Today we stop in Malaysia to find Kianseng Ng. Kianseng write in his profile page:
Kianseng Ng is a physician and Presbyterian Elder. He writes poetry, prose & he dabbles in Paper Batik Paintings, Photographic Montages, ATC (Artists Trading Cards) & Cut & Paste Collages. As a Physician specialising in Internal Medicine, he believes he is called "To Heal Some, To Comfort Many, To Love All". His work as an Elder is that of Dream-Making, Image-Shaping, Vision-Casting. Poetry is his forte, he writes believing that writing poetry is using the Creativity that God has put in him to Celebrate the Creation that God has put around him. His writings have been featured in 44 different journals in Malaysia, Singapore, India, New Zealand, Australia, USA.Many of his devotional poems have been translated into Mandarin. He was one of the prize winners in the prestigious New Straits Times & Shell Poetry Competition, Malaysia, 1995. (No competition was organised after that year.) He is the author of three volumes of Poetry, White Magic, Post-Cards From Kluang and Familiar Strange Country. He is presently working on his fourth volume of Poetry, tentatively entitled "A Different Kind Of Magic".
STILL A SMALL VOICE
“Moments of great calm,
Kneeling before an altar
Of wood in a stone church
In summer, waiting for God
…………Prompt me, God,
But not yet. When I speak,
Though it be you who speak
Through me, something is lost.
The meaning is in the waiting.”
What is this I hear above
The drone of to-day’s weather
Forecast? Is it not the beginning
Word of the breaking news
Coming from the frequency of my heart
Beats? Is it not the still
Small voice that Elijah heard?
I know it is not
A tinnitus because the ringing
Does not stop even when my ears
Are unstopped. I’m sure it is not
The sound of God taking a rib
From the side of my thoughts
And making it a metaphor more beautiful
Than Eve. I believe it is not
The hiss of the serpent
In the tree of my mind offering
The apple of the full sentence
In place of the seed
Of the singular Word.
Perhaps it is a clever trick
Of throwing the voice. The speaker
Is light years away, yet I hear
His words like the fevered throbbing
Of the arteries of my temple.
And like the dumbstruck doll
In the lap of the ventriloquist
I catch the thrown and make
It my own. Yes, my own, still
A small voice that belies
The clarity with which it largely
Stills the questions, “Am I loudspeaker
Or am I speaking aloud?
Am I prophet or am I full
Of new wine?”
For more please visit, Always More Beyond