I returned to my old home at the beginning of the ninth month. The day lilies in my mother’s room had all been withered by the frost, and nothing was left of them now. Everything was changed from what it used to be. My brother’s hair was white at the temples, and there were wrinkles… Continue reading A Haibun by Bashō
The festival to celebrate every festival ever celebrated is always in the planning stages. The campaign managers keep raising the most astronomical funds. The event organisers keep improving on already spectacular programmes. The promoters keep discovering performers more talented than the last. The headlining acts keep perfecting every fine detail of their craft. The set… Continue reading The festival of festivals
The world is vast like the dark hallway of my grandmother’s house. The house vanished many years ago and still the world is vast. —Richard von Sturmer
All good things come to an end, sometimes before they’ve even started.
I came round today, but when I reached your door I balked... went and sat where we’d drunk down the block, and I thought, I hadn’t come to see you, but to return to a place we were at when my ears were still smooth, and the hairs on yours were still black. A place… Continue reading Your door
A wild wind swashbuckles in, irrepressible— vases deflowered, scuttled tea boats, dressers laid bare! Mended dishes still reminisce, cast aquiver in its wake.
There are thorns all around us, and everything withers and dies. Look! Here it is! It's so red today!
An hour’s break – the dying bumblebee underfoot; as grey as an office worker.
Earlier in the year, I was worried I had prostate cancer. Recently, not long after tests confirmed I didn’t, my uncle found out he had advanced prostate cancer. He started writing poems as a way to process things. Mum just sent me one. I relate to it on a pretty deep level. I just contacted… Continue reading In the family
three closed books one open book two closed books two open books one closed book three open books no one left to open any books piles and piles of books