Above the satellite city
crawling with vertical architecture, mountain monkeys
defy the knock-out blow.
The emerald valley,
with Summer’s profligate monsoon storms
second by second the awesome inaudible sound of this world’s growth
through the flawless organic drone
of chanting monks.
over rusted drainpipes
and crystalloid streams of rock-filtered rain
perfect their glint
against a hundred hundred hundred million years
while, in a thin courtyard,
a wife and husband in training —
the two of them sporting
boxing gloves polished to a winner’s champion sheen —
trade amorous, well-aimed punches
through the air.
The burnished shell they sell
by the sea — Beginning
that makes no bones
of itself — what on Earth
can it mean to the likes of me? Breather;
heartbeater; pulser; digester
of questions that blister
and cold-stone truths; shower;
teller; clumsy incenser of all things
half-way sweet or sincere; PRESENTer;
PASTer; fabulous FUTUREr;
fly on the wall in this singular
plural world: I weigh your rest
on the flat of my hand. You weigh me back
with the glint of its gloss;
with the hush of its cone;
with the spiral-finesse of its empty — beautifuller — form.
Now what will I make with the rest of my life of my own anxious skeleton?
Between the concrete wall of a block of flats
and — flightless — concrete stairs
this was no place on Earth we’d ever expect
a Christmas choir. I was caught
as I think I always am
when the once-in-a-lifetime moment comes
in two minds twice unequal to the task.
By the way they looked crookedly through their song
I could tell they all sang blindly by ear
and I realized then how my thin sightseeing power
was stone-deaf to the sonic invisible.
The harmony of so many separate shared voices
none of which carried the main body of music
across the arid hubbub of human noise
braked my heart:
this was the concert of the fragment,
soaringly restored to charismatic wholeness,
rock-solidarity made possible by breath.
Please scroll down for the English translation!
Common Kingfisher, Sha Tau Kok. Photo by HKBWS
Continue reading “《蛙文》/ Frogscript 8 • 郭少鳳 Evette Kwok”
She took a full step, then a full stop.
Her attention? It had suddenly taken root — no,
not in retail but some tiny aspect in the footpath.
There they were, in a meandering crack
outside the Urban Grind café,
three miniature stars
forming the glittering crossbar
of Orion’s belt. Inwardly,
she joked to herself: Seeing stars again,
are we? For someone deep in the pockets
of Western sadness, the half-smile
in the tight corners of her face
was worth a whole kilometre of Brisbane frangipanis.
Rising, setting, orbit: her moods too
were celestial bodies: to spend a day
on some of them lasted enormous Earth years —
dust thick on the floors of craters.
How I wonder what you are! she sang to herself
inside a buoyant thought balloon, this
umbilical lullaby bedding her deeper in detail,
Down below the world so low,
like three diamonds in a row . . . No,
not diamonds, the sparkle of plate-glass windows,
impassive as an armed guard;
more like beacons pointing, absurdly, to some human interest
in a place where naturally (cigarette butts, saliva,
chewing gum, blood-stains) it was last
and least expected. She laughed out loud
at her down-mood then, told it to get lost for a while
and fast: Go pick on someone, your own sighs!
And the bougainvillea regalia twined in industrial fencing
over the road behind the bus-stop
just had to laugh through its pink flowers with her. Yes!
Good on you!