Poetry and Letters.

About Poetry and Letters.

I am a Private Banker and Client Advisor based in Singapore, with over 30 years of experience across corporate and investment banking, private banking, and asset management. My career has taken me through leading global institutions including Barclays, UBS AG, Citibank, and Standard Chartered Bank, where I’ve had the privilege of serving clients and building long-term relationships. In the past, I held senior leadership roles such as Country Head of Citigroup Asset Management Indonesia, Director of PT Citigroup Securities Indonesia, and Head of Investors and Intermediaries for Real Money Funds and Broker-Dealers at Standard Chartered Bank Indonesia. These experiences shaped my perspective on global markets and strengthened my ability to deliver integrated solutions for clients. I graduated from the University of Indonesia with a degree in Economics and Development Studies, and I am fluent in both English and Bahasa Indonesia. I bring an entrepreneurial spirit and resourcefulness to my work, focusing on tailored strategies that combine Wealth Management, Investment Banking, and Asset Management for Ultra High Net Worth Individuals and Global Family Offices. Outside of work, I enjoy exploring nature, music, literature, and the arts. I am a passionate classical pianist and multi-instrumentalist, having studied piano and composition under the mentorship of Indonesia’s renowned composer, Trisutji Kamal.

Publisher

Rizka Baely

Category

society & culture

Language

en

Explicit

No

First episode

14 Nov 2021

Latest episode

2 Apr 2025

Latest episodes

17 episodes in the feed.

1. 

   2 Apr 2025

   Peace

   A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since departed, Mark the mastodon. The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages. But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my shadow. I will give you no hiding place down here. You, created only a little lower than The angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darkness, Have lain too long Face down in ignorance. Your mouths spelling words Armed for slaughter. The rock cries out today, you may stand on me, But do not hide your face. Across the wall of the world, A river sings a beautiful song, Come rest here by my side. Each of you a bordered country, Delicate and strangely made proud, Yet thrusting perpetually under siege. Your armed struggles for profit Have left collars of waste upon My shore, currents of debris upon my breast. Yet, today I call you to my riverside, If you will study war no more. Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs The Creator gave to me when I And the tree and stone were one. Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow And when you yet knew you still knew nothing. The river sings and sings on. There is a true yearning to respond to The singing river and the wise rock. So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew, The African and Native American, the Sioux, The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek, The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh, The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, The privileged, the homeless, the teacher. They hear. They all hear The speaking of the tree. Today, the first and last of every tree Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river. Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river. Each of you, descendant of some passed on Traveller, has been paid for. You, who gave me my first name, You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, Then forced on bloody feet, Left me to the employment of other seekers— Desperate for gain, starving for gold. You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot… You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare Praying for a dream. Here, root yourselves beside me. I am the tree planted by the river, Which will not be moved. I, the rock, I the river, I the tree I am yours—your passages have been paid. Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need For this bright morning dawning for you. History, despite its wrenching pain, Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage, Need not be lived again. Lift up your eyes upon The day breaking for you. Give birth again To the dream. Women, children, men, Take it into the palms of your hands. Mold it into the shape of your most Private need. Sculpt it into The image of your most public self. Lift up your hearts. Each new hour holds new chances For new beginnings. Do not be wedded forever To fear, yoked eternally To brutishness. The horizon leans forward, Offering you space to place new steps of change. Here, on the pulse of this fine day You may have the courage To look up and out upon me, The rock, the river, the tree, your country. No less to Midas than the mendicant. No less to you now than the mastodon then. Here on the pulse of this new day You may have the grace to look up and out And into your sister's eyes, Into your brother's face, your country And say simply Very simply With hope Good morning. (Maya Angelou, "The Rock Cries Out to Us Today")

2. 

   28 Dec 2024

   On Children.

   "You don’t choose your family. They are God’s gift to you, as you are to them.” –Desmond Tutu We held a Family Forum to engage in discussions about succession planning, investment strategies, and philanthropy. This event was designed to collaboratively prepare and empower our family, ensuring that we create a strong foundation for future generations. By sharing insights, we aim to foster a legacy that reflects our values and strengthens our commitment to making a positive impact on society. "On Children" (by Kahlil Gibran) Your children are not your children They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself They come through you but not from you And though they are with you yet they belong not to you You may give them your love but not your thoughts For they have their own thoughts You may house their bodies but not their souls For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams You may strive to be like them But seek not to make them like you For life goes not backward, nor tarries with yesterday You are the bows from which your children As living arrows are sent forth The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite And he bends you with his might That his arrows may go swift and far Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness For even as he loves the arrow that flies So he loves also the bow that is stable #family #jnhummel #kahlilgibran #children #successionplanning #legacyplanning #classicalpiano #pianomusic #poems #poetry

3. 

   12 May 2024

   Bird Watching.

   To a Skylark Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of Heaven, In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a Poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace-tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aëreal hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embower'd In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower'd, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves: Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, Sprite or Bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus Hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now. (Percy Shelley)

4. 

   5 May 2024

   Musings on Music.

   Human lives are composed like music. Guided by his sense of beauty, an individual transforms a fortuitous occurrence into a motif, which then assumes a permanent place in the composition of the individual's life. Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress. It is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty. (The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera)

5. 

   21 Apr 2024

   Arts, Artists, Beauty.

   The Preface THE ARTIST is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things. The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty. There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all. The nineteenth century dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass. The nineteenth century dislike of Romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All art is quite useless. OSCAR WILDE.

6. 

   24 Mar 2024

   Hope.

   “Hope” is the thing with feathers BY EMILY DICKINSON "Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me. #equanimity #hope #positivity #faith #emilydickinson

7. 

   12 Nov 2023

   Ask Me Not of Sunset.

   Ask Me Not of Sunset. Do not come and ask me of sunset, For I have not seen one, For I have not been one. They came and asked: How about the greying of hair, The fall of tooth, The aching of bones, Is it not sunset? I answered them loud and clear: No, it is not sunset, Because for every strand of grey hair, Every tooth that fell, Every aching of the bones, A new wisdom will come, knocking at our door: Learn anew, it is dawn again. The next time they marched and shouted: How about the faces we forget, The names we cannot recall, The memories that fly away, Is it not sunset? So I answered them louder and clearer: No, it is not sunset. Because for every face, and name, And memory we lost, There is always a new song waiting to be sung, A new poem to be written, To honour all that have gone by. They stomped their feet and screamed: How about those departures of our beloved, Early evening slumber that feels too early, The loneliness of the soul, Is it not sunset? I smiled and answered: No, it is not sunset, For every departure will remind us To paint a worthwhile legacy, All loneliness and slumber that feels too early, Will be wiped away by a morning prayer, And by a first, small step in the dawn. Ask me not of sunset, For I have not seen one, For I have not been one. (by Rizka Baely) #poems #sunset #gracefulaging #creativity #productivity #poetry #meaningfullife #usefullife #purposeoflife

8. 

   5 Nov 2023

   Ask Me Not of Sunset. By Rizka Baely.

   Do not come and ask me of sunset, For I have not seen one, For I have not been one. They came and asked: How about the greying of hair, The fall of tooth, The aching of bones, Is it not sunset? I answered them loud and clear: No, it is not sunset, Because for every strand of grey hair, Every tooth that fell, Every aching of the bones, A new wisdom will come, knocking at our door: Learn anew, it is dawn again. The next time they marched and shouted: How about the faces we forget, The names we cannot recall, The memories that fly away, Is it not sunset? So I answered them louder and clearer: No, it is not sunset. Because for every face, and name, And memory we lost, There is always a new song waiting to be sung, A new poem to be written, To honour all that have gone by. They stomped their feet and screamed: How about those departures of our beloved, Early evening slumber that feels too early, The loneliness of the soul, Is it not sunset? I smiled and answered: No, it is not sunset, For every departure will remind us To paint a worthwhile legacy, All loneliness and slumber that feels too early, Will be wiped away by a morning prayer, And by a first, small step in the dawn. Ask me not of sunset, For I have not seen one, For I have not been one.

9. 

   22 Oct 2023

   Bird Feeder by Marilyn Nelson.

   Approaching seventy, she learns to live, at last. She realizes she has not accomplished half of what she struggled for, that she surrendered too many battles and seldom celebrated those she won. Approaching seventy, she learns to live without ambition: a calm lake face, not a train bound for success and glory. For the first time, she relaxes her hands on the controls, leans back to watch the coming end. Asked, she’d tell you her life is made out of the things she didn’t do, as much as the things she did do. Did she sing a love song? Approaching seventy, she learns to live without wanting much more than the light in the catbird window seat where, watching the voracious fist-sized tweets, she hums along.

10. 

    15 Jun 2023

    Corrections. Actions.

    It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. (Ulysses by Alfres, Lord Tennyson). #ulysses #jonathanfranzen #procrastinations #corrections #leotolstoy #actions #meditations

11. 

    17 May 2023

    Mother.

    I found Robert Frost's poem, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening", as a poem that best describes a mother's journey, especially its last stanza: "The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep." A mother is promises well-kept: A promise to love unconditionally, A promise to give abundantly, A promise to wait patiently, A promise to forgive wholeheartedly. A mother is also a lifetime journey: A journey to explore, A journey to strive, A journey to survive, A journey to thrive. Happy Mother's Day. - Rizka Baely. #stoppingbywoodsonasnowyevening #mothers #motherhood. #robertfrost P.S.: "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

12. 

    1 Feb 2023

    Ask Me Not of Sunset. A Poem by Rizka Baely.

    Do not come and ask me of sunset, For I have not seen one, For I have not been one. They came and asked: How about the greying of hair, The fall of tooth, The aching of bones, Is it not sunset? I answered them loud and clear: No, it is not sunset, Because for every strand of grey hair, Every tooth that fell, Every aching of the bones, A new wisdom will come, knocking at our door: Learn anew, it is dawn again. The next time they marched and shouted: How about the faces we forget, The names we cannot recall, The memories that fly away, Is it not sunset? So I answered them louder and clearer: No, it is not sunset. Because for every face, and name, And memory we lost, There is always a new song waiting to be sung, A new poem to be written, To honour all that have gone by. They stomped their feet and screamed: How about those departures of our beloved, Early evening slumber that feels too early, The loneliness of the soul, Is it not sunset? I smiled and answered: No, it is not sunset, For every departure will remind us To paint a worthwhile legacy, All loneliness and slumber that feels too early, Will be wiped away by a morning prayer, And by a first, small step in the dawn. Ask me not of sunset, For I have not seen one, For I have not been one.

13. 

    27 Dec 2021

    Meditations for Women Who Do Too Much.

    I talked about my journal entry for the New Year: my resolutions, the 'Way', the most important people and thing in my life, my prayers and meditations. I also read Schaef's January 1 entry from her book "Meditations for Women Who Do Too Much."

14. 

    29 Nov 2021

    Reflections on Jacqueline Kennedy's Words.

    I am reading for you two pages of The Best-Loved Poems of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, who is one of the icons of our time and one of the most inspiring women in the world.

15. 

    25 Nov 2021

    Invictus.

    This is one of my favourite poems. It tells us to never, never, never lose faith.

16. 

    21 Nov 2021

    Good Books and Work.

    I am reading from Tolstoy's Calendar of Wisdom about Good Books and reciting Gibran's poem on Work.

17. 

    14 Nov 2021

    Ithaca.

    Ithaca by Constantine P. Cavafi always reminds me that life is a journey, an adventure to be fully experienced, enjoyed and lived.

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2 ratings

Podcast Authority Score: 63 / 100

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