“He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed
for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy,
bringing his sheaves with him.”
Psalm 126:6 (ESV)
Seoul, 1418
there are quiet miracles
along this river. words
are beginning to take shape,
the stars are beginning to
realign, letters will nourish
the soil. but these circular walls
will not always hold, roaring
currents will stir under
silk folds and the roots
of this tree will dig
not only deep,
but wide.
Canton | Kuala Lumpur, 1900
these junks come
bearing open hands
and barren tongues,
taking to textures of
pencilled reports
and dusted tracks.
home takes the
shape of new mouthfuls
and the tingle of belacan,
the cool of oil palms
and humid gospel halls.
but unspoken murmurs
cannot stay ignored
for long. over waters
they came and over
waters they will go.
Seoul | Hong Kong, 1969
there is refuge amidst
towering green hills. the
trails cross from peninsula
to port, bereft of visions
of squalid cells. there are
echoes in local print and
communal lyrics; the
cacophony of this home
has a neon gleam. for
theirs is a world of disco
lights and wantan min,
bayside walks and the
foamy sea, heels clutched
from anxious feet.
Kuala Lumpur | Houston, 1981
they say these streets
were paved with aspiration.
the ranches are far from
our cul-de-sac. at church
the peace shows who
arrived first. dusty staircases
nestle an ornamental clock.
the angklung rests beside the
piano and the swords above
the organ. turkey bones salt
the jook and the stuffing is
full of lapchung. these are
burritos not popiah, skewers
not satay, but at least our
names can remain
the same.
New York | Singapore, 1997
marriage was an episcopal
church in a concrete borough,
imagined in faded photos
on a living room cupboard. in
traded cityscapes emerge
questions of what it means
to taste perennial unease. for
there is no continuity in
sweat-stained uniforms, in
red-scratched booklets and
stripe-smeared faces.
automated welcomes ring
hollow, but the newscasters
who bow and the billowing
smoke and the whispers
good night let me know
that i’m home.
going home
As a sequence, going home unfolds with a mixture of astonishing technical assurance and intense personal and physical immediacy. We are reminded that the tongue tastes as well as speaks, and that the complex experience of a many-layered cultural history is built into the whole life of the body. These are poems in which the meaningfulness of the convergence of body and soul is wonderfully captured; a rare, vivid, sensitive, precise voice.
Excerpt - "5 foundings"
Landmark Books
2022
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jonathan Chan
Jonathan Chan is a writer and editor of poems and essays. He has most recently been based between Singapore and New Haven, Connecticut and was educated at Cambridge and Yale Universities. His work has appeared in anthologies, journals, and magazines. He has an abiding interest in faith, identity, and creative expression. going home is his first book of poems.
Short Notes with Jonathan Chan
What does "Mata Hati | 心眼 | Eye of the Heart | மனக்கண் வழியே" mean to you in writing?
Often, literature and its composition stem from moments of emotional or moral clarity. The eye of the heart suggests that which provides these particular visions, of love, of mercy, of care, of terror, which sustain or guide a piece of writing into being.
What does your writing process look like? Do you type or write? Are there multiple drafts, long pauses, or sudden bursts of activity?
Many circumstances lead to poetry – a moment of reckoning, a moving film, an affecting piece of art. I keep a page of ideas and lines in my Notes app and dedicate time to sitting and writing poems, usually by typing. Some come in bursts, other require sustained effort and revision.
What does your working space look like?
My desk is littered with books, files, bookmarks, letters, and pens. Sometimes what I need to write is less the desk itself but a feeling of solitude, whether by being alone in a room or having a corner to retreat to, where thought and feeling find themselves less impeded.
Make an elevator pitch for your shortlisted work in 30 words or less.
My family is scattered across Texas, New York, Hong Kong, Singapore, and Seoul. going home is the culmination of years of reflecting on what makes and sustains a home.
Could you share a pivotal moment as you were writing this work?
going home is the successor to a manuscript that first came into being during my National Service, when questions of citizenship became pronounced. The renaming of the manuscript as going home, after one of the poems inside, reflects the moment I recognised that as the collection's key organising motif.
If you could give one advice to yourself when you were writing this book, what would it be?
To quote Mary Oliver, things take the time that they take. There will be rejections, structural changes, rearrangements, frustrations, and self-doubt. Think of the journey less as one toward self-promotion, but more as an opportunity to share a particular poetic and personal vision with a community of readers.
