City Scope Hong Kong

An anthology of poems on individual, society, love, and loss

An anthology of poems on individual, society, love, and loss

This anthology of poems is an ode to the multitude of late-night musings that urge us to keep pushing our sleep back by minutes, at times hours, to capture the creative juices flowing. Thematically, there is an essence of self-discovery in each of these poems, that takes cognizance of societal norms, grit, love, and loss. Happy reading!

Toughen Up, Red

Numbed, dead and hollow inside. 
I feel there’s everything to hide. 
Nothing to hide, brace for impact. 
Everything to hide, live with tact. 
You’ll be a fool, till you wrap their eyes with wool – 
Know thy love is dead. 
Thy love is dead, like the colour red. 
No longer crystal crimson. 
Impugned and jarred, burned and marred –
The purity in you fades to glisten.

Inglorious Thanatophobia

Stirring and sipping tea one morning, he saunters over to me and asks…
What is it that you fear? 
There’s a staccato and then an utter
Of your own? 
Nay, of others. 
Others, who are my beloved!

Strange, isn’t that what most people fear? 
There’s a perceptible yet rueful smile on my lips… 
A range of beastly canine and serpentine do haunt my dreams now and then, 
Much like the others, but not quite a fear that cripples my every waking minute of losing a beloved!

Strange, it is, for at times I fantasise this fear… losing him or her, or him or her, 
Will it be severe? 
Will I lose myself in woes of agony, will I cherish the attention? 
Will I become rigid and numb, or will I shed in me every tear?

It is now a cookie that he munches on, before he ponders…
Fantasise the death of your own? 
I heave a breath and say, the mind always plays tricks upon its biggest fear. 
The moment I imagine a happy life beyond the panes of white, 
The wailing cries, the hollow life turned downright up with my veneer…
With the veins turning back from black to crimson in my mind,
I pray to God, many, many times, never this you hear.

Good Girls Don’t Whine

A million emotions breeze past, numbing the spine. 
Good girls don’t whine. 
Divided in pristine white and black antiquity, 
You’ll do as is obedience, have slim waistlines and display your beauty.
This poem is rhythmic to not seem a feminist rant, 
But a piece of art to beguile the brains in his pant. 
For women think by the knee, men by the balls, 
To such a line your sweet mouth shall have no gall! 
Dreary reality shall famish your ambitious dreams,
Into dustpans, diapers, and BB creams. 
On a sexist note, not all can revolt
For you can just pass a smile, be awakened with a jolt,  
To realise the validation forming your own sex as source. 
May you be beaten black, mute your tongue iron clad, but never utter the word ‘divorce’! 
A million emotions breeze past, numbing the spine. 
Good girls can only whine. 
In their shattered hearts, fixed on their own, to move with their bruised knees and injured souls. 
Why is this girl wailing about equal rights, injustice and all such ghouls? 
Oh this ungrateful wench, would never give her man the joy and peace a domestic goddess shall provide, 
Don’t follow her steps, little girl, lest your honour and praise in society be deride.  
Lord have mercy on my child, keep her sheltered in careful preachings of thy name, set in the holy grail. 
So as not to let her imagination run wild, misconstruing birthright to stand at par with the fairer male.  
Broke the social shackle, anarchy became her tackle, this selfish girl brought me dismay. 
A million emotions breeze past, numbing the spine. 
One such good girl used to be mine.

Lost Soul Abroad        

Flailing arms of the clock remind me of my surroundings,
I no longer look for the yellow signs at bus stops. 
Shiny gleams of sweat are beginning to drop from my forehead,
Far there is a farmer tending the crop.

Like music, the wind is a cacophony to my ears,
The mystic ocean is a sight for sore eyes.
The nativity of the country implores me,
Further into the woods, behind the disguise.

“Do you belong here?” they asked me. 
No, I’m a lost soul out for adventure, 
Miles from my land, my soil and people
With just my name to hold, and identity as l’aventure.

Afoot I began my journey, hating the morbid cars of towns,
A lens in the eye, and one hanging down my neck.
Deep alleys and deep thoughts mingling together, as beneath as it would reach, 
Like a drowning figure in the ocean would look for a deck.

Like a ghostly figure shuffling through the empty corridors,
I scanned their faces for answers, begging for one. 
They cast their eyes down to the floor, shame stricken. 
Life was now immersed in the dark, sans the sun.

“Honey, you’re welcome to our land, come stay with us.” 
No, I’m a lost soul out for adventure,
Miles from my land, my soil and people
With just my name to hold, and identity as l’aventure.

Iushe Magoo

Iushe Magoo

Iushe is an avid reader and a photography enthusiast. She is keen on creating content from the heart. You’ll find that her quips and quirks are as unique as the spelling of her name.