Sun Wukong

What if they forgot to collect your soul

in the middle of the story?

You ransacked the dragon king

and wiped out all monkey names in hell.

A moment's hesitation could ruin the movie.

Suddenly you might be happy ever after,

with your iron pillar bearing magic,

and your brothers,

who've always suspected you were different.

Your hairs clot the washing machine.

The headmaster finds you too hairy.

And upstairs, the party will happen without you:

They will beef up their body from the fruit of trees,

all thousands of its pink bearing immortality.

You wage havoc battle,

of which you hear only filled tummy.

Listen,

there're voices coming.

They're coming for the feast.

Examine your direction:

Beyond the Jasper Pool, the treasure chamber

are gourds of elixir.

Beyond, you tread the clouds

a leap of thousands miles,

and you wait for the five pillars,

to piss on.

*My last poem for the SingPoWriMo 2015 challenge in April, Day 23. The prompt was 'write a poem parody of a poet in the style of that poet'. I chose Ng Yi-Sheng's Ne Zha which is one of my favourite poems.

Original version: here

 

Distance

Feel but cannot bridge

Long forgotten how to touch

To bring adrift back

The Foreigner

She puts the everday of eggs and milk into her bag

counts cents to round up change but got snapped

No one told her it's difficult to say guten Morgen and danke

so they punish her with indifference of wie bitte

At the playground she is the only mother who plays

At the kindergarten's crowded front yard she sees no one

Her girl asks why she is not invited to Lina's birthday

Why she doesn't have yellow hair, blue eyes and Easter presents

Everyone loves a döner but no one is ready to accept the intruders

Even the traffics signs say they have no right of way to infract

In her mouth the pretzel leaves a bitter taste of wrong

and an anger at the myth to belong

She is trapped between the heroic and the pitiful

because of the godly cloth of monstrous curse around her head

The path you didn't take

Can't remember when

I chose the path you didn't take.

You two entwined vines,

the lone willow on my path,

all that's ever left of you.

Our roads crossed again,

briefly but seemed long enough

to look at your watch.

Blossoms dancing on your path

which's everything of you.

 

She Was A Mother Too

The thing growing in her

She did not understand

She watched the pregnant women

In the waiting room

She wanted to push them over

The window, the stairs

Each and everyone of them, Wiping out

That conceit from their face

That's some reason to be happy about

Instead of joy

Its tiny hands clawed at her, Twisting

Cold sweat, she started on her bed

She looked at the slump next to her, Dead

To her panting and growing fear, Lost

In his smug bliss of rubber of holes

She remembered staring at the surgical lights

Wide open eyes

The blinding lights did not hurt

as much as

When they emptied her

She broke into a run on her way out

Shivered despite the warm sunrays

She threw up nausea on the street

A nausea at her different colour

At not being a hero

At him who thinks it's her problem, not his

Nausea, she tattooed on her skin

She will never be rid of

Chai Chee

Boy had a backyard filled with rolling hills

Few neighbours to play with time on his hands

He laid seeds of vision upon these land

Didn't forget to water dedication

At night he lied on bed thought of his seeds

In the day he perched on top of his hills

Watching seeds grow into green emeralds

Generous boy fed his neighbours these greens

Hustle and bustle soon became these hills

Happy with his hard work and its newness

The boy spurred his neighbours to follow suit

Seeing the sparkle in his eyes they nodded

Gifts of his vision conceived on his world

He now sat in his backyard with legs up

His children drinking coffee next to him

Had other ideas 'bout kampong expanse

A Quick Meal

Interestingly enough, nine years

Away from hometown of my youth

I still learn from the kitchen dance

Her slender graceful leg

Her divine hip -

The small-waisted spatula

She feels unseen rhythms of stir frying within her

and reverberates a ballon on the warm metal floor

Twirling around with her geometric lines

Her body is taken over by

Crescendos of translucent onions

Orbiting jumps in searing meat

She finally falls onto the bed of frying rice

As the lid of lights descends at perdendo

She bows, closes her eyes

And let the heavy curtain of water

Washes away her sweat

The Last View of Singapore

young orchid will grow

dewdrops melt fore seeing

how tall it grows to be

Where he shouldn't be

His new baby's eyes

Its mother's mouth

Crescent of laughter

A field of bliss

A designer of homes

He sleeps in on workdays

Society won't give him work

An outsider, invisible

Like a rock among rocks

Milk bottles

Rice bin

Mouths

Marlboro

Dark shapes of his duty

Swallowing his vows

It's the only thing to do

So it's the right thing to do

Thirteen tiles before his eyes

At Pong!

Dwindling money in the drawer

Has to be returned

The bristles on his neck, wet

He closes his eyes

At Kong!

His friends look at his hardship

Indentify with him

Just because it's not theirs

At Zimo!

Jets of blue smoke

flush pleasure through alarm

Selling out her love and hopes again

Doesn't seem the right thing anymore

How does he go forward now

 

3am dream of Butterfly Lovers

Wake, from my dreams

The dried tears readied me

For today I escape, I escape

Clothed, in ten yards

Of red cocoon

Of golden phoenix arising

Pricking at my skin,

At the girlhood I now leave behind

Sit, in red sedan chair

A moving bamboo cage

To another empty walls

Breath, keep breathing

Sing, the rain and the wind

Before his white slab of stone

The earth receives me

In its furrow

Tapering away like my life

I bind our bones with red string

In the wedding of butterflies

 

Will I laugh again

(Neil Gaimen to Terry Pratchett)

Will you make me laugh again

As I fall, grasping

Time suspended in the air

Will you make me laugh again

And set it right

Wiping the gray from the sky

Falling into the world you have spun

I see you again in your black cloak

With all your white anger

Underneath those twisted trees

Angel and demon hand in hand

You take my arm and say

WE MUST WALK TOGETHER

Making each other laugh again

Borrowed Words

No

Likes No

Comments do not

Get depressed. This is

A challenge not a competition

Your opinion matters most. Of your

Own work do not be ashamed. A

Work in progress is every poem here. If

It is lost in the rush, remember those moments

When the lightbulb lits up, your racing heart and Sweaty

armpits. Exhaustion is like a perpetual hangover but passion keeps you

wide awake. You feel like dance after you hit the post button:

Today I wrote a poem and tomorrow I'm going to do it again

Cicada Song

Chorus springtime water frosty

Behold hurry foliage tawny

Solstice transform bosom sorrow

Enshroud woodland allure borrow

Unfaze blossom scarlet scatter

Stratus maple crimson alter

Billow pinions swallows stature

Flimsy wing-robe winter endure

Ensue aster rampage advent

Seedtime rasure lotus absent

Golden ebbing Prunus boomer

Springtide arrest jailbreak never

A real childhood

Are the deities in the mountains

Really having a feast of peaches

Even as I burn midnight oil by the curtains

A ray flew by but it's the chalk of my teacher's

Look I am only having a gander

Charmed by the gleam of her tresses

Hemorrhagic Wulin is in uproar over Dragon Saber

Idiom of an inch of time is an inch of gold laces

Length of my ear flips out from the other

Detecting the start of quarreling voices

Hurry to hide in clanks of fighting swords under table

Only not from goose egg and cane lashes

On to battles my green plastic soldiers march

Do I yearn to grow up in every March

At Hawker Center

Chicken Rice

Green plate of greasy fragrance

Comes to the table without formality

Table with strangers and plastic chairs

Only food really matters here

Steam is rising from pale on pale

Sink teeth into tender gelatinous

Blesses the tongue of the moment

But lift legs suddenly

As roaches scurry past

Shiver runs down spine

Reminder of no place is perfect

Dress

Getting stares at the cropped hair does

Not mean frills and flounces are a must

Nor heels, skirts and war paint

Knees are still there underneath trousers

So are twin peaks too

Even with pinstripes and suits

Will be cool as Coco and Marlene

Genderless is the new black

Nothing needs to be cured

Lip Balm

The tissue wipes away the balm

Leaving dried twigs on the mouth

Like angry red ants crawling on fire

Biting to appease burning anger

Getting stares again at sausage lips

Off to the Chinese medical hall

For quick and old-fashioned relief

 

The Man in the Morning

7:37am

Birds sing sunrise colours

But he drinks black melancholy from his cup

Staining his tongue with the bitter of another day

He takes a drag

He looks at the rope of smoke

He watches the ants with food on their backs

7:46am

The day scratches its head

A ball with no goalpost to aim

He stops looking at the photos

Putting his wife and daughter in the carton of his heart

Rain suddenly falls

Into puddles

Into thousand broken mirrors

Of his past and dreams

8:10am

Today looks the same as yesterday

The same as tomorrow and the morrows

Sliver of his sleeves peeking out from under his coat

One thinks he pines for a second spring

He takes a drag

He looks at the rope of smoke

The rope to hang himself

 

Tuesday Blah of @ # % ^ < /

She cries for mama

A ripple on the night pond

Waking to the dawn

of these ! $ &* ( ) . , prompts

Met that girl

from the dream

A ghost from the past

More I do not want to ask

Typing limits his vocab so

Mo Yan only writes by hand

Th smooth of this digital paper

roughened by my hoarsing thoughts, damn!

An experiment of a long month

Gulping blood and sweat

Impressing eye circles

With it's silent mouth

These verses may not be serene

Mountain spring or pure

But my wings fly blossom

To blossom for nectar pure

Who gives us our names? We ask

Not angels, death or the gods

Listen!

Your name will be called

 

 

The Gods

*Someone said, 'Don’t get drunk on the liquor of your narcissistic poetry.' And I am guilty as charged.

His body roars medicated side-effects, reeking of untouched cod

Her nose twitches at the white line of powder, they are the gods

The figures on the bills and debts burn red against fluorescent bulb

To the airport to find the soonest flight away, she is the gods

She washes two faces and four dirty hands, her gift in double

Unslept, her eyes are crescent of laughter, she is the gods

The old man curls on the bench of abandon, the memories his rooftop

She is cardboards and half-starved mouths, they are the gods

The fall accelerates, he surrenders to his grave in the mountaintop

The waiting girlfriend believes he doesn't leave, they are the gods.

I am Kartoffelsalat, Rendang and Rice, washed down with Oolong

Imperfect and faulted, but give me my glory. Hoon, are you one of the gods?

 

Silence

If silence is the golden sun

why does it fester in my fruit

bringing back the odour of doubt?

Trapped

I won't say much

because I don't want to sound like our parents

You always hate how they nag, still do.

Remember? Upon hearing your retort,

I didn't ask you to wait up for me

Pa spitted, you will know when you have your own children!

You shrugged, stormed into your room

Those words will stalk you

The prophecy will come true

Parents do own crystal balls

and we think they are uncool

What they don't tell you

Fear sometimes comes in threes

You are rows of cereals, milk, eggs in supermarkets

The cups, plates and pots in cupboards

Either you spray it, like a cockroach, with Bygone

Or you bring it to bed with you.

It will become bearable.

Sometimes piece by piece you die inside

Under your blankets you invent worlds

And the pain of change fits into place

You wake up the next day,

brush your teeth and drive to work.

You don't have much left

So you search for strength,

stringing words

You go for a walk under the sun

and see a line of ants

then it rains, disrupting the army

You are glad to be alive.

 

An Orchid Blooms

The breeze traces its tongue around her curves,

she poses wantonly.

The dews gently bite her inner folds,

she feels damp and opens up.

As shudders run down her spine,

she moans into a blossom.

Pohela Falgun

The sounds of distant traffic

lure him to his secret garden

jewel-strewn in spring.

The cool cement is

marigold petals to his skin.

A respite from the lonely heat.

The fresh paint is colourful Fatua

that clings to his body.

It fits his pride.

The silence of empty flats is

Bengali to his ears.

It's his songs and stories.

He stretches on the green grass

and closes his eyes.

 

The Year 2065

I dreamed the dance of my uncle

as Ah Gong bestowed lashes of his temper

because from the poison needle

he drew grave mistake into his temple.

He floated away but storm raged in him

and he was arrested.

In the long queue of grim

for him Ah Ma and I awaited.

In her hand a tingkat merrily swayed

heavy with sadness, self-reproach but also love

At the aroma of the familiar and those days

His tears swamped with guilt and came in droves

Time travel is no pleasure

I want to go back to the future.

Bee Hoon

White as the falling snow outside,

rice flour strings bubbling up memories

across the oceans, suddenly I am home.

 

The Co-pilot

Tight like the gold band on Wukong's head, the singing

wind blows away his curse as he falls through the clouds.

In the mountains he knows Ox-head and Horse-face await.

Embers of The Man

The green leaves turned the colours of fall

Falling like snowflakes, waiting to be trampled on

The legacy scent lingers however on.

A Foreigner

Amongst white clouds and rustle of leaves

the mountain cherry is so high up

she hears but no birdsongs there

 

Ein Kind

Ein schreiendes Kind

Ein übermüdetes Kind

Ein Kind im Mama's Armen

Ein Kind, das mein Leben ändert

Das Kind meiner Liebe

Mein glückliches Kind

Childhood

Are the deities in the mountains

having a feast of peaches

as I burn the midnight oil by the curtains?

Suddenly flew by is the chalk of my teacher's

when I am only having a gander

at her black twin tresses

Wulin is in uproar over the Dragon Saber

but lore of an inch of time is gold laces

my ear and flips out from the other

From their quarreling voices

I hide in invented worlds under the table

but not from goose egg and cane lashes

To battles, my green plastic soldiers march

as I yearn to grow up in every March.

Zhu Yingtai, the modern lady

No cocoon of caste can contain

his winged lover as she drinks learned nectar,

flies through rain and wind into his fragrant blossom.

LKY Haiku

I stand on the shore of my life

My feet wet from the waves of fear

Longing for lapping waters to lure me to sleep

Senescence Haiku

The pink of falling petals

reminds her of porcelain skin.

Withered leaves around her she doesn't see.

 

Lost Communication

The wintery wind blows away the boat of messages.

Along it brings a rain, showering on the words.

As the waves rise and withdraw the letters,

silence drifts across the sea.

Pining Haiku

Sliver of red sleeves peeking out under black robe

Like the sun trying to break out of the dark clouds

Both in search of a promise of spring

 

 

The Fall

Will you catch me when I fall?

As I slip, suspended in the air and grasping

Will you catch me and straighten me out?

As I land on the hard floor of truth

I see you the snow flower

Falling into a puddle of oblivion

No one to catch you when you fall

 

Xylophone toy

The colours are keys to your dreams

As your mallet hammers, strives, plays on

the notes sing to your tune but which tune?

 

The Child

He is so sweet

so delicious

yet so shy

He can wink

with one eye

and can run really fast

Makes her smile without doing

anything. Makes her day

when he sits next to her

Her voice sings

and laughs. Her

little feet dance

Let's invite them over!

They are not your friends, I said

They will be when the others are not around

I can try but what if they say no?

Ask the friends first. When they say yes, he will come too

the child said, innocence glimmering in her eyes

Weaving her web big

and wide, just to draw

the boy to her

Who does not know she is many things

who shrugs off her worship

whose apathy stings

She is undeterred

She is in no hurry

She is the crouching spider

Alas, the day comes as she beholds him in the web

of conceit, threading his arms and legs

keeps him from scaling the tower of her heart

He, who does not know she is many things

who shrugs off her worship

whose spectral gaze echoes to the beating of her pumping organ

In the proud tower of her heart

 

Random Haiku

BBQ chicken kiosk next to a roundabout

The chicks rotate on the spit.

day and night roundabout

spitting cars. where do they go?

 

Dilemma

If I practice what I preach

why do I get ipad shoulder

and my child gets no ipad time?

 

The German

Chicken rice is her favourite

yet the half Lion City girl imagines

she has blue eyes and blond hair

 

Changing Singapore

Dinner was laksa with bean sprouts

sprouting from the bowl an aroma of the familiar

folding the new into fried bean curd squares

 

Self

The cursor blinks at me

winking away doubts of white blank

twinkling at words of self dares

The lullabies are the ghost

who haunts hopes and dreams

for fear of losing its way

The child utters the words

to the melody of her past

to the future tense of its morrow

Bird sings sunrise colours

squirrels scurrying past

but oblivious to the seculars

 

 

Swimming Pool

Like fishes

limbs of young and old

cutting through water

The sun shines

dim and vivid

translucent and bright

School children arrive

din and muted

clear and subdued

Like life's repetitive rhyme

the music of our

iterating limbs soothes

Carnival

Confettis rain on sun-drenched hair

fur shoes tap to gay vocals

strewn candies snatched up by little hands

Miniature bottles of spirits lift the spirit

red sausages warm cold tummy

it's frolicking time

In numbed feet and hands

was mirth, trailing home

in tiny bits of colours

Among houses

a small bird landed

a man and woman now sleep in kingdom of colours

Of boredom and lack of inspirations

The cursor blinks and blinks. Waiting for words to magically materialize on the blank screen. I hurried off to reread Neil Gaiman's reply to a reader on how to get his thoughts on paper. Other than a smile playing on my lips after reading, the bulb of an idea still did not light up. The A luxury we cannot afford fails me miserably too. Bukowski's wisdom on starving artist is a myth leads me into the kitchen. The leftover curry puff filling in the pot won't leave me alone. I just have to do something about it.

A few minutes of silent dancing in the kitchen (silent so as not to wake the little one), the puffs are now baking in the oven and I am typing away to while away the waiting, amidst hunger pangs. More like greedy pangs really. I realised recently to my horror, a habit of having supper at night has been cultivated. No thanks to watching Chinese films, reading or writing into the wee hours. Resorting to heavy dinner doesn't help these long lonely nights anymore.

I am experiencing a sudden block because I cannot focus because of my growling stomach. Excuse? Yet the curry puffs don't seem to be in a hurry.

They are now ready. Just two of them if you must know. But wait I must because I do not want the steaming-spicy-velvety-potatoes-tender-chicken-skin-and-meat-flaky-puff-pastry to scorch my tongue. I can't stop looking longingly at them like a lover, my mouth waters, my tummy in knots. I wonder which is worse, to keep typing while searching for ideas in your head as if you are running out of time or waiting hungrily for food, or else you will drop off any minute any second? I also wonder if this is the kind of boredom Neil Gaiman is striving for. Standing in the kitchen, not checking in on FB or emails, waiting impatiently for food. While I suspect it may not be the exact same kind of boredom he is referring to, it seems to be serving me rather alright at this very moment. So his concept does work after all.

My tummy is now warm and full having gobbled up the curry puffs. Did inspirations suddenly flash across my mind? No sight of it. Perhaps I wasn't bored enough while eating because I was online watching some clips. A common habit among Singaporeans. We just love munching away our favourite food like pepper crabs while scenes of flying swordmen exchange blows flit across the TV screen. The food-TV-sofa combination makes our day anytime. We are an easily contended lot.

In Germany, whenever we takeaway burgers to be had at home and as I plant my bum on the sofa in front of the goggle box, the man would remark, 'Just like the Americans.' I will not and cannot let that go, of course. Firstly, burger is fast food. What fun is there to savour a burger on a table setting? Our table setting may not be formal but the thought of laying out the table just for the sake of eating burgers and fries with our fingers somehow kills the fun for me. Secondly, either the common Germans are rigid or it's just the man. I mean, it's only burger. Unless there are guests around, we should be flexible on how we want to enjoy our food. It's another matter when we dine together as a family. For the sake of the little princess, our meals with her are always taken on a simple table setting so that she gets to learn her table manners. It's a ritual ever since she's able to sit at the table with us. When she is much older and is allowed to watch TV, she will be more than welcome to join me on the sofa as we devour our burgers, fries and coke with our fingers. And I foresee we will both try our very best to turn a blind eye to the man's frowns.

The lack of inspirations and some boredom have helped to produce some 700 words. I don't care or will I stop you if you want to launch into a quality-vs-quantity debate. I am just going to give myself a pat on the shoulder by watching something online or SHOPPING. Ha Ha Ha...

Of songs and reconnecting

The munchkin has been requesting of late to watch two music videos on YouTube. Of course she wouldn't have learned of them, were it not for me who introduced them to her in the first place. As a pretty obstinate anal mother, I wield a tight control over her media exposure. It literally means the exposure is almost non-existence. One would not fail to notice her fierce concentration on the little screen whenever we are at friends' and the tv is on. Except for short clips of ballet performances, she doesn't get to watch anything else while at home. This is by no means my way of saying how proud I am for sticking to my 'principle'. No, in fact, I am deeply aware that principle must be an unhealthy extension of my control freakness. On the other hand, a time will come, soon enough I am very certain, when she is going to bug me incessantly about watching some programs which her friends in kindergarten or school have seen. By then there will be no turning back. And let's not forget about social media.

Just recently I read that Neil Gaimen took a four-month break from social media. It's a feat considering he is a successful writer and has 2.3 million followers on his twitter. His reason: 'I'm just going off to be bored.' More specifically, '"The biggest problem with Twitter is that I'd be in a taxi and I'd be on Twitter and it would keep me interested. I realised I wasn't getting bored enough and [that I needed to get bored] to start plotting things and coming up with ideas.'

I wonder how he does it. I am just a mere mortal with no followers and yet I am connected all the time. The only saving grace is I am still resisting the idea of getting a data plan for my phone so at least I am off line when I am on the go. BUT to my dismay, I have recently 'progressed' to downloading some clips on my phone for the convenience of watching them while waiting or on the train as opposed to reading. The daily scene of my fellow Singaporeans burying their nose in the screen of their tablet/mobile phone on the train suddenly danced acrossed my mind. What stopped me from downloading more videos is there is no more extra storage space on my phone. Fortunately.

Yes, the two music videos in question are now on my phone, two old Chinese songs. Recently, I have a sudden interest in anything Chinese. From Chinese/HK films and songs, to reading up on Chinese history (in English of course) and trying to understand poems and songs. I find a certain joy and peace in them and a reconnection with what I see, read and listen. I tell myself it must be a phase because I still love my Radioheads, Charles Bukowskis, The Grand Budapest Hotels. Then again, why do I have to justify that it is just a phase? Why can't I just embrace this new-found obsession and accept it as my rebonding with the Chinese language and my culture? I may not be a Chinese from China and Taiwan and may not understand their culture but I did grow up in a Chinese culture albeit a Singaporean one and speaking the Chinese language. By reconnecting, I suspect I am assuaging my homesickness, my being away from my childhood home for so long.

Anyways, I digress. The reason my daughter is allowed to watch the videos is because of the brilliantly-written songs. The first song is about looking at the change of seasons through the eyes of a cicada. The words are poetic, the melody hauntingly beautiful. It lets your mind eye wanders through the fairy tale world of misty forest amidst falling leaves and red maples:

秋蝉

聽我把春水叫寒　看我把綠葉催黃

誰道秋下一心愁　煙波林野意幽幽

花落紅　花落紅　紅了楓　紅了楓

展翅任翔雙羽燕　我這薄衣過得殘冬

總歸是秋天　總歸是秋天

春走了　夏也去　秋意濃

秋去冬來美景不再

莫教好春逝匆匆　莫教好春逝匆匆

The other song is by one of the singers from a popular boy band which has since disbanded because one member had to serve his national service. Many will perhaps dismiss the song as just another pop song by some pop idol who can't sing to save his life. What touches me however, is the sincerity in the words which is penned by the singer himself and the deep friendship they share years after they have gone their separate ways while not forgetting to encourage and support one another during the course of their lives and careers. I find it very commendable because that willingness in putting high value on and effort in maintaining a friendship while separated seems rather rare to me these days, let alone in the glitz and glitter of the entertainment industry：

祝你一路顺风

那一天知道你要走　我們一句話也沒有說

當午夜的鐘聲敲痛離別的心門　卻打不開你深深的沈默

那一天送你送到最後　我們一句話也沒有留

當擁擠的月台擠痛送別的人們　卻擠不掉我深深的離愁

我知道你有千言你有萬語　卻不肯說出口

你知道我好擔心我好難過　卻不敢說出口

當你背上行囊卸下那份榮耀　我只能讓眼淚流在心底

面帶著微微笑用力的揮揮手　祝你一路順風

當你踏上月台從此一個人走　我只能深深地祝福你

深深的祝福你最親愛的朋友　祝你一路順風

Because I am deeply touched and moved by the songs, I was very eager to share that emotion with my daughter. She might not fully understand the sense of the songs but I am more than happy to let her experience their beauty, even though it is through a media device. That she seems to understand.

 

Who has the last laugh?

Everyone has their take on the terrible Charlie Hebdo incident. Some say the journalists had it coming, some are speechless but recovered quickly because the earth continues to revolves around the sun, but most are stunned and outraged by the sheer violence.

A friend even took to Facebook, wondering via hashtag #buyinggunssocheapmeh# while another feels owning guns in this case is not the point anymore.

When one whets a knife back and forth, back and forth on the whetblock, the goal is for the knife to serve our purposes better. In this case, both camps have been sharpening their knives and taking aim. Not surprisingly their aims aren't that dissimilar. They want to hurt and insult.

Everyone wants freedom of speech and satire is without a doubt a valid outlet to lash out at the opposite camp, by giving the public something to laugh about and at the same time offering some food for thought for us to chew on. When, however, the supposedly intelligent and witty satire transgresses into using crudity and vulgar means to express dissent and outrage, its feet are already in its own religion prison, wielding its sword without any air of common sense. As laughter humiliates and the blade of the nib hits the heart, one can't help noticing the shinning light of hatred from the knife from the other camp. This time real blood flows... It certainly does not justify cold-blooded murder of innocent lives. While the camp's unwavering belief of 'death to blasphemers' and 'death to apostates' doesn't hold in this modern time and age, it undeniably provides them with a sense of pride and righteousness when the duty is done because it is their codified shariah law. If it is as they believe, that god had indeed created human beings to be his defending tools for all the injustice he suffers, so has god suddenly become the fearsome satan?

Is Charlie Hebdo having the last laugh now? Can they laugh in the wake of their dead colleagues? Are they now more determined than before to wage a war against the other camp?

It is, sadly, a vicious cycle.

'We have shown that the comic character always errs through obstinacy of mind or of disposition, through absent-mindedness, in short, through automatism. At the root of the comic there is a sort of rigidity which compels its victims to keep strictly to one path, to follow it straight along, to shut their ears and refuse to listen. In Molière’s plays, how many comic scenes can be reduced to this simple type: A character following up his one idea and continually recurring to it in spite of incessant interruptions! The transition seems to take place imperceptibly from the man who will listen to nothing, to the one who will see nothing, and from this latter to the one who sees only what he wants to see.' - Shooting the jesters by Anthony Lane

A Cicada Song

I sing spring water cold

I hurry green leaves yellow

Is fall only sorrows?

Blue wings already taking flight

farewell song to golden colours

till new seeds sown

Red falling blossoms

maple flaming red

will my thin wings breathe white flowers?