Daryl Lim Wei Jie (b. 1990)

SELECTED POEMS

a visit to choa chu kang columbarium, 12 Jan 2014

columbarium,
marble dovecotes lined:
I press my ear against
yours, thinking I hear
a forlorn flapping.

hemmed in in life
walled in in death
you were resettled
thrice, a national
average, perhaps.

traditions adapt:
false flowers, not fresh
clean the niche with wet wipes
on the tiny row of space
people place dollhouse food.

offerings have logic:
must open up packet
of 5-star duck rice
otherwise like that
ah tai how to eat?

not enough numbers:
the niche number only
three digits, how to buy?
can what, this is row D
D is number four.

to pray is to channel
my desires towards
some supplicating will
I don’t want to do that
so let’s just talk, ah tai.

don’t worry, ah tai
the living too are all
in cells: housing blocks,
cubicles, excel sheets,
dating apps and forms.

I run my hand over
your life carved out
in gold characters:
dialect, maiden name,
some hometown in Fujian.

these things I remember:
you, on a chair, dazed
me greeting you good night
every night till you died
then saffron and smoke.

hey, ah tai, it’s been
half an hour: have you
had your fill of joss?
hope the rice was nice.
we’ll be back next year.

Ann Siang Hill

Derelict, it is hard to know
where the wall ends and where
the twisting palisade of tree roots
begins. Tangled like a braided
Medusa. Clenching like
a senile despot on his
crumbling throne. Foot-soldiers 
of shrub and weed creep forward. There is
design here but it cannot 
be easily discerned. Across,
the backs of shophouses form
a fortification of their own, 
chalk-white except where flecked
a paintless grey. Staircases curl
upwards to a pretense of turrets. 
Those are some pretty ceramic
murder-holes. Caught in paved
no-man’s-land, I fear the earth
also has redevelopment plans. 

Sang Nila Reclaims the Throne

“...when eyes were still embers waiting for a 
crownless Prince of Palembang.” 

At 4.45 on a Saturday, all TV channels and radio stations announced his resumption of the throne. 

As the news filtered down, the queues at the 4D shops grew longer, though no one was sure what numbers to buy. 

The President, Prime Minister and members of the Cabinet were found in their homes with arrows in their backs, except for the Minister of Culture, a secret double agent. 

Bands of revenants secured power stations, army bases, telecom buildings, and other such installations.

At 6, he emerged from a keramat in Telok Blangah, surrounded by devotees. However, they were shocked to discover he was a Buddhist. 

There was a run for Singapore history titles at bookstores. But most of them only had a single unilluminating paragraph. 

He enquired about the state of his kingdom and successors. No one seemed to know anything, and so the presence of the Royal Historian was demanded. Someone found the number for the National Heritage Board. 

He desired to ascend the Forbidden Hill to visit his palace, or what was left of it. There were no horses, so they had to call for taxis. 

“Does anybody know of a good goldsmith, with crown-making experience?” he asked. 

Neighbouring countries denounced the change of regime, “Sang Nila’s mythical claims notwithstanding”. In Malaysia, those who spread rumours of a returning shah were detained.

The opposition parties did not make any press statements. 

In the taxi he named several devotees as members of his ruling council. A committee was formed to examine his claims to Malacca, Bintan, Palembang and other parts of Sumatra. War with Majapahit was declared. He tried to pay for the taxi in old Chinese coins, each worth tens of thousands. 

Congregations poured into temples, mosques and churches, though few knew what to pray for. 

Government, as ever, went on, despite the absence of politicians. Some senior civil servants remarked that government had never been smoother. 

At 8, he appeared on national television, vowing to keep Singapore a haven for traders, to personally lead an expedition against the pirates and to sustain the alliance with the Mongol Emperor. The Chinese ambassador declined to comment, citing portions of international law that were later found entirely spurious. 

I watched him speak at the coffee shop under my block, where a crowd had gathered. There were mutterings about a new public holiday. Most of the uncles and old men concluded that everything would be the same, king or no king. 

He clarified that it was indeed a lion, experts be damned. 

At 10, we lined the streets around Dhoby Ghaut, waiting for him to descend, our king. We had no idea what flags to wave, what banners to brandish, what to shout, and in what language. 

We settled on Singapura.

Upsizing

after Alvin Pang

Give me a bowl of bak chor mee, with extra noodles, extra lard, extra
ter kwa, extra chili, extra vinegar but please don't charge me extra.

I want a steak big enough to sleep on, a gravy boat you can drown a
child in, fries you might mistake for new lanes of the PIE.

Give me wall-to-wall salami tiles, bacon blinds, more cans than I'll
ever open, cheeses that I'll melt to use as concrete.

I want an eclair so capacious I can park a Jaguar in it.

Two Jaguars. I want all the other pastries to feel threatened, to quiver out their cream.

So huge, the mountaineers will scale it for a challenge, taking celebratory licks when they reach the chocolate-coated peak, this Kilimanjaro of choux.

I want it because I'm so goddamned hungry.

I want a youtiao so massive I can go spelunking in it, explore the caves of dough, sail on the lakes of grease and find a soft, fluffy place
to snooze.

Of course some sup kambing. Make it Olympic-sized, ocean-sized, a body of uncertain green visible from space, huge islands of mutton bobbing in the oily waves.

Give me a prata so huge it'll be its own country. I'll keep it warm with volcanoes, I'll feed all of Asia, there won't be enough curry in the
whole wide world.

While we're at it, how about a milo dinosaur as well, with a heap of milo powder the height of Everest. I want the sugar to keep me
awake till the second coming of Christ.

Then calamansi juice with sour plums, the volume of Lower Seletar Reservoir, to get my appetite up again

by Daryl Lim Wei Jie
from A Book of Changes (2016)

 

SELECTED POEMS from Anything But Human (2021) >