1. All our living is in the attempt. Wherever we turn we are greeted with an ending. We are standing on the edge of a collapse. One world ends and another begins. 2. A memory: in the summer we tread along the coastline, leaping from rock to rock, navigating its crevices with our bare feet.… Continue reading Tending Joy at the End of the World
My current notebook began over a year ago (October 2019, another time / another life) but it is only recently that I have started to write in it again. Someone in my writing class asks: Do you ever read your old notebooks and realise you're still writing about the same things? I think about this… Continue reading notes on turning
"The hunger I have is bigger than any object. It is difficult to thoroughly imagine contentedness with some money or the love of a good man. Or with the soft drool of a daschund. Or with even the reddest most mammalian orgasm. It is difficult to imagine being content for more than ten minutes with… Continue reading On My Mind (2)
it is august and what have you lost? tell me and i will show you mine i will point you to the billboard hanging over the side of the freeway and the billboard will point you to my heart (heart beating. heart out of my chest and in my hand. heart falling to the floor… Continue reading august (heart poem)
poetry enters— brings me flowers and a hundred different words for them: bloom, spring, the rise and fall of your breaths. comes & shows me a way in a different light. says here are your metaphors use them wisely, excessively, abundantly, or not at all. i listen, i write,i turn my hands… Continue reading The Poet Falls in Love
'Memory is hunger,' Ernest Hemingway wrote in A Moveable Feast. I read this line this morning in Ellena Savage's book, Blueberries, while the wind moved through the tree leaves and into my apartment. I think I am hungry. Recently, I have found myself messaging old friends. Friends who, by the natural flow of life and… Continue reading Memory is Hunger
"It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends. I can remember now, with clarity that makes nerves in the back of my neck constrict, when New York began for me, but I cannot lay my finger upon the moment it ended, can never cut through the ambiguities and… Continue reading On My Mind
One. i breathe deeply and imagine myself flickering like sunlight falling through leaves: a trick of light, and it is possible i am here to tell you it is possible. to become a blade of grass and the wind that blows through it, the damp soil and the laughter and the forever. it is spring.… Continue reading 3 poems
Summer, August '17 — Photo Journal
There are rooms in homes where no light gets in. I want to say that is me. I want to say there is something pounding against my chest that isn’t my heart. There are already so many poems— I trip over them, find them soaking into my back when I lie on the grass, hear… Continue reading Moonless
ANTHEA YANG 