My Originals

A Village on Lantau Island, Hong Kong

A few years ago I experimented with what I call sitting poetry. I simply sat in one place at different times of the day and allowed my senses to absorb what was around me and then attempted to draw a picture through the form of poetry of that moment. I did this partly to record a moment in the life of a village in South Lantau, before the inevitable development arrives. Another reason I did it was to try and improve my English.

Late Afternoon

Dried leaves skip across the path,

Rustling on their journey,

Heralding the cool northerly breeze,

Of a late afternoon in July.

The sun creeps out from its grey cloak,

Patchworks of light brightening the forest floor,

The gentle hum of crickets and grasshoppers,

A lullaby singing the land to sleep.

A lone magpie,

Tail dancing in the air,

Bounds amongst brittle twigs,

Seeking its evening meal.

The sparse flora of a wet early summer,

Gay orange marigolds reaching for the sun,

Mauve trumpets blowing their silent tunes,

Giving thanks for what has come.

A pair of delicate butterflies,

Dark silken wings with deep pools of blue,

Glide with the breeze,

To where; they do not know.

They spiral in their lover's dance,

Touching all too briefly,

To consummate their love,

Then drift apart once more.

Young thrushes flutter in the berry bushes,

Peeking out and peeking in,

While their late hatching siblings,

Chortle loudly for their mother's feed.

The faint, sweet aroma of ginger flowers,

Blown from majestic spires,

Spread calmness and serenity,

On a late afternoon in July.

By Matthew Bond, July 2016

Early Morning

The morning has come,

Life changes its ways.

Nocturnal gives way.

Morning holds sway.

Across the valley walls,

High-pitched shrieks awaken all,

As Yellow-browed Warblers echo the calls,

Of sisters and brothers and mothers and all.

Above them fly great white ships of the sky,

The cool unseasonal breeze,

Revealing great swathes of blue,

A Tuscan morn' given to all.

A long-tailed sun skink,

Lives up to its name,

Bathing in the morning rays,

Heating up for the day.

Bunches of small golden eggs,

Adorn the Wampee tree,

Glistening in the morning mist,

Rising from the forest floor.

But just as life awakens to make the day,

The white ships give way,

Cheung Po Tsai's brethren arrive,

And the mist comes back to earth again.

But the day has not surrendered,

As all around,

Black, blue, orange and yellow too,

Graceful sails flutter in the breeze.

The day returns to its normal way,

Dawn's early chorus replayed today,

Crickets, silenced, resume their incessant calls,

Our long-tailed friend heeds them all.

Emerging tongue first,

To test the way,

Our friend reposes to live again,

On an early morning in July.

By Matthew Bond, July 2016

I don't particularly like titles. I understand the need for them - they give you information about what you are about to read and they help you decide whether or not you want to read the poem. Perhaps it is the position of the title? Maybe it would be better to put it at the end? I like people to read what I have written and for them to conjure up images/feelings for themselves. The following poem has one word per line. The title could be one word. What do you think the title should be? There are no wrong answers.

__________________

Hot

Still

Trepidation

Ripples

Breeze

Precipitation

Unloading!

Exploding!

Devastating!

Passed

Awaken

Reborn

By Matthew Bond, August 2022

The Cats

Sometimes it's nice to remember cats in poems. Not everyone likes cats, but no one should ever hurt them. If a cat makes a friend with you are blessed indeed. No one owns a cat. The cat owns you. When they rub themselves against you or push their noses onto you it is a sign that you belong to them. You should never pat a cat, they think you are hitting them. They tolerate you gently stroking their heads. They believe that their human pet needs to do this to make them feel good. This is a poem about 3 cats that came into our lives and then...

Cutie Pie was the last,

A handsome boy,

A white barrelled chest,

With paws to match.

Before him was Tiger,

A prince of his time,

Adorned with orange stripes,

He meowed all the time.

Our favourite was Cat Boy,

A great orange goliath,

Built like a tank,

Without the temper to match.

They've all gone now,

We await new arrivals,

Some called them feral,

But they all have a home.

Forever in our hearts.

By Matthew Bond, April 2022

This next poem is an example of free writing. It tells a little story. It is set in London in circa 1993 and is based on something that actually happened to me.

Bomb Scare

The train has stopped.

We have all disembarked.

No one has reached their destination.

We all stand by our cars.

Sirens, at first distant.

Tension rises from all around.

We silently pray for salvation.

As we edge further away.

Uniformed men rush noisily in,

Rushing from car to car,

Searching for their prize,

Hidden in the dark.

We silently file back aboard,

Take our usual places.

Clattering doors herald the start,

The train is running again.

By Matthew Bond, August 2022