Jonathan B. Chan – three poems

Jonathan B. Chan is an undergraduate at the University of Cambridge reading English. Born to a Malaysian father and Korean mother in the United States, Jonathan was raised in Singapore and sees his cultural tapestry manifest in his writing. He has recently been moved by the writing of Marilynne Robinson, Joan Didion, and Shusaku Endo.  He is preoccupied with questions of theology, love, and human expression.


hồ chí minh


motorcycles weave

like flotsam in a slipstream

anxious swarms nudging

through gaps, I twist

to avoid their brusque advance

as epaulette-bearing shophouse

guards glance furtively from

their stools. the humidity

is swift and familiar, local cacophony

splashed with tonal colour, food

painted with colonial hues-

the city whispers

“I’m not some war torn country.”


I slurp pho in a 6-villa compound;

I nod guiltily at limbless beggars.

a tremulous emotional current

envelops me at the war museum: the

claymore that’s accompanied me

for months rests indignantly in a glass

case. the trenches, jungle marches,

rifles held above crossed water:

I quiver with sympathy

for the vietcong


the new face of vietnam

is global: the young

bury their dead, epithets in

museum displays and lacquer

rendered with expressionist

technique. scars are masked

by korean cosmetics, echoes

drowned by the zing of

fast food (I am told today’s

youth could not fit in the cu

chi tunnels), moans and cries

swallowed in the optimistic

motorbike hum- it is more

fastidious to march to this beat.


market vendors jockey for

attention, food stalls wave

their laminated menus, old

cyclo peddlers grunt at

the chaos in the junctions,

acrobats leap on bamboo to

remember the pulse of

village life, I stand with unease

in the facsimile of a gangnam

department store.


the only

locals are

in uniform.





after psle*

my tuition teacher

turned her center

into a mahjong den

“you deserve a break,”

she’d chortle,

teaching us to fling

thick tiles, eye one

another amidst

the click-clack of

washing, stack

tile walls as if to

guard state secrets.

we’d bet on things like

school postings and

scores, things so

important to a 12-year old

but inconsequential

in a game of mahjong.

we never did play again; our

teacher wary after they

complained, “teach our kids

to score, not gamble,” and

the humdrum of

secondary school

encroached on our aptitudes

the clicking of tiles a

coda resounding in

emptied chambers.



* Primary School Leaving Examination





harbinger: starched fabric rests on

shoulders, the auditorium a

formidable patchwork of stern and

naive, a song resounds- the

lyrics wrestle on your tongue


arborescence: nurturing gentlemen is

like pruning bonsai- every red stroke

a snip, every reprimand a shear,

pressure toughens the bark, but can

trees water themselves?


supine: there’s a compulsion to let

the winds bowl you over- you’ll learn

to say no after calling it quits too

many nights, red retinas tracing

the reasons not to get out of bed


epoch: a young man has clear

milestones- graduation, enlistment,

parades. we are not empires that wax

and wane, we look on zeitgeists with

face-grabbing bemusement


denouement: typing poems in an

empty bunk, ignoring the thought of

arrested development, cautiously

contemplating what comes next,

short answer- more of the same



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Poetry, Translation

Yong Shu Hoong – two poems (translated by Chow Teck Seng)

Yong Shu Hoong has authored one poetry chapbook, Right of the Soil (2016), as well as five poetry collections, including Frottage (2005) and The Viewing Party (2013), which won the Singapore Literature Prize in 2006 and 2014 respectively. His poems and short stories have been published in literary journals like Quarterly Literary Review Singapore and Asia Literary Review (Hong Kong), and anthologies like Language for a New Century (W.W. Norton, 2008). He is the editor of anthologies like Passages: Stories of Unspoken Journeys (2013), as well as Here Now There After (2017), which was part of The Commuting Reader series commissioned for the #BuySingLit movement. He is one of the four co-authors of The Adopted: Stories from Angkor (2015) and Lost Bodies: Poems Between Portugal and Home (2016).



I’m not a vegetarian
but I go meatless
on occasions for
the best intentions.
Eating too fast is
another sin. When I
bite my lip and blood
corrupts my vegetables
I’m no longer even
a vegetarian for a day.




咬到唇 血
那日 我已断非


(Translation by Chow Teck Seng)




Meat Joy, 2014*


 To put it blandly, it is

just lunch.


But armed with a pinch

of salt, I can certainly try

to unlock all the flavours

and serve a fresh perspective.


Take for example, a wedge

of New York City, stuck

in a mall in Hillview where a few

HDB blocks used to stand,

before the entire estate

was roundly erased. After dust

settles, the new sign proclaims:

Dean & DeLuca. A chain of

upscale grocery stores, first

started in SoHo in 1977.


This is 2014, 11.30am.


I’m having my $18 burger.

The beef is so thick that

well-doneness doesn’t seep into

the patty’s core. I survey

the large plate, and consider how

best to devour the grub.


My mouth isn’t wide enough.


So I pick up the knife

to draw blood by carving

through the meat, reflecting:


How well this red sap

must look, when splattered 

across the floor space

of gleaming white marble!


I feel like having a brawl



With the taste of violence

upon the wingtip of my tongue.

But there’s no worthy opponent

here – only nerdy schoolgirls

fretting over homework, and

straight-laced office workers

celebrating Happy Birthday

with a silly cupcake bearing

a desolate candle.


I want to get up

and blow out that flame

wavering for way too long

under someone else’s nose,

but I’m too filled to move.


I do not dare to request

for more hot water to douse

my half-spent teabag.


Lunchtime is officially over


If not for the haze, lapping

menacingly against full-length window.


* This poem appeared on the website Kitaab and in Yong Shu Hoong’s chapbook, Right of the Soil (Nanyang Technological University & Ethos Books, 2016), but without the Chinese translation.




说白点, 这

别太较真  就如一把
盐巴, 我会尝试
从新鲜的视角  去品

已连根拔起 整个住宅区
Dean & DeLuca


的四周,思考 如何让口






摇摆不定 太久
的火焰 一口气给灭了
唯自己 实腹饱难动

让未泡尽的茶袋 再来个水浸灭顶


尚有雾霾,正肆虐着 掩埋天地如幕


(Translation by Chow Teck Seng)


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November 27, 2016

Holly Painter – five poems (II)

Holly Painter is a poet, writer, and editor from southeast Michigan. Her first book of poetry, Excerpts from a Natural History, was published by Titus Books in Auckland, New Zealand in 2015. Her poetry, fiction, and essays have also been published in literary journals and anthologies in the US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Singapore. Holly teaches writing and literature at the University of Vermont.


Gather in the outcasts, all who’ve gone astray


In God’s preferred version

of this year’s Christmas card

I’m seven months pregnant

seven months on from our wedding


You’re a man now, by the way

with an untweezed moustache

and a paisley green cravat

that matches my maternity dress


at least in the sense that I’m red

and you’re green and God may be

color-blind as a dog but He knows

the Christmas color grayscale tones


from watching It’s a Wonderful Life.

We’ll watch it too this year, in God’s

preferred version of our Thanksgiving,

and not cringe at George Bailey’s


abusive tantrums but cheer at the final

family scene and God will smile

when we don’t pull out the tripod

for our yearly Christmas card picture

of two dykes and a dog.


When you tire of your homeland


Gather up one corner

and start walking away


Stroll through a neighboring autumn

Drag your native land over leaves

red and yellow like flattened peaches


Stretch your home spaghetti-thin

But careful! Not so fast!


When it becomes impractical

to tow your old life any farther

make your way to the national gallery


There find the painting with a thousand snaking rivers

and thread your country up to the oily horizon


Comfortable Grunge


All of us are soft and easily bruised

the flatulent boys of a kindlier youth

the sleeping patterns of fur and dripping noses

the careless rise and fall of mud-matted flanks


we’d bathe our lungs in comfortable grunge

wilting flower-weeds in pots that miss the sun

yellowed upholstery with its own nicotine cravings


on the radio, hear a recording of the tossing sea

imagine it in the stately grey of old BBC broadcasts

wonder about waves you can’t see


outside, the air is much too fine to breathe

donkeys chase nervous chickens through the yard


Defend the Holy General

His sons: the one a strapping lad,
a captain, the other his quavering ship,
whistling with wormholes.
Both throw the knuckles for something
to do but see in every comrade’s smile
only molars caked with gold

His vision: his keyring of monocles

His blood: warmer than he thinks
and harder to reach than his wife’s
her child’s bed leaking
into theirs every month
To him it only happened once

His kingdom: a ground so salty
the vegetables come up pickled
while the trees twist
gnarled like pretzels

Defend him still
the holy general
the general store
the storied past
the pastor’s wine
or swine that you are




Do you know the moment

when it occurs to you that

so-and-so from your childhood


must have been rich or ill or

pregnant or getting a divorce or

racist or not all that bright


and you realize that you are both

the reader and the unreliable narrator

of your own life story


and nothing you observe

can be trusted completely

even now when it is clear


that your math teacher was gay

and your pastor not aloof but shy

and your babysitter a drunk


and your mother always terrified

that something would happen to you,

her favorite of all her children?

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July 24, 2017

John Mulrooney – two poems

John Mulrooney is a poet, filmmaker and musician living in Cambridge, MA. He is author of If You See Something, Say Something from the Anchorite Press and co-producer of the documentary ‘The Peacemaker’, from Central Square Films. He records and performs regularly with a number of groups in the greater Boston area. He is Associate Professor in the English Department at Bridgewater State University. His work has appeared in Fulcrum, Pressed Wafer fold’em zine, Solstice, The Battersea Review, Poetry Northeast, Spoke, Let the Bucket Down and others.


Watching the Detectives in Time of National Crisis – a Love Poem


When Omar Little gets killed

in the back of the, no, I’m not going to tell

I’m not going to tell you

in case you haven’t seen it.

And the reveal matters.

And so there is always a place

where the story starts

the waters arrived at where

the god declares she is a god

and you who are so good at

making something out of nothing

child of the general truths

at play in the fields

can tell me who the speaker of this poem is.

Newborns stumble out of the womb

already mourning the closing of Jersey Boys

all crying from homesickness.

The speaker of this poem was convinced

he was once filled with god’s breath

and that’s how he got addicted

to this breathing thing.

The country breaking in his chest

like a borrowed heart.

Satan, that old philanthropist

grins back from the TV screen

“Lenny Briscoe smiles and looks at the body”

says the augmentation for the

visually impaired.

the speaker of this poem –

her worries make a nest in her mouth,

the death of a loved one first imagined

the lines of their face

now suddenly the clutter

in an apartment being packed up for moving.

Whiskey’s best advice is to find

Venus in the night sky

and the speaker of this poem

is forever seeking that which is

not yet mortal.

Perhaps the poem is not a thing

but just a condition of things,

and Kanye West you see

is Hölderlin and Joey Bishop was

the red shirt of the rat pack

but that’s not who Jersey Boys

was about.

Detectives look for fingerprints

because they’re seeking fingers.

If I make this skull a lyre

will this light pluck the strings?

To truly love is to never speak

to honor with a poem is to trample

And this isn’t about you

but it is still to say I love you.



They Eat Fire


The flat Atlantic chalky in the sun.

New York, a cluttered interruption.

For a moment, you feel yourself a comet.

For a moment you feel falling,

as if this could not be by design.

Breath held, denied the rest of the cabin,

as if you might need it in some wet, darkness

that you will be plunged into panicking,

until the stiffened muscles of your buttocks

shiver into relaxation under the blunt

guidance of wheels on the runway.

And your mouth opens slight.

Lungs gulp the customs air,

and after making no declarations

your body settles in to the lounge chair

like you had arrived at Lourdes,

faithful, to drink their waters

of Bud Ice and bathe in their cathode rays.

“How do you top a year like that?”

asks the ad for a news program,

as if they had planned it all around their ratings;

revolution in June, earthquake in August,

elections tainted and war, war, war.

The bartender shuffles TV channels

like a deck of cards fanned out electronically.

A hurried traveler, laptop on barstool,

taps formica with a credit card,

causing the channel surf to touch ground

on nature programming.

An unbodied voice says that the early earth

was bombarded with meteors and asteroids,

accompanied by a computer generated image

of firey streaks falling over mountains.

They are researching volcano chimneys

on the ocean floor. In the coldest, darkest place on earth,

where previously it was thought there could be no life,

there are stacks of fire filled with organisms

that defy genus and phylum,

that defy the disciplines of science.

For so long they have survived.

They don’t swim but attach themselves

directly to the column, tunneling in,

rooted almost, and they seem to live on geology alone,

some nutrition there is in explosions.

Blind, cold, alive, they eat fire.

Channel switch bursts across screen.

Ted Koppel’s voice cuts in before

his shock of red hair comes into focus.

Going over the day’s bombings of Serbia,

and the strength of the Serbian resolve.

The night sky, a murky darkness

broken by the flash of bombs

seems subterranean, submerged.

The field interview – a man with a mouth

like a cemetery recounts though

tombstone teeth what makes his

brothers such great fighters:

They tunnel and wait, they hide and seek,

they dedicated. They eat fire.


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Holly Painter – five poems

Holly Painter is a poet, writer, and editor from southeast Michigan. Her first book of poetry, Excerpts from a Natural History, was published by Titus Books in Auckland, New Zealand in 2015. Her poetry, fiction, and essays have also been published in literary journals and anthologies in the US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Singapore. Holly teaches writing and literature at the University of Vermont.


The Strait


There is no street where I live

The leaves of the houseplants rattle

A town of scorched earth and fire escapes,

the city beside the strait


Only the inner layers pasted over remain

Today is not a shade of anything

a city grown weary of rebirth

of the scent of raspberries and wood


The place that made your cars

will open itself to you tonight

on land that cannot be new

as the hush or the day or


the air blowing between rotting boards

that gird the soggier organs

the scaffolding of a rust empire

with wild dogs for sentries




Mammatus clouds hover over telephone lines,

fingertips poised to pluck the strings of a guitar.


Neil hangs upside-down from the tire swing

jabbing at roly-polies until his stick snaps.


He dismounts with a neat somersault and

brushes the woodchips from his ecto green windbreaker.


Next year, his parents will split. He’ll move with his mom

to the neighborhood where all the wild boys live.


I climb the slide, boots slip-squeaking,

and thump up to a landing caked with wet-pulped leaves.


He’ll take pills in high school and get suspended for fighting

while I rack up scholarships and slice myself with broken lightbulbs.


I scout the woods where we’re not allowed to go.

It’s almost dark and there are no birds.


A flashing needle strings white light across the sky

and then fades as a crash rends the day,


a smoker clearing his throat

before spitting out a thunderstorm,

and we run.


Beside the Church


Rain between the digging

and the burying meant

summer afternoons of

muddy swimming holes


We leapt from earthmovers

shrieking as we plunged underground,

ballooned our breath in our cheeks,

and spit out dirty bubbles


We sliced a worm with a spade

and the dead fell out

but we were small gods:

we’d made another worm


We sprawled in new grass

thin tufts in the dirt

looked straight up the rain

to the black


and imagined

dirt coming down


Feed Me


Feed me only what is necessary

What is tender might be necessary


Feed me the train like a chain of clay beads

encircling the lady’s green wrist


its boxcars brown as a burlap sack

caked with the mud of potatoes


Feed me the red you suck off a candy cane

leaving a stabbing white icicle


Then feed me the icicle

the seasonal stalactite


that drips itself to life and death

Melt it for me with your breath


Feed me your grab bag face:

your punched in nose and your


beautiful eyes that can only be

the churning surf you kept


Feed my teenage demand

that you be everything:


breakfast, lunch, and dinner

morning, noon, and night


Feed me only what is necessary

and all you are is necessary


I’d feed you too, I would,

but I can never be just another


warm-blooded host

that’s not paying attention


Apologetics of a College Freshman


To the termites of the last empire:

Sorry, but we chew our own cities now

inflate them in the mornings

sour apple bubblegum

and swallow them at night

not the other way around


To the tobacconists of the old century:

Sorry, but we roll our own now

stash Mom and Dad in the Christmas cupboard

and take them out to wrap around boxes

crease their edges and trim the excess

while Mom’s still flatly nattering away


To the factory farmers of yesteryear:

Sorry, but we grow our own now

sprinkle the seeds of children in classroom

plumbing – they sprout from the walls

absorb their math and science and then

we pluck them and send them to college in vases


To the bankers of ages past:

Sorry, but we save our own now

drop kisses in jam jars with buttons

and cursing coins and wishes and

every extra Sunday we save till the

end of our days and then spend


To the gods of a time gone by:

Sorry, but we are our own now

fathers, mothers, devils, angels

prophets, priests, chosen people

and if we seem a touch surreal

well, let’s be honest, so were you

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John Mulrooney – three poems

John Mulrooney is a poet, filmmaker and musician living in Cambridge, MA. He is author of If You See Something, Say Something from the Anchorite Press and co-producer of the documentary ‘The Peacemaker’, from Central Square Films. He records and performs regularly with a number of groups in the greater Boston area. He is Associate Professor in the English Department at Bridgewater State University. His work has appeared in Fulcrum, Pressed Wafer fold’em zine, Solstice, The Battersea Review, Poetry Northeast, Spoke, Let the Bucket Down and others.


At the Brooklyn Promenade


Blue clouds of the dusk sky

shimmer on the surface of the harbor;

placemats of blue lace on a bluer table,

and then shift back to something more

cloudlike; something less, being only

the things that they are, and reflections at that.

And what of it.  All day

sorting a crate of our recent past

which cannot go away

fast enough, dividing stacks

of almost identical diagnosis attempts,

a hundred pages of the unsaid,

layered blue of MRI prints –

a series of study sketches

toward an unfinished work.

This park is the triumph of making,

a template for Sunday afternoons

where I had guided her slowly,

so careful as to be clumsy,

along the promenade to sit

on a bench under Brooklyn Bridge,

its vast arc the manifest perfected

sum of some quantifiable knowledge,

because it was something she could do,

just to get out for a while.

Today, a man photographs

the cobbles along the walkway

littered with cellophane and

pink strands from a feather boa,

a newspaper soggy with urine,

its letters running like mascara;

these are all this day alone,

against the irreducible sky

and the splendor of structure;

what the wind has done

to make this day particular.

And these shapes changing

on the water like like or as

are not even, cannot be what I sing

because memory is death; it kills the things

you cherish or dread and replaces

each one with your memory of it:

a hollowness built of the real.

And suddenly it was almost me who

could not walk to a bench by the bridge,

although it never was,                                                

although my arms and legs

obey my commands,

do what I tell them but never what I want:

wrong and helpless,

I span one to the other

because all I can do is identify

make myself metaphor,

a thing that might look like,

that you think is but isn’t.

And I want to dive,

that marriage of plummet and jump,

in below the refracted sky,

to the water’s silence

and come out on the surface

that might make me one of

these changing things I cannot change,

which will erase my clumsiness

and redraw me as shimmer.



Autumn Walk After Jodorowsky


More métier en scene

than inchoate vagabond

some summer in the knees

some summer in green


and of course in the water

were protean secrets,

the day and clock pulse

still too small to retain


an atmosphere true but

in the forge of gravity

The Empress of autumn

sought the star, summer


plunged below and yellow

irises found hiding spots

and our eyes seeking them

confirmed that we all sought


the commensal beauty

and usefulness therein –

big fish and little fish

bandicoot and boa –


blood is protein knowledge

on autumn’s whistle stop

or winter’s all aboard,

but summer yes she bleeds –


rats and racoons wreak

havoc around her feet

cluttered under composts

of spring that winter nicked.



Poem on Madonna’s 50th Birthday


here is August soaked with reminder

that the world is material that changes


there’s a flag at half mast

for someone who didn’t even make the papers


the rainy season comes upon us

like it was the tropics like the


flutters and hums on Bleeker

were south beach waves and breezes


the flutters and hums on Bleeker

that becomes a material that changes


Paparazzi armies lay siege to the ineffable

dumpy men made of rain


make glimmer solid in a flashbulb

and Elvis Presley 31 years dead


waits with us to reinsert mystery

into the material substance of our lives


says with us we ache we ache we ache

comes to love us


as we come to love ourselves

by waiting upon those


we desire to both want and be

until memory strikes a pose


and crosses over the borderline

of our love.

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安琪 – 《某某家阳台》

(A translation of this piece into English by Tse Hao Guang can be found here.)

安琪 (1969-),女,本名黄江嫔,1969年2月出生,福建漳州人。1988年7月漳州师范学院中文系毕业。中间代概念首倡者及代表诗人。第三条道路诗歌流派代表诗人。


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