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.

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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

This Photograph Is Proof

I'm living in a story that proves that when God calls, we don't have to worry. I have spent the last decade learning to trust God to provide. He always has. Maybe not the way I would have liked it but He always made things work out. Learning about Faith in bible school strengthened that desire to live like the heroes of faith. I had requirements for God though. I told Him that He had to provide for me and I wouldn't ask for any financial help from my family.

I was working part-time, at one point with two jobs, so as to support myself. Money was still tight though. There was one night, near the end of my shift at a Christian bookshop, I discovered that I had no money in my wallet, my farecard was empty and I had less than 6 dollars in my bank. I was contemplating borrowing money from the bookshop's cash register but that would have been really difficult to explain. I even thought of the possibility of walking home from the city, but that would mean I would get home too late to wake up for bible school the next morning.

So I prayed and worried, and prayed and worried. And gradually the worry faded away. There wasn't any solution but peace seemed to override every other emotion. About 20 minutes before my shift ended, my brother called me up. He was 'in the area' and asked if I needed a lift home. There is a difference between faith and pride. God takes pleasure in one and distances himself from the other. Faith believes for help, pride turns it down when it doesn't look like what you expected. I readily agreed to the lift.

Deep down, I longed to be able to rely on God like the heroes of faith did. Like George Mueller, or Smith Wigglesworth or like my grandfather. And I would ask God, 'Is faith for the poor? Can I not learn faith if my family is middle class?'

God must have smirked.

And so I quit my part-time job to focus on the last year of my bible school. It was financial suicide. But even when things made no logical sense, God always came through. Meals were paid for, people gave me lifts to school and home so I saved on bus fare. I made it till the end of bible school. I found a job 2 weeks after the last day of school at Christian Outreach to the Handicapped and I've been working there for just over 2 years.

I have a diploma in Information Technology. The job market suggests that I can earn up to $3000 in the IT sector. But that would mean that I would be doing something that I did not enjoy. I wanted to go into Mass Communications back in my polytechnic days and I would have if I were confident enough. My results were good enough and I passed the written test. If only I could answer the questions during the interview. I froze because of insecurity.

Incidently, my friend wanted to get into the same course later on. He borrowed photographs that I took on a trip to Israel to use in his 'portfolio'. He was handsome and smooth. I wanted to write. Get into journalism, advertising and media. He wanted to get to know the chicks. The last I heard, he had become an air steward. Probably for the same noble reason.

He got in. With my photographs.

Well, more than 10 years later, I find that I'm learning to use what I love, in my work. I write, I photograph, I create simple advertisements and I use social media to promote my organisation. Communications. God has a great way of bringing you to your calling.

I'm planning a missions trip. Its happening this Thursday for 3 weeks.
It started out with just 2 people unsure if they could go. Now we have a team of 6 who will not be stopped.
It started with zero finances and a missions policy that would not support our team members. Now we are only 500 dollars away from the budget and a product sponsorship worth thousands of dollars from an internationally reknown cosmetics company.

God is good if we let Him be. If we allow Him the opportunities to fulfill His promises.

The Love For What You Hide Is Growing Like The New Born

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Dedicated to the most beautiful birthday twins that I know.

Lysandra and Lavinia.

---

I.
Hide. Hide behind these words
They are a shield for my ego, my precious ego,
easily bruised and so sensitive.
You could fill it until it stretches and grows
and yet it would fit in one clenched hand
like a single gold dollar
of a boy in a video game arcade.
And that boy would wander,
looking at every screen, every ticket-spitting machine
wishing he could win some meaning.
He would ask, what drives you in this place?
And shrill alarms bells and spinning flashing lights
would reply and he would never know
if they were the answer or the distraction.

II.
I know two women,
born nine minutes apart
Their eyes are strong,
nourished and trained;
But unlike the twenty-something executive with a gym membership,
meaningless repetition with polished metal and black numbered weights.
No. Picture the labourer in the humidity,
carrying a thick stink, covered in the raw sheen of perspiration
his muscles the by-products of actual labour, straining with purpose.
See life's necessity chiseled into these women's faces.
They have never backed down,
I believe they don't know how.

III.
Pride props up her chin.
Confidence her second skin
She dresses dangerously.
No one is safe, especially not me
Her smile is oil,
rare, precious, fueling my moods
Diamonds highly desired
and yet unaffordable.

IV.
Win all the attention and affection in the room
Send ripples down their spines
with your laughter, like bells rejoicing,
like peace from a mountain stream
whispering,
Everything will be alright
because you are here, you are happy.
You are the reminder of hope.

- Daryl Goh