Interviewing Cyril Wong

Interviewing Cyril Wong

Singapore, 31st August 2018

Cyril Wong is prolific poet and fictionist whose last book of poems, The Lover’s Inventory, received the 2016 Singapore Literature Prize. 

JF: One thing that struck me about Singaporean poets is the way references seem to be Anglophone. Does it have to do with education?
Yes, yes. There were a lot of different cultural groups that wanted to have the most power over Singapore, so our founding prime minister decided that the language should be English, to make it more equal. Of course, that caused a lot of problems with our Chinese heritage. It got very ugly very quickly. But over time I guess everyone has accepted that it works. At the same time, Singapore is a very young country, so you can tell that the older generation feels a little bit left out, because their English isn’t that great. They were forced to learn it at a later time in their lives. In order to help them, a lot of us in Singapore are able to speak a bit of everything.

JF: You speak a little bit of Mandarin, I suppose. 
Yes.

JF: And Malay?
No, but I can understand a lot of words. Chinese is very complicated – there are so many dialects. And the older generations speak very obscure dialects. I wish I was better at that. I am at a very weird position: I can understand what they are saying, but I can’t answer. It’s very awkward.

JF: The fact English became the main language seems to have led to the fact that poems in Singapore appear to be having a conversation with English Literature, and not, for example, with Chinese Literature. Do you study Asian Literature at school?
Only English. That is a very interesting question. I guess it boils down to the fact that even our education is based on very practical concepts. Everyone studies books in English, even if they are, say, by a Chinese or an Indian writer. We cherry-pick writers from other cultures who already write in English. I guess it can lead to a lack of diversity. We don’t necessarily study any stories or poems in the vernacular languages. I’m sure something has been lost along the way, but we don’t know what that is yet.

JF: I imagine you would have an oral tradition. I walked by the Read Bridge and they say that Chinese workers used to go there and tell tales and poems on Saturdays.
That doesn’t happen anymore, that’s for sure. 

JF: But this oral tradition exists, I imagine.
The government, as you might have already guessed, is very dictatorial. For a period, all public performances required a permit. That has since been relaxed for poetry and music performances, but if one publicly recites poetry that is controversial, you still run the risk of getting into legal trouble.

JF: I just wasn’t sure we could talk about this without getting you into trouble. Laughs.
I don’t care about it, really. I’ve said worse things. [Laughs] Because of our practical reality, the government has had to make very difficult decisions and sometimes very cruel ones. I guess one of the less obviously cruel decisions has been to eliminate oral traditions, and all the dialects. What happens after that is there is a retrospective strategy where these oral traditions are being brought back but in English. This is done for practical reasons, as very few people would be able to understand the whole thing, but it becomes another practical concern. 

 JF: It has some advantages.
Yes, but also disadvantages, definitely. Vernacular language specialists would tell you that a lot was lost.

 JF: You have a PhD. What did you write about? I’m curious, as you seem to be a prolific writer in every field.
The word ‘practical’ is going to come out a lot in this conversation.

 JF: (Laughs) It’s fine.
I couldn’t survive as a poet. And I’ve always told my teachers I wanted to be a student forever.

 JF: Yes, I feel the same. 
I wanted to go into academics’ rooms and have conversations, and just learn things. I decided to do my Masters because it was free – they gave me a nice research scholarship. Then I overstayed my welcome and it became a PhD. It didn’t really matter what I wrote about. My Masters was on American poetry, which I love very much, and for my PhD I wrote about what does it mean to write a cosmopolitan novel. I was very fascinated by the idea of cosmopolitanism, and how relevant it is in literature today, especially literature in English. I focused on two authors: J. M. Coetzee and Kazuo Ishiguro. Does the concept mean anything? And how do these novels reflect the concerns of globalisation and cosmopolitanism?

 JF: Are you a cosmopolitan poet, in a way? 
As a poet, I’m very much concerned with – I’m very suspicious of the word, universal– but I strive towards it anyway. It’s a tension I explore in my poetry. I strive towards a universal audience. I write about semi-universal things, but from a very personal perspective. 

 JF: The entry on The Oxford Companion of Modern Poetry describes you as a 'confessional poet’. It is true, but at the same time it feels as if they described you like that because you focus on things poets usually don’t focus on in Singapore.
The problem is that a lot of poetry in Singapore, is nearly the opposite of what I do.

 JF: Is it fear?
Yes, fear is definitely a huge part of it. We put the cart before the horse. The history of our country’s poetry starts off with the public. In order to succeed as a poet, you have to talk about public things: the lion, this building, that building, how beautiful Singapore is… We’re so afraid of talking about ourselves in a deeper way.

But I resisted that urge. I needed to feel it was natural to me, so I wrote confessional poetry. I did it organically. The trouble came when I started to publish it. Everyone was basically telling me to shut up. That I shouldn’t be doing this. I felt like I was a Literary Activist in a way. I was filling a void.

 JF: That’s true. You have this poem called ‘Interrogation’. Were there consequences? What struck me as odd was the fact that you’ve won awards – you won the Singapore Literature Prize – but at the same time you were forbidden to engage with certain topics. 
You’ve just summed up the experience of Singaporean practice. It’s very conflicted, it’s very ambivalent.

 JF: Portugal had a dictatorship until 1975, so we are familiar with things like that.
I think you had it worse, though. Much worse.

JF: In many regards, yes. This type of social construction is similar: you have a lion, we had other icons whose aim was to build a national identity. But what was weird for me is that in Portugal you couldn’t write about certain things unless you coded them. But here you were able to win awards while writing very explicit poems. 
It was an uphill struggle. In the beginning I coded it as well. The gender wasn’t always clear. I think it was only from the second book onwards that it started to become clearer.

JF: Is it forbidden?
It is not forbidden. If you write about certain things too obviously and no knows who you are in the first place no one will publish you. You have to be somebody first. I was very fortunate. The first book, which hit a homerun, is very coded. I felt as if I was lying just to get my foot into the door. I got a lot of media attention for it. It was a really weird situation. I was grateful for the attention, but I wish it wasn’t for this book. I really hated the book. I just really hated it. But I decided to use this leverage to talk about more painful subjects, one-night stands…

JF: I really like those poems. I think I read in an interview that you had plans to stop writing, but that was in 2015. I suppose you changed your mind.
I’ll always be writing, I guess. That statement is a little unfortunate. I used to be very active on Facebook. I realised I’m very naïve about Facebook. Facebook is very public (laughs). I made a comment on Facebook saying: ‘Why do I even bother anymore?’. To hear that a library had destroyed some children’s books that had queer themes. Singapore is not changing. If I’m going to write books that will never be accepted into the common shelves of the library…

JF: They will, eventually.
I hope so. We all know Singapore is a very young country. I always think to myself: ‘Don’t get bitter too quickly’.

JF: But you’ll have, as you mentioned, a widespread audience sooner or later, so I wouldn’t worry too much. Unless that are consequences. Could you be arrested?
No, because in the government’s idea of what is controversial, the gay thingis very low on the list. The higher things would be, for instance, communism, race, religion…

 JF: I was reading some books on Lee Kuan Yew [Singapore’s Prime-Minister from three decades], and he made a remark about how, when he started rebuilding Singapore, he feared it would become a place like Beirut. It sounded as if he had really strong views on how all religions had to get along.
He understood. If you look at other countries, when the tension gets out of hand, you have riots, and all kinds of trouble. And Singapore is so small. Any kind of friction easily gets out of hand. Singapore is done for. We are constantly in survival mode. We have to preserve harmony at all costs. This is the root of the Singaporean psyche in a way: we have to maintain harmony, or else Singapore will fail. It’s very successful, everyone believes him, really.

 JF: A journalist asked him if that wasn’t a bit paranoid. I mean, I could understand that after the war, or even in 1965, but nowadays? 
I guess the more optimistic way of looking at it is he didn’t want to see any racial group in Singapore marginalised by any other group. Because, I mean, we see our neighbors: we have China, Indonesia, Malaysia…if any group were to try to dominate…

 JF: Yes, that I understand.
So the government keeps a watchful eye, to make sure that never happens. It is good and bad. Sometimes it causes a lot of really ridiculous censorship laws, and weird penalties. For instance, if you were to stage a play in Singapore, you’d need to get a license. And to get a license your play must… almost be a play for children. You cannot talk about this, you cannot talk about that, you have to make sure the Malay character is not criticised for its race. Over time the rules have changed a little bit, but fundamentally it is still the same. You cannot be critical, you cannot be too outspoken…and on top of all that, I think the highest concern is that you cannot criticise the government. So it’s government first. Race, religion, and everything else – including the gay thing – came after it.

JF: It is a unique city, I will grant you that. 
It is, it is. The result of that is that everyone is addicted to this harmony, and the fact that Singapore is so pretty. That’s the reward for all that repression. A lot of people here do not question it anymore, because they are so comfortable. 

JF: Singapore at times feels a little bit like The Hunger Games, District 1. Laughs.
Yes, it’s irrational. Psychologically you could look at it this way: Singapore is a town that happened to have some success, and now it’s slowly growing up and realising that there are more important things than economics, and being a global hub. I think we need to preserve certain things. The government has been launching these weird campaigns. I think the most absurd campaign we have ever had to me was the smiling campaign, to make us smile more.

JF: Really? 
And also the kindness campaign, for us to be kind. That’s what I mean by a country that is growing up. You start to realise that we shouldn’t be hostile and terrible, to each other and to the environment…no! You created us this way, it’s a little too late now. 

JF: Why was it necessary to smile more? For tourists or just for one another?
I guess that’s an open question. I think it’s about tourism. And also, when you make people smile more, they are less likely to criticize the government. One great thing about Facebook is that when you repress people for so long all that energy has to go somewhere. And Facebook became that space. Every time a train breaks down, people become hysterical about the government. 

JF: Facebook is allowed? 
Yes. 

JF: Are there restrictions imposed on the press? 
Yes.

JF: Do you have access to everything online?
In terms of newspapers and things like that, yes – everything is available online. 

JF: So that is also a contradiction, because you can read it elsewhere, because everyone speaks English. You just can’t write about it here. 
Facebook is a space for everyone to let loose.

JF: And aren’t people punished for it?
It’s how you say it, you see. It’s not what one person says, it’s the way you say it. For example, ‘Singapore is supposed to be a first world nation, but it’s full of shit, it’s full of rubbish’. It’s how you say it, right? You’d never accuse one minister directly, you can’t do that. If you do that you’ll get into trouble. 

JF: In your poetry people seem to focus on the confessional side but you have very political poems.
In terms of the censorship rules in Singapore, the government just thinks that poetry doesn’t matter. A poet can get away with a lot more things than, say... 

JF: A novelist, for example?
Yes, or a filmmaker. Filmmaking is the number one. You cannot do anything in film, seriously. Number two would be theatre, and number three would be everyone else. Writers? They just think: who reads?

JF: How many books has a poetry book edition?
I’m a bit of a weird case: each book can go up to about 1000, 2000.

JF: That’s a lot!
Yes, but usually the run for a first-time poet would be about 200 to 500. The government sees these numbers and thinks: why bother?

JF: I also liked the fact that some of the poems are very critical of religion. The poem about John Paul II, for example.
Catholicism really fucked me up.

JF: You were raised Catholic.
Yes. My father was a catechism teacher. He gave me hell for being gay. And the funny thing is that the Church won me over when I was really young. I think a lot of gay boys or intruders had a similar story. Before confirmation, we all had this starry-eyed notion of what religion is, and some of us even wanted to be priests one day. We just liked the glamour of it (laughs). I mean, I was sold. The problem is that emotionally, as a child, you are so sold on it, that the comedown from it is very dramatic. The moment you realise that you’re going to go to hell for being who you are. I really fell into despair, outrage. All of the negative emotions. I guess poetry was a kind of guiding light. 

JF: You seem to choose a topic for each book. For example, your last book is amazing.
My partner calls it the dirty book. 

JF: Did he like it?

He said it showed all his faults. So much of it is about him. He doesn’t appreciate that fully.

JF: Well, he’ll remain for posterity. 

Yes, but it’s always my side of the story. The poet is never fair. 

JF: That’s true. 

And he knows that. Which is why I always tell him that at least I paint him in a good light. I don’t make you out to be some ogre, or something like that. That’s my father, you know (laughs).

JF: Do you think of a topic before you plan a book, or do the poems come together at a certain point? 

I’m a very instinctive poet. Usually it starts out with an image, or a memory, or an emotion, and then I describe it in a poem, and then I’ll think about another poem in the same line as the first poem. If I’m writing about sex from one level, I’ll move on to another level that provides a completely different perspective. And people will think: ‘Oh, I’m on a roll here’. I just keep on doing it, and then I pick the best poems. It’s really organic. I don’t have an original structure at the start.

JF: But at the same time you’re virtuous in your use of form. Do you think about rhyme or meter when you write?

I think it just stems from a unique kind of playfulness that just comes through. I don’t consciously go: ‘this poem must rhyme today’. I just think: ‘it will be fun if I pick a word that chimes with that other word’. There’s some pleasure about this, I don’t really think about it. 

JF: You never feel anguished about writing?

In what way, though?

JF: Certain authors hate to write; it’s painful for them. 

The anguish comes at the beginning. The poetry is a way of getting over the anguish. It’s a bridge out of the pain. I guess it answers that question of where the poems come from. The poems come from a lot of hurt, and from the vicissitudes of life. And the poems help me to resolve them. The writing of it, and especially the ending of it, feels good. 

JF: That’s really nice. We always ask if there are things in poetry which you really dislike. It might be a cliché, or a figure of style…

Dishonesty. 

JF: Could you elaborate? 

When I read a poem, it doesn’t matter what style it is. But I can sense if the poet is hiding behind abstraction or form, and just not saying the full truth, or not being willing to be naked or vulnerable enough to interrogate the whole perspective of the issue. Sometimes poets themselves are not great human beings. I’m not a great human being. And I want to establish that in a poem. And when poets become the artist on a mountain declaring the truth of the world – that position really puts me off. Some poets are so full of form and experimentation, but they just aren’t honest. 

JF: It’s empty, it’s an empty type of speech. 

Yes, but sometimes they get away with it. And it just inspires other people to be as dishonest as them. 

JF: Yes, that’s true. What about figures of style, or things that you particularly like?

I love free verse. I love the prose poem form. What I love about them is that they are bit of everything. There is a certain lyricism that comes with conversational speech, a certain rhythm and flow. But there’s also a structure. It’s very paradoxical. It has to follow all these rules. I love free verse and the prose poem because there are some rules, but there’s also room for you just to throw them in the kitchen sink if you want.

JF: Which poets from Singapore do you like?

 I love Arthur Yap, a huge inspiration for me. He is nothing like me, yet there is a certain campiness about him when he writes. A certain playfulness that I sometimes aspire to. But I always try to couple that with a deep sense of honesty about my own life. Arthur tries to veer away from his life as much as possible, which is very, very interesting. Another person that I really like is Tania De Rozario, an Eurasian poet. She only has, I think, one or two books out. Her poems remind me of mine, in the way they are confessional. There are also queer themes. But her voice feels like a much stronger, and more resilient voice than mine. It’s something I admire. Because, again, it’s different from me. I’m a lot more vulnerable and weepy. But she is very strong in the way she sees the world. I wish I was more like that. I don’t have that strength. 

JF: I will look her up. 

I think you’ll be able to find some of her poems online, as well. She has a website and everything.

JF: How about Edwin Thumboo? 

You cannot talk about Singaporean poetry without talking about Edwin Thumboo.

JF: I went to the National Library to look up books and he was on display. His poetry seems to be very nationalistic, is this the reason why he seems to be Singapore’s number one poet?

It’s an image he has cultivated for himself very consciously. I guess it was a very opportunistic thing to do. As Singapore was coming into this whole as a country he decided that our poetry needed to sing about Singapore; to endorse the nation. He took it upon himself to become that artist. That forever places him in a unique position for posterity, right? It’s kind of unfortunate – I don’t know whether he thinks it is unfortunate because I think he is quite full of himself (laughs) – because if you read enough of his poems you’ll realise that he writes about other things as well. And some of his love poems about his wife…

JF: Oh, I haven’t read those. I’ll have to look for them. 

That’s the thing – you have to look for them. That was, for me, his real poetry. The poems where he talked about his life, his love, his strengths. Those for me are the most memorable. Not the poems about the Merlion, or the poems about this or that building.

JF: Those are the ones I read. I mean, he does have good lines. But it seems artificial.

He’s the quintessential postcolonial poet. His poetic ancestry was Eliot, Yeats, Keats. He writes in that style. He’s very skillful with borrowing from that style and making it his own. It makes him very unique. Only he can do that now. 

JF: You mentioned posterity. Do you think posterity will remember you?

I am kind of blessed, fortunately. I’m Buddhist, in a way. I think my existential goal in Singapore has only been to chip away at the wall of conservatism regarding what can be said via poetry, via art. That’s all I strive to do. Publishing my poems allowed me to give something that is just as valuable, or even more valuable: I was able to connect with other lonely, queer readers like myself. All this is very temporary, and I’m okay with that. As long as my poems were of some comfort to someone...I don’t care about what happens after I’m dead.