Tag: Poetry

The Collected Poetic Works of Adrian

For my sins, and because I didn’t take any leave leading up to the festive season, I was sent to work with the only person in Street Trees still working, a casual, to help out with their watering of the most recently planted verge trees. Thus, I spent two days with my hand out the window, watering plants, talking shit and being a solid passenger princess.

At lunch, the conversion took an unexpected turn; poetry and masculinity. I mentioned the proud tradition of male poets in Iran, as well as our own traditional of bush poetry. Conner, in a display of ego so common in Street Trees workers, declared that he has recently challenged himself to write a poem for his wife every week. Not willing this to go unanswered, I mentioned that I had written a poem from the point of view of The Most Recent Ex, about her love for koalas and my obvious inadequacy compared to them. I also stated that it was a shame that no one else had ever seen it, as I had planned to read it out to the Peel Street Poetry Club in Hong Kong with her next time I visited Hong Kong. Conner said that I should publish the poem somewhere, just on principle. It was the only half way intelligent thing he said all day.

So here is the poem, most likely the only one I will ever write, assuming of course that it could even be considered a poem.

My Australian lover is not as cute as a koala,
But is blessedly free of chlamydia
He doesn’t eat leaves,
He does eat too much beef jerky
He doesn’t live in a tree,
But dreams of living in a tree-house
He is not much smarter than a koala,
But is just smart enough to date me
There is no Wikipedia heading for Adrian Poetry,
But he did buy me a fountain pen
There are no conservation efforts to save Adrian,
But he is involved in conservation efforts
My Australian lover is vastly inferior to a koala,
But he will have to do until I can get an import permit.


In absence of a photo of a koala, or an ex, please accept this Mount Melville.

Hong Kong and Hot Pot

Something I didn’t pay much attention to on my previous visits to Hong Kong, is the constant noise of the city. Trains moving underground, traffic backed up, the footfalls of a million pairs of feet in a desperate need to be somewhere else. Late at night, when the MTR stops, the traffic abates, and most people are safely in their homes, you can hear the city snoring, as if anything approaching silence is an anathema to the spirit of the city.

New Oppo phone just dropped. TST.

The flag of Hong Kong should be a middle-aged man, screaming into a mobile phone

I usually barely wake up when Arum gets up and ready for work. I have no job here, no obligations, nowhere to be. I sleep late, get up, shower, shave and dress, and leave the flat and not return until Arum has finished work. Without her, the flat is a cold, empty place.

Cocktails before Poetry Club, Central.

The national symbol of Hong Kong should be a Rolex shop, one of three on the same city block, entirely absent of clients.

Word on the street is that due to the interchange of four MTR lines, Admiralty Station is insanely busy and chaotic. Out of sheer bloody-mindedness, I visited at 1645, and found it to be tame and uninteresting. For me, the TST/East TST is far busier and interesting, with the contrast of people moving to and from Chungking and Mirador mansions, and the upscale K11 Art Mall. I stood still for two minutes, the ultimate sin, listening to Apparet’s Goodbye , just letting the tide of humanity move around me.

Excellent art at Admiralty, however.

Hong Kong is full of 7.4 million people who don’t know their left from their right, or know, and don’t care.

The bar is smoky, it’s dimly lit, and that’s doing more for me than the waitress, in the beer-girl dress I have seldom seen outside of Vietnam. Of course, I could not remember what brand of beer the dress was advertising, but I do remember the row of perfect roses tattooed on one perfect leg.

Two of Arum’s friends at the same bar.

Hong Kong only dreams on a feather bed of late-stage capitalism.

With Arum, I attend two meetings of the Peel Street Poetry Club, high above a street side restaurant in Central. Usually poetry does not appeal to me much, but I find this gritty, raw variety more compelling. On the second meeting Arum reads a poem of her own, to much acclaim, both of the poem and her recital. Now she is one of them, while I am still an outsider, but some of that belonging does rub off on me, as a poet-consort, like Arum’s glitter on my shirt.

If you liked this post, please check out the rest of the posts from this trip here!