Elisha Kamarul Shahrin

.

Amidst your mother’s anguish and pain,
and amidst the mid-morning rain,
sharp of nose with smiling lips, legs long and skin so fine
you cried twice
and opened your eyes

Reposing from an arduous journey and breathing softly
you looked at me briefly
turning for a moment
to see your mother after her torment

Beside your mother, I remember you in your little bed
Frocked in white from toe to head
in deep slumber, you frowned as I touched your nose
but remained in repose

Or the fleeting image of you naked and crying
and I, sitting in a corner
as your mother and her mother
cleaned and garbed you in your first new garment

Or while you lay amidst the contraptions
of science, of beeps and tubes, through night and day
amidst the hardship of the sickness you endure,
you opened your eyes to see your mother
amidst the battle of life, you uttered a whisper
to greet your father

My prayers were fervent, for an intercession
from the Book and the Messenger, putting my life as payment
But He yet came ever nearer
with His Love much dearer and His Mercy much greater

Amidst the throng of souls, I beheld your lifeless form in the hall,
again in white and that nonchalant smile
my heart broke and on my knees, I fell
and through clouded eyes, I remember your face and the peace it tells

Cradled in my arms, we drove and were for a while, solitary
within a vehicular procession to that location
of rest and repository
of faded greenery, of sepulchral mounds, of names on stones

Again and again I can see you there
down to the last timber
tranquil and peaceful, lying in the moist crimson earth
eyes closed, oblivious

Prayers being said, prayers are inadequate
to comfort the sadness which stayed
many people with many words being said,
however comforting, remain unheard

Images of you have been brief and intermittent
like photographs in a lean book, remaining unconnected
pages open and close, unfettered
for days on end, keeping alive that adverse matrimony
of miracle and calamity.

by Kamarul Shahrin

(Elisha was born on August 31. She left on September 4 but for every August of every year after that, I cannot forget that day)

No estas solo Michael Jackson

Like old paint that comes off the wall,
his life only appears to end, but then, it is nothing but only a short fall
of a leaf into the breeze
like a sailboat in the sea
lifted and raised and twirled about
until he reaches the clouds.

As he loses himself, he becomes stronger.
As he changes into a mere reflection in the mirror
He becomes even more visible
and more tangible
As he gradually loses his thoughts and his identity,
he becomes even more manifest, more real
getting really capable
of healing the world.

He gently threads the middle line
of the Yin and Yang
He still lives in his music, with his songs
He lives on
between good and bad
between shadow and light
between black and white
In between letters, here and there, everywhere
He will be there.

He now threads between the mirror and the man
He threads in between pairs of opposites
but for this earth, he will now see nothing but only the debris
that was before, only dirt, greed and hubris
Who is it that has said he was a psycho
Using words of perdition, pelting him with words of accusation
as for them, their fame is short-lived and they will still die alone
and unremembered, dust on the floor

Although he no longer exists
his life actually commences
One day in your life that you think of him will be his eternity
There is no need to say it, he too can never can say goodbye
In the normal sort of style,
He is not alone, and remember, you are not alone
the love you save, for him
Will last forever
In the end, all of us will still come together
para siempre.

(Inspired by the song "You are not alone")
By Kamarul Shahrin June 27, 2009

Poetry for the Living

Life is like that old swing under a shady tree
facing the sea
saddled on twisted weather-beaten cords in rough tethers,
seemingly adrift,
Of course, life can also be another matter
and another and then, another
but still, Life is volatile and changeable, with little to offer
but just shifting gestures
of circumstances.

Life is that which sways, but only shifts within predictable constraints
Life is like that, just a plank of aging wood,
hanging on two ropes, splayed,
discordant but also delicate
seemingly a cradle, seemingly a place of origin
But life is also a fantasy, as if there is no domain,
under.

But we hang on, with the breeze in our faces
hearing only the sounds of waves.
Not seeing our origin, not seeing our beginnings
but only perceiving what had been
It is only that when we founder,
we quaver,
that we realise there is, after all,
a place, firm and strong,
like fine sand on another shore.


Kamarul Shahrin July 24, 2007

There used to be a time

.

There used to be a time when smiles were spontaneous and thoughts were clear
There used to be a time when poverty brought one another together
and there was only one colour

There used to be a time when love was life and life was love
There used to be a time when life was just about food and play
and friends would be here to stay

a time when work was a pleasure and the pleasure was in the work
a time when music was the breath which moved one’s being
and lyrics were never for understanding, but only for singing

There used to be a time when actions were made without motives
and the actions of others were not pleated with doubts.
There used to be a time when there were not three but one,
the mind, body and soul combined.

And now what is left, is some oblivion and pieces of coherence,
everything that is perceived through innovation
of the mind and body
has now left, leaving a kernel
which only blinks and breathe and move a little.

Subang Jaya May 2005