Tag Archives: Poem

Sonnet- Jason Li 10L


The farmers look toward the evening sky
An orange glow illuminates the land
Sickles stand by as harvest time draws nigh
Never witnessed before, a land so grand

Western zephyrs, a dark cloud encroaches
A low buzz, becomes a deafening roar
A soft breeze, now a gust, approaches
A peaceful sky, now chaotic in war

There is no mercy; they proceed to feed
Like a Devil’s newest incarnation
There is no mercy; they are driven by greed
Leaving behind trails of desolation

Sickles fall down as harvest time draws nigh
Never witnessed before, a land so dry

Poem: Cerulean Shroud

Image source: http://wallpaperswide.com/blue_clouds-wallpapers.html
Image source: http://wallpaperswide.com/blue_clouds-wallpapers.html

Yesterday was like one of those days,

But it wasn’t.
It was unlike none of those days.
But it was.

It began with an overcast sky,
A huddled figure.
His mouth veiled behind a cerulean shroud,
Eyes staring upward at the darkening sky, fixated.

His eyes were the colour of the sky,
His heart the colour of emptiness.
A dull grey, a shade, not a colour,
A meaningless ink of nothing, filling the void.

The grey woollen clouds above him,
An overcast sky that darkened the sun.
The drops dropped, a trickle becoming a drizzle,
Yet the man simply stood still.

The figure was surrounded, not by people,
But by the white noise.
Like silence but not empty, the downpour was there,
His internal and eternal emptiness.

The rivulets of rain trickled down his face,
Like his own rivers created by his eyes.
Yet, nobody could see him crying,
Or know that he was, because it was raining.

With a dampened spirit, and dampened clothes,
The man stood, unrelenting, against the rain.
As a deep booming from above punctuated his thoughts,
A flash of Hephaestus’ creation flickered in front of his eyes and through his mind.

His temper flared, filled by rage and hatred,
A flare of red against the darkness of the sky.
Again the blinding white, splitting crack of Zeus’ thunderbolt,
Uncontrollable anger and passion coursed through his heated blood.

The sky began to clear, his sudden anger subsiding,
He gazed up into the calmness of the sky.
The clouds began to disappear, as if nothing had changed,
As if there had been no rain or thunder.

He was overcome by a sudden calm,
As the sun began to filter through the diminishing clouds.
Filled with sudden elation, a genuinely happy smile,
Formed beneath his cerulean shroud.

The refraction of light created a spectrum of colours,
A beautiful rainbow of his inner emotions.
Who he was and what he felt,
All captured here by the hues of refracted sunlight.

Every day, he would wake up,
And he would know the weather.
Some days it rained, sometimes it was sunny,
And yesterday had been all of the days combined.

Yesterday was unlike any of those days,
But it wasn’t.
It was like all of those days.
But it was.


I wrote this poem a few months ago, originally to attempt to understand what it would be like to live with bipolar disorder. However, it could also be interpreted as the fluctuating emotions that we all experience throughout our lives. We often see the weather as portraying emotion, but in the poem, the weather mirrors the narrator’s emotions. I like to think of it in a similar manner to Charles Kinbote in Vladimir Nabokov’s Pale Fire; we are creating our own meaning, instead of seeing what is actually there. 

Ekphrastic Poem: A Room of Paper

A room of paper,

Before and after,

And during the flight of planes.


A sheet of paper as white as milk,

Divided into right-angled shapes,

Individual sheets with aspirations and destinies.


Each individual blank page,

Shaped by the hands of their creators,

Prepared to take flight.


Wings folded, then folded again

A nose and tailed creased into shape,

Poised to wreak chaos and destruction.


The varied lives of human hands leave

The hands of their creator,

Filled with energy out into the world.


A quiet flap reaches a crescendo,

Following spiralling paths of their choosing,

Their travels create small creases and wrinkles.


The dull percussion becomes louder still,

The constant stream increasing,

A snow of paper covering the room for reading.


Those planes no longer fit for flight,

Compressed into a lifetime of events between covers,

The youngest the blank, the oldest the most written.


Eventually there must be an after, the planes must go away,

They will no longer leave and fly,

Sheets once blank and white but now all faded and wrinkled.


A room of paper,

Before and after,

And during the flight of planes.




Based on Ross Coulter’s 10,000 Paper Planes


Forget-me-nots for Forgetful Pops,

Forgotten himself forgets time each day.

Forgets the forgiving fires,

Wiping them away,

The fingers of the faded,

Flashbulb photographed,

Forgotten, fallen, families.

The final sound, gunfire,

The flare, 

Tumbling, falling, finally, with finality.

Fogged eyes.

Fossils now, fermenting. 


Forget me not, ‘forgetful’ Pops

For I am the man you killed.