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	<title>s/pores &#187; poetry &amp; prose</title>
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	<description>new directions in singapore studies</description>
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		<title>Trial and Error in Malayan Poetry</title>
		<link>http://s-pores.com/2008/01/malayanpoetry/</link>
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		<pubDate>Wed, 09 Jan 2008 20:04:04 +0000</pubDate>
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				<category><![CDATA[2 archives & memory]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[literature]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[poetry & prose]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[postcolonial]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://s-pores.com/?p=145</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Wang Gungwu
From The Malayan Undergrad, Vol 9 No 5 July 1958

When I was a schoolboy a little more than ten years ago, no one talked of such a thing as Malayan poetry.  It was not even known if there was any poetry written by people who lived in Malaya.
For myself, poetry was something written [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Three Faces of Night</title>
		<link>http://s-pores.com/2008/01/threefaces/</link>
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		<pubDate>Wed, 09 Jan 2008 20:00:46 +0000</pubDate>
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		<category><![CDATA[poetry & prose]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://s-pores.com/?p=141</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Wang Gungwu

Quavers quiver along the violin strings
And fingers grasp the: whale-skin threads,
Trace the image of hallowed things.
Hark the bass dum dum
Followed by the swish swish feet;
And the talking jerky with the swinging beat.
Saxon cut and Mongol shape
Dravidian red
Flows as the bandsters ape.
The Swiss wheels move to a tired midnight
The fans whirl warily in the lights,
And [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Moon Thoughts</title>
		<link>http://s-pores.com/2008/01/moonthoughts/</link>
		<comments>http://s-pores.com/2008/01/moonthoughts/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 09 Jan 2008 19:56:51 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>s/pores</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[2 archives & memory]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[poetry & prose]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://s-pores.com/?p=138</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Wang Gungwu

The moon, impure as ever, like tea-leaves,
Coffee dregs, on a cup of cream, cleaves
On to drooping leaves of rubber trees,
Scatters bright thieves to steal the keys
That open to mem&#8217;ries of home.
Distracted, home seems distant, fades
Into the light of nascent night, the same
That shone on ancient heroes born.
Thought loiters among glorious shades,
And martyrs and lovers, [...]]]></description>
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