In Hong Kong is Celadon

National Poetry Day, it is. I thought I’d give air, finally, to a thing I wrote a quarter of a century ago (me, now tamping tobacco into my pipe). March 1991 to be precise. Enough that the piece has stayed with me, a kind of beneficial earworm, the sort that ferries you back to sleep when you shouldn’t be awake. I wrote it on a boat on the South China Sea (draws again on pipe), giddy at so much that was happening, and had happened; and picking up a mental melody about the colour of a cardigan of a student in my class. Somehow, funnily, it seems to want a soft Scots accent. And it’s more trouble to be written than to speak.

In Hong Kong is Celadon

In Hong Kong is celadon and greens and
blues commune to prove I plot what I’ve got
and what was what about a time and place
and cardigans milestone my way. Leaving

me proud for once of being a sponge, dizzily
aware that somewhere, in a shop, ware is
weighed, blind respect paid to a decision
a girlfriend made about colorism.

This season, Easter, April, petrol and
kingfisher banana the walls of malls
and vanillas of girlskin curves deflect
a billboard quiet, without zeal, gazzumping

an Armani kiss. Pills, windowsills,
buckets and vases and rust and disgust
at our kitchen’s poverty blue, as if
we’d just got rich – all, I don’t pretend,

I do, I understand, what only an idiot
wouldn’t know, here, all life is drawn
and pours
from the wardrobe of a student.

'Bowl of Hot Soup' - I wanted a blue piece, naturally, to accompany.

‘Bowl of Hot Soup’ – I wanted a blue piece, naturally, to accompany.

 

 

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About Stevie Mitchell

I come from a long line of cartoons and beer. I was once peed on by a tiger. Hoping the resultant super-powers are yet to come, cos if these are they, then, grrrr....
This entry was posted in Hong Kong, Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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