"S", David Wong Hsien Ming
the one who became getai
or stagehand or stage for a family —
what was in the bun, in sparse distribution,
not worth the price of its plastic housing?
I am in line for one thing that leads to the next & away from
the sigh that sloughs off the edge of a bubble
— what was it you said in the shower that the rain repeated
because I am a poor listener?
There is a note in the oven where the leftovers
should have left greetings, on the lazy susan, off centre.
Off to wherever my anaesthetist Susan is,
where all Susans go after paying their dues, where tennis is,
& malayan air that is cool as long as you look up
& believe with your breathing.
My brother, the moment you said what I should have known
the day you were born & got your receipts,
every cigarette & wastebin pairing,
every swear & blink of love & the grasping afterward.
/ David Wong Hsien Ming discovered poetry as a child at a Sunday lunch. His work explores the dualities, contradictions and absurdities of being, and has appeared on platforms like Quarterly Literary Review Singapore and Mascara Literary Review. His first collection, For the End Comes Reaching, is a meditation on the sense of loss that accompanies each having.
/ COMMENTARY
“David Wong’s “S” makes its regret and grief strange, refuses to let my mind glaze over with an “oh I’ve seen this before”, makes its surprise part of the grief. It feels as if the speaker himself has been surprised by his grief. This is a poem where you utterly forget you’re supposed to be reading someone’s first drafts pasted into facebook, and instead it feels like someone typed out the poem word for word from a thick biannual journal with a single word name, committing it to heart because they’re downsizing after a personal tragedy, and there’s no more shelf space.”
/ Q&A
What inspired you to write this poem?
My first crush from primary school, the memory/construct of whom tends to blip into the corners of my poems & the anaesthetist who facilitated my birth who passed away in 2021 - both their names start with an S.
My best friend, whose identity struggles I was oblivious to for much of our friendship.
It’s a pretty literal poem; I enjoy being a disappointment to pract-crit enthusiasts.
How has writing for SingPoWriMo impacted you as a poet?
It pretty much gave me my start. Now, I receive it as a cabinet of curiosities and/or an informal report card on what our poets are up to.
What would you say to someone thinking about taking part in the next SingPoWriMo?
Find your tribe and abandon it every now and then.