Goh Poh Seng

Goh Poh Seng HOME
Goh Poh Seng Lines from Batu Ferringhi (1978) Extracts […] Ah, there are days ahead, Days to be fulfilled With just a soft, soft wind Filling the space of dreams. Already, time slowly slackens. There is hope then, Hope when the salt wind rises Rippling over the sand And over the water, Frothing their crests, Giggling with merriment, That I could cross At last into calm, Altogether another place, Another condition: Though maybe only of the mind. A light wind comes Along the coast Careening, cool, Scattering the birds. They take off To some other sky, Wings fitfully flapping, Blown away Like small black leaves; I watch them Fly away out of sight Into the night, Into space, unbounded. The hour has come When night descends, Gathering around me, Courting With its silence. On this lonely beach Far from the city, Far from havoc, The night becomes Almost hourless, A continuous moment Within which I’m enclosed: A world within a world, Whole as a blue Balloon idling in the air. Speaking in undertones, Tide ripples whisper As if they were alone. It's time to move on, Return home, Although home’s only A rented room. Never mind. After all Homeliness can’t simply be Measured by the amount Of furnishing. It’s what I can invest Within bare walls, Where my mind’s at ease, My spirit can come to rest. I walk away, lurching a bit, A bit tentative, this first day; It’s only the first day, I would not fret the slow-settling, Should instead take delight In this refluent shore Where the lighthouse by the headland Has begun flitting its light; A beacon to lost ships, And, hopefully, lost souls Who will be renewed by sleep. […] Words, words to weave Into prose, into verse, Varied as life, As the weather, The August sun The dark December rains Each valid in its own temper, Movement, rhyme and rhythm. I would labour Over poems crystal clear, Clean of tone Uncluttered On the one hand, And yet must dare range, On the other, To tackle, not shy away from, Any and every complexity, The twists and turns follow The cacophony contained In each subject matter.

Lines from Batu Ferringhi (1978)

Extracts
[…]

Ah, there are days ahead,
Days to be fulfilled
With just a soft, soft wind
Filling the space of dreams.
Already, time slowly slackens.
There is hope then,
Hope when the salt wind rises
Rippling over the sand
And over the water,
Frothing their crests,
Giggling with merriment,
That I could cross
At last into calm,
Altogether another place,
Another condition:
Though maybe only of the mind.

A light wind comes
Along the coast
Careening, cool,
Scattering the birds.
They take off
To some other sky,
Wings fitfully flapping,
Blown away
Like small black leaves;
I watch them
Fly away out of sight
Into the night,
Into space, unbounded.

The hour has come
When night descends,
Gathering around me,
Courting
With its silence.
On this lonely beach
Far from the city,
Far from havoc,
The night becomes
Almost hourless,
A continuous moment
Within which I’m enclosed:
A world within a world,
Whole as a blue
Balloon idling in the air.

Speaking in undertones,
Tide ripples whisper
As if they were alone.

It's time to move on,
Return home,
Although home’s only
A rented room.
Never mind. After all
Homeliness can’t simply be
Measured by the amount
Of furnishing.
It’s what I can invest
Within bare walls,
Where my mind’s at ease,
My spirit can come to rest.

I walk away, lurching a bit,
A bit tentative, this first day;
It’s only the first day,
I would not fret the slow-settling,
Should instead take delight
In this refluent shore
Where the lighthouse by the headland
Has begun flitting its light;
A beacon to lost ships,
And, hopefully, lost souls
Who will be renewed by sleep.

[…]

Words, words to weave
     Into prose, into verse,
     Varied as life,
     As the weather,
     The August sun
     The dark December rains
         Each valid in its own temper,
     Movement, rhyme and rhythm.
     I would labour
     Over poems crystal clear,
         Clean of tone
     Uncluttered
On the one hand,
    And yet must dare range,
On the other,
To tackle, not shy away from,
    Any and every complexity,
The twists and turns follow
    The cacophony contained
   In each subject matter.