no samson

These days I mark time in haircuts.
Just three weeks and it
starts to form   tufts   between my fingers.
I have them go as as near to the scalp
as keeps my head black.

I watch the the shears skim locks
like fat off broth,
the tiles dappling dark.

I pay four dollars more than 
what it’d cost a man.
Cheap for what it’s worth.
It’s perplexing, this worry
so fresh and exact

( no one’s ever tried to grab me by the )

but I have this fear.
I cut my hair.

grey city

shanghai is hungry for babies

the city grey under grey

white hairs, concrete, glass and fog

everyone’s talking about the pm2.5

everyone is old and getting older

my paternal-older-girlcousin’s mother-in-law

(even chinese doesn’t have one word for that)

gives us red pocket money even though

we’re 25 and 30. the australian government

gives two-year visas now, so they can visit

while fit to travel but she worries

about later

they’re the dutiful parents

of the one-child generation

still waiting

for the one after that

my obstetrician grandma

reminisces about my birth

i don’t know if she’ll ever

see another

shanghai is hungry for babies

and i’m another barren daughter

prodigal returner

another loose end

and end of the line

i don’t change my name for marriage

but i’ll change it for almost

anything else

i come home with more words

for a city cluttered with language

keen to hear a small

inarticulate cry

visa

a four-page form, two passport photos,

a letter of invitation, photocopies of

my grandparents’ residency cards & 120 AUD

for a 10 day visa despite three stamps

in my five-year-old passport

and the birthplace:

Shanghai

mum handles my application, the ordeal

familiar through her twice-yearly

returns, she knows to write

___ under “former name”

not “Chinese name”

her writing is script,

mine like drawing

she says

what’s the point of home if you need an invitation

i think to myself

well, we’re not Palestinian

in English they call the country

the same as what they call us

in Australia i’ve been so many places

without an invitation

and i’m not sure

i’m going home

arrival card

toufa jian guo                                       [you’ve cut your hair]

she says.

zeli xie zhongwen mingzi.                  [write your Chinese name here]

i hand back the arrival card,

apologetic, uncertain of every stroke,

embarrassed

i’d put my occupation as “writer”.

flight 2

the flight attendant says (in chinese)

you have such pretty eyes

to the eurasian toddler in the front row

i remember the chemist

taking my passport photo

saying (in english)

what lovely big eyes you have

i can’t remember

did he say

for a chinese girl?

flight

ten and a half hours

from my hometown  to my birthplace

i start crying as soon as we lift off the earth

the woman across the aisle vomits as we land

we’re both travel-sick

40 poets, 1 cup

On Saturday I made my debut at the Doris Leadbetter Poetry Cup. The first round saw 40 poets try to shine in under 60 seconds each, and then 10 poets were selected for the second round, with a 2-minute time limit. The winner was Kerry Loughrey, who also took the cup in 2011, and I came second place!

It’s been a while since my last slam and some years since my last appearance at a “mainstream” poetry event (ie, not a specifically queer, feminist or anti-racist event) so I was really thrilled to place and it was lovely to see a few old faces and lots of new ones. I felt like the Cup was much more diverse than events I’ve attend in the past, in terms of the themes, style and delivery of the words as well as the ages, ethnicities, genders and backgrounds of the poets. Obviously I was happy with my result, but also I felt the judges didn’t favour a particular style in their selections as the shortlist was very varied, which is a real accomplishment in judging as often you hear complaints that there’s a bias for or against humour, or dense metaphors, or hip-hop and def styles, or storytelling, or whatever else.

Anyway, you can read Kerry’s winning poems here and mine here. In Round 1, I did ‘Chinky’, an old piece that clocks in at under 40 seconds. I worried that it was too simple and rhymed too much but I chose it because I knew I could perform it confidently by memory and wouldn’t have to worry about going overtime. The second piece was a new one, ‘Noli me tangere’. It’s a response to a 16th C poem by Thomas Wyatt. The Latin means ‘touch me not’.

You’re asleep and magnificent.

Haughty, lovely, angry. All brow

and pout. You’re steaming.
Your nostrils flare, your whiskers bristle.
I wonder if you’re dreaming revenge,

or triumph -

I wonder if you’re dreaming of me

on all fours,

skittish and prone to stray,

tossing my hindquarters

under the sizzling brand

so my hide is smeared with

your mark. Noli me tangere.

Caesar’s I am.

I touch you     gingerly.

But not like ginger at all.

Once I was ginger:

sweet, hot and tough.

Now I soothe your scratched throat

after sharp words. I open my mouth

and you fill it with something

that is not sound.

Now I am a cup of milk.

You lap at me with a broad tongue,

drink me up without opening your eyes.

Finally I am pale and soft,

a pearl without the stone, lustre

without form, light on the water.

I give kingdoms to be your girl.

I give voice & everything underwater

& all the mermaids I have known.

I give tears enough for a sea again.

Caesar’s I am.

Not tame, and not wild.

Practised and sure.

Cautious and free.

Noli me tangere. Caesar’s I am.