ISSUE 4
Edited by Andrew Amadeus Susilo, Riti Bisht, Vandana, Loo Wei Juan and Chong Kai Qing
PROSEChildren
by Wong Zi Ling |
POETRYAleppo
by Jed Goh My Childhood
by Eunice Chua Robots
by Chloe Ng A Dual Dedication
by Xuan Zi Han Free d o m
by Riti Bisht |
PROSE
Children
|
|
Children. Beastly little creatures, aren't they?
Remember that time, when a sudden shriek of delight from the next room disrupted your train of thoughts, making you start all over again? Oh, how about that other time when they swarmed you with questions about the most random things. Like “What happens after the cow jumps over the moon?” Or “Why can’t we tax the sun?” You know, questions that sound so ridiculous you don’t actually know how to respond? Sometimes, don’t you wish they would just, grow up?
Their naivety, constant curiosity, and worst of all, that disgusting positivity constantly oozing out of them. Simply suffocating. Their ability to be happy whenever they want to be. To accept things for the way they are, to stay undisturbed by criticisms. Their problems are essentially limited to getting out of showers and prolonging bedtimes. Such simple-minded, worthless creatures. No real ambition, they can’t even stop drooling. How do they stay contented? How do they not want to be anything… more? Maybe that’s why we all tend to be overcomed by this incessant need to become more adult as time passes. We become more serious. We start complicating matters, rebranding negativity for realism. Funnily enough, thinking that would make our lives worth more than it already was.
Has it?
Remember that time, when a sudden shriek of delight from the next room disrupted your train of thoughts, making you start all over again? Oh, how about that other time when they swarmed you with questions about the most random things. Like “What happens after the cow jumps over the moon?” Or “Why can’t we tax the sun?” You know, questions that sound so ridiculous you don’t actually know how to respond? Sometimes, don’t you wish they would just, grow up?
Their naivety, constant curiosity, and worst of all, that disgusting positivity constantly oozing out of them. Simply suffocating. Their ability to be happy whenever they want to be. To accept things for the way they are, to stay undisturbed by criticisms. Their problems are essentially limited to getting out of showers and prolonging bedtimes. Such simple-minded, worthless creatures. No real ambition, they can’t even stop drooling. How do they stay contented? How do they not want to be anything… more? Maybe that’s why we all tend to be overcomed by this incessant need to become more adult as time passes. We become more serious. We start complicating matters, rebranding negativity for realism. Funnily enough, thinking that would make our lives worth more than it already was.
Has it?
POETRY
Aleppo
|
I. Kings
"As far as we are concerned,
we Syria have not changed."
This velvet is less plush than I remember it;
My gold watch sounds like beautiful machine guns.
My kingdom has been infested with rebels, roaches;
To be crushed under artillery, steel-toed boots.
(Take Aleppo and I
Will be king of the world)
Iron fist, wooden spoon. That is how I will be remembered,
When the missiles of my Russian lover come raining down,
In a glorious show of heavenly judgement.
By God, the people who do not love me will love me yet.
The infidels: they are not people; they must fall,
For nothing less than the Syrian cause and nation! Follow the script:
"Israel does not care
About the international public opinion."
(But yet, sometimes the thought that this
Is all wrong occurs to me
And maybe the people on the other side
Have feelings too, can think too
Sometimes I drink as I feel they are human
But it, as with many others,
Can only be thrown, bruised and battered
Into the mukhabarat of my mind)
To this end, a small dehumanization is in order. A genoci- no.
"Hizbullah is not a militia."
The news must not know. It is a crusade,
And the fire shall not cease until I,
With Russia and China as cogs in my glorious machine,
(Because it is for the good
of Syria, to send bullets blazing toward innocents
The slaughter of humans as beasts, to watch
Lightning ripping the children of the revolution to shreds
The subversives, those who stand in Syria's way
Crying, kissing my boots for mercy)
Rise to become God.
"Worry does not mean fear,
but readiness for the confrontation."
II. Children
“I am Syrian
I was made in Syria
I have to live in Syria
and die in Syria”
My mother
Has a hole through her head
And the blood poured right out
And I shake her but
She will not wake up
(If I was king of the world
There won't be loud bangs or people shouting holding metal sticks pressing buttons falling)
My feet hurt when they told me
To run and my clothes
Are red where they
Were white and gone where they
were red, I wish for my mother’s cooking, for her
To help us put the wooden spoon
To our mouths, but they tell me she’s
Somewhere better, not here
And I don't like bar-ruls anymore
Or smoke or the fire that cooks food in our cans
Or those little metal bits that burn my skin
Or the stars that huge metal birds catch
And drop from the sky onto my school, my neighbor's house, mine
And this hos-pit-ol
Smells of blood and bad meat
The people here look like the ones
Lying on the street
They cry sometimes and look at pictures and
I just want to go home
Where the people I love will be
Where the people who are good will be
And I’ll remember them
(And somewhere up in the sky in a shiny palace,
Surrounded by angels and soft comfy things
Maybe God is good too)
"As far as we are concerned,
we Syria have not changed."
This velvet is less plush than I remember it;
My gold watch sounds like beautiful machine guns.
My kingdom has been infested with rebels, roaches;
To be crushed under artillery, steel-toed boots.
(Take Aleppo and I
Will be king of the world)
Iron fist, wooden spoon. That is how I will be remembered,
When the missiles of my Russian lover come raining down,
In a glorious show of heavenly judgement.
By God, the people who do not love me will love me yet.
The infidels: they are not people; they must fall,
For nothing less than the Syrian cause and nation! Follow the script:
"Israel does not care
About the international public opinion."
(But yet, sometimes the thought that this
Is all wrong occurs to me
And maybe the people on the other side
Have feelings too, can think too
Sometimes I drink as I feel they are human
But it, as with many others,
Can only be thrown, bruised and battered
Into the mukhabarat of my mind)
To this end, a small dehumanization is in order. A genoci- no.
"Hizbullah is not a militia."
The news must not know. It is a crusade,
And the fire shall not cease until I,
With Russia and China as cogs in my glorious machine,
(Because it is for the good
of Syria, to send bullets blazing toward innocents
The slaughter of humans as beasts, to watch
Lightning ripping the children of the revolution to shreds
The subversives, those who stand in Syria's way
Crying, kissing my boots for mercy)
Rise to become God.
"Worry does not mean fear,
but readiness for the confrontation."
II. Children
“I am Syrian
I was made in Syria
I have to live in Syria
and die in Syria”
My mother
Has a hole through her head
And the blood poured right out
And I shake her but
She will not wake up
(If I was king of the world
There won't be loud bangs or people shouting holding metal sticks pressing buttons falling)
My feet hurt when they told me
To run and my clothes
Are red where they
Were white and gone where they
were red, I wish for my mother’s cooking, for her
To help us put the wooden spoon
To our mouths, but they tell me she’s
Somewhere better, not here
And I don't like bar-ruls anymore
Or smoke or the fire that cooks food in our cans
Or those little metal bits that burn my skin
Or the stars that huge metal birds catch
And drop from the sky onto my school, my neighbor's house, mine
And this hos-pit-ol
Smells of blood and bad meat
The people here look like the ones
Lying on the street
They cry sometimes and look at pictures and
I just want to go home
Where the people I love will be
Where the people who are good will be
And I’ll remember them
(And somewhere up in the sky in a shiny palace,
Surrounded by angels and soft comfy things
Maybe God is good too)
My Childhood
|
My childhood,
How have you been?
It's been long since I've last seen you.
My childhood,
Let's take a trip down memory lane.
It's been a while since I've thought of you.
My childhood,
I see myself running around
When I was five,
the bright pair of shoes Mother got for my birthday
When I was ten,
the first time I ran into bullies
When I was two,
the first word I babbled out was "Barney!"
When i was fifteen,
the first time i tried to kill myself
When i was eight,
the first time i watched my parents argue
When i was seventeen,
the first time i drank
When i was thirty,
the first time i lost my dad
My childhood,
what is my childhood?
the state or period of being a child--
what is a child?
a young human below the age of puberty--
My childhood,
is what i believe is relative.
My childhood,
dependent on what I wish to see.
My childhood.
a dream that I believed.
How have you been?
It's been long since I've last seen you.
My childhood,
Let's take a trip down memory lane.
It's been a while since I've thought of you.
My childhood,
I see myself running around
When I was five,
the bright pair of shoes Mother got for my birthday
When I was ten,
the first time I ran into bullies
When I was two,
the first word I babbled out was "Barney!"
When i was fifteen,
the first time i tried to kill myself
When i was eight,
the first time i watched my parents argue
When i was seventeen,
the first time i drank
When i was thirty,
the first time i lost my dad
My childhood,
what is my childhood?
the state or period of being a child--
what is a child?
a young human below the age of puberty--
My childhood,
is what i believe is relative.
My childhood,
dependent on what I wish to see.
My childhood.
a dream that I believed.
Robots
|
To speak in a certain way,
To write a certain way;
To move, a certain way,
To think…
A certain way.
To-
the finest detail.
Absolutely flawless,
you used to sing.
But father, why are you blaring now?
Haven’t you a mind of your own?
A spoiled tool you are!
Your common sense is a nought!
You ain’t studying hard enough!
Why can't you be like all the other, smarter kids?
What a waste.
He is S C R E A M i n g -
She is S H O U T i n g.
They are c r y i n g;
They are d-y-i-n-g.
but why can't you hear me?
can't you see?
not so perfect after all.
To write a certain way;
To move, a certain way,
To think…
A certain way.
To-
the finest detail.
Absolutely flawless,
you used to sing.
But father, why are you blaring now?
Haven’t you a mind of your own?
A spoiled tool you are!
Your common sense is a nought!
You ain’t studying hard enough!
Why can't you be like all the other, smarter kids?
What a waste.
He is S C R E A M i n g -
She is S H O U T i n g.
They are c r y i n g;
They are d-y-i-n-g.
but why can't you hear me?
can't you see?
not so perfect after all.
A Dual Dedication
|
smitten,
riven with regality,
His name enshrined, His feats adorned,
across the palace of History
with a luxury even he cannot afford.
the pavilion of glory reeks of
fig-leaves, carpets, ravens dovetailing,
beneath an enchanting ersatz of
Churchill’s worst form.
His grave gnaws and grumbles
against His memorial, ruefully
shadowing the abject avalanche
of tight-lipped whimpers.
where the ashes coalesce,
chain marks scorch-sear
the child’s tender
hopes expire in due date.
renegade or not,
no longer tremble or exult
but serenely like
princes
against the promise of prestige
now refuse to inherit the
remnants of his lavish legacy
doomed to last.
riven with regality,
His name enshrined, His feats adorned,
across the palace of History
with a luxury even he cannot afford.
the pavilion of glory reeks of
fig-leaves, carpets, ravens dovetailing,
beneath an enchanting ersatz of
Churchill’s worst form.
His grave gnaws and grumbles
against His memorial, ruefully
shadowing the abject avalanche
of tight-lipped whimpers.
where the ashes coalesce,
chain marks scorch-sear
the child’s tender
hopes expire in due date.
renegade or not,
no longer tremble or exult
but serenely like
princes
against the promise of prestige
now refuse to inherit the
remnants of his lavish legacy
doomed to last.
Free d o m
|
|
The older we get
The more tied down we are.
We face hurdles;
It’s not easy
Finding jobs
A spouse
Starting a family.
The older we get,
The more we hold back.
It is more our fault than others.
We feel the need to fit into society
And this need stops us
It stops us from speaking out
We hesitate.
The older we get,
The further we drift from freedom.
The path that will lead us straight out
Of our misery seems only to lengthen as we age.
It stretches further and further
Till we can't keep up
Children, on the other hand, are free.
Children can run
In pyjamas down the street
Uncaring of the stares they get
Children can scream
At the top of their lungs
Indifferent to the looks they attract
We are the ones
Looking left and right
Before we take a step
We are the ones
Thinking about the rest
And what people will say
If we do something rash
Children do not need to yearn
For a moment of solitude
When they will be free from all the pressure
That builds up slowly, yet steadily
Till it is ready to
Explode
Children do not need to wish
For a sanctuary
Where they will be free from the scalding words
That burn off their identity
And scorch their soul
Until they are sucked dry,
Devoid of any emotion
children do not need to seek approval children do not need to flash their skin children do not need this do not need that
But we do.
Children are free.
They act as they please
while we are trapped.
Bound by the words of society
Chained by the unspoken rules we must follow
Shackled by the expectations we set
We cannot escape
From ourselves
The more tied down we are.
We face hurdles;
It’s not easy
Finding jobs
A spouse
Starting a family.
The older we get,
The more we hold back.
It is more our fault than others.
We feel the need to fit into society
And this need stops us
It stops us from speaking out
We hesitate.
The older we get,
The further we drift from freedom.
The path that will lead us straight out
Of our misery seems only to lengthen as we age.
It stretches further and further
Till we can't keep up
Children, on the other hand, are free.
Children can run
In pyjamas down the street
Uncaring of the stares they get
Children can scream
At the top of their lungs
Indifferent to the looks they attract
We are the ones
Looking left and right
Before we take a step
We are the ones
Thinking about the rest
And what people will say
If we do something rash
Children do not need to yearn
For a moment of solitude
When they will be free from all the pressure
That builds up slowly, yet steadily
Till it is ready to
Explode
Children do not need to wish
For a sanctuary
Where they will be free from the scalding words
That burn off their identity
And scorch their soul
Until they are sucked dry,
Devoid of any emotion
children do not need to seek approval children do not need to flash their skin children do not need this do not need that
But we do.
Children are free.
They act as they please
while we are trapped.
Bound by the words of society
Chained by the unspoken rules we must follow
Shackled by the expectations we set
We cannot escape
From ourselves