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.


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