August 11, 2019

Bridging Two Cultures: Emma Wang’s Fierce Poetry

Bridging Two Cultures:  Emma Wang’s Fierce Poetry

Variations on the History of the People’s Republic of China  i.  Sometimes the skin retreats into the bone, jagged edges of tongue tasting the summer heat.  ii. Imagine the ownership (or lack of) a sunken statue turning whispers behind closed conversations and blood against blood.  iii. The first time I saw my father cry, there were ghosts in his lungs.  iv.  When the star-crossed, green-costumed women dance on skeletons My father averts his eyes like they’re the decapitated deer.  v. On my passport every stamp sounds like yeye’s warnings, every printed word the broken  English of my mother, every second of silence the wrath of old men.  Abecedarian for the Chinese Immigrant  All you can take are your Blouses and your tongue; Children & rice cakes should be Dropped into the sea to the Very last one. You will Find new building blocks to reassemble your Girls, new letters to construct your Houses – oh wait –  It’s the other way around. Jackets you’ll buy at the  K-mart, but only if it’s  Local. You cannot carry your Mama nor your baba No matter how  Oversized…

Continue reading →

August 5, 2019

The Nostalgic Poetry of Delaney Daly

The Nostalgic Poetry of Delaney Daly

Tender Continuum   This town is a perfect snow globe  on a mantelpiece, an impenetrable dome.  Waves of puddles on the stone sidewalk  swallow us down & we become a part of the rotation,  the silent timepiece,  the busted backdrop.  We will never escape it  even when we box up our  memories & drive to the shore & cradle our kin   or watch them outrun our misfortunes.   Still, this is just a thought against actions, just a minute  against an hour.  When the glass shatters & we inhale the valley fog for the last time,  we will draw breath as  the pale petal in the  summer storm wind.    Silent Orenda  Today, there is an urgency not to move. To instead, bury the worn soles of my feet in this comfortable, breathable moment,  one that I am certain will not try to control me – in the same way that the passing hours like to threaten me and hold me to the slow, choking wind,  who, with the right motivation,…

Continue reading →