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The poetry scene thrives in cafés and on the internet, says Alvin Pang.
(As printed in the Spring 2004 issue of Poetry News)

Due to our colonial heritage and English-based education system, Singapore is one of the few territories in Asia with a strong tradition of writing in English. This dates back to at least the late 19th century. Perhaps the first significant native writing occurred in the ’50s and ’60s, energised by the independence movement, and the decades of “nation-building” which followed. Many writers (mostly poets) active at the time, soon came to occupy influential positions in academia. These scholar-poets – among them Edwin Thumboo, Arthur Yap, Lee Tzu Pheng and Kirpal Singh – still receive critical attention internationally, but are less well-known outside the university and literary circuit, although they exert a palpable influence behind the scenes.

Poetry in the late ’90s enjoyed something of a renaissance, with the happy confluence of several positive factors: the rise of the internet, the emergence of small literary presses, and the arrival of a new generation of young poets. Radically, none of the new poets of note are academics: typically in their twenties to early thirties, many are professionals in fields far removed from poetry. Several have been educated at top schools overseas. I believe their very different backgrounds allow this new breed of Singaporean poets a fresh perspective and energy that has been lacking in the scene for decades. The new poetry is wonderfully diverse, yet distinctively urban and cosmopolitan, modern, frequently street-wise, often startlingly intimate (even solipsistic, some have protested). The celebrated literary prodigy Alfian Saat is a prime example. Still in his twenties and a medical student, his deeply politicised and highly articulate poems, fiction and plays have attracted much adulation, from teenagers to university professors. Other names of note include: Cyril Wong, Felix Cheong, Toh Hsien Min and Paul Tan.

It wasn’t all easy going. Market forces being what they are, poetry seldom makes the headlines: there is no longer even a literary section in the national broadsheet. As elsewhere, the literary arts play poor cousin to glitzier genres such as the performing arts, visual arts and music – hence attracting a miniscule fraction of an already shrinking arts budget. Local writing is also glaringly absent from our schools, which at any rate are steeped in the Cambridge exam syllabus and tend to eschew the “difficult” subject of literature. Astonishingly, we’ve nevertheless managed to spawn quite a few gifted student writers, including several Foyle Young Poets (see page 7).

Our poets have had to stake their claim on the cultural map by becoming outright literary activists over the past eight years. They started and hosted readings, such as the monthly Subtext reading at the boutique Book Cafe (hosted by poet Yong Shu Hoong). They pushed small presses, notably Ethos Books, Landmark Books and Firstfruits, to publish a steady stream of high-quality, very well-designed volumes of poetry. Some of these books have gone on to win commercial design awards. Younger poets have also fronted a slate of non-scholarly anthologies such as Capsule and No Other City: The Ethos Anthology of Urban Poetry, and launched what I’m tempted to describe as aggressive tours to America, Australia, Asia and the UK (including the Edinburgh International Book Festival in 2003). They even put together Singapore’s first international poetry festival, Wordfeast (www.wordfe...) in January this year, and started a Literary Centre (www.litera...). We’ve seen readings in restaurants and wine-bars, by the sea, on roof-tops, even at the zoo. And poetry slams (a recent phenomenon) attract hundreds each month to Singapore’s top clubbing joint, Zouk.

The internet has also been a godsend. As high-impact, low-cost platforms for publication, publicity and public discussion, our literary websites attract thousands of readers from all over the world, and have become the primary means of spotting new talent or showcasing the latest events. Toh Hsien Min, a former Oxford University Poetry Society president, is the founding editor of Quarterly Literary Review Singapore (www.qlrs.c...), the premier literary journal on and off the web. Other lit-sites include The 2nd Rule (www.the2nd...), The Poetry Billboard (www.poetry...), and the Literary Singapore Infodesk (www.writer...), a literary news service.

Where is it all going? There’s definitely an audience for poetry now, but perhaps not yet a discerning readership. And something needs to be done about the dearth of new women poets (there are successful women novelists but hardly any published poets. Heng Siok Tian and Madeleine Lee are two exceptions). I’d also like to see more fertile exchanges between literary communities – it’s absurd, in a multi-cultural city like Singapore, that writers in our major language groups know so little about each other’s work. Interdisciplinary experiments between poetry and the other arts have only just begun. Drop by in person – or online – and see for yourself: there’s plenty brewing in this giddy, infuriating, unsentimental city on the edge that’s always on edge.

Poet, editor and webmaster Alvin Pang read at the poetry cafe in 2003. His most recent volume is City of Rain (ethos books 2003).

by Jirí Zizler. This article has been adapted by Transcript. Read the full text in our French or German versions.

Following the so-called period of 'normalisation' which began with the Russian invasion in the spring of 1968, the establishment had endeavoured to silence all Czech literary voices tinged with either spirituality or existentialism, encouraging only simplistic work which was happy to celebrate concrete aspects of the social order then in place.

Then, after November 1989, authors of several generations emerged on the Czech literary scene - the eldest of whose early work appeared at the time of World War 2, the youngest born after 1970 - who together formed a spectrum ranging from Catholicism on one hand to orthodox surrealism on the other. Czech poets saw their freedom of expression restored and looked to a future which promised uncensored communication. Three distinct threads - official literature, samizdat, and the literature of exile - were now woven together in a single cloth.

During the early 90s, poetry was perhaps the most influential genre in Czech literature. However, its importance was limited and it did not reach the greater part of the population: print-runs of the works of Nobel Prize Laureate Jaroslav Seifert, for example, ran to just 10,000 copies. Suffering from a lack of funding and of publicity, Czech poetry, once a major force in the life of the country, found itself consigned to the back seat.

This turn of events may be explained, in part at least, by a widespread scepticism regarding all forms of ideology. Other contributory factors were the prevalence of utilitarian values on the one hand, and on the other, a rejection of 'pretty words' and of the lyric for the lyric's sake. Different poetic tendencies mushroomed, some losing sight of the tradition, and a lack of cohesion and critical apparatus resulted in some literary and intellectual chaos.

During the mid- and late nineties, poet Jirí Kubena sought to counter an increasing lack of interest in poetry by organising regular events at Bítov Castle in Moravia. Publisher Martin Pluhácek took similar steps by setting up an international poetry festival in Olomouc.

Despite small print-runs, an average of 300-400 works of poetry appear now every year. As well as many first editions, publishers are taking it on themselves to anthologize the works of Czech poets who writing has remained uncollected; Jirí Kolár, Oldrich Mikulásek, Jan Skácel, Ivan Jelínek, Zdenek Rotrekl, Ivan Slavík, Bohuslav Reynek, and Jan Zahradnícek for example.

The work of songwriters (Karel Kryl, Vladimír Merta, Vlastimil Treanák, Jaroslav Hutka) who, for a number of years, spoke to the people in the absence of poets, has also been the object of attention.

The nineties is marked by a huge resurgence of spiritual poetry, much of it Catholic. Two major figures in this context are Ivan Slavik (1920-2002) and Zdenek Rotrekl (born 1920), both of whom made their literary débuts in the 1940s, but neither of whose complete works were available before the 90s. For both men, language is sacred and can lead to a heightened awareness of reality.

The poetry of Ivan Slavík may be described as a quest for hope and faith in a world plagued by uncertainty, and threatened by two forms of totalitarianism, one which has usurped traditional values, the other a mechanising and deshumanising force.

Zdenek Rotrekl spent thirteen years in communist prisons and his writing is indelibly marked by his experience. His work is an expression of faith in the dignity of freedom which emancipates man from otherwise inevitable ruin. His complete works became available only in 2001 entitled Nezdené mesto (City Without Walls). Rotrekl's poetry is complex and draws on baroque imagery, along with apocalyptic and allegorical visions, while finding room for surrealism and an element of linguistic absurdity, all combining to produce a highly original idiom.

Religion in the eyes of Rotrekl is the key to a heightening of morals and to a better appreciation of one's self. This process, far from being idyllic, results in much inner conflict and asks difficult questions of the believer.

Younger authors close to this spiritual school have a somewhat looser relationship with Catholicism. While staying tuned to its teachings, they are more concerned with the universality of the language of poetry. Faith for them is something deeply private which need not find its way onto the page in an explicit fashion.

Petr Borkovec (1970) has won many literary prizes, and is perhaps the most translated Czech poet of his generation. His handling of idiom and his unusual use of language sets him apart from the field.

Other younger poets are Pavel Kolmaka (1958) and Milos Dolezal (1970). Both writers are drawn to the rural parts of their country. Here, unencumbered by modern civilisation, consumerism and egocentricity, they are freer to search for the spiritual essence of things.

Ivan Divis (1924-1999), one of the most important figures in Czech poetry in the second half of the twentieth century, continued to exert influence during the 1990s. His going into exile in 1989 left its mark on his work, leading him to view not only his own country but the world at large as a place constantly threatened with catastrophe.

In the work of Karel Siktanc (1928), whose work was banned after 1968, poetry becomes the instrument of a ritual magic which may invoke the power of myth and recall ancestral memory. The Czech landscape is central to Siktanc. Summoned by the magical words of the poet, fate, love and death come together here to overcome travesty and ensure the past is not forgotten.

Ivan Wernish (1942), whose collected works are now available entitled Blbecká poezie (Poetry of Idiocy), builds a bewildering world of 'other-beings' who inhabit a time and place apart ruled by the absurd and by the imagination. In dreamlike visions tinged with pathos a world of reflecting the super-reality of poetry is born on the page.

Petr Kabes is another important name in contemporary Czech poetry. In his writing, snatches of conversation, literary quotations and moments of pensive vacancy combine to challenge the validity of the notion of poetic language. Kabes' experimental collages are, some would argue, an expression of scepticism vis à vis the ability of human kind to survive in a lexical world.

To conclude this short survey of contemporary Czech literature, mention should be made of Katerina Rudcenková (1976) whose two books Ludwig (2000) and Není nutné, abys me navatevoval (You don't have to come to see me) caused a wave of sensation when published. Rud
enková's mastery of the expression of emotional nuance is truly remarkable. Her poetry is at once a statement of faith in her fellow man, yet of disenchantment with the capacity for interpersonal communication which language offers.