After great pain, what would the body learn
that it does not already know of relief?
When that fire-truck has raged past,
what do I rediscover about silence,
except that I would always miss it?
Do trees mind if it is the same wind
that passes through their heads everyday?
After the mall is completed, must we
remember the field it inhabits now
where we chased each other as children?
If my lover fails to wake me with a kiss
a third time this week, do I worry?
After the earthquake, would it matter if
no one saw two dogs from different
families approach each other
without suspicion, then move apart?
As the workers wash their faces hidden
by helmets that beam back the sun,
should they care about the new building
behind them beyond the fear of it falling?
Does solitude offer strength over time,
or is denial of it the only practical aim?
If my mother cannot see how else
to be happy, is it enough that she may lie
in bed, convinced God watches her sleep?
After severe loss, what does the heart
learn that it has not already understood
about regret? When all light finally
forsakes a room, do we take the time
to interrogate the dark, and to what end?
(Published in Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia, and Beyond)
Friday, February 27, 2009
Bird
I was a bird that decided
that falling was better
than flying, as there was
nothing easier than letting
go, and my winged body
crashed against the earth’s
heavy door, pushing it
open to enter a void,
where, even then, I was
still plunging through
silence and darkness,
for so long that it began
to feel as if I could be
perfectly still, or coming
to a still, or coming
out of sleep with a bird
falling in my mind
through sunlight and air,
until it is no longer a bird
but a fistful of feathers,
then an indistinct shadow,
and then not even that.
(Forthcoming in Oneiros by Firstfruits in 2009)
that falling was better
than flying, as there was
nothing easier than letting
go, and my winged body
crashed against the earth’s
heavy door, pushing it
open to enter a void,
where, even then, I was
still plunging through
silence and darkness,
for so long that it began
to feel as if I could be
perfectly still, or coming
to a still, or coming
out of sleep with a bird
falling in my mind
through sunlight and air,
until it is no longer a bird
but a fistful of feathers,
then an indistinct shadow,
and then not even that.
(Forthcoming in Oneiros by Firstfruits in 2009)
The Affair
My father, a recent retiree, decided to have an affair with the broom. My mother never suspected a thing. She only wondered once, and only for a split second, if her husband was perhaps spending too much of his free time doing housework.
A few months into the affair, the broom asked him to marry her.
“I can’t. I already have a wife,” he replied. “But we can always have an affair.”
And they did. As my mother continued to work in the day, he would pull out the broom from the closet by her waist and dance her down the corridors of the house, her bristly dress sweeping erotically across the dusty marble.
He even told the broom how deeply he loved her. She would look at him for a long time after that and answer that she would never let him go.
One night, when my mother kissed him on his cheek, which she did every night before she slept, he realised that he had begun to miss her.
The following morning, he opened the door to the closet and said to the broom, knowing she never slept, “I must leave you. I must try to save my marriage.”
But the broom smiled at him with pity. “Too late for that, my dear,” she replied. “I am all you know now.”
She was right. My mother had become a total stranger to him, her eyes like the start of long corridors he could no longer see the other end of, while his heart turned into a closet which the broom moved into like her second home.
In the years to follow, the affair went on and he was able to conceal his guilt and his remorse. And my mother never suspected a thing.
(Published in Vox)
A few months into the affair, the broom asked him to marry her.
“I can’t. I already have a wife,” he replied. “But we can always have an affair.”
And they did. As my mother continued to work in the day, he would pull out the broom from the closet by her waist and dance her down the corridors of the house, her bristly dress sweeping erotically across the dusty marble.
He even told the broom how deeply he loved her. She would look at him for a long time after that and answer that she would never let him go.
One night, when my mother kissed him on his cheek, which she did every night before she slept, he realised that he had begun to miss her.
The following morning, he opened the door to the closet and said to the broom, knowing she never slept, “I must leave you. I must try to save my marriage.”
But the broom smiled at him with pity. “Too late for that, my dear,” she replied. “I am all you know now.”
She was right. My mother had become a total stranger to him, her eyes like the start of long corridors he could no longer see the other end of, while his heart turned into a closet which the broom moved into like her second home.
In the years to follow, the affair went on and he was able to conceal his guilt and his remorse. And my mother never suspected a thing.
(Published in Vox)
Novel
As the novel begins, we are impatient for the mistakes we expect him to make. What he will do when the phone rings, his estranged son on the far end repeating his name like a plea. He finally succumbs—we are meant to believe he had it in him all along—and the voice will carry him to a distant place within himself where love is possible. Before he arrives, he will resist, resentful; he must overturn, predictably, that age-old failure to forgive.
This is how the story must sail. A confined perception, an emotion held underwater for too long. His mistake. One that affects change, retrieves his anchor, unties the boat of his shortening life, and nudges it from the harbour.
This is what sustains us, that is, if it is enough for a time to penetrate moments not our own, to find regretfully familiar the hero’s limited vision, his isolation mirrored in the dim, unsung corners of our lives. By the time the novel is almost over, the revelation should not be easy. Even if the truth remains, that there is no truth, this too, is insight. In any case, clarity waits. An unwavering queue of errors to the day he blinks and every cloud has gone up in smoke like the years he has wasted, dissolving into rain.
And what about us? Have we made all the blunders we were supposed to make in this story that we did not write, but which had written itself to the moment that we stood before the door to our new home, in disbelief? Did a part of us believe, perhaps, that we deserved this? Our reward: an untold afterlife of minor trials and nothingness occurring over and over, where the mistakes we commit are no longer lamentable.
Not, I will continue to sleep with strangers so that I may forget myself. Not, If nobody loves me like this, there is no reason to love. We open the door and forget to hold hands. I touch your cheek as compensation. These small retrievals are all we need now. Darling, we have all we need.
(Published in Tinfish)
This is how the story must sail. A confined perception, an emotion held underwater for too long. His mistake. One that affects change, retrieves his anchor, unties the boat of his shortening life, and nudges it from the harbour.
This is what sustains us, that is, if it is enough for a time to penetrate moments not our own, to find regretfully familiar the hero’s limited vision, his isolation mirrored in the dim, unsung corners of our lives. By the time the novel is almost over, the revelation should not be easy. Even if the truth remains, that there is no truth, this too, is insight. In any case, clarity waits. An unwavering queue of errors to the day he blinks and every cloud has gone up in smoke like the years he has wasted, dissolving into rain.
And what about us? Have we made all the blunders we were supposed to make in this story that we did not write, but which had written itself to the moment that we stood before the door to our new home, in disbelief? Did a part of us believe, perhaps, that we deserved this? Our reward: an untold afterlife of minor trials and nothingness occurring over and over, where the mistakes we commit are no longer lamentable.
Not, I will continue to sleep with strangers so that I may forget myself. Not, If nobody loves me like this, there is no reason to love. We open the door and forget to hold hands. I touch your cheek as compensation. These small retrievals are all we need now. Darling, we have all we need.
(Published in Tinfish)
Divine Intervention
When I think about God, He comes as a disembodied
voice in a poem that asks, Where’re you this instant?
Carefully I answer, I’m struggling down the side
of a mountain; behind me, the past has lifted off
into cloud; before me, I’ve yet to see level ground.
Then I am asked, What’re the moments that may
help you continue? It is an easy one: Every time
my lover unzips my body to reveal its joy, or when music
creates an opening in the air for a burdened heart to fill.
Since you’ve come this far, He chides, why have you
suddenly stopped walking? Taking a deep breath,
I tell Him, This is because I want to keep dancing
upon the jagged rocks without any fear of falling
and curse at those stars blinking ridiculously above;
not caring if I’m cold, or if my voice receives no echo;
not caring if there's still much further I'll have to go.
(Published in Famous Reporter)
voice in a poem that asks, Where’re you this instant?
Carefully I answer, I’m struggling down the side
of a mountain; behind me, the past has lifted off
into cloud; before me, I’ve yet to see level ground.
Then I am asked, What’re the moments that may
help you continue? It is an easy one: Every time
my lover unzips my body to reveal its joy, or when music
creates an opening in the air for a burdened heart to fill.
Since you’ve come this far, He chides, why have you
suddenly stopped walking? Taking a deep breath,
I tell Him, This is because I want to keep dancing
upon the jagged rocks without any fear of falling
and curse at those stars blinking ridiculously above;
not caring if I’m cold, or if my voice receives no echo;
not caring if there's still much further I'll have to go.
(Published in Famous Reporter)
Hush
Silent again, we begin to hear
noises in our heads, swelling
to overwhelm the sound of our
breathing. If we are silent for
long enough, something would surface
from under the wind-troubled
faces of murky ponds
our minds have become.
All at once, ripples would flee
in a singular, outward direction-
these questions of guilt or blame.
Then what comes up for air
would be a different quiet
we keep drowning, pinning it
underwater in our pride until
its legs stop kicking.
Different because we may hear
the mirroring of fear and
a time-sharpened dependency
within it. Such a quiet we only
hear when we do not hear:
waking together, every meal,
sharing the same cab home.
Listen. Listen. My hand swims
into the bay area of your hand.
If we are silent for long enough,
we could start over.
(Published in Asheville Poetry Review)
noises in our heads, swelling
to overwhelm the sound of our
breathing. If we are silent for
long enough, something would surface
from under the wind-troubled
faces of murky ponds
our minds have become.
All at once, ripples would flee
in a singular, outward direction-
these questions of guilt or blame.
Then what comes up for air
would be a different quiet
we keep drowning, pinning it
underwater in our pride until
its legs stop kicking.
Different because we may hear
the mirroring of fear and
a time-sharpened dependency
within it. Such a quiet we only
hear when we do not hear:
waking together, every meal,
sharing the same cab home.
Listen. Listen. My hand swims
into the bay area of your hand.
If we are silent for long enough,
we could start over.
(Published in Asheville Poetry Review)
Landing
What death may be: a slow, close-to-weightless
tilt, like a burgeoning foetus turning
slightly in the womb. The engine starts a low
growl like a stomach, the aircraft hungry to
land, to devour the space between its
falling body and the ground, followed by
the slow lick of its wheels against the runway’s
belly: pressing down, then skating forward,
only to decelerate, a sensual slow-mo,
and the plane makes a sound
like the hugest sigh of relief.
The seatbelt sign blinks off for the final time.
We rise up from our seats like souls
from bodies, leaving bulky hand luggage
in the overhead compartments, then
begin a tense line down the aisle, awkwardly
smiling at each other, remaining few minutes
alive with all kinds of ambivalences,
or simply relief at having arrived, at long last,
in that no-time zone of a country
without a name except the ones we give it;
weeping, laughing, both at once.
(Published in South)
tilt, like a burgeoning foetus turning
slightly in the womb. The engine starts a low
growl like a stomach, the aircraft hungry to
land, to devour the space between its
falling body and the ground, followed by
the slow lick of its wheels against the runway’s
belly: pressing down, then skating forward,
only to decelerate, a sensual slow-mo,
and the plane makes a sound
like the hugest sigh of relief.
The seatbelt sign blinks off for the final time.
We rise up from our seats like souls
from bodies, leaving bulky hand luggage
in the overhead compartments, then
begin a tense line down the aisle, awkwardly
smiling at each other, remaining few minutes
alive with all kinds of ambivalences,
or simply relief at having arrived, at long last,
in that no-time zone of a country
without a name except the ones we give it;
weeping, laughing, both at once.
(Published in South)
Interrogation
They asked the easy questions first,
like What is your name?
So I told them,
but they weren’t satisfied.
They wanted a different answer.
Who are you?
I hesitated, then said I didn’t know.
They laughed
and said they would torture me
if I didn’t improve.
Do you know why you are here?
Because I did something wrong,
I said. They asked me
what that was. I answered
it was because I didn’t know.
This time, they didn’t laugh.
I was more afraid
and began to tremble. You are
a poet? they asked.
I told them I didn’t know
what the word meant.
They grew angry. Suddenly,
I was calm. Their hands opened
and closed on the table.
What are your poems worth?
As much as your questions,
I replied.
Their eyes narrowed:
they would detach the skin
from my body, write
along its insides.
Do you know what we can do
to you? Yes,
I answered. And didn’t laugh.
(Published in Di-Verse-City and Force Majeure)
Painting inspired by the poem, "Interrogation," during the 2007 Utan Kayu Literary Biennale, held in Jakarta and Magelang, Indonesia.
like What is your name?
So I told them,
but they weren’t satisfied.
They wanted a different answer.
Who are you?
I hesitated, then said I didn’t know.
They laughed
and said they would torture me
if I didn’t improve.
Do you know why you are here?
Because I did something wrong,
I said. They asked me
what that was. I answered
it was because I didn’t know.
This time, they didn’t laugh.
I was more afraid
and began to tremble. You are
a poet? they asked.
I told them I didn’t know
what the word meant.
They grew angry. Suddenly,
I was calm. Their hands opened
and closed on the table.
What are your poems worth?
As much as your questions,
I replied.
Their eyes narrowed:
they would detach the skin
from my body, write
along its insides.
Do you know what we can do
to you? Yes,
I answered. And didn’t laugh.
(Published in Di-Verse-City and Force Majeure)
Painting inspired by the poem, "Interrogation," during the 2007 Utan Kayu Literary Biennale, held in Jakarta and Magelang, Indonesia.
Stepping into
the flat this evening,
something strange happened;
the veranda became a veranda,
the yellow lamp on the wall
a yellow lamp on the wall,
the mat on the floor turned red
instead of its present blue,
the woman who looked up
from the shelf of potted plants -
now a shelf of mangled bonsai -
became a woman with subtler lines
underneath her eyes, speaking,
as she had once spoken,
'Never forget.' I nodded,
as I had always nodded.
'I won't.' But that was then.
(Published in Poetry International)
something strange happened;
the veranda became a veranda,
the yellow lamp on the wall
a yellow lamp on the wall,
the mat on the floor turned red
instead of its present blue,
the woman who looked up
from the shelf of potted plants -
now a shelf of mangled bonsai -
became a woman with subtler lines
underneath her eyes, speaking,
as she had once spoken,
'Never forget.' I nodded,
as I had always nodded.
'I won't.' But that was then.
(Published in Poetry International)
Boats
You and your photographs of boats;
that repeated metaphor for departure,
or simply the possibility of a voyage?
What you cannot tell me you tell me
with a vessel and its single passenger,
eyes fixed on some skylit conclusion.
Set apart and starkly upon a canvas
of tractable waves, brought to still
by the trigger-click of your camera,
like the sound a key makes when it
releases the lock. Your heart became
that lock; these images how you have
always articulated distance, a withdrawal.
Darling, there are just as many ways
of saying goodbye as there are ways
of letting you go. The boat is narrow
like the width of my heart after
impossible loss, cruel resignation;
this heart you ride in. Love, if this is how
you choose to leave me let me let you.
(Published in Atlanta Review)
that repeated metaphor for departure,
or simply the possibility of a voyage?
What you cannot tell me you tell me
with a vessel and its single passenger,
eyes fixed on some skylit conclusion.
Set apart and starkly upon a canvas
of tractable waves, brought to still
by the trigger-click of your camera,
like the sound a key makes when it
releases the lock. Your heart became
that lock; these images how you have
always articulated distance, a withdrawal.
Darling, there are just as many ways
of saying goodbye as there are ways
of letting you go. The boat is narrow
like the width of my heart after
impossible loss, cruel resignation;
this heart you ride in. Love, if this is how
you choose to leave me let me let you.
(Published in Atlanta Review)
I Didn't Expect To Write About Sex
Did you know that after I came, I imagined my pelvis had emptied out into a dark cave you could crawl into, lay yourself down and fill my body with your sleep? This isn't really about sex, is it? Yet I could write about your tongue, how cleverly you rotated it like a key to slip open every lock of resistance under my skin, muscles loosening like a hundred doors creeping open across the conservative, suburban town of this flesh, desire stepping into the open like Meryl Streep in that film with Clint Eastwood, a wind calling forth the stiff body from under her dress so wholeheartedly how could she not help but undress, welcome it in. I could also write about your hands, tenacious dogs of your fingertips unearthing pleasure from every pore, jumpstarting nipples with the flick of your nails, each time you pushed in deeper from behind. I must not forget to write how much I love you when you warn me not to swallow; I love how I take you anyway into my mouth like tugging a recalcitrant child back into the house, even though he realizes deep inside himself that he would always long for home; I love how you taste, what was inside of you now inside of me, sliding down my throat like the sweetest secret. I could write about how when you fell off the peak of your mounting hunger, your hands stayed anchored upon my nape, as if to keep from drowning, as if to let me know, "Even when I'm this far gone, I'd want you here. I'd want you with me."
(Published in Chinese Erotic Poems)
(Published in Chinese Erotic Poems)
Aftermath
Take our cue from time, the master. Learn to weigh
everything equally: hope and grief, two sides
to a partner we should love unconditionally.
Learn to love a clean kitchen, as well as the ants
around the bin like the spoor of something
left unsaid, something important.
To love the illness, the perspective earned thereafter.
To try and love death; how heroic the attempt.
Then we fail, the hours pressed too thinly.
Mirrors draw out a cry from inside the womb
of a mind swollen with terror.
Then we stop to gather the pieces again. To love
the pieces as they are, scattered all around us.
But look at how we have been tempered,
the selves that wanted and kept wanting –
they just ask for more of the same now.
Let us not give the years too much credit
for how far we have come,
for what we have become.
To love the smell of rain, the cold rain on our faces.
Love the thunder and the sleep it cracks open.
What we have now. And what will come after.
(Published in Cider Press Review)
everything equally: hope and grief, two sides
to a partner we should love unconditionally.
Learn to love a clean kitchen, as well as the ants
around the bin like the spoor of something
left unsaid, something important.
To love the illness, the perspective earned thereafter.
To try and love death; how heroic the attempt.
Then we fail, the hours pressed too thinly.
Mirrors draw out a cry from inside the womb
of a mind swollen with terror.
Then we stop to gather the pieces again. To love
the pieces as they are, scattered all around us.
But look at how we have been tempered,
the selves that wanted and kept wanting –
they just ask for more of the same now.
Let us not give the years too much credit
for how far we have come,
for what we have become.
To love the smell of rain, the cold rain on our faces.
Love the thunder and the sleep it cracks open.
What we have now. And what will come after.
(Published in Cider Press Review)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
