Grace Chia (b. 1973)
SELECTED POEMS
To Holland From Singapore
The first time I heard about you
I thought there was another country
inside this island of ours,
or that a fiefdom had formed
from a fistful of tulips
in an enclave a bus ride away.Used to live in the north—
a constituency it’s called, our local parlance.
The whole lot of a country sliced up like pies:
the east has the ocean,
the south the business hub,
the west filled with factories
but these days it’s much more.
The north, close to the Causeway,
largely suburban, slow-paced,
each constituent alike but not the same.I no longer can tell
what is unique about each town,
if Ang Mo Kio is any more special
than neighbouring Bishan,
or if Hougang is Serangoon,
separated by schools;
where is Simei if not in Tampines?Pasir Ris is far from Pasir Panjang
which is unlike Bukit Panjang
or this place called Bukit Batok
miles off from Bedok,
a satellite town near Marine Parade
as if sea mammals party all day.Why Nee Soon changed its name to
Yishun, and isn’t it a hair’s breadth
from Woodlands? And where is
the woods in this forest with
such a rustic name? I imagine
there’s a lost deer or bunnies
hopping into burrows,
perhaps a cottage with a creek;
pixies, unicorns, a faraway tree.Queenstown is so Victorian
I wonder if the monarch has
come this far; of course, we must
have Victoria Street, as every
Commonwealth country does,
parallel to Queen Street leading
right to Bugis where you’ll find
queens of the feather boa kind.Is there a Middle Road for
the middling to escape the rat race?
All the fault of Stamford who hogs a Road
and tourist spot, standing fort forever;
this place, a money making machine.
About that he’s right, but what else can
warm his spirits at night?Will he walk two steps to
The Arts House at Parliament Lane,
historic of debates but now a home for,
well, the arts, housed in a white shell
of blank slated walls, each week shining of
cultural artifacts this red dot creates
by unpaid, unappreciated, unheard of
writers, musicians, artists,
who live in block after block of HDBs,
HUDCs, executive and private condos,
semi-detached bungalows, all were
on land once flattened from kampongs.So you see, Holland, a radius of a space
the locals find too lazy to say in full,
not Holland Road or Holland Village—
where are the rural townsfolk for such
a namesake? I reiterate, this is a country
of pretense, shrinking things and
growing tall, nests of nuclear homes
on the fortieth floor, minorities
clustered on the lower flats,
a mixed bag of demographics
somewhere in between,
from the very old to the spinsters,
new citizens to subletters whether
they have the right papers or not.I’ve lived in this nation
of many colours for far too long,
once a kampong kid,
then an urchin riding brand new
trains, the MRT taking me up
places I’ve never been.
Watching panoramas of green
change to tunneled underground,
this has always been a country of turnaround.In Holland, the faces are less brown,
espressos cost a bomb, not many aunties
shouting Singlish down the phone.
Haircuts here? Don’t even bother,
prices so steep a trim from a director
could get me a dyed beehive elsewhere.
Gentility certainly doesn’t come cheap.But what to do? This place’s cool.
Some say it’s no big deal,
so is the rest of this island,
where every mall sells the same crap
at extortionate disproportionate rate,
dollar to ratio for each plastic use.Everyone can afford a bus ride,
though journeys are too long,
too rough, and you still have to walk.
MRT is alright, smelling of
sweat and cheap cologne as
children cry for milk and able-bodied
men snore like toads on seats reserved.I’m fed up like you. I’ve lived abroad,
known an alternative where the air is calmer,
land is larger, houses cost a fraction of
the hole I’m paying for through my nose.I still come back, I still miss the goddamn lot.
The food haunts me, I salivate in dreams.
My parents were born here, and so was I,
I’m making my children learn Mandarin
in this country they’ve just come by.Nostalgia is a strange beast;
it’s either too strong to fight
or too weak for temptation.
I’ve had it for so long I know
all the signs. You imagine a postcard
but in truth it’s not that pretty.To Holland I travel once a fortnight,
to Ang Mo Kio when a ride comes along.
Now I’m across from Dover,
that’s right, I’m one road from Britain
where the uncle peddling the XO fish head
is a bully with bad perms.I live where I live,
I don’t care where my mouth eats
or which winds come my way.
This is Singapore.
This is where I’ve chosen
to park my stubborn butt,
ease my craving for hawker food
nearest to old Ghim Moh.Have sailed oceans away and now
returned, this ache for foreign lands
to see and taste the odd
has eased in this capricious soul.Tonight I am here.
Crescent moons look the same
no matter which skies you seek;
you can always count the stars
from infinity to fifty to five.All the exotic is here
in the backyard or my doorstep;
a stone’s throw away from
upstart lowbrow Sheng Siong.
Today I eat local,
tomorrow who knows?No worries. Don’t fret.
It’s okay lah, mai hiam.
Have will; will travel.For now I’m about to tuck in
my okonomiyaki, sip on Apfelschorle,
munch on papadams and gado gado,
share a tom yum and pho bo,
then later grab some tapas.
Maybe a tagine or fajitas,
down it all with caipirinha,
snack on jiaozi, la mian or something mala.
Of crepes and burgers and bread pudding,
from squid ink linguine to moules-frites,
I’m hungry just thinking about it.We’ve got it all, tiny Singapore,
not forgetting our Little India to
Chinatown to Arab Street,
the world as an oyster is right
in our palm, our fingers five,
from equator to rest of the globe,
I don’t need to travel far
to be far away from here.This place I call home,
where homeboys make homely.
Come, stay, go away, that’s what
we locals do anyway.
If we run out of space,
I’ll build more bridges,
dig the ocean, teleport,
colonise the moon for its
emblem is on our flag,So why not?
by Grace Chia
from Mother of All Questions (2017)
