#eileen chong

[lifeinpoetry]

You've taken / all my oxygen. There is nothing left to burn.

— Eileen Chong, from “Firmament,” A Thousand Crimson Blooms

[jonathanjudge]

[becadroit]

In review

On not writing so many reviews, plus, a link to a newly published poem, by me.

I’ve always enjoyed reviewing. Books, art, film. Whatever. I like critically, sometimes humorously, engaging with works to see what they say about narrative, the medium, life, their creators, and me. When I was young I tried, on occasion, to keep a diary. Invariably, the diary became a series of lists and reviews. This blog, at the beginning, anyway, had its genesis in those forgotten diaries,…

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[tintededges]

The Uncommon Feast

Collection of poetry and essays about food, love and identity I have been following this author and poet on social media for quite some time. I am a big fan of books with recipes in them and I was thrilled to find out she has a collection filled with recipes and ordered a copy immediately. I knew it was an ideal choice for my Short Stack Reading Challenge. Image is of “The Uncommon Feast:…

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[wailingghosts]

My grandmother cannot read the words dancing across the screen, lighting up in time with the music. She sings from memory, in the dialect of her youth: the two of us walk in the rain sharing a single small umbrella. If my grandfather were alive he would light a cigarette and draw breath until the end glowed into a fiery red, saying nothing. It is my father’s turn, and he handles the microphone as if it’s an old friend. Beside the road, beneath the banyan tree is a place I think of often. My mother smiles and mouths the words in Mandarin, soundlessly. She too cannot read Chinese. The tranquil skies and the balmy breezes, the sweet scent of the grass. I hear only snatches of meaning in the few words I understand. Meanwhile, I think on the puzzle of my grandparents, fertile and warm, lying together in the dark. Of my parents, young, newly-burdened and afraid, whispering each other to sleep. The rain falls around us with great intensity. We must walk with care, under the one small umbrella. It is my turn to sing. I don’t know any Chinese songs, so I sing in English. My family is listening.

Eileen Chong, ‘Chinese Singing’

[omophagist]

In the inner chamber of the onsen we read the signs and dutifully scrub at our skins. The white towel, hand-sized, is not large enough for modesty. We talk between nervous laughs about how hot the water is, how much the soap lathers up. Everything but the fact that this is the first time we've seen each other naked since I lost my child's body, and you your mother's eyes. As you turn away I cannot help but notice the sag of your breasts against your chest, the thickness of your hips conjoining your flat buttocks. We've always joked about how you never seem to fill out the rear of your pants. I'm the one with the childbearing hips, the impossibly round bum. I'm the one who is still unable to bear children. Glistening now with steam and sweat, we pad our way to the bath itself. First you, then I - the water as clear as lies. We keep our eyes lowered lest they glimpse any more of the other. 

- Bath-house Ritual, Eileen Chong

[hours]

“                                   We are guest people without land or name, moving south and south, wild birds seeking a place to call home.”

— Eileen Chong, “My Hakka Grandmother” (from Burning Rice)

[poem-locker]

Eileen Chong, "Musician"

The god of musi­cians has been try­ing to get my atten­tion. Last month, a man on a street cor­ner in Chi­na­town stopped me with his play­ing. When he fin­ished the song

I uttered a name: Ah Bing. He asked me where I was from. How does a girl from Sin­ga­pore know this? In the Utzon annex of the Opera House the cel­list Wang Jian played Bach solos.

When the audi­ence wanted more he spoke of a blind street musi­cian and played The Moon Reflected in the Sec­ond Spring. That was the first time I heard it. In the tun­nel at Cen­tral Station

it sur­faced again. The old man bowed away at his two-stringed erhu and China swelled like a mirage: bridges, moon gates, wil­lows. I emerged into the light and put on my sunglasses

to hide my moist eyes. Immor­tal Han, I thought, don’t you only watch over flautists? There is no Chi­nese god of writ­ers, so I think of the Kitchen God when I work. Sticky New Year cake. Sweet words.