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Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Lost Poem

I'm trying to come up with something half-way decent for the March 20 San Carlos poetry slam.

Looking for some scribbling paper, I spot an ancient notebook from my Hong Kong days. It has a few blank pages at the back.

Nothing poetic comes but I start leafing thru the notebook to remind myself what I got up to in those days.

I come across some scribbled lines that look as if they were done on the bus from Shek O into Cheung Wan.

Anna has wet the bed five nights running. It's time
To lift her up again before I sleep.
I whisper her name to wake her. She comes
Into my arms as if she trusts her life to me, Droops
Her dozy weight against my shoulder.
She gives a huge yawn at the toilet, then pees.
When I turn
To carry her back again, I catch us in the mirror;
A father holding his daughter.
This glimpse of how I wanted it to be.
If I could become a father who gives love
And keeps his temper, not suddenly
Lunging from quiet into screams. If I could have
Known my father thirty years ago. When
I cry, he'll be there, lifting me again.
I don't remember penning that. Nor did either girl wet their beds to the extent of driving me to the Muse.

What was wrong with it that I worked no further on it, I wonder?

I've read it a few times and rather like it.

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