#28: Poem – Breaking up with a Friend in a One Page Letter

Two things really prompted this poem. One, I have started penpal-ing again over snail mail and the other was a conversation I had with a friend of mine who was worried that I was ghosting from that friendship. I don’t think I am, but it did make me think about how I would ever end a friendship. It’s not often something we think about but how would you approach it?

I also wrote this with the intent to perform it at our Pizza and Poetry nights in Cairns, hence the breaks.

Breaking up with a Friend in a One Page Letter

My Dearest Friend,

I know we haven’t spoken in a while.
The last time we did, all I left remembering was the
dark
silent
void
that lingered like the echoes of laughter we used to share at the bottom of our empty coffee cups.

Yours was full.
The inside joke that I hated computer technology and spelt it out in a six letter F word F.U.C.K.I.T.
“Ah fuck it!”.

Those were the days. Do you remember?
I call you friend. I haven’t found another word to replace you. How a six letter F word could keep me laughing – F.R.I.E.N.D.
Now you remind me of who I no longer am. A six letter F word that I want to F.O.R.G.E.T.
But reading comprehension was never your best suite. You liked Chemistry and Music, which only a friend would know.

So I’ll have to
break
it
down
for
you.

Our friendship was like gold. It was worth a lot.
Past tense.
I used to like heavy metal.
So I fade away. Into black.
Insert Metallica reference – Fade to Black.
Or from Black to White and moonwalk out of this.
I like Michael Jackson. R.I.P to this.

Now,
pointless conversations mean little, like the one about being lost at sea.
Like I’m drowning in this. Not drifting anymore. Drifting apart, unlike before.
‘Tis time. ‘Tis me. Not you. ‘Tis change. It is life.
“Ah fuck it.”
I am being vague as I get to the end of this page.  And I guess I just can’t find the words to say what it is I need to
say right now.
But until then,
until I do.
I guess I remain.

Your dearest friend,

Hans Lee

 

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#25- Poem: Arabica Or’robusta

Sex sells so please read with an open mind. A poem inspired by that which inspired gods to make man and for man to make words to praise gods that made man.

Arabica’or-robusta

She asked me,

– “How do you like yours man?”

 

I like mine black.

Black.

Complex.

Delicate.

None of that milky. White. Shit.

 

Short.

Tall.

Regular.

Full bodied.

Intoxicate awake senses.

 

Sunny day, 

Rainy day, 

Cold day,

Any day.

Give me one –

to keep me up all night.

But I don’t mind two –

to wake me up in the mornin’.

 

Night in a vessel.

Dark.

Tannin. Melanin.

Bold.

Delicate.

From a flower –

like a flower,

Bitter? Yes.

Sweet? Without question.

 

-“Ready.” 

 

Come to me

I feel your heat in my hand

Sip your body.

Taste. Wet.

Bitter and sweet. Tannin.

Breathe you in. 

Tease the senses.

In my hand.

Carnal – I. Need. You. 

A taste.

You in my mouth 

A sip from the lip

warm aqueous dark.

No. Milky. White. Shit. 

In my mouth.

Heaven.

 

In. My. Mouth.

Acquired taste.

Black juice.

Tannin spill.

Melanin resi-due.

Libation due.

Offer  pray’r.

Stay strong,

my black,

Coffee.

 

-by Hans Lee

#18 Failure on the Trodden Path

(Updated to include Business Insider insights on 15th August 2017)

I am always fascinated by the weight of criticism offered to those who found ways to become successful in life.  This piece of prose that lyrically explores the mentioned theme of how we swallow success when it looks different to how we imagined it to look.

Failure on the Trodden Path. 

Continue reading “#18 Failure on the Trodden Path”

#14: Beware the Tropical Breeze

Destructive beauty is elegant and wild. I really love the juxtaposition of living in the tropics because we know that the beauty here is a product of the destructive nature that the tropics can unleash. One day all is peaceful and serene, then the next the winds of change arrive and change happens as natural as time in tandem.

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#10: Introvert (Inspired by Alex Monckton, Introvert)

Introvert
Source: Alex Monckton, Flickr

This poem was inspired by Alex Monckton, a Cairns based photographer and poet. The image is titled Introvert, which I thought was quite fitting. As a caption to that image, Alex wrote the following “Seemingly reluctant to reveal its full beauty all at once, a flower slowly opens petal by petal”.

To think that the flower is the Introvert really illustrates alluring diatomic juxtaposition in my head. More dominant then all else, the flower and the introvert seem incompatible, but at the same time they do not have to be. Introverts can be the biggest personalities and prettiest wall flowers when they chose to be – the latter, quite importantly so. It is only when they become labelled as wall flowers and big personalities, that they are unable to perform the part. For us, it is all a facade. We are what we want to be, when we want to be, situation dictating.

Thinking along those lines inspired the poem below.

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#11 Trading my stori

This poem was inspired by a work trip to Wewak, in the East Sepik Province of Papua New Guinea. It is partly written in Tok Pisin and in English. It was written for a particular audience and a particular purpose so no attempt at translation has been made. This also marks my first attempt at writing a poem in Tok Pisin.

The constant rhythm changes in the second stanza (english) were intentional to illicit a conflicted psycho-emotional response from the reader/ audience that ‘something is not right here’. Jumping between Tok Pisin and English was used to show the two worlds I constantly find myself confronted by. I find myself being modern and western but at the same time, looking back over my shoulder to a world I cannot negate nor forget; it is non-western but complete. 

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#9 Forgetting How To Cry.

Forgetting How To Cry

A sadness fell over me when I forgot how to cry,

a bird with clipped wings watching the sky.

The yearning for a tear to fall from my eye.

If only just one.

A cannonball falling, if but gracefully,

Release of a torrent, if only by a drip.

How I yearn for it to fill and overwhelm me,

weaken my knees and choke me.

So forgive me when I get angry.

Frustrated.  Bitter.  Distant.

I just wanna’ remember how to cry.

-by Hans Lee

Continue reading “#9 Forgetting How To Cry.”