Always More Beyond - Kianseng Ng

I decided to create a Technorati search for Billy Collins. The web sites of folks and poets who are posting Billy's poetry are plentiful. The trail here will wind amongst the words of some of them from time to time.

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".

He writes:

STILL A SMALL VOICE

“Kneeling”

“Moments of great calm,

Kneeling before an altar

Of wood in a stone church

In summer, waiting for God

To speak…………………

…………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.”

R.S. Thomas

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