Writing
CategoryThe Land That Glitters
by Juni Park
photo credit: Karim Manjra on Unsplash
Cottage Poem
by Greg Santos
photo credit: Wina Tristiana on Unsplash
it was just a line in the sand
by Chae Yeon Kim
ua mau ke ea o ka aina i ka pono
by Ed Go
photo credit: Mareko Tamaleaa on Unsplash
sleepless
by Clara Yu
photo credit: Evan Cheng
flightless
by Clara Yu
photo credit: Evan Cheng
my father’s beer glass
by Ed Go
photo credit: Harika G on Unsplash
Carving Yellowtail
by Lucy Chuang
photo credit: Hasan Almasi on Unsplash
Mud Hill
by Lucy Chuang
photo credit: Derek Lee on Unsplash
Colorful American romance
by Aaron Hahn
Undiluted Kimchi Milk
by Erikka Durdle
A Sijo (시조 ) for My Son
by Erikka Durdle
Sapphire
by Yuna Kang
return queue
by Xiadi Zhai
photo credit: Nitish Kadam on Unsplash
Writing the Icon of Lakapati
by Cristina Legarda
The Spaniards arrived and encountered fecundity
the lush greenness of taro terraces,
ripe fruits falling from branches surrendering
to the weight of their abundance, trees
with green leaves so large
we could shelter beneath them in the rain,
an uninhibited earth almost flamboyant
in its yielding and giving,
endless green over lowlands and mountains
and a bluish-green at the shore.
Kissaten fantasy
by Khang Tan Pham
photo credit: Kevin Wu on Unsplash
Persimmons
by Selina Li Bi
photo credit: Adrian Stewart on Unsplash
Origin
by Selina Li Bi
I thought I contracted amnesia
from the Siamese cat next door.
She and I were drunk on sake
when she licked my wound
clea..
What We Feed Ourselves
During quarantine, many of us are eating at home much more often than before. Whether this means physically eating in our home versus prepping food to take to work, or cooking for ourselves instead of going out to eat, our home-food-scape has changed drastically. In quarantine, I have struggled to put care and love into feeding myself the way that comes easily to me when feeding or sharing food with others. I hope that, while in the chaos of a global pandemic, we can treasure the foods that make us feel safe and cared for, and give ourselves a little bit of love in the ways we feed ourselves.
Visiting Hours (for Carole)
by Lani T. Montreal
photo credit: Hide Obara on Unsplash
Tattooed Girl
by Selina Li Bi
Nothing left but the girl
with persimmon eyes.
A blind immigrant
her fingers trace
the familiar places
on painted flesh
..
Two Truths and a Lie: A Chained Hay(na)ku
by Lani T. Montreal
Words to Live By
by Kim Fountain
My mother’s favorite question is, “They pay you to talk?” In my sweet 80-year old mother’s tone there are also two comments. One being, “So stupid that this is a job” and the other, “Wow, my child is smart”, but not smart in the sense of what it is I actually say, but in that by talking, I make money.
My mom left school at age twelve to work 15 hour days on her feet. She has never been to a meeting in her life and has never touched a computer beyond dusting it so, for her, my desk job and its meeting after meeting schedule is ridiculous because I can’t point to a final product. I do add in, that now and again, I need to say something of use or I don’t get asked back. By then though, she is off on another subject.
I know that there is not as much difference between us as she might think. It is after all, because of her that I figured out that words, used to trouble and even sometimes rupture power, would eventually carry me toward a sense of purpose.
Sapiosexual Seeks Lumbersexual / Meandering Thoughts on Dating Apps
by Tina Bhaga
We’re snowboarding and jumping off airplanes, kissing babies, and kitted up real nice at friends’ weddings. The curated montage of ..
Growing Up Shiseido: Chain Stores, Beauty Magazines, and Whitening Cream
by Jane Hseu
My grandfather founded the Taiwanese branch of Shiseido, the high-end Japanese cosmetics company. The family story, told to me by his daughter, my mother, is that during WWII, while Taiwan was under Japanese colonization, my grandfather went to Japan to work, leaving his young wife to take care of their young daughter and his aged parents in the hardships of the Taiwanese countryside. For my grandmother, my mother said, life was bitter. After working at Shiseido in Japan, my grandfather founded Shiseido in Taiwan, Shiseido’s first overseas venture, and became a rich man. There were tens of millions of Taiwanese women to whom he could sell make-up and skin products.
photo credit: Chao-Yan on Upsplash
This Mortal Coil
by Samina Hadi-Tabassum
Every night around 2 AM
Starting in early May
My son began sleepwalking
He climbed out of bed
And walked into our room
Where we lay awake waiting for him
photo credit: Samson Creative Upsplash
Untying Knots
by Chiemi Souen
Jiji’s garage, there,
under the house. The smell
of dirt, mold, moth
balls, and cat shit.
Fingers clinging to the chocolate-brown lattice
under the mint-green house.
Eyes see through the filtered sunlight.
See:
Cardboard boxes filled with old
photos and papers, empty
sake gallon
bottles, bamboo
fishing poles, throw
nets, old garden gloves,
rusty sickles, rubber boots,
tabis, old rice
bags, shoyu cans, empty milk
bottles, a wooden
washboard, and lots of glass
jars filled with nails
and screws.
photo credit: Manuel Sardo Unsplash
A Girl from Zanzibar, a Guy from Goa, and that Chap (from) Mercury
by R. Benedito Ferrão
I had finally arrived, but the start of this journey of a lifetime had already begun badly. Journeying from the metropole – London – to the once colonial periphery – Nairobi – I had made it, but my suitcase hadn’t. In it were the hand-written notes from the first chapter of my Ph.D. thesis and a copy of the book that that chapter was based on: Roger King’s A Girl from Zanzibar, published in 2002 and set in the 1980s. As I explained to the travel insurance company, no, I hadn’t typed up any of those notes and, no, I couldn’t reconstruct a year’s worth of work from memory. Perhaps it was the perfect postcolonial metaphor – the loss of a suitcase full of words between the empire writing back and a subaltern trying to speak.
photo credit: Alejandro Luengo Upsplash
Sarah and Hagar
Poetry
by Samina Hadi-Tabassum
In the middle of the night
I walk out into the back alley
The sound of coal cars ahead
The full moon right above
There is no one on the streets
Just the coyotes and me
I cross under the viaduct
Then take a sharp left (Read More)
My Brother Deep
Poetry
by Samina Hadi-Tabassum
My brother Deep stands before a mirror in my bedroom
His long black hair dripping water onto the wooden floor
Watching him comb the tangles with a plastic comb
I laugh as I pull the knots out with my tiny fingers…