Robert Yeo (b. 1940)

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SELECTED POEMS

A Poem as a Fan

No sooner seated, she folds my handout and fans
Herself. Rupert Brooke and Wilfred Owen,
As she soon finds out, upon unfolding, have been
Cooling her. Brooke’s Soldier could, but Owen’s Anthem?

She’s fanned them, nonetheless, but can they fan
Her in return? Not just for the moment or for
The fever of my course, can English fans be
The cool conquerors of the March heat in Singapore?

Can? Or should? Can or should poetry do this?
What passing poems for those who feel the heat?
Poetry that makes nothing happen has sort of
Sprinkled you, Elaine, and made this poem.

Dream

Bold only in conception, barren otherwise.
On impulse, random schemes will sprout
Only to spend themselves wilting. Some are
Stillborn. A few survive precariously
Watered by time that ought to tick elsewhere.
Or drift from chick to chick like some anxious
Adolescent when he should have given up
Long ago to become complacent cock
To a real hen and her brood of chickens,
Responsive daily to her regular chick.

If all that was for a good cause, for art
Say, all right. Then perhaps he could try
To justify what productivity so far
By dreaming of fame, of posterity even.
But here, where the patrons of art are
non-Singaporeans mostly, where exhibitions
Tend to be social events first, where
Many are sold on gracious living, but what
They buy are houses, chit funds, Toyotas…
If you must dream, then start by waking up

Mummy What

Mummy what shall I wear?
The blue mini
Shall I wear that blue skirt
The one you made for me?

How shall I look tonight?
This is my third date
With him, and the last time
He said I just looked great

Mummy may I use your lipstick?
Not the Christian Dior
I prefer the Max Factor one
The one that caught daddy dear

Her’s taking me tonight, mummy,
To the Rasa Sayang
And how shall I dance tonight?
What’s the meaning of rasa sayang?

And if he wants to hold me close
Tonight as he did last week
Shall I let him, mummy, please?
May I dance cheek to cheek?

And if he wants to kiss me
Mummy, shall I let him?
I don’t know when to close my eye
Will it all seem like a dream?

Saigon 1

After the violence synonymous with Saigon, 
Diem dead, bombs for New Year, human torches
Safety is astonishment not easily borne

So I am in Vietnam but here are lives
Lived like those elsewhere that I’ve seen,
If seeing is believing. Where’s the surprise?

But Saigon is no more Vietnam than is 
Hanoi, though in the north what they die for
Appears more real. My southern friend agrees:
‘Sooner one nation than Thieu. There’s Geneva!’ 

‘Is not our history like this bamboo here?
Bent, bent, it will swing back despite what 
The Americans do. The French were there
Surprises are for those with a weak heart.’

Those in Urban Yellow

And yet, some of your young opt out, niggling,
‘You are not green enough.’ They love, (you know),
Parks where spring contrives to give to green|
A shine that does not yellow easily.

And there are those with ears so keen they can
Make out the sound of falling dominoes
Years before they have fallen. In which 
Bowling alley have they long pricked their fears?

Few, few don’t know what green can be greener,
Or yellow, yellower. If we cannot choose,
Entirely, which flowers will grow wild on our soil,
We can, at least, graft blossoms for new homes.

by Robert Yeo
from The Best of Robert Yeo (2012)

 

SELECTED POEMS: “Faith” >