THEMED
CATEGORY.
Our theme for this year's anthology, Refract, endeavours to explore identity—how it is reshaped, redirected, and refracted in different directions, in light of external influences and changes in circumstance.
Much has happened in 2021. So; who are you now? Where do you now belong? What has empowered you thus far?
HEADER IMAGE CREDIT: Caitlin
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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flower through concrete, Theseus
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Untitled, claire
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bukit batok., aly
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lawn e., aly
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Untitled, shannen
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Home, Ow Yang Jia Xuan
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from a certain point of view, Khai Lynn
flower through concrete
Theseus
mary mary
quite contrary
how does your
garden grow?
with silver bells
(that cut like a knife,
drawing blood at every instance;
forcing me to recoil in fright)
and cockle shells
(the scent permeating my nostrils,
drowning me in the
dizziness of it all)
and a lone flower
rising through the cracks,
unfazed by the scorch that
the tarmac inflicts upon it
slowly but surely, it grows
fighting the pain, the urge
to shrink, to cave, to fold
on itself, a million little times
and months later it blooms
a dot of orange adorning
the ashy pavement
like a little blaze, alight
people stop and stare
singing praises alike
what a beautiful flower;
the flower through concrete
Untitled
claire
when you told me don’t put the phone receiver on your right ear, you can’t hear there
i was five years old
but old enough to hear the heaviness of your voice
as it spoke with
the weight of all the words that i would never be able to hear
the stickiness of all the labels that society would put on me
the regret of all the lives that i might never lead
when you told me take this sheet of paper to school and give it to your teacher
i was seven years old
but old enough to read the words on the doctor’s memo: ‘profound hearing loss in right ear’
and sensitive enough
to see my teacher’s raised eyebrows in surprise
to hear my classmates’ silence when they heard of it
to feel a sinking feeling in my heart for days after
after that i started telling myself what to do over the years as i grew up
because i was old enough to recognise that i was not normal:
always walk to the right side of others so that you can hear them properly
don’t tell anyone about being deaf unless they ask about it
speak softer so that others don’t think that you’re hard of hearing
but one day the voice in my head started saying
make art out of your pain and it will be even more beautiful
just like how a flower sprouts in a wasteland
you can too
and so i did.
bukit batok.
aly
I sit on the swing.
Looking my best: white shirt and pink tulle skirt-
Like the Chipettes! An exact same one Brittany had
That I saw on my big TV
I asked Mummy for sparkly shoes too!
My grandfather, Atuk, is pushing the swing.
He always wears the same clothes so
the other children remember him.
(I think.)
There’s an unfamiliar voice behind the swing.
Kau nak main dengan kita? [1]
The boy in a faded tank top asks
I know it is because I play alone, but
I think about what else he means.
I am six this year, sitting on the swing.
British English and formal Malay ingrained,
Rooted in my very bones.
Pulling me down to the ground, and I cannot
touch the skies.
I never understand what the other kids ask
(It is broken Malay, Mummy says.)
His grammar is simply atrocious!
Perhaps I could lend him my tuition notes.
(You should not try to pry into other’s business’, care for yourself, Daddy says.)
But I want some friends. I don’t want to be lonely anymore.
I look over to the large group, whilst on the swing.
I wish I could be happy
Just like them.
(I get everything I want but happiness.)
The boy is the one from last week, watching me on the swing.
Saya maaf, saya tidak hendak bermain dengan anda. [2]
He gives me a look before he runs back to his friends, or
family. I can’t tell.
They come as a group with that lady.
(I wish I had that.)
Atuk stops pushing me on the swing.
He picks me up, dusts off my dirty skirt
and I preen at the attention. He
runs his fingers through my silky smooth hair.
That boy’s hair was clumpy like my Play Doh.
(He’s grubby, Mummy would say.)
It’s time to head home to shower and change, you have
ballet, I am reminded.
As the playground gets smaller and smaller,
I close my eyes,
Hands clasped to my chest,
and wished the same:
Next time, I want a friend!
Upon my return, nothing changes.
My wishes were already
gone with the wind.
Notes:
[1] ‘Do you want to play with us’, in slang
[2] ‘I am sorry, I do not want to play with you’, formally
lawn e.
aly
next station, botanic gardens.
change here for the circle line.
in our hands, cold storage bags,
student cards meet sensors and
next? to trudge up the escalators.
creaaak, we see
tanglin gate.
pitter patter of tiny feet,
as they enter the majestic iron gates.
only ever seen on screen.
the others set down a mat.
nothing too fancy, nothing too simple.
a familiar red-and-white chequered design,
possibly purchased for
this special, outdoor event.
outings to this place were rare;
after all, money was
tight.
all we had were pre-packed sandwiches from home,
random rinsed fruits purchased on clearance.
arranging our canned drinks,
bags of snacks,
to form an organised mess.
shoes off,
pose for the camera.
hats on, ball inflated.
the one we got from the mama shop,
losing air as we kicked it around.
parents quietly observing from
the free mat from the mart.
click!
we review the shots,
take a few more,
apply saturation, vignette, contrast, shadow,
scheduled to upload tomorrow.
and as hands fly across a screen,
i wonder where the frisbees flew,
where the frugality died,
when a garden of bonding and hope
turned into a background
when it used to be the highlight.
Untitled
shannen
Home
Ow Yang Jia Xuan
This is home, truly.
He listens intently,
Straining to hear against crackling fireworks
That illuminate the night sky.
Bright array of colours, yet to him, it feels so
Dull.
Where I know I must be.
He bends down, reaching for
A can of emptied Coke,
Lone, lying on the lit streets.
Slipping it into the black plastic bag
He trudges on.
Where my dreams wait for me.
He ponders why,
Why this Garden City
Needs to employ ‘gardeners’ like him.
Perhaps this is merely a cleaned city
And not a clean one.
Where that river always flows.
He recalls, as he listens,
The stream he used to play at when he was little.
Not here in this foreign land, no,
It was somewhere far away, a place buried deep
In his heart.
This is home, surely, as my senses tell me.
He braces himself, as memories of
His past, come flooding
Back. He tries to pull himself
Together, pushing his recollections away so they
Cannot hurt him more than they already do.
This is where I won't be alone
He breaks, the walls of the memory dam
Come crashing down
The benevolent smile of his beloved mother
The bawls of his son (who turned two a week ago),
Hush, those memories must be stowed away.
For this is where I know it's home.
He walks away briskly,
Away from the bright celebratory lights,
Away from the crowds gathered to watch fireworks.
Away from the jubilant locals
For he isn’t sure if this is home.
He picks up yet another Coke can.
Through the Looking Glass
E
Benjamin has myopia,
so what’s further is always a blur,
but with his looking glass,
everything becomes a little more clear.
He likes the clarity,
so it becomes a routine,
the trouble the glass brings becomes only a small thing.
But when laziness gets to him,
trees become only patches of green,
cars on the road are only distinguishable by their headlights,
and the strokes of a whiteboard marker now unreadable.
He loses sight of what’s ahead,
future blurry with anxiety and fright.
Is this his fault?
He failed to plan, a plan to fail,
an incorrect focus drives it forth.
A lack of frames prevents a direct solution,
so he can’t correct the light’s refraction.
He has to live with it, bear the consequences,
the importance of foresight now lucid.
He sees this even without the looking glass near.
Later that night he holds it again,
puts it in with effort and care.
His heart is finally at ease after being able to see,
that he’ll wake up with a familial sting,
but that means that everything will be alright.
He’ll know how to face what’s to come,
the after no longer clouded,
and light passes through just right.
Benjamin tries to regain a vision he lost,
and something changes in his eyes.
But in the meantime he’ll go to sleep,
so he makes the decision to bid good night.
from a certain point of view
Khai Lynn
[TRIGGER WARNING] Mentions of blood
from a distance / splay your hands against the window, look through your fingers / play i spy with your heartbeats / in, out, in, out, breath in the fresh air and intend to find yourself / looking through a periscope, far-sighted and clear / sometimes all we’re looking for is a little bit of clarity / you hold the world in your hands and all you do is stare at your soul / but look, isn’t the world so beautiful in colour? look, aren’t you happy you know it is?
the lens you view yourself through / sit in the optician’s chair and look from a different point of view / above all else you see yourself first, flaws and all / glasses don’t give you x-rays but you can do that yourself / feel the blood rush in your veins / hear it screaming in your ears / see it bleeding colours you’ve never known before / human beings are five-dimensional / dot, line, space, time, how you want to see it / a lot of how you view the world is in five dimensions / what matters is what you want to see / so what do i want to see?
it’s beautiful, it’s radical, to know yourself / hold your identity in your hands and never let go / bleed all your colours dry / paint the world with your emotions and your words and all your art / when you write you are giving away the part of you that knows best / from the inside, looking out / less than the world / but more than the mind you wander in / somewhere in the in-betweens, in limbo / once you lose your voice can you ever get it back?
serving yourself up on a plate, in a pretty little parcel / only some parts of you ever make it to the surface / we are kaleidoscopes of colour, mindblowing and shattered / thousands of sides, stained glass panels / you might say broken yet complete / the danger of finding yourself is that it’s all too easy to confuse / feel the way your throat curves, the way you smile / on the surface you keep on smiling / but inside you blur and fade and disappear / can you become the definition you create? / or is it just another lie?
endlessly lost and found / in the labyrinth with no ariadne in sight / it all depends on what you’re looking for; the minotaur, or a way out / in twisted glass, the light splits / seven colours, seven beams, one heart / the fish you’re looking at thinks you’re in the sky / you think it’s brushing the surface / air turns into water and still there is light / illusionary yet visionary / and maybe it’s not about where you’re standing / maybe it’s about finding a different point of view.