tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32795572764765378982024-02-21T03:04:03.209+08:00And So It Goes...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-91241355845045460032010-06-18T10:05:00.000+08:002010-06-18T10:05:48.858+08:00Soundless Poetry<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Poetry forthcoming in the <a href="http://soundlesspoetry.wordpress.com/">inaugural issue, July 2010</a>.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-12837671720697151602010-06-06T12:53:00.000+08:002010-06-06T12:53:03.324+08:00...<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">G swung his body out of the pool. Thirty laps. G made a mental note to improve his stamina at the gym. Light dripped from the cloudless vastation above as he made his way to the deck chair. Belly groundward, G stretched himself on the towel. The recovering body was acutely aware of its surroundings, as if physical exertions had flushed the gates of its inner mechanics, and an invasion of heightened instincts had taken over. A clarity of thought in G’s mind; he was aware of the hunger in the sun’s gaze, was drawn to it.</span></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-54074722342779066182010-06-01T01:44:00.001+08:002010-06-04T11:49:01.716+08:00...<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After G lost his job he began visiting the bathhouse with renewed vigor. For two months his story to anyone who cared to know was that he’d just quit his job – he deserved something better, you see; even his ex-manager (not the one who fired him, but the one before) told him that: “G, you deserve something better.” For two months he ignored messages and phone calls from friends and ex-colleagues, intensely resisting the inevitable transmogrification from mana to a mere source of coffee-break gossip. Because G’s job (sales and marketing) required frequent air travel (to Europe and the States, of all places) and shoulder-rubbing with celebrities and the industry’s big shots, G’s fall from grace was not an easy fact to deal with, or to accept: G was, after all, an Executive; a titled position, distinguished from the mass of powerless, subordinate ignominy; G </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">had</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> a team, was leading it.</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-79582814312515031522010-05-05T20:02:00.004+08:002010-05-06T18:24:03.546+08:00Keepsakes<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The only mystery before sex is whether you get to fuck him or not, S said to me. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What is the mystery after?</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> After? S said, breaking the silence. After, the mystery is why you even thought it would last. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">S’s speech grew more impaired as the count of his T-cells dropped. When I left the ward each time I would force my mind into a state of blankness. I would look at the trees lining the path that led out of the home; I would focus on the hue of the leaves, the texture of the bark. Sometimes, if there was a bird, I would focus on that: how it made its journey from one branch to the next; how it fell from the leaves to the ground, to pick at something there; a seed maybe, a twig. And then slowly, slowly, I would rebuild our conversations. I would excavate the words, dust off each turn of phrase; I would gather them alongside the feelings I could not then confront in S’s presence. Only then would I obtain clarity, of what S said to me: that his joints had been aching, more so lately, for example – it must be a sign, he said, half-chuckling – or that he would wake up at night, drawn out of his sleep by the smell of his body – the stench of my death, he said – or that he was feeling a little tired, and would like to sleep a while, if I didn’t mind. When S slept, his flesh moved languidly to the rhythm of his breaths, so that one might even, for a moment, see in the body a metaphor for bliss and serenity. I would watch closely before leaving, just in case. At the gates, the road in front of me stretched past the church; on Sundays, from where I stood I could see the faithful pouring out from service, their cars gliding past me, contentment locked in all their faces. I would make my way to the bus-stop just outside. I would slide on the ear-phones, so I would not hear the laughter resounding choral-like around me.</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-65716375454395970552010-05-01T05:55:00.001+08:002010-05-02T03:14:45.364+08:00Symphony<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">L had been living on his own since sixteen, the year he was disowned by his family – his father, to be specific – after a neightbour caught him and her son, one afternoon, doing “dirty things” in her bedroom. In his rage, L’s father hurled a statue of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Guan Yin</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> at his son. The porcelain thing (made in China) shattered when it hit the wall, missing the vital parts of L. L’s mother swept up the pieces afterward, when she was done with the weeping. L’s father had grown tired of his own pointless tirade of blame and accusations – “a useless woman” etc. – he locked himself in the bathroom because that was where real men wept strong, silent tears. At night L dreamt of toilets flushing while his lover slept, its symphonic permutations.</span></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-22496832761892359262010-04-29T11:42:00.002+08:002010-04-29T11:42:43.876+08:00Counterexample Poetics<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Poetry forthcoming in the May issue.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-40373465649729213292010-04-26T15:46:00.016+08:002010-05-11T14:34:49.477+08:00Blue Holes<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">L sat at the edge of the pool, torso exposed to the sun. When I noticed, I returned a smile. L got up, sauntered over. Asked if he could borrow the lotion. We shook hands. Then asked if I would rub down his back. Sure, I said, turn over. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Late afternoon. We lit a cigarette between us. L began telling me about something he had been reading. Blue holes. Deep water-filled depressions in the earth’s surface. Submarine caves, some are called, if they occur on the ocean floor. Many harbor a complex system of tunnels in their bowels. Some run so deep that no light penetrates; the water eviscerated of oxygen by the pressure, turning them into ideal environs of preservation. Whole skeletons have been unearthed, the bones polished by time and timelessness. A danger: there, the water, though clear, fills easily with silt when stirred, so that one has to grapple insistently with the possibility of entrapment by an impenetrable shroud of blackness; a torch is no guarantee. Explorers have lost their lives in those caves, where they remained. The cigarette burnt out. We lit another. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Rather exciting, don’t you think, L said, the sun on his skin sprawled like a tryst. </span></span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-75168239448786970932010-04-15T01:45:00.001+08:002010-04-17T05:09:09.783+08:00Asia Writes<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Poetry <a href="http://asiawrites.blogspot.com/2010/04/featured-poem-bodybuilding-by-zhuang.html">published</a></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-36721085938931496222010-03-10T22:27:00.000+08:002010-03-10T22:27:32.698+08:00Bathhouse Diaries<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It is a fallacy to think love is a need. Love isn't essential as long as one knows the art of its creation, thereby creating an image of love, of loving. Love is always someone else's need.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-5508000846700209802010-03-08T22:07:00.001+08:002010-03-09T00:10:31.251+08:00Bathhouse Diaries<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When will you learn, Dillon said to me. Dillon’s balcony overlooked the sea, and ships glittered in the distance. It doesn’t hurt to have another glass, does it, I said, perhaps a touch of irony in my voice, my hand already reaching for the Shiraz sweating cold beads in the ice. Nothing escaped Dillon, not the acquired, outward refinement of my taste, not the tremble in my voice.</span></span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-88056930852672963932010-03-07T09:47:00.002+08:002010-03-07T09:47:59.052+08:00GASPP: a Gay Anthology of Singapore Prose and Poetry<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Poetry forthcoming in Singapore's first anthology of queer writing.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-73745772511411598012010-03-06T11:19:00.001+08:002010-03-07T14:37:02.425+08:00The Los Angeles Review<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Poetry forthcoming in the Fall 2010 issue. Poetry previously published in the Fall 2009 issue.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-52408025425803641432010-02-28T18:57:00.003+08:002010-05-11T11:38:50.000+08:00Bathhouse Diaries<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In one of the porn videos the stud performed an ejaculation that could only be described as massive and sustained. We both agreed he had transformed this all-too-human phenomenon into an art: the body becoming something controlled to deliver an image of the beyond-control that is ecstasy. In the realm of a love that used to bind us (rather than pit us against each other in acts of mutual destruction and degradation) the stud constituted an aspect of the legendary. I recall nights in which our passion reached its climax in tandem with the stud’s.</span></span> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-60189162440504369152010-02-28T00:48:00.004+08:002010-05-01T07:40:13.933+08:00Bathhouse Diaries<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Bemoan the lover gives him no peace. Who said that? First thought upon hearing him weep. Forgive me, forgive me. I can make out the words despite choked throat. Pity, that’s what he wants. Is easy to give, but I’m not going to. Not this time. Too late, I said, but he wasn’t listening. Didn’t want to, I like to think. Easier to be nasty that way.</span></span> </div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-65796293112220369912010-02-01T12:30:00.009+08:002010-02-01T23:45:42.162+08:00Bathhouse Diaries<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When he left the table he heard it. A low-muttered word, an under-breath word. <i>Slut</i>. Or was it something else? Some other word, to judge by its tone, not of endearment, but one that was also best ignored. For there was the problem of survival, and the evening stretched out before him, a dark comfortless road he had chosen to pursue.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-91526356105555741772009-11-28T05:33:00.002+08:002009-11-28T05:35:59.192+08:00The Cold Song (Henry Purcell)<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>What power art thou</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Who from below</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Hast made me rise</i></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Unwillingly and slow</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>From beds of everlasting snow</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br />
</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>See'st thou not how stiff</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>And wondrous old</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Far unfit to bear the bitter cold</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br />
</i> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>I can scarcely move</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Or draw my breath</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>I can scarcely move</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Or draw my breath</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br />
</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Let me, let me,</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Let me freeze again</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Let me, let me</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Freeze again to death</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Let me, let me, let me</i></span></span><i><br />
</i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Freeze again to death... </i></span></span><br />
</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-32634287536901596102009-11-15T00:48:00.007+08:002010-04-26T16:01:51.610+08:00H. and B.<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He slings off the back-pack, sits down on the edge of his bed. Stillness invades his body. Then he bends forward, fingers twisting into the black knots. Like a chemist mindful of danger, he slowly unlaces his boots. Loosened and shaken off, they lie like dormant insults. That he takes hold of the mouths and flings them across the room surprised him only revealed the depth of his bottled-up emotions, a turbid mixture of rage and self-accusation. Something shattered. His eyes remain fixed on the unshifting image in his mind: H. and B., skin slick with the sweat of their midnight run, blissfully ignorant of his presence, a witness to the communion, wary of entering the shower where the company of two were already in the throes of preparation, as if stepping in would be a confession, a risk for which he is yet prepared.</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-14307696712839933782009-10-21T16:24:00.000+08:002009-10-21T16:24:44.701+08:00nth position<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Poetry forthcoming in the November issue of </span></span><a href="http://www.nthposition.com/"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">nth position</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-17262243617996209812009-10-06T03:31:00.001+08:002009-10-06T03:32:52.801+08:00Thy Hand Belinda (Henry Purcell, "Dido & Aeneas")<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Performed by the great Jessye Norman. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=szFo2lqmGaM&feature=related">Click here.</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> <i>Remember me... But forget my fate.</i></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-30873634085253575322009-10-02T13:26:00.000+08:002009-10-02T13:26:17.616+08:00Softblow<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Poetry published in the </span></span><a href="http://www.softblow.org/"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">October edition</span></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, which also features poetry from Koh Jee Leong, Yeow Kai Chai and Pooja Nansi.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-79762132355416477442009-09-21T16:08:00.017+08:002009-09-27T01:03:25.755+08:00Analysis<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In my dream I was at sea. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There was a boat, only </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I wasn’t on it. I was leading it – </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then the prerequisite </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">drowning: I woke </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">to another dream, the nature of which I can’t remember</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">being now fully awake.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The dream seemed to me a precise translation </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">of vision hitherto masked </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">by the skein of the self: the absurdity being both form </span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> and revelation.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The absurdity and the fear </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">anchoring the self to the past, the past a dead thing – </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This dream, I made a point of telling it to my mother </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">dicing meat in the kitchen, making lunch. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It’s her day off; my father’s on his own</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">at the clinic, prescribing remedies </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">to those who seek to be cured. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Was there light? She asks, fingers deft with the knife.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A lamp was shining from the wharf.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Was it bright?</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As bright as it could be, being the sole source of illumination. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Was the water calm?</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I remember wind on bare skin. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Were you alone? </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was silent; my dream was silent – </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Were you alone?</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I wasn’t rescued. </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But that was then.</span><o:p></o:p></i><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3279557276476537898.post-2160520991657656492009-08-22T01:19:00.003+08:002010-05-01T07:37:50.511+08:00Vita Nova<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Glück introduces, in a proem of sorts, the theme of transformation that haunts the poems of her collection, published in 1999 (after </span><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Meadowlands</span></i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">). In the proem, she writes:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The master said </span><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You must write what you see.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But what I see does not move me.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The master answered </span><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Change what you see.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I think of Borges, and his essay on blindness: "A writer, or any man, must believe that whatever happens to him is an instrument; everything has been given for an end. This is even stronger in the case of the artist. Everything that happens, including humiliations, embarrassments, misfortunes, all has been given like clay, like material for one's art. One must accept it. For this reason I speak in a poem of the ancient food of the heroes: humiliation, unhappiness, discord. Those things are given to us to transform, so that we may make from the miserable circumstances of our lives things that are eternal, or aspire to be so.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">If a blind man thinks this way, he is saved. Blindness is a gift." (Translated by Eliot Weinberger)</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0