“His Long Tapered Fingers” (Fay Chiang, 1979)

Fay Chiang is a Chinese-American poet, artist and community activist. Born in 1952, she began publishing in the 1970s, and has released three collections of poetry that I can find: In The City of Contradictions (Sunbury Press 1979), Miwa’s Song (Sunbury 1982), and 7 Continents 9 Lives (Bowery Press 2010). It is through the Sunbury Press that I discovered Chiang, in fact — this was a press founded by Virginia Scott in 1974, to publish under-represented poets — women, people of colour, working class writers. Sunbury published not only collections by individual poets, but also anthologies under the imprint Sunbury–a poetry magazine. I found one of these anthologies, American Born and Foreign, at the library while looking for Asian-American poetry, and thus discovered Chiang, who is one of the guest editors Scott invited to work on the book. There are three of Chiang’s poems included, and this is my favourite of them:

his long tapered fingers
  guide my young hand curved around
  bamboo brush pen
      to form my name
         in chinese:

              family name, chiang; from northern china
               we came south on
                 tamed wild horses and became
              middle name, wei, shared by you and your
                sisters, intelligence
              and your own ping, for peace or plains of green field

bits of characters:
    green, heart, three dots of water, woods, home

write again and again, your name,
   that you may never
             forget it.

The Nanjing Massacre: Poems (Wing Tek Lum, 2013)


Yesterday I posted some work by Wing Tek Lum, a Chinese-American poet living in Hawaii. Today I am looking at his 2013 book, The Nanjing Massacre: Poems, which is his second collection of poetry; the first, 1987’s Expounding the Doubtful Points, won an American Book Award. This is not a review, because I have not read the book; it is not available in any library I have access to, although I have filled out the appropriate forms in the hopes that it will change. But from the glimpses I have seen it is an interesting and powerful collection, one I wish to talk about here, and so I will use the online interviews and excerpted poems in order to enter a little into the book I do not have.

In an interview with Jocelyn Richards at Brown University, Lum describes the beginning of his interest in the Nanjing Massacre:

I knew about the Sino-Japanese War, I knew there were these atrocities, and I knew there were hard feelings by my parents’ generation about the war, especially among the Chinese-American population, where I grew up in Honolulu, but I didn’t know about the specifics. So, in 1997, when Iris Chang’s book came out, I was outraged, so, I started writing one poem and then it cascaded into another poem and another poem.

He continued writing for the next fifteen years, studying photographs, reading diaries and memoirs and academic histories, and when possible speaking to survivors of the massacre. His poems encompass a variety of perspectives, seeking entrance into the historical reality of the atrocity by examining perpetrators as well as victims, collaborators as well as soldiers and civilians. Lum is not writing from a neutral standpoint, however; he is writing what Jane Wong, in her review of the book, calls “the poetry of witness.” In this she echoes Lum’s own goals; as he says in the interview following her review, he is determined to “to speak for the dead, for they could not speak for themselves.” In doing so, Lum hopes to turn the eyes of others onto this moment of history which it is far more comfortable to look away from. The few poems I have been able to find online are harrowing; they demand attention even while the brutality they recount makes it difficult to keep reading. Here is one:

The Nanking Safetyzone

Eyes red beyond tears
darting, filled with crazed hope
her voice so choked, past sobbing
past exhaustion and despair
that she can barely muster a whisper
her plea hoarse and deliberate
as she shoves through the ornate gate
through a narrow opening of cast iron
the bundle of her young son
just old enough to walk
but not yet weaned
wrapped tightly in a large padded jacket
a long scarf and woolen cap
squeezing him through the grating
into the surprised arms of strangers
those already crowded around camps inside
fortunate enough to have arrived earlier
inside the sanctuary walls
these walls shielding them from plunder and rape
the slaughter outside
even of infants bayoneted
or their heads dashed to the ground
in front of parents
an imaginable horror to this mother
now desperate to complete her last act
and then race away from the wall
vowing never to look back
as if it would be bad luck
her will so strongly focused
even against her own maternal instincts
that she could at all costs
care for him forever
but now she knows that this can never be so
and so for this one final chance
she takes control of her son’s life
by giving him up
his survival with better odds than her own
a lone woman on the street
now unburdened and resigned
stealing away through the rubble of her wounded city.
before the night that soon will come.

I do not find it easy to read, easy to contemplate the experience of having to make such a choice, but I am glad for the chance to bear witness through art, to try to hear what has been silenced. Sooner or later I will have the entire collection; when I do, I will write about it again. In the meantime, if anyone who reads this blog is familiar with Lum’s work, I am curious to hear.

Three Early Poems by Wing Tek Lum

I will write more about Diana Chang when I have finished reading her 1956 novel, The Frontiers of Love, but in poetry I am moving on to Chinese-American poet Wing Tek Lum (林永得). He was born in Hawaii in 1946, graduated from Brown University in 1964 with a degree in engineering, and then went on to the Union Theology Seminary, graduated with a masters in divinity in 1973. After spending some time in Hong Kong to learn Cantonese he returned to Hawaii, and has spent much of his life there, running a running a real-estate business with his brother and serving as the business manager for the Bamboo Ridge Press. Through all that time he has been writing poetry; as he put it in an interview published last year in the Hawaiian magazine Summit:

When I was young I was not noted as having much talent as a writer. Nor do I have formal training. But occasionally when I have a thought, I try to write it down. Sometimes I am lucky enough that it turns into a poem. I have been doing this for 40+ years; so I persevere.

His first collection, Expounding the Doubtful Points, won an American Book Award in 1988; his second, published in 2013, is The Nanjing Massacre: Poems. I am planning to write more about that second collection tomorrow; for now, here are three of his poems I have found in Asian-American Heritage: An Anthology of Prose and Poetry (1974):


I write best in wintertime
when I’m cooped up;
she can corner me at will.

I stay up all hours of the night.
When I try to go to sleep
she dreams my dreams.

I’ve got it down to a science now:
a tensor lamp by the bed.
It beats scribbling her last traces in the dark.

My muse is quite jealous,
If I ever found another true love
there’d be poems to pay in hell.

That is the lightest poem of his I have seen; the others are all much graver, darker, although these next two have a sting of bitter humour as well.

To Li Po

I liked that poem
—the one about getting drunk,
three hundred cups of wine,
to drown away the sorrows
of generations.
                         In those days,
for every poem you wrote
a million Chinamen suffered to die.

         pen from bone
         brush from hair
         ink from blood

They were illiterate, you knew.
Better than words,
cheap liquor was solace for them.

Minority Poem

For George Lee

we’re just as American
as apple pie—
that is, if you count
the leftover peelings
lying on the kitchen counter
which the cook has forgotten about
or doesn’t know
quite what to do with
except hope that the maid
when she cleans off the chopping block
will chuck them away
into a garbage can she’ll take out
on leaving for the night.

I like the clarity of each of them, the objects which come into focus but are not the focus themselves, and the emotions that come through strongly. I am glad he has persevered these forty years.

“A Dialogue With My Own Temperament” (Diana Chang, 1984)

Here is my favourite of the poems in Diana Chang’s collection What Matisse is After:

A Dialogue With My Own Temperament

Must you, I sigh again,
must you disturb the peace I also garden?

     Small aspects detach themselves from a field
     the dog’s color matches the wheat
     but in motion and thought
     he parts from the unawakened sheaves

My nature replies, I know you come and go.

(Am I hers
or is she my soul?)

Ah yes, I remember with relief,
glad to see nothing down the road of promise and will.
I can do without me very well, she mockingly reminds me
yet walks alongside like a montage
The lanes oblivion all the way

Stray knowledge laments
in trees likes doves.
We’ve each offered more than our hand:
Striving, grief, patience and love

I’ve nothing to say. I am deaf
and single and dumb.
This peace I need, pure and plain,
is such a joy,

Is dismay.
I am away again—
cast far like a long shadow

Go. Stay gone. Why do I keep returning,
large with new time?

But she unfurls
her breath in my sleep
And I have things to say to myself again.
I’m the very rain she rains and weathers.
Once more

we are

one another.

How can I judge a poem that feels so close to my own experience that I recognise my thoughts in many of the lines? Not at all, so I only share it, and wonder as I read it over again if I might grow large enough to be always the rain.

What Matisse is After (Diana Chang, 1984)

At the beginning of October I took a vacation, spending some days in a cabin surrounded by redwoods with someone I dearly love. Afterwards came two weeks of catching up with my ordinary life, organising birthday parties and baking for a fundraiser and spending far too many hours daydreaming about being back at that cabin. But here upon this last Monday of October I am starting to find my rhythm again, and so I have more poetry by Diana Chang, whose collection What Matisse is After came from the library while I was gone. It is a beautiful collection, one of those books which is a pleasure to hold; my photo does not do justice to the cover, that boldness of the black and red upon the pale matte grey, nor does the texture come through, the paper not quite smooth to the touch. Inside, with the poems, there are drawings; I have even fewer words for visual art than I do for poetry, but they are simple, black and white and grey, seeming to me about the lines themselves, the size and shape and angles of them, experiments in form, perhaps. Whatever the words for them, I like them.

As always when reading a collection, I find the poems themselves to be a mix; some that do not work for me at all, some which come close but not quite, and some which are very good. Chang’s best poems do not, for me, reach the level of Mark Strand or Jane Hirshfield, but the why of it eludes me; I do not know if they are objectively weaker in some way I might eventually learn to define, or simply less the sort of thing I appreciate. Still, there are some which linger. This is one:


Because it is white we call it snow
The dark side of things is true to names, too

Geese scribbling across the sky
are having their say indefinitely

The wind of time drops
We will be a lasting quiet

By surprise, deer are fastened to a field
Cameras also try their desperate stilling

Through nerved,
we find, in any case,
what we gave away is called years.

I like some of the language of this one for itself, the geese having their say indefinitely, and also the concept of it, the naming of things, holding things still through naming; it is a poem which unfolds itself a little in my mind with the reading, but only a little, not largely.

I like this one as well, the title poem:

What Matisse is After

The straight in a curve
is what Matisse is after

two lines
one veering in,

an invitation to
the rest of space,
the other

a long gourd
out of bone

an arm  sings
that its reach

into a heave
of loving

the line of a thigh
on its departure
toward returning

in the teeth
of our dying

what elegant

He exhales paint we need


Simple in that way that takes much craft, and flowing, and it captures a little of the looking at a painting’s line and form in the way the words move.

My very favourite poem in this collection is quite long, so I am going to save it for tomorrow.

Asian-American Poetry: Diana Chang

I could fill pages with my outrage at a white male poet posing as a Chinese women in order to benefit from attempts to listen to Asian-American voices — as if the entire world did not already listen long and well to white men. But instead of adding another white voice to the outcry, I encourage anyone who has not already done so to read Jia Tolentino’s article above, and then go read Jenny Zhang’s Buzzfeed article.

In the meanwhile, I am going to rectify my own narrow vision, for while I have been reading classical Chinese & Japanese poetry in translation for decades, I am entirely unfamiliar with the work of Asian-American poets. It is a rich body of work to explore, and I have begun by acquiring some older collections of Asian-American writing from the library and investigating the authors whom I meet there. The first of these is Diana Chang; she was born in New York in 1934, but grew up in China, only returning to the United States after World War II. Her 1956 novel, The Frontiers of Love, is believed to be the first novel by an American-born Chinese published in the United States. She went on to publish five more novels, and then began to publish collections of poetry — but so far as I can tell, poetry is where she began; her first publication seems to have been three poems in the November 1946 issue of Poetry Magazine. Here is one:

Knowing What Desires We Have Had

Knowing what desires we have had (some flaring, beautiful ambitions),
And have had to let go,
And knowing what questions we have put off answering,
Slurring over them, always,
Seeing double, gladly,
(Fearful, unbigoted minds grasping at both sides of every question),
It is not surprising, only regrettable that we should have come to this.

And now we are too-far gone:
We have practiced too well a partial living.
From here, there is no recovery.

To the roomful of us, it seems always to have been this way:
You, I, and the other, manifesting conversation,
Watching the gestures of talk.
We hear the silence, uneasily,
Fearing the next pause might give us away.

It is a beautiful poem, very clear, building that tension of regret and despair. It needs no biography to make it live and move, but I cannot read it unaware of Chang’s life; this was published when she had been in the United States for at most a year. Coming to New York to finish high school after living in wartime China seems a very definite double vision. Perhaps not what she meant at all, but it is there in my reading, in part because of this much more recent poem of hers which seems to be included in a number of textbooks and thus, one hopes, frequently taught:

Saying Yes

“Are you Chinese?”


Really Chinese?”
“No… not quite.”

Really American?”
“Well, actually, you see…”

But I would rather say

Not neither-nor
not maybe,
but both, and not only

The homes I’ve had,
the ways I am

I’d rather say it twice,

The more I read these poems and others by her, the more I consider her work, the more excited I am to have encountered her. I will be reading more of Chang’s poetry, and all of her novels which the library can provide, and will of course write about them here in the months to come.

Death at Wentwater Court (Carola Dunn, 1994)


Is it possible to write a cosy murder mystery set in a country house in the 1920s without inviting comparisons to a host of earlier authors? Perhaps if one is lucky in one’s readers — but I am afraid that Carola Dunn’s Death at Wentwater Court, the first of her lengthy series featuring the Honourable Daisy Dalrymple, had very bad luck indeed when it met me. As a fan of Golden Age detective fiction, and of interwar women’s fiction in general, I am the reader who stops and stares at the page when the chambermaid in Dunn’s novel calls something “wizard.” Why is the chambermaid using public school slang? Does she secretly read Tom Swift novels when not cleaning bedrooms? Does her use of schoolboy slang to a guest indicate something about the lack of control the young wife of the Earl has over her household? Or does it say something about the servants’ attitutdes towards Daisy? After all, Daisy is not quite a proper guest; she is visiting Wentwater Court in order to write a magazine article about the home and family. There are endless possibilities, but alas, the truth is that Dunn is simply making one of her many mistakes in tone, the sort of mistake that most readers will never even notice, or notice and brush aside — but here I am, the wrong reader for this book, assuming it all means something.

Unfortunately, even when Dunn is not mis-using slang or littering her descriptions with brand names in an exceptionally modern way reminiscent of the Gossip Girl novels, her book is not a success. The plot is all right, the characterisation one-dimensional but at least consistent, but her prose — well, it is very… prosy. When she wishes the reader to know that Daisy is unused to people being sympathetic about her fiancee’s death, she tells us that “Daisy was unused to wholehearted sympathy.” When she feels the need to remind the reader that, for some unknown reason, everyone confides in Daisy even if they have no reason to do so, she writes, “Daisy decided it would be untactful to tell him that he was by no means the first to confide in her.” And so it goes, for pages upon pages; it is like reading a story written by an extremely young person who is not sure that the audience will understand, so everything must be repeated again or again. When my son does this to tell me about his day at school I find it charming, but I prefer novelists to trust my intelligence and to realise that I am actually paying attention to their book & thus do not need salient points repeated. Indeed, I prefer novelists to construct their books so that the protagonists do not need to have a magical ability to inspire confidences from strangers in order for the plot to function, but I am willing to forgive much for enjoyment. This book did not quite outstrip my ability to forgive, but it came close.

So yes, clearly I am the wrong reader for this book — and yet I am frustrated, because if only Dunn wrote just a little better these would make excellent Silent Pleasures for the autumn. Alas, I peeked in at the second novel, and it is just as bad — another round of Daisy being confided in for no good reason except that Dunn cannot discover any other way to do exposition, so I think I must give up on these books; it is not as though I am in any danger of running out of things to read. But if any of you, my readers, are fans of Dunn’s novels, I would love to know what it is you enjoy in them.

The Fish Sauce Cookbook (Veronica Meewes, 2015)


There are, I have found, two ways that I read a cookbook. The first is pragmatically, looking for new dishes to make for myself and family, new techniques to be learned, ways to improve my skills in the kitchen. But I also read a cookbook as a text to be enjoyed, different from a novel or a collection of poetry, but still, a book. So to review The Fish Sauce Cookbook by Veronica Meewes, released just yesterday, I must tackle both these strands. How does it fare pragmatically? How does it fare as a text?


When I received the electronic ARC of this cookbook from NetGalley, I immediately set about cooking from it, and thus you see above a plate of the Vietnamese Caramel Chicken (on top of short-grain white rice) along with a side of the Skillet Greens. Both of these recipes involve making a caramel with fish sauce, and in both cases it was much more difficult than the recipe indicated. I muddled through, however, and all five of us at the table enjoyed the food — my daughter had the leftover chicken for lunch on Monday, and has already told me she would like me to make it again. I found the chicken delicious, the skin a mix of sweet and savory with deep notes from the fish sauce, the meat tender and juicy, and the sauce that resulted from cooking the chicken in caramel is absolutely addictive over rice. The greens were also good, although the Nước Mắm Apple Cider Gastrique drizzled over them suffered from my problem with the caramel; too much salt, not enough sweet or acid. Still, it was a good adventure in the kitchen, and I enjoyed both the cooking and the eating very much.

That being said, the more I consider this cookbook, the more I find that there is not really any reason for these “50 Umami-Packed Recipes from Around the Globe” to be together under one cover. It reminds me of the Junior League cookbooks I used to find at garage sales during my childhood, a collection of favourite recipes organised with some photographs, but no real attempt to unify them. These chefs seem to be writing for other professional chefs, expecting their readers will have a wood oven ready at hand, or can easily come by ascorbic acid or quail eggs, or know how to use a mandoline to slice things to the proper thinness. There is nothing wrong with complex recipes that demand a high level of skill, but in a cookbook I expect them to be curated and presented with encouragement and instruction, not simply written down without comment. Lacking this sort of framework, there is little difference between this and what I can find searching online for recipes using fish sauce, so in spite of the two dishes I made and enjoyed, I would not let it take up space on my already very full shelf of practical cookbooks.

What, then, about this cookbook as a text? Unfortunately, the lack of unifying structure keeps it from being pleasant to simply read. A purely aspirational cookbook filled with immensely complex recipes can be lovely to daydream over if the chef-author infuses their personality into the page, showing how and why they came to create these dishes. A pragmatic cookbook can be also a pleasure to read if it is informative; I am interested in regional cooking, in food history, and in personal stories. This cookbook has an interesting piece at the beginning about the ways in which fish sauce is made, and a practical guide to different brands, but beyond that it did not contain any of these elements. I suppose, in the end, that I was looking for a very different cookbook — the history of the ingredient, a selection of traditional recipes, then some plays on modern uses so I could begin to incorporate it into my own everyday cooking. That is not what this is, but for the reader seeking a collection of complex and far-ranging fish sauce recipes from a variety of chefs working today, this is where you will find it.

“The Dead” (Mark Strand, 1968)

As promised, here is one more by Strand, also from his 1968 collection Reasons for Moving. His language is simple, which for me helps it to cut deep.

The Dead

The graves grow deeper.
The dead are more dead each night.

Under the elms and the rain of leaves,
The graves grow deeper.

The dark folds of the wind
Cover the ground. The night is cold.

The leaves are swept against the stones.
The dead are more dead each night.

A starless dark embraces them.
Their faces dim.

We cannot remember them
Clearly enough. We never will.

I am looking forward to more Strand, in time. However, next week I am going to start looking at some Asian-American poets, as the outrageous behaviour of a certain white man in pretending to be a Chinese woman has made me realise that I know very little about Asian-American authors.

Reasons for Moving (Mark Strand, 1968)

I first encountered Mark Strand through Eleanor Wachtel’s interview with him on the CBC Writers & Company podcast. Usually I do not much enjoy hearing writers read their own work, but I fell in love with Strand’s voice, in both the literal and stylistic senses, and with his dry, sudden humour which is so similar to mine. He had a long and varied career, publishing poetry for five decades as well as translating, writing children’s books and criticism, and editing various anthologies until his death in 2014. Although the interview was from 1999, I only heard it a few months back, when I began to finally listen to the years of podcasts I had downloaded, and even though it is foolish, I wish very much I had met Strand’s work while he was still alive; I would have written some sort of joyful letter of my excitement at his poetry, perhaps, although that is an easy thing to say in retrospect. It may well be that having the chance I would not have taken it. Regardless, I do feel in discovering him only just after his death that I missed some opportunity, however ridiculous it is.

As for this collection, it is slender, only 47 pages, and the poems are short and deceptively simple. I have chosen two I liked very much.

The Man in Black

I was walking downtown
when I noticed a man in black,
black cape and black boots, coming toward me.

His arms out in front of him,
his fingers twinkling with little rings,
he looked like a summer night full of stars.

It was summer. The night was full of stars.
The tall buildings formed a hallway down which I walked.
The man in black came toward me.

The waxed tips of his mustache shone
like tiny spears and his teeth glistened.
I offered him my hand which he did not take.

I felt like a fool and stood in his black wake,
shaken and small, and my tears
swung back and forth in the sultry air like chandeliers.

It is that moment between the second and third stanzas, for me, which makes the poem, the repetition that changes it from the everyday recounting to the sense of something numinous occurring, the man who is like the summer night full of stars in the summer night full of stars, suggesting the man is the night, or there is no man, only the poet seeing the night both ways — it is one of those poems where my attempt to explain what I see in it trivialises, because I cannot say it better than the poet can, but for any reader who might be mystified by my joy, read it to yourself, slowly, and linger on that repetition, that space between those stanzas, where suddenly what seems to be reality changes and becomes much larger and stranger and more mysterious — and the poet weeps because he may not enter into it even as that last image suggests that he is already there.

Here is another, shorter, and much anthologised, but I had not heard it until Strand read it during the interview and it took my breath. I am glad to be able to remember it in his voice:

Keeping Things Whole

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

I will share one more from this collection tomorrow, I think; I find I cannot resist, nor is there any reason to.