words. As he told me,
“I had no inclination to write it in letter form until MDA demanded a licence application. My irritation with them imposing this system on us put pressure on me to create something *worth* their attention. And while I knew they’d probably ban it (as they did your photos), I was also completely aware that this was part of the game; that their action of covering their backsides by banning something they’re uncomfortable with (though for no specific reason) would backfire in the end, through enhanced public interest in a text that suggests that they’re gerontophilic paranoiacs.
“In short, I am not the victim here. They are.”
* * * * *
On 1 August 2007, MDA rejected Yi-Sheng’s text. He was not allowed to read it at the event. The MDA gave a one-line reason in their letter:
“The content of Lee Low Tar has been disallowed as it had gone beyond good taste and decency in taking a disparaging and disrespectful view of public officers.”
The event will still go on, but as a talk, not an arts event. I believe that Yi-Sheng will spend his allotted time sharing with the audience his views about the MDA and the inspiration behind this story.
* * * * *
A fictional, metatextual farce by Ng Yi-Sheng
Composed Tuesday 24 July, 2007.
Denial of licence communicated Tuesday 31 July 2007.
Dear Sir/Madam,
Re: Application for Arts Entertainment Licence
Thank you for your application dated 25/07/2007 to hold a public reading of literary work. As you must know, the Media Authority on Development (MAD) is extremely supportive of the development and dissemination of Singapore writing. We welcome such events as yours as a vital element in the growth of our national culture.
This being said, however, we regret to inform you that one story – and one story alone - in your programme lineup, has not met with our board’s approval. Even by our liberal standards, we have been forced to rule that Ng Yi-Sheng’s “Lee Low Tar” is not a work of literature, but a specimen of the most degraded pornography known to man.
Indeed, the author admits as much when he introduces the text in his preface as “an account of the perverse and prurient adventures of the dangerously beautiful and seductive schoolboy Vladimir Koh Nah Bay”. His unusual protagonist, an avowed nymphomaniac by the age of eighteen, is to spend the greater part of the ensuing pages engaging in a number of highly imaginative sex acts with men; a premise which our board of reviewers, in the light of Section 377A of the Penal Code, cannot condone.
This fact in itself would be sufficient grounds to disqualify the tale for licensing. Yet the author further complicates matters by making Vladimir Koh one of a peculiar and unique variety of perverts; namely, the gerontophile, one who derives erotic pleasure through contact with old men. And I quote:
Give me an elder of the city; a senior citizen, a sage, a pasha or pundit with a noble bearing and pleated skin. Give me milky eyes and delicious dapples of brown on the dermis, knobbled joints and distended bellies bearing the memory of a thousand suppers, dry lips and sweet gums, cold fruity breaths and withered tongues. Give me wizened feet on wheelchair stirrups, stone knuckles on Zimmer frames, hearing-aids, eyeglasses with chains behind and clefts in the middle for bifocal correction, give me hairlines of white and grey and caramel, receding into the napes of scrawny necks and thereafter into clothing stinking of chloroform. Off with those wet pyjamas, I will have your shrunken sex.
We believe that Vladimir Koh represents an inaccurate reflection of the homosexual community, which is commonly known for its adoration of young, muscular men. Such a contrary character will only frustrate expectations and stimulate widespread depression in the community.
This article is written by a guest writer, Nei.
I admit I was one of those people who were present at the Theatre Idols reading earlier this year. So the play wasn’t new to me. But this version was, and despite some unexpected directorial choices, I enjoyed and appreciated its art. Now, Hitting (On) Women is one of those things you just have to experience for yourself in whatever form. At the reading I remember being stung with shock as each revelation rolled in. The very foundations of the story became rather unstable, which was tremendous fun. Watching the reading was helpful as I was able to put both renditions beside each other and let different emotions shine in the interplay. This version, although less subtle in some ways, did illuminate certain aspects by carving them in stark relief. It was a very physical, tangible performance, and that helped to bring out the power of its words.
What particularly amazed me was how incredibly intense it was. Hitting is a play that really lives in the characters, and it works well when viewed as a character-driven story. That’s not to say that the plot is lacking, for this highly psychological play has layers and takes us on a ride into the human psyche. As truths unravel, the innocent theatregoer may unwittingly find their own covers peeling back. At the same time, we never really know the characters, and chances are that every member of the audience will see the big picture in a different light.
Results for the Sayoni Hot 20 List 2008 are out!
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