The bourgeoise ethic of hard work. Unfortunately it seems that bourgeoise is a bad word now. Okay actually hard work applies to the hoi polloi as well.

Preliminary Conclusion: Hard work is good. Hard work backs up good ideas.

Anyway. You can't escape nationalism or culturalism when it comes to poetry of a young country, not least a post-colonial one.
But slowly the focus is turning on the individual, and so society will continue to look inward. What is the country, then?

Today once more

Years ago, where that old Bedok road suddenly
Swung inland, I felt you breathe. Benedicting
Sunlight by the pillbox lit a quiet in which I heard
My heart's first cry. It grew into a circling eagle,
Whose thermal eye kept free our dome of blue.
Far below the tide rippled, turned and gripped
Removing sand from under where I stood. You
Held me citizen as I grew, wondering in awe,
What made darkness come at noon, or why sea-salt
Bitterness, and the wind's lamentations, can cleanse.

From there a tale of colony, war and occupation;
From here a past we made from careful politics
For better history, and bright embraceable evenings.

Hunting for a future leaves memories and images
Of crucial moments: gritty challenges which, for some,
Are high despair and doubt; a time to think of leaving.
Stay and be damn'd, or prosper in our fashion.
We re-arranged ourselves, besieged our hills, re-made
The contexts of our lives as we gardened city and island
Now petal, shade, octaves in the night, and young faces,
Shift the mood and margins of our hopes, our seasons.
Side by side, old and young split Merlion thoughts, giving
Reasons, while savouring those two durians by the bay.

Each generation has its songs and destinations that assert
A different destiny. Theirs more digital; keyboard-bound.
I learn, adapt; process words to stalk and refresh nostalgia.
Today, no smoke from burning half-dried wood to smudge
Our skyline's signature. Eyes tearful, not from fumes,
But the death of friends. Gopal and James now live in
That ever present past. So does Lim Boh Seng. I cross
The Padang as banzais echo again, rolling down city steps
as Coleman's demolished home haunts the new with gusto.
I taste the stalls in Hock Lam Street, feeling the chillies rise
as Ah Lau cuts his fruits. Foodcourts are less friendly.
Regret? Yes and no. All is still here, as I pass the latest Bedok,
Knowing epiphany, tide and crab are still a mile away.

Edwin Thumboo.