Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine Issue #62 聲韻詩刊 第62期 - 21/21 Anthology 21/21詩選

聲韻 詩選

21 ／ 21

十週年

香港

香港

21 / 21 詩選

．

10th anniversary 21 / 21 Anthology Poetry from Hong Kong

62

Voice & Verse 21/21 Anthology Poetry from Hong Kong

ISSN 2308-2216 第 62 期 2021 年 12 月

ISSUE 62 December 2021

出版

PUBLISHER

石磬文化有限公司

MUSICAL STONE

社長 廖建中

DIRECTOR LIU KIN CHUNG

主編 宋子江

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF CHRIS SONG

評論編輯 鄭政恆

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編委 鄭政恆 周鉑陶 何麗明 雷暐樂 宋子江

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香港藝術發展局邀約計劃 This project is commissioned by the ADC. 香港藝術發展局全力支持藝術表達自由，本計劃內容並不反映本局意見。

21 ／ 21 詩 選 香 港

中 文 部 分 宋 子 江 編

致

香 港

致

你

目錄

我們與船

冬日紫薇

重操故業

進山

王良和

今文 夢回南生圍 嫁女餅 病毒 走鬼阿婆

A40

米米

蜘蛛人 年輕的墓碑

如是跋涉

紮染

打印機

崇拜

杯

池荒懸

A41 A44 A47 A49 A50 A54

A22 A24 A28 A29 A34 A36 A37 A38

宋子江 誕生 在柏林的東普魯士餐廳 萊頓尋杜 威士寄情 石榴 肺炎時期的抒情

周漢輝 黑雨 請客 草原之光書店

律銘

A90 A92

洛楓

A97 A114 A111 A108 A103 A100

A64 A66 A68 A70 A72 A74 A80 A83 A87

密居誌 其 •三

匯流 渡

沒有人愛沒有人 看見／看不見的城市光影 非法追月 城市的冠狀病毒 口罩臉皮

飲江 佢當然會回來（給羅樂敏）

陸上行舟 灰欄記 我們猜不出的謎

我的山村 荒園廢井 雨中走在上水 病中讀卡夫卡 老人與狗

彭依仁 陰影

質料 本部 錦石

潛 致魚皮 豬油撈飯

東京 古 • 書街

內心那微小風速計

穿衣裳的樹

二進元朗 ——

親愛的，今晚，你可否載我一程？

萍凡人

感君一回顧

莊元生

A150 A148 A145 A143 A142 A162 A160 A159 A157 A156 A154

A126 A123 A122 A121 A118 A139 A137 A134 A132 A130

葉英傑 聚會 江戶東京博物館 繁衍 走上蒙馬特高地聖心堂 走路回家時看見不知道名字的花

廖偉棠 寒港 港珠澳大橋 夜禱 無名⽒ 夜讚 立冬

熒惑 無題 伊巴爾大橋 化城再來人 莫倫貝克 何時開始 九龍塘站天橋 蝴蝶飛 二十年祭

沿高速公路走，去買一包中國米

浣花箋

樹劫

鹿

劉偉成

A205 A203 A200 A198 A196 A194 A192 A190 A219 A216 A213 A210

A175 A173 A171 A169 A166 A187 A185 A184 A182 A181 A178

璇筠

給同在貧民區生長的 ──

然而你仍然在跑 藥 八月的港鐵 自白 同學聚會 翡翠的雨

鄧阿藍 濕衣 故事足球場 夢尋夢 瘟疫下獨居的口罩

鄭政恆 巡遊以後 翅膀 在柴灣海角旁的工廠大廈 無可疑 抗疫時代

虛雪

月想

微明

我只會告訴你這些

棉被與欄杆

油甘子

鍾國強

A256 A255 A253 A251 A248 A266 A265 A264 A262 A260 A258

A233 A232 A231 A230 A226 A222 A245 A242 A238 A236

M

伸手拾取廚桌上的刀子

洞

洋蔥

竹林

羅樂敏

A275 A274 A272 A268

王良和

現任香港教育大學文學及文化學系副教授。曾獲青年文學獎、中文文學創作獎、香港 中文文學雙年獎、香港藝術發展局文學獎。著有詩集《樹根頌》、《尚未誕生》、《時 間問題》；散文集《魚話》、《女馬人與城堡》、《街市行者》；小說集《魚咒》、《破 地獄》、《蟑螂變》等。 詩作 進山 重操故業 冬日紫薇 我們與船

A21

進山 探路進山，循腳印踩出的隱約小徑 走到盡頭會是哪一個峰頭呢？ 荊棘與落葉，腿間絆纏著野蔓與亂草 風吹起一片松濤 叢叢碧青的松針外，雲移天靜 這身影將幻入時間的水墨 濃黑中的虛白，濛濛水光的呼息 回頭問你累不累，野路可沒有亭子呢 （看畫的人在疏樹和山石間） 跟著我，會不會擔心迷路？ 多少年隔海看山 不知道山中和山外的風景，而我們 尋找風景，成了風景

A22

一二年六月五日） ○

山盤水繞，頭上寒煙升起，我老了 你在後面說：走吧 仰望峰巒，遇到下山的樵夫 斧在腰間，兩肩疏落的枯枝 雲煙外，誰在燒水，烹茶？ 誰在下棋，移動棋子？ 誰從容落墨，在我的眼前升起 一座新的青山？ （二

A23

重操故業 我重操故業，我聽到上課的鐘聲 失神地跌進人聲的漩渦 在四樓尋找三樓的教室 我不認識的女老師高聲喊 “Good morning class.” 我在走廊外游移，不安 像遲到的學生在門外窺探 突然一聲斥喝：「在門外罰企！」 我趕忙閃到樓梯外 抓緊懷裏的教師用書 的教室牌 抬頭卻見 3C 無端記起《紅樓夢》： 「身後有餘忘縮手

A24

眼前無路想回頭」 喧噪的教室走出了一個嬉皮笑臉的學生： 「老師，沒錯，是我們的課 我們等了你很久了。」 來不及應答，忽然有人從後兩手夾著我的頭 硬生生把我夾進教室中央 我面紅耳赤轉身左手搧出一記耳光 「啪」的一聲清響五指留印記 眼前站著剛發育的男生 撫著臉眼淚汪汪地望著我 滿教室的學生安靜地坐著瞪著驚異的大眼 我惶恐不安，我一把摟著他連聲道歉 我說對不起老師很久沒踏進教室了老師自制力不足 他在我的懷中耳語： 「老師，我下個月結婚了

A25

初夜的感覺如何？」 我面紅耳赤推開他左手搧出一記耳光 「啪」的一聲清響（啊，命運） 他撫著臉眼淚汪汪地望著我 我惶惶不可終日，我一把摟著他連聲道歉 我說對不起老師不是左撇子可冥冥中有一股邪力移動我的左手 他在我的懷中耳語： 「老師，我下個月結婚了 通脹苦，怎樣計算酒席才不致虧本？」 真要命，連雞兔問題都不會算的中文老師 他擊中了我的要害 ── 我在他的懷中耳語： 「原諒我，我也不易，但你會控告我嗎？」 昏昧的房間漸漸顯出天花板的灰白

A26

一二年十二月四日） ○

異國陌生旅館的床上，二十多年前教過的 一個男生稚氣的臉漸漸清晰、明亮 穿著童軍服，結著綠色的領巾 他笑，牙齒亮白，臉上並無掌印 只一個舊同事的語聲在碗碟與茶煙之間 嬝嬝升起，嬝嬝消散： 老公包二奶 漂亮的 Miss Chan 在海怡半島跳樓死了 校長鹹豬手見報（我想是誤會） ，代表學校參加壁球比賽救球撞傷大腦 蘇 Sir 半身不遂，躺在家裏（我想去看看他） 他不想見任何人 （二

A27

冬日紫薇 我認識這株樹，它今天露出了許多枝椏 疏朗而淡然，在新的一天 和我一樣醒來，一眨眼它的盛夏又回到了枝頭 密密層層的綠葉，只因我曾經 凝視過它的蓓蕾和串串紫花 在藍天和驕陽中輕顫 而此刻那些花後的果實已然枯乾裂開 變成一個個幽暗的燭台 天空依然蔚藍，只有我感覺寒冷 季節在我的身體裏轉動著游標 太陽和陰影，冷與暖，一寸寸移動 一株樹不知不覺胖了，心中寬廣又添一圈年輪 小鳥飛來，匆匆停駐，又飛走了 樹皮上留下白色的流淌的鳥糞

A28

一五年一月十八日） ○

總有夏天的暴雨，總有秋天的涼風 又一群麻雀飛走，留下五隻 又一隻飛走，仍有五隻 再飛走兩隻，樹上仍是五隻 隱藏了，不，只是我看不見 落葉的枝條孵出新的麻雀 而我為甚麼一再數算？ 忽然，一大群麻雀從一輛綠色的小巴背後 噗噗飛起，在低空迴旋 帶著我的雙眼在這個城市中漂浮 有人不理紅燈匆匆跑過馬路 有人坐在火車站外的欄杆上悠然抽煙 巴士帶走了許多人，的士靜靜等待 飢時覓食，疲累時停息 枝葉顫動，寒冷迎向溫暖的陽光 （二

A29

我們與船 許多年後我們漫步到陌生的廢棄船廠 好空闊啊，船都下了水，陽光拍著陰影午睡 晃蕩，晃蕩，人和船都聯絡不上了 想像風浪與風浪的聲音，敲釘與伐木的叮叮 寂靜，一隻灰黑的大老鼠回航 跑向我們站立遠眺的位置，把我們嚇得轉身逃跑 昨夜一根魚骨卡在我的咽喉 茫茫煙水我好像咬住了自己拋下的魚餌小鈎 一根長線沉沉在水下繃緊游竄 好像把小船越拉越遠離岸邊 想像這裏能釣到最大的魚我們偷偷爬上了小船 神秘的船主忽然現身猛烈的陽光下高聲斥喝

A30

一六年四月三日 ○

在仁安醫院拔掉喉間魚骨後作）

我慌得噗通跳進海裏拚命游向閃閃發亮的岸邊 兩手空空，聽見你在身後喊破喉嚨：「回來！回來呀！」 （二

A31

今文

真實姓名岑文勁，一九六八年五月生於廣東省肇慶市，廣州中山大學漢語言文學專科 六年從中國廣東肇慶來港，初年做過廚房工、侍應、貨車搬運 畢業（自學）。二 ○○ 工、木工等職業。現職食品工場工人，香港《工人文藝》文學雜誌主編。來港曾獲香 港第五屆工人文學徵文獎新詩及散文組雙冠軍、首屆淮港兩地「漂母杯」母愛 愛 •母 主題散文詩歌大賽詩歌類第二名。「蓮花杯」第三屆世界華文詩歌大獎賽優秀獎等。 曾在港台及內地文學刊物發表過新詩。詩作選入多種作品集，著有詩集《以硯的容量》 及散文集《指望》。 詩作 夢回南生圍 嫁女餅 病毒 走鬼阿婆 蜘蛛人 年輕的墓碑

A33

夢回南生圍 一、寂寞碼頭 離弦之箭是年輕的船 風吹來舊年的笑聲 漣漪蕩漾 載回你立岸的倒影 二、蘆葦 遠離封閉的水泥 蘆花飛白一片流云 成就一道曠野的風景

A34

三、油菜花 花開遍 綻放千億個黃色太陽 留下種籽 一粒粒飽滿的田園風光 四、紅草莓 泥土臉色的農婦 一枚鮮紅色的笑臉

A35

嫁女餅 平淡日子打磨細碎的麵粉 男朋友女朋友用心搓圓兩個薄餅 燙手的一對稱呼：媳婦和女婿 圓圓質感的餅舖一層黃黃的脆皮 如慢慢烘烤的日子累積的金黃 做人外母喜滋滋如暖暖的剛出爐的餅 直望著年輕的女婿吞口水 掰開圓圓的餅吃一口冬瓜茸的甜 做人外父酸溜溜咬牙恨恨的： 這小子憑甚麼令我女兒心甘情願 二十多年自己用心造的餅 被人嚐試咬了一口的心痛

A36

病毒 蝙蝠懸掛在黑夜的峭壁 夜夜反思，呼喊 人類在地倒行的謊話 俠義得不到伸張 蝙蝠在人類的煙霧中 呼救無助，傷亡慘重 無數黑色的翅膀伸出利爪 抗擊、爪破黑夜惡行的謊謬 蛇吃掉了人類的謊謬 謊謬變種成隱瞞真相的蛇毒 當人類與蛇共舞共眠時 一個謊言開始覆蓋另一個謊言 當謊言變種成不可救治的病毒時 一個謊言開始蔓延一個個謊言 滿街是封鎖疫城的口罩 還來得及阻隔病毒的蔓延嗎？

A37

走鬼阿婆 天剛亮，將口罩拉落下巴的阿婆 站在商場門口吃一個菠蘿包 她放一張凳子佔據一個攤位 佔據一朝天光墟的走鬼檔 每次一百幾十元不願過伸手的綜援 我上班急匆匆路過攤位 看見一堆鮮豔平整的童裝 是阿婆從衣物回收箱弄出來的舊衣服 那一對對半新舊的名牌運動鞋 阿婆不嫌棄撿拾過氣的潮流 透明電飯煲蓋看見煲膽有厚厚的飯焦 彷彿都市人隨處見到的都是焦慮 我每次路過走鬼阿婆的攤位

A38

必瞟一眼那些令眼球發光的裸體光碟 裸體光碟二十年前是好價錢 現在智能手機看身體任何部位全都免費 就如每天陽光瀟瀟脫脫全都免費 戴半個口罩的走鬼阿婆 半個菠蘿包還咬在口，一眼關七 食環處人員在馬路轉彎處急速下車 食環造世界，走鬼走得快 阿婆趕緊戴好半個口罩 飛快跑回自己的攤位 一口咀嚼半個菠蘿包 一手拖起躺在地下的膠布 像拖著遺留在社會底層的 一個爛攤子

A39

蜘蛛人 竹幹，挺直堅硬的身軀 纖細柔韌的塑料帶，依存 剛與柔組合一座山 搭排山能支撐一個家 穿梭縱橫交織的排山網 攀爬，身體吊掛半空 命懸一線生機，搖搖欲墜 養家糊口，步步驚心 步步為營，經歷承擔 頭盔鬆脫與地面的撞擊聲 家中孩子的呼喚： 爸爸

A40

年輕的墓碑 白色的日光盡是灰色的夜晚 一隻螞蟻爬入牛角尖的黑洞 來不及閉門遠望窗口的流雲 飆升的汽球逼爆脆弱的年齡 玻璃切割胸口滴不出一滴血 洶湧的鹽水醃浸最後的遺言 沖刷血漬後的陽台濺血依舊 深情的眼睛逃避嘴巴的詛咒 又是一年清明時煙燻的嗚咽 經歷最痛的傷從此流不出淚

A41

池荒懸

香港詩人。著有詩集《海灘像停擺的鐘一樣寧靜》及《連花開的聲音都沒有》。 詩作 杯 崇拜 打印機 紮染

A43

杯 倒掉隔夜咖啡 讓水從玻璃的紋理順落 像溺斃的蟑螂滑進水喉的深處 還是趁早登山 趁城巿建在太低的地方 視力不好可以閉上眼 讓喉間的味道滲染 讓風顯露它悲哀的形狀 等待事情經過 沒有償還的傷痛 戒煙是容易的 借火很難 繞不過的彫牆擋住熄火的風

A44

火光潑出淺褐色 有淺褐色便沒有杯底 在硫磺火湖 玻璃曾經軟過 喜於波動的同心圓 與薄霧，包圍著儲藏的尊卑 沉寂，放棄了它可能的意義 可是這、可是那 不過是街角滑倒的姿態 一切原本是凍的 而味道，來自另一種生命的吶喊 用便宜的茶包沖奶茶 說沒有尾音的句子 打一份工 把一次限時的午餐

A45

攤分半輩子來吃 吃不完的 供麻雀飛來啄食 是甚麼值得 沒有償還的傷痛？ 黑夜要來了，孩子 閉上眼 多買一隻杯 洗它 讓風變形 讓不變 在保持不變的時候 長出鬚根 你喝奶茶、咖啡 但不抽煙

A46

崇拜 命限穿行而過 旗桿下那虛無 一個人提著袋子去抗衡 不要說 他仍然活著 徘徊 曾經簡短的歷史 直至你們的廣場 從廣場上的你們解散 入夜這裏也像海一樣黑 海上立著兵 兵捧著槍 槍膛內子彈跳舞 沿亂石堆疾步 浪頭散開革命的顏色

A47

你們穿行而過 卻誤認為到達 到達了 卻決意挺進 災難與救贖並行而襲 步軍列隊仰視 龐大的肖象凝望 漫長而輕率的真相 你說牆知悉 同時圍堵自己 陪審團即將解讀悔澀的詩句 曾經你們的廣場 從廣場上的你們解散 直至瘋狂虧欠 卻無一人值得崇拜

A48

打印機 製造相片 製造文件 製造語錄 製造唧唧唧唧唧 新款的打印機 聲音比以往又減低了許多 近乎無聲 可是相片更加逼真 文件的字體更加細緻 語錄彷似真理 你可以邊看邊淌淚 現今的打印墨料 普遍防水

A49

紮染 投考車牌，同時 尋獲通往湖心的路 就連事物的意義也白費了 漣漪卻讓萬物衍生出嶄新用途 像仰望，然後進佔山脈一樣 最後還是歸於沉寂 和消亡。以單色紮染五體 適應一種血型不同的呼吸 始終把詩誤讀的難民和凍陽光 漸層消融在流動的細語中 曾經在眾腿間游動的蟬 凝固後化身遊客的耳輪

A50

鳥、魚、黑花：失溫的秩序 葉和光柱錯落寬闊單肩上 泡沫的序列 從各洞口 飛升

A51

米米

香港詩人，本名胡惠文，香港浸會大學畢業，曾任職教科書編輯、項目發展主任以及 一八年在台灣出 中小學教師，二 一五年在香港出版詩集《尖削與圓渾之間》；二 ○ ○ 一八香港中文文學創 版詩集《如是跋扈》。曾獲第八屆工人文學獎新詩組冠軍；二 ○ 作獎，新詩組第一名。作品偶然在報章和文學雜誌上浮游，一直盼以作品，與有緣人 相見。 詩作 如是跋涉

A53

如是跋涉 其一 思 •源 下雨時，一隻蝴蝶停在窗緣 拍動沾水的翅膀 牠不會是祖父 一個喜歡穿黑衣的老頭 常常蹲在河邊 拿著成人手臂一樣大的水煙筒 慢慢地吸，呼出朦朧的煙霧 直到我看不到他的臉容 我也曾在大霧中和很多人失去聯絡 他們散落在山嶺、湖泊、河川、城市 鄉鎮和廣漠的大地上 在陽光和煦的日子

A54

我會習慣得跟以往一樣 引領他們到郊外 徒步涉水，横過陰涼的山澗 登高，望見雲霧擦拭山頂 像從未分開過的風和樹，光與影 名字以及碑石 其二 生 •長 空的摇椅，每天盛載房間的脈博 揚起光與塵埃 像一個肺葉呼吸新的一天 祖父從搖椅站起來 鳥兒竄入偌大的樹冠內 唱碎天堂的雲片 相遇時是一首合樂的詩 相分卻發生在另一種難於表述的載體

A55

沿河流下，我在這邊 望向空洞的樹林入口 樹葉被風捲起 他在那邊手摸檀木上的迴紋 河水嘩啦嘩啦地流動 而我能怎樣呢？ 當時的一個小孩，只能一直生長 像沙洲中的那株喬木，伸長透明的雙臂 不停地在光線中攀緣和抵抗 有天觸及語言 其三 往 •返 我所感知，一些流動的東西 在身體裏運行，但我不知道具體是何物

A56

陣風帶著雨點沙沙地打在鐵皮屋上 一條貓屍攤在泥路上 和土色的屋頂連成一片滂沱 老人院的鐵欄後，常常站著一個男病人 年紀和我相若，精神萎靡，眼神放空 我騎著單車，穿過通向大路的隧道 家母從老遠的市區來看我 她拖著行李篋，緩緩地上坡 銀行月結單，投稿後的贈閱本 食物、蔬果和一點湯水 每個週末如期送上 雨又下了，引水道中 沉濁的波心浮著幾條黝黑的塘虱 一隻䴉鸛站在泥灘上 我推著單車，緩緩地下坡

A57

那個男病人還是站在鐡欄內 遠望雨勢飄向後山 留下幾片尚未墜落的雲彩 在風中推移，微微靠近，直到再無彼此 一如面前魚眼鏡中，溺水的一片深綠 其四 順 •流 你不知道 我枕著巴士的椅背，一副愁容 其實都是錯覺 我只是太累，想休息一下而已 雲影梳理著街道 海鷗自有牠們的盤旋 我有時會看見，空蕩蕩的籃球場裏 一個嬰兒跌跌碰碰地走動

A58

男人在附近席地坐下 他大概就是父親吧 我有時從密密麻麻，格子一樣的公寓 找到一對情侶，站在陽台上抽煙 有時只是一個 總是發生在相同的時間裏 我有時也會想起，在甚麽日子 我送給了誰人一段噤聲的旅程 我有時看到巨型的吊機，吊起貨櫃 一個個像積木般，有序地放在海旁 灰濛濛的海天傳來沉渾的船鳴 我有時望見那個發生過交通意外的斜坡 樹木完好地生長 車行轉入分叉路，旋即直入隧道 一排排螢光一樣的燈 在隧道頂部向後慢慢退去

A59

像手術台上的燈光 駛出去，便是一大片鬆弛的海 到站前，我總是稱心滿意地下車 終於可以像平日 這樣和平地完成這樣的車程 希望日日如是 雖然有時目睹船塢上滔天的浪花 其五 習 •慣 每天清晨 我重覆數著地上的階磚 和相同的行人 像一條狗沿著氣味 追溯牠的源頭 我的源頭是甚麼？

A60

雲端上的搖滾消失了 細小的鞋子被泥土重重包裹 鄰居搬走後，他遺下的小狗 每天都送我上班 對熟悉的事物摇摇尾巴，表示歡喜 對陌生的事物則神經緊張 譬如嗶嗶聲鳴叫的共享單車 有一天，牠來到小叢林前 面向深綠一片的入口 猶豫半晌，然後迅速竄入 好像目見失聯的主人 在樹蔭下，搖動索命的狗帶 每天如是，應該是習慣使然吧 我們好像有相同的地方 也有微細的不同

A61

我的神是那種慈悲的神 祂留著霧一樣的前方和風似的旋轉 小狗聞得到嗎 說不定牠會汪汪吠個不停呢 我没有猶豫 因為雲端上的搖滾消失了 細小的鞋子被泥土重重包裹

一八香港中文文學創作獎，新詩組第一名） ○

我移動著。雲移動它們的影子。風吹個未停。 是一種習慣使然 （此詩榮獲二

A62

宋子江

曾發表四本詩集及多本詩歌翻譯，並並獲邀參加柏林、台北、曼谷、河內等地的國際 詩歌節或文學節。曾獲二 ○ 一三年意大利諾西德國際詩歌獎之特別優異獎、二 ○ 一七 年獲香港藝術發展局頒發香港藝術發展獎之藝術新秀獎（文學藝術）。任《聲韻詩刊》 主編、香港國際詩歌之夜執行總監、多倫多大學語言研究系助理教授。 詩作 誕生 在柏林的東普魯士餐廳 威士寄情 萊頓尋杜 石榴 肺炎時期的抒情

A63

誕生 在香港藝術館觀波提切利畫展有感 ——

凌亂玫瑰園 花苞綻放聖潔 張開血盆 吐出痛苦的草莓 一粒生機 潤澤滿世荊棘 手冊上說 她的孩子 「道成肉身」 他受苦是為世人 他的眼珠亮澤

A64

穿透觀者凡心 她抱著他 他抱著石榴 在靜好的博物館 或畫廊 或一個家族的床頭 以未來的瞳仁 凝視著血掌中 一個極權的誕生

A65

在柏林的東普魯士餐廳 我們去過亮著霓虹燈的巴黎酒吧 懷舊電影海報下的白酒香檳 並沒有更香豔。離開嘈雜的外語 回到暗街思念鄉音。去看地下城 在露天茶座喝薄荷葉薑茶壓驚 殘破教堂穹頂從天空的陰霾 陽刻出記憶。不知我們的家 怎樣了？後來在本雅明廣場 故意尋找一間東普魯士餐廳 家庭作坊熱情驅趕異地寒意 家長作派侍應推介傳統菜式 教我們品嚐特色佳餚的規矩 像他們一樣吃掉過去的豬手

A66

喝下一碗困頓無華的紅菜頭湯 就可以理解曾被吞噬的國家？ 暗黃牆壁上掛著舊廣場海報 不具名印象派油畫和家庭照片 我們舉杯賀一面牆倒下三十年 耳中盡是相框玻璃破碎的聲音 家消失以後，紅菜頭湯的味道 會改變嗎？嘈雜的外語和銀器 把我們從昏沉的燈光中喚醒 僅剩的紅酒又折射出血腥的記憶 另一面不安的牆在心頭隆隆升起 我們默默埋首吃著自由世界的酸菜 據說明天有人在焚書的廣場上讀詩

A67

萊頓尋杜 雨堅持落下 談話堅持在雨中開始 運河岸上樹影迷濛 人臉毅然撇向窗邊 小船緩緩駛過橋洞 划船人把自己推往未來 船尾波紋泛起過去 躊躇在過渡的時間 橄欖與路石漠視天空 我們在堅持甚麼？ 把酒百年山牆老樓 默看單車人影呼嘯 街邊陽傘下話舊當年

A68

你說何必划船撈月 街燈下縱情尋歡 心力卻總不如前 在俊美成災的異國 不如落筆題壁抒情 知你莫過於一面畫牆 橋頭說風雨遲生 一落便晚了千年

A69

威士寄情 殘月虎口彎彎扣住一啖清冽 冰球徘徊輕觸矇矓清脆杯壁 濃濃醉意在冰寒琥珀中淺淺融柔 老薑膚色在酒吧燈下暢想陽光 出生地有沒有釀酒上佳的清流？ 駐場歌手幽幽彈唱懷鄉陳釀 聽不出過去是辛辣抑或香醇 悠長歌聲蜿蜒穿過荒寂高原 我是不是出生在豐收的年份？ 分不清高原上的濃霧與浮雲 白與白的混沌催生啡與啡的繁複 口感夠不夠濃稠喚起金黃的晚秋？ 你陌生的喉嚨探尋我麥芽的前生

A70

誰說我只在商業廣告中贈慶功名？ 我也曾愚昧揮拳貧窮鄉壤酒館 在橡木桶裏浸泡出日子的乾澀 苦海裏泅泳頻繁換氣不見從容 為何你總是怒氣沖沖？我的麥汁 是不是在你的血管裏默默沸騰？ 你讓我繼續沸騰，一而再再而三 讓我蒸餾出靈魂，告別稀釋的前世 擁抱香醇的今生，愈來愈濃的情感 漸次分離多餘的水分，今夜你我 同坐一張高台舉杯，飲盡彼此眼神 明年今日可否再聚良辰，讓我游淌 你的丹唇，成為你獨享的私釀？

A71

石榴 裹著多少火焰的 謎語？舌頭沉醉在 瑪瑙的肉汁，在一粒 又一粒白水晶中 苦苦尋覓你深藏的 籽實。你給我幾滴甘甜 又留下幾分乾澀 舌尖來回會吻盡 臉肌的耐心嗎？曾記 你含英咀華，紅暈 如蓓蕾初綻，季節更迭 使你成熟，煩憂 卻無從間斷，一粒

A72

緊挨著一粒，疊起 鬱結的脈絡，誰說平淡 不是一種幽困，把你的 烈焰歸納？有時候 現實猶如風暴，用樹枝 鞭打焦慮的窗台，安靜的 燈下總有不慍不火的你 沉默地一粒又一粒地 算著日子，我的耐心 一次又一次解開你 火焰的謎語

A73

肺炎時期的抒情 十七年後應梁秉鈞〈非典時期的情詩〉 ——

我們都有非典型的回憶 有些人死得不明不白 以歌聲悼念逝去的人 四面皆是防暴的回音 尚未排解心頭的催淚煙 又匆匆硬吃黑心藥房的人血饅頭 關舖落閘的人也戴著口罩 向肺炎露出死心塌地的眼睛 有人沉默自覺充實 有人說話倍感空虛 喝水嗆到氣管忍不住咳

A74

猜疑的目光，側開的身體 恐慌的手肘，冷漠瞬時敏感 口罩隨著呼吸起伏 感染人數徐徐攀升 官員抗疫如老鼠搬薑 夕陽痰喘在陰寒街角拷問 圍城虛隙竟是無遠弗屆 有人堅決立春罷工 有人打算秋後算賬 新年在車公廟抽了中籤 霉雨不慌不忙滋潤病菌 多年未貼門神，今年 流行辛棄疾、霍去病 燉個老火湯，祛除偏狹邪毒

A75

肺祥肺欲清。話說 清明在望，難不成 摺幾個紙口罩代替冥鏹？ 有人出門苦無口罩 有人在家隱藏自己 郵輪甲板上人影浮動 瞬間又在霧中消失 岸上的人揮著晦澀的手 霧散後如何面對彼此？ 外遊的人匆忙回家掩隱 邊界上浮動著縹緲的體溫 蘭桂坊熟客夜夜哭笑傳染 酒醒運動健身再戰蘇豪 有人不戴口罩引起恐慌 有人戴了口罩引起恐慌

A76

急凍餃子塞滿雪櫃 可會找回家的溫暖？ 在狹屋裏自我隔離 思念的親人總在遠方 春寒回想家傳食譜 仍缺失傳的三昧真火 廁紙與親情定量配給 讓我們結伴練習末日 有人白天輾轉反側 有人凌晨悄悄出門 瞳仁日冕俯視昏暗的塵世 一場瘟疫教眾生怒視彼此 膚色語言如何疏離惶恐？

A77

思考公理與正義的詩人 離去了，你我繼續比興互陳 病毒的陰魂牽引眩亂的筆畫 一首詩竟從立春寫到春分 炎夏仍遠？我將會再見到你嗎？ 有人走上獅子山吶喊 天地傳回絕望的嗚咽

A78

周漢輝

曾用筆名「波希米亞」，信耶穌。畢業於香港公開大學，業餘書寫現代詩與散文，並 一 ○ 年 ）， 及 主 講 文 學 講 座， 帶 領 文 學 散 步 活 動。 著 有 個 人 詩 集《 長 鏡 頭 》（ 二 ○ 《光隱於塵》（二 一九年）。二 一八年應邀赴美國愛荷華大學參與國際寫作計劃 ○ ○ ；二 ○ 一五年獲香港藝術發展局頒發「藝術發展獎」 International Writing Program 之「新秀獎（文學）」。寫作歷程上獲香港及台灣二地多項文學獎，如青年文學獎、 大學文學獎、李聖華現代詩青年獎、中文文學創作獎、台北文學獎、新北市文學獎、 台中文學獎、金車現代詩網絡徵文獎等。 詩作 黑雨 請客 草原之光書店 密居誌 其 •三

A79

黑雨 光和照片消失，手機 黑屏上照出我一身黑衣 一對黑衣情侶步出住所 我也剛好從隔壁外出 像三枚城市的零件 在升降機中默默相認 湊巧各自檢查照相機 一枚零件掉下，落入 機門的隙縫，直墜井道 回音碰壁而起，公義於當中

A80

呼喊正烈，像一隻黑鳥 向馬路俯衝，在意 一場黑雨並非下在地上 而是橫流推進，因為 城市傾側歪倒已久了 我正融於滂沱雨勢 恰被鳥影掃脫手上 素白的紙花，許多朵紙花 交疊鮮花替代昨夜的血漬 沿路邊相送我們走這一程 我的鏡頭仰拍棚架和烈日 像你在棚架上舉頭所悟

A81

獨自承擔黑夜的重量 躍下，盪起我們的雨勢 在黑鳥眼中推進 像下探城市的深度 回音碰壁而起，升降機 穿行於未來與記憶 去年今日的合照上 我終於靠向父親 臨終病床容納我們同望 一個方向，以同一副表情 像已預見我在照片外 獨自看回來的樣子

A82

請客 給一位喜歡寫作的中學生 ──

我的時間無多才像空間 容不下年少時讀遍的書 送予比我彼時更年少的你 你還沒有收入而且當年 教我寫作的前輩總會作東 請你把好意留給比你後來的 我們沒有選定的餐廳卻在逛尋 像中學生與沒有教席的中年人 談著寫作作為正職及副業

A83

教師記者編輯編劇撰稿員 或你可試與文字無關的工作 也不像我幾乎以失業為業 你稱我為老師但我視為說笑 換來你改稱我比較像社工 以為我比你更理解人生 我不理解人生不過我寫詩 應邀赴遠方交流詩然後 找不到工作也成為詩 地球在我們不為意間轉動 我求職糊口而你熱衷寫作 略去相遇前的時差和地距

A84

兩碗麵條並排在餐桌上 你吃著又憶述吃壞過肚子 倒像提示我你所認知的 痛苦、生命與文學 你提及多位已故作家 最後問我有沒有讀太宰治 抱歉我說對生而為人已有 足夠的歉意不知你懂不懂 你只說下去在校考試挫敗於 用心寫作應答作文的試題 像明知有死亡還想多活 我倒告訴你我用上你至今

A85

人生一半的時光來結集 剛出版的詩冊還不如 你的文字尚未成書

A86

一

草原之光書店 致美國愛荷華城一間獨立書店 ──

來自地球的背面，你在 倒逆的時差中，身懷陽光 坐看新近認識的年輕作家 在吊扇之下，晚誦寫給 瑞蒙卡佛的文章，像遙喚 多年前卡佛正讀出小說選段 難得酒醒，但也未能得知你 所知道關於他的事跡 ──

A87

從生活的大小泥沼爬起，並靠 書寫它們而逃脫了。酗酒，戒酒 卻死於抽煙。卡佛多要一杯酒 再讀下去，年輕作家倒已誦畢 你始終凝視那吊扇，那天你 也頂著它讀詩，臆想卡佛在此 朗讀時它在不在，臆想它旋拌著 機遇，令所有該到的人先後到此 二 夜色塗上碎雨，已傾注 店窗外。又一場朗讀會

A88

剛剛完結，像一九七八年 開業以來的每一場，隨掌聲 散去，最好的詩集、小說 也得合上。總相信書店的 命名中，書為草原，人們 作光，即使偏讀世界的黑暗 但唯有時間知道，打烊 無疑比營業更近似寫作 像詩人寫下的只是語言 語言沒有記下的才是詩

A89

密居誌

其 • 三

城市的牆已夠繁密 像上帝勤於關門 而馬虎於開窗 我在多年來的很多遍 面試中來回徒勞，也在 晝夜禱告中，忍耐日子老去 由窄床至牆之間，尚有 些許餘位，滿佈日用百物 像沒有工作正好睡得更累 劏房旁室也一劏為四 才數算在此已十年，十年前 還感恩住進新劏的房間

A90

律銘

基督徒，偶然寫詩，著有詩集《如今常存的》、《所望之事》和《沿道尋回》。喜歡 一年，與林一 自己的工作，是和別人同行生命的一段路。另有筆名風緣。回味二 ○○ 葉和方綺組織港大詩社的日子。作品散見於《詩潮》、《詩網絡》、《秋螢》、《月 城市誌》、《明報》、《聲韻詩刊》、《阡陌》、《大頭菜》、《號外》， 台》、《 Stadt 在飛翔》，《書在人在：在緊緻的密縫中閱讀》， 亦有幸收於《瞧，他們的 21 grams 》。詩作《我們是苦難的好孩子》被國際文學雜誌 Asymptote 翻譯 《香港詩選 2013 成英文刊登。著有詩集《如今常存的》和《所望之事》。 詩作 匯流 渡

A91

匯流 我說友誼是河 你認為不夠浩瀚 我說那是劫 你說不如輪流當匪徒 誰拿刀就保護對方 誰流血就替對方療傷 有一次我受了很重的傷 「你在哪裏？」 我說我哪裏都不想去 你就預測我回家的路徑 在我必到的渡口等我 我見到你的時候你已經等了一個世紀

A92

有時候你會如水溫柔 你沒有說話，有些時候 同在勝過話語 不同的河最終會匯聚成海 你和我的思想從來不是一致 但兩條水混和之後根本沒有彼此 一個黃昏我下班後在城市大學來回尋找 你多年前走過的足跡早已蒸發 一呼一吸曾使用過的空氣 企圖為你寫一首詩 如界定海的深度只能定相對的點 千萬年前的海水依舊在流動，但水已忘記 昨日的深度和位置和曾否帶氧

A93

努力追回一起跑過的長斜 在河裏奔跑時流過的汗 衣角沾了鹽跡 回想何時開始和你混和 就如追蹤河流入海的接壤 水是逐漸變鹹抑或 有一個突然感動的間隙 有一天，你問起一位親戚的病 我說我在乎一個人的命 不在乎能活多久 而是所擁有的是否享受 你詫異我對推算壽數的準確 我說那是經驗加上直覺 說 ( 時感到有點冷漠 )

A94

對於重情的人 輩分多疏遠都一樣親厚 臨離開的時候你回望那座舊樓 生命如水，一直流一直流 深 ( 度、含氧、方向、濃度會影響流速 水本身從未計較 ) 親情和友情不同 如水不再流過的地 有些會露出貧瘠的地紋 有些會留下一片金光閃閃的鹽光 人就會知道原來是海踏足過 而我們的存在是相依的 沒有河的匯流就不會有海

A95

河沒有界線，海也沒有 我再遇見一百年後的你站在渡口 你從沒有離開過 我為著這些年來的事向你懺悔 已無法用前一秒的河水替對方洗腳 我們站立我們行走我們靜默 河水繼續隨己意而流 方向、手勢，純熟如昔

A96

渡 你還以為自己手執利刃 一揮而下就能斬斷 流動的河，聚散如本無常 若果日出引致蒸騰 黑暗和陰霾促成傾瀉 流滿一池街道，浸濕每一處 角落，無力感卻無法逃逸 直至你，張開口如敞開的墳墓 只流出謊言和逝者的血腥 沒有悔意的道歉如無味的核 無法下嚥，也讓期望惱怒 恍如一再統領，累積，圓滿 你實現初生時無心的口號

A97

將不同河道液體連繫 未必籠固，卻不易僵化 將永恆國度推前，金色的河 歌聲繞城，夜夜不散，頌揚 那至高者，俯瞰，眾生流動 今日聚，明日散，為誰 —— 誰會明白？如果水能被擺佈 只有血才能為汗上色 你嗜血的瞳，不曾為蒼生煎熬 你不曾以傲視孕育任何清泉 而水亦不會盛載你深淵般反覆 願法碟最後只超渡你今生的軀殼 無可，亦無不可 或許覺得 —— 流動的河，願清澈如昔

A98

洛楓

詩人、文化評論人，香港大學文學士及哲學碩士，美國加州大學聖地牙哥校區比較文 學博士，曾擔任台灣金馬獎電影評審委員、香港電台廣播節目《演藝風流》主持、香 港舞蹈團舞劇《中華英雄》的文本構作等等；現任教於香港中文大學，研究範圍包括 文化及電影理論、中西比較文學、性別理論、演藝及流行文化。曾出版五本詩集、八 七年第九屆香 本文化評論集、兩本小說集和一本散文集；詩集《飛天棺材》獲二 ○○ 港中文文學雙年獎詩組首獎；文化評論集《禁色的蝴蝶：張國榮的藝術形象》獲「二 八年香港書獎」及「我最喜愛年度好書」；二 ○ 一六年獲得香港藝術發展局頒發 ○○ 「藝術家年獎」（藝術評論界別）、香港城市當代舞蹈團頒發「城市當代舞蹈達人獎 」。 2016 詩作 沒有人愛沒有人 看見／看不見的城市光影 非法追月 城市的冠狀病毒 口罩臉皮

A99

沒有人愛沒有人 掛上一張化妝的臉 走在烈陽陣下 企圖溶解腦內一堆石頭 卻將怨念 塗滿眼和臉 消解青春的善良 眼前的水泥地變得猙獰 踢著輪迴的碎步 欄杆碰撞衣扣的碎碎唸 抬頭看見禿樹長出不知名的果實 沒有花 這結果從何而來？

A100

兩旁白色的房子 以頑固的靜立抗衡 浮躁的氣溫 無風 有信 是木棉絮吹下 挺起胸膛呼吸 還你一個史無前例的 噴嚏 眼看這個夏季要徒勞了 把孩童和蟬 死不悔改的嗥叫關在門外 室內浸漫無辜的白光 死力閉上思量 殘餘的光點逐漸飄遠

A101

一七年六月五日 ○

當無可無不可的情緒 收成一個孤另的圓點 黑色的報復便擴張版圖 沒有人說話也沒有高跟鞋出鞘 不過是近視和遠視搞混在一起 沒有你祗有她和他 讓桌子椅子永遠無法協調 讓我依然記恨 二

A102

看見／看不見的城市光影 一、玻璃 避開跟我正面交鋒 你繞到玻璃的背面 陽光混合燈光雙重折射 你看見我的看不見 於是用手敲擊 但玻璃啞了 不願跟你共謀 違背透明的原則 我低頭用強硬的視線刺穿 地面一個一個固執的階磚 你假裝若無其事

A103

但玻璃上的刮痕 出賣了你的人格分裂 在看不見我看見的倒影中 你逐漸變灰然後化灰 我死力拉下百葉簾 從此世界祗剩下九份一 水銀瀉地再無法確認 橫臥你我之間 絞碎了的玻璃鏡 二、地車 畏懼光線喜歡潛行 我們必須在地底尋找沒有交接的平行線 當兩架列車卡住無主的孤魂時

A104

黑漆的隧道企圖迴避彼此的視障 我看見你視而不見 你看見我顧左右而迷亂 靜止的車廂持續前行 猶如兩塊虛擬的屏幕 我凝望 故你在 你閉目 我隱滅 風動而車身未動 是我們的悲慟在動 空氣為了擺脫這種膠著的狀態 以不為人知的力度緩緩拉開 路軌的支線 原本很平安的平衡變成分叉的顛沛流離 我再也無需為了有光的地方便有你 而努力存在扮演

A105

沒入黑暗以後宣告宿命： 當城市的骨骼由地車建造 便註定我們的陷落 三、燈光 你在閉路電視看見我走進來 便預計前行的路線和時性 找出相遇的交叉點 當我的手機仍在滑轉 你在臉書的動態 抬頭便看見你站在眼前 四周有浮光 視網膜有殘影 無法認出你到底是誰？

A106

一七年十一月二十七日 ○

你繼續向我走近 我無法停步向前 祗好舉起手機給你看 上面花花亂亂的畫面 你微笑不發一言 我點頭再低頭沒有回頭 這樣擦身而過 燈從我們相反的方向逐步亮點 二

A107

非法追月 警車駛過黑色的馬路 追不到前面的月 我一個人自己集結 城市被毆打得骨折 日子患上了皮癬 睡不醒的煎熬 我們無法死去 有一種傷叫做時間 不由分說的開始 失去結束的知覺 城市的月在中秋變得單薄 高樓的燈火抓不住雲塊 除了撕開自己的喊叫 靠近的狂風無法制止

A108

當睡眠隨時關站 我們在自己的房間流離失所 外面有路牌跟欄杆對打 街燈視而不見 明天陽光繼續火熱 穿過失眠我們已經 不能將時鐘撥回原處 帶著浮腫的眼睛 視網膜被襲 城市的海岸線被扭成 一堆廢鐵 我們遺下自己的影子 身軀從此失神 暴雨擊碎路面的石磚

A109

一九年十月十六日 ○

飛濺的水花帶血 歷史是一個東歪西倒的回收箱 被錯誤投放雜物 我們將以青春嘔吐 並且拒絕痊癒 二

A110

城市的冠狀病毒 球狀 環狀 或冠狀 隨便選擇一款造型 漂浮城市不透明的角膜 她用指爪的吸盤 黏附你的皮膚 戴上口罩和護目鏡 的距離 我跟你拉開 1: 99 挽著你的頭她招搖過市 瞳孔放大 視線長出腫瘤 對我不堪入目 當城市最後的一口空氣 從黑色的肺葉呼出 我被擠壓缺氧的紙層 微弱地叫喚自己

A111

有人倒在地鐵月台或街道 無臉的死亡堆砌城市的圍牆 在別人進不來之前 我們率先出不去了 無法逃避仍然跟你 排坐密封的車廂 你的她的和我的位置 攤開如基因圖譜 你和她是交叉感染 我和你是免疫系統 她和我是細胞吞噬 亂了次序之後 自我療癒被排出體外 當我帶著紙造的環保棺木 跨過粉末的邊緣

A112

一九年二月三日 ○

回頭見你在崩散的地平線上 搭建跟她勾結雙棲的領土 我放下一個錢幣 不為許願或施捨 祗為不能帶走的 擲回給你因果循環 當初你拒絕封關 為的是讓她潛入 將我趕盡殺絕 再用塑化劑清洗一座空城 重新置入 另一種變異的病毒型號 反眼的逆耳的失語的毒舌的 缺血的氣胸的癡心或妄想的 我們繼續殘缺不全 二

A113

口罩臉皮 讓口罩掛成一張臉皮 我們治癒跟自己的裂痕 你說頭顱跟屁股一樣 這行屍便無所謂良知 反眼是一種時尚 你甩皮甩骨的飛越地板 水有瓶而棉被有床 洗潔精和啤酒的氣泡 便不能隨便換喻 沒有人比我更清楚 你隱藏了不知是忘記進化 還是停止退化的一條尾巴 一個喜歡男人的男人說喜歡你 一個討厭女人的女人說愛你

A114

你呼出的惡言堵塞了 型 喉管的病毒測試 然後你用渠蓋承諾 我下半生的明天

二 ○

年九月二十三日 ○

當臉上的粉刺病成爆米花之後 我揮拳打掉你的下顎 聽說口罩的價格回落了 矇騙變得便宜 你再度活躍的抽搐 多聲道的謊言 直到觀眾聾啞了 我依舊站在暗角 用記仇雪恨的荷爾蒙 站成死心不息的燭台 這城市的墓志銘 二

A115

U

飲江

原名劉以正。一九七 年代開始新詩創作。一九八七年與朋友合辦《九份壹》詩刊， ○ 一五年參加香港國際詩 並參與早期編輯工作。作品多刊登於香港各詩刊丶雜誌。二 ○ 一六年台北國際詩歌節，二 ○ 一九年澳門文學節「雋文不朽」。著有詩 歌之夜，二 ○ 集兩本：《於是你沿街看節日的燈飾》（一九九七年）及《於是搬石你沿街看節日的 一 ○ 年）。 燈飾》（二 ○ 詩作 佢當然會回來（給羅樂敏） 感君一回顧 陸上行舟 灰欄記 我們猜不出的謎

A117

佢當然會回來（給羅樂敏） 當我們說崩壞 我們在說甚麼 一座城市的陷落 （行將就火） 有人説是麗達 有人説是天鵝 有人終將誕生 有人終將路過 而這也終將過去 像海妖的沉默

A118

像海妖沉默時 那七種歌唱 歌唱不被理解 的哀傷 和理解尾隨 之遺忘 佢當然會回來 攜同他的所愛 （你寫就的詩篇 就在他口袋）

A119

輾轉好多個時代 輾轉好多個世代 若非一個眼神 一聲嘆息 無所謂過去 無所謂將來 無所謂萎棄 無所謂崩壞 無所謂作為 一個君王 永劫流亡 像一個乞丐

A120

感君一回顧 感君一回顧 風雪夜歸人 驚情四百年 係都咬一啖 反咬又一啖 諗下都疏肝 窮一生等待 第世又番嚟 與君離別意 今日係咁先

A121

陸上行舟 巴伐洛堤 高尚的人 打死都唔相信 唔相信我唱成咁 會俾人打死 只因為不似得 他那麽高尚 那麽高尚 那麽高音 在熱帶雨林

A122

灰欄記 布萊希特跨進欄內 決定誓不出來 我誓不出來 我誓不出來 當他唸過了三遍 就一步跨出欄外 然後對自己 倒抽一口涼氣 幸甚幸甚 真是一額汗 欄內布萊希特 一頭霧水

A123

欄都未劃完 灰都未刷 怎麼就 幸甚幸甚 走了出來呢 觀眾給弄糊塗了 才發覺自己原來 就是布萊希特 都爭湧闖進欄內 都爭湧走了出來 有時一頭霧水 有時一額汗 而通常的 那個圓 尚未刷灰

A124

像是生母 更是養母 時而在圈內 時而在圈外 布萊希特 帶同觀眾 拉扯搬演 千禧年 大法官 那孩子 終將誕生 尚未誕生 捨不得誕生

A125

我們猜不出的謎 我們猜得出的謎 我們很快睇不起 我們很快睇不起 我是我自己 我們猜不出的謎 等著你出世 忘川一轉你遇見 誰呢，何曾你是，你自己 一個謎是另一個謎 打開，同時關閉 滴水沾唇所謂 吻，如何，是你的吻

A126

滴水沾唇便是 別一番人世

A127

A128

莊元生

香港出生與成長。台灣師範大學國文系畢業、東海大學哲學碩士研究。曾獲全國學生 文學獎大專小說首獎、香港青年文學獎新詩獎及散文獎、中文文學創作獎新詩獎及散 文獎。著有散文集《如夢紀》、《如夢紀〢》、《如夢紀〣》、文化評論《經典重讀 —— 給中學生講華夏經典人物》、詩集《忘記了給新界東北》。 詩作 我的山村 荒園廢井 雨中走在上水 病中讀卡夫卡 老人與狗

A129

我的山村 那裏有芭蕉花 收結美好的果實 那裏有河邊的竹林 農田上有白鷺鷥覓食 貧窮童年簡單的歡樂 在河邊垃圾堆中尋寶 阡陌間野草點滴露水 大紅花芯微甜 山上的油甘子 所有野孩子都知道 苦而後甘 長大了，河邊 夕陽穿透一排長椅

A130

河堤跑步者在追逐 健康懸掛在石頭 梧桐河日落 望著夕陽無限好 歸鳥回來蝙蝠飛出 直至沒入黑暗 高樓如山岩立在對岸 飛蛾撲火沿路點亮河岸的燈 走一段斜路 看一路風景 從黃昏裏回來 睡夢中盡是 不合時宜的蛙聲

A131

荒園廢井 因為一口廢井 埋藏回憶的沙石 思索過去拋錨 風乾記憶濕了 在新界東北豪宅 皇府山高牆腳下 這一口廢井所在 以前是兩層石屋 在遍地木屋周圍 是當時村中豪宅 如今井口蓋滿樹枝 豪宅住客最刁難保安 以防萬一 雖然這裏人跡罕至

A132

陽光在樹隙篩下 青苔有聲 童年時推柴車的路上 車輪迴響在荒草的鐵絲網 豎立禁止進入的告示牌 停車場之後還是停車場 貨車壓平輾實土地 開不出鮮花 鐵絲網外柴車推過小路 石屋圈養的狼狗盡責虛張聲勢 兩層石屋拆毀記憶之後 三十幾層豪宅遮蔽陽光 鄉村小路沿途長滿 無聲的青苔

A133

雨中走在上水 我的腳步又走回上水 石湖墟有時下雨 雨水流過雜踏的街道 以為熟悉的地圖 想買一叠原稿紙 幾間文具店都撲空 都變成藥房水貨店 曾經麵包店對面是棺材舖 生之養與死之所都在這裏 曾經放學後麵包的香氣 剛好與火爐的餘溫散發 走到曾經是戲院的金舖 記起在這裏看的李小龍電影

A134

面對外侮想像空揮的拳腳 金舖閃光裏陌生的人面與聲音 走過曾經的生菜魚肉多加胡椒粉 口渴一杯菊花茶之後電影開場 舊時電影開場前的硬片廣告 熟悉的老舊店舖已一間不存 茶餐廳空洞招牌文字缺了手腳 跌打舖搬到樓上前路舉步艱難 民生店舖排好隊被租金趕走 滿街水貨客盡是上水的日常 行李匧打開一隻隻蚌精攔路 孫悟空從西遊記電影裏揮棒 電影散場燈光乍亮 戲院早已經消失了

A135

咖啡館走了，匆匆的腳步 店外滾滾是拖篋的煙硝 五十年茶葉店最後一日 無人坐下來喝一杯悠閒 咖啡或茶寫在餐牌之外

A136

病中讀卡夫卡 重感冒病了兩日，星期二三 沒有上班的不安 陰冷的雨季壓在硬殼背上，想像 自己是一隻巨大的甲蟲 星期四下午，有陽光出外走走 梧桐河，沿著夢囈可以回到老家 外籍印尼女傭在河堤放狗 異鄉女子哼著故鄉的輓歌 坐在石渠蓋上，旅人留下糖果 吸引幾隻黃色大螞蟻爬過來 如數字在銀行月結單上排隊 聚集更多，儲蓄積極過冬

A137

樹蔭下，午後有風 陽光的聲音落在人影背後 關於工作的意義 圖書館有卡夫卡

A138

老人與狗 他總是不好意思 在麥當勞坐了一整天 外面太熱這裏太冷 家人嫌他臭 他總是不好意思 傾盡身上毫子 買了最便宜的魚柳包 今日特價十一元 店員給他一杯水 外面太冷這裏太熱 黃昏在附近公園 一條狗向他擺尾走來

A139

彭依仁

經過九 ○ 年代那遙遠的大學訓練，和廿一世紀在社會汪海邊緣的沖刷之後，已經面目 模糊，但表面上鋪滿了書本和網絡知識的碎片，偶爾還會伸出觸手從中汲取營養，然 後分泌出一些文章和詩來。 詩作 陰影 親愛的，今晚，你可否載我一程？ 質料 本部 錦石

A141

陰影 昨天，我們離開那個熟悉的部門， 許多桌子空置了，玻璃窗邊 佈告板空空如也，所有氈筆遺失了， 辦公室內只有一個中年女人， 她拖著吸塵機望向窗外寧靜的海港， 從淺灰色的水面發現眼裏的憂鬱， 又坐在辦公桌上抽煙，突然想要白開水﹔ 她打開抽屜，裏面塞滿了馬票，她扔掉了， 從口袋中掏出一塊口香珠咀嚼著， 唱起一首沒有人聽見或知道的老歌。 她不住搖頭，對自己的欲望毫不知情， 也不否認有些事情確實令她很難過。 「我怎能相信你？」 她想到那句話 —— 那毫不悔疚的眼神像一雙鬥魚互相嘶咬。 窗外恰巧閃出金色的微浪，宛如 一艘郵輪滿載戒指經過她的夢。

A142

親愛的，今晚，你可否載我一程？ 親愛的，今晚，你可否載我一程？ 我還沒有抵達終站，那裏沒有人陪我上路。 你知道，道路永無盡頭，各人趕赴 各自的歸宿，中途站多不勝數， 你會迷失於蛛網之中，將目的地遺忘。 親愛的，今晚，你可否載我一程？ 我們的休假，不過是重覆又重覆的勞累， 旅程以時間延展它的長度，但無限 並不是我們的口糧：我夢見另一個你， 你的影像不斷重覆直至歸於幻滅。 巨鷹的影子將浮動的島嶼叼走， 貝殼在沙灘上發臭，星宿逐一殞落，

A143

你知道，我們將抵達一個無名的車站， 而黎明遙遙無期，飛蛾將背負我們的記憶 穿越鐵絲網，飛進一幅巨大的靜物畫。 親愛的，今晚，請你不要昏睡， 不舍晝夜的風景，已把我們追捕得煩厭。 當野獸咆哮於深巷，打鐵伐木之聲 早已從原野深入河灣，我甚至看得見 火炬的行列，吞噬了山谷裏的房屋。 黑夜是一陣陣漣漪，映照著失眠的你， 驚愕如同月色，棲息在你的肩膀上…… 今晚，請與我一起上路，這漫長的旅程 本來就是我們的居所，你不會找到一座城市 在山谷、海濱，或世上任何一個角落。 （二〇一三年十一月九日凌晨）

A144

質料 記憶彷彿滑回光緒三十四年 流連於英國口音的深色鬍子裏 一個捎來的訊息，這日氣息甚佳 我從老照片聽出了海浪的漣漪，它總是 那麼平順、溫和，艇身躍動 穿過榕樹盤根的沙泥，悄然滑入光影 當一種古老的記憶不曾被辨識 就只是散落在山下的質料，不曾有人 聽見、觸碰，猶如濕濡的粗沙 總是纏著腳趾的縫隙，猶如陽光總是惱人 漸漸地，報紙記不起分行 零落的磚房子開始有了街道的模樣

A145

它跟隨著我走路的節奏，初紉的布 還未找到星宿的所在，大興土木的天才 還未在籐椅上規劃出簡單的點、線、面 因此我們的弧線必定是漸漸凋零，米字旗 依然在山上呼號，但在霓虹色的狐步舞過後 誰用顫動的右手，在沙地上簽名？ 這些天氣仍然潮濕。我任細沙從手縫中滑走 它的質感是那麼細嫰，而撤退的大海，把一道 從未被打開的鐵門，侵蝕淨盡……質感 失去了光彩﹕它凝結成冷冷的磚牆，在光影飛逝之處 浮現出記憶的斷片，恍如黑咖啡裏恍動的臉孔 偶爾拼湊出一件充滿污漬的展覽品

A146

記憶不再糾纏於光緒或民國。 你漸漸熟悉了這街道的一切，粥的味道 汽油鼓的高度，還有那輪胎聲中疏落的腳步 但你仍然苦苦扣問著質料的形狀，因為 你總是往灰濛濛的方向追尋，才看得見 大海被圈禁的模樣。所以你總是落落寡合，因為 波浪總是以意想不到的速度，向你告別 然後消逝的，是你體內的鹽水味，以及遊艇下水的 衝動。而你感到懊悔，因為天氣越來越惡劣 因為大海總有一天會收回你記憶中的質料 嚥下這混凝土，這榕樹的氣根，這些 模棱兩可地圍成圓圈以沉默對答的椅子 （二〇一五年十二月二十四日）

A147

本部 一株樹的生命，始於 圈禁，終於 成為我們生命中的棟樑 憂傷時的慰藉。微風依舊 牆垣上灑落的漆油 早已在畢業袍上騷動成雨 但聲音，一旦嘗試為自己背書 就背棄了說話的人 別以為是誰與你同在 這行街磚只是陳腐的回聲 一群透明的熊，抓緊了岩壁上的泥塊 想躲進象牙塔內，但麻鷹

A148

正在瞭望塔上監控一切 情侶幻想坐在漣漪上 組裝命運，以為玻璃窗上 總不乏陰晴圓缺 也許有一天，從牆角掉下來的蚊蚋 告訴你房子終於復歸岑寂 沒有一件事值得懊悔、萬幸 正如遺址從未被記念，我想關上房門 草草終結，賬簿上歪歪斜斜 那只屬於我們的迷惘，就像這首詩 僅能抓住的錯覺﹕彩虹正在訴說 世人對它的種種誤解 （二〇一六年九月二十日）

A149

錦石 精舍危立於石坡上， 青苔淌流綠淚，腐朽 而不爛，石牆破裂的縫隙裏 草葉望向陽光瀲灧處， 妄想成為支撐銀河的起點。 榕樹，以幸福年代曾經有過的 速度，佔領閣樓的窗景， 安於寧靜的瞳孔並沒有因此受苦， 他們早已習慣了﹕家澤無聲， 兩行隸書早已寫在家門前。 迴旋處只有棄置的傢俬，而我

A150

更想爬上天橋背後的山路， 也許山頂上住著發瘋的畫家、和尚， 間中也有一對痴男怨女，像白鷺 頻頻回顧，山下的譟音。 曾經頑固的如今都安靜下來了， 狗在陽台上追逐屋主的身影， 往山頂的路依然人跡罕至。我的秘密 並沒有改寫他們努力維持的表象 —— 一雙白鷺在河堤上談情。 （二〇一六年十月二十日）

A151

萍凡人

廣告人、文字工作者，愛好文學和旅行，致力推動新詩創作。陽光與雨季，在旅途中 一二至二 ○ 一七年於《聲韻詩刊》擔任編輯。 幻化為詩。二 ○ 詩作 潛 致魚皮 二進元朗 豬油撈飯 —— 穿衣裳的樹 內心那微小風速計 東京 古 • 書街

A153

潛 我潛到水深之處 反覆練習閉氣 未啟齒的話儲蓄在身體裏 我蛻變成一條魚 長出鱗片、鰓和鰭 我們擦身而過 互相被尖銳的鰭刺傷 池水染成一滴滴紅色 紅墨水在宣紙中化開 成為一朵朵玫瑰 長出花瓣、葉和刺 我看到你瞳孔裏那玫瑰花的刺 卻看不到自己眼中的樑木

A154

我摘下潛水鏡 沿著紅墨水所經之路一直游 魚兒聚集成群 我蛻變成我 長出雙手、耳朵和鼻子 鱗片從身上不斷掉落 我尋找受傷的魚 用繃帶為牠包紮 摘下池中最美的一株玫瑰 拋向池水中央 一個觸不到的位置 我們約定在玫瑰盛開的時候 潛到水深之處

A155

致魚皮 裹著層層故事記述海洋身世 自水至陸翻過拋物線 一靜，彼方味蕾舒張 啃咬傍晚如皮，進駐每道水流 湧起窗外，滿天的魚 海的記憶交付承載 撒滿調味，升起海上一層皮 翻風季節遲遲不肯蓋被 界外球無需撿拾，離了肉身 表象退卻，織一場零嘴的複賽

A156

豬油撈飯

二進元朗 ——

金髮女子進城走到 不富貴酒樓，遙想 兩年前與友一嚐豬油 撈飯。如果記得 拌勻的油香，讀過的小說 情節精采閃耀，略加醬油

略加醬油情節精采閃耀讀過的小說拌勻的油香如果記得撈飯兩年前與友一嚐豬油遙想不富貴酒 樓金髮女子進城走到 沿鐵路興建之城 層層疊層層疊疊 記得不記得路路有路

A157

豬油下滴 滴 滴 答 答 從城內滴到城外 成擔豬油 一頓撈飯 兩打明月（賣）光

A158

穿衣裳的樹 試著適應立陶宛初春，厚厚笨笨的手套 把早晨保護著，抱怨春天比香港冬天還冷 連樹也要穿上衣裳，在安安靜靜的街 不要叫醒維爾紐斯，不要叫醒教堂的鐘 碎布編織的彩衣，在樹上生長 長成可以容讓枝椏舒展的樣式 陽光是我們共同存有的裁縫師 縫補衣裳缺口，在無人知曉的時刻 靜聽樹的心跳，自樹的深處發出 低頻回聲，唸著春天關鍵詞 冬天口音還未脫下，外衣擱在眼眶裏 以無葉的裁縫術，裝飾了旅人的夢 後記：二 ○ 一四年到立陶宛首都維爾紐斯，那是一個安靜的城市。在著名的 色衣裳的樹，靜靜地佇立在充滿藝術氣息的小城。

的對街，有一棵穿彩 St. Anne’s Church

A159

內心那微小風速計 內心那微小風速計 測不到遠方風暴 鐵網長出刺勾住勞動外衣 汗水滴在草日子更如茵 禁鋼管表演禁個人主義禁夢遊亂語 綠草編上號碼長度劃 一 黃昏撞上欄 柵 碎片未明，火車漸近 運送新製風速計 無法辨識近處風暴 惦記鋼管舞、羽毛和

A160

每夜 –

每日 –

麥克風 每夜每日走鋼線 —— 終點未明，廢屋漸近 彼端巨人捲起影子 刻上一列列 條碼

走 –

鋼 –

線 –

後記：踏足奧斯威辛以後，沉澱四年方成詩。

A161

東京

古書街 •

雨中書牆披上布幕 談論資本主義的書 背靠著戰爭歷史課本取暖 旅人攤開地圖尋找夢的版圖 雨勢起勁，座標驚慌失去方位 命運從一本書撐竿跳至 另一本書。 竹書籤躺在昏黃書頁 破折號刺痛身體 長出倒掛的問號為日子搔癢 狂風咬掉情節 缺頁風化成落葉，窗輕輕嘲笑

A162

旅人忘記撐傘，詞語受潮不敢哭 躲在椅子底下 看葉子織成附註 眼鏡倚著眼鏡看細字 研究一千種歧義 一百個古老傳說的過去與未來 一片葉推翻註釋閱讀路上水滴 書牆在夢中跌下古地圖 山脈悠閒伸懶腰 自遠古的荒野醒來

A163

葉英傑

香港出生。曾獲多屆青年文學獎，理工文藝創作比賽，詩網絡詩獎，中文文學創作獎 二 等。著有詩集《只有名字的聖誕卡》（一九九九年），《電話下的自由》（二 ○○ 八年），《尋找最舒適的坐姿》 二 一四年）及《旁 年）， 《背景音樂》（二 ○○ ( ○ 一九年獲第十五屆香港中文文學雙年獎。 觀生活》 二 一七年）。《旁觀生活》於二 ○ ( ○ 在 http://www.poetyip.com 。作品散見《阡陌》、《香港文學》、《聲韻詩刊》、 有 Blog 《中學生文藝月刊》、《大頭菜文藝月刊》、《秋螢》等。曾為「我們詩社」及「大 學詩會」成員。 詩作 聚會 江戶東京博物館 繁衍 走上蒙馬特高地聖心堂 走路回家時看見不知道名字的花

A165

聚會 那裏裝潢依舊，那仿日本榻榻米的房間 仍在。那一天，當我到達，原來 咖啡廳已經更改了名字 上一次到這咖啡廳 已經是好幾年前 那時候我們都擠滿整個榻榻米房間。 友人結婚，生孩子了。這次她帶著她一歲的小孩來 他來來回回踱步，其他友人呼喊他的名字 很多時他都沒有理睬；他把玩媽媽的相機 和手提電話，他有他的玩意。 房間外，掛著的大電視機仍在； 房間門沒鎖上，我偶爾望出去

A166

電視正播放錄影的籃球賽 比拼可能很激烈。 從上一片刻的一瞥，到這一片刻的一瞥 球賽的比分，已經轉換了很多次 我們都錯過了。 小孩把媽媽的飲品弄翻 飲品潑灑四周 哭聲驚動店員 店員進來抹去水漬。 弄乾了。一切又回復到 沒有事情發生的時候。 這一個黃昏，我們一如以往聚在一起 替某一友人慶祝生日。

A167

一 ○

年三月二十一日至二十八日） ○

這一次是我的。 就像之前數次一樣 每次在這房間，我們都努力試著 想找到最舒適的坐姿。 （二

A168

江戶東京博物館 他們移動的場景，被記住了 他們交談，進行活動 穿上那個時代的服飾，被記住了。 進入博物館，穿過那條重現的橋 首先進入眼簾，就是 那些人偶。 他們專注自己的生活 外面，沒有甚麼事在發生。 他們撥開門簾，走到街上，向一個方向走 有光照著他們。人做的光 定時亮起，定時閉上 創造他們作息的時間； 我們在圍欄外看著，透過

A169

一四年十月五日至十二日。記九月東京旅遊。） ○

介紹，知道他們以後 會被捲入甚麼； 明治維新。然後是 戰爭；他們會知道 有很多東西掉落他們身邊，炸開 所有事物都變調 他們只能聽著掉落的聲音去反應。 現在，他們如常在街上叫賣，如常 慶祝節慶，他們的孩子如常學習 孩子降生的時候 大家圍在一起，呵護他 等待他長大，擺出眾人心中理想的姿勢。 （二

A170

繁衍 妹妹新婚後，跟丈夫搬到另一房子 帶走這邊很多東西，都是心頭愛 留下很多空抽屜讓我們處置 妹妹說婚後都沒有喝過湯。上星期首次回來 媽媽端出一大窩；味道在我們之間飄散 要懂得火候，否則味道不再 還有剩餘讓你帶走 —— 以往吃完飯，你就回到和媽媽共用的房間 現在要回到更遠的地方，習慣另一種風俗和地理 媽媽走進廚房清洗骯髒的器皿，告訴你已經很晚 你又帶走一些用具。洋娃娃卻留在原地

A171

他們仍然捲縮在你床上，向外張望 媽媽翻著日曆，寫上你下次回來的日期

一七年七月四日至十七日。此詩使用的詩體是名為「 ○

你帶來要放長的褲腳。媽媽努力折開褲腳的線 要繼續穿，要先拆開原來的黏連。 （二 用此詩體的例子。）

」的十四行詩體，雪萊的〈西風頌〉即為使 Terza Rima

A172

走上蒙馬特高地聖心堂 告訴他，巴黎這天早上，雪已停 雪在陽台的欄杆上形成結晶 旅程中，陽光第一次出來 透過結晶反射，他會知道這天跟之前有所不同 就走進幽暗的地車站，努力裝成 和他們一樣，懂得這裏的空氣 擁有相同顏色的目光 會懂得感到有異樣的人接近 懂得迴避 不會被割開部分

A173

就算看不懂那些 站牌名稱，到站 就會知道是時候下車 安心沿著梯級，走上蒙馬特高地聖心堂 趨向旅程最末的部分，仍然會有力氣 走上去，在那裏瞧瞧望望

一八年十月八日改） ○

很多人在教堂門外守候 也跟著吧，只要忍受一陣子寒風 先聽聽附近賣藝者拉小提琴，去感同身受

一八年九月八日成；二 ○

記著戴上那頂鮮紅色冷帽 找位置坐著，調節態度 長久等待也會感到溫暖 離遠旁觀的也無法忽視。 （二

A174

走路回家時看見不知道名字的花 這只是平常回家的路；我這樣回家 已經有很多年。越過的士站，穿過 幾段行人隧道，微微上鈄，落鈄 繞過巴士站，經過屋苑小公園回家 曾經有棵黃花風鈴木，那次颱風中倒了 公園中有歪鈄的樹，早已習慣了它的模樣 管理員不斷更換介紹樹木的牌子，每次 我走前想記住，都暗想：不知道是否有這需要 那一天如常頂著黑暗回家；匆匆離開 火車站，準備轉彎穿過行人隧道，就在 走進隧道前的一刻，我眼尾瞥見 那一株植物，在旁邊花圃豎起，有小黃花盛開

A175

要繼續走或停下來？它盛開與否並不因為我的原因 它只是剛好在那裏，因為某隻鳥兒，或某陣 風；反正它就在那裏，小黃花在我視線的高度盛開 讓我今天這一刻看見；我最後決定拍下照片

一九年六月七日） ○

嘗試傳給你；其實在想是否有這需要 你卻回覆了一個名字。那麼它就有一個位置 有了歷史；知道它的限期，它的彎曲，及承托花朵的綠 無論它以後在或不在，每次路經，準備走進隧道時 我肯定總會瞧那位置望一眼。 （二

A176

廖偉棠

香港詩人、作家、攝影家， 曾獲香港青年文學獎、香港中文文學獎、台灣中國時報文 一二年年度作家，現 學獎、聯合報文學獎及香港文學雙年獎等，香港藝術發展獎二 ○ 任教於國立臺北藝術大學，旅居台灣。曾於中港台出版詩集《八尺雪意》、《半簿鬼 語》、《春盞》、《櫻桃與金剛》等十餘種，散文集《衣錦夜行》、《尋找倉央嘉措》、 《有情枝》，小說集《十八條小巷的戰爭遊戲》等。 詩作 寒港 港珠澳大橋 夜禱 無名⽒ 夜讚 立冬

A177

寒港 天氣播報員死去以後 我們直接把道旁 不凋的樹葉用人手摘掉。 汽車排隊進入西九堆填。 沉默的氣泡直接結冰 從報章的對話框上滾落 中環動物園、尖沙咀實驗室 旺角殯儀館和荃灣墓園 ⋯⋯ 「付喪神」必須要有這樣的樣子 香港的金骸骨聳起被吃剩的翅尖 帶領我們百鬼夜行。 雪落在香港的脆皮上 也落在香港的五臟內。

A178

劏房的窄棺、豪宅的骨灰罈無一例外 都變成懷裏的聖誕下雪水晶球。 下盡了，再顛倒，每一片雪花 都是一隻被凌遲的乳豬的報復。 雪落在一八四二年衣衫單薄的蜑家女肩上 一七年在 Facebook 也落在二 ○ 寫下遺書的少年手上。 雪落在屠門的饕餮 也落在火海的鴟吻。 是寒冷在沸騰 潔白的胃、貢丸一般的眼球 生魚片一般的夢都可以扔進這鍋 寒港說吃我吃我。 茶壺中的愛麗絲是一九九七年

A179

登船的英國女兒，落下的眼淚 確保了維多利亞港的鹽度。 是寒冷在濃湯中沸騰，成一個笑話 嫖客們都死去以後 廟街的企街媽媽把 領 再拉低一點 她還有七百萬個孩子需要撫養。 （二

一七年十二月十八日） ○

A180

V

港珠澳大橋 噪鵲在集裝箱辦公室頂上築巢的時候 已經有⼗九個鮫⼈在集裝箱外⾯的海上死去 喜鵲從碼頭低⾶掠食香煙的時候 已經有⼀條奈何橋在⽔中的綠影裏結成 烏鴉穿上西服擠上巴⼠替換你我的時候 我們造了⼀個聒聒叫的棺材來做浮島的模型

一八年二月十一日） ○

蝙蝠懇求開啟⼀下⿊暗的開關的時候 我們增⽣的⾻殖虛構了我們的脊梁 （二

A181

夜禱 我沒有打開窗喊出我城 期待我該喊的⼝號 沒有呼喚也沒有回應 ⼀道光刺穿夜林早已啞寂的蟬聲 喚醒⼭⾕中也許從不存在的東湖 「詩不能抵擋⼀輛坦克 但它能建造的東西比坦克摧毀的要多得多」 朋友問我這句話的出處 我羞於告訴他這是我在坦克的履印中撿到的 這是我從激盪的露⽔打撈出來的 獄中⼈仍然被毆打⾻折的時候

A182

一九年八月三十日） ○

我期待我的詩可以成為⼀句詛咒 既然亞⾺遜森林的劫灰依然在我的額頭 塗抹發配的花押 我不會放棄接⾻⽊所誓⾔的復仇 （二

A183

無名⽒ 你愛她嗎 如果她是你鏡中的陌⽣⼈？ 當青春棲⽌於⾶箭。 她值得珍惜的美你知道 她⾯臨的憂懼你也不能倖免。 當盾牌碰撞聲聲漸近。

一九年十月三十日） ○

她的名字叫香港 她只是恰巧不是你家鄉。 （二

A184

夜讚 雲箔延展⿊⿃的屏息 林⼝上空龐然夜⾊ 超出我等⼈類耽美的駕馭 好比⼩島是投影機 把微茫投射給虛無 假如這真的是讚美樹⽊ 就等同犯罪的時代 那就讓我陷入這星星的囹圄 假裝世界依然美麗如昔 代替那不再在世的少年仍⽬睹 假裝夜氣氤氳中有巨⼿ 挹抹去⼈間某些劫數

A185

安慰三四隻未眠螢蟲的起落 教說與溫煦的童夢 重回另⼀座陣痛中的島嶼 要知道我們尚未誕⽣ 真理是摸⿊檢點的⾏裝 野⽝與駿⾺守候的林莽 我們是伸⼿不⾒五指的騎⼿ 還是這夜⾊加冕的神偷？

一九年十一月七日） ○

在更聲渺渺的年⽉裏 寂寂降下簾幕 感謝某顆星⼦如夜眸垂顧 假裝世界依然纖細如昔 代替那不再在世的少年仍愛撫 （二

A186

立冬 立冬已過，我們死無可死 但仍然再死⼀次 這⼀次依然像無數次 為了不被兇⼿指著我們的屍體說這是奴隸 我們的⼿依然握拳，在冬天保持直立的姿勢。 然後我們注入冬天像暴雪擊打紅場 ⿂貫⽽入這⼤地因為地下的鐵早已失靈 嚼火⼀度 因為我們的⾆頭漸凍僵 二 ○ 一四年冬天，你埋在彌敦道的死者 發芽了嗎，開花了嗎？

A187

一九年十一月十日，屏東） ○

我們不再追問 鳴鐘⼀記夜空佈滿瘋狂的星辰。 （二

註：「去年你種在你的花園裏的屍⾸， 它發芽了嗎？今年能開花嗎？」 艾略特《荒原》 ——

A188

熒惑

原名阮文略，一九八六年生，香港中文大學生物化學（醫學院）哲學博士。曾任大學 吐露詩社社長。獲青年文學獎、大學文學獎、中文文學創作獎、李聖華現代詩青年獎、 磨鐵詩歌獎。著有詩集《突觸間隙》、《狐狸回頭》、《菀彼桑柔》等等。 詩作 無題 伊巴爾大橋 化城再來人 莫倫貝克 何時開始 九龍塘站天橋 蝴蝶飛 二十年祭

A189

無題 我想重新 數那些已經墜落的流星 從電話簿的逐個空格尋找 它們的理由 看醫生時我反復強調 痛症無關情緒 風雨如磐 愈來愈辭不達意 愈來愈可疑 更像一個馬戲班的練習生 每一個字都是表演 透明的夜，街燈正在換班 我想重新開始

A190

二二年一月十一日 ○

)

所以想到換一個筆名 但是我知道這一定失敗 不被認出是一種失敗 認出是另一種 然後就是詩人們死了 一些變成飛鳥 另一些變成冬天 而我又是另外一類 無法吹響簧片 終成碎沙 而不是玻璃 二 (

A191

伊巴爾大橋 伊巴爾大橋，兩面都是天堂 也是他人的地獄 天使在自己的家園歌唱 一旦飛過河境，就變成死亡的號角聲 他們的臉孔瞬間蒙滿炭灰 牙齒利如尖鐵， 張口發射鋼製的詞語 每當太陽繞到頸後 家裏的孩子們用母語輪唱時 回頭微笑的他們又變回一臉和藹 穿過城市的河在天使下方承接 羽毛掉落一片就沖走一片，乾乾淨淨 伊巴爾大橋，兩面都是人間 也是失憶者的人間，他們甚至早已忘記

A192

一五年十二月十八日 ○

)

自己是否已死，商店販賣的藥物沒有期限 多年來沒有漲價 反正亦無任何一種貨幣可以購買 面無表情的人鬼相見寒暄 偶有忘記服藥者敲門查問今夕何年 無論得不得到答案， 他們也沒有所謂滿意與否 沒有死亡、也沒有活著 人間平凡， 天使只在高空巡弋 —— 從不下降。 二 (

「人在生的慾望中所造的一切建築物在我看來都比不上橋。橋比房屋要重要，比宗教場所還要神聖。它屬於每一個

人，每個人在它面前都是平等的，它很有用，永遠被修建在多數人需要跨過的地方。它比其他建築都要經年持久，

安德里奇 ‧

而且不服務於任何隱秘或邪惡的事物。」 伊沃 ——

A193

化城再來人 再來 便是在時間的彼方 為返寒的天氣築小小的巢 惟鷓鴣飛來 那是昔春的宮殿 就那麼一個人獨坐 讓白頭浪一次次把他哄走 又換來乾淨之軀 歲月蠶吐，他拖出的墨 也一點點乾瘦下去 惟他的身影飽吸夜色 再來 他早已迎送了更多火車 聽雛鳥在車廂裏飛老 飛成詩與經

A194

)

印在他枯手所及的 自己的臉紋行間 慢慢，便如一個個心上人 之再現 二 ( 一 ○六年三月四日 給周夢蝶 ——

A195

莫倫貝克 徒步穿過莫倫貝克 迎面走過我身邊的人是劫匪 然而他沒有對我的緊張給予確認 只是徑直遠去 我開始懷疑這男人的背包裏 是炸藥和引爆裝置 他的目的地是皇宮或者歐盟理事會 或者北約總部，那比較遠 那個方向不會是原子鐘 如果他是從聖心聖殿走來 懷中可能是一部聖經 或者他的聖經尚未寫成 門徒和執迷不悟的人尚未分明

A196

一六年三月二十三日 ○

)

年輕的移民：漁夫和木匠的孩子 尚有餘裕學習這個世界 的不安、仇恨、悲痛，黃昏的光 映照在他沉甸的背上 到底那未知之物是有多重？ 那寫了一半的資本論 那尚未抵達的悲慘世界地圖集 他們匆匆穿過莫倫貝克 與我相反方向， 然而可能是同一個目的地。 二 (

A197

何時開始 我們是何時開始意識到 每一次風暴都必然有結局 而每一個結局都必然略帶傷感 在倒塌的樹下新的苗會成長 前生的苦難以另一種形式發芽抽枝 像這個世界的荒謬。當飛鳥 沿著生鏽的海岸鐵路闖進山洞 我們不會期待一個巨人從另一頭現身 但是我們錯了，這其中 必然有這世界的隱秘 在視野被擋住的時間裏，世界 並不以我們想像的方式行進 包括某些人的離逝 某些日光的消暗，若我們

A198

一六年九月十五日 ○

)

就是那隻喙啣悲傷樹枝的飛鳥 結局是一座荒廢的山洞口 在海岸日暮的蒼茫中投入黑暗 另一個我們可會誕生 自我們的羽翼，還是我們執迷的枝條？ 而我們是否僅能從遙遠的雷 想像一頭野獸，或一個手執棍棒的巨人 虛無地攀過那些我們無法飛過的山嶺 這其中必然有這世界的隱秘 藏在悲傷的果核裏，我們的心 即使略有苦澀，那比我們聰明的禽鳥 在嚥下的時候，地球迎來了夜色 而維修鐵路隧道的工人 徹夜不眠。我們是何時開始 二 (

A199

九龍塘站天橋 天國近了，你應該 悔改，得永生。幾個耶和華見證人 在天橋的一頭扶著一黑色架子的小書 是尋常的午後，當火車從山洞出來 減速進站，天橋下人來人往 兩所大學的學生在天橋上交匯而過 像鹹淡水相撞的水域 一群白鷺棲停片刻又飛走 天空光照下來，紅樹林光合作用 高壓電纜之上不是天堂 除非天堂的走廊也匆匆忙忙 蓋章、簽文件，天使攜著人間的見證 走過一個又一個房間。

A200

包糖蔥餅的婆婆從死去活來了 鐵皮箱子仍舊堆起象牙色的糖蔥 烹煮和拉糖蔥的功夫在幕後 顧客付鈔，她把一件糖蔥放在餅皮上 灑上花生、椰絲，趁涼著吃。 鐵皮箱子上多了一張照片 糖蔥餅伯伯與她的合照已泛白 像開始熔化的糖蔥，黏著 箱子。據說婆婆抑鬱了很久 朋友勸她才回復忙碌的整餅日子 從此烹煮、拉糖蔥要多花一倍時間 不辛苦。天空的光偶爾收斂，再放晴 橋是彩虹，偶爾有人從彩虹跌下 被減速的火車輾死，結束疼痛 —— 人間沒有永恆，但有哀樂

A201

一七年十一月九日 ○

)

有時鳥鳴、有時行雷 人和植物都需要呼吸，天使餓了 飛入尋常的城市買甜點 上帝，你也是個讀書人嗎？ 你相信這世界上有神、有真理 用糖和餅搭造的祝聖過的糧 也有了他自己的生命嗎？ 我們用牙咬碎、吞嚥 讓生命一直往下 進入這堅硬如天使眼睛一樣的地球。 二 (

A202

蝴蝶飛 蝴蝶飛過一千公里的輸油管 那邊已經沒有雪了 幾座大山之間甚麼都沒有 你說那是人間的界限 人間不過是幾顆破鐵齒輪 有時脫落 我漸漸聽到你失去的呼吸 也是陽光明媚，初秋 時分，草莓田未及轉色 你就迫不得已地轉身，籃子裏 有足夠的風暴和泥濘嗎？ 我唯一的捕獵者，你是時間 可是我不是宣言

A203

一七年十二月八日 ○

)

我只是肆意遲來的謊話 在每條長街上的電話亭點火 接通一千公里以外的星空 那裏沒有你，那裏就不是天堂 我們所知道的真實世界 有時並非不存在 只是不如你的夢中 那撕不完也燒不盡的萬年曆 頁與頁之間 一隻蝴蝶 一千萬隻蝴蝶：悲傷 二 (

A204

二十年祭 我至今仍然無法理解其意義 雖然大廈已經倒下多年 而其象徵人類文明崩壞的說法早已被引用到 成為典範，彷彿現代文明 就是那些鋼筋和水泥，而不是那些 人。 早上我在商場吃早餐 像二十年前我和母親在快餐店中 前面的人展讀的報紙 印刷著大樓方位空置出來的天空 和那些混雜人體的煙塵 ⋯⋯ 我從窗外看見對面高聳的鷹架和鋼條 新的大廈正在取代已被拆卸的 新的人即將取代舊的

A205

我至今仍在學習理解這一切 商場環迴播放著鋼琴音樂 晨光照在溜冰場上 早起練習的女生自顧自地旋轉 手臂收合，轉速愈來愈高 而冰上的影子沒有移動 消化著早餐的上班族快步離開 蹺課的學生情侶在相擁 我想像泰倫斯 馬 • 利克應該如何 拉長這個鏡頭，在甚麼時候 抬起攝影機去捕捉離開城市的航班 人。我漸漸發現老去 不是因為年歲，而是因為不解的 流逝和堆疊，倒掉杯裏的茶渣

A206

鋅盆裏隔夜的油光 它們將隨著水流通過一條長長的喉管 二十年是一個抽象的長度單位 我們可以用甚麼去量度 這無法倒流的距離 所以說，世界從來沒有變得更好 也沒有更壞，而所有人 終將擁有各自的生死與疾病 即使世上所有的生命 到頭來都只能夠不求甚解 並且死得像一把灰。 我捧著冷掉的黑咖啡 聽著講者分享如何提倡正能量概念

A207

如何推廣生命教育

二一年九月二十一日 ○

)

我就想到種一棵小樹 ⋯⋯ 前日的閱讀課上我跟學生說 教室窗外的這棵樹 比你們更早落地生根，也必然會 比你們死得更遲 他們交換不解的眼色 對啊，這些年來我雖然老了 但是我自信終於學懂的 就是如何適時地擺出或隱藏 這一副表情。 二 (

A208

劉偉成

香 港 土 生 土 長 寫 作 人， 香 港 浸 會 大 學 人 文 及 創 作 系 哲 學 博 士 並 兼 任 講 師， 於 牛 津 大 學 出 版 社 擔 任 編 務 總 監 工 作， 曾 於 二 一 七 年 獲 邀 參 加 美 國 愛 荷 華 大 學 國 際 作 家 工 ○ ）獲 作坊。詩集《陽光棧道有多寬》（ How Broad Are the Plank Roads of Sunshine 第 十 三 屆 香 港 中 文 文 學 雙 年 獎 新 詩 組 首 獎。 散 文 集《 持 花 的 小 孩 》 獲 第 十 屆 香 港 中 文 文 學 雙 年 獎 散 文 獎 推 薦 獎。 二 二 年 出 版 詩 集《 果 實 微 溫 》（ Modest Heat in ○ ○ ）和散文集《影之忘返》（ Alpine Forgetting of Shadows ）。 Fruits 詩作 鹿 樹劫 浣花箋 沿高速公路走，去買一包中國米

A209

鹿 我曾在詩中，以鹿茸頭蓋 感念先鋒在革命中釋放閃電 導引風暴經過，讓我童年的筆劃 可在家族經營的中藥店，安穩地 舒展，散步，跳起街舞 最後，我將筆劃換裝成字母 帶到這異地朗讀，放風，和散佚 我沒踏過你們的火毯 沒法在歷史的灰燼中 以腳印的里數，兌換 倖存的勇氣，我只想表達 自己正在珍惜的心神 在異國的文法中，珍惜 不存在進行的時態，但明明

A210

我還在沉澱你們激起的煙硝 猶在滴溜傳奇的淚光 結果縱使是一片黝黑 當中定有你們的遺志輕拂 我要站很久才能 一邊翻譯你們的志向 一邊挺立如一根旗 牠就在車子前橫過 對於現代快速的輪子 毫不畏懼，彷彿自己 才是這路的主人 牠低頭嗅嗅雨齋後的草 打個噴嚏，然後昂首看我們 啊！那頭蓋上的靈目 緊合多年，終於再次睜開

A211

一七年九月二十二日寫於愛荷華） ○

風靜止，時間垂軟下來 原來戴著那鹿茸頭蓋的 一直是我，當牠悠然走進樹林 進入我滴溜出來的漆黑 時間重新流動，而我的珍惜 終於完成，我的筆劃如是，字母亦然 （二

A212

樹劫 寫於十號颱風山竹吹襲後的首個工作天 ──

無可抵賴的地硬，容不下星星的想像 花崗的石層早絕緣於內陸的震動 即使隆起為山壁，也不容植被掩蓋 獅頭的澟然，只有如此剛烈才撐得住 無數大難不死的故事猛甩苟活的愧疚 復將木屋、板間房和碌架床的昏暗 抱成小小的土球作奮發的根基 只要一起鬆開懷抱，便可鋪出 一條條尋常的街道…… 尋常是不識羅馬也可不絕延伸 泡製過渡：車輪如要免於動盪 那麼，混凝土和瀝青自然少不了

A213

散步當然也要不覺顛簸，如此厚磚頭 當然也省不掉，如果還要嚴防年輕人 未戒掉投擲的衝動，最好把磚頭黏連起來 反正地下的呼吸也不爭那一點點隙縫 反正我們的命像地一樣硬 還有甚麼，統統來吧！ 那管是剋木的金氣俗成 金舖銀行的厚地台與重鐵閘 不妨再加上荊冠一樣的條子蓋 遮掩痛風一樣賁張紋路的根腳 我們的命比地還要硬 只顧一味挺直上攀，不管失序的節氣 如何碰撞澟然的山壁 只奮力開展獨創的大葉 囤積日光加工，晚間販賣霓虹 復以耀目的筆劃排放發跡的風光

A214

一八年九月二十日） ○

尋常的葉子卻在食肆排放的意氣中枯黃 原來命再硬也抵不住全城負氣壓的翻滾 樹紛紛倒下，彷彿回到蠻荒跟自己的影子 一一告別，樹根依舊抓著小小的土球 如當年逃難的包袱，有些還連著索帶 這麼多年，原來只積累了如此淺淺的根 即使堵住全部的進路，我又怎忍就此 跨過累透的影子，回到城市的心臟？ 我折返家中，多麼慶幸可在 妻子平暢的睡靄中，適應 失去影子的張惶，再為這城唸一道 久違的毁滅咒，炸開所有地縛 城市浮升，親近天空，影子的根 穿過更多星星的孔洞，互相駁連 填滿一個新歷史的泥層靜待發掘 （寫於二

A215

浣花箋 在全幢髹上略深於 天空藍調的唐樓前 我舉著這裏的黑白照 細說此處往日有一道溪 附近的孩子，赤腳跑出家門 十來步便噗通跳到水中 濺起高高的水花 打水戰、捉蝌蚪 在中秋月下為紙紮的燈籠借火 說不定岸邊還蔓生著不少草藥 供跌打的店頭採擷 溪岸不知不覺給拉成一道明渠 再容不下生活的拖沓

A216

卻無阻接生的大媽，鷺鳥一樣 輕濯襁褓，時間在微拱的刺繡上 變慢，那是牡丹與公雞的圖案 卻快速穿透燈籠袖藕色晚裝的蕾絲花 復在孔雀藍綑邊的瓷青色夾襖素花上 凝結成珠，在水中流轉過的種種花貌 沾著風塵還是風尚，稍稍別臉躲避日光 渠便給填成馬路，記憶蓋了棺溢滿鬼影 你的肩碰著我的肩，卻摩不出聲 花在記憶的羊水中坦綻，隨岸線層層推遠 自然主義的靈魂，給推到快成明渠的港口 給封存在留白的虛空中標本作不同的花貌 無論如何綻放也不帶躊躇，目下麻石牆上 錯綜的樹根，駁通了我的心脈在賁張 風雷雨電雲霧，退到花杯的天緣

A217

一七年二月九日） ○

我像荒漠中的花蕊受時光的濯洗 在散播和涵納之間擺盪，拖拉時光 濯掉一切花綻的衝動和結果的執念 自然的懷抱重新合攏，眾生的記憶 給抱成歷史的巨柱卻總不及往昔的圓 （寫於二

A218

Maung Day

沿高速公路走，去買一包中國米 給同行的緬甸詩人 ——

走路的，只剩下我倆 人煙都在貨車裏呼嘯 身份的葉片被風扯掉 我們逐漸赤裸，露出夢的樹皮 陽光變得很吵，時間以沉默拾荒 把不再飄忽的人煙，摺疊成陰影 製作青春的化石，此刻 我只需奉獻懷抱，便可 在陽光和時間之間，逢迎成風 我卻執著，在適合絕食的空曠裏 找一包中國米，讓瑣碎的質感

A219

一七年八月三十一日寫於愛荷華） ○

在指間流淌，嘮嘮叨叨的 像河床的小石迎著 水草和魚兒的款擺 我彷彿看見那差異的疆界 隨著擺盪，只要站定 它總會擺到我兩腿間 任我跨越 煙隨飯香飄逸 如一道向上流的河，陽光與時間 在我們站定的影子中和解 風便成了，如飯一樣白的雲 （二

A220

璇筠

璇筠，本名梁璇筠，作家、詩人、中學教師。香港中文大學語文教育系學士，香港中 文大學文化研究碩士。曾獲青年文學獎、大學文學獎。作品散見《明報》、《字花》、 《大頭菜》等，著有詩集《水中木馬》，《自由之夏》。 詩作 然而你仍然在跑 藥 八月的港鐵 自白 同學聚會 翡翠的雨

A221

然而你仍然在跑 是風的聲音 把我藏到夾縫中 微微的舒服 巨大的狗的靈魂 徜徉在風中讓我 淹沒。走出時間以外 我在離開 品類的顏色 我在細看，每一道 空氣的親吻 我在迎接 新的皮膚 用以更換生活的不幸

A222

影子。在太陽挪移的一瞬。 學習葉子吧。 根深但是樂意隨清掃翻飛 早晨孤獨的雀鳥 認得彼此，默默讓路 光。是空間的別名 像武士那樣揮拳 前進吧！ 生命畢竟為了佔有 而且總是時日無多 飛升，是那血肉的靈魂 重量，以腳的停靠 伸長。大地的汗， 街道的字。年老的青春。 循環移動的毛筆 報紙上顫動的歷史

A223

生命不是一個承諾 只是一個笑話 我們都必然走向衰敗 讓過去的榮耀 變成不能進食的硬幣 起跑！ 讓過去的自己追上來 在這撞擊中一一粉碎 未完的恨好好磨平 孤獨是一盞自由的燈 在沉思中給你一個 公道的說明 清晨的鹿角驟起 你仍然繼續

A224

一六年五月二十四日） ○

你仍然在跑 並且在見證 時間的本質 （二

A225

藥 送你一帖公民的藥 把那個年頭的藥留到今天。 那年我們才開始踏入社會 裝模作樣的文憑 過於蒼白的手勢 那時跟現在同樣沒有嘴巴 都必須藏在白布之下 眼神彼上一層薄霧 想要說話 才發現僅僅能夠呼吸 在巴士上人人都貼上白雲 記憶中巴士顛簸

A226

走過我城高高低低的斜路 沉睡時刻搖搖晃晃 還有新聞不斷上升的確診數字 金鐘被稱為香港的公園 困著自由自在的鳥類 旁邊有個蒙眼的女人 手握象徵公義的天秤 公園裏有白色瞭望台 悼念那個年頭死掉的人類 他們被稱為白衣天使 後來就變成教科書︰ 孟子魚我所欲也章 有個詞語叫做 捨生取義

A227

今年六月一切重新開始 我們穿著黃衣 或者隨水漂流 把血變成藥 一個一個地倒下 重新戴上口罩 我們已不再懼怕 自願進入骯髒室 從未脫下的一身衣裳 口吐白蘭花 後來我們都沒有認出自己 只看到隔離室的玻璃 重回那一天 白雪裏沒有恐懼

A228

二 ○

天空中 有光 （二

年二月十八日） ○

A229

八月的港鐵 進入毒氣室 洗澡 磨掉一層皮膚 然後 下班

A230

自白 不錯，我就在這裏。 早晨劃過維多利亞港的巴士上 午飯的人潮中間 一幅油畫的冷色系 卡位後面的竊聽者 偶爾迷失在書堆中

一六年五月七日） ○

追不上網路與流行 在投身的工作中 至今仍未言悔 輕微的快樂與平凡的痛苦 不錯，我就在這裏。 （二

A231

同學聚會 小時候 看了一半的小說 你 突然 whatsapp

一六年八月二十三日） ○

如何才能做到校歌中的好兒女 也許電影裏的青春總比較無悔 （二

A232

翡翠的雨 十年前 你是我的石頭。 你忘了 那是我們曾經踏進的河

A233

鄧阿藍

年代開始創作，著有詩集《一首 ○

A235

原名鄧文耀，曾任職工廠工人、的士司機，一九六 低沉的民歌》等。 詩作 濕衣 給同在貧民區生長的 故事足球場 ── 夢尋夢 瘟疫下獨居的口罩

M

濕衣 滑跤的地面濕濕未清 一爬起轉身窺見 那矇矓的肩膊 恍如小童身影 廚房蒸氣騰騰等待變作物形 遊樂場妳時常閉眼台上獨自旋轉 轉進汗淋淋的浮沉 彷彿也是他幼年飄移的夢境 酣酣的夢想卻是睡不成 悶悶妳夜裹起床 跟隨他假期上工的腳步 若聞到香甜品父女共食的情形

A236

行何工場天邊有冷冷的孤星 跌在夜深裹偷看 每日交談不多的親人 內聚力搓著兒童糕點的模型 父親久穿的工服還沒有洗淨 熱氣濕透衣色 衣袖中瘦手伸出甘芳 工房空氣混濁窄窗外曙光欲明

A237

故事足球場

給同在貧民區生長的 ──

A238

一、 故事一樣的足球場 這個野草斜坡陰森 兩個頑童吃勁地爬著 那時國際賽在大城開幕 他們欲想登上平原的場地 對賽一場一人足球賽 貧民區山上的傳說遙遠 仍然發力抓緊樹根 芒草刺出肢體的酸痛 他們好想踢這場小賽事 雙手觸著滴落的血汗

M

血色鮮鮮彷彿是球迷鼓掌 大家都敏捷地加快步子 那時足球賽全巿沸沸沸熱 腳板底也爬痛了 常打街波街童穿著拖鞋 不只是小膠球磨損 踢球落空腳趾磨地 磨著家門的裂紋 沒波鞋穿著的歲月 他們擊掌約定預賽 野林旁極力攀著陡坡 恍若恍若攀了一生 二、

A239

故事一樣的足球場 這個斜坡野草陰森 雜草叢叢蛇鼠蟲蟻出沒 向山下貧民邨走去 蔭蔽沉沉如化螭魅 他追他趕冒險前進 相持不下的大動作 似側身抽射入網的勢態 球賽歡呼更加滾動球子 足球滾成青年 兩人使盡勁力翻過山坡 呼呼寒風撲碎幻境 荒蕪草坪空無一人 連一柱龍門架木也沒有 他們的亂髮好像變作灰根

A240

脫髮在細葉草上追風 依然飄動快速 爬過童年爬過中年 索性脫掉鞋子 兩個老人赤腳赤手的大笑 手掌相碰著幻想語 將來國際賽會在小巿舉行 故事一樣的足球場 故事一樣的足球場

A241

一、

夢尋夢

夢沿東京街頭尋找 昨夜矇矓的森林 在日本密密的石樓中 各式時裝散發出色光色香 一遍雜草雜木的遠郊 也彷彿野性地茁長 迷城喧鬧幻影行走 寂寂奇形枝幹撐開綠綠樹冠 客機打藍藍航道隆隆 帶動停留的白雲 低空下夢夾實題材資料

A242

從東京街彎彎曲曲轉上植林 追尋山邊木屋區的母校 欲想寫一個遠去異國 留學的夢小說 二、 勤工時儉學日時快時慢的走過 平民地早已變成高樓城 原想看望一棵原生樹 重溫緊靠樹身讀書的往事 童年李鄭屋村山頭 只留下排列植樹的陰影 菜館街吹來肉香風 樹氣根飄動小小的白色

A243

若紗廠父母工作的細紗 絮末貧血一樣罩住頭額 汗水滴成飄雪翻過山嶺汪洋 翻開厚厚的外國大學課本 冬季樹屋度假抽空溫習 又一架飛機飛出鳥類的夢 夢展翅向夢遠遠去尋野果林

A244

瘟疫下獨居的口罩 暗角下細繩懸空晾著物影 白罩微力顫動 像壓扁的口 顫抖中吐不出半句話語 這個人躺床墓土味彷彷彿彿 輪候口罩的疲累 喘氣累成慢步喘上唐樓 布罩孤零是最後的剩餘 年老人很久輪不到的 變成晚晚睡不著的骨痛 一個日日無奈用滾水翻洗 口罩好像也在光線不足的角落獨住 傾斜的物影

A245

床上嘴唇無血色地抖動 扁扁的白口罩 只想說一聲人語

A246

鄭政恆

《聲韻詩刊》評論編輯。著有詩集《記憶前書》、《記憶後書》及《記憶之中》、散 年代 文集《記憶散步》，主編有《沉默的回聲》、《金庸：從香港到世界》、《五 ○ 四 — 二 ○○ 五》、《二 一 香港詩選》、《香港短篇小說選二 ○○ ○一香港電影回顧》、 《讀書有時》三集、《民國思潮那些年》三集，合編有《香港文學的傳承與轉化》、 《香港當代作家作品合集選 小說卷》、《香港文學與電影》、《香港當代詩選》、《港 • 一三年 澳台八十後詩人選集》、《香港粵語頂硬上》及《香港粵語撐到底》等。二 ○ 一五年參加美國愛荷華大 獲得香港藝術發展獎年度最佳藝術家獎（藝術評論）。二 ○ 學國際寫作計劃。現為《真論》總編輯、香港電影評論學會會長。 詩作 巡遊以後 翅膀 在柴灣海角旁的工廠大廈 無可疑 抗疫時代

A247

巡遊以後 帷幕自舞台的中央向左右張開 顏色慢慢擴散成規則和形狀 一個鬥牛士坐在眾人視線的中央 拿起結他低奏一首吉卜賽民歌 當和弦如樹葉隨聲音落下 馬德里的日光低垂於小墓園裏 遠處的火山正隆隆作響 打開了鬥牛士疲憊的眼睛 奴隸倚靠著柱子 等待雜技小丑的滑稽把戲 小丑的孩子有粉紅色的皮膚 小孩在愉悦的笑聲中長大 口裏長出話語腳上生出搖擺的步伐

A248

每一個月的禮拜天小丑用微薄的薪酬給他快樂 其他的日子就讓觀眾發出會心的笑 小猴爬上天梯 聽不見上帝的十誠 只覺人間一切如同夢幻般的遊樂園 老狗伏在地板上 諦聽死神的步履 由遠處走近又漸漸遠去 彼埃洛是月下的狂人，最後的丑角 仕女將他手中的酒喝掉 醉了嗎？就在夢裏成為花園的女主人 彼埃洛一邊嚷：酒呢，酒呢 煙斗也缺少煙絲 煙太淡酒太淡都只是走調的間場音樂

A249

芭蕾舞者的翅膀藏著飛翔的欲望 小猴告訴她遠處火山的煙霧濃濃 自由的梯子只通往舞台的背後 懊惱的少女踏在馬背上 飛馬的血液快速流動 晴天的日子裏，血管中的雷電振振狂響 飛馬期待閃電的歲月，小馬期待初始的愛情 帷幕張開顏色自然秩序 舞台的角落有一個小小的地球 星光裏有另一個完成了的宇宙 大地上沒有掌聲 只有無數無言的蒼生 等待一生的悲喜劇悄悄落幕 唯有帷幕裏的演員 恆常張開眼睛睥睨著俗不可耐的我們

A250

翅膀 光明的夜 寒風吹著我的翅膀 我在香港的穹蒼下 我是沒有名字的天使 催淚的煙令今夜變得蒼白 明亮的夜 鼓聲敲打我的翅膀 我伸手撫摸受傷的臉 我是沒有名字的天使 蒼白的面孔告訴我一切並不如煙 我要離開嗎

A251

我要進入神的殘破身軀嗎 風吹著 天使摺疊他的灰色翅膀 給自己取了一個憤怒的名字

A252

在柴灣海角旁的工廠大廈 這一排的窗子都染成淺藍色 窗外的事物都好像等待著 破曉晨光熹微的降臨 海上一孤舟 並 ( 沒有簑笠和江雪 我欣賞這一種茫然的境界 水動無聲 實在地反映出對像的模樣 變幻異常的光景 大船將一立方一立方的碎紙 從岸上吊往半空 那裏可能有廢紙、過期的雜誌 或者一本你還在尋找的書 我喜歡這一種茫然的境界 )

A253

沒有喧嘩的叫嚷 船身蓋上了防雨的黑色帆布 一支鋼鐵掉落地上 打破了岑寂的共識 我的眼睛緊緊跟著孤舟上的人 水中並沒有甚麼 他在船上也不為甚麼不做甚麼 自然地伸展著我們之間的距離 形成了長久的新的岑寂

A254

無可疑 今日天空多雲 而我們已不在了 這片土地 增加了一點重量 也失卻了一點說話與氣息 暴力啃咬衰弱的心靈 黑暗壓碎幾根骨頭 沉默撞向堅強的死亡 有聲音呼叫但沒人聽到 今日天空多雲 明日也許更加和暖 而且有零星的驟雨 但只有你們可以知道

A255

抗疫時代 天空中有枯骨起舞 死神的鐮刀反照出白色光芒 地上的人反鎖自己 兒童一個人嬉戲 他們以四面牆丈量自己的世界 用口罩代替言說 多年前的面孔歸來 留下無聲的音信 但沒有人轉身聆聽 早上的日光 照在死神的鐮刀上 反照出黑色的袍影 枯骨咧嘴而笑 又再抬手踏腳格格起舞

A256

鍾國強

香港出生及成長，香港大學文學院畢業。曾獲第十二、第十三屆青年文學獎新詩高級 組冠軍、香港中文文學創作獎、香港藝術發展獎藝術家年獎（文學藝術）等獎項。著 有詩集《圈定》、《路上風景》、《門窗風雨》、《城市浮游》、《生長的房子》、《只 道尋常》、《開在馬路上的雨傘》、《雨餘中一座明亮的房子》，散文集《兩個城市》、 《記憶有樹》、《字如初見》，小說集《有時或忘》，文學評論集《浮想漫讀》等； 其中《門窗風雨》、《城市浮游》、《開在馬路上的雨傘》獲第六、第七、第十四屆 香港文學雙年獎新詩組推薦獎，《生長的房子》、《只道尋常》獲第八、第十二屆香 港文學雙年獎新詩組首獎。 詩作 油甘子 棉被與欄杆 我只會告訴你這些 微明 月想 虛雪

A257

油甘子 夜燈下你歛光如藏 泥土的氣息早已止於瘢斑 不必再剖呈你未走的路 青黃或不及，都是你自己的 都是與人無尤的牙關 而我的咽喉腫痛也是 自己的，我的影子種在矮牆 不耐旱，不耐瘠 沒有裂開的掌紋廣被四方 沒有想像的窗，不懂向陽 而你一直不會說些甚麼

A258

⋯⋯

可輕身，或長生 你如是一再 被記載，那些輕率的文字 以墓草追趕不及的速度生長 高不及望，庵摩勒 望果、木波、米含、餘甘 名字中你最是歡喜 也曾零落掛著的 七察哀喜 二 一 ○六年二月五日 記冬日母親墓旁樹上摘下的幾顆油甘子

註：油甘子，童年時常在山邊灌叢或路旁疏林中可摘到的野果。喜光，耐旱耐瘠，果實味酸而澀，但苦而後甘，啖

後餘味不盡，止渴生津。李時珍在《本草綱目》中稱油甘子「九胺輕身，延年長生」，「輕身」即減肥，「延年長

生」乃抗衰老。油甘子更具補益肝腎、化瘟止噘、生津解毒的功效，並可治療咽喉腫痛、喉痹、肺熱及感冒風熱等。 其乾葉可作枕頭填料。庵摩勒、望果、木波、米含、餘甘子、七察哀喜，俱為油甘子不同的名稱。

A259

棉被與欄杆 棉被又出現在欄杆的日子 你知道日頭還是會出來 而我知道那已不是你晾出來的 你也知道，你坐在那邊的樹梢上 不朝我這邊張望，像只有我 在城市邊緣差點錯過的微風 穿過人面的一剎如何可以透明？ 你沒有告訴我，棉被過時的花紋 也沒有告訴我昨夜的寒溫 路還是不是像昔日一樣曲直？ 走的時候努力把腳踝貼到地面上 感覺，感覺你重新下地的光景

A260

如果，那是如果，你知道的

一六年十一月十二日 ○

⋯⋯

光會穿透一切文字的虛飾 然後靜靜矮落在後巷無人處 麻雀沒有拾回一二亡去的聲音 你還在張望遠處，煙與霧 留給遠去的鷗鳥去想像，影子 慢慢越過我在路口稍一思索的欄杆 二 寫於母親一周年忌辰

A261

我只會告訴你這些 這裏的路很平靜，松果 跌落，破開像半個地球儀 天涼了忽又熱起來，無聊的藍天 斜躺著只想抽一縷雲煙 剛才還見一隻松鼠爬過電線 如今卻見另一隻（或同一隻） 在汽車輪跡上四腳朝天 傷口在不知何處（你不會去 發現）口角的血跡也早乾了 這是生命嗎路還在向遠處延伸 走到預期的咖啡店然後折回 何必相見呢此時一株樹彼時 一路燈，在大白天裏茫無所用

A262

走回來的路不比去時長 保安卡重複的尖鳴也沒有劃破 一隻鳥的無夢，隔著重洋 我其實並不知道你在做甚麼 我只會告訴你這些 然後在零碎中慢慢找回你 二 一 ○七年六月四日 寫於美國加州

A263

微明 燒水離開一會又忘了 銅壺久已沒拉時間的笛聲 水滴在櫥案躺成半圓 逸出的蒸氣或已成雲了

一四年四月二十日 ○

船拉出了島呆在岬角的佇望 風車轉出了另一種顏色 縠紋蕩回半窗的微明 掀開鍋蓋從昨夜的溫度開始 二

A264

月想 月在外嗎我看到一道窗簾 抽象的圖紋止於實無所指的 肌理，側光穿過玻璃也止於 屋之深處兩盞倏滅的桅燈 船是礁石恆在午夜的胸次 浪花最終敗給虛擬的海平線 樹影在外恍惚也曾是記憶 月亮在你想它在的位置

一五年九月六日 ○

夜深就深入到字詞的辨義 蜷在筆下的無名指依然無所 用心，蟲鳴只是紙張窸窣 月亮在你想它的位置 二

A265

虛雪 船在窗上推進了三厘米 島仍巋然不動 燭蕊收回一整晚的高亢 一圈紅白無根的花

一四年六月五日 ○

虛無的雪與紙上筆挺的枝 山茶只能在血中取火 沒有一隻鴉挫身直飛遠空 孩子獨在艙內剝吃羅漢豆 二

A266

羅樂敏

曾任《字花》編輯、「水煮魚文化」總監，從事編輯、寫作及文學活動策劃。獲第三 一 八。 著 有 詩 集《 而 又 彷 屆 李 聖 華 現 代 詩 青 年 獎 推 薦 獎， 曾 參 與 新 加 坡 作 家 節 二 ○ 彿》，入選第十三屆香港書獎「新晉作家」獎。 詩作 伸手拾取廚桌上的刀子 洞 洋蔥 竹林

A267

伸手拾取廚桌上的刀子 事情過去了。 豆散落時間軸，一枚跟另外一枚 差異些微，我弓身排列不存在的 豆的隊伍，最先最先的一枚不好辨認。 是這枚嗎？一頓飯是怎樣開始的？ 打開雪櫃取出蕃茄， 還是沖洗它， 放在廚桌上讓它看來飽滿如句號； 提步到超市、選貨、付款； 提步到我一再步入的廚房； 起筷； 取出蕃茄和刀 —— 誰說的一句天氣， 端出煮好的湯給媽；

A268

自我形成後每一頓飯， —— 都過去了。每一次試圖辨認都錯在切割 砧板滿佈刀痕， 木的小塊和食材的碎屑， 我和我所記得的每餐，積疊莫辨。 ——

我說：事情開始了。 把序列裏的一枚豆放口袋， 猶如拉起木偶拉起豆的幻肢，只有當中一肢成為： 刀破開蕃茄的皮，果肉和透紅的汁液 如山體傾流；肉最先翻開如蓮瓣； 刀滑過空氣刺進微微抵抗的茄皮； 刀在茄皮外數厘米，我的手 緊握了刀子；掌心的力和刀柄的力 互相抵銷；刀鋒在拇指和食指伸出之先；

A269

我伸手拾取廚桌上的刀子。 去年某個早上，我伸手拾取廚桌上的 水果刀子，想起了多年沒見的朋友的臉 如今我以為不過昨日 我和她在神秘面前一同被時間穿透， 驀地在不能言語的瞬間 捕住了靈的火屑 她轉身回到座位那刻我以為 我將會遺忘此刻從白窗框溜進的日光 但光一再映入刀的橫面 猶如切割一縷不存在的空間，存放 種種生活的明細，區隔我 和我的明天，我會發一條訊息 穿過太平洋的空氣：

A270

今天好嗎？ 你的回話將散落成日常生活的細碎 —— 不復記認，猶如每天醒來睜眼忘記剛剛睡醒 陽光如一 那純然擎立的當下，一望無際的白冰洋

A271

洞 山勢急劇裂變出龐雜的分途，我們不得不彌留 莫名的卵石如受傷的獸豎起 不滅的火舌在半枯的矮樹中燃燒、變形 變紫，反噬未生的果實。我們的皮膚生出 癬疥，圍起如陷落的地形，膿汁 滲成小流，涓涓有血、毒素和皮屑。 我們悄悄舔著膿汁如饑餓的兔 遠處有失笑的歌者，風聲刺穿我們的話 那，山洞的，入口 —— 風魚貫刺透我們的四肢、軀體、頭腦 頃刻抬頭， —— 濃血般的雲已攏聚成塊、揉滲著黑 和最古老的冤魂，它們翻湧、被萬蹄踐踏、撕咬

A272

生存的巨輪無知於自己的力量輾壓著前進 把粉屑捲起混入時秒回收，有軀無臉的人形 如釘子鑿入天空，瘸腿的、佝僂的、臃腫的、斷頭的、 蒼白透明的、尚未長成的、滿身瘢斑的、下體模糊的、 餘下骨架的、不形成的、身中有身的 黝黑的、枯黃的、赤紅的、鮮白的 纍纍如沉積的岩層，或肥肉裏相間的膏脂 或串起黑夜的星河，我們在沉默裏仰望 已經消瘦近乎殞滅，我們的臉和名字漸漸消失 我們呈現我們凝留，星曜安然運行相碰 天地有大慈悲，即有覆滅的洪水 註：「無知於自己的力量」取自吳煦斌〈牛〉

（曾刊於《字花》第七十九期）

A273

洋蔥

只是想翻開。翻開的動作，像剝一隻洋蔥，把它的內核翻成外核，或許有所發現 —— 一隻罕見 的青金色的甲蟲，從內沿慢慢爬出來，就在它快要到達洋蔥瓣的外沿以及你的指頭時，它消失 了，像不曾存在，空氣裏沒有它的氣味，也沒有它抖翅的震盪，你視網膜也不殘留它的形狀和 顏色，但在它消失之前它啾啾的叫聲還在你的耳邊，並在你的腦海延續它的餘音。它純粹是一 只曾經出現過的青金色的甲蟲，嘗試爬出洋蔥瓣，但它是如何從蟲卵孵化成蟲？它的幼蟲形態 怎樣？它如何消失在空氣之中？或許構成它的物理粒子已經散播在空氣裏，在你的指尖，你的 呼吸，但你只是集中去想，曾經出現在這個時空的一隻青金色的甲蟲，然後一邊把你手上的洋 蔥，繼續剝下去，直到它的展開成一朵蓮，它的內核的光被未曾翻開的瓣遮擋，你以為有，再 翻，那是一條短短的白色的芯，質地和洋蔥的瓣沒有分別。你一直沒有說你的淚已經落下來， 垂直在臉上擦了一道水痕，淚珠在黃昏的光線下，和那青金色的甲蟲，沒有分別。

A274

竹林

在接近入黑的時分你們走進竹林。你沒有見過這樣高大的竹樹，伸入灰藍的天色。他也不曾， 只是相信你的指向，猛抬頭，便被竹林的冷藍凝住了數秒。前方人很多，身影和臉容漸漸被黑 夜籠罩，有人逆行，有人亮起了手機的小圓燈，有人拍照，有人爬進了路邊的墓地，有人竊笑， 他們所走的竹林和你們所走的並不一樣，他們沒有相信有車站在竹林小路的盡頭，沒有一直前 行直至再沒有任何人在路上，徒然剩下竹林、黑夜，和你們自己的呼吸和意識。一個信念出現 了並不容易消散，它擴散如黑夜即如你們相信那個直抵市中心的車站就在竹林的小路後，相信 很快會有火車的光點，候車的人龍，等待你們的入閘機，但，漆黑在你還未預想的時候已經包 裹你，引領你通向比素描畫上的鉛色陰影更深的黑，一個沒有路牌的岔口，向左或右你們無從 知道，於是無法前進，無法去一錯再錯，就只有回頭，穿過夜的竹林，木然的人臉，無法直視 的墓地，猛抬頭，竹和竹的背影已無從分別，在天黑的時候你們走出竹林。

A275

二 ○ 二 一

？

?

2021

KATE ROGERS’s poems are forthcoming in SubTerrain. Her poetry recently appeared in OF ZOOS, The Beauty of Being Elsewhere, and Looking Back at Hong Kong. She taught college level language-through-literature and related courses in Hong Kong for twenty years. She dearly misses her Hong Kong students, colleagues, and friends.

WAWA is a Hong Kong poet. Her books include Pei Pei the Monkey King and Anna and Anna. www.lomeiwa. com EDDIE TAY is an Associate Professor at the Department of English, CUHK. He has conducted seminars on teaching poetry and creative writing for teachers on behalf of the Education Bureau. He has also conducted creative writing and street photography workshops for secondary school students and given talks at various cultural spaces and art galleries.

LIAN-HEE WEE is a phonologist and guqin maker/ player whose libertarian political views are founded on a naïve sense of empirical rationalism that believes rights and responsibilities apply even to predator-prey relationships. He is more readily intoxicated by affection than by alcohol, although when offered both or either, he might flee.

JENNIFER WONG was born and grew up in Hong Kong. She is the author of three poetry collections including 回家 Letters Home (Nine Arches Press, 2020).

She has taught creative writing at City Lit, Kubrick Poetry, Lingnan University, Poetry School and Oxford Brookes University.

MARCO YAN is a Hong Kong-based poet. He has earned his MFAs from HKU and NYU; his poems have appeared in Epiphany, the Scores, Cha, Wildness, the Adroit Journal, among other places.

B136

DAVID MCKIRDY is a long term resident of Hong Kong, he is a classic car mechanic by profession and a poet by inclination. He is the author of two collections, Accidental Occidental and Ancestral Worship. He has represented Hong Kong at literary events from Colombia to Vietnam, Berlin to Egypt and beyond.

REID MITCHELL taught in Hong Kong in the academic year 2005-20o6. After years of teaching in China, he has now retired to the United States. He is the author of Sell Your Bones and Immediate Poems for Immediate Time: 2019.

COLLIER NOGUES is Adjunct Assistant Professor of English at HKU. Her poetry collections are The Ground I Stand On Is Not My Ground and On the Other Side, Blue, and her work has been supported by fellowships from the MacDowell Colony, the Ucross Foundation, Vermont Studio Center, and Lingnan University.

JASON S POLLEY is Associate Professor of English at HKBU. His research interests include Indian English fiction, experimental criticism, literary journalism, critical pedagogy, comics, and Hong Kong Studies. He has two creative nonfiction books: Cemetery Miss You (2011) and Refrain (2010). He contributes sporadically to both Voice & Verse and Cha. JAMES SHEA is the author of two poetry collections, The Lost Novel and Star in the Eye, both from Fence Books. Recipient of grants from the Fulbright U.S. Scholar Program, National Endowment of the Arts, and Vermont Arts Council, he teaches at HKBU.

B135

TAMMY LAI-MING HO is the Editor-in-Chief of Cha, the English Editor of Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine, and one of four editors of the first and only peer-reviewed academic journal devoted entirely to Hong Kong, Hong Kong Studies. She is Associate Professor at HKBU. She translates poetry.

ANTONY HUEN has published poems in amberflora, Cha, harana poetry, QLRS, and Poetry Wales, and essays in HKRB, Hong Kong Studies, Humanities, The Oxonian Review, and Wasafiri. He is the winner of the 2021 Wasafiri Essay Prize. He is a researcher at Hong Kong Metropolitan University. @antonyhuen Canadian poet AKIN JEJE’s works have been featured in Australia, Canada, Hong Kong, Singapore, the UK, and the US. His first collection Smoked Pearl was published in 2010. He has another poetry manuscript write about here and he is currently working on a novel, Maroon. Jeje’s most recent publication, “Tabula Erased”, was broadcast by RTHK Radio 3.

AGNES S. L. LAM, an Honorary Fellow in Writing by the University of Iowa (2008), has published Woman to woman and other poems (1997), Water wood pure splendour(2001), A pond in the sky (2013), Poppies by the motorway (2017) and Becoming poets: The Asian English experience (2014). ​ BELLE LING received her PhD in Creative Writing at The University of Queensland, Australia. Her poetry manuscript Rabbit-Light was highly commended in the 2018 Arts Queensland Thomas Shapcott Poetry Prize. Her poem “63 Temple Street, Mong Kok” was a co-winner in the Peter Porter Poetry Prize 2018. She is teaching at HKU.

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

ANDREW BARKER is the operator of the poetry lectures website mycroftlectures where readings of his poetry can be found. He has published the collections Snowblind from my Protective Colouring, Joyce is Not Here: 101 Modern Shakespearean Sonnets, and Orange Peel: Modern Shakespearean Sonnets 102-203, which are all available on Amazon.

MARY JEAN CHAN is the author of Flèche, which won the 2019 Costa Book Award for Poetry. In Spring 2020, Chan was guest co-editor at The Poetry Review.

Chan is Senior Lecturer in Creative Writing (Poetry) at Oxford Brookes University and serves as a supervisor on the MSt in Creative Writing at the University of Oxford.

CHENG TIM TIM is a poet and teacher from Hong Kong. Her poems are in diode, Cicada Magazine, Cha, Cordite Poetry Review, Ricepaper, among others. She is working on chapbooks which explore Hong Kong’s landscapes, as well as desire and rituals through tattooing. www.timtimcheng.com KIT FAN’s debut novel is Diamond Hill (2021) and his second poetry collection is As Slow As Possible (2018).

NASHUA GALLAGHER is the Sri Lankan-born, Hong Kong-raised author of All the Words a Stage (Chameleon Press, 2018) and the founding director of the literary collective, Peel Street Poetry. Her work on the modern nomadic experience has been regularly anthologised and featured in international literary festivals. Gallagher lives and works in Zurich.

B133

basking in the receding heat what’s left of desire blind to the listlessness all the possible lights ahead of us and the fact that there’s no getting there wherever we are

we’re only here

B131

now

TRAIN So many eyes are fixed on screens some trace the dots on the map some the hands on watches only the romantics rove from one’s gaze to another interlocking shoulders casual touches brushes of knuckles and kneecaps and I’m shrouded in a profusion of scents residues of a day’s labor soured deodorants sweat’s persistence the unmistakable musk of mixed fragrances though the notes have faded and where’s the source if not in the wild dampness of armpits stretched necklines collars and ties and when the woman next to me coughs

loosed I know her

coffee order the tuna-and-egg sandwich she ate for lunch this intimacy among passengers the congruence of personal and communal breathing at every stop when the doors split open then struggle to close how mindful everyone is at first less so after half an hour in this free-for-all of impatient shoves I’m almost elsewhere I no longer care if we’re all pursuers of small romances if it’s love that moves and moves us but I’m still here in the car hand on the rail amazed by how much I can learn through smell how it misguides my instinct and in turn how little is made known to me like the morning I last pressed my nose on a lover’s spine

B130

FOR A MOMENT, IN THIS LIGHT You watch the flower, the elkhorn fern, green fire on the windowsill.

Even the soil does not go dry.

The lone candle does not burn out; oceanic scent seeps into the drapes, persistent as a dust pillar.

The Bon Iver record spins—the verse the bridge the chorus—then the verse returns, a little warmer this time, cycles: still alive, who you love.

Isn’t there an end to this sequestering?

The dead visit never as moths, or ghosts, but angels with a singular wing.

Or the brisk April air. Or the abundance of frogs by a pond somewhere out there—how high they leap, how far.

Imagine a perpetual fall, other fears you can’t look away.

Maybe life flees like a beast, and you’re the only shackle to keep the wildness close.

You’ve arrived at an edge where you’re a direction towards what is to come, an arrow parting air, particles riding the south wind.

There’s no risk, no safety, just actions and consequences.

Exits are no more dramatic than moving forward.

Remember the beginning, and the sun goes on like this—

B129

ARROWS On a balcony in a city towards burning again after being burnt to a hunting ground you still see people and all the arrows they arduously follow so many pointed heads in green and yellow directions everywhere in train stations bus stops pedestrians’ ways so much muscle locked in calves and feet dedicated to the stream rushing forward all the right moves not enough false steps not enough stop signs or room for U-turns or rivers who climb upstream and cut back to the origins where mistakes are still open to unmaking remember Jay Gatsby who thought his singular star would go on and on with its luminous streak lasting forever if only one can look back and feel happiness so many waking hours so many bull’s eyes to hit in this free-for-all of children holding darts so many compasses pointing north all Auster and no Aquilo so many expectations on the fire ahead when everyone is a blind bug with a desire to burn and leave a mark not enough tethers not enough mischief or trepidation or simply not drunk enough not enough benevolent stars in the deep swampy night of June to constellate and deliver the cosmic caution—go no further turn back now

B128

MARCO YAN four poems AFTER THE COLD THE COLD Ines and I stood at the northwestern tip of Hong Kong with patient squints, watching the blackface spoonbills rest by the mangroves, then leap, in unison, to flight.

They went further south and passed the marsh, the coast, their white feathers untouched by the winter monsoon, which was here to stay― didn’t we believe they’d return after the cold, and the faint narrow line their taut wings reduced to was the best omen anyone could ever have?

B127

MY FATHER, WHO TAUGHT ME HOW TO FOLD SERVIETTE PENGUINS I​​ was eight or nine when I saw you practise / folding serviette penguins. For a long time, / Christmas was a matter of watching / fireworks on television, mother trying / not to let her feelings show. / And those evenings you came home / too tired to speak / your voice already spent with the customers. / Thirteen hours of pacing around dining rooms / impeccable cutlery well-ironed table linen other families’ / happiness under the chandeliers / that’s what work is, has been, for you / since you turned eighteen / and for all the fathers in the golden eighties / it’s been a hard day’s night / a husband must provide as long as he / is alive. I try to think about / who you really were, a schoolboy before duty / your father who never offered your mother / a kind word, a kiss / but he kept a white shiny statue of Mao / long after the cult was over. / You never finished high school / because your father said / he couldn’t tolerate the idea / of excessive schooling, a sign of / moral corruption or 嘥錢. / The day I was accepted for the school / on 1 Jordan Road, where the school drive glittered with Mercedes, we knew / we were moving beyond our league. / And yet, and yet, it suddenly seemed / as if something was brightening again / in you, something that has nothing to do with table napkins

B126

PERSONAL HISTORY OF SOUPS You taught me soups. A lo for tong takes hours in the kitchen. Pig lung: best remedy for coughs. The swelling and collapsing of a massive pink sac filling the basin. Yellow cucumber and cowpea: nourishes the skin and clears the throat. Chinese courgette and lean pork: dissipates body heat. My brother and I loved your tomato and fish soup. Your own childhood stemmed from the taste of egg flower broth your mother used to make. Coming home: a bubbling clay pot, steam rising from the lid raised by wooden chopsticks. The juicy cartilage between the softened bones. The butcher in England hasn’t a clue if you ask for a soup bone. Say that again? The only one I can make nowadays is chicken and carrot, even without fresh lo gai. You said that every Chinese woman must know how to make soups to catch a good husband.

Except that Alex has never cared because he is a European vegetarian! The hot and sour soup they have here, even in Royal China, is not half as good.

It should have seven ingredients. You can’t call it hot and sour without wooden ear and pig’s blood.

Not authentic enough. I remember the milky white perfection of golden carp soup in our family haunt, the Qilin Restaurant. You kept reminding me to make more soups for myself. To build up my immune system. And also for beauty. Last time I called you to say I cannot find the green carrots. They don’t grow here! Each year I think of going back because of the soup

B125

AT THE WET MARKET I used to find it barbaric, mother, but you’d bring me along, a young girl then, to the market: a theatre of blood. It pained me to imagine the shuffling feet, the croaking pleas, their feathers shed from their struggles against the tightening.

I used to find it barbaric to face that red-faced man in the shop who gave us the number tag.

His clammy hand. Forty minutes he said, and we walked away from what took place under the red plastic lamps in that squalid cage-house.

I used to find it barbaric: the taste of ching yuan chicken served with ginger and spring onion in the family meal, just like any other family in that city of high-rise flats and wet markets.

An almost-past life now, contained in small, distant cubes of light.

B124

JENNIFER WONG four poems METAMORPHOSIS The change is all so subtle we hardly notice: at first it is just the colour of the postbox or a missing crown on a uniform. We laugh at the promise horse-racing will go on forever.

Slowly the textbooks for our children are changing: less on the colony, more on “the Chinese dream”.

On birth: pregnant mothers crossing the border in haste before due dates.

On lifestyle: fewer noodle stalls, more shops of gold. And every day, in Lo Wu, you hear frustrated voices and grating wheels of trolley cases.

It’s more useful to speak Mandarin when you shop: and swipe Union Pay. The pop stars are all touring north.

Nobody takes news seriously because it is biased however you look at it. Lately there are those who weep for the death of Doraemon.

I wonder how a city can outgrow the country, if going home is still an option

B123

And your arguments so compelling, They fail to explain Life before you, your economics, or your philosophies.

Show me an immoral vermin: snake, centipede, bat, lizard, frog, or rot, Oft cited to fill tomes of your righteous metaphors.

Show me an example of cruelty that compares perhaps, To how you have treated your own kind, Because even that, Is not justification.

Because even that, does not absolve your ungodly tadpole-aspiring seed.

First published in the “Ecopoetry” feature of Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine, 2019.

Based on real conversation at an apartment on Fuk Lo Tsun Road, Kowloon Walled City.

[2] Rodriguez Like Janis [3] Homo civilis [1]

B122

made from the blood of my family.

Did you say it was delicious?

Harimau was a prowling flame I feared, but Harimau is no more.

At our forest, Harimau sometimes stopped preying to drink Fermented coconut and gourds at our forest bar with the Barbie Babirusa.

That’s when Harimau purred like a kitten, and we saw innocence under the striped coat of magnificence.

Our bar, now your waterhole where I overheard, “With the maids, and off with their heads.

Ay, the heads of maids or their maidenheads,” Sampson of Capulet flourished.

Vlad the Impaler would pale to hear of the Buaya’s suffering A steel rod through the head running along the spine, so that frayed alive, The leather is then washed with poisons that seep to our soils and streams, Luxury money vessels may feature the patterns Which hint at our common history beyond the Jurassic.

How sweet that you encourage your children to appreciate dinosaurs!

A great LV bag that would make, would it not?

Have I become delirious? I cannot help it.

Infection has eaten me from my furless burnt skin And scorched lungs filled with particulates, micro- or picoMy mind frenzied with the silent screams That come from my clan, interspersed confusingly with some of yours.

Everything is so simple, But you insist nothing is,

B121

AT THE UNHOLY COURT OF HUMANITY Thank you for letting me speak.

I suddenly do not know where to begin.

My home set ablaze, together with my clan, in fact, my nation, To make shampoo and cookies, that could have been made differently.

In your language, you call your species Orang, and distinguished your tribes as Asli, Laut, Hulu, …

And you called mine, Utan, marking us a tribe like yours.

We respect your wish to breathe foul air and to poison your own children.

Can you not just let us watch in a distance?

Why torch us in our lush tropical homes to create your fumes?

My friend, Elly, comes from a family revered as godly by you, Orang Sivil.[3] But she bears scars of torture, stolen as a baby by killing her parents.

Her career forced into lumber, to destroy more living spaces, Then when weakened, she was burdened with rides for her vain enslavers, Before being neglected in isolation for the next 30 years of her 70 lifespan.

Her kin in Africa sends word of unspeakable genocide.

With 32 teeth that many of you cannot properly care for, is that the psychological underpinning for the want of tusks?

I remember trying to fish in my river. I partook of a piece of plastic, mistakenly partaken of by my fish, because someone, not saying which species, lest I slander, tossed the wrapping of the chocolate

B120

SUMERGENT INFECTION OF TWO DIASPORIC HAN CHARACTERS The heart dies, is idiomatic for the greatest sorrow, is clinical for eternal peace with no more tomorrow.

But if the heart is erect, then with death adjacent, the ideogram means busy-ness, re-spelt business in the corrective present.

Should death sit above, and the heart lies serenely underneath, forgetfulness is conjured, a wraith seemingly a dove.

Two Han characters from the exotic majority tribe, induces daze on who has forgotten what diatribe— the mind murdered slowly by sweet poisons of false hope and pretend harmony.

So emergence makes for no emergency when with open eyes the heart dies.

First published in the “Emergency” feature of Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine, 2019.

B119

You suffer from Stockholm syndrome.

You must understand that your circumstances are better now.

You didn’t lose freedom of thought, you gained order in thinking.

You have freedom when you play within my compound, outside is too dangerous.

Don’t invoke the law! I am the law in this family.

Don’t interpret the law and its embodiment of justice! Law enforces order, not justice.

Don’t philosophise about interpretation!

Don’t blind me with your science, because it is I with the money for technology.

Your memories are corrupted.

You reminisce the lives of others.

You reminisce about reminiscence.

Your memory of history is wrong.

To fade memories, we burn.

First published in the “Vigil” feature of Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine, 2018.

B118

LIAN-HEE WEE three poems PARENTAL NAGGINS FOR T, THE STILL SURVIVING SISTER OF EFFECTIVELY DEAD BROTHER H —24 hours late in celebrating April Fool’s Day for the Fools who cannot align

Don’t talk of independence! You’re on your parents’ purse strings!

Don’t talk about talking of independence! Your blood simply forbids such musings!

Don’t talk about why it is not ok to talk about independence! Why? Presupposition failure.

Divide Overflow.

Family affairs are not linen for international politics.

You are my child, even though you have the colours of a rainbow bastard.

I defined you as yellow.

The other colours are blemishes and we shall treat them.

You need a place to start your own family, don’t you?

The fires that torched the wetlands, twice already within a month.

Fires are natural, yes especially in the wetlands.

Indicative of the gods’ will to weed out the low-end, Like animals, same level of sentience, as measured by size of bank accounts.

Do not suspect that I am not your parent.

Do not wonder who I am that I am sleeping in your parents’ bed.

I claimed you because you were stolen from me (twice).

B117

From Anna and Anna (Finishing line Press, 2018)

B115

(So they say) The grass Owes him a look (So they say) If his eyes can see Fruits won’t ripen April won’t come The felled stones Won’t remember How to fly The stone boy Bent on one knee By a raven The sky yellows Let him go Let him go

B114

To eat herself To eat herself vi.

The good one Germinates The good one Germinates She swallows Her own sand A crow takes off From her face Mother then sprouts Mother then sprouts Every grain of soil Can feel the pain Four of her bloomed Over the world Entangled in daylight Save all of her (So they say) Save all of her (So they say) The world doubled Chokeberries voided Stone Boy Perches on every tree Staring at her Staring at her v.

He comes Crossing the spring Stones follow Trickle from the sky Trickle from the sky The grass Owes him a look

B113

The dead Won’t give in The stone boy kneels Under the sun Stones fall as rain Lick her into fire (So they speak) Lick her into fire (So they speak) When the stones burn Mother will gently Swallow all as one Look up, Stone Boy Ten moons have risen So she crows So she crows iii.

When she changes A mountain changes A stone descends She takes over a leaf She takes over a leaf All bark is hers Never will she shed Her face Pierced in leaves Her face Pierced in leaves Water ripples A flower opens Mother will fall At the extremest She roars She roars Her mouth opens Stems creep forward

B112

WAWA two poems MOTHER AND STONE i.

The stone boy whispers Along the river Life follows (So they say) Mother is hungry Crossing the river Stones roll to her feet (So they say) She swallows the stones Lilacs bloom From her mouth Lilacs bloom From her mouth (So they say) The cure has come Stone Boy stands Covered in birds (So they say) Heaven and earth Get his tongue Get his tongue (So they say) ii.

The water comes to her From the end of water As she crows As she crows The dead Won’t give in

B111

there are no words for disobedience, decay, disenchantment. 老師說話你不能不聽， 不能不聽。 This island of a city is pure invention; we live in flats, neat and compliant like tombstones: a book-length study of poetry is titled Responsibility and Commitment.

They don’t teach Leaves of Grass, 野草, Howl: 老師說話你不能不聽， 不能不聽。 Where are the books that read our nights and days? 為了家，人家說話你不能不聽。

B110

I am learning to walk through unwashed streets with memories of flu in the neighbourhood. 我不會，我不會忘記。 Our lives are different under a strange democracy of rats, for street protests are possible when politicians cough over the latest crisis.

Is this my city? 我不會，我不會離開。 Is an economy of rats possible or do we need casinos?

Those metal domes phallic in the skyline, those shiny aspiring skyscrapers in Hong Kong, Singapore, Macau.

These are cities I cherish: the new blueprints with old drafts of buildings, that spurt of concrete of twelve storeys, a spit of land for trees, shrubs and barbecue pits. 我不會，我不會忘記。 We have imagined ourselves: we live like rats, our appetites bite and bite. vii.

This island of a city is pure invention, with official languages like flowers fraying at the edges:

B109

THREE EXCERPTS FROM The Mental Life of Cities i.

No one sees the mental life of cities.

No one denies it is there.

It is darkness on the streets.

It is impulsive as pigeons.

I am a camera hunting for metaphors. 我等待 您的到來。 There are eyes from opposite buildings peering at other windows.

There are eyes flickering with uniformity, looking at different TV screens.

This poem must be logical like numbers above lift doors.

It must be urgent like rush-hour morning trains.

My pen traces impulses of buildings.

I am darkness on the streets. iii.

Evenings flicker, a million times on a million television screens with Jackie Chan.

B108

HOW I IMPRESS OTHERS WITH MY CANTONESE At a dim sum restaurant you’ll need to ask for la jiu jeong (chili sauce), la jiu yeow (chili oil), or dao ban jeong (bean paste sauce) depending on your preference.

Try not to use Cantonese after saying hi if you’re paranoid and unsure because that’s a rude word in Cantonese.

Siu mei is not siu mai.

San fu (priest), san fu (new pants), san fu (uncomfortable/difficult).

If you’re not sure just ask for har gow, siu mai, and char siu bao and certainly not phoenix claws unless you like unmanicured chicken feet (which I do, actually).

I’m usually given a Chinese menu because I’m visibly Chinese, because I speak Mandarin (though it’s called Putonghua in Hong Kong) better than Cantonese I may be mistaken for a mainland Chinese person but because I took Chinese as a second language in school and scraped by to get into university, I can barely recognize the traditional Chinese characters because in Singapore we use the simplified script.

It’s too complicated to explain all these to the confused/irritated waiter in Cantonese or Putonghua so I usually go with har gow, siu mai, and char siu bao.

Siu mei is not siu mai.

San fu (priest), san fu (new pants), san fu (uncomfortable/difficult).

First published in World Literature Today, Spring 2019.

B107

and the grass will grow over you in a million years you cower behind your desk put on trendy wireless earphones and look at the faces in deep concentration around you it’s coffee and brown sugar and spreadsheets on your screen you’re waiting for a million years of sleep there’re ghosts waking up and shuffling at the corner of your eyes they’re raising their hands you quickly think of blackbirds on trees far away and freshwater snails on riverbeds where fishes swim around the bend

B106

EDDIE TAY three poems OFFICE in your beige obedient room there’s an elliptical shadow and you know there’s a giant billboard of running shoes and tanned athletes and a brilliant logo on the glass of the opposite grey building though there’s nowhere to go from here you cower behind your desk and put on trendy wireless earphones you say you’ve got ringing tinnitus and it’s all ok with men in suits and ties and women in scarves and you laugh quietly in time for lunchboxes it’s coffee and brown sugar and spreadsheets on your screen and you laugh quietly and you know somewhere there’re trees growing quietly green making sense of the surrounding wild brown grass the grass will grow over and it’s still ok you think because the trees will make the blueness of the sky blue with the majesty of a waiting king the grass grows over your face in the glass window though there’s nowhere to go from here

B105

WAKE Shirt came to mourn my chest.

Shoes, the arches of my feet.

Cufflinks, my wrists. Hat, my head.

Socks, my toes, and buttons, my fingers.

Tie came to mourn the nape of my neck.

Belt, my waist. Jacket, my shoulders.

Glasses, my temples and bridge of my nose.

Underwear came and cried at the casket.

Underwear, who knew me best.

B104

TIN FOIL A crow fell into a bucket.

I didn’t feel like eating.

I ordered three drinks.

There was bread and I ate of it.

I was almost almost no one.

I heard the waiter’s patter.

Tell the sun I’m done with it.

All the constellations, too.

I’m willing to start over.

Tell the sun I’ll take it back.

Tell the constellations, okay.

B103

TWO-BODY PROBLEM Toes are the last to go when you’re dead-dead, so far from the central nervous system, so far from the cerebellum that departs first, so far from the valves of the heart—toes are the last to know, and for that, I am in solidarity with my toes, the little ones who shall outlast me.

B102

FINISH LINE What are they whispering along the telephone wires?

Whose names are they calling among themselves?

There was no subtlety to their departure.

It was to the point: the point of their departure.

One of them left in the wake of the others, and in the leaving, left a map of its wake.

An ending that made us recall its very origins, recombinant genes in the wayward leaves.

A crow can recognize a face and speak in dialect.

A crow has hundreds of words from which to choose.

B101

SUN BROKER Lifeguards can’t save themselves from their own wasting.

What’s my record of attending to the world?

A mute pool in winter.

Is wisdom efficient?

The sun’s beams reach the patio in a tie.

What I need is a continuous ray of light at my side.

A chance to make up for the luxury of not understanding.

B100

JAMES SHEA six poems SOFT TANK I dub everything in my own voice.

My mouth never matches perfectly with what I am saying.

I’m sorry.

Life can be life-like, if you like life.

The winner in the winner’s circle is always the circle itself.

Can’t see that star in the sky?

It’s like someone left a flashlight on in the bottom drawer.

Last night, it rained inside a mall.

There’s very little crime here, but there could be a war.

B99

There may be eight tones, or nine.

In Cantonese, words are sung more than said.

Mother didn’t want me to learn the language of her childhood.

In Ukrainian my only phrase is, Ya ne znayu: я не знаю I don’t know.

B98

AT THE DAIPAIDONG Noodles bite me back with garlic and chili, singe my palate.

Take that, yearning tongue, they whisper as they slither by.

Dumplings fold plump hands in their laps.

At night I dream of pinching shut the gaping mouths of perogies, stuffed not with pork and leek, but cheese curds and sauerkraut.

They dive into boiling water to do somersaults.

Chow fan could easily fill cabbage rolls: those Holubsti my mother made to line my winter stomach.

Char Siu is as sweet as the crackling on her pork roast.

If she were here she’d say, Don’t talk with your mouth full.

It isn’t clear what language you are speaking.

She grips English syllables carefully between her teeth— enunciates each morsel of sound.

The instrument I hold by the throat in Tom Lee Music looks like an Er-hu, but could have been a mandolin.

B97

LAMMA ISLAND TOFU-FA On the broken trail to Mot tat a field of white ginger lilies flags us down.

We shrug off our packs.

Huddled among ruins to our left, a stone house red clay roof sloping, doorway gaping like an old man sleeping.

A wriggly-tin shed shades wooden tubs of tofu.

We sit at a plank table.

A tiny woman with a toothless smile, trembling, blue-veined hands, carries a tray. Tofu-fa is heaped like soft snow in turquoise plastic bowls.

I love the tofu’s smooth surface but crave the sight of golden sugar pocking its face, tofu puddled in ginger syrup— its sharp scent, clearing my nostrils with the first spoonful.

Dusk creeps under our table grey as the old woman’s dog.

The old woman dozes on her low stool beside the shed, bathed in the milk of the moon.

B96

Such hard work as my memory gapes like a sink hole in an old district, exposing tree roots, shards of blue and white porcelain.

What a time to learn that Cantonese is not a romance language.

After class, I wait at the red light.

A gangly young girl in a pink tutu, pink tights, matching trainers on wheels, flashing hazard lights on her heels, pushes past me to cross.

M’ ho yi si—Excuse me she says. So polite!

Siu sum, I call— Be careful!

She pauses at the traffic island, takes my advice without glancing at my face to see who warns her.

B95

ON MY WAY TO CANTONESE CLASS I pass under century old banyans on Nathan Road, their scaly bark studded with ferns, trunks leaning against iron frames.

I weave among shoppers ducking air conditioner rain.

M’ ho yi si—Excuse me I mutter as an old lady with grey bun, elbows past.

I am on my way to Cantonese class.

After twenty years in Hong Kong Garbage has become laap sap for me. The fermenting fusion of durian, Chow fan, and chicken wings smells the same in any language.

Yet I long to uncover more layers of Hong Kong’s midden heap.

In Cantonese class I ask too many questions.

The teacher is kind, but I stall the lesson.

The blonde Brit next to me taps his foot in irritation.

M’ ho lam gam doh— Don’t think too much the teacher writes on the white board in both languages, stares directly at me.

Memorize the measure words with each noun. Test next week!

Sweat beads on my upper lip.

Will I pass? I often get them wrong.

B94

KATE ROGERS four poems ODE TO MY PERIOD In Cantonese women tell each other “Yi ma lai doh”: My great aunt has come to visit.

My “great aunt” rarely visits now but she found me in Sichuan half way up the slope of Er Mei Shan.* I was on the way to the peak with four other women when great aunt beckoned the monkey to leap from his leaf nest in the mountain camphor tree onto my pack full of apples. The monkey bared his fangs when we shouted and waved our arms.

He lifted the pack flap and reached in for two pieces of fruit. Then later, the raven that sauntered into the women’s toilet in the monastery garden didn’t fly away when I squatted over the stone hole, plucked my used pad from the bin. He ambled outside, scattered scarlet petals of its blown blossom on the breeze.

Great aunt has retired since that climb, but sends notes in the beak of a dark bird. The stain of her sunset returns after an afternoon of love. * Buddhist holy mountain in Sichuan province.

B93

clamor, clatter, & clang, where commonplace politesse, Ng goi, peng yao, ng goi ah, salutes the secular ceremony of chopstick-transected bicker & banter, a chitter & chatter trafficked in Putonghua, Guandonghua, Hakka, & Hoklo, indigenous tongues cavorting, an epic congregation in Holy roar, ha & hai, shrimp & crab, a ga yau rabble Babel add oil communion.

Pyramids of oranges gaai hustling The sandalwood wafts from countless Mong Kok backstreet altars that balance pyramids of oranges for ancestors camouflage open kitchen-sewer squashes of oil, skin, and bone while tourists gawkily wrangle over “Lost in Hong Kong” t-shirts metres from too-perfumed gaai hustling hell-house entries, lusty cyclorama to Sinigang and Sizzling sisig, adobo abode of ardor.

Dulcet passerby magic The dulcet coconut cores commingling with loud lemongrass and laughing hot-fruit, aromatic palimpsest seducing passerby to sidestep, fai di, fai di, hawker and haberdasher into any of many Kowloon City ran xahar, magic proscenia to Kai jeow and Khao soi, sunrise to sanity’s revelries.

Bloom in the troupes The pure surrender of belonging’s boom bloom in the uncalculated cosmopolitanism of a Canton banquet, Sik faan, Globe of tastes and troupes, perpetual polyvocal trove, baby smiles baptizing.

Heung Gong Corporeal theater, mind shrine, fragrant harbor to the gleaming benignity of great-grandma grins.

B92

NGO MAI LOU CRYPTOGRAM The gweipo complete businessmen as heel strikes curtail aplenty atop The meaty miasma of North Point’s postcard avenues, where Big-Leaf Fig bases are painted gweipo white and two security guards engage in a pugnacious funeral-paced Gong Fu fracas complete with two-by-fours forearm-blocked, stayed by a fancy-booted LV purse-bearing businessman who chases the custodian, his wooden arms plummeting aground almost unheard, as heel strikes echo down the oily alleyway punctuated by kaai hai tos that quicken rather than curtail the assailant, a minor spectacle superseded by the spicy scent of laat chui tseung plopped aplenty atop semi-transparent, green-onion seasoned, steaming wontons, insignia of slowpokes.

Sharps, artistes, Angrez bhaiji, bloodstained nod to the alchemy The heady odor in Chungking’s crowded cinematic arcades, where tidy tailors, SIM-card sharps, greymarket merchants, flophouse pornographers, catholic procuresses, sweets artistes, pokerfaced financiers, cocaine architects, and curry-house touts all compete, Ji, ji, Angrez bhaiji, at the scarlet heart of the dispossessed narcotic haze wonder maze for a blessèd bloodstained buck, a tumultuous overture stilled by an openhanded thumb to sternum as an idle nod to the chai-wala promises the sweet-salt science of Vada, Tukdi, and Khulfi, exultant high-tea alchemy.

The ng goi ah salutes an epic congregation The Laam Mui & Marlboro tinge & tang humanly heralds Sheung Shui Cooked Food Market’s lyrical

B91

to arrest and seize wild, wide eyes, to weaken sun-singed walking wills; each wallah a study in flyweight diet & devotion, every chockablock byway a Lonely Planet cover contender.

It was at the Canadian Club, after a half-day rickshaw from yesteryear, and a three-week century in-country without a beer, save secreted flat ersatz procured, doubly dearly, in a black-market’s backmost nook, where we pounded Canadian passports on the glass, hectoring belonging until the awkward Aussie at the helm, suddenly a sannyasin centurion, said Ah, Christ, what the hell?

Poolside beery incredulity at actual backpackers in actual beaten Bangladesh, really, a for-real first for these decade-plus isolated sojourners, before an actual dinner party in a too-bright bungalow, complete with lux & cream cheese, haram-red wine, and godly green weed, the coded distrust, the overt lust, the appurtenances & accoutrements of angrezi anxiety and complicity.

It was in Old Dhaka, on Hindu Street, in the most compressed corners and crescents in the cosmos, where China-wallah woks whirled, where mutton kebab spits spat, where lacha paratha pirouetted in the hubbub, where gulabjam, rasgulla, and ladoo, langcha, rajbhog, and cham cham, all sang of ancillary honeyed succor: a flash, a sword, a whorl, a world—a lightning, a righting.

B90

To the televisual wow? Biscuits to incredulous children bestowed. But Nai. Nai, baba! Is this the monk’s impasse? The dictator’s donation? To? Or? Re-gifted gift rejected ceremoniously because a usurper swathed in gold-worked silk decreed that guest is god?

It was on the renowned Rocket, its colossal scull ferrying 2000 prostrated passengers up the Sundarbans, from the godly Ganges’ open gate to the cracked globe’s nautical grave. Old Dhaka, where blood-storm bent ship-bones, where brass, story, Ash, are broken. The captain, Capstan cig aflame, left us to linger on the bridge with red-haired hajis, prayer mats true Mecca-angled.

Beyond throne and altar, word and wail, book and binding, noblesse and oblige, Inshallah! The bridge a repose, a pink river-dolphin punctuated respite, from the Rocket’s double decks, where 4000 bright, unblinking, hungry eyes, shove-shuffled to witness an unlikely feast: the whisper, the carnival—two foolish pukka fiends, lourds floored amongst the badmash rabble.

It was a necessary angel, his eyes the mirror, the temple, of the late sunset’s atomic tangerine, who wrapped my hand around his and led me below decks through the spent diesel thunder and strobe, machina horror, of the engine-room’s Not-possible heat to a private gallery, where he materialized marijuana sanity. Ganja on the Ganga. A vision of Kerouac, Jack, sacrosanctity.

A sudden-sun port-call siren-song. Old, Old Dhaka, mythical miracle weirdly, widely, not in monochrome. 600, 000 cycle-rickshaws scrupulously detailed with screaming rifles or silenced romance

B89

Across the muddy maidan and dead godown to the smoking bus, a lone banana-wallah as sentry.

She’d held herself aloft Yes please! with a flourish, wielding the wish of cherub-pink bananas pregnant, bursting, pure presence, eternal essence. But: three busted hours of bus-window-spit seeds pips spores, each bite a tender tornado tango torture of tooth and tongue, of lips and larynx.

It was somewhere in the ghostly abandoned film-set bazaars and quadrangles of Khulna, a zone, a town, a day, a life, halted, arrested, aggrieved, by yet another habitual diurnal hartal. A lone fluorescent oracle flickered, buzzed, beckoned; a corner, a corridor, a climb, a cough; a call; a cutlery cacophony; a comfort: a muezzin’s wail to the wonderfully wretched and weary.

The mutton biryani claps cool countertop concluding a decade of pescetarian moral advantage. The insouciant Boss sits, turning two into three, needing Father name? Religion? Country? All the while gleefully picking & snatching, munching & crunching, the carrots, cucumbers, and chilis, hot green, fierier red, that kissed, completed, the blissful riot and colour of the still life.

It was the biscuit and chai-wallah, a solo set of eyes in the long shade of desperate last light, her brassware banging, a conjuror’s mid-air magic arc of masala milk-tea mixed cup to cup. An offering.

Much welcome. Complimentary angrezi sweets a compulsory communion. Instant, wide eyes of sudden silent crowd, seemingly silverware-at-sunset summoned, ablaze.

From almost none to maybe everyone? An incredulity of novelty? A testament to anthropology now?

B88

JASON S POLLEY two poems CHINATOWNS CALCULLA, CHINA-WALLAHS DHAKA It was in Chinatown 2, so we later understood it was understood to be understood as, that we had veg. Singapore noodles and chilly Tsingtao under Kwun Yam’s bowed brow after three moons of masala dosa, uttapam, idli, and Not-cold Kingfisher.

Ones, noodles, Seng zau caau mai, I discovered, sik faan, at Lantau’s Pui O New Tung Kee eatery, before it, the Tung Kee, was New, but never, the noodles, the min, the mian, the mi, sourced or situated in sly Singapore, not unlike pancit Macau and pancit Canton in Pinoy spots, purihin si Hesus, singularly.

It was in Chinatown 1, following a Rickshaw-rickshaw-baba! floating run-ride, only yawning dogs as ascetic witnesses, the wallah’s bare feet slapping, his sapphire chemise first flapping, then, sweatsoaked, slapping, that we had deific dim sum in antique Calcutta streets at divine dawn, lucky gods also belching.

This was, not, no, not long enough, before the last runningrickshaws were proscribed. There’s a Gold Flake-puffing fault to that, to riding, to knowing, both before and after; a guilty glory complicated by the wallah, by the man, by the last, fast, deft runner; a saintly relic with a serene smile, a kindness, a giving, a gifting, benevolently shining ten-blocks before the baksheesh.

It was beyond the bumpy bus at the Bangladesh border, bludgeoned by the steel spokes of the sun’s midday rage beside a cinderblock seashell-grey grotto, that the stout gentleman in grandpa-beige sweater and rosy toque benignly smiled Student? Student? to every passport-holder, his paan spitstreams echoing, adding extra dimension to, the action of his red-rubber stamp.

B87

tentacles, but home has taken a dark turn since.

This home, too, has taken a dark turn, or rather both have revealed themselves to have been, all along, less safe for almost all of us.

How have I not understood that this danger— and worse, my own danger to my neighbours— was not historical, was not sepia-washed postmemory, but instead was always immanent inside a jar on my own boat, asleep in all the jars on all the boats on all the coasts we come to seeking refuge?

Our hero is calmed and reassured and told another story of escape. But I can’t unsee the tail in the jar, its echo in the shapes I make with my unknowing. The shadow in the drawing is a real threat, un-flat, unfurling.

B86

Every day another flare of protest art appears someplace I’ve not looked closely at before: red words on the underpass, white on the street. Meanwhile the shattered Maxim’s Cakes sign and the Bank of China glass have been swept up, their storefronts sealed by glossy cardboard painted white. The city’s surfaces are all changed from what they were.

Last month the MTR posted an ad for “Gurkha security” and just like that, we were returned a century, the likeness shocking in its shamelessness.

The corporation reminds us it is owned mostly by the government, and both are bald in their willingness to pit some of us against the others, to use the tools they had, only on the face of it, seemed to put aside. iii.

The Arrival is only the arrival. There is no second chapter where we see how immigrants are used against each other, or against successive later waves of immigrants, or against the people who were here before any other people were.

I am an immigrant; it is my childhood birdhouse across the sea the roadside camera reminds me of.

I can’t remove myself entirely from the ways I may be used, except, perhaps, by leaving. For where? Another shore?

When I moved, I did not think I was escaping

B85

TENTACULAR —After Shaun Tan’s The Arrival i.

Our hero startles at what looks like his worst fear emerging from beneath the hand of one who’d seemed to be his friend: a child sharing his pet. The pet is catlike, its tail tentacular and black, same as the shadows easing ever nearer to our hero’s wife and daughter back across the sea.

So near to the surface his fear is, so easily called forth by a ghost of resemblance, or by perfect resemblance as drawn by the artist, who means to make us see the immigrant’s fear as a mistake even as we see it is correct. We recognise his trauma in his misrecognition of a pet.

We see what damage can be done by one immigrant to another by sheer accident, both of them always, almost, never safe. ii.

Threats confuse with whimsy, too, here in Tai Po, whose traffic surveillance camera takes the shape of a birdhouse painted chalky pink.

B84

ARTICLE XII: AUTONOMY The autumn shall be a desert of the hard road, which shall enjoy a high degree of brightness and floating clouds directly under the white sun.

The white sun shall be the bright blanket of heaven, which shall enjoy a high degree of sheltering the people spreading directly over the hard road.

The hard road shall be an immensity of people, which shall enjoy a high degree of perching and nesting directly under umbrellas.

The people shall be a sword of ten thousand umbrellas, which shall enjoy a high degree of brightness and billowing wind directly under heaven.

Poet’s note: This poem remixes Article XII of Hong Kong’s Basic Law with imagery from Li Bai’s 李白 “Ancient Air (39”) / “古風 (39)”

B83

Are we these leaves, the foot in this boot?

How does it fit?

Can this be our boot, our instrument?

Can we edit it?

Poet’s note: This poem repurposes text from the first page of the publicly-distributed, print version of the Basic Law, Hong Kong’s constitution.

B82

COLLIER NOGUES three poems PREFACE: IMPORTANT NOTICE This booklet is not the Basic Law. This booklet contains the Basic Law but is not the Law itself.

The container has no legal status, and should not be relied on.

Refer to the Government for the official version.

What, then, is contained here?

An instrument a state a con a form a leaf a boot some men a foot more men and women Are we contained?

B81

Below Lion Rock before the bajiu is gone will nobody join me in a knock-kneed not unfrightened but dauntless midnight dance?

B79

LI BAI INVITES YOU TO DANCE BELOW LION ROCK Hong Kong is as crowded as har gow steamed in a basket of wicker as grains of rice swollen in a rice kettle as turtle eggs lined up on Turtle Bay Beach as cramped feet on the escalator rising from Admiralty Station Still tonight I dance alone Moon hidden by a high tower on Harbor Road won’t come out to play My shadow too slick to follow me into the danger zone my shadow that signs documents with a signature that should be only my own Still I will dance alone if alone I must and sing songs to the most reluctant moon

B78

2020 No news from the observatory The moon and sun have shut down The dim stars are blinking and comets shy away from us now No news from the democracy Streets as emptied as the sky and lovers read their messages “No sweet kisses no more good-bye” Now is the time we welcome defeat; now is the time we despair and is the time we trip over our feet and wish for rain Grey rain, swift rain, rain like an ocean washing away all of the lies our leaders have told and all of the lies we told our lovers and our own sweetsour selves

B77

DEFYING MOLOCH OFF THE PEARL Mothcrossed neon night dimming always hard to find cruel crawling taxis not craving Kowloon before dawn My sainted feet most uneven permanently leaving seeing welcoming Moloch --yes Allen--lighting the dark Moloch casting darkness Some times are simply hard hard hard and harder nights mosquito larvae warm Friends I do not know (and some known long) say, “Here’s patriotic soup. Gulp. Write songs with dem ol’ Dixie melodies Hobos cooking in sweet smelling palm nights pointing voices toward towers promising New Moloch built Cantonese breaths enunciating sad vowels clumsy birds escaping broken wicker cages strange sea-surrounded city Let’s sing frightened children newer songs. Hobos strange of this century no longer young

B76

REID MITCHELL four poems A TERRIBLE BEAUTY “Pan-dems are ‘beautifying violence’ say rivals” 020-04-27 HKT 14:08, RTHK

No music as satisfying as the thawk of wood against a thick skull No smell as sweet as fearful sweating of a girl sprawled in the street No sight as lovely as the tear gas clouds wafting over the skyline No need to beautify necessary violence and necessary violence belongs uniforms uniforms, yes, and automatons

B75

OUTWARD BOUND Hannibal crossed the Alps for conquest and glory.

We, adventurers of a different stripe crossed the sea destination Hong Kong on the P&O liner S.S. Carthage built by fellow Scots, launched on our own River Clyde.

Up the gangway hand in hand we boarded working class folk with boot-strap aspirations to cabins second class the apartheid of imperial caste.

No P.O.S.H. travel for us but S.O.S.O. Starboard out, staying out’ unlike that great general never coming home to disappointment and betrayal.

As we wave goodbye streamers sever our links leaving monochrome memories and the 1950s in our wake through Port Said, Suez, Aden and beyond black-and-white Britain displaced, obscured forgotten by senses now shaken by shocking, pungent, grating colours, odours and sounds familiarity growing as we travel ever Eastward warm and wet like a return to the womb.

Perhaps I’ll linger here a while.

B73

and peel away the secrets of the years.

Uncovered scripts and ancient colours reveal the hand of venerated generations those long gone but ever present in nooks and crannies in ancestral tablets and in the faces of boys at play.

The job is done, outsiders gone life returns to the slow rhythmic pulse of the sea and god rests his feet in front of the fire at home with a cup of tea.

B72

WORKING CLASS GOD Across the nautical miles on an island of fishermen by the sheltered narrows of the China Sea sits a house of God. Built by the father’s fathers of todays tillers of the waves this temple is listed by The Antiquities and Monuments Office as a cultural icon of benefit to tourism and scheduled for cleaning, re-tiling and restoration.

But it’s listed as a part of life for these simple honest folk and scheduled for re-dedication and blessing.

For this is no Medici palace for an elegant effete and cultured deity this is the home of a working class God with work to be done controlling the elements, protecting the nets and holding all vessels in a warm embrace.

Government bureaucrats, feathering their caps want to preserve for posterity the muted patinated tints and quaint dingy dank corners.

The villagers want a new brush to sweep clean and paint in bright, lively, vibrant hues of gaudily gold, red and green.

This house is not for a redundant God of antiquity this God requires daily sustenance, libations and offerings.

He is part of the clan and everywhere visible; in the sparkling of infinite pin pricks of light as a gentle rain dapples the calm green sea and deep amongst the ancient banyans those sentinels with twisted limbs entwined in a sensual embrace gnarled bows that mirror the stooped backs of ancient mariners themselves as hard and weathered as aged teak.

Now foreigners have come to Kau Sai Chau Italians, offering their skills with open hands that carry the genetic legacy of Leonardo, Michelangelo, Botticelli, Caravaggio.

They delve with care amidst the treasures

B71

BAMBOOZLED The bamboo grove outside my window clicks and clacks a living breathing wind-chime that whistles and whispers the secrets of lives governed by seasons unchanged for generations.

Hakka wanderers brought by the wind came here seduced to stay by the sheltered cove sweet fresh water and these same soporific sounds.

I was the first foreigner for years now we outnumber the villagers and vote for each other at election time neocolonialists seeking to civilise, educate stop the building stop the fishing improve the marine ecology.

I voted for Mr. Yeung Tin San a Hakka elder a realist who values tradition.

He was elected with a majority of one.

Sometimes I feel the wind brought me here.

B70

DAVID MCKIRDY four poems AMAH Nanny, Auntie, Sister, Servant a simple woman in black and white not young, no threat a mouth full of gold— a gilt edged hedge against famine, war and pestilence.

Poor and illiterate, ideal for scrubbing but entrusted with a stranger’s child a necessity or a convenience for those too busy, too ill, too worldly.

Trusting eternal motherly love of any woman, for any child.

Leaving her own family deprived of appropriate maternal attention.

Myths of hungry ghosts one-armed swordsmen culinary treats and Chinese opera we absorb, acquire, adopt an alien culture and another mother tongue.

These bonds can never be broken— love is thicker than blood.

Ah May, Amah, Mama fifty years on the shadow of your presence remains as the wax for the candle I light for you rolls down like tears.

B69

I: One tea set, please.

Waiter Kuen: Tea set’s sold out.

I: A fast set, then.

Waiter Kuen: No fast set today.

I: I’d have a constant set, anyways.

Waiter Kuen: Constant set is fast set, fast set is tea set. a fate of return—the rain and Waiter Kuen’s back.

Now the rain’s a searchlight: a black dog sniffs, a black car follows.

There’s no way to see how the rain enters.

You still have much black hair, Mrs Suen, I grin.

The rain, stumbling upon its hands, tries to grip a larger surround.

Thanks to the braised pork belly, Mrs Suen jokes.

O, O, what a slice! Grandma exclaimed.

The fat broke loose on her tongue.

She never woke up again.

A raindrop is very quiet on my lips.

It melts into a shore afar—to where?

A red bean sneaks out of my glass.

I lick it back—to where?

I forget to give Mrs Suen my mobile number.

The rain has no proper path to rise back as rain.

How does hunger enter me?

I forgot the first bite in my life.

I forget why I forgot.

Coolness sprawls flat on my tongue.

I can’t even give it a name.

B68

For fifteen years at daybreak the lukewarm TV gargles— “Welcome to Hong Kong’s Morning.”

Every day I eat deep-fried ghost, drink mandarin ducks, no milk, no sugar.

A diet to keep myself forgotten.

I didn’t forget you, Mrs Suen says.

But all of us forget— yet only some let go of the gyration of the forgotten.

How not to break the fluid egg yolk on my doll noodles?

Slightly tilt the egg’s fringe up with your chopsticks and pinch— but the translucent membrane still cracks.

It doesn’t forget the way to brokenness, and neither do I. Grandma sipped the braised pork belly, her last ritual in the hospital.

The rain breaks its back.

It reaches out its little hands and cut them off in front of me.

It says, Follow me. And just as I follow, it vanishes, and multiplies.

Here’s my mobile number, I forgot yours, Mrs Suen says.

Laozi says—“She forgets it. That’s why it lasts forever.”

Did she trade her memory for the eternity of my number?

The rain finds its path to remember, and falls on every person, wanting—

B67

63 TEMPLE STREET, MONG KOK Remember 63 Temple Street, Mong Kok? Remember that cha chaan teng, Mrs Suen, the owner?

Sorry, that jars your ears.

Remember “leave ice,” “fly sugar leave milk,” “tea go”— the waiters’ breaths, like shooting stars?

Sorry for the monosyllabic dictums.

The imperatives chase me back with their voracious tails to Mrs Suen’s cha chaan teng: go, leave, fly.

Remember the deep-fried peanut toast— a square button of butter, egg tassels, slurry glass eyes of a honey stripe, and the sweet full-cream condensed milk?

Mrs Suen uses Carnation’s condensed milk from the contented cows of Australia —as she says.

As for the peanut butter, her preference is USA’s Planters’ Crunchy, the nuts clutter but melt like mercy—as she says.

Remember me? Mrs Suen asks.

Remember the already remembered?

All of us remember— yet only some grasp the gyration of the remembered.

How can I not remember? Mrs Suen! I reply.

B66

TASTING KARMA Does the doctor prefer eating an apple before he announces death? The doctor says: “Just so—sorry.” Or, he prefers studying an apple?

Mrs. Suen feels her mother’s soul in our barbecued sow, and she vomits all night. Her mother likes her pork belly drenched in a salty pool of leeks, onions, and garlic.

Sow, her mother preferred sow. “I’m alright.

Yellow is the morning!” Mrs. Suen says. What if blue’s her lucky colour, and her motto’s changed into Blue is the morning? Will it coax her mother back?

Apicius taught: “Give the sows honeyed wine before you kill them. Pump up their livers.”

Mrs. Suen’s mother died of liver cancer.

Was her previous life two thousand years ago Apicius, and in this life she needs to pay her debt yet-to-be-fulfilled? Will she be a sow in her next life for she ate too much pork belly?

“Nothing can be brought away, only the karma that follows,” her mother used to say.

Mrs. Suen asks: “What more should I do to be her daughter in my next life?”

B65

to the centre of it all, to sit, and to forget, to sit, and to forget.

B64

BELLE LING three poems MISO SOUP This pond is a far province of many things—granules, granules, that a forlorn fin slings to a jut of grit, of kelp, of stirs in the gaze.

Poking sparks on the running of salt, of jaws, of soy.

I know not a rill which can pleat a bean curd with so many lures and curls, that a slit on the white head grips a bit of every grounded grain, which dissolves— but not quite—bridges the sense of rain and the ripples to come.

I know not, in the grains, between testing a shape and dissolving, there’s a riff, like waves surging in sheaves, in blades, in wings, that clarity is a sharp spike—too much, too little to know. Some say pigs are oaring around. Look at the lipids.

Some say hens are dropping eggs. Look at the yolk threads, languid yellow.

If there is too much, or too little that makes me know not, let me go back

B63

I cut it down, put it in a crystal vase …

Last night, it was blooming …

February 2020, Primrose Court, in the early days of COVID-19

B62

WATER FAIRY That morning leaving the hospital, on a bus with only three passengers, I saw spring blossoming.

At home, white birds were flying before the mountain trees.

They definitely do not understand why on the streets there are so few people …

Perhaps they do not care about our plans or intentions …

I was thinking … flowers are still blooming, birds are still flocking, time will not stop, the epidemic will pass …

In my bedroom, the ‘water fairy’ was wilting but there was still an unopened bud.

B61

With so many of us around, if my mother were still alive, it wouldn’t be easy for her to escape from the family.

20 August 2016, Vantage Park

B60

THE LAM VILLAGE Whenever my mother was angry with my father, she would swear, “If ever I see a street named Lam, I will walk far away from it!”

Half a century later, our parents long gone, six of us have multiplied into thirty-six.

As I go about my day on the island, I often meet my family by chance.

Sunday morning on Robinson Road, Hayden greeted me as he jogged past.

Monday, heading for the Gardens, I spoke with his wife leaving for work.

A late morning, my sister was carrying her medicine on her way to a massage.

At the IFC, my brother rode up the escalator to repair his phone.

On the pavement off Melbourne Plaza, Jessamine off to lunch gave me a hug.

Another day crossing Wyndham Street, Josephine waved a smile to me.

On a Landmark floor, I met Rachel coming from a wedding with a friend.

On another floor, I heard her parents calling my name after a bank visit.

A summer evening, Joshua queued before me at the taxi stand facing the Airport Express.

Looking for bread at the supermarket, I laughed to see my husband’s checked shirt.

B59

a writer torn between a family you so loved and ‘also this place’ that took almost all …

14 January 2013, King’s Road, for Leung Ping-kwan who passed away on 5 January 2013

B58

AGNES S. L. LAM three poems FOR PK The first time we met in Toronto, I heard them calling you Ye Si. I asked, “Is that your nickname?”

You smiled and said, “Sort of.”

Only when we read our poetry together the next evening in the museum downtown where no other sound could be heard except your voice and mine did I know that was your pen name. Time after time, year after year, you always invited me, visited me, with other poets, artists— the Art Centre, noodles in Yaumatei …

Once you sent a student in a car to take me across our harbour to your Lingnan campus to hear my “Silk Underwear” in translation.

I read your “Images of Hong Kong”, explained it to students, analysed it in World Literature Today but did not understand what it cost you till tonight as I walk alone after your funeral with the echo of your daughter’s words, “My father shared so much with everyone.

I wish to keep a bit of his memory to myself.”

On this dim stretch of road you once walked, I finally feel how you perhaps might have felt—

B57

LONG HOT SUMMERS 50-odd years ago, On the streets of Kowloon, the streets of Harlem, the lanes of Tsim Sha Tsui, the avenues of Watts, The alleys of Mong Kok, the tenements of Detroit, the housing estates of Yau Ma Tei, The problem then, as now, was black and white.

Blacks straddled, blued-barrels to their heads, against black-and-whites, by whites in black.

Black Marias crammed with emaciated men side to side, white singlets to collars, screams and hollers, tension surging from across the colonial border.

Now black-clads keen and mourn for a city in peril as they are whipped to a frenzy with bamboo canes by white-clads raised from the undead, Heady cocktails of pepper mist, batons and rubber bullets go straight to youthful heads.

Every time long hot summers burn with frustration, things spill.

Crowds out in sweltering thoroughfares, The sizzling blood of opponents who become combatants firing vitriol across ramparts, The perspiration of the metropolis, fidgeting in anxiety, recoiling from visions of the tread and march of green-clad troops with tanks and rifles.

Tears, after dreams deferred are shelved indefinitely, but decrees come into effect immediately.

It’s too hot now. Temperature’s cracked the thermometer. Out here, our young firebrands continue to crackle, aflame with defiance.

Pray that their zeal, their ideals are not extinguished.

B55

SHAM TSENG GOOSE I’d often harboured suspicion of Yung Kee’s presentation, Tidy skewered birds on parade behind immaculate glass, Connoisseur’s class, ostensibly Clear of fragrant grease, Touristically elegant to the bone china plates and lacquer chopsticks.

Brightly green scallions, plummy sauce served with aplomb, and trimmed smoked slices, Eager to please my foreign palate.

So meticulous, I had to escape, straight outta Central, To out where tour buses don’t run.

Had a gander for one of them huge steeped soy-broiled brown bombardiers of fowls, each crisp wrinkle deep with rich gravy cured meat flavour.

Bought a hot-dripping quarter portion, silk-steaming rice, pearly-fluffed white, bok-choy dark-fresh firm as a Ma Wan mountainside, and the warm roast savour, amidst tart frothy sips of Blue Girl, was that day’s saviour. Greasy like Sunday morning, a feast under a Sham Tseng sun.

That was three years past. Just a year back, before the streets went black, had a sudden hunger for royal roast gander; Despite spots spanned with spits of broiled rivals upon my arrival, Mr. Kee’s Roast Goose Place was gone.

B54

MANGKHUT A pitch-dark plastic bat, all wings from a single scrap, The remains of refuse 53 floors below, Soars to the spray shower screech of the storm’s severity.

The harbinger flutters in airy reproach as Mangkhut’s iron skirt, Flamenco in its spinning fury sways and shatters the city.

Rain and clash, swirl and crash.

Trees, bent and broken in their thousands are the most numerous casualties.

This is not a nature-on-nature crime.

We feed Cyclopean cyclones fumes from factories, vehicles and homes.

We release sewage rich with poison into swamp and shore, sand and loam.

We birth vermin from mountains of filth encased in tombs.

The heat is un-wearable.

Polar ice melts into river-sized rivulets.

The stench is un-bearable.

Solid ground carves into widening inlets.

To the shriek of the upwind maelstrom, the flitter-fly omen flies away, As if to say, this is Mangkhut, the ferocious fruit fertilised, but you will not all die today.

Forthcoming forces may further ripen and swell into towering tempests that may yet spell The demise of everything dearly held, But you will not die today, as the pitch-dark bat is devoured into the grey.

B53

Ain’t 28 years left.

It’ll come damn soon.

B52

AKIN JEJE four poems LAND OF RUIN Streets echo that siren song burn baby burn, from Youths black by birth. Then, they wore masks indelible.

Freedom now. Black Power. Power to the People.

Many dead. Ashes to ashes, dust to rust.

Belts leave welts on all of us.

These here avenues bear the same reverberations of ruination.

Burn MK burn.

Shot a kid point- point blank.

Man set on fire. Blasted a black-clad back, sparking live-wire.

To the death, strive beyond bonds of silver steel and lead, Un-enslaved long before dead.

Bricks, bullets, cannon water for cannon fodder, Canisters and arrows sail airily past heads.

To the death, black diamond, fragile biscuit heart in the palm of a metamorphic grip, Never crumble, never slip. Them boys’ve started loading live clips.

Burning, now lighter fluid on pink flesh. Can you hear the people singe?

Scorch spray today by scorched earth green-clads on a crowded train, pain Into the violated face of a violet lady and her unborn baby thrown onto Concrete platform in scorn. Do you feel the people sting?

In future years, in Xianggang museums, Curious crowds will gather around displays, Carefully decipher the runes that tell the tales Of how puppets and masters presided over a land of ruin.

B51

ODE TO A PLASTIC PAIL (Made in Hong Kong) Now, toys and brooms are carried to us by lorry.

But the heiress resists the migratory route, hence your same label for more than fifty years.

During the water shortage in the sixties, you stood out among your counterparts.

They’re wooden and steel; you, plastic.

You’re red; now also blue, green, orange and grey.

You ace out those with a new origin.

Hoisted in a seafood store, you’re now a till that keeps wet banknotes with a fishy smell.

You vocalise under a dripping tap.

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip (in six tones).

And you’re blue at home. In you, mother hand-washes my shirts and father washes other things, from fabric to plastic.

I stand at the door, listening with an urge to step in.

B49

GRANDMA You’d rather not see me since your last departure— encapsulated in sepia, constituted by knit, paisley, and the smell of your skin.

I mouthed ma-ma, your lips stiff and pursed.

You turned around, stumbling up the stairs to the secret chamber in my heart.

In father’s stamp album, your tiara has lost its lustre but today it shimmered throughout your recorded speech.

An earlier version was published in The Shanghai Literary Review, 2017.

B48

ANTONY HUEN three poems SON TO FATHER After two decades, I still deny the rule of tug-of-war, where power is to be balanced.

The king is still alive, but I’ve crowned myself, considering language skills and diplomacy my strengths— all monkey business to a youthful old man.

But I never intend to be remembered for treason; my rhetoric is more an act of self-defence.

Educated to value independence, I refuse to be an undressed baby again. I fear public scrutiny.

If my speech is ever interpreted as disrespectful, please recall the days I was practising karate on Stanley Main Beach— how I feared my master who gave me a blue belt, now an heirloom.

An earlier version was published in Cha, 2014.

B47

ART For some, the art of leaving isn’t hard to master. The one-way plane tickets, the house, possibly a backyard. The city loses something each day: freedoms; its finest lawyers, writers, scholars who will one day look back at this broken ship of a town with loving nostalgia. The art of staying, however, must be mastered regardless of how, for those whose roots evidently know this is the land where their bones shall be ground to dust. The mountains have seen their ancestors. They own this city, this realm, even the bittersweet summer sun. Some wonder if the harbour will smell the same. The trees? How long will it take before mail is confiscated? When will coins and banknotes erase Hong Kong? Will we speak a different tongue and become a placid province? Going, going, gone.

First published in The Tiger Moth Review, 2021.

B45

it’s not what they tell you.

I have disappeared into a body of mirrors, only reflecting other mirrors, of this life.

6 February 2021

B44

IF I DO NOT REPLY If I do not respond, think: it must be because of the mountains.

The signal is poor here, and all my portraits are gone except those of me looking angry, lost, and young.

A face from decades ago, ancient, with no irregular lines impressed on my forehead.

I miss my collection of random books like an illiterate person misses his education.

If I do not call, it’s because my blood has darkened from I don’t know what. If I pray it’s not to a god but to the sun that brightens generations before it dies, burnt through the eras, the changing codes and modes of morality.

If I do not reply, think: it’s because I have given myself to the man-made weather.

The sea as a thick closet, the sky is a blue ceiling, even the trees welcome me as a rotting singing bird. If I do not say anything, believe me,

B43

SOMETIMES A DREAM In a dream my body is large. Tables stacking up on me, people feast while I watch.

My eyes sprout fingers.

In another dream you enter my dream, me. You say we are both dreamt up by another you somewhere else eating a walnut.

A third dream hosts only defaced books.

Some characters remain: door, mouth, vagina, opening.

Sometimes a dream forgets it is a dream. It unfolds a scroll of ancient calligraphy.

Millions of people, water flows.

First published in Asia Literary Review, 2019.

B42

TAMMY LAI-MING HO four poems ON THE DAY OF THE ECLIPSE The sky doesn’t open. Uncharged light bulbs explode into glowing fragments. There are three ways to recognise the smell of a sun-shaped onion: boiling, peeling, and crying. Some people look directly at the eclipse and imagine themselves fainting; they dream of thousands of arrows pointing towards a giant clock face, its numbers written in pre-digitised Chinese. ONE (一) is the smooth back of a wet elephant. TWO (二) is a training step for infants.

Some say their names or birthdays coincide with the natural phenomenon and ask: Is the moon a sun in another macrocosm? Poets wonder if they should write poems, photographers click their shutters from a distance. A pregnant woman accidentally sees the partially covered sun will give birth to a healthy son.

Can the sun really be stolen, eaten and spat out, by an ancient dragon? The seconds and minutes are being counted: all worlds collide, all instances.

An invisible and unwanted timeline for this city, like mysterious corpses, washes up in the harbour, cannot be debunked. Tomorrow, once again, the sun calls on us in bed. We make it stand still for a moment, we make it run.

21 June 2020

B41

From a doctor’s face, calluses on the heels of nurses, and dust settling on mass graves.

When this is all over, Begins the business of Misplaced mourning, Celebration, lamentation, Truth twisting, And notably, forgetting.

But also, the chance of re-setting.

B40

WHEN THIS IS ALL OVER “When this is all over” Has become a bedtime story Repeatedly thumbed, Dreamers waiting For the dust to settle and planes to twitch their tails.

When this is all over Is the conversational tic, Of dyspeptic grown-ups On video hangouts, Shifting uncomfortably Around fumbling vulnerability When this is all over Dustbin men, checkout ladies, Bus drivers, supermarket clerks, Postmen, and the elderly, Will soften once more away from the foreground.

When this is all over, Animals won’t roam free for long, when the claims of man follow close on their spoor.

Millions of disposable face masks, putrefy in cities and the countryside, found on mountains, valleys and oceans, in bellies of bird and beast.

When this is all over, Family whatsapp groups will rejoice in the successful ministrations of chopped onions and turmeric milk Before the indentations of PPEs have faded

B39

in their manner, and the way they smile— openly and satisfied.

So when I walk past, after a long commute, dull streetlights illuminating my slow crawl home, The Jungle house stands like an invitation to a life a thousand poems away.

Tell me if I ever get there, You will see it in how I’d walk, Recognise it in my face.

B38

THE JUNGLE HOUSE We used to live in a Suburban-modelled gated community, its houses, pillars and fountains painted in combinations of peach, mint and white. Bouganville fronds and cacti planted for a touch of wild, sequestered between pebble paths, pavement and playground.

Some houses on that street had sports cars crammed in the drive, Stacked like a child would his matchbox cars, making visitors’ mouths run dry at such casual indulgence.

The best house on the street was not on the corner with a bedazzled facade, or found up the road, with chintz vomiting through the window.

Not even number 59, with its tiny neon pulses for all seasons.

The Jungle House feels plucked from the desk of Indiana Jones.

Bursting with sepia wanderlust, books crammed next to rousing tropical greens and art crowding in the corner in large swathes of colour, bathed in a yellow glow.

The couple who lived there, have been everywhere, You can see it through their window,

B37

Universal suffrage a suffering through ages.

Promised, cauterised, Now fabled for the jaded, Canonised for the crusaders, Grandparents who say they should have fought when they were young, now live the pain of watching the fight In their young.

I suppose, this is how it feels to watch your life insurance not pay out.

November 2019

B36

NASHUA GALLAGHER three poems

TERMINAL

We hear How a jail cell is bigger than a one bedroom flat, We see A first responder’s arm akimbo by a man in a hard shell suit, We know Those on the top floor watch on and claim ‘Not it!’, We fear This bauhinia will not propagate, We feel Emotionally hung, drawn and quartered, each quadrant expands and

contracts whilst teargas-blur mists comprehension, and head and heart pull away from each other.

We make Enemies out of symbols, And symbols out of children, And narrative out of tragedy.

We feed rumour Pump it with additives, speculation Growing legions of lesions Tumour and treason We say this is not our city (Though it has been for most.)

We sit

At home as our airports and shopping malls and

hotels are shuttered (Like it has been for most.)

B35

THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE for Hong Kong

Persistence beats impulse and slow but steady wins the race except speed is as ambiguous as an expiry date or our bauhinia gilded with the five stars sprayed black as if the Great Rift that obscures the Milky Way also liberates the debateable Fifth Dimension.

Meanwhile water asserts its own pace though a rock can obstruct and alter its course as divergent as seven million opinions heard unheard misheard overheard.

Unstoppable because a thought unleashed cannot be wilfully erased by brute force or fatigue or just a good night’s sleep as Mother always says It’s the Fox who fixes the goal and the goal is the goal and nothing but the goal.

B33

A thousand souls still singing in a dark assembly hall on Clear Water Bay Road.

First published in As Slow As Possible, 2018.

B32

AMONG SCHOOL TEACHERS The gate closed, bell unanswered, basketball court stripped bare to lines and sparrows.

July is never the month for learning.

A school on Clear Water Bay Road, yet no water bay, nor road. Through the Lotus-flowered Magnolias a bridge I used to cross to the clamour of books.

A month of no children, but the translucent playground after rain recalls the aftermath of hide-and-seek: What’s the time, Mr Wolf?

The tick-tocking knees, the run for life. A boy under a tree restless for the world to spin in ten seconds.

That summer day, among school teachers we stood and sang.

Not of psalms and gospels but farewells and falling men: How bodies became mountains.

How the wind knew of sadness, the soil of love. The colour of blood was the colour of our flag.

In the assembly hall children who knew little of death had seen images of guns and wounds, a speck of a person stopping a column of tanks.

It was a clear day but we were all shut in.

The ground deserted to the democracy of the sun.

The cicadas buzzing their way to the dead of summer. The world waiting under some tree.

B31

Echo. We face one another? We face one another?

HK. What am I but the high-rise windows reflecting the sun and the lives below?

Come, look into every single one and find millions of homemade voices in an impasse, in fissures, in boxlike existences where one language is never enough.

High above I see black kites, sometimes white-bell sea eagles gliding between glass and cliff, drones and signals, eyeing the quick chance while larks, thrushes and titmice are twittering in bamboo cages, bird to bird, sharing the captive sky with their distant counterparts as one sun drops under the horizon and a different one rises.

Echo. In this place? In this place? In this place?

First published in World Literature Today, Spring 2019.

B30

KIT FAN three poems HONG KONG AND THE ECHO What do we know but that we face One another in this place?

—W.B. Yeats, “Man and the Echo”

HK. I loved my mountains, rivers and trees long before towers and families, but if the only way the sea can speak to the hills is through the moon I will speak to you from the ink-dark about the changing tides, the slow equivocal pain of transition, how things are moving away from the norm, the deceptive comfort of a norm, the fading neon noises on Mong Kok streets, the kind of blue and yellow you’ll only find in my heart, the Lion Rock spirit and the endangered species named after me: the grouper, cascade frog, incense tree.

Echo. What do we know but that?

HK. What’s the meaning of life in numbers?

Although I count every second of mine I remember nothing of those Crownappointed governors come and gone who said nothing, did nothing, changed nothing.

What are the promises in a red flag with five stars shooting out from one bauhinia?

Twenty-two moon-calendars since I was re-unorphaned I stray and obey like a tree, half-crown, half-root, branching out and bedding in, each growth year a scar tissue erased by the smudges of shared stocks, fireworks, new railways and bridges.

B29

STREET VIEWS, APRIL 2020 I’m waiting for our cries for help to be humorous, hopeful and relatable again. In the quiet of not hearing the same bullet twice, first beyond my room, seconds later from live streams that always suck the next day dry, the same quiet of posters wailing how dare you forget, a blackmail to wrong recipients, mosquitoes whine in guerrilla to egg-beating clock hands, as someone, after cracking open fizzy drinks of midnight brawls about others lou5mou5, belts out Sam Hui, a homonymous feeling out of tune with us. (ho2mo2ji5, may I make him shut up?

Why should I ask for permission when all that touches us doesn’t?)

Sometimes I drift off as engines boom at the crack of dawn—Bird songs never this distinct from noon’s, so is neighbour’s shrieking ambulance of a kid. A mother yells I cook you three meals a day. If you don’t like them, just die out there. We all know that too well.

Downstairs, a girl’s father is proud of her having lots of rice, as a boy on bike whoops popo is coming at you.

B28

STREET VIEWS, MARCH 2020 Sleep with our eyes open as raptors storm along corridors deadpan bright at midnight, starless. Witnesses are not only laundry hung dry outside the doors. Inside minds too furiously full of anniversaries, every day indifferent cruelties— Empty when full: how yellow pui blossoms follow footsteps of red silk cottons this spring, as breaths fog up goggles above masks, synonymous to buildings’ top levels.

Nothing’s quite on the level, except streets, faces, you frequent less for survival.

B27

STREET VIEWS, FEBRUARY 2020 Half a sentence is too much when divides are thicker than blood— Gatherings expose how weak legal and immune systems could be.

Children chubby in Tang suits writh their noses free from masks ill-fit.

Parents push prams in rain covers in a sunny afternoon, later work from home with Zoom, finally get to clean the room.

It’s been a while until the 29th flashbacks take to the streets alive.

B26

CHENG TIM TIM four poems STREET VIEWS, JANUARY 2020 We’re tourists in our own city.

Taking a stroll after lunch feels like a picnic.

Some spots scream This is too good to be Hong Kong This is like Europe, Australia, anywhere but home.

Hiking trails, too, are sprayed with slogans. Nowhere, no one is innocent of simply living as living should be, so we queue like parallel traders in snaking lines for frail security.

B25

ALTERED NATURE The birds had their tongues tied to silver strings as they hung mid-air in silence. I was kneeling on the wet earth, crying out.

A disembodied voice informed me that nectar was being slowly harvested from their throats. The heat from their flailing bodies pressed my eyes into my skull. I tried to hold myself together in the dream but could not. Once I was awake, I didn’t feel tender.

The brutality of all architecture stunned me wherever I looked.

What were we, as a species, doing? I finally summoned the will to write Life on my to-do list but kept postponing the task. I had been dreaming of the dying, because I could not ignore the news from home. This viral uncertainty keeping me afraid of intimacy.

Even the bright air felt menacing. A persistent cough developed, as if to taunt me. My father emails to reassure that all is well at the clinic, reminds me he went through the SARS epidemic and never took a day off work. I’ve inherited this cruel, Calvinist ethic.

Today, I return to where breath feels possible. My therapist asks, What is your fantasy? I think to myself: mother’s gaze / straight gaze / male gaze / white gaze…I am mortified to admit a dream about being reborn as the brother, the beloved son, the patriarch.

I want to see this torso in a different light (to beam on it a kinder gaze) as I wait for something to give. There is fire on the streets of a city I still love and flames in the Arctic as time moves. Had I imagined this intimate scene: a mother lying prostrate at the feet of her child, begging for a miracle, or was it the other way around?

B23

SPECULAR POEM All the ingredients necessary for happiness: I grew up well-fed, years away from war, its aftermath.

When someone in the family knows sacrifice as the only viable currency, such knowledge seeps.

History must suffice.

My mother knew hunger. A piece of bread, in the absence of a miracle, cannot yield more loaves.

I will give myself the mango’s stone; the meat to someone else.

I will give myself the mango’s stone; the meat to someone else.

A miracle cannot yield more loaves.

My mother knew hunger. A piece of bread, in the absence of history, must suffice.

Such knowledge seeps: sacrifice as the only viable currency when someone in the family knows war, its aftermath.

I grew up well-fed, years away from all the ingredients necessary for happiness.

First published in The National Poetry Competition 40th Anniversary Anthology (The Poetry Society), 2019.

B22

MARY JEAN CHAN three poems LOVE FOR THE LIVING

What does it mean to want to live? Only this: to refuse to see the mouth’s anguish as a sign to step out of an open window. To refuse to be thirty and afraid of leaving one city for another.

To refuse to be a bomb shelter for your mother’s fears. What is it like to believe the years are not a life sentence for bodies like yours? Like this: bliss at a spiral of rainbow bunting sprung like relief across a lit sky. The ache of pleasure when your father mentions your partner’s name. How you notice, incredulous, the way no one cares as you stand in the open, kissing and holding hands.

First published in A Hurry of English (ignition press, Oxford), 2018.

B21

VIRUS: 2020. CORONAVIRUS The fear we feel from what may never come Became a background constant; soon this noise, Was peaking shriek that registered as hum, Affecting not our actions but our poise.

With senses set: Perpetual Alert, We soon forgot what worry really was, Anxiety, once claimed by introverts, Now recognized as one of nature’s laws, Where nervousness is hard-wired in the gene; For those who stayed too calm have all died out.

The pack where one falls with a warning scream Evolves. And now the wolves are all cried out, Our instincts have our ears cocked to the news That howls at how we’ve so much here to lose.

B20

SONNET 435. IT’S NEVER SWEET OR FITTING —after “Dulce Et Decorum Est”

I thought of froth-corrupted lungs as gone With trenches, 5,9s, gas masks that don’t fit, And suffocating nightmares where the young Are blood-shod, smothered when the next wave hits.

The new lies come upon us every day, And lame, blind, drunk, and deaf we fear the tweet Of leaders who deny, disown, downplay What’s happening before our helpless sight.

To watch the white eyes writhing in the face Is something few of us will have to see.

But those who do have spoken. Our disgrace Is not to heed a hero when they say, “This isn’t something that you’ve seen before, And all we need of you is stay indoors!”

B19

SONNET 219. AN EXCUSE FOR NOT WRITING ABOUT IMPORTANT IMMEDIATE ISSUES The summer I was born the poetry Of Heaney took its form from deep in Spain To recognize how opportunities To be right-placed might not come round again.

He went to Lorca, as I go to him, For inspiration, as the one who’d be Enmeshed in action, blood-ink in the pen, To weave his words with modern history; While I find solace in the Irishman, Most keen to contemplate at his own pace, To not write what he could because can, To wait and birth what cannot be effaced By journalistic observations lost Because forgotten when the time has passed.

B18

ANDREW BARKER four poems SONNET 340. BEAUTIFYING SCARS How art may have most beautifying scars; Those rips within the smoothest surface skin That make the passing art-observer pause, And let the light of imperfections in To rooms in which each blemish may attract, Where faultlessness may fail to catch the eye, For brushed too flat by air, true beauty lacks The fear we feel in feline symmetry; The nighttime, burning-forest sexiness; The paradox that flawlessness has flaws And what gets deemed ideal affects us less By being all too easily adored.

How light alerts! That magnetizing view Of you as unimprovably . . . you.

B17

B127 B128 B129 B130

MARCO YAN four poems After the Cold the Cold Arrows For a Moment, in This Light Train

B133

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

B87 B91

JASON S POLLEY two poems Chinatowns Calcutta, China-wallahs Dhaka Ngo Mai Lou Cryptogram

B93 B94 B96 B97

KATE ROGERS four poems Ode to My Period On My Way to Cantonese Class Lamma Island Tofu-Fa At the Daipaidong

B99 B100 B101 B102 B103 B104

JAMES SHEA six poems Soft Tank Sun Broker Finish Line Two-Body Problem Tin Foil Wake

B105 B107 B108

EDDIE TAY three poems Office How I Impress Others With My Cantonese Three Excerpts from The Mental Life of Cities

B111 B115

WAWA two poems Mother and Stone drawing #102

B117 B119 B120

LIAN-HEE WEE three poems Parental Naggings for T, the Still Surviving Sister of Effectively Dead Brother H Submergent Infection of Two Diasporic Han Characters At the Unholy Court of Humanity

B123 B124 B125 B126

JENNIFER WONG four poems Metamorphosis At the Wet Market Personal History of Soups My Father, Who Taught Me How to Fold Serviette Penguins

B47 B48 B49

ANTONY HUEN three poems Father to Son Grandma Ode to a Plastic Pail

B51 B53 B54 B55

AKIN JEJE four poems Land of Ruin Mangkhut Sham Tseng Goose Long Hot Summers

B57 B59 B61

AGNES S. L. LAM three poems For PK The Lam Village Water Fairy

B63 B65 B66

BELLE LING three poems Miso Soup Tasting Karma 63 Temple Street, Mong Kok

B69 B70 B71 B73

DAVID MCKIRDY four poems Amah Bamboozled Working Class God Outward Bound

B75 B76 B77 B78

REID MITCHELL four poems A Terrible Beauty Defying Moloch Off The Pearl 2020 Li Bai Invites You to Dance Below Lion Rock

B81 B83 B84

COLLIER NOGUES three poems Preface: Important Notice Article XII: Autonomy Tentacular

TABLE OF CONTENTS

B17 B18 B19 B20

ANDREW BARKER four poems Sonnet 340. Beautifying Scars Sonnet 219. An Excuse for Not Writing About Important Immediate Issues Sonnet 435. It’s Never Sweet or Fitting Virus: 2020. Coronavirus

B21 B22 B23

MARY JEAN CHAN three poems Love for the Living Specular Poem Altered Nature

B25 B26 B27 B28

CHENG TIM TIM four poems Street Views, January 2020 Street Views, February 2020 Street Views, March 2020 Street Views, April 2020

B29 B31 B33

KIT FAN three poems Hong Kong and the Echo Among School Teachers The Hare and the Tortoise

B35 B37 B39

NASHUA GALLAGHER three poems Terminal The Jungle House When This Is All Over

B41 B42 B43 B45

TAMMY LAI-MING HO four poems On the Day of the Eclipse Sometimes a Dream If I Do Not Reply Art

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21/21 Anthology Poetry from Hong Kong

English section edited by Tammy Lai-Ming Ho

ISSN 2308-2216 第 62 期 2021 年 12 月

ISSUE 62 December 2021

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Reproduced with permission of the artist (poposki.art).

香港藝術發展局邀約計劃 This project is commissioned by the ADC. 香港藝術發展局全力支持藝術表達自由，本計劃內容並不反映本局意見。

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10th anniversary 21 / 21 Anthology Poetry from Hong Kong

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Voice & Verse 21/21 Anthology Poetry from Hong Kong