Her poems—short chunks of prose, dated like entries from a surrealist diary, and full of lists—delighted me as only language at the intersection of the Weird and the True can. Distorted and shivering shadows Upon the dim lighted ceiling; The colorless clusters of lackluster stars Ornaments the night bride, The lenient liquid moon Slides through bare black branch; A chamber corner draft swept the night stand; The cruciform contour of winged craving Took a fleety flash flight, I swear to keep every sweet promise Under a warm furry blanket Of seed prospect, God pity all those homeless souls. And where is that love? I suppose many have never heard of Wong May, the daughter of a poet, born in Chongqing, raised partly in Singapore. I really went that far to make such dreamlike mimicry. Previous Article Don Quixote:
The fiction had been published inJanuary by Lifi Publications.
#Actual Asian Poets
All over this continent of poetry, teaching everywhere, from her homes, something on the stove, green just outside. Article continues after advertisement. Why are slums so silent? Betrayed, he was sent to an internment camp. My language The language we speak now, Once had no fences; Aggravated trespassing Has rendered it barren.