Bedok Jetty

Last Saturday, Singapore celebrated her 43rd birthday. The weekend papers carried readers’ reflections and writers’ hopes for this country we call home. One article and one poem touched my heart. I summarised the article in the previous post.

The poem reproduced below, written by Jinat Rehana Begum, won the second prize among the readers’ contributions in Where We Call Home, The Straits Times National Day Supplement.

Image credit: ShyamSasidharan

Bedok Jetty

At five, I crossed the sea on a dare,
they pestered and pushed, till finally
the youngest of the tribe,
I wobbled on to the long grey finger,
sea to the left of me, sea to the right of me, sea beneath me
crashing, gnashing,
against pillars under the concrete plank,
hungry for young flesh.
Turning green, swaying sick, I turned back.
Don’t look down, Bodoh! Look straight!
Cheered by brotherly support,
I edged forward,
taking comfort in tall lampposts and the long
solid metal railings that followed me,
right to the edge of the world,
right to journey’s end, till finally
I stuck a hand victoriously
between the bars of the last metal railing.
Five fat fingers feeling
sea spray and mist.
Holding in my fist
a strange new smell
Of salt and fish.

At ten, I whizzed past old men
meditating on fish and courting couples,
rushing on wheels,
right to journey’s end
right to the last bars,
to spot new ships hiding the horizon,
cargo, tanker, carrier, cruise,
all waiting under sea and sky
spread so low, so close,
I’d stick out my tongue
to taste the clouds.
Wet, salty,
stinging the eyes,
sweat streaming down my face.

At fifteen, I gave up cycling and ran
up Lucky Heights, round Sennett estate,
under pedestrian tunnels, across the ECP,
through tangled bird sanctuaries,
dancing round cyclists, skaters and babies in prams,
dodging discarded silver tambans and knotted fishing lines,
right to the edge of the world
right to journey’s end
right to the final bars,
to breathe in great gulps
the old smell
Of salt and fish,
To watch planes fly in and out of Changi,
To laugh
as snapper, grouper, stingray, eel
Played peek-a-boo with fresh young anglers.

At eighteen, I came with noisy friends,
to crouch on prime spots of concrete
beside benches packed with early-bird kiasus
to watch the sun slide behind tall buildings,
to giggle above the babble
at fireworks on National Day,
at trails of pink, red, white, blue, yellow, green,
lighting the ships silhouetted in the dark,
at the smoky odour of sweaty bodies, gunpowder
and barbeque chicken. And still,
to breathe the old smell
of salt and fish.

At twenty, I came
when even the ships were dark with sleep,
when only the organge glow from lampposts
and the bright white moonlight lit the night.
When only an old man cik tuning her portable radio
and her old man fighting with the knots of their filmsy tarp
Disturbed the quiet.
Crossing the sea on moonlit white concrete,
I walked right to the edge of the world
Right to journey’s end
to breathe the old friendly smell of salt and fish
To say goodbye
against static croons of Sayang Sayang.

And then I searched everywhere,
Crossing different seas on different piers,
for ships that hide horizons,
For silver fish skimming the waves,
for cheering friends,
for the scent of first victories,
that old smell of salt and fish,
The smell of home.