Phedra

By Euginia Tan

Phedra is a poetry collection of re-interpreted mythology – with an emphasis on female identity – which delves into the juxtaposition of idolatry and banality.

I heard her name
and that was all I needed

I heard her name
and rivers formed

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ethos Books
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9789811412134

Book preview

i   a livelihood

there are secret people living in caves

who feed on the sweat of the sea.

they very rarely bleed

like you and me.

while they carve crosses

from rocks made out of moss

my pen runs out of ink.

i am as un-invincible as i seem.

they grin at me with missing teeth,

so i become too wary even as

lone shooting stars whizz past.

confusing these with stolen fool’s gold

glinting beneath the dark.

ii   a pearl in her mouth

She died a year shy of a hundred.

In my coarse mourning clothes

I stood, watching her rest restlessly

Unpacified by her newfound status

As corpse.

I remember very little of her, living

Or otherwise. But still I was appalled at her

Drawn face, her artificially made up features

Waxy like false fruit on display. Who am I looking at?

I asked myself. Then, how could I forget?

A lone pearl perched atop her wrinkled lips,

Meant to guide her safe into the afterlife.

Somewhere that would prove less merciful than

Strangers at your funeral, people that were a part of

Her lineage, whom she hardly saw at old age.

Somewhere more ruthless still. Where your name wouldn’t matter,

Much less what you did in life. Who you touched.

Who you gave supposed love to. I hoped she could cope.

I cried a little during the eulogy. Enough to grieve,

To mope. I doubt she would care, even if she was aware.

iii   achilles

in my old cartoons

tom never catches jerry.

it was fun watching rodent

outsmart feline, seeing

david bully goliath is surely

more entertaining than

instant noodle defeat.

i had a little pink bowl

about the size of

a grandfather clock face,

inside, corn stars coated with

scotch tape sticky sweetness

i would gingerly put into my mouth

and each time jerry won

i would laugh and feel

the cereal birth more

milky ways in my baby cavities.

when you won

i cried like rivers of ink

from pulped libraries.

i thought i was small,

lightweight, like a mouse comet

dashing through clumsy cat space.

i think of you like

angels playing bad harp,

snacks i don’t throw out because

they’ve expired, in the fridge

(so they must still be edible).

achilles might have a heel

but turns out his nose was perfect.

iv   am i prey

i wish to be the thrower of the pebble

that skims the water, and not the

disposable stone

to be the hand that ruthlessly flings

the fragile vase, and not the

shattered vessel.

i wish that i were not so small

when pillars past the