Glasgow, Scotland
Today I called my pó pó. Now in her 80s, she lives alone in a small town in West Yorkshire, England. It’s a place I associate with smells of food and sounds of laughter and shouting. A lot of different, conflicting emotions. Despite her years in England, her English is not the best, although she has picked up certain Yorkshire phrases. She will say “thank you, love” to people when they are helpful and “tarra” to give quick goodbyes. I live in Glasgow, Scotland, in a tenement flat with a cramped kitchen and a permanently cold close. Today my pó pó said she was confused why people can’t come see her anymore. I offered to call her more than the once a week I try to manage currently, but she told me not to. She said she doesn’t want me to worry. My pó pó struggles with loneliness at the best of times. I worry what the added isolation of lockdown will do for her mental/emotional wellbeing. “When all this is over I will come see you” I promised. “Thank you, love” she replied “Take care of yourself pó pó” “Tarra!” she said and then she hung up. Sean Wai Keung is a Glasgow-based poet and performer. His pamphlet 'you are mistaken' won the inaugural Rialto Open Pamphlet Competition 2016. Visit seanwaikeung.carrd.co for more.
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unceded Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh territories of Vancouver, Canada
For My world is a bedroom that holds a closet I will reject for pyjamas A bathroom with four rolls of toilet paper left A kitchen with forgotten shrimp paste in the fridge door And a sewing machine I had the foresight to buy because my Lola said “Ay anak, you will hurt yourself trying.” My dad watches Youtube videos of formulas for food forests In the Philippines - he was formerly planning to snowbird in his tropical homeland Before the quarantine forced a postponement of plans He’s formed a couch routine of circling between grim news, farming DIY vids and talking on the phone in rapid Visayan- “Is it like martial law? Back then?” I am fortunate that I can safely work from home as an “essential” First and foremost, said Maslow, is food, shelter, safety But if not everyone has safety, can I afford peace of mind? Can you foreshadow how far you’ll claw and climb up the hierarchy of needs for higher pursuits? My mom said to cancel my California visit before the lockdown and the border closure My sister stays informed so she might return from Montreal if it comes to that I conform to physical distancing and gain respite and dread from technology We wait a continent apart, within North America, For the collective curve to flatten. Abby Pelaez, a first generation Filipino-Canadian, is a writer, traveler, ally, and content creator. @bibliobee Boston, USA
love in the time of the coronavirus no time is more perfect to test our love than a pandemic as we are forced to self-quarantine practice social distancing stock up on toilet paper in amounts that we do not need they say wear a mask it hides my carnal instincts I lie here in the guestroom a few feet away from your bedroom thirsting after for your touch the soft graze of your fingers against my dry, barren skin it is not an epidemic but rather a drout a war between the wants of our bodies and the logic of our minds I want to touch you, my dear let me come inside (your bedroom) Jessica Nguyen is a writer, world traveler, and activist. Her first book of poems is “softly, I speak,” (Louisiana Literature Press, 2020), which was selected as part of the Louisiana Literature Press’s chapbook series. byjessicanguyen.com / @byjessicanguyen Toronto, Canada
buds hold each other in their hearts New York, USA dispatch from quarantine
3/30/2020 - new york city it is day 7 of quarantine/ and 7 months since my friends gaslit me/ and i can’t pretend the instagram stories don’t make me a little sad/ the zoom calls, i am not invited to/ the inside jokes i no longer know/ i cannot pretend the way they are so happy/ without me/ do not make the four walls of my room/ that much more empty/ grief changed me in a way/ i can only count/ by the number of days that pass between the mornings i wake up/ and do not remember how to go on/ yet i still do/ i thought earnestly that the grief would kill me/ and it didn’t/ the longer i stay here, the more empty my room feels/ but maybe this room is growing/ to make space/ for all the new things i can fill it with// Kimberly Nguyễn is a Vietnamese-American poet originally from Omaha, Nebraska and currently trying to become a New Yorker. She has recently published a book of poetry, ghosts in the stalks, that explores the intersections of language, colonialism, intergenerational trauma, and diasporic experience. Vienna, Austria It's odd, really, how I don't seem able to recall any of my dreams lately. They are more elusive than usual. I wonder if it has something to do with my "forgetting" how to do things. Things get so blurry, and I don't know how to do things right or the way I used to or the way they are supposed to be done anymore. I can't think of words, I mix them up, I don't know where to put a comma, I don't know the difference between 'past' and 'passed' without thinking about it for a long time. I started realising this when I wrote the letters. Letters to Weina, Nile, and Kirstin - the letters I wrote because I wanted to send them something of me, because I wanted to say "hi" physically, because I like writing letters. Letters I wrote about 10 days ago and still haven't sent because I forgot to put them into the postbox on the way to the weekly grocery shopping adventure. So they're still with me; not having told Weina about how I felt like in a setting out of Dracula, writing by candlelight, and how maybe now the time has come to finally learn shorthand. Not having surprised Kirstin with a postcard inside the envelope after subtly asking for her address without telling her I planned to write. Not having showed Nile the purple flowers or the yellow sunflowers, and telling her that I always think of her when I see them somewhere. Waiting for time to pass, and for my dreams to come back to me. Noo (@noomaisonlok) is a queer Asian mouse living in Vienna, thus missing the ocean a lot. They write texts & poems, although currently, words mostly dissolve into nothingness.
Sydney, Australia Celine Dam is from Auckland, NZ and studies acting at NIDA in Sydney. She is Chinese-Vietnamese.
Unceded Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh territories (aka Vancouver, BC, Canada) Rachel Lau is a queer Cantonese writer, artist, and radio producer. Most days they can be found daydreaming about queer futures and the Cantonese diaspora. racholau.com / ig: @racholauart California, USA Jamie Jiang is a linguist and writer going to college in California. She birdwatches when she can, is currently learning Russian, and reads when her feet are warm.
West Midlands, United Kingdom
Today, I want my karriy brothy and thin. So, I dice one shallot and scrape it into the aluminium pot where it sizzles in a thin layer of sunflower oil. I add two chopped tomatoes, a cube of frozen garlic & ginger, salt, and curry power. This has been the longest and least active day of my confinement; spent mostly under the duvet in a strange state between wakefulness and sleep, interrupted by the sound of children playing or their intrusion into my domain with questions or moments of tenderness. They give love so abundantly and so expressively. When the base has cooked, I pour in lassi and stir until it boils, watching cut coriander stalks and leaves swirl. I pulled myself out of bed to lie in a bubble bath, my eyes closed and head afloat in a halo of foam. I let the water submerge me until the sharp sting in my nostrils forced me upright. If my body didn’t jolt me, would I stay underwater? I make karriy as a daughter, a mother, a lover, because the abundance my mother gave me was her food. Tonight, when half-dreams haunt me, I return downstairs, ladle it into a bowl, bring its spicy warmth to my lips and take it deep into my throat. Naush Sabah is Co-founder and Editor at Pallina Press and Poetry Birmingham Literary Journal. She is based in the West Midlands and you can find her tweeting Doja Cat gifs @naushsabah. |
STAY HOME DIARYan online archive of diary entries by Asian artists and writers, recording our lives from March to April 2020. |