I work for the rights of the dead

My letter to Malaysiakini titled I work for the rights for the dead published yesterday is dedicated to a brave compassionate professional Dr Pornthip Rojanasunand

********

You see only a very dead man
Just a clammy lifeless corpse
Perhaps decomposing badly
To return home to Mother Nature

But I see in him a devoted son,
A dear brother, loving husband
We’re definitely different, ‘coz
I work for the rights of the dead

You claim he had given all up
Absconding from his life duties
Now lying on a cold marble slab
Body broken up in your eyes

But his scars confides to me
He went not of his own volition
His sad face tells me a story, ‘coz
I work for the rights of the dead

You avoid touching his cold hands
And cringe at the sight of him
A gruesome inconvenience for you
Just another statistic to file away

However I sense a glow still in him
The love of a man, the joyful pride
Of a father to be, I know these ‘coz
I work for the rights of the dead

His opaque glassy eyes terrify you
You look over your shoulders
At midnight you cower in groups
Fearing the ghost from your guilt

I feel his body and he whispers
To me pleas to tell the whole truth
Of his life stolen away, I will ‘coz
I work for the rights of the dead

********

Teoh Beng Hock - killed at MACC Head Office

Remembering Teoh Beng Hock

The next day I was to wed my love
She would have taken up my name
But some said the Immortals above
Like Fate, would play a cruel game

I was called in as a so-called witness
To come up with required evidence
'They' gave me dozen hours of stress
To support their pre-determinations

Oh, didn't I mention my wedding
When friends'd celebrate with me?
Alas, that did not come to being
Why so? Ask that Am-ay cee cee

'They' said I was one who’d loiter
And nap to soothe my sleepy eye
So as to feel fresh to reconnoiter
For a nice spot to takeoff and fly

In 7 months I was to have a baby
How proud I’d be as a new father
Waiting, thanks to Am-ay cee cee,
On the other side of the Styx river

‘They’ now add insults to injury
Claiming I had Triad association
A red herring to deflect query
Of my death and their connection

Just their leitmotif, it's not new
Unbridled power, their slogan
Unaccountability is their cue
Don’t believe me? Ask Kugan

Did you see the tears of my father
And also those of my bride to be
They both seek a simple answer
From a very silent Am-ay cee cee


On 18 July 2009 I posted this in my other blog KTemoc Konsiders as Mysterious death of Teoh Beng Hock - a voice from beyond.

False prophets of Kampung Buah Pala

The court has passed the death sentence
On High Chaparral, the village of Buah Pala
Signalling the final chapter of a resistance
That was further weakened by bull charisma

The villagers mortally wounded long ago
Were ill served by the new false prophets
Misleading the residents from woe to woe
Treating innocent hopefuls as mere puppets

Once where real cow poo fertilize the land
Sheer utter bull now corrupts the pristine air
Confusing the villagers with sleight of hand
By their exploitative braggadocio and dare

Resist, hold fast, give way not a millimeter
From way behind they shouted ferociously
We’re sure to win, but comes September
Those ‘brave’ voices will just be a memory


See Malaysiakini - Federal Court strikes out Buah Pala residents' application

Jeanne d’Arc & Jailani d’Azalina

Jeanne d’Arc, then just 19
Fought for God and country
They burnt her at the stake
T’was a Christian thing to do

Initially disowned, a heretic?
Then heroine, a sweet saint
Ha, a useful name for pollies
To brandish for patriotic votes

She fought for her liege King
but who abandoned the Maid
To those English from beyond
Oh, shameful disloyal royalty

Jailani d’Azalina, at sweet 26
Saw God in a wrong country
Wanna burn her at the stake?
Just the fate for an apostate

Initially embraced, a heroine
A sweet 'saint' of Christianity
Crusaders fought for the Maid
To the last drop of her blood

But she was soon abandoned
Along the path of expediency
Her usefulness now hudud-ised
No more memory of Lina Joy

Related:
(1) Kuala Terengganu - politics & strange bedfellows
(2) Lina Joy - Victim of religion or Votive offering to religion?

Shearing my ruffled hair

She ran her fingers through my hair
Then ruffled them affectionately
But it was my heart that was tousled
My yang and yin in dynamic turmoil
But only for a second or two, sigh,
Caught by such delightful surprise
Awakening in me something strange
That I hadn’t felt for a long long time

But now, such sweetness has gone
No more will I thrill to her soft touch
To be enthralled by the endearment
My hair rendered utterly irrelevant
Should be shorn off like Samson’s
And like the biblical judge, my hope
Enervated, just my karmic outcome
I am all alone as I have once been

Dew drop

Twinkling
In dawn's glow
On a leaf
A dew drop

A tear
From an angel?
Or a pearl
Of promise?

3 hours away

3 hours
Between Heaven and Earth
A mere 1/8 of a day
To touch an angel
And hear her sing sweetly
A heavenly melody
Of blissful love
For me

3 hours
Separate me from Nirvana
Where a goddess
Awaits mortal me
To gaze seductively
With angel eyes
Full of unspoken promises
A rapturous destiny

3 hours
Spans Paradise from reality
Just a redolent nebulous
Whisper away
Where I could attain
My dreams’ desire
Of amaranthine
Sweet love

3 hours
Still frustratingly deny me
Eden’s warm embrace
For the hands of both clocks
Move in tandem
To shackle me
In Plutonian purgatory
From her

Symbiotic sufferings

When she fasts, I starve miserably
Denied love, deprived of affection
Struggling in vain to sustain my soul
With a meaningless purpose in life

When she vanishes I become blind
No longer aware of the universe
Isolated in a perpetual darkness
Terrified by her absence, a void

When she stays silent I’m a mute
Unable to cry out my loneliness
Speechless in vacuum of no hope
None heard my cries of sorrow

When she rolls her angelic eyes
My heart flips into toppled state
Like a useless 3-axes gyroscope
Utter directionless disorientation

Humbug mathematics

Change change change
The mob cheered, spurred on by their proclaimed reformasi

Roused by incited fervour
In chucking out the bathwater they threw away the poor baby

Burning with opiate rage
Befuddled, besotted, bewitched by the hypnotizing siren call

The ugly crowd ignored
Having a hard look at themselves in the mirror on the wall

In pompous self righteousness
Exempting themselves through pseudological propaganda

From all rules, proof and ethics
Forgetting what’s good for goosey should be good for gander

Their democracy is a poker game
Upping the ante with bluff, bluster and bamboozling antics

Where 82 is somehow greater than 138
Spinning out a new doctoral thesis on humbug mathematics

50% wishful hope, 50% hopeful wish
And another 31%, 31 parts, 31 tonnes, just 31 of anything

Why not 31 plastic Taiwanese frogs
To realize their dreams of making 4-face Brahma the King

De facto, De ceitful, De vious
His ‘Majesty’ demands democracy must close one bloody eye

The end justifies the means
16 Sep, 23rd, Hari Raya, Christmas, New Year, man man lai

The Pure One

In a quiet lush verdant valley
Where thousand year trees
Reach up to the blue sky
In pure adoration of the sun

Mauve coloured wild orchids
Festoon Nature’s arboretum
Enticing dainty butterflies
To sample their sweet wares

The jasmine blooms battle
Against yellow frangipanis
A war of perfumed fragrance
For affection of honeybees

Thrilling shrill cries of orioles
Mingle with those of doves
While swallows and lyrebirds
Twitter to sweet symphony

Through this valley paradise
The river of silver meanders
Slowly, majestically it ambles
Past banks of bougainvilleas

And there at the bend I see
What I’ve been searching for
The temple on a lonely hill
Aloof in its eternal vigilance

I labour up to the very top
Walking ten thousand steps
To knell at its golden door
And await the High Priestess

She is the Oracle I seek
Sweet Music be her name
The Pure One reigns alone
In the Valley of the Lilies

You have gone from us

Imagine the sun disappearing
Behind the highest mountain
Visualize utter darkness fallen
Upon a cold cold bleakness

You have gone from us

Like rain, tears gush without let
We hear only the howling wind
In the dark void of empty space
Barren of laughter, smile & joy

You have gone from us

Now a traveller through time
In the endless sea of Samsara
Never ever again to return
Never to give us your laughter

You have gone from us

‘Tis the fate for us, everyone
But why must you depart first
Leaving your parents behind
Perpetual tears in their hearts

You have gone from us

… forever

Murdering Altantuyaa Shaariibuu Again

As I journey through the darkness of cold oblivion
Borne on the back of Shava to meet his master
Assigned to Samsara by cruel nefarious forces
Which ended my karmic forces violently, abruptly

In my odyssey, wandering by the woeful Acheron
Was there a time when I had felt soothing voices
To comfort me amidst my lonely pains and fears
Yes I do, only from the One who is fragrant Pure

But the loudest noises are they calling for ‘justice’
Though, I smile cynically, ‘twas not meant for me
Their shrill proclamations & belated outrage (sigh)
Startled even great Gujir Tngri and the 77 siqar

Grandstanding acrobatics, their excuse to dispense
With all norms, purportedly all for me (wry smile)
I must confess I view with scepticism and distaste
As I would professional chest-pounding mourners

Gnashing Colgate mint-flavoured peroxide-d teeth
Wretchedly wringing manicured Ulan oiled hands
Shedding date-expired plastic bags of lo-salt tears
Proclaiming to be 11th hour paragons of ‘justice’

Even Ataya Tngri rolled his ancient eyes upwards
While Emegelji Eji cackled with caustic laughter
The ancient pair could see abacus shaped hearts
Clicking furiously and shaming Casio calculators

By sheer speed of their computation of advantage
What to extract, exploit, extricate from my name
Squeezing the very last speck of desiccated blood
From my hyper cold shattered fragments of bones

Eager hands raided the ossuary for me to be laid
As stepping stones for the progress of a demigod
On Ardha-Matanga, 4 tasks & seven white trunks
Saluting Brahma, walking to Amarawati by a lake

As the pseudo-pious pirouetting pachyderm crushes
What little good left of my name, what trust exists
In my family’s hope for requital of my cruel murder
I realize those raucous battle cries were not for me

Summoned by conjured justice to now serve Fenrir
To break asunder Gleipnir but only with my death
Re-evoked, for my soul to be murdered a 2nd time
To satiate the burning thirst of Angrboda’s 1st child


Related:
Remembering Altantuyaa Shaariibuu

25 November 2007

Malaysiakini photo

Just last week, I happened to be in a bank when the windscreen of a car parked outside was smashed. When a man rushed in to report it to the security guards, the same question came out of the mouths of several people: Orang India ke?

No one squirmed at hearing this, and I was furious. Since when has racial profiling in crime become acceptable? It may be common in other countries too, but it is perhaps at its ugliest in Malaysia. We live in a land where the ruling coalition is constantly seeking to cripple our ability to think. Come across any problem? Just race-stereotype it and all the real causes vanish.

- Josh Hong, columnist for Malaysiakini in his article Indian revolt: The morning after


I walked on 25 November 2007
In the man-made acid showers
Which burnt my skin and those
Of my brothers and sisters too
But the chemically poisoned rain
Could not burnt away the tears
That’s in our hearts for 50 years
But merely fertilised our resolve

Through the thick fog of tear gas
We held our hands together and
Marched on to tell the world of
An unjust economic caste system
That places us at the very bottom
As menial pariahs, harijans, dalits
Oh, don’t be shy, take your pick
Any, each would still read our lot

Just like a fusion bomb, our ‘H’
Gave a mega blast to hitherto
Silent acquiescence and equally
Silent dismissal of our cries for
Help against cold cruel inequality
Are we nothing more than serfs
Slaves, sherpas to failed Hillary’s
Or as prêt-à-porter criminals?

The explosion of our H-synergy
Tore away masks of hypocrisy
Ripping to shreds the snow white
Fleece of ethnic wolves, howling
At black sheep not cukup Bersih
Not even of de facto human status
To merit the march in messianic
Footsteps to the Arc de Triomphe

Remembering Preeshena Varshiny

Star Online photo

Hah, we are made in God’s image
Then, we’re all but God’s creation
So we have been told by the sage
In each and every wise generation

I’m the late Preeshena Varshiny
I suppose I am God’s creature
Who’s now gone to the Almighty
After my cruel death thro’ murder

Did someone miss telling the killer
Before he perpetrated evil on me
That we’re endowed with the nature
Of God’s love, compassion, charity

So was I life’s typo for back space?
Too late, too late I am forever gone
Not a breath left, not a single trace
In my young cold body lying forlorn

I was only nine years old, yet to be
Ten, eleven and of more warm years
How’d I have known of such cruelty
Flooding my family’s life with tears

So pray, no, not for unfortunate me
Please do pray for my dearest family
As they cried over my wee cold body
They’ll ask how this has come to be

Winter

One morning green buds peek out shyly
to see if they were too early for Spring,
but on noticing the neighbouring trees
were festooned with white, crimson and
pink blooms, burst forth with impatience,
understandably so after a long slumber
through a cold dark spell of suppression;
'tis time for renewal, 'tis time for new life,
each bud competing with its awoken sibling
to dress the tree with cool green leaves
in a verdant dance with the cool breeze
of the new season, drawing bees, birds
and butterflies, with their buzzing, trilling
and dainty flutter to the cherry blossoms

Yet in all these, Spring's wondrous glory,
I hesitate to rejoice, and for a moment
remember Winter's cold bold ambition,
its show of strength in naked branches
stretching out to the grey sky up above
while crystal clear icicles hang, dripping
threatening, yet pristinely pure, all shorn
of hypocrisy, unsullied, no coyish evasion;
sanitizing the land with a white virgin cloak
it signals its haughty intent to dominate
soon again; I thought of its freezing days
and strangely I yearn for the dignity of the
solitude, asceticism, and uncompromising
tenacity and peace that Winter gives me

Remembering Nurin Jazlin Jazimin

Malaysiakini photo - Nurin Jazlin Jazimin

I am only eight years old
Just five years from my teens
Which I will now never see
And it’s more than just that
For I won’t see too the sun
Nor the moon nor the rain
Nor feel the soft pitter patter
Of warm raindrops gathering
In my tresses, running gently
Down to my once warm body

I am only eight years old
Denied my youth, cut down
With no dignity, with no one
I love besides me, to hold me
As I trembled from violence
Inexplicable cruelty, no pity
No chance to say goodbye
To emak and ayah and pals
Why, no one can tell me now
Too late, I am part of the dark

I am only eight years old
Will you remember me as
You'd Altantuyaa Shaariibuu
Not a glamorous beauty
No high profile case in me
Just a neighbourhood kid
I have never been abroad
To France or European cities
Just local Wangsa Maju
An innocent child, no more

I am only eight years old
So why do they say it’s all
God’s Will, dear wonderful
God who loves us all, why
Blame Him, for it was Evil
Who stalked me as a prey
Be like the Chinese and bury
Me in red clothing, armed
With scissors in my hands
To set me off as Rhamnousia

Where fragrant nutmegs grow

... inspired by a malaysiakini article titled 150-year-old village loses out to development ... it's also the story of David Brown

Gratefully he gave land to build a temple
For Chor Soo Kong, He who had appeared
In his dreams, having cured him of an ill;
So was raised Penang's Temple of Snakes

Now the Temple survives, barely, as snakes
Gave way to highways and the diesel trucks,
Big motorcycles of shattering decibels; their
Noxious fumes replace jasmine scented joss

He was a generous man, was David Brown,
Bestowing upon the people of the Island too
Land for games, frolics and evening strolls;
That’s the Padang in Jalan Dato Keramat

Now, unfinished laksa soup & lok-lok sauce
Poison the Padang with pollutants of spices,
Turning green lawns into dry brown patches
And his name passes unrecognised by most











Then there is Kampung Buah Pala, where
Gorgeous 20-metre high Myrista frangrans
Shade a 150-year old village in tranquillity
Where fragrant nutmegs would easily grow

A land bestowed by Brown to the Tamils
A gift for their toil, tears, sweat & hopes
For them to raise tambis and tangachis
Sweet youth with smiling dark doe eyes

Thaipusam with annual firewalks of piety
Deevapali where light triumphed over evil
Technicolour saris, luscious curries, apom’s
Not forgetting murukku's of myriad spices

All these marvels of Hindu Tamil culture
Will soon be gone, vanquished, stolen by
Avarice, an insult to David Brown’s legacy
An affront to lovers of heritage & decency

30 days

30 days has since gone by, sometime ago
Millions of new lives have since joined us
While millions more have perished too
30 days of cold, silent, lonely emptiness

30 days a moon would circle Earth once
Many a tide rises and ebbs, many a shore
Sees billion grains of golden sand shifted
30 days of pounding, roaring, nothingness

30 days are what a woman needs to renew
A cycle as mysterious as time, which Eve
First knew of God’s harsh reproof, akin to
30 days I've lived too in my own purgatory

30 days give a long time in hell to reflect
On what might have been if mere words
Could be edited prior to angry outpouring
30 days to wonder why it could not be so

30 days of painful withdrawal symptoms
That hurt so badly in more than 30 ways
Missing someone special, giving one only
30 days of escalating excruciating agony

30 days make 1 month of an annual dozen
Soon it will be 300, 3000 days before long
No, time doesn't care it was only yesterday
30 days sweet love existed in each month

Friendship

Friendship should be more
Than just a fragrant bloom
Glorious only for a while
Its fragrance soon a memory
And when the flower fades
Dispersing its fallen petals
Blown astray by nothing
More than a gentle breeze

A friendship should be
Like the sturdy Angsana
That lines Scotland Road
Deep rooted and steady
Holding fast its own self
Even in strongest storms
Anchored by affection
And deepest sincerity

I like ours to be like that
Yes, storms may break
The odd branch or two
But I know true bonds
Will hold our friendship
Steadfast as an Angsana
Allowing renewed growth
To continue in strength

Life & Friendship

Life is kinda farnee
Bright one day like
A veli veli shiny
Polished mirror
Tho’ tomollow may c
Greasy thumbprints
Onli to be wiped away
As useless graffiti

Life is only what
We make of it
Yar lor, seeing
Thro’, haiyo,
New challenges
New dee-lek-siun
Some lousy lows
But best with pals

Life can be veli cruel
Inexplicable moody
As a quirky tempest
Smashing to bits
Painstakingly erected
Foundations & truss
Of friendship, alas
No further use liao

Life is best when
You feel so sian one
A pengyu is by thee
Like a mountain
Unmoved by tsunami
Of vogue-ish whims
Then no nid 4 soli lor
Just nighty nite nite