This poem has the potential to cause some grief so please take with a grain of salt.
I’m am really proud of my aunty and her liklik bisnis so I don’t want her to waste time doing unproductive things.
In the end,
we all come back
of our missing pieces
– It taunts us every day.
Our bedroom mirrors
Take peace from us.
That there is another world
-Inside of us
We are still looking.
Never quite seen.
Across foreign lands.
– We are hidden,
In distant lands,
Between what you want to see
And what we let you see.
We see what we remember,
But we forget too.
So I carry a bilas bilum
And she wears a meri blouse.
Seeking approval from the mirror
Before we head to the day:
Maski, yu wait meri pinis.
Maski, yu wait man pinis.
Our bedroom mirrors
Are missing pieces.
Reflecting what’s missing
Inside of us.
It takes the peace from us,
Leaving us anxious
– Hans Lee
Where I wrote this….
Behind Steel Bars
Steel bars line the edge of this world.
Clad, cold, courage,
rust bearing steel bars.
Vestige reminder –
the colonial knights armour,
there is faith in steel.
Guard conscience, pray they
from perils that lay await.
Still, idle imagination loiters.
Give colour to grey steel bars.
Keep safe, this world.
Guard against, the light of night
Come what may.
Tall – stand picket.
Poke sharp, the heavens soft whites.
Reach high, the blue distant moun-tains
Or is it sky?
Picket steel bars,
Yet, the darkness in day
pierces the safety of this
@ Hans Lee
Where I wrote this
This piece was written in one sitting at the Airways Hotel in Port Moresby. I was looking for place to sit, read and write and this was the only (third) space that I could really work in. I highly recommend it, though I don’t know how busy it gets here – I was lucky enough to have it all to myself (and the security guard) while I wrote.
As you may have guessed it already, coffee definitely had something to do with this post. Nothing like a bit of caffeine to get the creative juices flowing.
Why I wrote it
At the time of writing, I was reading Dr. Steven Winduo’s book, The Unpainted Mask, which had weaved through the stories these ideas of objectivity and reflection. Telling his story from the first person, he observed the irony of the residents in Port Moresby who work to be part of a life that was ironic, bordering moronic, according to him. People who work so hard to keep an image that is expensive to maintain (the masks).
It made me reflect on where I was at in that moment of writing, looking out into the distant natural landscape through steel bars designed to protect me. From what? Well that was just it, I didn’t know. Maybe it was to protect my conscience from whatever was out there. In the distant was the cloud and blue mountain (or sky) but in the foreground was the protruding steel picket fence.
I was taking refuge behind these fences to carry out the art of being this version of me. It is definitely part of this Journey Home for me. I can’t say anything because I am (unfortunately) part of this group, but I shed no regret for this lifestyle. I wouldn’t be who I am, writing what I write, if it were not for my experiences.
I’ll leave it at that.
@ Hans Lee
I meet a strange land in the stillness of the night:
I find my bones longing for the damp, cold, chill.
The kind that lasts through grey endless months of dreaded wet weather.
– where long white clouds give way to dark grey skies.
I find my heart warm to endless summer days,
The kind that lasts a whole day.
– where long white clouds adorn blue skies.
Silly moments harbour memories.
I miss wet socks
I miss damp jumpers
I miss sitting in the warmth of coffee shops
I miss having something in common with the other half of the city
– The city.
I miss the city.
Drifting into the still chimes after midnight,
I find myself reciting Dave Dobbyn
Yes tonight I am feeling you under the state a strange land,
And I hear the voice of a woman with her hands trembling
Nau mai rā
@ Hans Lee
I want to end this year with a look back on my writings and musings throughout the year, marking the first year that I spent understanding how best to ‘tell ones story’, as it is often the hardest thing to do.
Though I have tries exploring different forms of writing, I have enjoyed the voice of poetry as a medium for story telling so here are some of the poems from this year.
Performing Sex Poetry
Continue reading “#40 My Poetry in 2017: Caffeinated Sex, PNG and Cairns”