john tiong chunghoo

Gold Star - 5,668 Points (Jan 21,1960 / Sibu, Sarawak, Borneo East Malaysia)

Along The Field As We Came By - Poem by john tiong chunghoo

where i lived as a child
a little jungle thrived
opposite our row of
wooden houses
migrant houses
built just to live
with bare necessities
the beds, tables and chairs
mom's wedding presents
the only decor in the rooms
the few toys we begged
from dad and mom
strewn across the floor
the verandah sometimes
ended up on the shelf
oddly they sat to brighten up
our house
and over the jungle
a hive of activities
kept our days occupied
we had run to capture poor dragonflies
in such rich hue of red
we caught them to devour
each other up
planting their tails onto
each other's mouth
up on the tree one day
a heron appeared
so white and graceful it looked
to this day, it remained in my mind
lucky little heron that took up a space
in my memory giving my middle age heart
a young jolt each time i recollect the scene
the smell of rubber, latex, torn leaves
lingers too in the memory
those times that we braved ourselves
to walk through the patch of jungle
breaking little trunks and tearing leaves
oh lord, we were naughty
naughty little tarzans
till one day somebody decided
to build houses over the patch
two storey houses with stars
for their long balconies
mom and dad decided to move
into one of the upper units
and there we embarked on
another dream....of stars
we went to school
we went to so many places
but the little patch of jungle
still thrives in our mind
the smell of rubber and torn leaves
so fresh on the nostrill

inspired by

Along the field as we came by
ALONG the field as we came by
A year ago, my love and I,
The aspen over stile and stone
Was talking to itself alone.
‘Oh who are these that kiss and pass?
A country lover and his lass;
Two lovers looking to be wed;
And time shall put them both to bed,
But she shall lie with earth above,
And he beside another love.’
And sure enough beneath the tree
There walks another love with me,
And overhead the aspen heaves
Its rainy-sounding silver leaves;
And I spell nothing in their stir,
But now perhaps they speak to her,
And plain for her to understand
They talk about a time at hand
When I shall sleep with clover clad,
And she beside another lad.
Alfred Edward Housman


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, July 6, 2005

Poem Edited: Wednesday, July 6, 2005


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