Bus No. 56 arrived opposite the third campus of Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts. As I stepped off the bus, a breeze happened to sweep gently towards me.
It was soft and tender. The sky was overcast, carrying a faint coolness reminiscent of early autumn. The breeze lifted the dry leaves along the roadside, ever so lightly.
The leaves did not hurry to fall. Instead, they twirled in the wind, drifting towards me as though they were about to secretly kiss the tip of my nose.
At that moment, almost without thinking, I murmured:
“Ah, Singapore is drifting with poetry.”
And just like that, a sentence fell from my lips.
I walked towards U+ Gallery at Stamford Arts Centre—the place where I had recently begun working, and also where my heart now seemed to belong. Along the way, I watched the leaves gathering by the roadside, carried down by the wind, while my thoughts slowly gathered with them.
It turns out that poetry does not always have to be sought.
Sometimes, it hides in a breeze, arriving with such ease. Before you even have time to prepare, words drift in with the wind, quietly finding their way into your pocket, and into your mind.
Singapore is drifting with poetry.
And I happened to be walking inside it.
—
Singapore came into my life by accident, too.
For the past two months, I had not written any articles or submitted any manuscripts—not because I had nothing to write about. Quite the opposite. I had encountered far too many things worth writing about, so many that I did not even know where to begin.
Ever since my solo poetry-and-art exhibition, From Eden with Love, in Singapore in July, life had been relentlessly busy.
And then, one coincidence after another, began appearing in my life.
By chance, I came to Singapore for work. And, quite unexpectedly, many people began entering the breadth of my life.
Perhaps these coincidences were like those dry leaves drifting towards me. So often, people enter our lives in exactly the same way.
Outside U+ Gallery is Waterloo Street.
Along this street stand religious buildings of different traditions: the Sri Krishnan Temple, established in 1870; Kwan Im Thong Hood Cho Temple, dating back to 1884; and the Church of Saints Peter and Paul, built in 1870 between Waterloo Street and Queen Street.
Indian, Chinese and Western cultures converge here, creating a distinctive and richly layered human landscape.
From the glass doors of the gallery, I can see the Sri Krishnan Temple across the street. Every day, it seems like a constantly changing canvas.
How many worshippers have stood here over the decades, praying, pleading and giving thanks in different languages?
When the incense burned at its most fervent, the streets must have been filled with people coming and going. Today, while preserving its traditional character, the neighbourhood has gradually embraced art institutions and cultural spaces, giving this old street a renewed life and purpose.
The gallery itself is located within Stamford Arts Centre. The building was opened in 1920 as the Japanese School in Singapore, and later served as the premises of Gan Eng Seng School and Stamford Girls’ School. Through its many transformations of time and purpose, it has quietly witnessed the deep and diverse history of this neighbourhood.
I remember a firechat I recently had during an exhibition with Dr. Chua Chee Lay, both a mentor and a friend. Our subject was “The Beauty of Multiculturalism in Poetry and Art.”
In a place like this, such a conversation could not have been more fitting.
I have always loved Singapore. In the past, I often came here to travel and hold exhibitions.
One day, a friend and I were sitting at a pasta restaurant beside the gallery, drinking iced passionfruit soda, and joking about my transitioning.
My friend said:
“You used to come here as a tourist. Naturally, you were in the honeymoon phase—you saw, thought about and enjoyed everything in the most beautiful way possible.”
I smiled and nodded.
“That’s true.”
I took another sip of my iced soda and continued:
“Now, it feels more like a marriage.
Because you begin to have things you love, and things you need to adjust to in everyday life. There are moments of happiness and frustration, acceptance and adjustment.
Just like marriage, isn’t it?”
My friend burst out laughing and said I could not have described it more accurately.
—
A little over two weeks after arriving, one morning, something suddenly occurred to me.
Oh my goodness. I had completely forgotten that I had a cousin in Singapore!
So I sent her a message.
Naturally, she asked:
“Eh, little sister, you’re in Singapore? Are you here for an exhibition?”
I replied:
“No, I came here to work.”
She said:
“Then let’s meet for dinner tomorrow.”
And just like that, I remembered that this city—seemingly familiar yet somehow unfamiliar—was also home to someone I knew very well: my cousin, whom I had played with since childhood.
She had even appeared in my poem “Night After the Rain” — the cousin who chatted with me and eventually woke Grandma up.
Suddenly, this city felt a little warmer.
If Ama were still alive, I think she would have been comforted knowing that these two granddaughters could still look after each other in a city far from home.
People continued to come and go in the gallery.
Some stopped. Some made purchases. Others hurried past, circling through before leaving. Sometimes I would stand behind the gallery’s glass doors and look across at the Sri Krishnan Temple.
There are countless sculptures of deities along the temple walls. I would watch them until I found myself lost in thought.
Beneath the sculptures, devoted worshippers would pray.
Behind them, crowds of people hurried past.
One was staying.
The other was rushing on.
And I thought: Isn’t life exactly like this?
Walking, stopping.
Stopping, walking.
And I, too, am simply one among this constantly moving crowd—walking, pausing, observing.
Behind the gallery is a hawker centre. A little further ahead is Bugis+.
Sometimes, when I feel like treating myself, I go there for pasta and a glass of wine.
Other times, when I want to be economical, I go to the hawker centre.
After visiting one particular stall several times, I gradually began exchanging a few words with the lady who ran it. I did not tell her much about myself, and she did not say much about herself either.
Yet somehow, we felt like old friends from the very beginning.
Whenever I ordered food, she would always give me an extra bowl of soup or another handful of vegetables.
She would say:
“Drink more soup. It’s good for you.”
“Eat more vegetables. It’s good for you.”
After not visiting for more than a week, I returned a few days ago.
The moment she saw me, she was delighted. As warmly as ever, she asked what I wanted to eat, then added another handful of vegetables to my plate.
“Eat more vegetables. Don’t worry, I won’t charge you for this.”
Then, suddenly, she remembered something.
“I made some nourishing soup for myself today. Let me pour you a bowl. Drink some—it’s good for you.”
She poured me a bowl.
To show my appreciation, I drank the entire thing in one go.
Seeing that I had finished it, she was delighted and filled another bowl for me.
I looked at that bowl of soup and suddenly thought:
Perhaps this woman was a godsend to look after me.
I feel quite fortunate.
Over fifteen years of travelling and living abroad, I have visited nearly twenty countries and more than forty towns and cities. Along the way, I have met many sincere friends and strangers.
Some were encounters that lasted only a moment. Some became acquaintances I met several times. And some became friends with whom I could truly share my heart.
The truth is, every city has its own warmth.
It is just that sometimes, stubbornly, I choose not to see it—or not to understand it. But eventually, one has to learn how to let life settle. In the past, I created through wandering.
Now, perhaps I have entered another stage of life: creating through stillness and accumulation. Will this only be better?
Only the years and the passage of time can decide.
The journey of art has never been easy. It is much like marriage: there are seasons when joy bears fruit, and seasons when one must patiently wait for the results.
This reminds me of a conversation I had fifteen years ago with a Korean painter in New York.
I asked her:
“Did you come to like New York after you arrived?”
She gave a wry smile and replied:
“Well, it’s a love-hate relationship.”
Then she turned her gaze towards the distance.
If I were given the chance to choose again, I would still choose the path of art.
Last year, I remember waiting for a train at Santa Maria Novella Station in Florence, Italy. My local friend and I went to a café in the train station during the wait, where I ate my favorite scacciata — a crispy Florentine bread sandwich with salami, and drank Illy coffee. Before we parted, my friend gave me a big hug and said:
“You have to come every year, you know? You have to come back every year. Remember that.”
I nodded slightly but did not answer.
He turned and walked away. I watched his retreating figure.
Then, very softly, I said:
“I actually want a place to call home.”
My voice was quiet. Because those words were really meant for myself.
—
I don’t know when I began to adapt to life in Singapore.
But today, I sent my mother a voice message:
“I’m beginning to get used to it here. Don’t worry about me.”
Perhaps it is because, here, I have found my own poetry.
It arrives gently, kisses the tip of my nose, settles inside my mind, flows through my blood, and then, slowly, through my fingertips and my brush and ink, finds its way onto the pages of my writing.
There are many things I love here. There are also things I am still learning to adapt to.
Perhaps a place to call home does not necessarily have to be a house. Nor does it necessarily have to be a city.
Perhaps it is simply the moment when, one day, you are walking down a street and the wind passes through you, and suddenly you realise —
There are people here whom I have come to know.
These streets are beginning to feel familiar beneath my feet.
And my poetry, too, is willing to settle here.
—
Fifteen years of wandering have allowed me to see so many places.
And perhaps the stillness I have found now is teaching me something new: that I do not always have to travel far away in search of poetry. Perhaps I can allow poetry to take root slowly, quietly, in one place.
Singapore is drifting with poetry.
And as I make my way towards the gallery,
I happen to be walking inside it.
新加坡在飘诗
56号巴士抵达南洋艺术学院第三校区对面，从巴士走下来，迎面刚好来了一阵风。
风很轻柔，刚好阴天，带着一点初秋似的凉意，把路旁干枯的叶子轻轻吹起。叶子没有急着落下，而是在风里打着旋，飘向我，好像正要偷偷轻吻我的鼻尖。
那一刻，我几乎是不假思索地呢喃了一句：
“咦，新加坡在飘诗。”
就这样，一句话从嘴边落下来。
我一边走向史丹福艺术中心的U+画廊——那个我新工作的地方，也是我的心之所在；一边看着那些被风吹落的叶子堆积在马路旁，思绪也跟着慢慢累积。
原来，诗有时候并不需要寻找。
它可能藏在一阵风里，来得惬意。你甚至还来不及准备，文字就随着风，轻轻飘进你的口袋，还有你的脑袋。
新加坡在飘诗。
而我，刚好走在诗里。
——
说起新加坡，也是一个偶然。
这两个月，我没有写文章，没有交稿，并不是没有东西写。恰恰相反，这段时间接触了太多可以写的题材，多的不知道应该从哪里开始写。自七月份在新加坡办了《来自紫云乡的信》诗画个展以后，前前后后都非常忙。
接下来，生命中出现了许多偶然。
偶然地来新加坡工作，也很偶然地，许多人走进了我生命的宽度里。
也许，这份偶然，就像那些枯叶飘向我一样。很多时候，人来到你的生命中，也是这样来的。
U+画廊外面，就是滑铁卢街。
街上汇聚着建于1870年的克里斯南兴都庙、可以追溯至1884年的观音堂佛祖庙，以及坐落在滑铁卢街与奎因街之间，建立于1870年的圣伯多禄圣保禄教堂等不同的宗教建筑。印度人、华人与西方文化在这里交汇，形成了一幅独特而丰富的人文景象。
这里曾经有多少信徒，以不同的语言祷告、祈求、感恩？香火鼎盛之时，街巷间人来人往；如今，在保留传统风貌的同时，这里也逐渐融入艺术机构与文化空间，让这条老街在岁月之中焕发出新的生命与使命。
画廊坐落在史丹福艺术中心。这座建筑于1920年开设为新加坡日本人学校，后来又先后作为颜永成学校及史丹福女子学校的校舍。历经不同年代与用途的变迁，它也默默见证了这个街区深厚而多元的历史。
我记得之前在展览时，我曾和亦师亦友的蔡志礼博士有过这么一个对话，主题是“诗情画意里多元文化的美”。
在这样的地方，这样的对话，实在太适合不过了。
一路来很喜欢新加坡，以前也常来这里旅游和办展。
那天，我与朋友在画廊隔壁的意面餐厅喝冰百香果苏打水，我们打趣地聊起了这件事。
朋友说：
“你以前来，是一个游客的身份。很自然地，你是在度蜜月期，把所有事情都往最美好的方向去看、去想、去享受。”
我微笑地点点头。
“确实是如此。”
我喝了一口冰苏打水，继续说：
“现在，其实更像是一个婚姻。
因为你会开始有一些喜欢的东西，也有一些不适应的日常，喜怒参半，接受与磨合。就像婚姻，不是吗？”
朋友大笑，说我形容得再贴切不过。
——
来了两个多星期，有一天上午，我突然想起了一件事情。我的天啊，我竟然忘了我在新加坡还有一个表姐！
于是我给表姐发了信息。
她很自然地问：
“诶，妹，你来新加坡了呀，是来这里办展吗？”
我说：
“不是，我来这里工作了。”
她说：
“那我们明天见面吃饭。”
就这样，我才想起，原来这座看似熟悉，却又不熟悉的城市，还有一个我非常熟悉、从小一起玩的表姐。
她还曾经出现在我的《雨后的夜》诗里——那个陪我聊天，最后把外婆吵醒的表姐。
忽然之间，这座城市多了一份暖意。
如果外婆还在世，她一定会因为这两个孙女，还可以在外面的城市里互相照应，而感到欣慰。
画廊里的人潮也来来往往。有的止步，有的成交，有的行色匆匆，绕了一圈便离开。我有时候透过画廊的玻璃门望出去，看着对面的克里斯南兴都庙。
庙的外墙有许多神明的雕塑。我看着看着，便发起呆来。神明雕塑下，有虔诚的信徒在敬拜；身后也有匆忙路过的人潮。
一个在停留，一个在赶路。
我想，人生不也就是这样吗？
走走停停，停停走走。
而我自己，也不过是在这来来往往的人潮里，一边走，一边停，一边看。
画廊的后面，是一个小贩中心。再往前走，就是Bugis Plus购物中心。
有时候我想宠自己多一点，便会去那里吃个意面，喝杯红酒；有时候想经济一点，便到小贩中心去。
我几次光顾其中一个摊子，慢慢和老板寒暄起来。我没有多介绍自己，她也没有多说自己。不过，我们一见如故。
每次点餐，老板都会多给我一碗汤，或多一把小白菜，她总是说：
“喝多点汤好。”
“吃多点菜好。”
差不多一个多星期没去，前两天我又到了那里。老板见到我非常高兴，像往常一样热情地问我要吃什么，然后又给我加了一把小白菜：
“吃多点菜好，这不算你钱。”
后来，她突然想起说：
“我今天也给自己炖了一些补汤喝，我给你倒一碗吧。喝点补汤好。”
她给我倒了一碗。我为了表示感谢，一口气把它喝完。她看见我喝完以后很高兴，又给我盛了一碗。
我看着那一碗汤，忽然想：
这个女老板，是替我妈妈来照顾我的。
我很庆幸。
因为这十五年的旅行与旅居，我到过近二十个国家，四十多个小镇和城市，也遇到了许多真心对我的朋友和陌生人。
有些是一面之缘，有些是几面之交，有些成为了交心的好朋友。
其实，每一座城市都有它的暖。只是有时候，我也会任性地选择不去看，不去悟。不过，人总要学会沉淀。以前的我，是通过漂泊去创作。而现在，我好像来到了人生的另一个阶段——凭着沉淀去创作。
这，会更好吗？
只有岁月和时光可以下定论。艺术这条路，本来就不容易走，它就像婚姻，有欢喜收成的季节，也有耐心等待结果的时侯。
这让我想起在十五年前在纽约与一名韩国画家的对话。
我问她：
“你来到纽约后会喜欢这里吗？”
她苦笑回答：
“Well，it’s a love-hate relationship。” （其实，这是一个爱恨交融的关系。）
然后，她将目光抛向远处。
记得去年在佛罗伦萨的火车站，当地好友陪我候车。我们一起到咖啡厅，吃了我喜欢的佛罗伦萨脆皮面包夹萨拉米，喝了杯意利咖啡。
分别前，朋友给了我一个很大的拥抱，再嘱咐我：
“你每年都要来，知道吗？你每年都要回来，记住。”
我轻微地点点头，没有回答。
朋友转身离开，我目送着他的背影。
然后，我轻轻地说：
“我其实很想有个落脚处。”
声音很轻。因为那句话，是说给自己听的。
——
我不知道几时开始适应了新加坡的生活。
不过今天，我给妈妈发了个语音：
“我开始习惯这里了，你们放心吧！”
我想，也许是因为这里，我找到了属于自己的诗。
它来得惬意，轻轻吻过我的鼻尖，住进我的脑袋，流淌在我的血液里，再从我的指尖、我的笔墨，慢慢写进我的稿里。
我有很多喜欢的地方，也开始有一些需要适应的地方。也许，所谓的落脚处，并不一定是一座房子，也不一定是一座城市。它可能只是有一天，你走在街上，风吹过来，你忽然发现——
这里的人，我认识了一些。
这里的街道，我开始走得熟悉。
而我的诗，也愿意在这里落下来。
十五年的漂泊，让我看见了许多地方。而此刻的沉淀，也许正让我学着，不只是去远方寻找诗，而是让诗在一个地方慢慢生根。
新加坡在飘诗。
而我正在往画廊走去的路上，刚好走在诗里。