Ying TONG
[This is my second poem written in English. See the first one here ❀]
The sound of a fighting scene disappeared, followed by light
illuminating the cinema screen. “Medical emergency”,
said my friend, repeating others’ words. I followed a queue
of the audience, stepping out of the hall in silence
No doctors, nurses, or people of first aid, but a handful of
policemen at the entrance. They stand still, supervising
our tranquil evacuation. One of them responded, “Murder”
For the rest of the day, month, and year, I searched the local news
but got nothing. As mysterious as a young man who died
in the street that I walk past to my seminars
It is not safe. Yet, every day I go through the preaching
on Cornmarket Street, where people proclaim the Saviours
of the earthly at the city centre. When sunny, violin notes
dance from an Asian lady in a beret, and melodies bounce out
of a hand-cranked music cart. Harmonious air, a suitable
distance between one and another, and a reasonable hope:
billboards were set up; you recognised a young face and
moral policemen back in Iran. At times, the homeless
watch the street in their quilts, against walls
This is a peaceful microcosm of an anarchist world
Everyone, in a long queue, hands over a basket of flowers
to the next, above their heads. A beautifully crafted basket
layers of compressed common memories, a spoon of lessons
and a delicate net of the concrete orders we’ve created
So, perpetrators could be of any colour. Yet, no one race
would be ashamed, for the sense of identity between one
and his group may no longer exist. Decent people comforted
each other, “Sorry to hear that. Such bad luck.” One, two,
and three seconds, we appeared to be undisturbed,
putting it into our vague background of daily life, hectically
commuting to the office, home, the destination of the
fragile ambition in our value mazes. But something is
striking a chord of the boundary between True Detective
and these cases around. Which one is more authentic, or
appealing? May I ask, film students, if you ever come across
a whim of self-doubt like this? And what to do afterwards
In this miniature of harmony, we continue to stand in a queue
From dawn to twilight, we hand over the basket of flowers
with care, and look at others, to check if their fingers are
holding it tight and firm. Then we let go of our grip
2022.11-12