new old poet

Re-reading Arthur Yap, or rather, reading him for the first time, because i've only looked in the past without really reading. ('2 mothers in an hdb playground' doesn't quite count.) What a subtle intelligence, such gentle wit, and oh, so very delicately-sharp his observations. i've always known he was a good writer -- all the writers i most respect like his poetry. But now i want to type out everything in the space of city trees and fill this blog with his writing. And i admit i love the riddling, elusive quality of his work -- the fact that i can't quite figure it out, draws me in even more.
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But for the moment, these 2 poems will have to do. One, about art -- its value and its limitations (what is it about poets? forever thinking about art, its value and its limitations...); and the other, a quietly-cherishing love poem for his longtime partner to whom the entire collection is dedicated.


Edit: several hours later

Ok. It's a disgrace, that i've never read his work properly before. Surely he must have been Singapore's best poet. HM's so lucky, to have had him as a mentor.
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Edit 2: even more hours later
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Ok. i take that back. "Singapore's best poet"? Where would that leave... the rest of them, whom i also love? Cannot lah. "One of Singapore's best poets", i think, is better.
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a scroll painting
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the mountains are hazy with timeless passivity
sprawling monotonously in the left-hand corner
while clouds diffuse and fill the entire top half
before bumping daintily into a bright red parakeet
perched suicide-like on a beautifully gnarled branch
arched by the weight of fruit and one ripe peach
hung a motionless inch from the gaping beak
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here is transient beauty
caught in permanence
but of what avail is such perpetual unattainment?
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i know the stupid bird can never eat the stupid peach
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your goodness
for Keith
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your goodness, i sometimes light
my anger with, is what you have. no one
can burn it away; it is not for my discussion.
i know, near you, i myself feel good.
& this is enough for me, my friend.
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this is a life-time friendship; the poem
is short, inadequate &, except for a word,
totally redundant.
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(Arthur Yap, the space of city trees: selected poems)
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