The Viewing Party

By Yong Shu Hoong

Singapore Literature Prize winner Yong Shu Hoong’s latest book features more than just poetry. There is also a ghostly tale at its core, complete with prose poems and micro fiction of exactly 100 words each, as well as annotated excerpts from an abandoned work.

In this viewing party, readers are invited to take a peek into the domain of death and cinema. You are part of a mob of dispassionate onlookers. Sometimes, you get to play the voyeuristic judge.

Winner of the 2014 Singapore Literature Prize for English Poetry

“There’s a warm easiness to Yong’s voice that’s balanced by a sharpness of insight. He cuts through the layers of familial and social habit to the unseen images and urges that give the mundane the sheen of the numinous. If the book is a viewing party, Yong is a genial and attentive host, inviting us in to absorbing scenes of everyday curiosity and surprise.”
-Jen Crawford, Assistant Professor and Coordinator of Creative Writing Programme at Nanyang Technological University, Singapore

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ethos Books
• Release date: Jul 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9789811426216

Book preview

DRAGONFLIES

For Yong Kuan Sam

1.

For all I know, this may well be

the season for dragonflies. But

strange that one would perch

so motionlessly upon the ceiling

(for seven consecutive nights

after Grandfather died), right

above the coffin – the better

to keep a bug-eye over the parade

of condolences-givers. Or that

envelope on the mantelpiece

lightly clutching the wad of money,

white-gold for the newly deported.

The wings do not flutter, just as

lashes stay unwavering on dry lids.

2.

Certain things I do not dwell upon –

like the question of hell or purgatory.

I imagine instead a sense of

reprieve, the flicking of a light-switch

to put on darkness and the catalogue

of dream songs, to be followed soon

by Grandfather’s rhythmic patting

of my shoulder to inch me into sleep.

Were the strokes in time with seconds

ticking or the murmurs of my heart?

Too late for speculation now, I’ve only

succeeded in scaring myself thinking

an invisible hand would land. But

mostly I’m afraid to have to find my way

back to that boy not yet weaned

from bedtime stories and mosquito coils.

3.

Uncle claims that Grandfather had turned over

a new leaf, just prior to his death, and given up smoking.

So there’s no need to toss cigarettes into the coffin –

even though there are packs remaining. No, the dead

do not need temptation for company, perhaps just

a new pair of glasses to keep the scenery in focus.

Still it’s funny how I’d learned one day about the evils

of smoking in school, then thought of persuading

Grandfather to quit – except that no words came

and I turned and left his room, lived with the guilt

for years till I forgot, but still remember that his

Dunhill boxes are maroon emblazoned with gold.

4.

On the first night of the funeral wake

we couldn’t identify the perfume

that followed us into the car.

Took me days to realise it’s smoke

from the incense – how it holds fast,

not letting go of our sleeves.

5.

The morning after Grandfather’s passing:

I wake at 5am and cannot return

to sleep. I think, something’s stuck

in my stomach. Then weep, surprised,

when I hear a U2 song I’d put on

wafting through the room. Tears spill

like warm milk on the back of my hand

and, in a little while, disappear.

6.

So we really like the colour of the wood.

Or pause to marvel at the pearl lodged

between Grandfather’s lips – supposedly

to illuminate footpaths in the netherworld.

I peer at the clean, pressed shirt and wonder:

Is this the same one he wore to my brother’s wedding?

Then exclaim his hair hasn’t turned all-white or fallen out –

in joyful premonition on my generation’s behalf.

Red candles burn, as we celebrate

the passing of Grandfather at a ripened age:

92 years, and sufficient months to surpass

even his own mother’s longevity. But

Does it matter? Death comes

and we go. If we imagine it mechanical,

no tears would be required at this funeral.

Still I regret I couldn’t wring out more woe

As if there should be only one prescribed response

for a filial grandson: A raging sadness enough

to rattle the petals off the wreaths. Not ambling

after the departing cortege on steady feet.

7.

Auntie thinks Grandfather is impatient –

since the dragonfly has level wingspan

and can fly swifter. In the viewing gallery

of the crematorium, we see dragonflies

hovering and once again attach symbolism.

Just as we might imagine a plane nose-lifting

while the coffin is floating towards the door.

8.

Grandfather’s walking stick

(the one I’d bought him)

leans