NO MAN'S GROVE Crossing the China Sea, we see Other sailors, knee-deep in padi, Transformed by the land's rolling green. We cannot enter their dream, The sea brings us all to jungle, Native, unclaimed, rooted, and tangled On salt like one giant tree. We spring straight from sea-wave. We see But do not see grey netted pliants Shutting out the sun. Where sea and plant Twine, mammoth croakers crawl on tidal zone. Some wili live in the giant's shade, bend To the rapidly rolling horizon, I choose to walk between water and land.	LOTUS It waits to be discovered: Purity drifting on morning water. Selangor ditch or Atlantic mist, The pressure of waking is The same. Bird whistle, cry, The same disenchantment, only Colder, grey in sky water. Not weedy float of flower, Etch of purple, pink or yellow Overtaken by noon - the blister Of lotus in klongs. Defer The exotic; these tropic decorations Pale as do winter description. Only what is is the flower.
BUKIT CHINA Bless me, spirits, I am returning. Stone marking my father's bones, I light the joss. A dead land. On noon steepness smoke ascends Briefly. Country is important, Is important. This knowledge I know If it will rise with smoke, with the dead. He did not live for my returning. News came after burial. I did not put on straw, black, Gunny-sack, have not fastened Grief on shoulder, walked mourning Behind, pouring grief before him,  Not submitted to his heart. This then must be enough, salt light nights, remembering bamboo bats cleared in his laughter. father's daughter, I pour brandy before memory, labour, constantly labour, ring sunwards grave bitter smoke.	MOTHER Mother is toothless, sag-skinned, Coconut round and brown with scar. She knew pantuns, on Mandi Safar, Sarong knotted modestly, Fell into the sea, milk-fleshed young. Ungainly now, unstrung, She cannot stand heat, lies snoring Under circling breezes. In her grandfather's garden Extraordinary fruit yearned: Red-blossomed banana, yellow Chempedak. She washed carefully Eggshells to cap the spiky pandan. Leached landscape bruised by sun, He made it magical With edible bushes. Sand clean from his garden rubbed Into soles, penetrated blood Like gold-yellow seeds. They cling To our feet. She sits on the floor By Scandinavian sofa Blond as her gold-washed ring; rising She shuffles to the refrigerator In search of Malacca sweets.
PIGEONS Grey and white, they littered doorways And verandahs. Strutting in the yard, Metal chests puffing in hot mornings or llmp feathers afloat in our Water-tank, they stank as we washed, Half-awake, for school. Father ate pigeon when he was sick. "Pigeons bring good luck," Father said. We thought of money thumping Like claws on zinc roofs, good money Fluttering in to buy shoes, and toes, Blind worms blunting heads against Tight rubber. Pigeons gobbled fat maize. As many sacks of golden grain they came, Ten, twenty, twenty-five, till we gave up unting. Our feet continued hurting. e tasted their dark potent: thighs, 'by fingers; breasts boiled with fungus, rk. splintered horn. Skulls dissolved. steamed towards cots where they flurried. dense with meat - good as a week Years - rilled us all afternoon. 'ate pigeon only when could no longer work: pigeons  too rich for daily eating.	OPIUM To invite, to open the door, to lift the latch, saying, Come in. Little stirs, flourishes of dust, quick bright flare of dry bark gone almost without warmth. This fire is not good for anything. First and third uncles lit burnished pipes. Hummingbirds of paradise honed in their ears dripping with honey. Smoke dragons drew in rainbow tails and shed scales of money. Their chests closed in, the smooth, hairless, yellow skins of Chinese babies without a mark,
AT THE GREAT WORLD AMUSEMENT PARK, MALACCA Jade, vermillion, tiger's eye in high- Crested dragon's plumage flash mid-way On cymbals' clash. Mistress of the stage, She keens the Cantonese opera. Cracking evenings with melon-seeds, timeless, We take actors' five-mile strides for granted In universal amusement parks in Asia, Europe, Africa. Costumes skirted Gold, peacocks' feathers, ivory claws; Red-bearded generals thundering war; Gape till we are filled, fall off our wooden Stools asleep to wake alone on foreign Stage, green and white snakes gone, to opera Dream. Outside, west winds gust on northern shore.	CHILD SCHOLAR  Fear got into her, Scrabbling, frantic. The shivering beast with teeth, Damp nose, crept in, Burled itself - a corpse. The children studied, Underlined their texts, Repeated lessons, straight-spined, Shrilling in little chairs, Or went under noiselessly, Without any nonsense. She went home and buried Her nose in her books. Eleven years old, two a.m., Are you studying still? Opportunity knocks but once. Time and tide wait for no man. Hear the rat knocking. Or is it the heart Banging in the rib-cage?
MALAYSIAN SUNDAYS Eldest sister, my guardian angel, Shimmers like vanilla pudding. She is going to be a nun And wear grey sheets in square rooms. On her small curved feet the pink Soles turn blue, diamond blue, in Dublin. She giggtes as they cut her flowing Hair. The black wires bristle, Wires strung from here To ireland. Once on a balsam bush A black and white mynah warbled For Jesus. They've cut her tongue. She prays in pale chapels for my soul.	TROPICAL COLOURS Feet! goes the bird. The branch isn't silver. It is black, grey, blue, green, all colours of trees in nature. The colours of nature remembered are grey The mind is cold silver, pewter dull. what an effort to polish it. Remembered pieces shine like silver paper glinting cigarette paper from childhood. I always believed there was silver in them. I knew I wasn't supposed to: only paper after all, smelling horribly of tobacco. It crumpled easily. Ifoundit in coffee-shops with spittoons under every table. Marble tops cold in tropical afternoons, stained yellow. I thought they were pieces of floor. And father, always in a good mood except when he was mad. He had nine children and wanted us all. 1 wonder, did I pay him back? Where did he go? The warm air circulates with ceiling fans above the clerical child still clutching Stiver pieces mong Dutch-red offices.
RETURNING TO THE MISSIONARY SCHOOL Will the dull bell ring? The cracked Nun in the tower strikes and strikes. Down in the tropical compound Where red-lipped hibiscus stick Thick pistils in the watery air, The town's daughters say their prayers. Alone, in mid-life, I return To the parochial school, listen For that loud clamour in The sky - and hear children's jargon, The lolling bell, clearly Clap desire and old irony. A country of lessons: they stand Crocodile-line on a playing field, While, like starched wash drying. At noon the Angelus peals Downwards in billows Of damp pinafores. An old barren woman taught Music to school girls then, beating A down-beat with a ruler. I walk backwards, measuring How a tuneless tune can span So many singing children. Simple natives believe in Breastless women stuffed with God, Instructing monotone of Sing-song behind walls glass~'agged. What's sacred niust be possessed Beneath white vestal dress. Alone, in mid life, i returned To the Parochial school, listen For that loud clamor in The sky-and hear childrens jargon, The lolling bell, clearly Clap desire and old irony.	KNOTS If one could undo the knottier acts, Say no to where and when of birth, Could back out on mother, saying, Here you taught to turn away; Or to father, say, Here you taught To close the throat. Accidents, Circumstances: injured, unfed, Not wanted nor not unwanted, Children of poor, poor children Live on thin plank dreams, dreaming Of beds, fluff feather fortunes. If I could have said no, I would not Be waiting yet to undo these knots.
BIOGRAPHY At ten she wrote lines that rhymed And felt the sharp pulse of ink. Lea[~ing into books, her eyes climbed Across the borders of town. Linked With sonorities, she would not blink Had notoriety found her papers. At twenty, still remembering How language holds, she would gather Sonnets and quatrains to offer Should someone ask, "And who are you?" Refraining from vulgarity, her Verse was sparse; the grammar, too, Was grown. By thirty, tiring of true Forms, she developed a scribble, Took up analysis, and withdrew Into silence - no poet yet, though able.	INHERiTANCE Master, he dead. Keeled from brain fever, Cooked in noon-day sun, Waiting at the bat. He dead from drinking Too much Tiger beer, Local water mixed with gin, Late night Singapore slings. Old Rooster, he leave Something - little child-chick, Phoenix, big magic Language: common grief.
PIDGIN LIVES Tidak apa. Got no power To change it. What the hurry? Sun come up again. No matter. Just take it easy. Not to worry, not so bad. If not come out right, No good to be mad.. Never mind, tomorrow bright. It is luck. Cannot escaping Fate. Heaven will it and fortune Follow. So no use complaining. Submit and everything okay soon.	NATIVES IN A POSTCARD People are peaceful here -Lave on greens, fish In blue seas, dress in bright Swaths, languid speech. They spend days and nights With music, dance, beer. Sleeping afternoons, Eating all hours, Yet they are not fat. Skins Polished copper, Their eel-like bodies sin Constantly. They worship the moon. Such a pity, We're leaving tomorrow. Three days would have been better. I'm so sorry to go.
THE CON MAN Jock, the Aussie, Had three fingers on his right Hand. Was a shark Ate his thumb and little finger, He swore. Drank beer on the strength of that story. No Frank of Assissi, he Confessed to killing Kangaroo and wee Marsupials, flexed his biceps where Two nippled breasts Jumped, rippling a hula. Jock's sinewy body Was creakinR fortv. reeping Old age. We etended they were sunny lines, sour ck a pirate out to steal Jr hearts: he looked hard enough us fresh young things. his eyes were hopeless, conned off desire, wanting money re badly.	KANGAROO A continental myth! So, in Perth, I looked everywhere for a rust-brown coat, a tail's massive flicker like a juggler's club; expected, any moment, a raw fruity nose and grinding jaws among dry unflowering eucalyptus: between close-parked cars a pair of forepaws patting inedible fenders. But I never saw a kangaroo in Perth. Except, driven by a Scot-in4aw (his wife, half-Asian child in the backseat) along an intolerable coast matching the horizon mile after mile, gazing at steel-ruled ocean, a mirage of joeys tugged at my nipples in the crazy outback of my eyes.
THE CHINESE PAINTER Of a backward ancient country I dream. Where wind sits in stale eddies, Standing water, ripe as Urinais, pools under moon, 'hhite-faced, a distant lady. Long limp marsh grass Floats like drowning hair. Rising, I paint the scene Swirling palely; leave Transparent paper showing in White reflection of my eyes: That is, spontaneous sight! uch chill sorrowing ghosts idove among us in the night.	A CHINESE LANDSCAPE With those few crooked Men bowed in the great Out-doors; their caps, gowns, Scanty beards mere brushstrokes Before dun emptiness Of paper. So the artist painted Us, like specks in the Long parchment. Or blots on Heaven's Watery breath. Then Here the mountains rise! Poets are not Mountain climbers. Our chiefest aim is To breathe before These solitary Gradients, rising From empty ground To empty sky.
SUGAR-CANE Once, we are told, the massacres came: Women, children, seized by hair, slaughtered, Running everywhere into blood and death, the same Dark men with metal arms killing, killing, the dead Like rags too beggared for burying. And the men, Those who had not run into blood and death, hid In fields under roots of padi, the muddy water Of life shaking, shaking, to be rooted out then By the same dark men shearing alike the plant And flesh. Oh to be like air and light, So easily swallowed, like tender grain in slant Only in hills where canes grew thick, Crouched in gold and yellow shadows, where sight darkness is thrown for a moment, the sick nd timorous escaped that day. Still here today, have not forgotten these casual stalks, slender iviours on which we have fattened. And the dark men itheir bloody work, who will come yet if we stay, if we run and are running everywhere.	LAMENT I have been faithful To you. my language, Language of my dreams, My sex, my laughter, my curses. How often have I Stumbled. catching you Short when you should be Free, snagging on curves, Till fools have called me Fool. How often have you Betrayed me7 faithless! Disowned me - a woman You could never marry, Whom you have tired Of long ago. I have been faithful Only to you, My language. I choose you Before country, Before what eyes see, Mouth, full.hearted, taste. I choose you before Lover and husband, Yes, if need be, Before child in arms, Before history and all it makes, belonging, Rest in the soil, Although everyone knows You are not mine. They wink knowingly At my stupidity -I, stranger. foreigner, Claiming rights to What I have no right -Sacrifice, tongue Broken by fear.
THE DEBT All night the cocks crow in my head. 1 am tired. My eyes will not close. Counting the dollars I owe, Children in the broken house, And promises never made Which bind tighter than sleep. I count the children. squeezed bony Faces, all sisters and brothers, My burden, stretching pastwards to dead Rotting lathers and mothers. Pinched, careless as poverty, They lie on thin cots, to whom each night's An end, each morning for nothing. The stink of suffering, Love without rescue, grinds salt, Grinds my heart. Awake in bed, Under my heavy feather Coverlet, fixed on darkness, I count myself, all that is owed.	PANTOUN FOR CHINESE WOMEN "At present, the phenomena of butchering, drowning and leaving to die female infants have been very serious." (The People's Daily, Peking, March 3rd, 1983)   They say a child with two mouths is no good. In the slippery wet, a hollow space, Smooth, gumming, echoing wide for food. No wonder my man is not here at his place. In the slippery wet, a hollow space, A slit narrowly sheathed within its hood. No wonder my man is not here at his place: He is digging for the dragon jar of soot. That slit narrowly sheathed within its hood! His mother, squatting, coughs by the fire's blaze While he digs for the dragon jar of soot. saved ashes for a hundred days. mother, squatting, coughs by the fire's blaze. child kicks against me mewing like a flute had saved ashes for a hundred days, )wing, if the time came, that we would.   'P child kicks again st me crying like a flute ough its two weak mouths. His mother prays )wing when the time comes that we would, broken clay is never set in glaze. Through her two weak mouths his mother prays. She will not pluck the rooster nor serve its blood, For broken clay is never set in glaze: Women are made of river sand and wood. She will not pluck the rooster nor serve its blood. My husband frowns, pretending in his haste Women are made of river sand and wood. Milk soaks the bedding. I cannot bear the waste. My husband frowns, pretending in his haste. Oh clean the girl, dress her in ashy soot! Milk soaks our bedding, I cannot bear the waste. They say a child with two mouth is no good.
A HOUSE TOO SMALL (For R.L. in Singapore)   Outside, a vast everywhere. You sit alone, crowded in. It is the air, you think, the warm moist fogginess, bronchial-twinned, that leads to nausea. Vertigo of smallness: the mirrors inside show strangers all bumping into you. "I'm sorry," you say. "Excuse me. It's too small in here." Still you must live in it. The cost is exorbitant, but it is all you can afford.	THE CRITIC Paring my fingernails I think of writing a book, brave, boldly inoffensive. How I will soar above the crowds to whom I owe everything, expound on dilemmas ancient and national. Don't laugh at my dreams like an illiterate. Lesser men have done more in cultivating their gardens. See, my beard lengthens, a serious sign signifying many things: how I take myself: guardian of public morals, art, and future. They are all one. Or should be. What's right, writing, and to be: that's what my book will be about, I think, paring my fingernails.
CONVENT The dim communal bathroom -rows of stone basins, green-grown brass taps dripping in a silence of girls gone off to Chapel, a concrete quiet on damp walls and floors. Order in a nunnery is the order of life just gone in two by twos for Mass, an Ark-ful of souls floating the dangerous tsunami ocean. Look, through the open door, on tough twisted vines the thin-skinned morning glory, dozens gaping in the last flight-dew before the usual sun burns em into purple buds.	INK Before you the floating brush nods, evasive blossom skimming the broad shining stream - Shanghai -at rest, pacifist. Even as tumbling undertows pull eastwards the brush pulls down commanding ink and the flower
IDENTITY NO LONGER Identity no longer carried in a card, her passport declares 'dare to believe'. Citizenness of the world, she approaches the Republic of feeling. But who would credit her claims knowing how the world fails most applicants even as she whispers to spiritdovers (of all shades and persuasions: gruesome Eliot finally a dirty old man, and ponderous Pound peeing among her pages, Willy whisking his Irish horn-pipe and stem J.V. calling her schoolmasterly to task) the line for the exit shuffles off and she, caught short, between, waves only her papers.