Foreword Poetry is beautiful because it is liberated. From a young age, I have had issues with being concise and succinct – I keep obsessing over bringing my entire point across, to the point where people bore over my thoughts. Poetry, however, is not about brevity; it is about bringing someone through a visual, auditory, tactile and organic journey. An interpretation of a poem can never be judged or properly analysed, as no two people will be able to create the same image based on mere text. Film adaptations of a book are normally known to be “not as good” as the book; there are simply too many adaptations of a book, and a filmmaker will struggle with coming up with a picture agreeable to all. Books are already compliant with social norms and sentence structures. Poetry is not. It is almost impossible to create a film adaptation of a poem while still retaining the same depth of imagery that the poem has provided. Therefore, please do not burden yourself by complying with any social norms while experiencing any of the poems in this anthology. Throughout the four-poem anthology, I encourage you to disregard social norms and submerge into the nature of my poems with your own experiences and your own definition of beauty. Some of the images and comparisons may seem particularly foreign to you, they may be comparisons that you have never seen before in other forms of text. Exercise your senses and immerse yourself within the imagery I have created. Relate to these images and do not forget to challenge your current perception of what beauty is – because in each poem, you will find a unique element of beauty. I hope you will find pleasure in reading this anthology and I wish you luck to challenging and broadening your perception of beauty. Word Count: 305

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Table of Contents In a Back Alley at the Streets of Hong Kong …………………………………………… 3 Legs of Triumph ………………………………………………………………………… 4 Music of Nothingness …………………………………………………………………… 5 the howling calf at sunset ………………………………………………………………… 6

The Back Alley in the Streets of Hong Kong

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In a Back Alley at the Streets of Hong Kong The abraded wall is like a raven. The cigarette butt is like a black swan. The graffiti sings to the bypassers The floor drinks from the overflowing pipes. The neon sign sings her invitations And smiles down upon the gaunt old lady. The stray puppies looking for food Are trapped by a forest of abandoned cardboard. Each minute the city flows With hunger, rebellion and disarray. If one does not visit the back alleys They have not mastered the xeriscape of Hong Kong.

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Legs of Triumph The legs moving throughout the cold Crisp air connected to a slender figure In the cool April breeze. Half an hour After he started the man started Perspiring, beads of sweat leaving his Little pores leaving drops of Condensation On his forehead, like the morning dew Drowning his soul Into the black abyss That is the running track below

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Music of Nothingness

He was striding a fuggy pavement on his forehead sweat beading

and with his umbrella unheeding it nudged a green leaf and a droplet of water

for a few seconds fell with fullness and density came to rest on a puddle creating hollow noise

in a white empty blankness.

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the howling calf at sunset he sashays at a relaxed pace in front of the mirror that is the lake. behind him the grass peers through, trumpeting their most vibrant green. orange and pink hues paint the sky a flint, a stone, smooth as a baby’s bottom. he wanders casually along the grassy field, places his head into the lake takes a big drink. he raises his head and moos till the cows come home.

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