"yangban" and Other Poems by Jonathan Chan

yangban

no more pipes, slid between
the lips by servile fingers; no
gormless heraldry by dusty

inroads; no bodies perched
on donkeys or heaved aloft
by desperate shoulders, soft

beneath the folds of fabric, face
between fans and horsehair hats,
the spoils of smeared ink. no more

gaudy suits, sutured in tokyo, paid
in thick bundles and kneeling wives,
as pliant as four generations of

inherited duty. no feet will touch
the ground. no more daughters
sidelined, only the roughness of

hands that gripped logs and
mouths that swallowed colonial
tongues. no more agonising over

tethered absences, six mouths by
a thousand squares. only the gait
of plenty and upturned noses, the

facility of language in uneven weight,
the danger of empty disquisition. only the
fawning and forgetting, the scholar and

the general, the noble, the ignoble, the
farmland and the grassy mounds, the
residue of history: soft, like mollusks.


*

habemos la comida cubana

just as the humidity of evening
presses enough to form dew on
your skin and the moon sits regal
between the silhouettes of trees,
it is time to build a plate. claro.
start with the arroz, fluffy rice
piled on by a flat spoon, then a
ladle of frijoles negros, darkened
sauce all over the steaming bed.
add clear vinegar for taste, tartness
shot through the earthy mouthfuls.
in the corner: ropa vieja, the strands
of beef simmered and unravelled,
glazed in the sweetness of onion and
red pepper, the wafting presence of
cumin, paprika, cayenne and bay
leaves. to assuage your conscience,
a green mix to balance at the edge
of your plate. romaine lettuce, cherry
tomatoes, avocado, and pomelo. to
be taken sheepishly after, between
juicy forkfuls of carne, or before to
jumpstart the appetite. or cushion
the avalanche. to end, maybe a pot
of green tea, a slice of yoghurt cake
to perk up the tongue, or some kueh.
tia said y tu mama también. a stomach
learns many loves, near and far, en las
islas aquí y alli.    

 

*

terra ujong
after celina su

at the edge of grass and pavement lies

a single grain of sand. i do not know much

of the clash and coarsening: the serrated

edges of stolen epochs, the clap of waves,

the crumble of boulders, the salting in

a mangrove’s grasp. we who have been

scooped like silt, flattened into earthen

grooves, territories of need, wetlands of

want. to map the consequences of

survival, reason, bleeding into blasted air -

hot, then cooled. stir the gruel, mixed

for hungry mouths, until the turbines

churn and the slickening smoulders.

skid over the greyest layer: there is no

romance in fronds, or mud. watch

their names escape our lips, receding

into boxy flats. new shells have taken

their place. watch those hands, that

surgical precision: a jagged scalpel that

smoothens the grains, sharp, linear,

uncanny, organised. i learn to mourn

what i never knew, the roughness over

dirty sand, cleaved unto the immovable

edge, waiting to be forgotten again.

 

Jonathan Chan recently graduated from Cambridge University with an English degree. Born in New York to a Malaysian father and South Korean mother, he was raised in Singapore, where he is presently based. He is a naturalized Singaporean citizen. He is interested in questions of faith, identity, and human expression.