Ellison’s Singlish Blues

Ellison, a famous poet, has taken a week-long job in a nearby bookstore. He arrives at 4PM every day and sits at a school desk up in the store's main window with his rickety typewriter. There he'll answer anyone's request and produce a poem off the top of his head.

It's winter, and especially cold for Portland. I walk in just after work and before dark. I'd heard this guy was miraculous, but I was skeptical. Houdini might not have impressed me on this day. Shakespeare might have bored me. In any case, I read the biographical blurb announcing Ellison's laurels, and note that he's achieved international fame as a writer, critic and sociolinguist.

A young black woman in formal attire, with a long beige wool coat and matching earmuffs, stands at the front of the line I join. She asks Ellison to produce a poem for "the memory" of a friend who's just passed away. He starts beating on his keyboard. The clacking sound verges on ridiculous, but he finishes quickly and passes the woman the poem, which she reads silently. Then I see her pull a hanky from her purse and wipe her eyes. "It's lovely," she blurts.

The next request comes from an elderly lady in a jogging outfit. She wants something "inspiring." Ellison beats on the keys and in a minute rips the paper out of his antique and hands it over. The lady looks at the words, giggles, and then asks "Can I shake your hand, young man?" to which he obliges.

Two other women get their poems, then it's my turn. I'm ready, I think.

Ellison looks at me over his reading glasses and says, " How can I help you?"

"Singlish. Would you...could you do a poem in Singlish?"

Ellison answers without hesitation: "Singlish? You're referring to the dialect of English spoken in Singapore, I assume."

I shake my head.

Ellison stops for a second, peers deeply into my eyes, then types. He looks intently at his work as he types. He moves his head closer to the page as he types. Then he removes the paper from the machine's spool with a zzzzzzp!

"This is for you," he says with confidence.

I read the following words:

Sing a poor man's song.

Sing it all day long.

Sing a poor man's song.

Sing it big and strong.

Please be brief.

Please no grief.

Sing a poor man's song.

Sing it all day long.

There's no one behind me. The famous poet looks me up and down, suspecting who knows what, and asks: "Do you understand it?"

Hrrrmph, I think. " Well, yeah, I do understand. Cute... But they really pay you to write this kinda stuff?"

"Yes indeed," Ellison says with a slight smirk. He looks beyond me over toward the door, maybe hoping for another request. Then, while threading a clean sheet of paper into his typewriter, he turns to me and whispers: "With such a ludicrous suggestion, how could you expect more?"

I take that comment in real slowly, then I cut loose: "Lu--di--crous ah? What-lah, you think you genius meh? Cultural imperialist pig ah? Aiyoh! Siao ah? Your madda! Say any po-em can, but cannot what. You sure got con job one."

With that I turn to go, but the poet is riled: " Good riddance, dog meat."

"Good what?" I ask on the rebound.

But I've understood perfectly. And before Ellison can react, I've jumped into the window display opposite him. I turn the typewriter my way and type....