Singapore (and poetry as a Time Machine)
I firmly believe that travel is medicine for the soul. It fosters humility, exposing us to new environments and cultures, thereby lessening the ego’s sense of self-importance. It hints that our way is not the only way, but one of many possibilities about how to live. Travel is also a privilege – due to constraints around finances, work and other responsibilities, it isn’t always possible to jet off somewhere when we feel stuck. I’m still not sure that the post-travel blues which hit me on my return from Asia to London in September have dissipated, despite the fact that I’ve now been back for longer than I was away. Life still feels notably colder here, both emotionally and climatically. Winter has stretched into calendar-springtime, sunnier days not yet bringing warmth.
Earlier this week I facilitated a poetry workshop on the theme of writing about places. Technological issues scuppered my plans to play YouTube clips featuring performance poetry about natural and urban environments respectively; so, I looked back to my own body of work to see what I could perform instead. Revisiting the poem ‘Singapore’ that I wrote in my first few days of landing in Southeast Asia on a solo trip brought me into sharp contact with how poetry can allow us to travel while our bodies are stationary. At the time, writing my surrounding into riffs and rhythms helped me to process all that my senses were taking in. Now, almost a year later, the existence of these lines anchors me in fond memories far more adeptly than my mind alone could manage. Those small details that get forgotten become vivid again and I recall the physical and emotional sensations of Singapore. The tastes of chana masala in Little India, the addiction to oat milk coffees which did not need much condensing but became stronger while away due to its representing a tie with familiarity. The humidity and liberating strangeness of being somewhere new by yourself.
I can’t pretend that rereading my travel poetry doesn’t bring a pang of wistfulness, a desire to be back in the headrush of novel experiences, making my way through cheap pairs of flip flops and opening my heart and mind through spontaneous friendships. It’s a distant world from commutes to Willesden to Hackney packed with passengers who look like they’ve been sucking lemons; mandated hours of sedentary screen time flicking through different MS office applications; and a months-long battle with persistent colds and flus. I wonder routinely whether Asia would make a more amenable long term home to my sensitive soul and depression-prone psyche, with its glorious lack of winter.
Yet mixed in with lashings of envy for my past adventuress self, there is also a flood of gratitude – for having been on these journeys and for having written about them, providing an eternal memento. When I look back at ‘Singapore’ (the poem), I feel closer to Singapore (the place) and reinvigorated by the incredible power of imagination to open portals within our mind’s eye to wherever we desire. Poetry therefore brings with it a freedom – I remind myself of the significance of capturing moments that may not seem significant at the time, whether these be during an exotic trip or the minutiae of daily life. One day, things will look different for us and snapshots from yesterday will form jigsaw pieces in the picture of our growth over time, inspiring joy, reflection and appreciation for the process by which passing experiences become a life.
Singapore
Singapore scattered me;
burnt-out batteries steamed in the heat of streets,
skyscrapers backgrounding red-tiled rooftops,
effortless MRT quiet people no shouts nor children’s bleats
dipped voices by stalls selling deep-fried sweets,
men perched smoking on pavement seats –
stopped to swap greetings, syllables morphing
from English to Mandarin to Malay.
Concrete and glass reflections dwarfing the bay.
Sightseeing list barely dented,
boxes un-ticked, jet lag circumvented by
gong beats starting the day.
Temples, mosques, gurdwaras and churches –
Muslim prayer beside Christian bells –
dwelling and workplace entwined rising steep –
corporate turrets agleam
like the shimmer of a place in a dream.
Humidity ebbs and swells
over never-ending sights of iced tea and boba;
Thoughts fried with sweat, sizzled though sober.
Circadian rhythms skewed
barely ready for lunch and it’s already dinner.
Do businessfolk up their hotels feel like winners?
Watch it all with a Sling from an air-conned suite?
Cocktail rims sugar-topped,
Savour champagne on ice and Michelin bites,
pedestrians made into microscope dots,
ground level to sky-bar a distance of lightyears.
I’m alright here, air vents kissing the tips of my flip-flopped feet,
clouds leaving their tears on my tongue,
massage parlour lights pink.
Fortune teller signs blink by the tinkle of clinks of Chang beer
curiosity slowing my steps to a sway,
laksa-coloured sunsets dashed by industrial grey.
Western coffee for nine dollars a cup,
but I’m a sucker so I drink it up –
home tastes good when you’re far away.
Singapore, you’re so smooth, sanitised.
No perfumes of cannabis thinly disguised
No baggies nor canisters,
absence of trinkets of deviance,
ubiquitous cameras affecting compliant allegiance.
No actions unseen,
public toilets suspiciously clean,
Nothing audibly vicious or violent
Singapore, why are the insides of your buses so silent?
Leaves me seeking a thrill, to shout through your quiet,
through tower block mirages who waver and swill.
My thoughts don’t stay still; they’re a chaos of music and chatter
and part of me yearns for your rhythms to mirror me –
to flash me some glimmer of dissident dirt
While I’m lost in the lattice of malls and 5G
A clatter of traffic that cedes to the sea
Impeccable sports kits and slickly pressed shirts
The uniform of your number-thick-tech-data dynasty:
Singapore simmered me.
This poem was originally published on Buy Me a Coffee, where you can read more of my work (and leave a small, personal donation if you feel so inclined).
