All my possessions for a moment of time

"All my possessions for a moment of time"  was apparently the last words that Queen Elizabeth the 1st said before she died. Some people speculate that she was wishing for her ex-lover Robert Dudley.

I wrote a poem along those lines a couple of months back - no relation to recent events.

All my possessions for a moment of time  
A moment to reflect 
A moment to ponder  
A moment to weep for what was lost
All my possessions for a moment of your time 

A time long gone 
A lover that cannot love back 
A moment lost forever
 
All my possessions are useless to me 
My gold, my silver, my palatial palaces 
They cannot love me, they cannot return your affection
I would trade all my possessions  
To hear your voice say my name kindly again 
To feel the touch of your hand on my cheek 
To sleep on the warmth of your chest.
No more. No more. You are gone.  
Dust. And all I have are my possessions.
What good are they to me now?
  Yauming Chiam April 2013.

5 years ago - A wedding poem 10th August 2008

I used to do most of my blogging on another site called "www.multiply.com" - but it has since changed direction and ejected all of the bloggers.

I have had to import all my blogs from that period over to blogger. A lot of them are just junk. But I wrote some nice stuff as well - like this one:


It seems very sad that as wedding ceremonies/ honeymoons become more and more elaborate, fantastic, and expensive, the greater the number of divorces.

Beautiful wedding ceremony - pity it didn't last as long as the expiry date of the cake.
Perhaps too much attention is being paid to the exterior, external surface of marriages, and less on the actual integrity of the relationship. You can see all that on the Woman's Day magazines - glamor glamor glamor... omg wedding rings, designer wedding dresses, wedding dinners of the century, celebrity guests... and then... what happens?

(Having said that - I believe that marriages in ages past - were often iron rod legal contracts - in which both parties never knew each other - in which women were treated as a commodity, property, not as a human being... but custom, traditional, and misogynistic factors kept married people together - which seems fubar to me.)

I would think that before all marriages or even engagements take place - simple exercises ought to be taken which address 1. Mutual Respect, 2. Amicable Conflict Resolution, 3. Intolerable individual Traits and Practices - my, that was a mouthful.

Marriage is after all more than just a love affair - its a partnership - you're working together to build up a relationship - eventually - a family/children - will come into this relationship. But if the core values of the partners are not right - its going to be a short and bitter journey.

Here's something I made up just then:

By the shores of the water we walk
Hand in hand
As the sun sets, so we bid farewell to our past lives
Let us greet the sunrise, this New Day, not as individuals with our own separate plans
But together as one, heart and soul, body and mind, devoted to one another
Caring not for our own selves but for each other.
Hand in Hand, Heart to heart
Our Destinies Entwined
We greet the faint rays of the Morning dawn as One
My Love, hold me close.

I think the essence of a successful marriage or just a good relationship starts off with good communication and respect. Treasure such friendships. They are Gold.

The Old House - a short story

It happened in the evening as I was walking in the garden with my friend Sarah. The roses and lavender were in full bloom. It was sunset, and the sun had bled the sky a fiery red crimson. We stood in respectful silence and watched, and enjoying the moment together.

We walked back to the grand house, that red brick fortress of tranquility. The land had been in my family since the 1930s. It wasn't just a home - it was an heirloom with soul. The hard edge tiles of the slate grey roof was covered with paleolithic lichen. The front teak door still bears the marks the harsh scars of a Japanese soldier's rifle. Walking inside you'll first feel the sleek dark hardwood flooring cut from ancient mammoth trees in Borneo, then walk upon the Boukara Persian carpet given by a Prince from Mecca before gazing upon that fabulous Turquoise mosaic fresco that grandfather ordered from Jaipur.

And then I saw him, standing by the stained glass windows of the attic. The translucent teal colored glass almost hid him. But there he stood. Unmistakable. Arms akimbo - as imposing as Raffles' statue. Surprisingly, Sarah saw him too. "Who is that? She whispered. I didn't know we were having guests."
"That's not a guest.  ... That's my father."
"But I thought he was dead."
"Yes, he was. 10 years ago."
"Then...?????!!!!!????" Her brown eyes widen in disbelief and horror.
"Yes. Then." I replied. I'm not sure why. But I didn't seem surprised. Oh, he's back, the thought ran through my head.

I quicken my pace and walked straight up to the attic. Sarah, with a great deal of vocal trepidation, followed closely behind. She didn't want to go. I told her to wait downstairs - but she didn't want to be alone; she was terrified now of every little sound the old house with its teak flooring made. I told her to make up her mind without due care.
She was about to launch into a tantrum  but terror swallowed her wounded feelings as I raced upstairs. She gripped my hand tightly like a frighten child.
"I guess you don't want to be alone." I teased.
"Shudup." She snarled.
I wisely did.
The wooden staircase leading to the attic creaked and groaned like a grumbly old Cantonese amah woken up too early to do a morning chore. Dust from eons of neglect rose up to greet us. Here and there a frightful spider scampered.
I pushed aside the old European oil paintings (kept there because they upset my Grandfather's superstitious 2nd wife) - brushed away the cobwebs. Light from the dying sun gently glimmered against the stained glass windows where my father stood. But he was not there.
An unfathomable spasm of fear gripped me all of a sudden. Did it just get so cold??? It smothered my desire to call out to my father. What would happen if he actually appeared? Would he look like Obi-wan Kenobi and talk to me about some crazy secret like... "There is another Skywalker." Nutty thoughts were making a Bangkok traffic jam in my brain.
I walked deliberately and slowly to the window. And gingerly stood in the same place my father's ghost had stood. How bizarre. How utterly bizarre. Surely we weren't dreaming this up. I looked out. My God what a view. You could see the whole estate from here. The sun gleamed molten gold as it disappeared behind the horizon. Now why? Why here?
Sarah was the first to notice it. "Oh Look. A pretty wooden box", she said. Her eye for beautiful objects had overcame her misgivings at following me up this dark loft.
It was under the window, by the wall. It was very, very old. And it had been sitting there waiting for me for the longest time.

(This is a fictional story)

Counting Sand - 2010

If I could
I'd cross the sea
on Albatross wings
Flying like Icarus
I'd touch the Sun
Then Crash into the Sea
And stay there for a thousand years
Living in a sea shell on the Ocean Floor
I'd count time by Ocean rhymn
And whisper conversations to the Seahorse
When it is The Day to make amends
And account of all I've done
I'd point to the counting sand and say
My work has barely begun.

YMC 17th November 2010

I met a Muse back in May

I met a Muse back in the Month of May
She caused my heart to sing in a wondrous way
It grew wings and flew and soared
But my delight terrified her
So she ran away.


Like Icarus I came too close to the sun
I felt the heat it kept me warm
But like a fool I flew closer.

For a moment my feet were not bound to clay
For a brief moment I touched the sun's rays
Briefly.
And now she's gone.

I wish I didn't like her so much
I wish she irritated the hell out of me
I wish her voice, her laughter, her sheer presence annoyed me instead of bringing me delight.
I wish that I had not grown to like her pretty face
I wish her presence didn't give me increasing joy
I wish she had given me another chance
I wish she would come back to me

But like a moth clawing at the flame
You know the answer
It is always the same.

 YMC Monday 24th August 2013.3rd draft.

My name is Calypso

My name is Calypso
And I walk here all alone
Along this sea shore
My feet mark the sand
Shortly erased by an unseen hand
I walk towards the rays of Dawn
I never look back.
Yauming  Chiam 2012. 

(I took this photo of my niece in 2012) 

Inspiration by Suzanne Vega 

Together

I wrote this poem back in the Winter of 1991.

It was a wet and cold winter. It rained so much. I had to catch public transport to Uni - took me sometimes like 2 hours to get to school. Made worse by the cold wet winter weather.

While I was waiting for the bus at the Heidelberg train station, standing in the rain, I saw a pile of brown leaves caught near a drainage hole. And this came to me:


Leaves scattered on the ground
Spent, their time past
They live out their dying moments
Withering on the ground
Gathered in small piles as if to comfort each other of their fate
They live and die
Together.

Heidelberg, Victoria 1991.