Crispin Rodrigues (b. 1988)

1. BIOGRAPHY

2. CRITICAL INTRODUCTION

3. SELECTED PUBLICATIONS

4. SELECTED POEMS

• Waters

• Hand-Me-Downs

• If you are reading this somewhere else

• Desertification

• my race wants me to have a body like joseph schooling

• big boi

• origin story (ii)

SELECTED POEMS

Waters

Upper-ten? Katong enclaves?
Afternoon tea on the SRC lawns?
These phrases sit foreign on the tongue as
sea foam from an Asian Aphrodite

What's in a name? A story of origins perhaps, 
floating ships docking at port, dealing in 
scented gold, these days we taste it at 
a fraction, in recipes found on the internet.

Knees are not as hardy, they lack the same rituals
of standing sitting and kneeling, they 
give the padre, imam, pastor and monk 
the same respect, some not believing at all.

Are they lost sheep, in no man's land, 
or a man of no land, suckling at the teat of 
history, pages torn out by independence, 
administration, wet salty blanket of 
bygone days?

Sipping tea?

Or do they turn and stare steadfast, 
a molecular, atomic stare into the tectonic 
tides of change, harbingers of globalization, 
an angel a harbinger too.

We live amidst the pillars of corridors, 
there but not there-Schrödinger would be proud, 
Europe is a distant memory, 
Perth a distant memory.
White privilege a distant memory,

Kristang a distant tongue,
neither my father's nor mother's tongue, 
Latin tongue, we will taste it but not use it.
The Eurasian days are a distant memory.

But what is left? Music, costumes, filigree? The taste 
of wine on lips, chillis on tongues, parties, 
gossips of relatives both living and dead?
These fragments l've shored against my— 
skull memory rituals.

We are grains of sand amidst the beach wash, 
empires of sand, we acquire new names
in the clods: Tan Muhammad Singh Lee Malik Murphy, 
inscribed among the names of the old 
double-barrel, melancholic at the waves, tidal dregs, 
a new genus of engineers scientists doctors 
join lawyers teachers diplomats 
lapping upon the new dark waters.

"Saya nama____________. Saya bukan
orang puteh ang moh nang. Saya memang 
pure asia punya."

Mosaic patterns on the wall, pixelated prophecy, 
ghosts of nationalism, old loyalist comrades 
in ditches, dancing to the new century.
Will I call you home, and taste the sweet 
nectar of satisfaction? Do I want to? Do I need to?
Will I look upon the shores of San Francisco, 
Sydney, or Sumatra as home?
Will I craft new stories, or redraft stories anew?
Tear out your last pages,
My pen is quivering and I am sweating 
with excitement.

by Crispin Rodrigues
from Pantomime (2018)

SELECTED POEMS: "Hand-Me-Downs" >