Hard Love Province: Poems
Winner of the 2015 Anisfield-Wolf Prize for Poetry
From a poet of "dazzling longing" (Los Angeles Times), a beautiful new number of haunting elegies and playful quatrains.
Marilyn Chin is a poet acclaimed by means of Adrienne wealthy for her "powerful, uncompromised, and unerring" poems. Dancing brilliantly among jap and Western kinds, fusing historical chinese language historical past and modern American pop culture, she is likely one of the so much celebrated Asian-American poets writing this present day.
Chin's fourth quantity of poems, Hard Love Province, consists of erotic elegies during which the speaker grieves for the lack of her liked. In "Void" she writes with the imagistic, distilled quietude of a solitary mourner: "It’s now not that you're infrequent / Nor are you striking // O lone wren sobbing at the bodhi tree / you're uncomplicated and sincere." In "Formosan Elegy," in contrast, she is that mourner, past simplicity or quietude, crying out for a lover: "I sing for you yet my tears have dried in my gullet / stroll the previous puppy provide the budgies a funky bathtub / minimize a young melon allow it bleed into memory."
Here, too, are poems encouraged via Chin’s poetic forbearers and mentors―Dickinson, Plath, Ai, Gwendolyn Brooks, Tu Fu, Adrienne wealthy, and others―honoring their paintings and descrying the worldwide injustice they addressed. "Whose lifestyles is it anyway?" she asks in a poem for wealthy, "She born of chrysalis and shit / Or she born of girl and pain?"
Emotionally nuanced and electrical with high-flying verbal experimentation, photo after snapshot, line through line, Chin's astounding reinventions, her quatrains, sonnets, allegories, and elegies, are unforgettable.
Won’t drown Like her mom prior to her and her mother’s mom obdurate reed hollow at either ends She’ll whistle and hum and go with the flow into sunrise the fellow from Worcester wants to consume my sister He bends her backward coats her in rice flour Pinches her corners calls her “sweet dumpling” Fries her in deep oil then serves her on porcelain who's the Buddha a shit-wiping gumstick who's the Buddha a painter’s triptych who's the Buddha he is naked utterly bare who's the Buddha a stele a.
guffawing with Julio this night she is dancing with Coolio How lengthy can happiness final? For a sluggish short afternoon My head at the thigh of a sequoia analyzing Wang Wei Butterfly in mouth yet don’t chunk down Whose existence is it besides? She born of chrysalis and shit Or she born of girl and discomfort? Mei Ling brings a wounded poem Crying Please Mommy Mommy fix it! You wipe the tears from her cheeks Then glue a gnat’s torn wing The sand dab flicks her tail The tears of the wombat are eco-friendly Kiss.
Inevitable lengthy force they'll paint you black they'll paint you white they'll paint your yoni hooked up To his blue lingam Refute woman’s physique Is impure Refute woman’s physique Is filthy even though a woman’s physique Is filthy They enhance you with garlands If God is a girl Why does the realm stay boastful And male? Slouched at the blue-cloud divan The lord of sleep Flips the channels Of moral sense A clapboard urban in flames 1000 fingers of the marauders decreased.
Dried in my gullet stroll the previous dog give the budgies a funky tub reduce a young melon let it bleed into reminiscence the gown you washed hangs like a carcass flayed The mug you loved is stained with outdated espresso Your toothbrush is silent grease mums your comb Something’s lost something’s made powerful round the corner a new prince yearns to be enjoyed A clean flip of phrase a undesirable strophe erased A random image crafts itself right into a poem A sleepless Taipei night a mosquito’s symphony Who will cry for.
River you lay your self to sleep No sun no moon no coming no going No causality no character No hunger no thirst Skyward beyond Angkor Wat Beyond Jokhang Lhasa You have been floating on a massive stupa Waiting for Our Lord Malarial deltas typhoidal cays Tsunamis don’t judge calamity grieves nobody The negative may be submerged the wealthy won’t be stored Purge the innocent sink the wicked You push down my hand with your bony hand The fox-hair brush lifts and bends There’s no revision during this.