Home
Editor’s comments
Home sweet home! There
is something very satisfying about coming back home after an absence. So open
the door, make yourself a cup of tea and enjoy reading this selection of poems
on a much loved theme.
Sally Long
Poems
Home
The television hums with data,
like insects,
The Weather
Channel I think, a commercial
for Goodyear Tires. I’m in
another room.
The children come and go,
yelping, cooing.
They draw pictures on their pad
of paper
on the floor. My screen
saver flickers
with shooting stars, a sweet
sitar
trickling from the CD. A
siren screams outside.
Our furnace clicks and roars
through the ducts.
The house groans on its
foundation.
My wife sits somewhere reading Lord
of the Flies.
I forgot to turn off the air
conditioner upstairs,
my mid-winter white noise.
A cricket has squeezed into the
room
and buzzes softly in some secret
corner.
I wait in this fulness for a
sign.
Fused to my swivel chair, I chant
oh-hum
with Ravi and the sacred
singers.
The girls giggle and chant as
well,
then scamper away for some
cartoons.
A ghost train wails in the
distance.
Heraclitus was wrong. The
river has frozen solid.
My heavy heel can hardly crack
its surface.
I remove my glasses to see flames
envelop the room, consume my
flesh.
This fire smells like dove’s
breath.
The moment dissolves, a mountain
of silt.
I pick up the
three-billion-year-old rock
on a shelf and touch it to my
tongue.
A tiny white spider scurries up
my arm,
stops, rears up on two almost
invisible feet
as if to proclaim not only its
own improbability
yet that of all things. Yet
here we are
safe, home, rooted in the
universe like dreams.
Louis Gallo
East Preston beach
As I visit homes emptied long ago
I find no blistered anchors tethering me.
Only a tugging from my childhood hand,
as we walk across a chalk downland
scattering petals that leave no trace.
And on a beach of rounded flints
stained with ochres fading into grey sea
– a place so desolate to me
when I felt my life had died aged eight,
my sleeve and spit softly wipe the slate.
Hélène Demetriades
That Summer Light
So the sun stood still, and the moon stopped…
—Joshua 10:13
Like Joshua, I would stall this falling sun,
call up more troops to seize the afternoon,
outflank the ranks of time to make it turn,
then overrun the surf, arrest the moon.
Suspended in my charge through this tableau,
I see all blades up sharply, in their prime,
and know I’ll have my officers laid low,
the stalwart roses all shot down by time.
But Joshua was in battle. I’m at home,
waving the tiny pistol of my hose.
I watch my ammo shatter in the breeze
as long platoons of shadows leave the trees,
so quietly advancing. What they know
is, I’ll retire soon—and I am calm.
So the sun stood still, and the moon stopped…
—Joshua 10:13
Like Joshua, I would stall this falling sun,
call up more troops to seize the afternoon,
outflank the ranks of time to make it turn,
then overrun the surf, arrest the moon.
Suspended in my charge through this tableau,
I see all blades up sharply, in their prime,
and know I’ll have my officers laid low,
the stalwart roses all shot down by time.
But Joshua was in battle. I’m at home,
waving the tiny pistol of my hose.
I watch my ammo shatter in the breeze
as long platoons of shadows leave the trees,
so quietly advancing. What they know
is, I’ll retire soon—and I am calm.
Dan Overgaard
Roadkill
Roadkill
Badger arrives
home from work,
fixes a drink,
watches the news.
When his wife
gets in, they eat,
swapping notes
from their days.
“Did you see…”
she says “… between
the wood and
here, that human
by the verge? An
awful mess,
poor thing, one
arm outstretched,
its hand curled
like a claw.”
“Fox told me
yesterday…” he replies
“…that they run
down the street
in front of him
as he walks home.
They live along
the railway tracks,
or on disused
bits of land. Raid bins
and shout all
through the night.
They’ll bite if
you get too close,
but their young
ones are so cute.”
“D’you
remember…” she says with a smile,
“…the ‘Wild Man’
poem we did at school?
How the creature
waited in the dark,
in the frost,
then crept into the garden,
sniffing the
air, staring round, unsure.
Almost as if the
place was somewhere
it had known
before, something it had lost?”
Craig Dobson
A Backward Look
Her name wasn’t important
to the story only that she was a
wife
who disobeyed and looked back
at her home one last time
for it was a punishment story to
keep
women in their place,
thwart curiosity, head off
disobedience. Still it was
home
to her and home is where
you will always look back at
in your mind. Like the home
I’ve dreamed about every night
for over seventy years, the home
I was taken from at two.
Then
Too young to know enough
to take a backward glance
at whoever was there
hiding behind a window shade
Sarah Brown Weitzman
Sanctuary
Most of the time we have no
company
besides ourselves, and that is
fine with us.
Now older, we are disinclined to
fuss
about impressing anyone. We see
dust fall, wipe it away
eventually.
It falls again, gives little
stimulus
for ready action. Island life is
thus
a long vacation from efficiency.
We let the nicer glassware get
opaque,
the sterling silver tarnish. We
permit
some sand inside, allow a residue
of salt or soap wherever. Still,
I make
the bed each day for custom’s
benefit.
You marvel at the ocean’s
changing hue.
Jane Blanchard
My Scheme
I am looking
to invest
in real estate
if you are
willing to work
together
in your country
I wait
for a response
best regards
for more
information
I am looking
to invest
in real estate
if you are
willing to work
together
in your country
I wait
for a response
best regards
for more
information
Ben Nardolilli
Give Us This Day
My aunt kept prayers in glass
jars by the sink.
She could be scrubbing a pan and
reach into the space
by the window, and grab God right
there from under
the neighbors nose.
She would put paper notes about
Jesus into my lunch bag,
rolled him up tight in cellophane
with the tuna on rye.
My uncle kept all the disciples
in his glove compartment.
I saw them when he pushed them
around looking for something
when that cop stopped him near
the Belt Parkway.
He was tossing them like
confetti,
muttering under his breath.
None of my cousins kept spirits
in their rooms or wore
crosses around their necks.
Maybe the giant portrait of the
Holy Mother with the traveling eyes,
was enough for all of them.
Was certainly enough for me.
Amy Soricelli
197
Listen!
This
house is breathing
ribs
push out; diaphragm contracts
flattens
and presses down
abdomen
expand, heart rate increases
cracks
appear in the walls.
words
float out poems stories bible readings
prayers
pound
signs curl out from the chimney
energy
crackles the walls break apart
lips
and breasts are pressing the windows out
in
the kitchen a woman filled with love and stories
spreads
out a table covered in gorgeous cloth
she
dresses her children
in
garments made from love and skill
she
treadles out her discontent
three
children all dedicated to God
the eldest has almost broken free
he makes no concessions to their care
he’ll soon be gone.
he
won’t look back
two little girls
temporarily conjoined create imaginary
worlds
for now, they have each other, and are
content
upstairs
a man prays beside his bed
a
Bible in one hand
on
the other a boxing glove.
‘Onto
thee O Lord, I commend these little ones.
May
he be like Samuel O lord.”
Tears
roll down his face.
‘Never,
never, never,’ reverberates
The
breathing starts to slow
for
now the house is calm.
Judith Russell
The House that MovedTold moving house a major stress,
but where the emphasis?
My relocation, focal site,
transferring home from house.
The change was of my fixed mind-set,
with salt drips reaching tongue,
half-empty cup now overflows,
I feel it in my bowels.
Never chessboard gambit, clever,
nor shift, a change of gear,
timely initiating - but
fresh rhyme, new paradigm.
Stone lintel long-divorced from wall,
each hang had its own song,
put-up-with hatch that I moaned, now
anointed without oil.
The tin bath is my jacuzzi,
gas ring my Aga range,
my outhouse mangle, laundromat,
sea shanties I sing there.
Before door shaped the bell lost flex -
but like the clapper swing;
beneath, the scraper where I tread,
soiled boots swop for my soul.
Still sat, I stare through the pained glass,
cracked, garden, easy whin,
built on dolerite foundation,
now this my box on sill.
Kites pennant, hawks stoop, thermals swoop,
vigilante cloud patrol,
while even storm petrel coastguards
serve lookout for my byer.
Stephen Kingsnorth
Alright
Unable to sleep again, I stand
under our kitchen’s
neon.
The fridge at intervals rethinks
its life.
I heat a pan, pour, sip a cup of
milk and stare
into the window’s mirror; did you
ever,
at three o’clock and four
o’clock,
those dragon-angled stations in
the night,
while nursing something warm
to comfort what’s inside,
and only your war face grimacing
back?
The cat pads in like rain at its
business.
I didn’t change a thing, you
know,
have kept this house as faithful
as the toc
tic-toc
of a family clock.
Miles Larmour
Keeping House
Reduce it to the
lowest common denominator and you’re left with food:
boxes of cereal, bags
of oatmeal, pasta, and bread in the pantry,
apples, oranges,
pomegranates in the fruit basket,
lettuce, carrots,
celery, onions, and potatoes at hand,
cheese, ground
turkey, steak in the meat drawer
leftovers piled in
containers haphazardly beside the milk carton
And preparation,
together-- cutting boards with diced tomatoes,
my mandolin slicing
paper-thin onions,
your paring knife taking
on the mushrooms.
It’s pizza dough
rising, muffins made from scratch
our coffee cups side
by side in the morning
our wine glasses at
dinner, our water glasses at bed.
It’s you and me and
what we create and consume,
not so much the where
of it.
William Lennertz
Tristesse
If you chance to try my door and
it’s locked, a trellis of moonlight ghosting its panels, there isn’t a secret
woman here, just a Barbie Doll, a blonde joke in a vase on my desk over which I
could shed silent tears of loss, mind amok, lost faces hovering, trying to live
on, an outcast marooned here listening to soft sounds of wind in the eaves; it
doesn’t mean I don’t love you or want to talk anymore, I might be stuck in the
flawed past, that bedsitter smell of sausages, loneliness, booze and betrayal,
future unimagined; or reading Bukowski whose whimsy makes me laugh but my
throat constricts with heartache the French call ‘tristesse’, a sensuous word
sounding like lassies’ tresses I loved, me still not so bald as my car’s tyres,
distant background hum of these fading, the hour late as you approach
uncertain, light from a single lamp leaching through my door’s cracks, night’s
near-silence a haven where so many fraught years are gradually forgotten.
Ian C Smith
Throwing Practice
The shot should rest on
the base of the fingers never the palm
and then be placed in the
hollow of the neck in front of the ear.
The first time, she threw a
bottle of aspirin
Boots the Chemists
dispensary, London Bridge Station 1953,
it missed his head by an
inch.
A linear technique is
best to start, remember to keep the elbow high,
eyes to the ceiling and
punch the shot away from the neck.
The second time it was a
frying pan in the kitchen,
the oil stains on his shirt
never washed out,
he wore it for gardening.
The recovery phase is
important, eyes should always follow the delivery
and you may not leave the
throwing circle until the shot has landed.
He lost count in the end but
every time
I stood by the kitchen door
I could feel the knife marks
in the wood.
Ilse Pedler
Lost
House
My house isn’t where
I left it. At least
not the same house.
The attic’s been broken into
two rooms, a wall, and through
that
one whole world is gone;
to them that wall was in the way,
small kids,
no money left to add on more.
I was grateful they let me look,
though it hurt to look,
to remember,
to not remember. All
of it
hurt, just about, the only thing
I danced over: the
fact that it was there
at all, the kindness of a woman
who didn’t know me, took my word
that she was living in my past,
and let me look back.
Some say it ruins you
to scout around like that, but
still
I do my two-step with my now
and then,
trying to be fair to both of
them,
knowing one must disregard the
hour
and stay awake,
watching the other make a big
mistake.
Laynie Tzena
The Fog
You had the film on VHS and we watched it
More times than I can remember. Me, a kid,
Hiding underneath your coat as the undead
Broke into the lighthouse to catch the girl
And you groaning loudly from somewhere
At the back of the darkened living room
Pretending to be Captain Blake resurrected.
That night when we walked
Over to the chip shop, across the rugby field,
And we found ourselves shrouded by rising mist
Was an opportunity that we couldn’t miss;
You, banging on the living room window
Scaring Vicky half to death, and me laughing
So hard that I cried.
I can’t tell you how many nights
I’ve stood since then, looking out into the fog,
Watching the shadows flit, deepen, disperse.
Hoping beyond hope that you would reform
Before me, to scare me out of these reveries.
To be something more substantial than a ghost.
You had the film on VHS and we watched it
More times than I can remember. Me, a kid,
Hiding underneath your coat as the undead
Broke into the lighthouse to catch the girl
And you groaning loudly from somewhere
At the back of the darkened living room
Pretending to be Captain Blake resurrected.
That night when we walked
Over to the chip shop, across the rugby field,
And we found ourselves shrouded by rising mist
Was an opportunity that we couldn’t miss;
You, banging on the living room window
Scaring Vicky half to death, and me laughing
So hard that I cried.
I can’t tell you how many nights
I’ve stood since then, looking out into the fog,
Watching the shadows flit, deepen, disperse.
Hoping beyond hope that you would reform
Before me, to scare me out of these reveries.
To be something more substantial than a ghost.
Colin Bancroft
Calendar
My mother always stood at the edges of rooms,
My mother always stood at the edges of rooms,
buttoned into
silence.
We settled on not
speaking.
After I'd left home, it was
easier to write.
She seldom wrote back
but once sent me her childhood
book –
The Months in Picture and Poem.
I loved the tinted
illustrations,
deep yellow lines of worn
Sellotape
and smooth pages smelling of
age.
Each season – pit-patted
across
lawny solitudes, now here, now
there,
stars to rise, and set, and rise,
a thousand wishes passing.
Inside, all the words she'd
denied me,
all the words.
Belinda Rimmer
Belinda Rimmer
The mangoes of my childhood fell
from trees
At noon we stopped beside the river,
where forbidden water oozed
beneath the steel rainbow of the bridge.
Heat fractured the air, dissolved
the sandbanks, burned
the soles of our feet. Trees,
upended by the hyena’s rage,
groped for sustenance from the sky.
There were no ghosts yet; but carcases
of ants, discarded like old names,
marked rims of craters in the sand.
Beyond the bridge, the road bore north
and, suddenly, there were mangoes.
They plopped to the ground,
bursting
like Nyakuyimba’s head to form
rivulets of yellow in the dust.
We plundered the roadside, not heeding
the grey lourie’s call – go away,
go away – until time overtook us
and we drove on, to where the earth
leaks scalding water. We floated
with our bounty in the pools
and ate exuberantly,
peeling the turpentine skins,
sucking flesh from fibrous pips
as juice ran down our chins.
That evening, we lit kerosene lamps
in imitation of the stars.
We talked about infinity
as moths bruised their wings
like Nyakuyimba’s head to form
rivulets of yellow in the dust.
We plundered the roadside, not heeding
the grey lourie’s call – go away,
go away – until time overtook us
and we drove on, to where the earth
leaks scalding water. We floated
with our bounty in the pools
and ate exuberantly,
peeling the turpentine skins,
sucking flesh from fibrous pips
as juice ran down our chins.
That evening, we lit kerosene lamps
in imitation of the stars.
We talked about infinity
as moths bruised their wings
against the
glass, mosquitoes
whined around our heads
and the night croaked.
Now I buy mangoes neatly packaged,
ripe and ready. I slice away
the skin to expose the flesh
beneath. No bird sings.
and the night croaked.
Now I buy mangoes neatly packaged,
ripe and ready. I slice away
the skin to expose the flesh
beneath. No bird sings.
Marian
Christie
The Monks
The river is high these early
hours,
a fine mist reminding us of the
Ghost.
Someone coughs inside a distant
cell,
someone chants
matins, somewhere
a renegade brother brews beer.
Reports of plague illuminate our
books,
while the sandstone walls
weep
like open wounds. Young
friars
play football amongst bean canes
and wild garlic, daydream of sun
on white fences, earthly
mores.
The kitchen holds the methane
stink
of saddled hare, of vinegar
and onion
from the evening's
salmagundi.
Letters offer greetings and
sachets
containing a gift of tomato
seeds,
though the vines struggle in cold
air,
wither, and leave the green fruit
sour.
Too long occupied by a
place
and you lose yourself to the
ideal,
like a last kiss before you took
orders,
like God. Talk haunts our
cloisters,
the nuances of a line, a
song,
a pedantic point authored by some
fool,
drunk while writing it, long
dead.
Still, no one talks of Brother
A.,
exiled for many years, or of the
abbot
who drank too much, and
once
aimed a jet of piss into his
mouth,
praising it as God's Draught.
Mistakes
like these, consign one to the
scrappy life
of the poor souls beyond the
walls.
They breed in ordure and cold
rain,
although their tongues are
fertile
and offer us more troubling
surprises.
Daniel Bennett
Terrace, Manchester, 1989
Just simple geometry. Above the
boarding
stand the slateless roof, smashed
dormers
and upper storeys lit by winter
overcast
slanting through fallen floors.
You must peek
through gaps to see the
downstairs casements
secured against intruders,
rusting downpipes
embossed on inverted parabolas of
green
and curve-worn sandstones leading
down
from flaking doors. No heirs
remain of those
whose carriages and pairs once
clattered
over the cobbles of this gas-lit
street – the last
impoverished tenants have been
moved out.
Wood and wire now guard this
gutted row,
pending redevelopment. Hoardings
nearby,
angled to stop the wheeling eye,
display
the sleek box of a video game,
and black
capital bold assuring a
worthwhile R£TURN
on your investment. BABY IT'S
COLD OUTSIDE
states an obverse that, heading
eastward,
drivers have little chance to
read.
Mantz Yorke
Mantz Yorke
Overcooked Chicken
Sorry
darling I overcooked the chicken again
you
wouldn’t say anything but your eyes
betray
disappointment.
We
sit each evening to eat in spousal silence
punctuated
only by the 6:45 from St. Croix flying
overhead.
I’m
at it now without you
awaiting
the consolation of the 6:45
the
chicken overcooked again.
Peter W. Yaremko
fragrant breeze
path lined with white jasmines -
bliss of walking home
path lined with white jasmines -
bliss of walking home
Dinesh Shihantha De Silva
Contributors
Colin Bancroft is currently studying for a PhD on the Eco-Poetics
of Robert Frost under the supervision of poet Hugh Dunkerley. He was the
winner of the 2016 Poets and Players Prize and was the regional winner in the
Picador ‘Shore to Shore’ competition.
Daniel
Bennett was born in Shropshire and lives and works in
London. His poems have been published in numerous places, including Blackbox
Manifold, Structo and The Stinging Fly. His
chapbook Arboreal Days was published by Red Ceilings Press,
and his first collection West South North, North South East is
now available from The High Window.
Jane Blanchard lives and writes in Georgia. Her poetry has
appeared previously in Allegro and recently in Blue Unicorn, Lighten
Up Online, Snakeskin, and Two Thirds North. Her third
collection, After Before, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.
Sarah Brown Weitzman,
a past National Endowment for the Arts Fellow in Poetry and Pushcart Prize
nominee, is widely published in hundreds of journals and anthologies
including New Ohio Review, North American Review, Verse Daily, Rattle,
Mid-American Review, Poet Lore, Miramar, Spillway and elsewhere. Her
books are available from Amazon and Main Street Rag Publishing Co.
Marian
Christie, originally from Zimbabwe, now lives in Kent, where she is in
the process of completing a Master’s degree in creative writing. When
not writing or reading poetry she looks at the stars, puzzles over the
laws of physics, listens to birdsong and crochets gifts for
her grandchildren.
Hélène
Demetriades is a practising transpersonal psychotherapist, and
lives in South Devon with her family. This year she is in the anthologies
For the Silent, (League Against Cruel
Sports), and Play. She
has been published online and in print in a number of magazines, including Allegro, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Curlew,
Anima, and Sarasvati. One
of her poems was recently highly commended in the international Marsden the
Poetry Village competition, judged by poet Patience Agbabi.
Dinesh
Shihantha De Silva is a published author (of creative books like The Big Grudge, Modern Day Fairytales
and flash fiction (It's Coming Home)
and also a published poet (haiku, senryu) from Sri Lanka. Other hobbies include
chess, soccer and music. Full details about the published works at "See
Your About Info" on: facebook.com/DineshShihanthaDeSilva
Craig Dobson's been published in Acumen, Agenda, Allegro, Antiphon, Butcher’s Dog, Crannóg, The Frogmore Papers, Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Interpreter’s
House, The London Magazine, Magma, Neon, New Welsh Review, The North, Orbis,
Poetry Ireland Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, Prole, Stand, The Poetry
Village, The Rialto, Under The Radar and Southword.
Louis Gallo was born in New Orleans and now teaches at Radford University in Virginia. His forthcoming volumes of poetry are Archaeology (Kelsay) and Crash and Clearing the Attic (Adelaide Books).
Miles Larmour lives in Warwickshire. In the
past, he has appeared in Envoi, Obsessed
With Pipework, Orbis, Poetry Express and Poetry Wales. Most recently, he has appeared in The Cannon’s Mouth, Dream Catcher, and,
again, in Orbis.
William Lennertz has
many interests--painting, mountain biking, gardening, banjos, and
ukuleles He has a BA in English from California State University, Long
Beach and an MFA from George Mason University. His poems appeared in Allegro Issues 1 and 2. He lives a quiet
life in California with his wife Randee.
Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has
appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez,
Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton
Review, Local Train Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is trying to publish a novel.
Dan Overgaard, a third culture kid, was born and raised in
Thailand. He attended Westmont College, dropped out, moved to Seattle,
became a transit operator, then managed transit technology projects
and programs. He’s now retired and catching up on reading. His poems
have appeared in Light and Third Wednesday.
Ilse
Pedler’s pamphlet, The Dogs That Chase Bicycle Wheels, won the 2015
Mslexia Pamphlet competition. She is the poet in residence at Sidmouth Folk
Festival and works as a veterinary surgeon in Saffron Walden.
Belinda Rimmer's poems are widely published in print and on-line journals. In 2018, she came second in the Ambit Poetry Competition. Recently, she was joint runner-up in the Stanza Poetry Competition. She is also joint winner of the Indigo-First Pamphlet Competition, 2018, with her pamphlet, Touching Sharks in Monaco.
Judith
Russell began writing poetry almost 2 years ago when she
was seventy. She studied online at The National Writing Centre,Norwich with Liz
Berry and Helen Ivory and is now working with Roselle Angouin ’s ‘Elements of
Poetry.’ She has recently had one poem accepted for publication in Allegro Poetry online magazine. She
lives between Leeds and York with her husband and dog. She teaches Pilates as a
retirement career. Writing poetry feeds her life-long love of Literature. She
taught English for 33 years.
Ian C Smith’s work has appeared in, Amsterdam
Quarterly, Antipodes, cordite, Poetry New Zealand, Poetry Salzburg Review,
Southerly, & Two-Thirds North. His seventh book is wonder
sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide). He writes in the
Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, and on Flinders Island, Tasmania.
Amy Soricelli has been in the field of career education and staffing for over 30 years. A lifelong Bronx resident, she has been published in Grub Street, Camelsaloon, Versewrights, The Starving Artist, Picayune Press, Deadsnakes, Corvus review, Deadbeats, Cantos, Poetrybay, The Blue Hour Magazine, Empty Mirror, Turbulence magazine, Bloodsugar Poetry, Little Rose magazine, The Caper Journal, CrossBronx, Long Island Quarterly, Blind Vigil Review, Isacoustic, Poetry Pacific, Underfoot, Picaroon Poetry, Vita Brevis, Voice of Eve, Uppagus, The Long Islander, The Pangolin Review, Plum Tree Tavern, Red Queen Literary Magazine, Terse Journal. Ethel5, Stirring Literary Collection, Thirty West, Remington Review, as well as several anthologies.
Laynie Tzena is a writer, performer, and visual artist based in San Francisco. Selected publications: Ascent, Bayou, Event, Michigan Quarterly Review, Rabbit, Sonora Review, Zone 3. She received an Avery Hopwood Award in Poetry. Tzena has been featured at the Austin International Poetry Festival and on Michigan Public Radio.
Peter W. Yaremko has taught college and corporate writing classes and is author of three
non-fiction books, A Light from Within, Saints and Poets, Maybe, and Fat
Guy in a Fat Boat; and a novel, Billy of the Tulips. His poetry has appeared in Dual Coast Magazine and Poetry Quarterly.
Mantz Yorke lives in Manchester, England. His poems have
appeared in a number of print magazines, anthologies and e-magazines in the UK,
Ireland, Israel, Canada, the US, Australia and Hong Kong.