The World of Who Remains
beneath a blood-red sky where silence reigns
through shiny shattered streets and what remains
where sunflowers lay buried in ashen snow
shattered glass and broken hearts
those stones that once were a house
fragments of truths and lies
in a fragile dream hangs in the heavy air
in the marrow of bones
the earth groans and moans
with silent lullabies —
young and old ashen souls now wrapped in white
in endless rows they repose
as the world's cruel harvest, reaped by fire and smoke
where dreams, like sparrows, fall and die.
of fire and doom
the roses still dare to bloom
between the abyss where the fallen sing
“If I must die, let it bring hope.”
in this m u t e d w o r l d.
the land hopelessly whispers for a gentle touch
a fresh, new start, a hope to clutch
to soothe the scars that mar its face
a plea for mercy, a silent grace
yet peace, like the morning mist, slips away
elusive in the break of day
untouched by wars, yet touched by time
my mother got a bag with foil that gleams
as chips echo in a hollow life
the news speaks of sawing your broomstick in two
ah, the urban uncanny
days are pushing us to move on
in the soft glow of light
I drift between day and night
unwilling to laugh, unable to cry
the weight of knowing I should not want to die
but I still don’t know what’s on my mind —
Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine Issue 77
(Upcoming)
Light as Light
light brings
girl swallowed in cold silver
shadow drowning
through perfect cuts
roses untouched
stars wounded
in rightness
light is wrong
living becomes dying
madness
crushing souls
reflect bullets
like terrible
tangled truths
truths tangled
terrible like
bullets reflect
souls crushing
madness
dying becomes living
wrong is light
rightness in
wounded stars
untouched roses
cuts perfect through
drowning shadow
silver cold in swallowed girl
brings light
Beyond Words Literary Magazine Issue 19
October 2021
https://issuu.com/beyondwordslite/docs/oct21_issue21_bw_issuu_wbv2/32
Trio of the Masks
(i)
masks are the order of the day
black. white. blue. red. yellow
we see no colour. only blackness, colourless in each day
we mask ourselves from fog and fear. hollow fellows
as if we became some sort of malleable masks today
masking our pain once again in the season of rains
trying to exorcise the unmanageable pain
I do not know a thing
(ii)
masks are the illusions of coldness and bleakness
fighting against the powerless army that took lives and breaths away.
in pain. in chains
ash, ash-
a high school student in this city could know much better than me
the masking of truths
the night when the white stormed into the blackness
where white is right and all blacks ignite
we burn
I do not know a thing
(iii)
masks tell us more than faces
look into our gazes
the burning rages under these cold masks
empty masks recall our memories of sweat and stains
mourn for the vacant ones
beaten. imprisoned. destroyed.
let words unmask and be our history
where 7218316161234567890
will still be learned by our future kids
remember what they did
I do not know a thing
HKBU AGORA
August 6 2019
One More Light
I didn’t expect myself I would end up missing the ENG Department when I first started here two years ago. Rushing to campus after work, getting packs of dim sum noodles from the food machine with Gladys, three hours of lectures… I thought it would be just another two years of studies. I was wrong.
I still remember how lucky I was to have passed the course by just reading “Kubla Khan” and “A Dissertation on Oriental Gardening” not to mention what a risk I had taken. After finishing the programme now, I have no idea why am I still reading the most ‘boring’ Derrida, which I used to hate the most. Perhaps this is the magic here. Apart from many unforgettable literary works and enlightening discussions, the teachers are brilliant. They are super-supportive.
She (who?) brought me into another world of poetry, and I did my favourite presentation on “Shooting an Elephant” in her course. I won’t forget how she encouraged me to keep creating new works and not to give up. She said, ‘We must be strong.’
He (who?) has never taught me in any course before, but I’m lucky to have him as my MA project supervisor. I was scared before I really met him because my friends said his thoughts and standards are peculiar. Yet, he taught me how to be bold and never hesitate to work in a creative way. I guess I made it.
Although she (who?) gave us lots of discussion questions, we would always find going to her lectures so relaxing after a long week. We would feel so guilty if we didn’t respond to her upbeat voice. I won’t forget how I cried in her room right after she asked me what I was going to do with my essay. Her gentle voice (and a box of tissue) did calm me down.
He (who?) introduced me to the world of Ecocriticism. None of the others really liked his teaching, but he inspired me right away in the first semester here. Yet, I still have no idea why I ended up being his class representative (just to help him to get markers from the classroom next to us, distribute handouts, and find our shuttle bus after a field trip to the Kadoorie Farm).
I have lost count of how many times I’ve cried in front of my teachers. It could be during a consultation session while we were just talking about my essay, or even just in a lecture when I started to slow things up.
I am so broken inside. Two teachers here literally saved my life.
He taught me most of the courses in these two years. After literally saving me from falling, cracking a few jokes to cheer me up, we had long chats. He always says I’m stubborn. I guess that makes me difficult to handle, and people gave up on me. Sometimes, I’d still have a throwback to some good conversations.
He has never taught me during these two years and I didn’t expect him to be the one who saved one more light from going out this summer. He tried his best to tell me a hopeless joke of the precipice, moon, flute, silent copter, and beer. Well, that really worked. I still can’t believe we actually spent hours with acrylic paints and Asahi. And thanks for introducing me to the wonton noodles at 六合小館 (Six Up Inn), I wish I knew it two years ago. Keep my ‘burning paper boat’, and I will remember to be a candle (but not those harsh lights the police used against us).
I’m so glad to be part of this ENG department in which I believe each of us, like a candle, will light up the dark.
Hedgehogs in Fog
comrades –
1030000 to 2000000+1
sea of white to sea of black
in fear.raet ni
hedgehogs in fog
we made our voice plain
six lanes in vain
dragon and raptors know no laws
shooting pepper and rubbers at hedgehogs
tear in fog
hedgehogs
roared and crawled
shielded by masks and umbrellas
reporters in helmets
ambulance parting the sea like Moses
unarmed hedgehogs
justice as quills
against the breath of Dragon
from the great wall
vacant raincoat in yellow
fallen star in the dark
it flickers, flickers
deafening
silence.
like mushrooms we multiple
in the dark
we inherit –
Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine Issue 48
July 2019
Sparrow
Sanguine Sparrow
searched and searched —
glittering city of neon lights
never sits idle
City’s Sparrow
Bang. Bang! She goes —
crashing into the Elm on the LED lightbox banner
crimson startled eyes. Hollow
city breaks sparrows apart
trees cleared for fears
of power and properties
noise barriers guiltily painted with birds and trees
Seeing sparrows swallowing the leftover vulgar fries
others smoking from the remaining ⅓ of the cigarettes
next to the abandoned roses
Stunned Sparrow crawled back to her nest
a nest inside storeys of cages
hunted by her hungry shadows
Hollow Sparrow
rushed to her flickering armour and
slayed —
herself with a newly broken blade
in this starless night
No voice. No light
Moon drowned to the dark reflection of the neon lights at the narrowed ‘Victoria River’.
Tiny Seed Literary Journal
Spring 2019
HKBU AGORA
August 6, 2018
https://buhk.me/2018/08/06/place-nicole/
Pride of Place: Nicole Lai
Some of us work hard inside it
For different reasons
Some of us live inside it
Fortunate or unfortunate enough
Some of us take it as a motivation to work hard
For something that might not seem achievable
Some of us end the book by falling from it
For an ending that cannot be rewritten—
It’s a normal weekday evening
Crawling back home after eight hours of work, three hours lectures,
two-plus hours commuting here and there…
I’m finally walking on the bicycle lane
Slowing my pace, turning my music off
Looking at people returning to their homes in silence
Looking at how those white screen lights floating like fireflies in the dark
I looked for the moon but the sky was empty
except for those lights from the skyscrapers.
I always like to imagine those lights as stars.
At this point, my tears always fall down my cheeks.
Hongkongers would know how it feels
To look at skyscrapers at night
(Do not take any photos, do not talk. Just look at them)
Skyscrapers are everywhere in this city.
We are good at handling the pressure
these skyscrapers gave us—
Though suffocated from time to time
Beautiful.
Isn’t it?
Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine Issue 41.
May, 2018.
HKBU AGORA
April 4, 2018
"Sylvia and Chester, I’m in”
I want to follow you two
But I’m not so sure
Is this my cure?
I will make no cry
So no one would ask why
Read Sylvia’s
Listen to Chester’s
Then you can feel
How much we wanted to heal
And how much we wanted to kill
My heart aches
Or suffocates
I don’t know.
Drowning myself in this dead water
Too deep.
Too vast.
I was a lifeguard but I no longer know
How to swim alone and escape fast.
Sylvia and Chester might know my phobia
A Phobia
No one can stop it from growing each day
And I don’t know how it became
My Master
In this game
I’m not chained
But I’m trained
To be numbed
I know I’m blessed and loved
But I am also unbelievably depressed
Well, I don’t like this game.
Let me sleep.
Wings.
Wings
Spread.
Souls
Dead.
Remembering how the steel bars were their deathbeds.
I am sorry I was once in love
With these broken wings.
These horrified me enough
Because I see clipped wings
Like me.
Everything is so still
“Number 12, please. Number 12.”
Squeezing my way through the crowd
To get my box of lifeless wings
Look around
We take photos with the limbs.
I am scared. What should I do with my box
Of broken wings.
Would angels be angry?
Perhaps this is why my wings are clipped
Broken.
Because We Feel
When you cannot weep,
you sleep.
Even the strongest feels weak.
Even the happiest won't speak
of their bleak minds.
How empty. The mind
could kill–
makes you ill
But still
Others will not understand
how brave you are to stand
but not to fall.
"It's no big deal at all!"
they said.
Do not feel sad
We are just too ill
because we feel.
My Secret Garden
There is a place I visit everyday
so full of memories that will never fade
stories told quietly and planted with blades
Battle’s on
I lose–
Life goes on
I choose–
‘But why?’ This is my cry
I am crushed while they judge
‘It’s bad for you.’ They try to accuse
My blades chase me but I do not run
I’m not a sinner for what I’ve done
I don’t need a doctor or counsellor
nothing can make me any better–
My secret garden allows no visitors
HKBU EDGE ISSUE 4
April 2, 2018