Category Archives: poetry

The unattainable justice

THE UNATTAINABLE JUSTICE

It all started with a dream,
A dream that was taken away,
Away from the expectations that it will fail,
Failure that I now want to break away,
Thinkin’ that justice is not easy, there is a cost to pay
So, at this time, hope is not a good place to stay,
I just want to run away
Leaving my homeland behind
To a country that I was blind
The place that I have known for possibilities
Turned out to be my land of turmoil
and bitterness
How unfortunate I am to be trapped in a misery
of a foreign land
Justice, where are you?
Are you still yet to be found?
Just like the dusk, nearing
the night where the darkness
Starts swallowing my heart and
my dreams shattered,
broken pieces scattered around
Like a flower that blossoms at spring season,
fragrant, thriving in beauty
But when the violent monsoon comes,
They languish, it falls off and the beauty is
destroyed
Life is full of surprises and uncertainties
As much as I wanted to go
through the streams of possibilities
Pain and suffering are toppling me down,
They are the inevitable tidal waves
of after quakes
I am intimidated
Causing me not to swim around
Because my life is like a boat
That is directed by a rudder
that when it breaks and it snaps,
Life will be lost, I don’t know where to go,
Nowhere else to be found
For all I wanted to be is to fulfill
my dreams and change my destiny
Leaving oppression behind, give a
good life to my family,
And kiss goodbye to poverty
But seems like lady luck
is not smiling at me,
For the justice that I simply wanna see,
To triumph over an instance
of mistaken identity is far beyond reach,
I am now in the state of apathy
So, help me God,
You are the Only Reason I see,
To hold on to this land,
To be the justice in every plea,
The Hope to every misery,
My Freedom and My Victory

 

By Emmy Flores

Emmy has been staying at HOME shelter for some time whilst her case is being investigated. She volunteers at the shelter and showcases her many talents in different ways. Recently she was part of an for migrant workers. 

 

 

 

 

 

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Here I am

Here I am

 

In your Eyes

I am your slave.

No matter what you think

I don’t feel or see myself that way.

To satisfy your ego

You made me suffer

I cried in the dark

But never did I utter.

You thought I was your puppet

You held the string of my life

You made me go round in circles

Despite everything you did to me

I will never give up

For I know

I am not the person you see

I will live my dreams

Stay strong,

Go far

I can achieve it all

Positive and determined.

 

Here I am……………..

 

 

By Jofel Dosano Villaruel

Jofel is a domestic worker in Singapore that has been staying at HOME shelter for some time whilst her case is being investigated by the police..

Her full story van be read here: https://myvoiceathome.org/2018/11/22/my-story-my-life/

Rest in Peace?

Rest in Peace?


How many lives will be wasted
How many dreams will be tainted
How many Migrant Domestic Workers will go home cold and lifeless
How many hearts will shatter with distress
How many children will not be able to hug their mother
How many parents will miss their daughter
How many siblings will loose their sister
How many husbands will be left heartbroken 


How much you pay for her as a commodity
How much is her worth to be your property
How much it takes to treat her fairly
How much respect to spare her freely
How much tears she'll shed for humanity
How long she'll beg for equality
How many times will she be denied of justice in this society


The answer my friend is the storm she carries with her to the grave


#rolinda77

My sunset

By Rara

 

My Sunset

 

When the sun is rising

When the morning comes

When the air is cold

At that moment, I remember you

 

You, you are my sunset

The sunset that I always miss

The sunset that is always in my mind

The sunset that always makes me warm

But …

I have lost you

 

If I had a second chance

I always want to be with you

Spend every second in my life

Laughing with you

Crying in your arms

And fall asleep in your hug

 

Dear my sunset

In another life

I will never let you go

 

 

Rara is a pseudonym. Rara is a domestic worker from Indonesia and has been staying at HOME shelter and writing helps her to cope with the problems in her life. The English version of her poem Matahari is her own.

Who is She?

Who is She?

***

She is the first person to wake up in this house

She prepares your breakfast and packs foods for you to bring

She assist your kids to be ready for school

Who is she?

The maid you call her.

**

She tidies up your crumpled bed so you may rest your tired body

She cleans up your house so you may have a peaceful mind

She takes care of your kids while you are at work so you may not worry

Who is she?

The maid you call her.

**

She cooks food so you may have a sumptuous dinner as you always say

She feeds your kids so they may stay healthy

She secure doors and windows each night for your safety

Who is she?

The maid you call her.

**

Her worth is less than a thousand each month

Her freedom two days each month

Two days with curfew hours each month

She is the maid.

That is what she deserves.

Too much isn’t it?

**

**

#rolinda77

BEING A DOMESTIC HELPER

By: Jean RAGUAL

 

Being a domestic helper

 

My heart is without pain

If they call us only HELPER

The sadness of my will

Who are the educated people of the world?

 

They still lower the real meaning

And the importance of being a HELPER

 

You are a hero and very helpful person

Your blessings will be rewarded

GOD to create you will be praised

 

You are a hero and very helpful person

Your blessings will be rewarded

GOD to create you will be praised

 

Sweaty day and night

Soaked at work

She will remain stable

Because each drop of it

In life it is symbolic

Cinderella’s reality

Cinderella’s reality 
**
Thirty minutes past six
Phone starts ringing
Six times six times six
Cinderella is late
The monster red dot father is in rage
**
She was treated like a real princess
At the castle beside the bay
True smile surfaces on her face
Happiness she longs to embrace
Appreciation she wishes
Dignified and a real bless
**
Thirty minutes past six
Slowly monster shedding her flesh
Cutting her sanity bit by bit
Stepping her dignity to pieces
Rude words suffocate her breath
Now she is drowned in tears
The monster with a mouth like a sword slashed her with words
**
Thirty minutes past six
Doors open, door shut
No one can save her in that shack
Corners hear her cry
Rooms fill her anguish
Home she calls imprisoned her freedom
Family she says cuffs her equality
Thirty minutes past six Cinderella faces reality
She is nothing but a maid.
**
#rolinda77

My First Love

The night I lost my First love

 

The night I lost my First Love

It was a painful time of my life

As I held him in my hands

Lifeless and almost cold as ice

 

I sobbed to death for his passing

I cried a river for he already left me

In this most depressing situation

Tortured by a lot of thoughts

 

He is my teacher, who taught me lessons about life

He is my king, who moulded me to be a warrior

He is the leader of the band, who allowed me to write my heart out

He is my first love, my first kiss and my only one

 

He was breathless, though I tried hard

He left me grieving so much for his death

My greatest critic and my dear debater

Left, without arguing what there is to come

 

The night I lost my first love, will always be remembered

How he fought the battle and won eternal life in heaven.

 

By Beckerbone Millado

 

#CarnivalofPoetry

#Fatherhood

#poetrybleeds

Dear Abbu

Dear Abbu, I love you

By – Zakir Hossain Khokan and translated by Ranak Zaman

I was really very upset when I first arrived here in Singapore. I  missed my country, my family, but the person I missed most was my father. Many moments I used to hear his voice: Khokan, Khokan! I would stop and look for him, where are you, dad? Why are you calling me? And how are you? Some nights I woke up from my sleep thinking that he was calling me or he was standing near me. But he was not there! I cried out some nights like the child I used to be once, a long time ago. I can recall that morning when I heard his voice in my head and I wrote a poem after that about this.

“I can’t see the mornings anymore hearing the birds singing.

Like my father called me and we, then, used to go to mosque for morning prayers.

My dear Abba,

Oh my dear Abba,

A thousand years I have not seen you!”

The poem I wrote about my dad was published as a lyric in a music album named ‘ Exile life’. Singer Shoriful Islam from Bangladesh sang the song.

It was 2003, when I came to Singapore. It was not easy then, like now, to call long distance and talk an hour to my family. So I used to write letters one or two times a month and in those letters I mostly wrote about my father. I don’t know why, but those letters were never sent to him.

I thought I would give them all at once to him when I would visit him at home. I wanted to surprise him, or maybe just wanted to see his reaction when he would read them. But all those letters got lost when I changed dormitory once.  I could not go to work and couldn’t eat well two days after that. My boss scolded me for my absence, so did my foreman. They asked me the reason and when I told them why I was upset they were astonished and they said that I was a fool.

I never wrote any letters to my father after that.

If anybody asks me about my favorite personality, I answer without thinking twice—my father, of course. I have met many people in my life but never found a person like him. His personality, works, thoughts, philosophy and his humanity and his care to the family keep impressing me all the time.

In my school life, I had to write essay about ‘Your favorite person’. I read in books about the writers, scientists or prophets but it has always been my father who is my favorite personality. When I asked my teachers if I could write about my father, they replied no, ‘you have to write what have you read in the text book.’ But one day I wrote about him nonetheless when I was in high school. I can remember the day when my headmaster called me to his room and my father was there—standing, trembling fingers and a smile full of tears in his eyes.

In 2011, Zarif came to the earth and I became a father myself. But I was here, in Singapore, doing my jobs, with so much guilt. I promised myself that I would give him a better life, as my father did his best to give me. But my son is growing up without me. He use to say to his mother that he smells my scent in his pillow. He asked my clothes that I left behind, take me on your lap, dad!

He is growing up without his father. This is one of the saddest thing for a son—I can’t even express this in words. I tried in my poem, ‘Blade  of kisses’ which was published in a poetry anthology with eighteen Bengali migrant poets. The anthology was named ‘Migrant tales’ and edited by me and Monir Ahmod.

I submitted three poems to the first Migrant Worker’s Poetry Competition Singapore in 2014. Those are ‘pocket-1’, ‘pocket-2’ and ‘pocket-3’. In pocket-1, I wrote about my son Zarif and my country, Bangladesh. In pocket-2, I wrote about my lovely wife and in pocket-3,  about my father.

Pocket-2 won first prize. Ms  Raka Mitra’s company ‘Chowk’ performed two days dance event titled ‘From another land’, based on my these three poems and runner-up poet Rajibs ‘Shades of Light and Dark’ at the Esplanade. The performance touched the audience’s heart and made them cry. It was a great arrangement where audience were amused and mesmerised what was really great to me. I felt happy that day to see the Singapore was loving my poems.

Pocket 1

On holiday, back to my land, I see the country with my son.

We see the open sky, the white cloud, the flock of flying birds.

Water lily, green fields of crops and yellow mustard flowers in the flowering good.

We see the memorial monument, and the Shahid Minar, the love of the people.

Putting all of them aside, I need to come back here.

 

I find a piece of paper in my pocket

Seeing it with my teary eyes

A flag amateurishly drawn by my son

a flag—red and green

the Flag of Bangladesh

 

Written down

‘Dad, standing down the flag at school

When all my friends sing the national anthem: Oh my golden Bangla I love you

Then I sing –

Oh my dear Abbu, I love you.”

 

Pocket 3

Every morning in my childhood,

When dad was set to go to the office,

I jumped on his lap and put a hand in his pocket.

Took some coins and I said, I’ll buy some chocolate, dad,

And I laughed and he laughed.

 

He put his hand on my head and used to say,

This boy will be a great man one day.

 

With the rhythm of the sound of coins when I moved,

With that happiness I moved from here and there and

After a butterfly—I ran and ran and I’m here now

As a migrant.

 

Now, when I go to sleep with much loneliness

In my sleep, I hear—some footsteps and that butterfly’s wings sound

And a voice of my dad.

I wake up every time and notice the dawn in my door,

I realise, this is not  one like my childhood mornings were,

This is a colorless canvas, with so many watermarks of life—hard to see.”

Long live every child and father with so much love and passion.

Happy father’s day.

##

Photo of Zakir Hossain Khokan..

Zakir Hossain Khokan is a writer, poet, journalist and photographer. Born in Dhaka and a graduate of the National University of Bangladesh, he moved to Singapore in 2003 to work here. Presently he is a quality control project coordinator in the construction sector. Zakir’s poems are extremely well- received, winning the first prize for two consecutive years at the Migrant Workers Poetry Competition in both 2014 and 2015.

An established Bengali writer, Zakir’s has published not only poems but also history books and song albums. He has published poetry anthologies, titled, “Lover heart” and “The river reaches in city”. Using his journalism skills, he has also published a non-fiction book entitled “Singapore riots and a love story”. He has also published a song album “Emigrant Life” in Bangladesh. Finally, he is editor of “Migrant Tales” an anthology of poems by migrant Bengali poets in Singapore.

Zakir is a prominent spokesperson for the migrant worker community in Singapore and has been invited to speak at many events. His poems, articles and interviews have appeared in journals and anthologies in Singapore, Bangladesh, and Taiwan and international media. He was rewarded for journalism and poetry in Bangladesh. He can be reached at [email protected]

This article got written for the celebration of father’s day this June but got delayed due to the need to get it translated. Since fatherhood deserves to be celebrated every day, we publish it now for you to savour.

He Played my Heart

We are proud to announce the winner in the poetry category of the ‘The More we get Together’ writing competion: Rolinda Onates Espanola

Her beautiful poem ‘He played my heart stole the hearts of judges and audience alike!

Above you see Rolinda (left) with  runner up in the poetry competition Jean Raquel (right)

 

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He Played My Heart

 

At 5:30pm everyday we go there

With bags full of goodies and water

You on your scooter

Me, you always tell to walk faster!

 

Playing is fun, full of laughter

You play cops and robber

Hide and seek makes you feel better

Racing and Virus let you ask to stay but longer

 

Sometimes you get bruises

Sometimes you cry endless

Sometimes you’re disappointed

Sometimes you’re a stubborn head

 

I watched you grow in here

I watched how you behave to others

I watched how time moves us together

I watched how this place brings us closer

I watched how I love

The child that I can never have.

 

#rolinda77