Chris Mooney-Singh
is the founder of Poetry Slam in Singapore and Programme Director of a literary arts company teaching poetry and performance in schools. Of Australian Irish descent, he adopted Sikhism in 1989.
He has also published four poetry collections, co-edited a poetry anthology—The Penguin Book of Christmas Poems—and has three spoken word CDs, the latest being Living in the Land of the Durian Eaters. Mooney-Singh also has poems published online at Mindfire, Cezanne’s Carrot, Stylus, Ghazalpage and Quarterly Review of Literature, Singapore (QRLS).
He was a guest at the Austin International Poetry Festival, 2003 and the Hong Kong Writer’s Festival, 2004.
—Back to Work Poetry Contents—
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The Taxi Buddha
He is bald and chubby
at the wheel. A Buddha
among dashboard deities.
I’m just a pocket of coins
eyeing the meter.
What is his name?
Happy, he giggles.
How long has he been driving?
25 year.
How many children, Uncle?
4 son, 2 daughter.
All married. Lucky, ah?
The fruit of it?
Grandchildren drop
like fragrant pears
into the family fruit bowl
every other year.
The zodiac icon on the dash
with brushstroke eyes
has galloped all the way
from the Year the Horse.
Can it show me the Way?
Happiness—how long
have I been after it—
sitting in temples,
on riverbanks, ashrams:
chanting, studying,
meditating for years;
channeling the breath
to spring the lock
between the eyebrows
in search of it?
I’ve muttered mantras
and gained what entry?
Did I take a wrong turn?
The happy taxi has
black rubber prayer-wheels
and picks up speed
on a clear path,
flapping white silk
in the air-con stream,
jangling tiny bells.
Did he get this state
from the gods,
blue-tacked up front—
soapstone, plastic,
crystal, wood?
Detachment is not just
an idea anymore.
Eat up, enjoy, but don’t buy in
says the Prosperity Pig.
Drive yourself and others kindly,
suggests Kwan Yin.
Keep a light heart,
giggles Lucky
without saying anything at all.
Yes, the Laughing Buddha
Cab Company
is guiding me home
with one of its own.
Alighting at the bank
of the river of tar
I get out refreshed,
as from a stream
in the far mountains,
or the immortal Deer Park
and pay this ferryman
who takes the currency
in the begging bowl
of his hands.
He’s happy, so damn happy!
And now I too am lucky
as he passes subtle current
through the coin of small change
pressed into my palm.
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