Eric Valles (b. 1968)
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War of the Worlds at Cochrane Lodge II
Written by Eric Valles
Dated 30 Nov 2020
The striving for images to gather together the traces of an original experience of trauma is a dilemma for the poet in a dialogue with the reader or viewer. Besides recreating what is inherently unspeakable, the poet has to contend with the requirements of his craft. This dilemma is widespread and critical in our time of mass migration and interminable conflict.
War of the Worlds at the Biennale
Arms akimbo, humanoids with wooden faces,
Impervious to adulation by spectators,
Stake out a few square feet of roofspace.
If irked by complaints of their strangeness,Their red-flame eyes do not show it
Beside giant mothballs packed tight like housing estates,
Dangling on the edge above a yard of city hall, nice image
The risks to fibreglass limbs unperceived by localsGlaring through glass at an air-conditioned alley.
Squinting through lenses, I scrutinise their features.
Save for their colour – yellow, purple or grey—
The aliens are no stranger thanRosewood-coloured ones atop pick-ups with skins like pine,
Sores and ulcers unseen by eyes blinkered
By performance bonds and bottom lines nice image
In Lambourginis zipping down South Beach Road.Paper humanoids will be carted away
In boxes stamped “Fragile. Handle with care.”
But foreign workers’ hearts are not of steel
but of sinews; when rent, they take a lifetime to heal.
Walter Benjamin claims that the age of mechanical reproduction has led to the loss of the work of art’s aura, which is described variously as “an object … [in] the domain of tradition” and “a unique experience.” Following his lead, I have reframed the original poem from the Singapore Biennale to a migrant workers’ dormitory.
War of the Worlds at Cochrane Lodge II
Arms akimbo, migrant workers in facemasks,
impervious to intimidation by the security guard
stake out a few square feet of parquet floor
for prayer mats with gray tape, one meter apart.
Their red-flame eyes try hard not to show
that they have been up all night crying,
on the edge above a yard of their dorm,
guessing who among them will the ambulance take next.Glaring through a shield at an air-conditioned ward,
squinting through glasses, I scrutinise their symptoms.
Save for the colour, they have the same furrowed forehead
as locals when they are told they’re positive.
Lungi, toothbrush, paste will be carted away
in boxes to Khoo Teck Puat where they’re given soft pillows.
Their hearts are not of stone so they break down:
They’ve never had soft pillows in Cochrane Lodge II.
I am using the anima methodi form, whose characteristic repetition of imagery recreates the experience of trauma. The recreation is based on the authentic experience of Bangladeshi poet and arts advocate Zakir during the Covid-19 pandemic. What is commonplace for the Bangladeshi migrant worker can be approached as something sacred and, therefore, can be delineated as a ritual.
