Prominent Singaporean writer Felix Cheong discusses his latest collection of poems, Sudden in Youth.

By Shamus Sillar
Issue 90 - January 2010

Felix Cheong is one of Singapore’s best-known poets. His work embraces everything from the spiritual to the visceral, with inventive wordplay and unexpected turns of phrase. Expat Living caught up with Felix after the launch of his new book of poems, Sudden in Youth, at the Singapore Writers’ Festival late last year.

Describe Felix Cheong, the poet, in a sentence or two.
Felix Cheong the poet is straight as the crow flies but crows when his fly is crooked.

What’s the most poetic thing about Singapore? The least poetic?
Think of Singapore as a work in progress, a poem by an anal-retentive writer redrafting it ad nauseum. How else do you explain the constant roadworks, the hand-wringing over upgrading and uprooting of old buildings? The moment the redrafting is finished, Singapore is finished. We’re always running to stand still. This is the most and paradoxically least poetic thing about this country, the fact that nothing stays long enough for you to read it and reap.

Your latest volume of poetry, Sudden In Youth, combines selected poems from earlier books with a collection of new poems. Explain the process of choosing the earlier poems: were your choices dictated by how well the poems were received at the time, or by your current tastes?
Putting this anthology together was like compiling a greatest hits CD. You want to show off your best but also offer readers (dare I say, fans) B-sides and outtakes they can’t find elsewhere. Thus, there’re poems dropped from Broken by the Rain, such as “Mission Statement of a Punk”, not because they weren’t good enough but because they didn’t fit in with the arrangement then, and “The Massage Parlour Girl”, which was really the flipside of “The Prostitute”.

For the previously published pieces, I opted for the ones which best highlight my thematic obsessions, from love to religion to writing. It was somewhat like curating a retrospective in which themes and images would find sustenance in and feed off each other. For example, my three pieces written for my son were composed almost 10 years apart. You can see clearly the progression of thought, of a writer coming into his own and recognising something of the change over time.

Inspirations?
That’s a question I don’t particularly like to answer because it seems to imply there’s only one source of inspiration. But there isn’t. I’ve written pieces after observing two boys playing with a lighter on the MRT (“Father and Son”), after a bout of people-watching (“Queen Street Mall, Brisbane”) and after a fight with my fiancée (“With You”). Writers are open to new experiences, always taking them in and letting things swirl in the head.  

In your poetry, you document a recent battle with writer’s block. What do you think made you lose your Muse? Is she fully back?
I suppose documenting the battle, in the poem “In Praise of Sloth”, is itself a sweet victory over writer’s block. It’s not about losing the Muse but letting go of her, unlearning her ways. For after every book, I tend to pick up habits, such tricks which make the writing seemingly effortless. I soon tire of it.

That’s why between 2002, when I completed my third collection, Broken by the Rain, and 2008, I stopped writing poetry almost altogether. Just bits and pieces, here and there, but nothing I would cheerfully own up to.

There’s seems to be a recurring staccato-like quality to your new poems. Why?
Yes. I was trying to break free of the lyrical voice which had become very much my signature style.
 
How many poems do you throw away before finishing?
I think as you mature as a writer, the wastage average drops. So, for my first collection, only slightly more than half made the cut; the second, three quarters; the third, only four to five poems were dropped. For the newer pieces which I wrote for Sudden in Youth, only three didn’t pass muster. I suppose it’s the distance you get from having failed before and the wisdom of knowing what you want, and getting it. 

I saw you at the Singapore Literary Festival and there was a distinct element of “performance poetry” to your session. Is this something you enjoy? Do you write your poems with live performance or spoken word in mind?
I do enjoy performing my poems but I don’t write them with an eye on performance. If they end up being good material as performance poetry, it’s a bonus!

Favourite writers’ festival around the world?
That’s a toughie! If a gun were cocked next to my ear and the business end of a knife against the small of my back, I’d have to say the Brisbane Writers’ Festival. It was my first experience being a featured writer and I still remember the thrill of seeing my name in the programme, publicity posters, newspaper ads. It was an “I’ve arrived!” moment to savour. And of course, it helped that it was spring, the weather was kind and the readings were done by the scenic Brisbane River. You can’t ask for more.

Do you think Singapore is a good breeding ground for writers?
The fact that there were more new poets published between 1997 and 2008 (such as Alvin Pang, Yong Shu Hoong, Cyril Wong, Alfian Sa’at and myself) than there were between 1959 and 1996 just shows you that Singapore is a good breeding ground for writers. We’ve seen a renaissance of sorts of poetry over the last ten years – a multitude of voices, a good spread of talents. So, Singapore isn’t the cultural desert it’s sometimes made out to be. The literary scene is rumbling into third gear now and coming into its own.

Tell us a little bit about your writing routine.
The only routine I have is not to follow one! Following a routine is like tying myself – willingly – to a leash. Satisfying but you can’t possibly run very far. Most of my poems, in fact, have found life on the page in the oddest of places. For example, most of the poems in I Watch the Stars Go Out were written on the MRT, those in Broken by the Rain in a Brisbane strip club called Showgirls. Coffee helps tremendously. So does a pen – I can’t create in front of a laptop. Very old economy. But that’s how the paper crumbles.

Is there a line of your poetry you’re most proud of, or that you think encapsulates you as a poet and person?
That’s like asking which part of my body defines me! The pieces I’ve selected for Sudden in Youth are the ones I’d like to be remembered by.

Sudden in Youth, a collection of the best of Felix Cheong’s poetry, as well as his most recent writings, is available in bookstores or online at www.ethosbooks.com.sg.