maths tutorial ii - Aaron Maniam

"let me count the ways..."

We could love like a palindrome
No difference between
'You and me'
Or 'me and you'
Continuous commutation, always
The same conclusion.

Love can be irrational
Our best efforts yield points
Of decimal estimation
As we try to round off
Our own, each other's corners.

Part of love is fractional
Sometimes awkwardly improper
Passionate numerators
Teetering like discomfort
On unstable pedestals.

As much as it pains us
Sometimes we must admit
That's love's subtration
Is also a kind of adding -
A lonely walk
Down the pavement
Of a number line

Emptiness grows, size defined
By negatives, absences and the weight
Of everything that could have been.

Aaron Maniam (his book Morning at Memory's Borders is up for the Singapore Literature Prize) is my mentor and traffic light. i stumbled across this poem, the other day while randomly flipping through the book. found it fascinating. hope you enjoy it.

Dr Gwee's Complete Smart Cat - Part II

Let Lecturer and Student do justice to learning on EN4222 together!
Let Dr Gwee and his students approach the Ark of their Examination with great clarity of mind!
Let Celina who presented on Swift still remember what she said about Swift!
Let Jun who also presented on Swift make points as good as her yummy latte!
Let Jemima who presented on Thomson continue to work exemplarily!
Let Ying Yi who presented on Thomson venerate her plow too!
Let Sylvia who presented on Pope remember not to rely on one critic alone!
Let Cheryl who presented on Pope share with her friend Sylvia who sits just next to her every week!
Let Janice who presented on Akenside, and sits next to Siew Wei weekly, be the sublime!
Let Siew Wei who presented on Akenside, like Janice, be the wonderful!
Let Mandy, the third of the sister-graces, remain the fair!
Let Ann who presented on Johnson be heard with care as she does have many good moments!
Let Julius who presented on Johnson show up for class more -- this being the want of he who wants nothing!
Let Jean who presented on Smart type away on her laptop so long as she contributes to our discussion!
Let Meiji who presented on Smart not be associated in my mind with "contradictory impulses"!
Let Sheena who presented on Smart consider her work seriously!
Let Hong Peng present on Barbauld and be in the front of the class for once!
Let Christine present on Barbauld and not look as worried as she usually does!
Let Elizabeth present on Cowper and delight us with her spontaneous insights!
Let Michelle present on Cowper and share with her strong confident voice!
Let Yisa then present on Cowper without referring to Lacanian Law!
Let Hongyi present on Blake without referring to September 11!
Let Gladys present on Blake as only she can and that, too, is cryptic!
Let Jiahui present on Blake and remember to present this time!

Dr. Gwee wrote the previous one for the honours corhort last year. this one is dedicated to my class. hahahah...

Dr. Gwee's Complete Smart Cat

For I will consider my EN4222 students.
For they are the servants of learning and pursue knowledge dutifully and daily.
For at their first step out of class they set their minds on reading next week's text.
For they will remember to post their presentations even though some haven't done so yet.
For having prepared, presented, and posted their points, they begin to consider other people's presentations.
For this they do in ten degrees.
For first they still read their texts.
For secondly they still show interest in thinking about the texts.
For thirdly they are not afraid to share their findings in class.
For fourthly they do not mislead their friends with strange points.
For fifthly they at least come to class.
For sixthly they come to class on time (and not after the break).
For seventhly their friends recognise that they are indeed being helpful.
For eighthly they are thinking even as they are listening to other tribes.
For ninthly they still remember the ideas I introduced in earlier lessons.
For tenthly they go out in quest of food in good conscience that they have contributed to discussion.
For having considered their own presentations, their essays, and their exam, they nonetheless consider their neighbours.
For if they meet another in the library, they can smile with a moral certainty that they haven't been hiding books.
For when their academic work is done their business of life more properly begins.
For they keep watch against the contamination of their own integrity.
For they counteract the Powers of Darkness by their interest and diligence.
For the Cherub Student is a term of the Angel Scholar.
For they purr in thankfulness when they are called good students.
For NUS students are the best in Asia.
For they bear their burdens heroically.
For just 1 in 7 failed to hand in the first essay on time and I know who they are.
For they are clearly called by benevolence -- Poor students! poor students! you have so many essays to write.
For I bless my students if their essays are still great fun to read despite the workload.
For by marking good essays I find happy reasons for using up electricity.
For though they cannot grade themselves, they are praiseworthy inquirers.
For then they can swim for life.
For then they can creep.

Written by my 18th C lit lecturer, Dr Gwee. His extremely brillant and hilarious. haha what to do, we hail from the same school. heh heh

ADAM - Dominic Soon

when Adam found something to hide
the unflattering paunch he was developing
(there was no sweat and toil in Paradise)
he was glad that it matched, quite forcibly,
the colour of his eyes instead of his skin.
he must have been sick of himself, his
pasty clay figure shaped out of mud
and worse, puckered with imperfections,
a helpless, uncompromising picture.

but now he had perfection, proudly engineered
by thermal underwear in the dregs of winter,
and thin cotton shirts for scorched dry days,
even tough denim jeans so he wouldn't leave bloodstains
when sitting on rocky crags. best of all was when
Eve, in a golden evening gown, leaned over
during a candlelight dinner and fondled his tuxedo
then moved down, whispering, "You are the man for all times."

Adam, be proud that you bit the apple which
brought you striding out of Eden. neither God
nor archangels wingtip-to-wingtip could hold you back.
not the wooden pawn but the player now.
you breathed life into yourself.

it's been one heck of a party, Adam.
I still crack up when God sent his only son to find out
what the hell the commotion was all about.


dominic soon, the first non-published poet to get featured on my poetry site. hahah okay, dom's a really good friend of mine. hee hee, he says this poem really reflects his take on theology, that the bible begin with a story of liberation and not a story of castigation.

One Art - Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.


i discovered this poem in a chick flick. that show with cameron diaz in it, "in her shoes". she was sitting on the bed of this sick old man who was trying to help her get over her dyslexia. so yeah, anyway, i found it nice, strangely bittersweet. that's life huh.

The Road Less Travelled - Robert Frost

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
let knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

the one poem i am sure which is overused and over cited,but still an extremely meaningful poem. somthing to ponder on. how many of us can actually say we took the road less travelled? i have no idea if i ever did.

Because I could not Stop for Death - Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, be passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

a strangely morbid and yet totally fascinating poem. remembered reading it when i was in school like secondary school. still conjures up images of death happily riding in a carriage smiling away.

On this day I complete my thirty sixth year - George Gordon Lord Byron

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move;
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;
The worm --- the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some Volcanic Isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze
A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of Love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus--and 'tis not here
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now
Where Glory decks the hero's bier
Or binds his brow.

The Sword, the Banner, and the Field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece -- she is awake!)
Awake, my Spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down
Unworthy Manhood! -- unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy Youth, why live?
The land of honourable Death
Is here: --- up to the Field, and give
Away thy Breath!

Seek out --- less often sought than found ---
A Soldier's Grave, for thee the best;
Then look around and choose thy Ground,
And take thy Rest.

lord byron's last piece of poetry written when he was in Greece to fight for the cause of greek liberation. did you know, his funeral procession met the wedding procession of his first lover, lady caroline who commented that he is mad and bad to know.

Fare Thee Well - George Gordon Lord Byron

"Alas! they had been friends in youth:
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain;
________

But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining -
They stood aloof, the scars remaining.
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been."

Coleridge, Christabel


Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee -
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praise must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth,
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is - that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is pressed,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee - by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now:

But 'tis done - all words are idle -
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well! thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie.
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

quite a sad poem written by lord byron when he divorced his wife, the poem was dedicated to his daughter whom he realised that he was not going to see her again. but the highlighted stanza is so true,

all words are idle

words from me are vainer still

but the thoughts we cannot bridle

force their way without the will

Sexing the Cherry - Jeanette Winterson

"There is a black tower...it has no windows and no doors...inside there is a cage. The tower is my body, the cage is my skull, the spirit singing is to comfort itself is me. But I am not comforted. Does the body hate itself so much that it seeks release at any cost? - Winterson,Sexing the Cherry