In the minutes tumbling down to showtime or a fight, the reader and the fighter are at once vulnerable and strong. The likelihood of a letdown, a knockout, trembles in the wings—doubt flickers like a naked bulb swinging from the ceiling, slinging shadows on the walls. Yet these thoughts are garbed in iron-clad resolve; even if the performance misses the mark, the reading, the fight must go on. The reader becomes the reading, the fighter the fight. Having reached the impossibility of retreat, the body obeys the chest and moves one leg forward like a pawn. A bell dings in the head; the first word of my poem jabs the silent air. Purple prose aside, I was commissioned by Poetry Festival Singapore to create an ekphrastic poem for their Living Galleries event. My piece, "Stormbound", was written in response to one of Lim Cheng Hoe's paintings, currently on exhibition at the National Gallery Singapore. I don't know about you, but I've always thought of galleries as funereal spaces where no one uttered a sound. The rebel in me relished the prospect of reading a poem aloud in such a space today, though to claim my voice a victory over establishment and its rules smacks of childishness, overstatement and hyperbole. Many thanks to the organisers, though, for this lovely poetic outing! This is the painting in question: And here is the poem:
Stormbound based on The Estuary, a painting by Lim Cheng Hoe To write about you I must have observed your confidence and verve a million times from afar (actually, it’s much lesser than that), the same way a concert-goer watches a performer on stage. My eyes sweep across your body of work, squinting to see what marvels reside in that palette of yours. Like the sampan in the estuary I too am moored to this moment by an approaching storm hanging on the gallery wall. You have captured the clouds and passed them off as gently drifting smoke. Yet there is no smoke without fire; somewhere beyond the grey horizon, a flame burns bright from your brush. Ashes bleed across a framed sky. The air is anything but plein. Behind me, a docent explains the mastery of your style. She mentions many things, but all I see is a tempest no colour can contain. To write about you I realise I must brace myself for rain.
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