#mypoets

[maybethings]

Someone asked if this was like childbirth

Fuck anything long enough and watch it grow heavy with secrets. We bear more than our share of resentments. We makan enough hati for entire families. Our tongues crave salt, acid, the first kingyellow jackfruit. Bitter we have already. This country kicks like a mousedeer, roars like a tiger, rises like the broad buffalo from the muck. We ride the ripplings of reformation, pangs that sting like tear gas. Push, even as we cry for relief, for the cracking timbre of our neglected voices, push back against the hurting. White-knuckled black-fingered we labour for a new nation against time, against borders, against spite, against deep-rooted agony. How/ why is it taking so long? Push harder. Brace yourself, breathe, remember to breathe, we squirm anxious for the crown -ing that announces the emergence of the overdue. The reborn. Can you see the head now? The first voice shatters us at the knees. Congratulations. It’s the country we made, coiled together trembling with silenced hopes. Siphon the sludge and slickness from its lungs. Wash it clean. Name it ours. Go, dream what might it be. What might it become when it grows up.

- May Chong

[sheascends]

I miss smoking cigarettes. I miss not feeling the shame and guilt and consciousness that I have now. I mean, we knew it was bad for us back then when we were younger but we just didn't care and like all things when we were younger we thought we were infinite and immortal we thought we were untouchable so we smoked a pack a day getting high off of cigarettes I miss the smell of it still I can taste it when I smell it I miss smoking it in my car with the windows rolled down before I knew it would stain my car years later and that my mother and father would shame me for it I miss the camaraderie of the community i miss packing my cigarettes I got good at it. I was a pro I miss walking into the gas station asking for 27s because my boyfriend at the time told me it tasted like peanut butter. it didn't. but I got them anyway the clerk had to ID me because i looked younger than 18. When said boyfriend asked if he was right about it tasting like peanut butter i lied, and lit the cigarette, agreeing with him

on lying to my boyfriend (pt 1) in 2009

[maybethings]

MY LOT IS A SKY is an anthology of poetry by Asian women. Named after a poem by Forough Farrokhzad, an influential Iranian writer and filmmaker, this collection provides a space for long-underrepresented voices to express themselves.

Curated by Melissa Powers and Rena Minegishi, this book is not for those seeking work on what it specifically means to be an Asian woman today. You’ll find that the poetry within these pages is, really, about what it means to be human.

My poem ‘Lessons from Grandfather’ found a home this year. It’s about growing beyond trauma and scars inflicted by family. If you’ve got relatives who were very different people inside and outside the home, if they became more dire warning than good example, if you cannot decide on whether they are worth forgiving...this one’s for you. Hope it helps.

Also the cover is simply stunning. I mean, look at it:

[sheascends]

I hate looking at her work (and work like it) Because it makes me feel absolutely Nothing And that is the most dreadful thing of all to look at what is supposed to be art and feel absolutely nothing

[sheascends]

I guess part of growing up is being a little bit sad that you are no longer young and wide eyed and carefree If I knew it would pass me so quick I would've stayed in it longer Somehow

[sheascends]

The wrong thing to do is to show your lover your work in progress As I have learned It will crush your spirit and make you love him less Do not be naive and whimsical and valiant and show your unfinished work to your lover not if you cant take a few bruises and not if your skin is as thin as a new born babies maybe because your work in progress is your heart your mind your inspiration in progress and  you know you know you know you tell them that is is not done yet but you were so giddy with love and ambition that you wanted to let them also on the ride of creativity But you learn now that that was a terrible idea because now You are sad and bitter and confused and don’t feel like creating much at all and if you do you definitely do not feel like showing your finished work to your sad mean lover artists are sensitive We know we know we know I am sensitive I know I know I know on learning your lesson 

[maybethings]

Kamcia

We protected them, these unbarked /whose sweat and salt quenched /our roots.

GUESS WHO’S IN STRANGE HORIZONS

You can read Kamcia at the link above OR listen to it here (I did the reading, too)

[sheascends]

Being alone is simple. You do what you want And you think what you want. Letting the silence of music fill the walls, the rooms. It echoes. Your thoughts are clear and concise alone. Allowing yourself to hear yourself fully for once. It echoes. Letting light drift in Allowing it to fill you up as you study it peacefully, alone. Alone. Letting your imagination run free. Letting inspiration fill your thoughts with new ideas and stories and feelings Ringing peacefully in your head Echoing. and in a moment, the door unlocks, heavy shoes bustle in. Laughter, jokes and hellos shower inside and the moment alone you had with yourself for yourself is over. And friends come with loudness and thoughts and feelings are replaced with jokes and surface level conversations. More jokes I want to go back to the moment before. Stay there just a little longer before the clatter of chatter before the laughter before the bustle before the keys turn the locks.

..

But I join them anyway.

on thoughts before the boys come in