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“The city of ovens during the summer
six months of non-stop sticky sweat.

Mystic drawing to those who left afar,

While mostly locals dream of places afar.

We all dream of different destinations,

Mine is the Big Apple for the culture and to end the seven years apart. “

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(This was made by Storm)

You'll speak of neon lights and bustling streets,

teeming with all luxury,

glowing harbor, glistening sea,

but that is not my city.

My city,

where bauhinias fall like sakura in the rain,

where water falls gracefully next to trains,

where structures tall can't cover stars,

where it holds through thick and thin.

My city,

with mayas perched with sampaguitas to sing,

with nothing like nostalgia's bitter sting,

with students locking pinkies-

promising they'll be the next best thing.

I'll speak of household lights and quiet streets,

teeming with community,

not my home, but home for me,

That's Hong Kong, my city.

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What keeps us centre?

Intangible desire?

Or wordly material?

The left, the past

A glimpse of what once was

The right, the future

A vision of what will be

The centre, the present

A bridge in between

The left

Decay, dull in color

The path most tread,

For reason no other

Food, shelter, life's basic needs

A path tread most, not driven by greed

The right

Vibrant, though yet fleeting

The path tread least,

More suited for meeting

For game, for pleasure, to dwell in desire

A path tread yes, that man'll never tire

The middle?

The chariot, the bridge in between

A path long laid, a backdrop, a scene

An upward hill, with ups and downs

The path still ends, but yet turn around

Look for a line, with gaps in between

The right and the left, converge in routine

A bridge for the past, the present and future

A city of life, with no need for suture

This is my centre, the road I've tread long

To live in what was, is and to be

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Water trickles continuously from above

Hardly can you find the usual pigeons or doves

As it’s been hours since we last saw the sun

Murky skies but disruption close to none

Pedestrians wait for a seeming eternity

Occasionally one or two may dash and run

Across to the blue boat that has endured days of the military

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I hatch upon the curiosity of man

My brittle spine harden by their hand

Thy world within four walls

‘Thou shall impress’, ye caress

Thine island progress, ‘soar’ thyself express

Mine silver Agony, blaze beyond the poppy field

Oppressive witness the subjective transference

Wooden skin torn between concrete deterrence

External bacteria flow across settlement

Internal strife erupt subsequent disagreement

Taller wiser men emerge in droves, basking glory on revolution

I have grown just as tall and wise, if not more. Yet

Mine gold auspiciousness is in fact pyrite

My origin muddled

Myself chain bounded

You, who this small one seek

Her gaze hopeful perceive this translucent window

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Shake if May’s stillness

slipped away without warning

you ‘bout the molten fires & shrillness

of crowds as summer was just dawning

Shake it! as the bucket must spill

in leading order for Nehemiah to build

the first ever estate that effulgently embraces

the gateless ruins of the noonday beast’s faces

For now— know that you will choke

enough from the blinding haze & smoke

eventually as you will be gifted wider lungs

of empathy & lustlessness of eyes & tongues

So board the lift when the red alarm’s song

goes off as on each floor enters an old neighbor

of nostalgia button by button while the final floor

awaits you to squeeze through and come home

Then the sunlit apartment window will show you

that Jerusalem holds a galore of public housing &

splashes of wet markets on the hot bustling sand

& between shaky minibuses stands a still littler you

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I had the urge to escape from the city,

Seeking the wide sky in between the buildings.

Eventually, I squeezed in between my busy schedule,

And let fate lead me to the seaside, where I thought I could see the sky.

The moment when the stars moved in the ocean

And the waves glided through the patterns of the clouds—

Along with the salt air breeze, was not far from my imagination,

Like the distant memory confined under a hazy shroud—

The ships sailed to where the ocean blended with the sky, the horizon

Where I yearn to reach, a longing that cannot be hold in—

Where I could trace the first bit of yellow paint dropped from the sun,

And watch it spread into the blue waves, and dyed the stars golden—

Just then a sharp sound of the ship horn cut through my mind and broke the illusion.

I saw it, the pieces of plastics and stains of oil floating atop;

I smelled it, the stink of disgusting sewage oozing into the sea;

I heard it, the noises of cyclists hurried by echoing in my head;

Or perhaps the cries of help from the waves flooding onto the shore.

All of this pulled me back into the labyrinth of the concrete jungle

So when the last bit of paint sank into the sea,

Even if I tried to follow the last glimpse of yellow in the blues—

All that was left were the shimmers of lights from the buildings and

I, a soul that could never escape from the city.

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Hong Hong, Hong Kong,

Streets filled with dai pai dongs,

Central however,

Heart of Hong Kong’s roar,

Where glass and steel in towers soar.

Trams clatter through the bustling stream,

Neon flickers brightly, a city’s dream.

From Lan Kwai’s pulse to Central Markets’ hum,

Life ever in motion, never numb.

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I am nothing more than a roaming cloud,

under the tall Kowloon Peak is where I roam.

Chitter-chatter I hear in every crowd;

behind the roads where Blue Fig calls home.

The flighty cloud sets foot in a grass field,

where the child plays and the baby coos.

Why’s that a goose? Now the reason’s revealed.

‘Cause the full hill’s shaped like a flying goose.

The cloud then wanders to the Town Centre,

amid the grey where lives Demiurge.

Within the buildings citizens enter,

little spirit dots converge and diverge.

The cloud now drifts away and sings in glee,

“My mind is empty but my heart is free.”

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(Made by Storm)

The very essence of an idea put into concise words, oftentimes described and understood with the use of comparison.

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something that makes us feel without the use of narrative conventions

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a sequence of words rich with melodic quality and symbolism

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For me, poetry is a piece of writing that is heartfelt. It doesn't necessarily have to rhyme, but poetry always contains some kind of emotion. It can be expressing joy, sadness, grief, disappointment, frustration or fear about anything in particular. It's something that is used to convey your deepest feelings.

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an abstract, incomplete story promoted as space for imagination

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Something that has a reason to be heard or recorded, a voice that can be seen or heard in a more playful or creative manner to better convey a message and to leave a stronger impact

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it allows people to examine and express the (complex) experience of being human through the art of words

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putting ideas into a short stanza/few short stanzas with concise and precise language

also allowing people to express their views on curtain topic or note down their observations

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An essence of an idea, a feeling, or an experience presented by symbolisms and metaphors

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Poetry is a medium for people to express their feelings and experiences through vivid images that conveys a more abstract idea

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The icy goodness of my dessert

Numbs my senses

The tart mango and sickly sweet ice cream

Marry and party on my tongue

The cramped restaurant I'm in

Folds me in a chilly embrace

The icy dessert in front of me

Shields me from the sun's glee

The city is hot but its flavours are cold

Mango shaved ice never gets cold

The city is stifling, but in it I expand

With this icy delight, the heat I withstand

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It's an art form that allows writers to be unconventional and creative. Unlike other genres, its rules are mostly arbitrary

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Poetry is imperfect, encapsulating and symbolizing the human condition and emotions through evoking vivid imagery and thoughts in the most succinct way.

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Capturing abstract feelings and an atmosphere into words.

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a short love note to life, whether it being gloom or sunshine

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Telling stories that usually evoke different senses in concise language.