Companion
Her brown dog eyes watch me —
they are deeper, far deeper
than caverns.
They forewarn me — we must now build
a fire, dig a burrow,
carefully cover the entrance
with branches of hawthorn
to keep out the tigers.
During the night we must lie close together.
If we sleep — if we dream — perhaps we’ll share
secrets. She sees me with eyes that are other,
not mine. Her dark eyes are her own.
Dog brown eyes that still watch me, remind
me. She knows this winter’s cold
will be colder — much longer than the last.
E.E. Nobbs
Elly lives in Prince Edward Island, Canada.
Twelve-pound Tramp
Your lone eye blinks.
Dewclaws, snout, fur and bone
crisscross sky’s black bowl.
Bundle of fright and need
hops hardscrabble to lap –
your new beach chair.
An umbrella in your drink.
Mikki Aronoff
This poem was previously published in Civilized Beasts, Vol. III, Weasel Press, 2018. Mikki Aronoff’s work has also appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, EastLit, Rogue Agent Journal, London Reader, and elsewhere. A New Mexico Poet and Pushcart nominee, she is also involved in animal advocacy.
Twenty First August: Of Cauterized Tear-ducts
Brazil is burning.
Smoke over São Paulo.
Smoke seen from satellites.
I used to be called Captain Chainsaw.
Now I am Nero.
A woman,
headdress of feathers
disced like the sun, points
to the blazing hillside.
She weeps,
screams out in Pataxó
she wants the media to see
the destruction
of her reservation, the flames
that riot orange
across the twilight.
Here daylilies flare orange
as summer slides
into autumn.
The dog has taken to
circling and circling
the kitchen table.
Always counter-
clockwise.
Always against
the
clock.
Claire Cox
Born in Hong Kong, Claire now lives and works in Oxfordshire, UK. She is Associate Editor for ignitionpress, and a part-time practice-based research student at Royal Holloway, University of London studying poetry and disaster. Her poems have been published in Ink, Sweat & Tears, Magma, Envoi, Butcher’s Dog and Lighthouse. She was one of three winning poets included in Primers: Volume Five (Nine Arches Press, 2020), and the winner of the 2020 Wigtown Alastair Reid Pamphlet Prize.
多大的快樂
回憶的混沌中燙成金色
溫暖了我十一年的
一抹陽光
你的快樂有多大
竟使我每晚回家
也要慢慢、輕輕地
把門推開
生怕門底的縫隙會夾到
你的腳仔
你才不擔心
十一年，每一個晚上
你定必貼在門後
確認是我，是我
終於回來嗎
你轉身，伸一個懶腰
向前踏步
頭漸漸往地上靠
噢然後
整個像棉花糖似的
放鬆鋪開
一邊展示你白茸茸的肚子
一邊瞇著眼睛看我
等著我俯身掃你的背
托起你的頭
讓你嗅嗅我的臉
年紀少一點的時候
你會左、右，右、左的打滾
直到我掏出手機要拍片了
你還在滾著
你的快樂有多大
才驅使你把最敏感最脆弱的肚子
全然坦露
十一年
每一個晚上
直至
你病發
人們會定一天送花，一天去一趟墓地
一天唱唱歌，買一束花，傳送圖像
為了偉人、歷史、天父、符號
而你，單單只為了快樂
動用你一整個身體
一年三百六十五天
把我每一晚回家
都歡度成爛漫的節日
2020年聖誕節
The English translation:
How happy you were
The burning gold in the dark void of memory
of the morning sun
which has warmed my days for eleven years.
How happy you were
when you made me push
the door so slowly every night
when I was back and fear
the gap between the door and floor
would snap at your paws.
You never feared.
Every night, for eleven years
you would meet the door
to make sure it was me, me
back at last?
You turned round, stretched,
took a few steps, your head
closer and closer to the floor
and then, oh─
smoothing out
like a pillow of candy floss,
you showed your milky fluffy belly
and watched me, waiting
for me to bend down and rub your back,
and hold your head up
and let you sniff my cheek.
When you were younger
you would roll left and right, right and left
till I took out my phone to record it
you were still rolling.
How happy you were
to expose your most vulnerable area
without a flinch
every single night
for eleven years
until that day
when pain stopped you.
Humans pick a day to send flowers, a day
to visit the graveyard, to sing, to buy, to message
for heroes, history, God, and symbols.
But you alone, for happiness only,
celebrated with your whole body
every single day of a year,
making every night of my coming home
a festival in bloom.
Christmas 2020
K. H. Kim
K. H. Kim was born and lives in Hong Kong.
Cat Cradles
Sitting in the middle of the road,
looking down at them as they walk away,
I wonder, will I see them again?
They’re getting old too.
I do know them well.
But scents and tastes, small noises and stirrings
distract me more and more.
When they return, I may forget
to run out to greet them,
omit to speak to them,
neglect to rub myself
around their legs.
As my ninth life nears its end,
forgetfulness begins to catch even me,
who caught so much and so many in my times.
Perhaps I should say a final Goodbye;
so that they and I can cradle close
memories of a long friendship,
and, yes, affection,
untainted by future failings,
unwilled, unwelcome, but perhaps inevitable.
Miaow….
Gillian Bickley
From Grandfather’s Robin (Proverse Hong Kong, 2020, p. 50)
Gillian Bickley was born and educated in the UK and his lived in Hong Kong mainly since 1970. After retiring from the Hong Kong Baptist University in the rank of Associate Professor, she, with her husband, Verner Bickley, has dedicated much time as Co-publisher of Proverse Hong Kong and, within that context, to the two international literary prizes (the Proverse Prize for unpublished fiction, non-fiction or poetry) and the Proverse Poetry Prize (single poems), which they founded together. She has six published poetry collections, the most recent being Grandfather's Robin, two being translated into Chinese. Other poems have appeared in a variety of languages and there are bilingual editions of her collected works in Italian and Romanian. She congratulates Hong Kong poet and editor Florence Ng on this online journal initiative!