Felix Cheong
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Auld Lang Syne Redux
Written by Felix Cheong
Dated 19 Jun 2020
Writing for the eye is a different skill from writing for the ear. And writing for the voice is another skill altogether.
In this respect, “Once More, Auld Lang Syne”, one of the poems from my fifth collection, B-Sides and Backslides: 1986-2018, offers a rather curious origin story. It was initially written to be recited to music, found its way to print, then had its moving parts re-assembled a year later to be sung.
The poem was born on the eve of New Year’s Eve in 2017, in the flat of classically-trained pianist Natalie Ng. Along with multidisciplinary sonic artist Mervyn Wong, we had met for the first time to “jam” and see what we could come up with collaboratively. (We would later assume the name Osmosis when performing as a trio at various venues like Blu Jaz, LASALLE College of the Arts and The Arts House.)
As with most things creative by serendipity (or boredom), Mervyn started playing two random notes repeatedly on the piano while I was in the restroom. There and then, for whatever reason unknown to God and man, a sudden drip of poetry was turned on in my head. Within half an hour, the poem came alive on the page, its heart beating to the metronymic rhythm Mervyn had set into emotion.
The lines are simple, as are the rhymes; the sentiment is mawkish, as befitting a poem breathing at the burnt-end of the year. (You could, if you are so inclined, psychoanalyse it as a confessional poem about my failed first marriage.) And, of course, like a song, it comes with a bridge, a turn that makes sense of the preceding verses and guides you to the last verse.
It was my first poem written specially to be recited and laid softly on a bed of music. You can listen to our recording here.
Once More, Auld Lang Syne
The year cuts you to the quick and long,
Its last breath between your fingers strong.
Through its bars, oh, how you long,
Watching wine bubble into sighs
To the cry of Auld Lang Syne.
You turn, and return to
A place you had once belonged,
Young still and not a word wrong
When old loves must have known moon from night
And stars never lost, but never quite.
Did you give up, give way or just give in
To the nothing in-between?
Begin now, and travel light,
Your regrets distant in your wake,
Gently, opening the gate of sleep,
Tread into your past through and deep.
Find the life that was yours for keeps,
Before this song winds you down, and weeps.
Almost a year later, I had the opportunity to form another collective, this time with DJ-musician Jasmin Patel and opera singer Michelle Tan. (We called ourselves Pathfinder – yes, I have a penchant for strange names for artist collectives.) We were asked by the National Library to do an hour-long gig at its READ Festival in 2019.
As I pored over poems, recent and long-deceased, that could be put to music, it occurred to me: Since Michelle is a trained opera singer – and a fabulous mezzo-soprano at that – why not tweak “Once More, Auld Lang Syne” for her to sing to – here comes the no-brainer – “Auld Lang Syne”?
So, I spent an afternoon playing Victor Frankenstein as librettist. I performed open-heart surgery on the poem, preserved its heart and some of the couplets, set about expanding lines and extending metaphors but always mindful of the poem’s original meaning. I also had to write a chorus, playing with variations of the lines so that you never hear the same chorus twice.
More importantly, the words now have to fit the iambic stresses of the song, which was why I had to ditch the bridge. You can watch a recording of Michelle’s wonderful rendition here. Notice also how Jasmin had done a funky DJ mix with Lorde’s “Royals” towards the end.
Once More, Auld Lang Syne
The year cuts you to the quick and long,
Its breath in your fingers strong.
Through its bars, oh, how you long for time,
As your wine turns into sighs.[Chorus]
To the cry of Auld Lang Syne, my love,
To the place I had once belonged.
I was young and not a word was wrong
But the tears of Auld Lang Syne.You turn, return to where the stars
Had strayed but never far.
Old loves must know the moon from night
And your bed that nursed a light.[Chorus]
To the strains of Auld Lang Syne, my love,
To the years we had once belonged.
We were young and not a word was wrong
For the tears of Auld Lang Syne.Regrets now distant in your wake
And a kiss for old times’ sake.
I’ve found the life that was mine for keeps
And the past is through and deep.[Chorus]
To the call of Auld Lang Syne, my love,
To where we don’t belong.
We had loved and lived and we were wrong,
No more tears for Auld Lang Syne.
Listening to Michelle’s soulful rendition again as I’m writing this essay, I realise two things: The lyrics are lifeless without the body of her voice. And the process of reinventing the poem is reflective of its theme about letting go of the past.
For to rewrite is a necessary rite of passage for a poem to either grow up, or grow into something else. Though its heart and soul might remain the same – think of the old poem as a #throwback, a facsimile of yourself at a point in time – the poet has to feel and know its pulse and give it space. Trust in the integrity of the process, that the you now still have something to say through the poem.
