Jun wrote the Chinese version. I mirrored the meaning in English.
some day
poetry became your lover
I became a stranger
I only found you by
diving into your verses
someday
we will collaborate
our poetry will become
a timeless classic
and
my last words
有一天
诗成了你的爱人
我成了陌生
拉开了距离
只有读诗才可以读懂你
才能共鸣
某一天
我的爱诗与你的爱诗交汇
组成绝唱
也变成绝笔
A depressed teenager, I was, and insomniac. People came and went like whirlwind on a daily basis which left me dizzy and confused. Music and books were my true friends.
I must have been fourteen or fifteen when I started to write poetry. I produced two poetry collections with themes in love and nature. They were more like scrapbooks filled with hand scribbles, doodles and glued on magazine cut-outs. They were the treasure of my teens, and probably the only treasure I proudly claimed mine.
I had a pen friend, yes, a pen friend. Strong and I shared a common interest in poetry. We had written to each other for over three years. We got to exchange our favourite pieces of own poetry. After so many years, he still kept my correspondence. I am grateful to him because he preserved a few pieces of my poetry from early days.
You may wonder what about those two collections. Well, this is what this short writing about. Be careful where you leave your treasure and who you trust.
My buddy Bupa and I were very close. We talked on the phone for hours every day. We talked about anything but nothing. In hindsight, they were mostly harmless banter but also completely time wasting. It seemed to me at that time of my lonely years, Bupa was my only trusted friend. When I decided to come to Australia to start a new life, I asked Bupa to keep my two poetry collections for me under lock and key until I returned. He didn’t say no. That was summer in 1998.
In 2014, I finally met up with Bupa and asked him to return my two collections. He told me he didn’t have them anymore. He threw them away because of fear of his wife’s jealousy. I was beyond shocked. The painful realisation of the little worth of our friendship had a secondary effect to the loss of my treasure, the loss of part of me.
In 2018, by blessing I reconnected with my pen friend Strong via social media. He took photos of the poems I sent along in letters to him. That’s how I managed to reunite with my teenage self through those poetry.
Trusting someone who are not trust worthy is a lesson for me to learn.
This short piece has been stewing in my mind for a while. I wanted to be a meaningful piece so I procrastinated. Now I wrote it, it is like a weight off my shoulders. I didn’t realise it bothered me so much. Now this is history, done and dusted.
Here are the English translation for the preserved early pieces:
she showed me the scars
they are drag marks
skin cuts
bullet dents
she showed me all these
with a smile and misty eyes
she told me the blackouts were blessings
memory of her husband taken but not beaten or killed
she told me their six children are blessings
she is wearing the victor’s crown
she is the aunty in her community
children grew up in her street are sweethearts
women with all colours are her sisters
she is the glue bonding broken families together
breathing in new life with her gratefulness
she did not tell people she is a saint
she breaths, lives and acts holy
she is a saint
we put our arms side by side
sesame and banana
we hugged and cried in joy
God made our paths cross
to share worship, praise and
thanksgiving
our home
is neat and cosy
contrasting
my internal chaos
and
your slowly boiling anxiety
there is no escape
into each other
for healing
instead
we swim
in our own heads
together
side by side
to create stories
for our children
to read
This used to be our secret place
Where the still water stirred by our rosy kisses
Frantic hands hidden in the bush laden inlet
Sacred kingfishers were jealous of our playfulness
Darting through the green and grey branches
Pied cormorants were watchful of the riverbank
The green and blue river rippled perfect reflection of their orbs
We sailed our little yacht along the stretched yellow mangrove
Left our sanctuary behind in the tangerine sunset
Painting by Virginia Bucknell, you may see more of Virginia’s paintings via: Art Lovers Australia Weebly Instagram
The Living Poetry prompt – Sleep
When the wind blows
The trees grow old
My baby’s in a sleep
All my worries unfold
When the sun rises
The new day begins
My heart’s filled with hope
watching my baby grow
I don’t want to be awake
from a field of yearning tulips
under the indigo violet sky
I want to stay dreaming of
a future of you and me
in earnest paint brush strokes
and
waterfalls of poetry
A beautiful collection showcasing a collective of world-wide talents.
When I was reading it, it was like listening to a music box playing timeless tunes throughout time.
The different writing styles from various poets and poetesses kept me engaging and stimulating my senses.
Kindle version Paperback version
The recurring dream visited me again
I lie weak and still
in a white bleach bed
The IV drips in a limestone cave
dissociates from my vein
His magnetic reading voice
drifting in and out of my conscious
sometimes the news
sometimes poetry
sometimes from my favourite novel
The sun is warm and bright
My inside is just a set of dying organs
My eyes surrender to the light
I woke up in the middle of the night
It was raining outside
The reality hit me
He was so far away from me
Dying alone was no longer a dream.
Flicker of Thoughts 