Tse Hao Guang (b. 1988)

SELECTED POEMS

All the Sounds of Mynahs 

Final crow proclaims its insolence alone,
is shot. Little boy, lost, decides to browse
unmarked back shelves of Sheng Siong,
finds a little nest. Mimosa grows and grows
vulnerable to breath. Who will talk to it?

Looking for cockatoo-sitter while family
plus maid visits Australia. Will pay cash.
Cannot draw a quartered tomato, biology
tutor needed. The swimming pool is fresh
or salt water also don't know—taste a bit.

Chickens come from FairPrice, bulldogs
from The Pet Safari, goldfish from Underwater
World. When too-early morning sun drags
me out of bed, the koel calls; I wonder
what new crime it's telling me to commit.

At night, all the trees in town come alive
with all the sounds of mynahs. Each tried
their best to preach to me. They believe
enlightenment has come. Put your tired
shopping down and squat, or lie, or sit.

glass elevator

at 7.25 a.m. each day except
weekends you (rolled magazine
under left arm) take the elevator
(cheap coffee in right hand) up
(most mon & thu in creased cream
blouse, alternate wed in pencil
skirt & glasses because of board
meeting) to level 18 where the air
is clearer (once you stared out
at the hotel opposite, pretending
ice-capped mountains were in
view) & your office (once I missed
my stop wondering about fri’s
agenda (I saw you had 10 files &
no Vogue)) waits (on the same
floor of a different building)

Gongs, Alarms

I am from the high rise bomb shelter.
From the Speak Good Singlish Movement, red as plum,
where the joyful grammarian worms. I am from nameless
noodle stalls with frowny uncles, from palm copy-paste
plantations, from the ice-stoking wilds of Torontonian
suburbs. I am from the strut and peck of hao gong
ming. I have a badge. I am from the policeman who drove
me to school, from the lawyer’s letter, the leaving.

I am from muddy tea stretched to a metre and a half as we
looked for its heart, from the black nut that oozed and invited
fingers or silver spoons. I am from the are you from China?
I am from the gongs of Imperial China. From each love
letter of the alphabet, crisp, incandescent. I am from
Asian Values. I signed a pledge to outlaw the water vapour
stirring in air. I am from the thing that spits and spits.
I am from the itch to sugar the split.

Losing Count

Rosary

Arithmetic and heaven seem to meet
here, in your hands. Earnest, I barged
in once and broke your words, strung
along our silences. We groped for them
in vain, catching snatches of take this pain
and show me how. You were never one
for careless talk, but I am still learning.
I stammered, retreated, my voice loud;
I could not know what you were holding.

Pencils

Freshly sharpened in a row, they please
my artist's eye. You cannot see from where
you sit how lead might snap or tracing
go astray. The gentle aftermath of shavings
and eraser dust are signs of just how many
points have blunted. What I hold in frame looks
nothing like the view of you—hour-old elbow
with day-long neck, two legs slightly out of sync—
don't move, stay still, it's almost done.

Baby Oil

After every shower, quick and wincing,
I trust the label, apply liberal amount
to affected area, imagine you. How
many weeks have passed without
my hands coarse on your skin? How
many months before this itch ceases?
I've given up calculating, I've let years slip,
slowly, quickly, from cracks in my cupped
palms to plastic celadon tile.

by Tse Hao Guang
from Deeds of Light (2015)

 

SELECTED POEMS from The International Left-Hand Calligraphy Association (2023) >