The Summer Rain
My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read,
'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,
Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again,
What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,
Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men.
Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,
What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,
If juster battles are enacted now
Between the ants upon this hummock's crown?
Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
If red or black the gods will favor most,
Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
Struggling to heave some rock against the host.
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Who Is Now Reading This?
count yourself blessed
if you are reading this?
you are the rare few
who actually read others' poetry
nobody is serious about other people's life anyway
poetry reading is being noosy
an orphan in an alleyway
tries to look for a
home sweet home
count yourself doubled blessed
if you fully understand any poem
for poets write for themselves
if a poet says he writes for others
he is probably a liar
after money probably
count yourself blessed for having learnt this
for among the millions of poets
there are poets in lost alleys
trying to find a piece of themselves
the lane that runs to treasures of heart and mind
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Song
well i hate to sing this song
this song written in black on white
the black words so prominent on the white sheet
in the proclamation of democracy
well, is there at all democracy in Whitman's world or to be exact
white men's world? Whitman's song of a great land and love of comrades how deceptive, unloving
oh what a black discovery to know that poets
too could be blinded to the real state of the world
racism, injustice; the loads of chained souls that arrived to greet
the Statue of Liberty, epitome of world freedom
in actuality always chained, mocked in black and white
oh the repair of the Statue a hundred years later
the main desire to whitewash it, whiten it
the last thing the statue should turn is black
this great land, how i wish the vision of liberty
would be viewed in the the Chinese principle of Ying and Yang
an equilibrium of black and white contributing to
a wholesome mind, body, spirit
in the plain of the wild i i cry out a justice song
day and night, of white light that brightens the dark night
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Yet, Yet, Ye Downcast Hours
yet in this downcast hour
the mornlight
beautiful twitters of birds
lost in this dungeon of
meaninglessness of life
what sinful existence
day in day out
the beauty of the outside
that clashes with the
congested inside
that plies between loneliness,
sadness, anguish, near despair
yet the half opened window
on this seventh floor of the condominium
does not invite a jump
poet killers like plath and sextons are cowards
i dont fancy their cue
idiots slapping god's hands
so tirelessly, ceaselessly polish
the artistic soul, feelings
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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After the Sea - Ship
a dancer on the stage
the ship and the sea my envy
they dance to god's repertoire
a heartwrenching spontaneous dance
energetically executed
over a stage that rotates in waves
strenuous steps that shuffle between life and death
poignant steps that send the hearts afiery, the feet frenzy
first a breeze, a soothing calm
that would soon throw the dancer helter skelter
onto a tempest
where the goddess of dance
has to be propitiated, called upon
for each step, each stomping of foot, feet
up and down, up and down
over treacherous waters
where the living bares their souls
and dancers fashion in motion every emotion
each muscle, each nerve
tested for their fitness in
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Clock Stopped
poetry in progress
the old wooden clock at
the grocery store ticks on
and on on the wall of my mind
taking me back to childhood years
it peeks at me every time
i pass by one lone child
hungering for love and
sweet adventures
in it a mirror pendulum
stands very still to the one
in my mind that tilts to
to and fro, to and fro
a child concentrating
on his yo yo
the golden horse on its top
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Day's End
night divides as clearly
as the brightness of day
time cuts and doubly sharp
in the shadow of night
on the last train of tokyo subway
you see a woman, middled age
a goddess all on her own
face heavily painted
her fingers heavy with rings,
one of a big torquoise,
another white crystal,
and another plain gold
her powder betrays her
the lines cut through
leaving a chill
between the mouths
that in the silence
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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I am the all the movies' heroes and heroines
i was a country boy
theatre was my life
and the country lanes my stage
the obliging country folks my audience.
day in day out i am all action in the lanes
bursting out with lines from the movies,
walking in the styles of tarzan,
Chinese swordsfighters, ballet stars,
james bond, snow white, the seven dwarfs, mickey mouse, donald duck, bruce lee, and even dainty Chinese heroines.
times and again, after school, our neighbourhood would be abuzz with our
swordsfighting contest;
our teams fought with hands karate-styled
and those striken at apart from the hands
and arms were considered losers.
brothers all joined in this fun
which became the climax of our country days.
schools were boring.
our parents must be very glad that
we did not have spider men then
or else they would have to talk us into
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Dream - Love
dream - love
his brush
swept
through
the canvas
the skill
of a ballet
dancer
round, twirl,
trailing
my bodice
wave
and wave
of water
colours
a world
livened up
me taking
shape
wave
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Love for a Child
mom never went to school
but that never became a problem
between me and her
if anything, it heightens
my awareness
of her predicardment
my love for her
each time she expresses
something with the fear
that she would go wrong
to educate me and now
to feel the fear of being ridiculed
my eyes turn warm with tears
mother's love sealed
in a box of love, care, self sacrifice
as she gropes to know
about the world herself
a woman's basest instinct
filtered through the love of a child
gems dropping from the sky
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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