Robert Yeo
Catherine Lim
Shareholder
Teo Ee Sim
Kucinta
Lucy Tan

Leaving Home, Mother

By Robert Yeo

Coming Home, Baby

I
I have come back / I have not returned.
� � � � � �� � � � � � � � � MacArthur returns
� � � � � �� � � � � � � � � The prodigal son returns
� � � � � �� � � � � � � � � Alan Yeo returned
But being just, me,
� � � � � �� � � � � � � Well
� � � � � �� � � � � � � � � I only come back.
� � � � � �� � � � � � � Only the first son
Of a middle-class insurance clerk
Who depended on his salary:
His only source of income.
� � � � � �� � � � � � � In any case, I had to come back.
� � � � � �� � � � � � � Bonded to the Govt. what. Also
� � � � � �� � � � � � � I want to � come back, I mean.
London, yes 2-year scholarship
The only way I could go.
� � � � � �� � � � � � � � � English?
No-o-o! Not this time
Nor this Government. Education.
Not exactly blue-collar, but
More practical, don�t you think?
Winter?
� � � � � �� � � � � � � Cold �
But there are ways of keeping summer,
Especially an English summer.
This is the rugged society, anyway,
And I take it, I can be a member?
� � � � � ���� � � � �� � I know it turned rugged
� � � � � �� � � � � � � � � When I was away �
� � � � � �� � � � � � � � � But I�m back now.
II
Back
� � � �To mother, at fifty looking forty
� � � �And to all at home.
Back
� � � �To my uncle�s eldest
� � � �Boy who does not know
� � � �Why his voice broke.
I soon met my aunts:
� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � ��You have not changed�
Said third aunt, surprised but pleased.
� � � �� � � ��Just the same!�
�Only your hair is longer � like Beatles!�
Agreed first aunt.
� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � ��White only!�
Said second aunt. �But lucky
You have not changed.
I was afraid you would come back
Speaking like a white man
Coming out through the nose �
Or else with a white wife.
Your mother was scared only!�
They�re happy I�ve not changed
My mum�s happy I�ve come back
I�m happy
� � � �� � � �� � � �knowing
� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �� �I have changed.
But otherwise
� � � �� � � �� � things are very much
� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �� � the same.
III
Five years ago
� � � �� � � �� �Along Serangoon Road, Whampoa�s bungalow
Used to peel.
� �� � � �� � � �Ten years ago
In the dining-room behind, probably,
Where the towkay served Admiral Keppel
Complete with chrysanthemum tea
From his Cantonese garden
� �� � � �� � � �My uncle had a dance studio.
When I was away
The last tenants in the room next door
Must have left.
� �� � � �� � � �I wonder
Were they his relatives?
� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �They must have known for sure
� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �When the engineers came
� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �To assemble the bridge
� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �And demolish the bungalow.
� �� � � �� � � �We lacked a cause then.
� �� � � �� � � �Five years ago
� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �We had no history
� � � �� � � �� �And therefore no historical monument
� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �To preserve.
After Whampoa died (according to Song Ong Siang)
The property was sold to Mr Seah Liang Seah
Who named it �Bendemeer�
� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �and after that�
Dust plastering rooms
� � � � � � � �� � � �� � � �Sometimes shrill with crickets.
� �� � � �� � � �Dust from lorries
� �� � � �� � � �That dumped into a new estate.
On this miraculous island
� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �No hill is lost
That is not found elsewhere
� � � �� � � �� � � �� � � �More useful
Than it was.
� � �� � � �Ask Jurong
� � �� � � �Ask Kallang
� � � �� � �Most of all, ask the sea.
�Nothing is new except what is forgotten.�
IV
And this I was not allowed to forget.
Married friends who (though younger than me)
Look so obviously married. Matrimony
Being the even in lives
Of subsequent non-event �
Until the first baby
� � �� �� � �� �� � �� � � & the next.
With baby in arms (her arms, not mine)
And the usual cooing,
� � �� � � �� ��� � � �� � � �Say hello, baby
� � �� ��� �� � �� � � �� � Say hello to Uncle,'
I�d rather not argue. But before I could
Extricate myself from the inevitable,
� � �� �� � �� �� � �� �� � �� �� � �� �� � �it came,
�Are you married?�
� � �� �� � �� �� � �� � � I looked at her squarely
And simply said �Not yet�
� � � � �� � �� �� � �� � �What?� she pretended,
�Who are you waiting for? Miss Singapore, Rosalind Ong, Mavis Young?�
I signed one helleva sigh. This is Singapore, all right.
And how much one year back home
Can do to you. What could I say?
Actually I felt like crying out,
� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �Why should
I be married?�
�� �� � �� � Ooh London was so different. Love
�� �� � �� � Was understood, lust was understood.
� � �� � �� � No pretence. Rationalise the need
�� �� � �� � If one must. They move into a flat
�� �� � �� � Together and the whole year was
�� �� � �� � Summer summer summer summer.
�But at your age?� she insisted.
I was quiet. Actually I wanted to say,
������� ������� �Sometimes I wish I was though. Married, I mean.
������� � �������This state of singleness is easily shaken
������� ������ ��And often is.
� ��� ��� � ������ �� ����All the new nite-spots
������� ������� �Make it less easy & more expensive
������ ������ ���To cope with Saturday nite.
������� ������� �The Pub, Club Crescendo, Shindig�
������� ������� �Not to mention a refurbished Mount Faber.
� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��Aah, rasa sayang indeed.
But when I see, one by one,
Those bright young men of my time
� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��mopped
By Marriage
�� ��� � �� ��for reasons they best don�t know
� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��I hesitate.
Perhaps its best that I remain this way.
I don�t want to be like David
� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��who affirmed
Graduates must marry graduates soon after graduating.
So he said. But I suspect
Those Saturday nite tv movies at Raffles Hall
Plus the proximity of Eusoff College
� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��proved too much for him.
I don�t want to be like Ram either
Who married because his career needed a wife.
Or like Chong who gave in
� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��to please his ageing mother
The dutiful first son that he was.
Or like Latiff who�
������� ������ �Marriage, you great mop
������� ������ �I may be 34 but I�m not yet ready!
������� ������ �But oh hell, ok, if you insist�
� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��� ����I�ll capitulate
� � �� ��� � �� ��� � ��at 35.
V
� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� ��� ���1969
150 years of our past have curved into this sweep.
This year is our divide. We are on a crest
And we celebrate accordingly.
In the year 1969
� � �� ��� � �� ��We realize
We not only have a history like other nations
��� � �� But what�s more
��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� It�s on our side.
In the year 1969
��� � �� ��� � �� We allowed a new road
To pass beside, instead of over
��� � �� ��� � �� The tomb of Tan Tock Seng.
��� � �� In the year 1969
��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� When we discovered
��� � �� Our history, it is disappearing
��� � �� As rapidly as it is being made.
��� � �� Disappearing and developing
��� � �� Singapore and honoured Raffles
��� � �� Impassive in gaze as always.
��� � �� I wonder, is he asking
��� � �� What is the stuff of our history?
Walk along Tiong Bahru Road
On the way to what�s left of Chinatown.
See on one side of the road
Abandoned hovels, collapsing wood, attap and zinc
For single Chinaman
��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� with hearts elsewhere.
On the other side of the road
��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� geometrical steel and concrete
��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� with modern amenities
��� � �� ��� � �� ��� � �� owner multi-storied flats
For Singaporeans
With no national alternatives like before.
This is part of our history.
And there on the left of Outram Road
Restored on the hillside
The granite grave
Of the man
Who gave his name to a hospital.
First monuments/then people.
Priorities begin to emerge
As we decide our past.
Allow people with their deeds
To fall in. And then
See who will stand out
Deserving of more than
The names they have left
To road, bridges or buildings.
one side of the seventies
Hosted by www.Geocities.ws

1