The Tamil Sisyphus (Sept25)

 

 

 

Mr. Hussein struggling up the steps on the corner with his trays bound in the pristine white cloth. (Bicarb. soda & possibly bleach too, Auntie Helen had taught for that sheen.) Before he climbs up with the aid of the rail near the Wadi fries, Mr H places each pair of trays on the upper level, hoisting himself up unencumbered after that. For some reason Mr H prefers that route rather than the few steps on the corner proper, it is unclear why. (Numbers of people creating a hindrance with his wide wings.) From the ends of the bottom wrapping Mr H. improvises a handle either side for his trays: two pairs one on top of the other, securely fastened. It was impossible for Mr Huss to carry that weight by hand; the forearms rather. A strain, but Mr H manages. Ploughing along the path, head up-and-down like the beast of burden dragging the harrow behind. The trays are delivered in the Haig carpark where Mr H. waits on one of the iron benches beside the access road. The sheltered walkway there is the main route out from the Blocks on that side—Nos. 2, 3, 6, 8, 9, 10 & 11. The old women going around to the market and the bus pass and often stop for the locally famous kway that Mr Hussein has been hawking many years. Perfectly halal of course, and light on the sugar. (The kway’s sweetness comes from coconut milk.) By 11 Mr Huss must away from the first station. Not only does the foot traffic dry up by then, but also Mr Huss cannot hang too long at the one possie. Couple years ago it was much easier seated on the J. C. corner around from Wadi, where the kitchen reno provided some of their furniture and Mr Hussein could perch on the window ledge. The kitchen people indulged Mr Huss, an old man of those years still hawking on street corners. In the earlier days too officialdom had turned a blind eye… It was of course now impossible to erase Mu’s insider knowledge of the early days in the kampung, during Mr H’s younger years when he had made the same rounds; when the add-ons back in those days were provided the young, randy youth. Rather a shock on first hearing. Unexpected. Twenty cent rapids for those Mr Huss accepted; and freebies otherwise for the sweeter, needy lads chosen especially. The secret of raging young male hormones was always air-brushed from conventional reportage, in the Muslim world like any other. Mu also startled when he suggested the incessant razzing of Mr Huss’s that he had overheard might have in fact been because the man fancied the mat salleh, the tall White guy. Late 70s or early 80s, that could certainly not be discounted, not when it came from an old, knowledgeable hand like Muttalib. Greatly missed the dear friend still of course, taken so unexpectedly.

 

 

                                                                                                               Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-25

Publication news - nano / poems 5

Zdravo / Health & greetings!

Five short-shorts (nano / poems) of mine have just been published by a UK outfit called Public House.
Here is the link—

https://readpublichouse.com/2019/07/5-nanos-poetry/

The pieces appeared on the Blog in slightly different form a few months ago.
Hope you like them.

Cheers & Zivili / Life! to all
Pavle

P. S. Six plus years later the archive has disappeared. Here they are from the files. Passion was the theme:

Overwhelmed

Not the first time on the Indo streets beautiful young woman responding to bule admiration with a bow like ducking a tree branch. Such little sense of her loveliness.

Christchurch

Five prayers in the satin robes, cap & hennaed beard, interspersed with blazing fightback on the screen at home—a surprise to hear for Mukhtar of all people. Head of a government bureaucracy, liked by all his staff, Chinese, Indian & Malays alike. Before marriage there had been a 20 year engagement to a persistent, patient fiancé. Could Muk possibly strap-on a backpack?

Leaping Ahead

“Is there any death penalty in Australia?… NZ?” 

Didn’t show his disappointment, the gravedigger. 

Yasuyuki, a disciple of Amma, paused a moment at the discovery. 

Not an Undertaker this, Yas. No. Trad. shovel guy

Steamtrain

The night before Ni had said it might be 4 or 5 maybe. It was the safest time, she said, the cameras would never be checked that hour. Turned out an hour earlier and catching you completely unawares. The electronic swipe was inaudible, here she was peeling off immediately with her eyes on her quarry. Ni did not allow any preliminaries, overruling all attempts to slow the momentum. It was always like that with Ni, despite all; only once she had been beaten at her own game. Hurts, but nice. It had been six months.

Enflamed

A couple of Indian lads taking their pleasure in a secluded place, they thought. Ladies-man Landlord Tan had forwarded the item, delighting in the furtive shared enthusiasm it might have been.

The Mermaid (Sept25)

Traditionally clad young gal pacing by in simple linear patterning caught too late. Doubtful she had learnt anything of that gait from the moves on film or music video. Strictly, the dress was pulled in at the waist a trifle close, the movement not having been factored for the contours. Strict ulama judges observing would have their noses outta joint and upbraid the dear. Like the proverbial ghost in the machine, beneath the ever elusive, sinuous form was hinted: the surprisingly wide hips and broadly curved ridges of the bottom. Almost certainly somewhere in her twenties, but one could never be sure. Old grannies advanced in years could easily be mistakenly accosted and propositioned at the eateries here, at the bus stops and along the sheltered walkways. (Indeed, even without error; such good cover and appeal did the garb provide. Carried mermaid-swimmingly...) How often was a figure like that rounded in front in order to peer over the edge of the scarf, only to find wrinkles & bleary, tired eyes? A little stabbing pain watching this gal disappearing over at the Haig stalls, never to be seen more. There she would buy the vegetables & fish, climb aboard her bus and sit by the window, without anyone properly loving her the live-long day. Inevitably, one thought of the village in the earlier generations, the men looking after the wrapped form of that kind climbing the mountain sides. (The recent Chin technology might have difficulty positively ID-ing an individual with that particular gait, shared by so many of the Malay women.) Ubi Boze! Slay (me) God! the lads uttered and muttered looking upon the like in the pre-war lull of the 30s, above the bays of Boka Kotorska. Only crude form in contemporary English.

Plugs & Stripes (Dec22)

Scottie in SOCAL was continuing with his missives on the political scene over there, the early run to the Democrat nomination that was already underway. Democratic Spectacular under the big top: late show rumbles, debates, press releases, endorsements and dis-. Positions and votes on past issues, controversies whatnot—going to war in Iraq, abortion, bussing in years past; taxes, health & education. The old fakers in particular were getting Scottie’s goat, riling the man bad. None was worse than the dud Joe attempting to cobble together a persona for current purposes. Let’s twist again, like we did las summer. Turning it one way and another, ducking & swaying. One of the shows had Kamala—daughter of an old Marxist—winning plaudits over lame, jabbering Joe. Trouble was the gal herself was nothing more than put-on and puff, with a shameful legislative track-record that besmirched the ghost of her honourable dad. The villains on the Right were jumping aboard sensing a perfect straw-man who could be torched in no time once Donnie started in on her. The clips were torture even briefly, featuring shiny chunder-inducing TV types behind desks, pundits and insiders blabbing/flubbing. Hard, super dooper hard to take. Woe unto us all. The suits, ties, hair. Lashes, face paint & nails. Bangles. Rings and necklaces. The getup alone told the story, Scottie. Forget the gas. Grotesque. Gruesome. Shits ya to tears bad. Scott began to understand. The costuming. Presentation. Lighting. Pace & volume. Top speed race to the bottom. The much touted Demos, greatest of man’s social inventions. That Biden had recently got “plugs” for his scone failed to surprise, but the Whitestrips was a further notch above. Now that was something new; unknown earlier. Proper dental upkeep for the stars no longer needed regular visits to the chair. CREST Whitestrips in the cabinet at home gave radiant gleam that was perfect for the big screen. Quick n’ easy to apply; any blotches faded within the hour. Trumpet himself was the standout of course—Orange Man. But it was bigger than Trumpet the strumpet. Here in the region stories of Rosmah’s botched surgeries were legion. More than one Minister in the Singaporean squadron, most notably the lady for the Environment & Water Management whatnot, saving the planet one dyed highlight at a time. Add skin care, lashes & threaded brows. Not that all the horrors visited the make-up department for special attention—Duterte, Bolsonaro, Orban & Vlad of course. Xi and Jokowi were models of everyman (though both dyed), with wives to match. Barack might have owned only the single tuxe the whole of his two terms, but the love of his life and his girls made up for that. In conclusion, you had to hope against hope for Bern! The raw, unvarnished oldie might help turn that god awful tide.

 

 

                                                                                                            Singapore, July 2019

Call of the Wild

Helen when she first entered round 8 started up a cooing with one of her cats that took some time to positively ID as human. Was it a duet in the course of mad heat, even protracted like that? an unusual preamble to a fight perhaps? The second, longer call was certainly in response to the other, the clearly feline; a kind of strange antiphonal that prevented another snooze after early brekkie. Almost certainly the first, leading call had been the grey that lorded it in the main house, green-eyed like the other, though less fat. Helen had suggested size as the best means of distinguishing between the two. When the pair was found out by the front gate, especially belly-down on the concrete, the quandary remained irresolvable. Precisely the same colouration and striping, the same shade of green. Helen had kept a number of greys over the years, a favoured breed it seemed as one did not see that colouration around the estates. A couple of weeks ago Helen had sent a photograph of the handsome boy that had gone missing, she said. Oh! The house grey it appeared. Just when we had been getting on so well…. In fact turned out the cat in the picture had disappeared a year ago; still mourned by Helen. You remember? she asked…. This morning too about the same time as the duet the crows in the trees opposite the house had started up their cawing. Up until quite recently Helen had fed choice beef to these birds that had slowly won her over. Finally she had needed to desist after she had been “scolded” by a passerby who reminded her of the prohibition that extended to all birds, not just pigeons. FARK, FARK, FARK. Miaow, Yeeeoooow; Miaow, Yeeeoooow. Miaow, Yeeeooooow…. How in the heck was a man supposed to get some shut-eye! Soon enough this all brought back the stable down in front of the handsome old house at Zelalici that Granddad Pavle had bought more than a century ago, with the water stretching out past the greenery below. At the introduction to all that slowly lapsing past in the early 80s the stable had housed a pair of cows, a half dozen venturesome goats and the old donkey that Uncle Peter could still ride side-saddle like in the Greek postcards. In the generation immediately before up in the village the peasants had of course lived immediately beside their sheltering livestock, breathing the same air, hearing them stir through the night; the animals kept the house warm too. From the sala upstairs at Zelalici the bells of the beasts could be heard through the night and certainly the whinnying of Petar’s Mercedes, the donkey. In mother’s time at Savici winter nights the children had vied for snuggling up with the cat. At Savici they were a mark above the rest of the village with mules rather than donkeys, though their sly, unruly beast once gave mother a fierce kick that she would never forget. Helen had recently adopted another cat that came to her corner opposite the house, a pretty black and white which on closer acquaintance was discovered to have large lumps beneath its chin and front paws. AhYoy! More Vet bills just when Helen had been beginning to raise her head above water. Confusion over the sex of the cats surprised Helen. Wasn’t it perfectly obvious to the eye? Even the big-balled one Helen mentioned remained a mystery to a novice.

Two More Portraits (Ivanka & Zainuddin)

From his man cave in SOCAL Scottie had sent the mail with the attachment featuring Ivanka in a circle of global heavyweights, mulling the great troubles that had gathered:

“Amazing video of Ivanka Trump trying to butt in to actual world leaders’ conversation

   Only May would look at the little b_tch, not surprised. Did you know she converted to Judaism to marry Jared? A real thinker! Sickening to watch.”

https://twitter.com/AnandWrites/status/1145165584721731584

Amazing? Yeah, OK. I’ll buy that Scottie. Can’t demure. Opened it immed after brekkie, but luckily the aircon had been blowing a good half hour.

Incredible even. Beyond belief, were it not that we are right slapbang there in the present.

Like the guy rapidly quipped in passing the other morning, — Life, or your stories?… 
Toothless and grinning it was hard to catch; chap had needed to be called back. (Yr a writer, yr always fair game for every Joe and Mohammed around the place.)

Sheer fact she was there, butting in. And then the dress, the hair. Early-mid-30s?

Yeah, the conversion. Were cameras allowed into the synagogue? They’re s’pose be forbidden I think, holy places, tabernacle. Bibby musta pulled some strings for his great friend giving away his daughter that he would date, grab by her p_ssy and f_ck m, if only he could know for certain she was not his own.

Really, you get the point on portrait level? Take a look at Don. Jared. Ivanka. Dressed up public facade when they’ve come down from the tower. Say no more; picture = 1,000 stories.

You thought Puttie wrestling bears & tigers was difficult to GULP swallow? Remember the old dictators who would go on safari and take pics with one foot up on the carcass? Celeb cult. with the election of the TV Pres. has spun it all in another direction far, far off the dial.

NB. The minute or two of the Twitter was worth a look merely to take the proper measure.

2.

At the Saturday breakfast table Ahmad first and then Eric, before Zainuddin arrived in a wonderful camel tunic, with frog buttons. Marvelous cut. From a distance the signature limping/swinging gait & schoolboy head-loll that real Sufis retained in latter years. I’m OK, of course, when the man had pulled up a pew. Not a shadow of doubt the truth spoken for those of us who knew the man. It would always, always be this way for Zainuddin, no matter all the usual worries, narrow personal, and then the whirl. 
         Snowy white goatee grown out in front, shaved above the lip, strands of the brows poking like needles. It had been a great shock given his marching orders from the Rehab. Where in the heck would they ever find someone to replace Zainuddin? Not unlikely all the boys — a couple his senior and numbering over sixty altogether at last count — would all instantly flee the facility the same day, never to return.

         A short sit in the morning. Wife Zaiton, Olive (who bought the shirt) needed to be “fetched” for a visit to Zainuddin’s ninety-seven year old mother, currently staying with a younger brother at Tampines. Later early eve we were to go off together to visit Mu’s daughter for condolences. At the daughter’s there would be a cousin in attendance, as required for a lone woman receiving unrelated male visitors. Surprisingly, Zainuddin had indicated he could not visit if the daughter had been unaccompanied. You would have expected that from a Wahhabi like Ahmad.

NB. A photograph taken couple of months ago at Wadi, while, as it happened, Zainuddin had been in conversation with Mu. (Much more fetching with the upper lip clean.)

Billboard Nation

❤️
I’m
Very
Very
HAPPY
had not put in an appearance here for quite some time. A long while. Faded pink washed out and then the Tropical sun. Legible nevertheless from an aeroplane (as Serb tradesmen used to joke in the negative for any error in their work. Ne vidi se iz aviona). Lady carrying with less than perfect conviction pushing her shopping trolley, a movement of the lips suggesting some preoccupation. Thus far the morning had been less than kind to the old Duck. Not difficult here to guess purchases that have been made by wives, partners & children for loved ones. Anyone with some true, cultivated style of course elected to buy apparel strictly off-shore; elsewhere, anywhere but Sing. (And that might include anything from what passed as boutique outlet on the island.) 

         As it transpired, Teddy Bear guy who fitted the bill happened by shortly after the lady, some kind of illegible screed in this instance below the illustration. Padding along steadily, happy enough in his skin. Uncomplaining; without demur; resigned of course, and no bones about it. 

         (Perhaps the Reader could imagine the logical extension for the politics.)


NB. The plate-collector at Wadi the same morning carried a brand to date not previously sighted. Sweat stained well before noon.