Ten Poems


If we don't go out
If all the clocks and watches are broken
If curtains are tightly drawn 
Will time stop?
Always three o'clock in the morning
We are together
But if love is going to end
at dusk
Switch on all the lights
in town 
brighten the sky
Will daytime remain?
Always two o'clock in the afternoon



The person I am thinking of
is unkind and smells of Kenzo perfume.
The person I am thinking of
likes to drink water and Stanley's semen
(sorry for the explicit language)
is a kind of water.
The person I am thinking of
is living in a prison made of
rusty love, the walls are Stanley.
The person I am thinking of
is not sleeping but is typing, typing, typing--
weaving a piece of love made of words.
The person I am thinking of
should have loved nothing, because
nothing is the best thing to love.


I have recently been told
That should I live to seventy years old
Thirty good things will happen to me
The longer one lives, the more there'd be

How strange, indeed, this quota system is--
If it's really like this
I think I shall perhaps not die at all
For loving you equals billions of
                    good things and more


dreaming of taming you.
One day, perhaps
I can really do
by drawing your voice on maps--
name the hill as Sam
when you are happy;
name the sea as Sam
when you are upset;
name the island as Sam
when you feel lonely;
name all the landscape
as Sam ...
visit those places hand
in hand
with you. or
when you are not here,
when you don't want me anymore,

I'll be in your sea,
your island,

to feel what you have felt; see
what you have seen.
and imagine that you are with me.
one day,
in this way,
tame you.


On my birthday he picked up a blue pen
and drew a heart on my palm
a single slender heart
which was bleeding, or weeping
He even drew a pool of blood, or tears
Right under the heart
You could hear liquid
When he was drawing the heart
I thought he would draw
A second one:
A symbol of love
With two hearts half overlapping
But I was mistaken
Now the heart and the pool of blood, or tears
are still on my palm



I can give you nothing but this
Not half a hug or half a kiss
But only this and this alone--
Take it -- and let it be your own
I thought of giving you day light--
That penetrates the perfect night
But I know you need the darkness--
To go with your proud loneliness
I thought of giving you my heart--
Even if you'd break it apart
But my heart is desolate and bare--
That's why I keep it instead of share
I can give you nothing but This
Not half a hug or half a kiss
But only This and This alone
Take it, and let it be your own


You do, you do, you do
Distract me from whatever I
Am reading. Whether an
Article on Postmodernism
Or a book by Graham
"Go on. Tell me the story."
Last time you murmur
On my inner thigh.
The fiber of your
Lower lip tickles
My skin.
"This is a love story..."
I try to concentrate
And read from the book.
The cover is grey in colour.
Three half-naked kids
Play in the river.
Two bicycles lay
on the grass.
"Ah..." I try again.
But that interjection is not
From the book.
It is from another story,
In which the man is fingering
The girl's neck.
"The man..." I continue
From the book.
But you are tonguing my
And the story digresses
With an irresistible "Oh...."
"Kiss me..." I gasp,
Cutting the prelude.
The narration splits
Into two:
In the book the man
Adores a fifteen-year-old Daisy.
You part my dripping petals
In another story.


In a real dream she is one more time chained
to a silver line which has not an end
It links to one man who is gold but pained
She kneels down, knows not what to do, but sends
apple-ish letters (which talk of lyres
and birds and music and tales and drought)
the said man might find a way to admire.
In the world of reality, she shouts.


They don't walk, they don't talk
They only sit and think
About the other's thought
They are so concentrated, they don't even blink

They don't hug, they don't love
They only breathe and suppose
Life like this is romantic enough
There's no need for wine, no place for rose

They don't laugh, they don't cry
They only look at the air
That passes by
And pretend that love is there

Where your hands have
caressed all over her torso, limbs;
and your screams have
faded to a throaty hum, torment

is all my remains. Unless
you remember my shampooed

whoreish curls fell onto your
beautiful face ere break of day....















Tammy Ho

If you've any comment on these poems, Tammy Ho would be pleased to hear from you.