Poetry

Ars Poetica

in ,
 
 

Sammy: As I go through my day, I take quiet note of any funny situations that I find myself in. These are those situations that seem normal in the moment, but are actually ridiculous with added perspective. Like the moment an alarm goes off on the plane and the first thought I have is of my bags. My poetry gives me a way to pull together these disparate strands of images to highlight the irony of it all. I try to give the reader an authentic view into the thoughts in my mind so that they are swept up into the same moment I was in, only able to take a step back and reflect once the ride is over.

 
 

Ars Poetica

writing poetry is like taking a

flight, somehow you move

thousands of miles/hour

through the air, but all

you really think about

is the annoying baby

crying in the seat

behind you while

the guy next to

you tries to talk

to you when

you clearly

just want

to sleep,

but no,

you can’t sleep because the emergency

alarm has gone off and before you know

it you are fully aware of the speed 

because you’re falling, faster and faster, 

down into the real world, but soon

enough you forget about the speed at

which you fall and instead worry about

your bags; what will come of your gifts

if the bags don’t arrive on time? What

will you say to your friends? Your family?

You cannot return without them. The

airline better not mess it up like they did

that one time in Chicago. Such terrible

memories. You prep yourself on what

you’ll say to customer service when the

bags don’t get in. Start a bit aggressive

with a hint of desperation, ask to speak

with the manager, no, demand it, but

don’t be too demanding. It’s an art, the

art of complaining. Like any other art

it requires much patience and discipline 

in order to fall so fast without even a passing thought about reality.

 

Cover photo by Nils Nedel on Unsplash

 
 

comfort

in ,
 
 

Claire: As a Korean American, I am drawn to the complex historical, political, and cultural issue of comfort women, the majority of whom were forcibly recruited Korean women. "comfort" examines the relationship between an unnamed comfort woman and the Japanese soldiers complicit in her sexual enslavement. 

 

comfort 

i.

A rich man came 

to our village

he wore silk robes

they told us he owns

a factory

Mr. Park asked me

if I wanted to work 

at his factory 

would I like to

honor my family

send money home

it’s near Beijing

he said

he was different

was not the imperial 

beige uniform

we heard 

whispered

through cracks

of paper-screen

his eyes were dark

like theirs 

but his looked kind

how did we know

I do not know


ii.

we walked together

smiling arm in arm

looking back

waving

we were clustered

in a train

for days

it was hot

there was little water

one girl died

from dehydration

we slept

next to her

she looked like

she was sleeping 

too

we went

to a hut

in Beijing

Mr. Park did not

come to greet us

one girl read

the sign

she told us

what it said

Sixth Station

Sakura House

they took us

separated us

we did not eat

we did not sleep

iii.

a Japanese soldier

took me

Shimura-san

he said 

he came

every day

to see me

he came 

back every night

with his friends

he had

many friends

they always

laughed 

afterwards

but sometimes

Shimura-san

left me

a rice ball

after 

they left

I forgot 

their names

that was 

years ago

iv.

when I seek comfort 

in my husband’s arms

now I think of

the white rice ball

Shimura-san left me

molded together 

by his thumb

 

Cover photo from New York Times

 
 

thoughts from the other day (when i was transcending gender)

in ,
 
 

Michael A. Rosegrant (any pronouns said with respect) is a storyteller whose work centers identity, family, and history as a way to combat oppression. They wrote this piece upon reconciling their gender with a buried history revealed to them by J. Neil C. Garcia’s article, “Male Homosexuality in the Philippines: a short story.”

 
 

growing up,

when people said:

“michael, you are too pretty to be a boy”

i laughed and replied, “okay”

(i didn’t know what that meant)

i thought “why did they say that?”

instead of “wow...they noticed something”

before spain colonized the philippines, one of our words made for third-gender people was the name

bayoguin

derived from a species of bamboo called

bayog

which grows like this

)

(bent)

bayog

bamboo

blooms

beautifully

bent but

unbroken

from the

underbrush,

it breaks

boundaries

with its birth

for no reason

besides the fact it was

born to do

just that.

bayog is just as strong as all other bamboo

but bayog goes by a different name

because bayog was born different,

born bent,

born curved,

born special,

born beautiful in their own way.

they transcend gender “bamboo”.

growing up,

when people say:

“michael, you are too pretty to be a boy.”

i smile and reply, “i know.”

 

Photo by Pablo Azurduy on Unsplash

 
 

breakfast

in ,
 
 

Jenny: While reflecting on my last few days of summer before leaving for college, I remembered seeing this anxious, sorrowful look on my mother's face. I realized that while we anticipated the future, we were both trying to hold on to something, wondering whether breakfasts and lychees and our relationship would ever be the same.

 

 

i awaken to the promise of eggs 

that burst open and bleed joy 

into the pores 

of toast, thick and inviting,

spilling 

over the edges like a sunrise.

my mother dries her hands on a yellow towel

and brings out a basket of lychee,

pushing a thumbnail into rough, leathery skin,

and moon meets mesa

as she peels back

from the flesh a membrane 

pink and thin 

as an eyelid from sleep.

she tells me i need to be careful out there, 

a morning routine,

rattles off things i need to look out for

and i know every word 

before she says it but i listen 

as i fill my mouth with the taste of home

because every ten a.m. breakfast is a reminder 

that our lychees are numbered,

that yolk leaks out of egg white

too fast to hold onto,

that no smudge of daylight 

peeks over the crust of horizon 

without intending to stay, 

and no sunrise 

is accidental.

 

 

- j.h.

 

Cover photo by Neha Deshmukh on Unsplash