by Phoebe Poon

BLACK AND WHITE

That Sunday day afternoon
When a river of us
Wound through the city’s
Retail heart into the throne
Of power, we were still
In white. That day boiling
Old blokes broke their silence.
That day young families
Made memories of their
First protest. We waited,
Breathed our own existence,
Chanted in the heat of
Each other’s skin

To no avail. So when
Another dawn heralded
Darkness, we returned
In black, filling up the arteries
Of our doomed organ.
The bravest guarded it with
Bricks, barricades, metal bars,
Stuff in situ, cleared our vision
In billows of white smoke

Only to be tossed
An up-in-the-air note.
So when he fell off to
His white banner,
We returned in a sea
Of black, carrying white
Lilies and roses. When
More souls were crushed and yet
Flags were raised as usual,
Those who wanted to give up
Their lives gave them to
The organ we failed to hold

Only to be condemned
For breaking hearts of glass
In the wee hours. So we
Bifurcated into
Black streams, gushing here
And there. So when white was
Stained by terror of poles, knives,
Arms and fire, even water
Caught fire, burning jade
With gravel.

HOW MUCH DO CHILDREN KNOW?

At the age of one, she watches
from her private seat
strapped to her daddy’s shoulders
a steady stream of heads
raining, inching forward.
At the age of three, he asks
his Hongkongese mummy
who is forever gazing
at an ever-blazing screen,
‘Is Hong Kong free already?’
At the age of five, she echoes
chants of ‘Hongkongers, add oil’,
winning more applause than ever
at the end-of-school-year shows.
At the age of seven, he tastes
his first toxic gas buffet
in the comfort of his home.
At the age of nine, she wonders
whether what people are doing
is not like Dr Sun’s revolution.
At the age of eleven, they gear up
like everyone else except
the helmet is a bit baggy,
the pig snout is usually empty.
At the age of thirteen, they flee
black popo they once called uncles,
swallowing tears with fear
of being torn and trampled.
At the age of fifteen, he grabs
her hand in a hazy sea of black,
shielding her with an umbrella
as she puts out smoke
with an overturned metal dish.
At the age of seventeen,
turning eighteen, he and she tell
each other what to do
if one of them gets caught,
if one of them gets shut off
from existence, if one of them
gets shot down like a shooting star.

Phoebe Poon is an editor and translator by trade with a penchant for poetry, fiction, literary translation and history. Born and raised in Hong Kong, she draws her poetic inspirations from the rapidly changing city and the people she encounters in real life, in the news and in virtual communities. She is the translator and editor of the English editions of a number of academic titles by Chinese scholars, such as Chen Gaohua’s The Capital of the Yuan Dynasty and Zhang Fa’s The History and Spirit of Chinese Art. Her creative works have appeared in Yuan Yang: A Journal of Hong Kong and International Writing, Twin Cities: An Anthology of Twin Cinema from Singapore and Hong Kong, and Voice and Verse Poetry Magazine. Away from books and papers, she takes solace in rediscovering early music, watching waves on edges of islands, listening to bird songs and running up woody mountains.