Leong Liew Geok (b. 1947)

leongliewgeok.png

SELECTED POEMS

Dear Mona

Listen: for too long, you've looked askance, obliquely gazing 
Into space. You don't do much else, do you, not even turn 
So we may glimpse your back as you take nature at the rear:
A change of scene refreshes. What are you thinking, dreaming?

Light is fading; soon you'll step inside to sit at table, 
After which, the veil and shawl removed, you'll wear some other 
Gown (tresses bundled into some nightcap) and—as they said 
In your time—retire. Do you smile and dream, or fret in sleep?
Or reveal secrets which your understated smile conceals?
Composure beckons, to the tips of these fine long fingers, 
Obvious as the hands at rest and gentle bosom, second 
Nature for a woman of your age. I'd love some lessons, 
Despite a different language. I should say you look great 
And classy still. Congratulations! Distance becomes you.

Free Spirits

A student and his girlfriend sitting 
On concrete at the furthest end
Before their ledge turns a corner of the building, 
Are learning ways of sharing.
They play with what looks like a pink 
Feathered toy, ruffling and passing
It between themselves. She talks into a phone 
And he kisses her hair, her left ear, her cheek.
Saddled over his knees, her legs cross his;
As they rock their legs, she smiling at him, 
He slides both arms around her waist,
Kissing her lips, her cheek, her nose.
He opens a text he's pulled out of his bag:
Swiftly, they bend over a page or two, laughing 
And as she writes on paper poised on thighs, 
He feeds her something—sweet or preserved?
Which he too eats, but keeps kissing 
And kissing. At the end of the ledge 
Which hugs each floor outside our offices, 
Five storeys up, they wrap arms around each other, 
Looking out over rain trees and the car park, to the sea.
However they lean, they remain in perfect line 
With my window. There, they feel safe from the whole 
Old world blind to Cloud Nine. She is patting 
His neck, touching his hair; returning, he drops 
Head to rest on her bosom. She hugs him 
And he, her: enveloped, inseparable, offering 
An accidental voyeur, their poem.

The Potter

The potter dreams of shapes he hasn't made:
Awesome, curvaceous, strong and lean,
Forms that dance and call for light from shade.

Remembering earth, the wild grit of his trade, 
The luck of clay, of heat-glazed crystalline, 
The potter yearns for shapes he hasn't made.

Whole debts to craft, can they be paid 
Out from his drizzling age, arch fiend?
Raw forms will not play long in light or shade.

The pots he throws, now small and staid, 
Yet pull arthritic fingers, their spasms keen 
And sharp. The potter lies with shapes he hasn't made.

To clay he clings; his hopes will fade 
And he must stop, or stay within his means 
Instead of shadow-boxing pots of light and shade:

Bowls, plates, jars, vases—all parade 
To taunt their would-be maker, light unseen 
By us. The potter dies, shapes he might have made 
Unborn, light withdrawn by dark receding shade.

Women Drivers

Our brakes don't squeal
Our cars can't speed
Our egos won't turn
Sharper than we need

We stop for red 
We play by rules
We don't bend, or break 
Cars with resale value

We'd rather give way 
To our fellow men 
Wanting to cut in
Than move up or pretend

Yet we rattle the nerves 
Of motoring louts
Who feel stuck behind us 
And cannot move out

When they finally pass 
They throw dirty looks
Confirmation in sight 
Of why they shook

What's wrong with slowing down?
With traffic we're moving
While we mull over
Which way we aren't going

No broken bones
No possibility 
Of traffic accidents
From our gravity

Mindful of position
We calculate with care
The U-turn queue lengthens
We simply don't dare

We don't want to hurt 
We'd rather not cheat
We don't like close shaves
We'll ignore your heat

Though we don't swerve or weave
We're a breed much maligned
The scapegoats you denigrate
With clichés unkind

Without sanity like ours
Imagine how roads would be
Demonized by thugs
Unchecked and dashing free

So gender recognition
By you smug motorists
Our compliment it is
Through your gritted teeth

Women Without Men

Already ringed by daughters
And no son, they keep
Trying and trying still
And trying until
Tired out, afraid of mothering
More women,
They stop.

Contoured by choice,
They manage people over
The children they can’t imagine
Bearing or diapering. Or the men
They won’t concede lives to.
Work pushes old
Age off.

Unused to the new,
Some, not knowing
What to do, are afraid,
Though it may be a blessing
That women outlive men,
And singleness is theirs
Again.

by Leong Liew Geok
from Women Without Men (2000)

 

SELECTED VIDEOS >