Introducing a new series of poems by Julian Matthews. Julian is a writer and Pushcart-nominated poet published in The American Journal of Poetry, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Borderless Journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Dream Catcher Magazine, Live Encounters Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and The New Verse News, among others. He is a mixed-race minority from Malaysia and lived in Ipoh for seven years. Currently based in Petaling Jaya, he is a media trainer and consultant for senior management of multinationals on Effective Media Relations, Social Media and Crisis Communications. He was formerly a journalist with The Star and Nikkei Business Publications Inc
Link: https://linktr.ee/julianmatthews
By Julian Matthews
If it takes a village to raise a child, I am of that village, that small town, that city in me,
the country I want you to be.
I am of attap roofs above, stilted kampung houses, hens clucking and pecking
with their brood of chicks chirping below, wooden floors that creak,
and cool winds that blow.
I am of wide open windows by day and mosquito nets and smoking coils
that kept them away at night.
I am of owls hooting and nightjars chonking their song; the squeak
and swoosh of bats and flying foxes; the chorus of cocks crowing at dawn.
I am of the red rambutan and green mango trees in front; the banana trees of scary pontianak
movies out back and the buzz of grasscutters who came by and trimmed the overgrown
padang monthly.
I am of the unpaved roads between our houses where we walked to share a basket of fruit
with neighbours you knew, and in return they’d empty it and fill it with mangosteen and chiku.
I am of eating peeled fruits and letting juices dribble and stain our bajus, only to face
the nagging later from our mummies’ disdain.
I am of making rojak with fruits with light and thick sauces, shrimp paste, tamarind, lime, sugar,
crushed peanuts, spiced up with chillies; and have second or third helpings with no fear of allergies.
I am of sharing kuih-muih at teh tarik time, curry puffs, cekodok and cucuk-udang wok-fried
and freshly-baked butter, chocolate and fruitcakes, pineapple tarts, and cookie recipes our aunties tried.
I am of the smells emanating from the kitchen, and even now can hear someone yell, “Something’s burning! Turn off the oven!”
I am of the verandah where we learnt to sing Burung Kakak Tua, Chan Mali Chan, Rasa Sayang and Nona, Nona Zaman Sekarang and songs by dad like If I Were A Bachelor Boy, and Around The Corner and Under A Tree, bawdy but not laden with the sexually explicit and boastful thuggery.
I am of open houses, dressing up in new festive clothes, lighting up oil lamps and altars
and Christmas trees, offering prayers to gods and ancestors and gorging on more cookies.
I am of mandarin oranges, angpows and groundnuts; of achi muruku, urandai, chippi and kesari; tosai, idiyappam, sodhi and mutton varuval; of roti jala, dodol, kuih lapis, satay, serunding, rendang and lemang.
I am of school hols on the beach, home-made nasi lemak and sambal sandwiches, Sarsi and Orange Squash, and after rollicking in the sea and sun, the tinkling of the welcomed ice-cream man’s bell in the distance, out on his run.
I am of salt in our mouths and sand up our butts; of building crumbling castles then digging holes and burying cousins in them.
I am of collecting shells, corals and unusual glass baubles; the high tides that steal slippers, wet our towels and low tides that let us chase colourful crabs into tiny burrows.
I am of hikes and bikes, knees we scraped, the toes we stubbed; hutan we trampled, the sungai we swam in, the many bukit we climbed up.
I am of splashing each other in backyard water fights; climbing trees, swinging on branches into mining ponds; chasing each other in games of police and thieves and galah panjang.
I am of five stones, bottle caps and marbles, paperplanes and kites, badminton and barefoot football battles.
I am of going to the dams to fish and skip stones; tadpoles and guppies in drains; catching spiders, being bitten by red ants and chased by bees; staying out too late until our mothers hollered for us to come home.
I am of tagging-along when mum orders a sibling to Uncle Chan’s sundry shop to get onions and scraped coconut, too young to cycle there alone.
I am of stopping by at Ali’s Mini Mart to buy Blu Boy gum and read Archie, Beano and Dandy comics,
flip through Mills and Boons and Mad Magazines, only to be shooed away for browsing too long.
I am of squishing into the Morris Minor for outings; church on Sundays;
and family gatherings for stuffing, imbibing, singing and gambling.
I am of reading Agatha Christie, Isaac Asimov and Louis L’Amour; the Hardy Boys, Secret Seven, Famous Five, Three Investigators; and of King Arthur, Robin Hood and Tom Sawyer.
I am of Scooby-Doo and Looney Tunes; Tom & Jerry and Speedy Gonzales; Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny; Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner; Gomer Pyle, Gilligan’s Island, The Three Stooges; Superman, Ultraman, Zorro and the Six-Million Dollar Man; all about escapism and how fast you ran.
I am of a mother’s caring yet swearing; a father’s Queen’s English yet drunken wit; siblings’ affection yet estrangement; a La Salle schooling: Catholic hypocrisy, morally-upright, yet overtly cynical, easily-riled, sarcastically-forthright.
I am of the driven now ridden; once hardened now softened; fast-aging yet youth-wary.
I am of writing myself into my own story; no longer able to write myself into another’s.
I am a poem a villager once hand-wrote; a city-boy typed up; a netizen uploaded.
I am a Malaysian, nostalgic for the way things were, losing faith for the way things are,
yet still hopeful for a nation’s future, its unrealized potential, unfulfilled promise, uncombusted potency.
I am the one remembering it all, but I am not the only one.
I remember you Malaysia.
I remember you well…
First published in Bubble Tea Literary Magazine, Issue 1, USA.
