Animal City – A Review

Here’s a review of Animal City when it launched back in August. Thanks Allee for writing about it! She wrote this as part of her class, EN3263 – Singapore Literature in Context at NUS, taught by Prof Philip Holden, who taught me back when I was in NUS.

You can find more reviews/experiences of various literary activities here: http://pulauu.wordpress.com/

Photography by Amelia Rhea.

 

On 23rd August I attended the launch of Animal City, a collection of children’s poems written by Marc Nair and illustrated by Vanessa Chan. The event was hosted at Aliwal Arts Centre by Red Wheelbarrow books, alongside an impressive collection of food and free Sapporo. The poems were interestingly read alongside music by Marc’s band, Neon and Wonder, which had a largely alternative, electronic-funk sound.

IMG_2791

Animal City depicted the “concrete jungle” – a displacement of actual animals out of the wilderness and other organic settings into an urban environment, specifically Singapore. It featured monkeys in a mafia (“Monkey Mafia”), a rather debonair cockroach (“Colin the Cockroach”) and an elephant navigating the vagaries of a road crossing (“Elton Elephant Goes Shopping”). The collection displayed a largely eccentric and yet consistent rhyme scheme, a la Dr. Zeus, quite fitting for its intended audience. However, Vanessa’s street-art type illustrations – a luohan fish decked out in the bold chain and sunglasses of American rappers, a Persian cat adorned with a peacock feather headdress, etc. made it clear that this was far from your typical children’s book. If anything, it was a consistent attempt to re-invent the traditionally idealistic genre in a cosmopolitan setting where we are simultaneously amazed and appalled by the increasing worldliness of children. (Case in point: my six-year-old nephew finding out about the massive leak of naked celebrity pictures before I did)

IMG_2821

I found the afternoon quite enjoyable and extremely refreshing for this reason as well as the masterful, multi-disciplinary blending of music with poetry. A careful manipulation of meter, rhythm and syntax allowed for the poem to be read in harmonious accordance with the beat of the music. One example was Marc’s reading of “The Howling Cats”, which traces the shenanigans of a pack of alley cats in the evening. He varied his speed and rhythm to suit the accompanying jazz bass standard played by guitarist Daniel Tan, so it effectively transformed into a song.  The added auditory dimension made the poem more real, for lack of a better word, providing the audience with an amplified experience that transcends the two-dimensional page. His easy manner and open-handed humour also went over very well with the audience, nearly all of who participated when asked. This eventually culminated in a room full of expats, forty/thirty-somethings and a small collection of people my age forming a rousing chorus of “Pigeon Pooping Contest!”

 IMG_2824

The experience was also particularly relevant to Shklovsky’s idea of “defamiliarization” discussed in week 2. One of the lines in the reading that struck me was when he declared that it aimed to “recover the sensation of life from habitualization, to make one feel”. Animal City accomplishes this in two ways – firstly, through the aforementioned added dimension of sound. We have been socially and culturally conditioned to accept the verbal reading of poems as normal; if anything, the lyrical poetic forms were made for reading and performing. The addition of music complicates this understanding. Not only do we have to decipher the meaning of the words themselves in their configurations, we have to pry apart the implications of melody and rhythm. The extended period of time we spend musing on the poem, this lingering slowness, allows us to reach new depths and dimensions of feeling. There is not just more to feel, we feel for longer.

 

Secondly, the illustrations accompanying the various poems are defamiliarizing. What would you expect in a children’s book? It is likely they would be animals of the colour-penciled, soft pastel toned variety. This is the “habit” or expectation that we have grown used to in our reading. Vanessa’s illustrations, as previously mentioned, are far from this ilk. Done boldly in marker and line art, her animals are vivid with well-defined hard lines. The images jolt the words from the page, displacing the reader’s usual expectations of a children’s storybook. In my case, my first thoughts were along the lines of – I’ve never seen a luohan fish looking so badass. Effectively, the use of these images allow Animal City to continue defamiliarizing its audience, retaining the ability to make them feel and think on the subject matter presented, even without an auditory dimension.”

IMG_3453

Singalore

This was my speech for the Proposition during the Art’s House 10th Anniversary celebrations debate on 29th March 2014. The motion was ‘Singapore can be a city of literature.’ To our chagrin, we won.
Singapore. We are a city of literature.

When we reserve tables, the word chope is personified through a multitude of creatively employed objects.
We photograph sonnets of inappropriate behavior in public. We write incredible monologues of public transport breakdowns, of long waiting times between our stanzas.

We the people are always reading… between the lines.

We are always stomping stories onto each other.
We are an efficiency of prose; precise and purposeful.

And there is great literary value found in Korean dramas, which have become a staple diet for us Singaporeans. We have learned to plot our lives through the perfect skin tone of story, to cry on cue against the moving metonymy of Seoul food.

Facebook buzzfeeds our daily dose of deep thought and connects us to dozens of denizens who dream in the same language of like. We tweet in haiku, rendering the mundane into concise catapults of meaning.

Singapore, we are a city of literature, despite all they might say.
After all, visitors misunderstand the figurative language of our gantries, the need to pass under these small taxes of our travail.

We are pilgrims bearing alms in cash-cards, the great temple demands a daily offering, and who are we, who have been blessed with vehicles, who are we to complain?

We must be grateful, as we pause in jams and squeeze onto elevators. Our hours are long, but like extended metaphors, they build us up, unrelenting, with all indicators of progress covered.

For we have gone first world, a world of fine first lines and long last lives.

We truck in similes as popular as reclaimed sand and foreign talent.
As expensive as Tokyo,
As crowded as Hong Kong,
As rich as, nay richer than New York.
Our billionaires sit like jewels atop Mount Faber, sparkling high above newborn citizens, who stretch out in boxcar apartments.

And our people are writing poetry on trains, listen to this gem from a blogger:
Love.
Teenage love.
A fire burning in their nascent loins.
Uncontrollable.
Too in love to know love.
And too like love to have love.
Too hot.
Searing hot. In warmth and scorching wind.

So when the trains do stop between the stations of our lives, we shall walk the last mile, hand-phones raised in wonder at the greatness of our structural engineering, the power of what lies beneath.

At the end of this tunnel, we always see the light.

Singapore, we are not just a city of literature, we are a country of literature.

The whole nation is a poem with matching end rhymes; the right analogy graces every occasion.

The best people, in the best order.

 

RE: To All Chickens Concerned

RE: TO ALL CHICKENS CONCERNED

Here is the latest coop from the Progressive Chicken Party (PCP):

 

The Party believes in equality for all chickens;

no chicken should be left behind, caged against its own will.

Eggs must not be aborted into omelettes but must claim

their rights; as shell-shocked chicks scrambling to life.

 

All chickens suffering from cage layer fatigue

will be given a free pass to watch Chicken Little.

Chicks are yellow because they have escaped the yolk;

they are free range children of the sunny side of life.

 

Cockerels rise to greet the dawn, chasing the devil away.

As hens lay blessings, chickens are the progressive proletariat,

watchers of time and egg, hard-boiled believers in suffering.

Stop chicken genocide. Go for the cows, they won’t see it coming.

 

Chickens will be restored as oracles; once we brought

prophesies to pass, we still guide nations from the dinner table.

The foundations of philosophy have been laid from us;

which came first, the chicken, or the egg?

 

In other news, the Hen Pecked Association of Cockerels is organising

its annual summit on ways to minimise committing domestic fowls.

Vacancy

Something I wrote for a reading at the close of the Singapore Biennale 2013.

photo(3)

Cosmology of Life, detail

 

Vacancy

After Toni Kanwa’s Cosmology of Life,

Singapore Biennale, 2013

 

If empty has a sound, what would it be?

There has been a sign hanging over this door

for as long as I can remember. It waits, resigned,

the way some shops are perpetually on sale,

their dusty eyes with no expiry date staring

balefully at shoppers who pass them by.

 

For rent, the sign speaks, in a thick steel tongue,

its prayers unvoiced as I grow older, and still, this

gnawing continues at the bustling heart of the city.

I can only imagine the unconditional summers

in the eyes of the man who laid the first brick

in this façade before it became forgotten, while

 

we laid down our pillowed offerings elsewhere

and promised to appear fully stocked, steering

through the solitude of a thousand ways

to fill our lives while the world turns, slow as ever.

So we consume desire in passing eyes, we drink,

in the shadowed days, the sighs of crowded hearts.

 

But look again, past the sign. The cosmos heralds

a thousand voices gathered around in the shape

of life. Look again, at its curving pageant, its delicate

pleasures, look how it falls in order. If empty has a

sound, it might just be the hum of possibility when we

take down the sign, and start to fill this vacancy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Plagiarism Is Seven Words Long

In the beginning was the Word eternal,

sunshine of the spotless,

mind petals on a wet, black bough,

the best laid plans of mice

between the shadow and the soul.

 

Death is nothing to us, since

there’s a bluebird in my heart, for love

is strong as death, friends, Romans.

Countrymen, lend me your hope,

is the thing with feathers, all kisses

 

are metaphors decipherable by sea

that bangs in my throat. Between my

fingers and my thumb, I wandered lonely

as a cloud, the mind is its own place.

I have heard the mermaids singing

 

when a woman loves a man, the clock

strikes with her hands, when we two

parted in silence, your absence has

gone through me. The breezes at dawn

have secrets, the rain is full of ghosts.

 

Do I dare disturb the universe?

You can hear the dew falling.

I carry your heart with me and

your fingerprints on my windows

in the machinery of the night.

 

Between the dark and the daylight

the stars are not wanted now,

death makes angels of us all.

Two roads diverged in a wood

and in between are the doors.

 

Now I’m trying to dig deeper, things

fall apart; the centre cannot fear

in a handful of dust to be, or not to be;

I still have time to be, a narrow fellow

in the grass, going where I have to go.

 

Tonight, let us not become tragedies.

To err is human; to forgive, I celebrate

myself, and sing myself. Like a bridge

over troubled waters, the weight

we carry is love.

 

Although this is technically not necessary, nevertheless here are the lines by their authors in order of appearance:
The Bible, Alexander Pope, Ezra Pound, John Steinbeck, Pablo Neruda, Epicurus, Charles Bukowski, The Bible, Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, Saul Williams, Anne Sexton, Seamus Heaney, William Wordsworth, John Milton, T.S. Eliot, David Lehman, Saul Williams, Lord Byron, W.S. Merwin, Rumi, Edna St. Vincent Millay, T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, E.E. Cummings, Allan Ginsberg, Henry Longfellow, Jim Morrison, W.H. Auden, Robert Frost, Jim Morrison, Richard Siken, W.B. Yeats, T.S. Eliot, Shakespeare, Anis Mojgani, Emily Dickinson, Theodore Roethke,
Buddy Wakefield, Alexander Pope, Walt Whitman, Paul Simon, Allan Ginsberg

 

Reading between the lines

The National Library building at Bras Basah is a fascinating structure. I have returned to photograph it time and time again, and always read something new into its munificent intersections, framed in glass and space.

Sampan 2.0

Sampan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sampan* 2.0

 

“I think we’ve upgraded our sampan. Sampan 2.0″

– Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong, 2013

 

Dear Captain,

when your father cast off from Kuala Lumpur,

and you threw overboard the white man burden, you told us to row,

for our lives depended on it. Not to look back, should the salt in the air

steal our tongues and dissolve our freedom. To trust, that this is the course,

that you will lead us home.

 

Dear Captain,

Now we want to talk to our crewmates on this boat, but winds of progress howl too loud

We want to write poems on the floorboards but they have to remain clean

We want to shimmy up the mast and dream to the horizon, to be fine, and not be fined

Continue reading “Sampan 2.0”