edwin thumboo ' s poems : colour - an ordinary man

TENGGARA 5  / 1969
Dept. of English , Univ.of Malaya,
Kuala Lumpur,  Malaysia 


                          edwin thumboo's poems


                                                    COLOUR

                            These days are taut with colour desbelief.
                            Uncerian of its sun,the air
                            Blooms in misshapen brown.
                            My trees turn freen without relief :
                            Soft and black, your hair
                            Is now the colour of the town.

                            For in the town they talk of sin , 
                            Cry in the town the night, 
                            Twist the legend, twist your arm , 
                            Your hair, the colour of my skin :
                            Prejudice lies right
                            Beneath the surface of a modern calm.

                            The evening rides upon a pin
                            Or light, congeals disastrously. 
                            Will twisting symbols so awry
                            Know simple feelings deep within
                            Or lean that language paintfully 
                            Engendered in the lover's eye !


                                        AN ORDINARY MAN 

                           Mr. Quek would have lived almost happily 
                           Had not the power that be
                           Disturbed his orchid nursery, 
                           The arrangements of his life, 
                           Even his researches into Buddhist history.

                           He kept a regular house ,
                           Tolerated nothing disorderly,
                           His children, he noted with proper pride
                           Had his habits, his regularity,
                           His fastidious determination, 
                           But quite by chance had developed their mother's patience. 
                           They benefited from his attention were brought up by hand. 
                           Naturally the children respected his hand in all matters.

                           Out of the blue Malayan sky,
                           Out of that blessed place,
                           Out of some obscure administrative slip 
                           He was transferred to the Federal Capital. 
                           The Head Office was bad
                           Its work uncertain, routine irregular,
                           The contact with inconstant men most paintful,
                           Bahasa Kebangsaan proved only too real. 
                           The peons no longer offered to draft his letters
                           (or run his errands) 
                           And the instruction on 'Malay Without Teras'
                           In thirty easy lessons, was in Malay, 
                           Confirming his worst fears. 
                           One had to  sink or swim, he thought, then
                           Sank into the language and fell silent.

                          To top it all his wife
                          Undid her patient suffering,
                          Learnt mahjong, permed her hair, 
                          Painted her nails, put on airs 
                          After her face was lifted, brows plucked,
                          Her double chin tucked in, and she'd
                          Taught her hip the secrets of the cheongsam. 
                          But Mr.Quit at his age, 
                          Laid low in spirit and body,
                          Anxiously the energetic, avoiding
                          Could not benefit from her change.

                          He quickly thought of something else that gave security,
                          His children, the joy of his heart and hand. 
                          But the children too were strange.  
                          His sons kept their hair, 
                          And the girls bought wigs.

                         And so Mr. Quek sank, gradually,
                         Without fuss, without funeral
                         Finding his own aesthetic, 
                         Dreaming of sky-scrapers, monsters 
                         Smarling in the traffic across the fly-over
                         Near the Mosque, the Railway Station, 
                         The new model women in his house,
                         Hairy children ...
                         Mr. Quek sighed endlessly for his orchids
                         And the ordely house.

                         Mr Quek is an ordinary man,
                         Sightly bald but not threatened by virility 
                         Or glandular disturbances, 
                         Perhaps Mr. Quek has arrived among us .

                  edwin thumboo
                                           (SINGAPORE )

                         -----                                          < TENGGARA 5 / 1969 - P. 34-36>