by Isaac Tan

Meetings Unmet

“Let’s meet up soon!” So you say

with a smile framed by a

colon and a bracket closing.

That smile shining with optimism

like a camera’s flash –

illuminating shadows of fond pasts.

But with all flashes,

The promise lingers only an instant.

An instance of politeness?

Of pity? Of custom?

Those four words – a stock phrase,

finalising all conversations, are

steel frames that support

 a pendulum. And I,

a steel ball, thrashes from

euphoria to dejection in an

unspoken hope of it coming true.

Words are feeble straws I

grasp to feed the petering

flame of our conversations –

Fleeting and customary greetings

on certain occasions. With a

reactionary crackle, the flame

lives an instance;

enjoys a moment’s brilliance…

Silence –

Leaving those four words which my

eyes glazes over. But I still

yearn for it to actualise – one day. 

Gypsies’ Lament: Songs of Our Fathers

We, wandering children call out to our
fathers – mouths ajar, strained sounds breaking free
to be unheard; their ears unattuned to our calls.
It’s the slithery serpents in our mouths–
foreign tongues that utter unknown noises,
forced down our throats in one gagging motion.

That which once tasted sweet, now tastes bitter.
New tastes for us to master as we are
lorded over. “Taste what we taste, or lose
thy tongue” they commanded. And beneath bit-
ter songs, strange words, drums the beating of our
hearts: the sweet rhythms of our fathers’ songs.

So hear us, dear fathers and sing the songs
That we used to know… Yet, our ears are un-
attuned too – beaten deaf by our masters.
So with unfamiliar words, torn nets are
used to catch our fathers’ songs as we cry
out in vain: Padre! Papi! Papa…