Telling with my eyes
This piece was originally written by the hugely influential Japanese poet Kenji Miyazawa. Despite his many contributions to Japanese literature, his work is seldom translated into foreign languages due to his ascetic values which kept it hidden from the public eye. This piece is an attempt to intro
Mimicry
Mimicry She stoops to worship Mimicry, old, borrowed and belly-full of what has already been the start and end of ideas. She rewrites Genesis with a stale bible; a tea-ringed, deadened […]
Mourning of the Fleeting Day
Time flies! Time flies! I say: take a drink. I know not the height of green heavens, nor the depth of yellow earth, only that the icy moon comes after the scorching sun, that they cook our mortal lives. Those who eat bears shall be fat, they that eat frogs shall be thin. To the […]
Eggshell
Today she has scarcely moved. If there is understanding then that is what she feels this chrysalis Sunday, where new quiet doesn’t boom anymore – his echoes are softer, and she dusts them off into the bubbling boiling with the eggs. Three timid spines crest the water. She raises them carefully,
Dusk Shadows
There’s a swell in the yellow assembly: bamboos rustle and hush, unable to contain their giggling at the wind’s rush as huddled and prone to sway as teenage girls – I am almost jealous of these young trees at the edge of the garden skimming stone and sky, knees knocking in the breeze, called t
Stockholm Syndrome
Then God said, “Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea” (Genesis 1:26) Three fish are bored. They pass the time thinking. “Why are we here?” one asks. Another answers: “If we were not, then who would force those simple sea [
Icebergs
CLOSING SOON. Olafur Eliasson’s Ice Watch, Tate Modern, 2018 We had come for the melting icebergs. We came early, clutching phones and children, to our space before the Thames, where the artist had assembled those lumps of cold whiteness. A menagerie of endangered specimens of ice – it wanted so
A Woman Disobedient
No tattoos, my abuela says es feo, muy triste paying someone else to give you scars, one eye on her telenovela and the other on my arm, she says no more pie
A Ghuí ar a Croí
Dá mbeadh brait gréasacha na neimhe Maisithe le solas airgid óir, Iad gorma, dorcha, agus séimhe, ‘S mise amháin ina sealbhóir, Chuirfinn fútsa na brait gan agó; Ach, níl a’am ach brionglóidí bochta; Chuir mé mo bhrionglóidí fútsa fadó: Céimnigh orthu go ciúin, cosnochta.∎ &n