I've Been Dirtier Than You'll Ever Know

I.
I am not a ripple-making rock thrown into the pond of eternity with my significance fading away as it gets further from me. I am a mighty meteor crashing into the middle of the ocean. You are terrible tranquility and I'm here to tsunami your psalm trees and shake up your sandy beaches, your obsession with the sin-ery.  God's thoughts toward you are countless like the sand. You were meant to build castles and kingdoms, not number them. Consider the time that each grain represents, as it slips away through the hourglass of eternity. Tell me. These words. Don't you love these words? Don't you love their sound, their comfort. How they never expect anything except your satisfaction? You could never afford this. You have never paid your dues. We are never easy. And yet we are prostitutes; Why did you let them throw pigs among pearls?

II.
Tighten your hold. Vice-like grip.
This dagger would never slip.
Blade blaze. Already blasé
from the taste of blood.
Must possess beauty. Must mark it.
Exist only in memory.
Dagger's tip and Masterpiece must meet
First lightly. And slowly.
Fingers fleet over terrain; Over dreams slain.
Feel destruction in every crater,
As flesh gives way to steel, to lead,
To voices in your head.
Where perfection retreats.
Left hand stabs. Right inspects.
Soon we're playing five-finger fillet.
One-two, one-three, one-four, one-five, one-six
Two-six, three-six, four-six...
Sooner or later you'll be playing butcher.
Squeeze me. What did you expect to see?
Tear out these veins and see worship stain the pews.
Go ahead and stare. Make a scene.
Scream and call it horror.
The greater horror are the millions dying slow deaths
in buildings we call places of worship
Playing a game called religion.

- Daryl Goh

Home Was A Gift Of God

back then, where you lived was where you were alive
and you climbed trees, you could touch the sky
back when houses hid behind garden forests and felt safe,
when homes were families,
not masterpiece monuments of brick and glass,
to flaunt prestige and class.

the mailbox hung proud upon the gate.
letters went in the slot,
the newspaper in the cylinder on top
and life was that simple
because everything was where it was supposed to be.
the gate was rusty red with diagonal grills,
which made it tricky to climb.
every contact left a mark,
guilty like bloodstains.
evidence that revealed your rebellion
simply because dad demanded it locked.

you could sit beside it and count cars
as they cruised by,
when mom and dad left for school to become
other children's parents.
one day they would put you in a bus for your first day of school
you fought them as long as you could
but those arms weren't strong enough.
you exhausted them the evening before
as you stood in the driveway trying to fly away
wishing to the stars that could be seen
from this city of meritocracy,
telling them to take you away,
while a rolling tear cries 'no!'
and your 7 year old heart resolves to never grow old,
to never grow cold, to never withhold.

and some wishes do come true
and while you stood in that driveway
behind a rusty red gate
of a house on a hill
on a road of jasmine
a voice above your head will say
you are
in the right place;
you are a gift of God.

- Daryl Goh

Wait For Her

With an azure drinking cup studded with lapis, wait for her
In the evening at the spring, among perfumed roses, wait for her
With the patience of a horse trained for mountains, wait for her
With the distinctive, aesthetic taste of a prince, wait for her
With seven pillows stuffed with light clouds, wait for her
With strands of womanly incense wafting, wait for her
With the manly scent of sandalwood on horseback, wait for her
Wait for her and do not rush.

If she arrives late, wait for her.
If she arrives early, wait for her.
Do not frighten the birds in her braided hair.
Wait for her to sit in a garden at the peak of its flowering.
Wait for her so that she may breathe this air, so strange to her heart.
Wait for her to lift her garment from her calf, cloud by cloud.
And wait for her.

Take her to the balcony to watch the moon drowning in milk.
Wait for her and offer her water before wine.
Do not glance at the twin partridges sleeping on her chest.
Wait and gently touch her hand as she sets a cup on marble.
As if you are carrying the dew for her, wait.
Speak to her as a flute would to a frightened violin string,
as if you knew what tomorrow would bring.
Wait, and polish the night for her ring by ring.
Wait for her until Night speaks to you thus:
There is no one alive but the two of you.
So take her gently to the death you so desire,
and wait.

| Mahmoud Darwish - A Lesson From The Karma Sutra |

A poet of global significance. A writer formed in the crucible of migration and asylum, he powerfully evokes his experiences in poetry and prose that transcend time and place, drawing on collective memories of loss and longing, and expressing the mutuality of trauma and desire for peace.

Born in Palestine in 1942, he suffered two violent expulsions and spent more than 26 years in exile in Jordan, Lebanon, Cyprus, Tunisia and France before being able to settle in Ramallah where he now lives. His highly acclaimed publication Leaves of Olive was published in 1964. His poems reveal the struggle to assert a sense of belonging and identity, and his prose masterpiece Memory For Forgetfulness (1982) powerfully evokes the experience of forced exile.

Mahmoud Darwish has published more than 30 collections of poetry and prose, and his work has been translated into 35 languages. He is the founding editor of the highly regarded literary review Al Karmel which fosters intercultural debate on intellectual issues and links Arab writers with the international literary community.

You Have Stolen My Heart (updated for submission)

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Calling unpublished poets: Firstfruits publications seeks submissions of poetry in English from Singapore poets who have yet to publish a full-length, single-author collection of poetry. Selected work will appear in an anthology to be published next year. All submissions must be sent before 1st September 2010.

---

there will be a void when i leave.
a void that follows me when we are apart.
you plugged it whenever I saw you or heard you or held you.
otherwise, i am a leaky bucket.

every time i stand in front of you
to sing or speak, my heart beats
so fast, i stare out this glass, its audition day.
scream to the world, impress me, please!
show me something great,
be the risk i cannot take.
and for those moments i am powerful.
i am commander and you,
you are my century.
and in each one, endless possibility.

but from where i stand, all i see is
a single highlight in her hair.
my eyes are drawn, they seem to like that blond
frame for her face.
she is a picture i could hang on my bedroom wall
so every morning i will see her and remember.
she is like deep breaths.
sooner or later i've got to let her go.
so i give up her ghost.
the one that tells me - the ones who love you matter most.

what about the ones i love?
what about those thieves pretending to be precious angels?
eyes haunt me every night.
she fights me to keep my promise.
she writes we love you in their little notes
torn out from her copy books.
we because i wouldn't be appropriate.
it would be too intimate.
let me love you, at that age it is pure.
innocent like hanging between two thieves.
like holding you as your tears soak my sleeves.
holding your little body,
between your chest and your belly,
it fits my palm perfectly.
how did you hide my heart in there?

my heart is with you.
it was cold. shivering.
wanting to beat for someone or something,
and you, you have warmed it with your smile and your song.
your arms are the arms of real women, loving yet strong.
your eyes are fiery jewels, filled with intelligence and honor, just burn on.

so.
breathe.
remember that God is in every inhale and exhale.
he is in you. around you. with you.

look at your hands.
they may be tiny, but they are perfect.
hold them up to the sky.
see the sunlight shine through the gaps and know,
these are God's hands.
they gather and give, always gather and give.
and when there is nothing to gather.
when the clouds hold themselves in
and the fields are naked.
remember that these are God's hands.
creator hands meant to touch and transform,
hold and heal,
revive and restore.
be fearless and they will prosper you.

do you know you are marvellous and beautiful?
do you know you are meant for something great?
do you know how precious you really are?
do you know how much you're loved?
you must know this.
you must feel it,
experience it
every time you sing or pray,
shout or play.
do you feel it in you?
i do.

but tell me: how did you fit my heart in there?

- Daryl Goh

Slipping In Between You And Your Big Dreams

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Calling unpublished poets: Firstfruits publications seeks submissions of poetry in English from Singapore poets who have yet to publish a full-length, single-author collection of poetry. Selected work will appear in an anthology to be published next year. All submissions must be sent before 1st September 2010.

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on the seventh day, when God was resting
when he was sure no one was looking,
he reached in and pulled parts of himself,
lit from the embers of his heart.
fit between pinched fingers,
sprinkled into lines singled,
licked the ends so it would stick,
rolled into a cigarette.

drawn out puffs, calming this child,
long hard drags, quieting this hell.
i barely even notice the smell,
the life-giving breath just overwhelms
my eyes follow the rising smoke, down to this cylinder,
my sight leaps like salmons against the flow of the river.
he brings me in, burning these sins
you'll never see such destruction.
(normally this structure is damaged but not the foundation)

i see him bent over and brittle
hunched with hands over head
the lashes latch on, his back spurts passion
while he mutters again and again
the sacrifice makes it sacred

the sacrifice makes it sacred

the sacrifice makes it sacred...


and you catch a sliver of a smile against the darkness,
let out a breath kept since creation,
these tears chart a path across blood stained cheeks
past the lips gently nursing that cigarette
would you ever go toe to toe with a terrorist
ever one-on-one with a broken fist
you wouldn't even leave for groceries
without the sure and sacred shopping list
and yet we try to navigate life like this.

i hear God yelling,
this
is
worth
it.

- Daryl Goh

So Open My Eyes

I have been busy these couple of weeks and my mind is constantly on the responsibilities of my work. The past week has been unusually draining with preparations for the Tree of Life display at the Singapore Garden Festival. But in moments when I'm alone, sitting in the train or walking home, I imagine that I am back in Nepal. Suddenly the seat I am on is no longer contoured for comfort. The path which I am walking on is no longer concrete. Instead, sand and dust is kicked up behind me. A signal of where I've been. The traffic, just inches beside me, blares its musical notes, spewing black smoke. Like those jazz musicians.

I remember one of the nights when Pastor S was driving us back from the Sophia Home. He mentioned that he was going to pray for a family. We heard that their child was feverish and the parents were afraid. Charmaine and I decided that we should go to visit because we knew them as well.

The father recognised us immediately and was grateful. He was the lead singer and guitarist in a Christian rock band and being a performer, he was used to a different kind of attention. Suddenly, we became royalty in their house. They gave us drinks and talked to us, and tried to make us feel special.

I asked myself. Why the big fuss? We are only here to pray for you.

And my God rebukes me. To you, it is just prayer. To them, it is healing and salvation for their child. It is their only hope. This is why you don't see Me working more often. Because you think it is just prayer. You need to magnify me, Daryl.

When we prayed, I laid my hand on the father, the head of the household. Compassion flowed and we both knew he had received an anointing for his family.

You Have Stolen My Heart

Thieves with the faces of angels. That's what they are.

These girls have been such a joy to be with. We spent two days painting the activity room at the Sophia's Home and what I really looked forward to was their reactions. Seeing the girls walk in through the door, greet us with a convincing Jayamercy! (a greeting that means Victory to God) and their eyes would grow and glisten in the wonder of seeing the mural that we painted.

Watching them play and run about brought a deep sense of peace and joy, as if God was showing us how simple it is to enjoy life.

There will be a void when I leave.
A void that follows me in my heart when we are apart.
You plugged it whenever I saw you or heard you or held you.
Otherwise, I am a leaky bucket.

Do you know you are marvellous and beautiful?
Do you know you were meant for something great?
Do you know how precious you are?
Do you know you are loved?
You must know this.
You must feel it, experience it everytime you sing or pray, shout or play.
Do you feel it?

I do.

My heart is with you.
It was cold. Shivering.
Wanting to beat for someone or something,
And you, you have warmed it with your smiles and your songs.
Your eyes are fiery jewels, burning with intelligence and honor.
Your arms, arms of real women, loving yet strong.

Breathe.
Remember that God is in every inhale and exhale.
He is in you. Around you. With you.

Look at your hands.
They may be tiny, but they are perfect.
Hold them up to the sky.
See the sunlight shine through the gaps and know,
These are God's hands.
They gather and give, always gather and give.
And when there is nothing to gather.
When the clouds hold themselves in
And the fields are naked.
Remember that these are God's hands.
Creator hands meant to touch and transform,
Hold and heal,
Revive and restore.
Be fearless and they will prosper you.

- Daryl Goh