I tried to get in touch with my inner knowledge.
Turns out I have no inner knowledge.
I used to think I did.
Could sit on a rock contemplating the frog, the river, the rotisserie chicken
and know that everything is connected to everything else.
Or, that I had a messed-up childhood and never fully left the home.
Or, that abandonment was a product of eating too much candy.
But then the dog saw the squirrel.
If you ever want to feel real,
even important,
cry on the street.
Sob. Heave. Bum a half-smoked cigarette.
Longing to make his life compact as sushi, my shame
borrows the saintâs apron, shackles his swivel in her cincture. My shame
walks the earth with an electric blanket, goes to the gym to window-shop with
      it, heads for the hills where he takes selfies meditating. To the person
      on the bus who inquires, my shame
By ANN INOSHITA
This poem is excerpted from Eh, No Talk Li’dat.
Eh, No Talk LiâDat, an anthology forthcoming from Kaya Press, is centered on Pidgin, or Hawaiâi Creole English. The following poem is excerpted from this anthology.
Pidgin began as a dialect of trade between Native Hawaiians and Western seafarers and merchants and evolved as a Creole language in the sugar plantations in the 1920s and â30s, yet, until today, it is deemed substandard by school administrators and is not recognized as a Creole language by the State Department of Education. It is the only language I can think of in the U.S. that was co-authored by the various ethnic groups in the islands: Native Hawaiians, Pacific Islanders (Samoa, Tonga), sugar planters and migrant laborers from Asia (China, Japan, Korea, the Philippines), Portugal (Madeira and the Azores), and Puerto Rico. Recent speakers and innovators of Pidgin include transplants from Micronesia. In addition to the poems, stories, and excerpted plays, all written in Pidgin and contributed by over forty of Hawaiâiâs writers, the genre-defying Eh, No Talk LiâDat includes archival materials, newspaper articles, transcripts of televised comic skits, and comic strips.
                 â R. ZAMORA LINMARK
Â
March 16, 2021
Trump blamed China fo COVID-19
calling da virus Kung Flu and da China virus,
so get pleny people from pleny states going afta Asian Americans
blaming Asians fo da pandemic.
I understood power
as the ability to excite
desire. When I passed
the socialists camped out
in the square in Mexico City
last summer I cringed
in recognition and took a picture
that I texted to my anarchist
in another country.
At first I thought the pileated woodpecker
that lifted up from the yard as we came home
from a walk in the woods, flapping
away on long black wings that curved
up at the tips and flashed white
underneath, might be a visitation
Morning wind speaks a dialect of smoke,
brings news from yesterday and tomorrow:
whatâs burning there will soon enough burn here.
One bullet. Even a rumor of bullet
restless in the chamber of a neighborâs gun.
To run, before he arrives with his god.
This poem is excerpted from Eh, No Talk Li’dat.
Eh, No Talk LiâDat, an anthology forthcoming from Kaya Press, is centered on Pidgin, or Hawaiâi Creole English. The following poem is excerpted from this anthology. Â
Pidgin began as a dialect of trade between Native Hawaiians and Western seafarers and merchants and evolved as a Creole language in the sugar plantations in the 1920s and â30s, yet, until today, it is deemed substandard by school administrators and is not recognized as a Creole language by the State Department of Education. It is the only language I can think of in the U.S. that was co-authored by the various ethnic groups in the islands: Native Hawaiians, Pacific Islanders (Samoa, Tonga), sugar planters and migrant laborers from Asia (China, Japan, Korea, the Philippines), Portugal (Madeira and the Azores), and Puerto Rico. Recent speakers and innovators of Pidgin include transplants from Micronesia. In addition to the poems, stories, and excerpted plays, all written in Pidgin and contributed by over forty of Hawaiâiâs writers, the genre-defying Eh, No Talk LiâDat includes archival materials, newspaper articles, transcripts of televised comic skits, and comic strips.Â
â R. ZAMORA LINMARKÂ
After Hart Craneâs âAt Melvilleâs TombâÂ
Da ocean like us know we all going die.Â
She stay keeping all our bones.Â
I seen da wave take âemÂ
den bring âem to da shoreÂ
den take âem back out again.Â
Plenny bones, Â
and inside da bonesâmana.1 âŻÂ
One day, da ocean all quiet,Â
da waves all calm, den alla suddenÂ
all kapakahi.2Â
Da waves wen straight up,Â
alla way up, Â
up to da skyÂ
foâ real kine was all spiritual likeÂ
like I was at churchÂ
and everybody all quiet. Â
I wen3 look upÂ
up at da stars, and das when,Â
inside da starsÂ
I seen all da bonesÂ
all da answers Â
to everything. âŻÂ
Our fren Herman, Â
way up high in da blue wavesÂ
he not evah going come back.Â
Way up high, Â
his bones, his manaÂ
da ocean stay keeping âem Â
so lucky da ocean Â
foâ keep Herman foâ evahÂ
cause only she can.Â
â
Â
Amalia Bueno is an educator and writer based in Honolulu. Her poems and stories have been published by Bamboo Ridge, Hawaii Pacific Review, and Philippine American Literary House, among others. Her literary interests include Pinay poetry, decolonization, and Hawaiâi Creole English. Her poetry chapbook, Home Remedies, was published in 2015.
By SEAN CHO A.
in the absence of wind: stillness of course.
the slowness of the leaves is a reminder
of the importance of scale. of time. scale
of time. the stillness in the branches becomes
Some descended from the arms
of our chapel cross, while lower
brothers abandoned statues
to bathe and drink at the heart
of our campus. Here, this flock
is no congress, no murderâ
too innocent for such names.
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