Man, meri, pikinini
waite man, black man, olgeta lain.
Passerby’s pass on by
in quick strides,
shunned, avert eyes,
seeing what can’t be unseen
– Lukim em,
em sanap na lukim
She squints to look.
There, beyond the glass of safety
laid barren hope, dreams, ruined.
Despair, etched deep into frail wrinkles
like the cracked path they led,
leading them down here to where the crumbling mortar, hanging from moss ridden bricks was their clothes in tethers, pealing from their damp skins.
Pasim ai, karamapim nus, sakim het.
The putrid stench of failure,
hopelessness seeks desperation,
rising from the viscous substance
crawling to makeshift drains
tunnelling beneath her feet,
Saitim ai, inap lo’ luk luk,
Her pace harkens for quick strides,
her squint disappears behind dark shades.
Her phone had seen enough.
When you awake from the slumbers of sleeps silky caress,
Let the creaking door remind you that not all is made to be perfect,
Let the dull light of twilight creeping in remind you that the ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ is not simply a metaphor,
Let the silence before the hum of day remind you that you still have your voice,
And let the voice of others, familiar and no so, remind you that yours is never alone.
But be patient. Don’t look for fast feet too soon. The head knows where it needs to be.
If shudders should ripple under cloudiness of thought, it is your mind casting lines into rough waters seeking a memory. Be patient. Remember that storms sometimes live in tea cups and tea cups can be deep wells you keep going back to draw from. It will be there when you forget.
And if you should fall into that dark place of your mind, I hope you find the walls of solitude lined with cobwebs, filtering your thoughts. May it help you find clarity as surly as the drip, drip, dripping is the last sound before the storm ends. You will always find your way out.
So when you close your eyes and feel the monotonous pulse of beeping contraptions, let it alas remind you that life has it’s own rhythm that need not to be tamed but nurtured.
It may not make sense to you right now, but remember that in the best of all possible worlds, we are often never where we want to be but always where we are meant to be.
by Hans Lee
on roof tops.
in down pipes.
Pitters of patters
Violent in motion,
– be banks, on streets.
to drain pipes.
Labourious is torrent
– be rivers, like Styx.
my wild heart.
The memory of pitters of patters.
The violence of wild water,
when rain drops go
by Hans Lee, 2019
When a tower rises.
Where towers rise.
Cast tall shadow
Upon tall shadows.
Hiding reasons from
Making of empty.
Void of place.
The streets are empty.
This poem has the potential to cause some grief so please take with a grain of salt.
I first came across the members of the Homebrew Crew jamming at some random bar in Auckland’s Queen Street many (many) moons ago when they had another concept ensemble called @peace (seriously dope sound). Naturally, the music and their flow appealed to me and has left an impression ever since. Close to a decade later, I still find myself scavenging through the halls of Youtube to pick out their sounds.
This is one particular session I come back to time and time again. A live recording at the Red Bull Studios in Auckland called the ‘Sundae Sessions’. The lyrics are loaded but it goes well hand in hand with a beer on a Sunday afternoon.
Enjoy the listening.
Just for the record – I highly rate underground Kiwi Hip Hop. I don’t rate underground Australian Hip Hop sound though, I’ve always found the annoyingly too accent heavy. Not that there is anything wrong with that, it’s just a personal preference.