Haji's Book of Malayan Nursery Rhymes

Trust my sister to find this gem which was first published way back in 1939.  She got this1956 edition in mint condition from a second hand book store in Ipoh (which she refused to bring me to so that she can retain exclusive pick on the selections there). 

The book contains a selection of nursery ryhmes along with classic Malay translations which can be laugh out loud funny....

Old King Cole

Old King Cole

Was a merry old soul,

And a merry old soul was he;

He called for his pipe,

And he called for his bowl,

And he called for his fiddlers three.

Raja Tua Koli

Raja tua Koli

Satu orang banyak joli,

Dia sa-orang suka sangat suka ria;

Dia minta ambil rokok,

Dan dia suroh bawa mangkok,

Dan dia-panggil tiga tukang biola-nya.

The Queen of Hearts

The Queen of Hearts

She made some tarts,

All on a summer's day;

The Knave of Hearts

He stole the tarts,

And with them ran away.

The King of Hearts

Called for the tarts,

And beat the Knave full sore;

The Knave of Hearts

Brought back the tarts,

And vowed he'd steal no more.

Rani Hati

Rani Hati

Buat sate;

Pada suatu hari.

Menteri Hati

Churi sate,

Sudah bawa lari.

Raja Hati

Minta sate,

Menteri kena sebat;

Menteri Hati

Pulang sate,

Churi lagi tobat.

See what I mean? Classic!

I Hate Housework...

I hate sweeping outside coz the bloody dried leaves
keep falling and fallng, offering me no reprieves

I hate mopping coz the smooth clean floor
never stays that way for long no matter what cleaner I pour

I hate dusting the house coz the dirt and the grime
seem to take great pleasure in re-appearing time after time

I hate washing dishes coz after getting them clean and squeaky
my poor hands bear the brunt of it, turning dry, pruney and wrinkly

I hate doing laundry coz despite having a washing machine
I still need to iron and press, to keep the clothes looking pristine

I hate housework coz however frequent I wash, clean and dry
the house gets so dirty so fast, in less than a blink of an eye 

It is such a vicious cycle, a perpetual spinning wheel without an end,
Will I be doomed forever? Or will Nirvana be just round the bend?!!

Footnote : 
While I admit, my participation in housework could be considered minimal, it doesn't mean I like it!  With my Mum (and the part time maid along with her) taking a long leave of absence starting Thursday, it sure is going to be hell the next couple of weeks!

Lament for A "Cham"...

The location...
An unassuming town,
Where Dad grew up in,
Take a walk around,
And I'll surely bump into kin.

The kopitiam...
At a corner it stands,
A little dark, somewhat dreary,
But it meets the demands,
Of the hungry and the weary.

The order...
“Cham Ping, please!”
My voice is loud and clear,
In fluent Cantonese,
So that the old man could hear.

The “Cham”...
Frothy and icy,
Golden highlights in brown,
Smooth tea and coffee,
Blended perfection in which I willingly drown.

And now....
The son is now the master,
The old man not to be seen,
With a heart beating much faster,
I wait, far from serene.

The Lament...
Alas! Alas! “Cham” it was not
But coffee in bad disguise,
No more to be tasted, no more begot,
The golden hue that filled my eyes.

No more to be savoured
In relish and in glee,
The drink that I favoured,
Oh woe is to me...
Alas! Alas!

Footnote : Since my Dad's hometown fix is not available anymore, please...please let me know if you know of some kopitiam with fantastic "Cham" on offer. An appeal from the heart...

Poetry 101...

My sister recently surrendered to me a 1957 edition of the Senior Anthology of Poetry for Schools in South East Asia. I said surrendered because she loved collecting old books. So, it was probably with some reluctance that she handed it over. She reminded me that we used to have a book of poetry with the exact same title for Literature class during our secondary school days. I had to pause for a while to recall whether there was such a book. I believe my mind must have suppressed those memories of Literature class as a sort of protective mechanism. Yes, it is all coming back to me now....

Flashback to the times when we sat in class, hunched in nervous anxiety behind our newer editions of Senior Anthology of Poetry. Our teacher, Mrs. Peters, a commando disguised in a sari and hair bun, would have been reading aloud a selected poem. Her clear voice would waft to our ears, bringing words of great (and mostly dead) poets, words hoping to get understood and appreciated....And our teenage minds would be vacuous vessels, unable to comprehend. After the reading finished, she would cast her penetrating eye around the classroom. And we would huddle in dread, trying desperately to look invisible. After zooming in on the sacrificial lamb, she would boom “You, Ah Moi, what do you think the poet is trying to convey?” (Note : in an attempt to protect the identities of the traumatised victims from Literature class, I have used anonymous identities here).

We all empathised with Ah Moi but those were the times where Darwin’s Survival of the Fittest theory kicks in strong and self preservation takes priority above friendship and loyalty (just so you know, apparently the term Survival of the Fittest was coined by another guy called Herbert Spencer, not Darwin lah!). So, we cast encouraging glances to Ah Moi, hoping she would bluster up enough sense to appease Mrs. Peters. Of course, it is also in the name of self preservation that we were putting our money on Ah Moi to save the day. Can’t have Mrs. Peters pick on Minachi next, can we? Alas, we were but vacuous minded teens and intelligent replies were few and far in between. On good days, Mrs. Peters would just raise her eyes to heaven and wonder how she ended up there. On others, we will get a verbal lashing from a very frustrated Mrs. Peters and a 100 line poem to memorise and recite at the next class. And explain what the poet was trying to convey of course. Those were the days....boy, am I glad that’s over!

Poetry took a back seat after secondary school. Reading became centered on popular novels and works of fiction. Chick-lit, fantasy, humour, crime fiction....I guess I have a tiny artsy vein in my body in that I still read some classics once in a while. But that was it. Poetry did not feature much, if at all. However on a recent day, at an MPH warehouse sale, I came across a gorgeously illustrated book of children’s poetry. It was a good bargain at the price. And in hard cover too. So, I bought it. As I flipped through the pages, I began to enjoy it. There were no heavy duty verses or complicated phrases. Just simple words constructed in a beautiful form. Hallelujah, I could actually understand it! I didn’t even have to refer to a dictionary (yet). The light dawned on me. Stupid education system! They should have stuck to children’s poetry, not the Senior Anthology of Poetry!! OK, half kidding on that one.

Poetry can be enjoyed if given a chance. No need to get into the deep stuff if they seem too complicated (especially after a hard day at the office, the brain doesn’t want to be going into overtime!). I guess the trick is to pick ones you can understand and appreciate. Poets have amazing talent and imagination to be able to put together phrases that roll off the tongue with such lyricism. There are a lot of stories to be found in poetry and poems. They can be solemn, sad, happy, nonsensical.... even nursery rhymes and limericks are a fun variation. I have a long way to go towards real poetry appreciation but hey, it’s never too late to start. It’s all about expanding your horizons. I may be sticking to children’s stuff for a while though. I thought I’d share a few with you every now and then whenever I come across any that I liked.

To start off, here are two selections... enjoy! (from “A Family of Poems” compiled by Caroline Kennedy).

Careless Willie
Willie with a thirst for gore
Nailed his sister to the door
Mother said with humor quaint
“Careful, Willie, don’t scratch the paint!
                                       Anonymous

ME
As long as I live
I shall always be
My Self – and no other,
Just me.

Like a tree.
Willow, elder,
Aspen, thorn,
Or cypress forlorn.

Like a flower,
For its hour –
Primrose, or pink,
Or a violet –
Sunned by the sun,
And with dewdrops wet.

Always just me.
                   Walter de la Mare