Gnarled rest-home fingers— like roots coiling into themselves —remember their parents.


A Haibun by Bashō

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 of festivals

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

Untitled (Richard von Sturmer)

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

Your door

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.

In our gardens

There are thorns all around us, and everything withers and dies. Look! Here it is! It's so red today!

In the family

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