11/07/19 (3)
I am trying to gather myself
for another night.
Gear: check,
who I'll become:
check.
Just another face
in a sea of crowd who loves
with fists.
They haven't tried
me yet,
I am still good.
I have forgotten why I am
out here
aside from protecting
those whom I can call
brother, sister;
they will never know my name.
Sometimes, the body impels,
and I follow,
watching myself
as tho through a film,
amid
the noise echoing
in these tunnels.
The nation's anthem ends
with
"forward, forward"
and I am trying
to honour that,
as faithful
as your native son,
flowing unabided
as water.
11/17/19
Sorry I haven't written lately, winter is fast approaching, etc. Neither the emperor or the students have any clothes. Fortified behind their respective walls of legislature and campus, the police in between are prying at a resolution, trying to storm a burning bridge while students stand pat or slip into sewer grates. Beside it one of the city's arterial tunnels connects the island to the mainland, suspended, day 3.
Molotovs blossom everywhere. Overseas diners debate behind a glass pane, staff jamming
wet towels under the front door, about the merit of a reporter who ran past, disappeared into smoke.
The PLA made a guest appearance yesterday, parading down a local street to clear it of its bricks.
I've been scribbling for poems, plucked off the streets last night a used gas canister I use as paper weight for luck, size of a cicada's shell. What's left inside don't smell so bad but I won't tempt the gods, ma.
12/11/19
I'm not taking for granted
what you've built for me, dad,
a sentiment I can't tell you
across the lazy susan between
you and the uncles and aunties
stoking each other's belly fire.
That's still my dream, auntie,
going to fashion school, maybe
industrial design, I am learning
hands-on, bet you dunno what
the ridgeline on a hard hat's for.
Uncle, I know you love me and
you wouldn't think she deserved it
if you knew I was among them
come night when I must slip out
of my school uniform.
What you've afforded me, a good life,
bought you instead a conscience
that I insulate from you, knowing you
must insist it as teenage rebellion,
a phase. You went thru yours
at my age, after all. Tho the world
you grew out of and into is not
the one awaiting me, one even worse
for your grandkids if I don't preserve
what's left of your world to relay
into their hands.
This is why I go out after dinner,
why you stare into the TV
without a question or goodbye
as the hinges of the front door squeak
shut. I would much rather rest
my head on your lap, watch TV
and laugh with you at dumb rom-coms,
than psyching myself into courage
in the descending elevator.
Maybe when I'm back for good
we can take a family trip to Japan.
If I don't return, then you'll probably
be reading this right now.
In case I’m missing, let my say again
the obvious in the silence of my room:
You have done nothing wrong,
couldn't have been a better father,
sorry I was an ungrateful daughter.
But for now, here, let me pour you
more tea, divine in the leaves my love.
About the Author: Sam Cheuk is a Hong Kong-born Canadian poet and author of Love Figures (Insomniac Press, 2011), Deus et Machina (Baseline Press, 2017) and the upcoming collection Postscripts from a City Burning (Palimpsest Press, 2021) on the 2019 protests in Hong Kong and its aftermath. He holds an MFA in creative writing from New York University and BA in English literature from University of Toronto. He is currently working on the second half of the diptych, tentatively titled Marginalia, that examines the function, execution, and generative potential behind censorship. #香港人加油 #StandWithHongKong #MilkTeaAlliance
Find Sam on Twitter @ScrabbleUnwords.