Andrew Lee Poems

Two roads diverge in a mellow wood
with rugged paths and uphill roads further ahead
that are dim or half-hidden.
When I try to glimpse ahead, the paths snake away
...

In the middle of the night, a poem walks into a London fog,

watching a train that runs along a grey track.
...

Blood dripping from the pages of history books,

wartime pictures, dried bones, graveyard stones,
...

Much depends
on recalling,
seeing
those times and days
...

Twenty grey pigeons, swallowing raw rice, half-staring at me?

Twelve long-necked swans, basking in the sun, ignoring me?
...

The bougainvilleas become molecules of memory with red petals.

They run around like our ancestors' blood.
...

My mother is a fish, William Faulkner sings.

I ponder from 1 A.M. to 3 A.M.
...

A few friends jokingly label me 'John Donne of Singapore.'

I wish I can qualify, in some small way.
...

Let us go then, you and I.

Let us go then, you and I...
...

Our eyes dark with hunting, we ignore the place

where the sidewalk ends. But the green garden rests quietly there,
...