My Poetry
Sajak-Sajak Melayu
English Poems
A thousand seeds may fall.
Yet only one may grow,
Into a tree so tall,
Though it takes place so slow.
Many years it may take,
Till thick and strong to grow,
So it should not easily break,
Enduring rain, wind and snow.
Just like a tree takes time to grow,
So it is with friends.
Though hardship it may undergo,
True friendship never ends.
People come and people go,
Not all of them will stay.
Sharing joy and easing sorrow,
True friends will follow till the end of day.
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How should I feel for one who does not care?
Cares not for relationships, dares not to take it there.
Do I hate her for turning me away,
When she of all people should have known what to say?
To do so would mock the feeling spoken.
To do so would lead only to a friendship broken.
Yet do I make light of this hurt I feel?
A hurt that may, or may not, heal.
A hurt that may take days, months, years to get better.
While fake smiles we put up like it all doesn't matter.
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Once we thought we could live forever and love was all we’d need
Nothing seemed to ever hurt us, not a danger did we heed.
We thought we’d be together, from now till ever after.
But love don’t seem so simple now, not when the end draws near.
‘Cause it ain't always so simple, being in love.
You could try to find the answers in the Heavens above.
But it don’t tell you nothing, ‘cept you ain’t got a lot of time.
‘Cause Love only lasts forever in the Heavens above.
So I may not have enough time to finish loving you.
For I know that is something that only God can do,
But I promise you I’ll never stop giving my love to you,
And I can go knowing that you have loved me too.
‘Cause it ain't always so simple, being in love.
You could try to find the answers in the Heavens above.
But it don’t tell you nothing, ‘cept you ain’t got a lot of time.
‘Cause Love only lasts forever in the Heavens above.
And life I’ll keep on living, there’s life in me yet,
And should He ever call me home, I’ll go with no regret.
For I know that I have loved you like you deserved to.
And short it seems our life together, I know you loved me too.
I know...
You loved me too.
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Dear Mister Mercedes Benz,
That’s quite the car you’ve got.
Rolex watch, Armani pants,
Didn’t mean to park in your spot.
You blare your horn so loudly,
You have a voice to match.
Yet, when you shout obscenely,
The ladies still think you’re a catch.
Other men wither when they face,
A string of curses that long.
The women’s heartbeats increase in pace,
To hear you sing your Hokkien song.
The Martell XO flows freely,
The Chivas Regal washes it down.
A little spirit makes it easy,
To slip a woman out of her gown.
So, I’ll walk away, and admit defeat,
I could never match your style.
How could anything I have ever beat,
Your golden hair and gold-toothed smile?
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It doesn’t matter that I’m dead tired,
I have to keep to my liquid diet.
Bye bye my FAT body!
Oil seeping out of my a-hole,
But whatever it takes to achieve that goal.
Bye bye my FAT body!
No one seems to love or understand me,
All the hurtful nicknames they keep calling me.
I have to shed those kilos gained,
My friends will not call me ‘Hippo’ again!
Bye bye my FAT body!
Slimming centres with dubious slogans,
Damned pills killing my vital organs.
Bye bye my FAT body!
I’ll spend thousands to suck out that fat,
I’ll be proud again of my vital stats.
Bye bye my FAT body!
No one seems to love or understand me,
All the thoughtless jibes they direct towards me.
There’s a perfect figure I want to regain,
I will not look like a bouncer again!
Bye bye my FAT body!
Bye bye my FAT body!
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I’m sorry, Miss Maybelline,
Don’t let me cramp your style.
Please don’t let my education,
Get in the way of beauty tips.
It’s more important to pay attention,
To getting fuller, more supple lips.
Human traffic comes to a stop,
When Mambo queens gather to talk,
About one’s new skirt, or another’s new top,
We’ll just have to find somewhere else to walk.
My humblest apologies, Your Royal Highnesses,
Don’t let me cramp your style.
Do go on, young fashionistas,
Don’t let me cramp your style.
When fashion’s on show at the Arts canteen,
I don’t really need a seat.
What’s more important is to be seen,
Only ugly people need to eat.
If the Emperor didn’t care,
That his new clothes weren’t really there,
Why should you have to be aware,
Or be considerate, or learn to share?
If all that matters is people stare at what you wear,
Then, please, don’t let me cramp your style.
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A long time ago, in the Spanish city of Cordoba,
a group of Catholic priests and Muslim scholars met
to debate which was the truer faith.
Among those who watched these proceedings was young Isabella,
a fair beauty at seventeen, who showed
wisdom beyond her age for it was she who suggested
this meeting to see her faith defended,
though by the end, that would change.
For she would watch as Umar Lahmi, a Muslim scholar,
argue his case with a voice that struck with such force and energy,
she fell out of her seat to hear him recite from the Holy Quran,
yet it was so tender as to flush her cheeks and bring tears to her eyes,
so beautiful was the sound to her ears.
Isabella was impressed by Umar’s charisma and conviction,
but more than her admiration for a man was her love for the religion,
that despite her father’s objection;
despite captivity, torture and starvation;
despite ridicule by those she had once trusted,
she renounced her Christian faith and turned to Islam,
so pure was that love.
Cut to Singapore, twenty-oh-five,
A different kind of young Muslim man,
less religious than Umar Lahmi,
less knowledgeable, less eloquent, perhaps,
who only wanted to ask another Christian girl out,
not to convince her of his faith
nor engage in religious debate.
He only wanted to watch a movie with her.
Would religious differences matter on a date?
They could talk about a future later,
if they ever reach that stage.
In a time of civil mixed marriages,
was there anything that could not be worked out?
But she told him it says in the Bible,
a Christian cannot be together with one of a different faith.
I wonder, if Umar and Isabella existed
in my time and place,
would they laugh at me
or shake their heads,
at my naivety to think
that this was not an issue of faith.
How could I have thought
that the differences did not have to matter?
So foolish have I been.
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Take a step and feel it coming —
a dance bizarre and out of wack,
starting with a tight sensation,
sinews drawn like puppet strings.
One . . .
Hand clenched into a not-quite fist,
more like a naked feline paw,
perhaps, a five-clawed hunting bird.
Two . . .
An unseen force draws sinews tighter,
pulls the arm in a twisted dance.
Three . . .
Try to fight it, doubled over
from a futile effort that just
winds strings tighter around the chest.
Four . . .
An elbow bends only so far.
With hand pushing hard against chest,
turns arm into a saurian limb.
Five . . .
With tension spreading to the neck,
head pulled back, eyes cast to Heaven,
threatening to roll back into skull.
A grotesque contortionist’s act,
gruesome statue, body as art,
Less ugly than an orgasm still,
what has a peak has to subside.
Six . . .
Invisible puppeteer lets go.
Instead of flopping back to Earth,
Puppet stays standing, straightens back.
Seven . . .
Arm slackens, brought back to the side.
Stretch those fingers, shake the hand out —
You do it just because you can.
Eight . . .
Tightness gone, keep on walking.
Pretend nothing happened, but check
if anybody saw you dance.
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You could stain your skin with ink —
will colours hide the creases?
Or you could kill your skin cells,
poison them to preserve
youthful beauty behind
an emotionless mask.
You could drive stakes through your lips —
will spikes make them look fuller?
Why not stick in a needle,
pump collagen or fat?
Piercings will get in the way
of a lifeless bee-stung pout.
Rings or studs don’t hurt as much
to having your nose broken,
and cheekbones while you’re at it,
so you could have them reset
with higher bridge, sharper tip
and cheeks that’ll never droop.
Adorn your nipples with gold,
connect them with a chain —
still not enough to hold them up,
implants will spare you the pain.
Nothing quite says body art
like breasts as hard as marble.
So, go ahead and apply
abrasives to your skin,
make those cuts to your eyelids
and enjoy the rush of pain
it takes to turn your body
into a masterpiece.
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This skin I’m in is brown —
stained by the colour of this land,
I am a prince of the earth.
Instead, you tread on me like mud,
till all dried out I turn to dirt.
This skin I’m in is yellow —
descendants of emissaries
from the Middle Kingdom come
to this native land, who are now
the masters who decide its fate.
This skin I’m in is black —
traced back to the shadows of the
cradle of civilisation.
We still dare not admit our hearts
capable of primal darkness.
This skin I’m in is white —
learnt to speak the ang moh tongue,
studied works of dead light-skinned men.
We, the McDonald’s generation,
have brains that work like Microsoft.
This skin I’m in is red —
from the blood that pumps through my veins
and fuels my passion and my rage.
Cut me to reveal the true shade
that’s common to every man.
But this skin I’m in is my skin.
This skin I’m in is of no single colour.
This skin I’m in should not matter,
when this skin I’m in is but an outer layer.
This skin I’m in is not all that I am.
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In Singapore, too, there are Mechs,
Gundams, robots moving with grace
to a symphonic drilling, rat-a-tat-tat,
clinking, clanging in counterpoint.
Orange giants, Development's army,
may be more important than
the dull green armoured cars of war.
Not even Nature can quell them.
The rat-a-tat-tat, clanging and clinking,
rising to drown the crash of thunder,
they stand in defiance against a backdrop
lit occasionally by white lightning.
All around, smaller automatons scurry by,
adding their own buzz to the melody.
An occasional beep and honk
the only sounds of discontent.
Mostly, they accept the minor inconveniences
of detours and closed lanes,
so the taller machines of progress
can rip open the earth,
chart previously undiscovered ground,
create space where none existed before,
laying down the underground paths
upon which the life of the city can later crawl,
animated.
The very same pulse which seems to form
the beats by which the people march,
in an endless stream,
stepping on escalators, stepping off,
like a factory's production lines,
always moving to the rat-a-tat-tat,
the clinking and the clanging,
which goes on, even as the rain
adds its rhythm to the song.
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If you have ever been told that
crying is a sign of weakness,
an act of defeat,
then, let me tell you
I have seen a person beaten down so badly
she could not cry.
She sat by the side of the road
on a suitcase that held
all that she had left,
all that she could pack,
when the soldiers came
to drive her from her home.
She sat by the side of the road,
she had nowhere to go.
The family she thought she had,
she could not find.
She was told they had moved,
nobody knew where to.
When your kind is singled out,
to be driven away or destroyed,
you don’t get to stick around too long.
She sat by the side of the road,
a little tired, perhaps,
she had walked far,
and age had only slowed her down.
She sat by the side of the road,
because that was all that she could do.
She sat by the side of the road,
with no guns pointed at her,
and she bore no scars of war,
but when I looked into her eyes,
I saw no tears,
I saw no life,
I saw no hope.
I looked into her eyes
and I saw defeat.
I looked into her eyes and I wanted to tell her,
“Cry, old woman, why don’t you cry?
Cry for the home that you have lost,
cry for the family you cannot find,
cry for the miles that you have walked,
cry for the life that you left behind.
Cry, old woman, cry!”
But she could only sit by the side of the road,
she could not cry.
She sat by the side of the road,
like a creature that lies down to die.
She sat by the side of the road,
she could not go back,
she could not go on.
She sat by the side of the road,
she could not cry.
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I was told as a child,
“If you play hide-and-seek after dark,
the Hantu Tetek will come and catch you!”
That ogress with the monstrous breasts,
who prowls the darkness,
looking for naughty children,
who should know better,
and hide them within the folds
of her bounteous mounds,
so they can never be found,
ever again, by friends,
and parents, whose words they failed to heed.
That demoness still prowls,
ensnaring with grossly unnatural globes
men, young and old,
who hide in semi-darkness,
lit only by the glare of computer monitors.
These errant boys who will not heed
word from the wise,
their elders’ advice.
Have they not been told,
“If you keep playing with yourself,
you’re going to go blind!”
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They say if you say her name in full,
she will come to haunt you.
You know of what I speak –
she who is dressed all in white,
with flowing black hair.
You know her name,
and you know you want to say it.
You fear her cold dead touch,
her claws that could rip flesh to shreds,
and fangs that could aid,
in the draining of your blood.
Does the thought of her sucking on you
turn you on?
She might appear at first
an attractive woman,
alluring in her mystery –
her arrival heralded by the
fragrance of frangipani.
That intoxicating smell,
overwhelming you,
and drawing you in.
You can smell her, don’t you?
She is no Elvira,
Mistress of the Dark.
No, she exists much closer to home,
so close, you might run into her,
walking alone in the still of the night,
through a silent, suffocating darkness.
They say, never look up at the trees
at night, you might just see her.
Keep away from banana groves,
and other places she might reside.
They say, if you can pick up her sweet,
sweet scent, then it is already too late –
too late to run.
But you don’t want to run, do you?
No, not when you know that
if a nail is driven into the nape of her neck –
that erogenous zone, that,
on a lovely, living lady,
with long, lustrous hair,
when exposed can drive
many men wild –
if you can drive a nail into the nape of her neck,
she would regain her human form –
beautiful, touched by neither age,
nor death.
A woman upon whom you are master,
who will do all that you bid,
you, the man who sucessfully nailed her.
You want to own her,
a creature tamed,
but with an edge,
because you know,
should the nail come loose,
the monster inside is let out,
deadly, beyond your control.
And that threat arouses you more,
because who does not want to
flirt with death,
dance with mortal danger,
hold power over the living dead
with dangerous immortality.
You know who and what she is.
You know her name,
and you long to call her.
You don’t have to say it out loud,
she already haunts the depth
of your darkened heart.
It’s tempting, isn’t it?
Go ahead, say her name,
call her,
and see if she appears.
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I lack the words to make these lines complete;
To write a poem about the Bard proved,
For this amateur, an arduous feat,
In whose work there is much to be improved;
This infrequent rhymester has little chance
Of doing justice to Shakespeare’s art,
Lacking as he is a sense of romance,
Neither wit nor tragedy moves his heart.
This verse is but a frail imitation
By a false sonneteer who tries too hard,
Despite his lack of imagination,
To write a poem in praise of the Bard.
My apologies for daring to hold
These leaden lines up to his words of gold.
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Sajak-Sajak Melayu
Bukan Kau Yang Satu
Bukan aku yang merindu,
Bukan aku yang memerlukanmu.
Perlu apa ku menunggu,
Sedangkan janjimu bukan kepadaku?
Buat apa ku kurung hatiku,
Penuhi memori dengan wajahmu?
Mengapa harus ku rasa pilu?
Dunia ini bukan kau yang satu.
Perlukah aku merasa ragu,
Hati kita tidak mungkin bersatu?
Masih terbayang senyumanmu,
Terselit di lubuk hatiku.
Mengapa Harus Ku Iri Hati?
Mengapa harus ku iri hati,
Melihat mentari bertemankan awan?
Tempat ku bukan di langit biru,
Tidak ku tercapai setinggi itu.
Haruskah bunga ku persalahkan,
Bila kumbang mendekati?
Sedangkan bunga sendiri yang mengembang,
Bukan tempat ku untuk melarang.
Mungkin mentari tidak menjejak bumi,
Namun cahayanya tetap menerangi.
Mengapa masih ku meraba dalam kegelapan?
Mengapa masih ku rasa sebak di dada,
Melihat engkau dengan dia?
Bukankah kita kawan biasa?
Apa Yang Ku Rasakan
Andai kau ku beritahu,
Akan ku luahkan perasaanku.
Agar engkau mengetahui,
Hatiku ini kau sakiti.
Jika dapat aku tunjukkan,
Perasaanku kan ku lukiskan.
Supaya engkau menyedari,
Seksa hidupku bersendiri.
Andai boleh ku sentuh perasaanmu,
Akan ku cairkan hatimu yang beku.
Agar dapat kau terima,
Apa yang ku katakan bukanlah dusta,
Tetapi keikhlasan semata-mata.
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Di tebing Sungai Singapura ku menanti,
Duduk termenung seorang diri,
Menantikan ilham buat puisi.
Tongkang Cina tenang berarak,
Dihayun angin, dibuai ombak.
Luahan hati yang sedang bergolak,
Tiada terdengar, dilihat tak nampak.
Bukan kekata emas seorang pendita,
Bukan tempatku untuk bercerita,
Puisi hati tiada terkata,
Hajat hendak ku sampaikan tiada terkota,
Tinggal kecewa semata-mata.
Ditiup bayu, didendang ombak,
Ini bukan luahan orang yang warak.
Lupakan puisi, lupakan sajak,
Lebih penting lagi bumi ku pijak.
Di tebing Sungai Singapura ku kembali,
Tingallkan sahaja arena puisi.
Semoga ku tabah menghadap realiti.
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Apakah itu kesunyian?
Kesunyian bukan keseorangan.
Biar aku bersendiri.
Apabila ku kenang wajah orang tersayang,
Kesunyian itu pasti hilang.
Biar diriku keseorangan.
Akan ku luangkan masaku mengingati Tuhan,
Dan akan ku sedar aku tidak bersendirian.
Jadi, apa itu kesunyian?
Meratap wajah teman yang hilang,
Gelak ketawa yang tiada lagi kedengaran,
Senyuman yang tidak lagi menerangi,
Dan waktu bersama yang hidup hanya di memori.
Apa itu kesunyian?
Hilangnya teman berkongsi suka dan duka,
Biarpun dirimu di depan mata.
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What is loneliness?
Loneliness is not solitude.
Though I may be alone,
When I recall the faces of the ones I love,
The loneliness disappears.
Let me be by myself.
I shall spend time remembering God,
And realise that I am not truly alone.
So, what is loneliness?
To look upon the face of a lost friend,
Laughter you no longer hear,
A smile that no longer illuminates,
And time spent together that exists only in memory.
What is loneliness?
Losing a friend to share joy and sorrow,
Though she stands before your very eyes.
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Biarkan anak kita jadi arkitek.
Jika ada kemahuan untuk mereka,
biar yang dibina jadi sempurna.
Biarkan mereka cuba mencakar langit,
menggenggam awan,
mencapai bulan.
Biar mereka jadi angkasawan,
mengejar sinar bintang impian,
menerokai angkasa mimpi,
mencari kemungkinan
biarpun ia tidak menjaminkan
ketenangan akal, hati atau perasaan.
Jika ingin terus jejak di bumi nyata,
memang kolong-kolong blok tidak jauh dari tanah
di tengah-tengah hutan belantara batu dan besi,
jika bertani hasilnya hanya buat dijual beli.
Namun minda dan jiwa masih tetap hendak terbang
walaupun keinginan dihalang orang.
Orang kita yang dikatakan keturunan pelayar
yang telah menjelajah tiga lautan,
samudra ilmu lautan keempat,
jangan dihindar pelayaran anak kita.
Biarkan mereka melongsor arus pengetahuan,
berenang dan menyelam ke dasar makna
mencari pemahaman
erti kehidupan.
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Let our children be architects,
If there is a desire to design,
let what is erected be built right.
Let them try to scrape the sky,
touch the clouds,
hold the moon in their grasps.
Let them be astronauts,
chasing the light of a hope-filled star,
exploring the universe of aspiration,
searching for possibilities,
even if it does not guarantee
peace of mind, of heart and soul.
If you wish to keep your feet planted,
then, indeed, void decks do not lie far from the earth
in the midst of concrete and metallic wilderness,
where crops are grown for the sake of commerce,
while the mind and soul continues to yearn to soar
even as such flights of fancy are easily dismissed.
Our people who are said to have be descendants of explorers
who sailed the expanse of three oceans,
let the ocean of knowledge be the fourth,
let us not hinder our children’s voyages.
Let them surf the tide of information,
plunge and plumb the depths of knowledge
seeking to understand
the meaning of life.
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About Me | My Poetry | My Curriculum Vitae | My Acting Resume
This website was created by Muhammad Ridzal A. Hamid. Please give proper credit when using any part of the content. Alternatively, you are welcome to link to this site. This website was last modified on 06/30/2008.