10 Books to Read This Asian Pacific American Heritage Month

10 Books to Read This Asian Pacific American Heritage Month

Birthright by George Abraham

Abraham’s highly anticipated debut constructs a dialogue in which “every pronoun is a Free Palestine.” Through poems of immense emotion, and the use of alluring form, Abraham crafts work that examines what we come to own by existing. Birthright begs readers to stay, to stay lucid, to stay alive, to stay present in this very moment; as it knows now is all we are guaranteed. As trauma seeps through generations, can the body deconstruct its own inheritance?  In a world that only takes, what is owed? What is your Birthright, and where is home?

Starling Days by Rowan Hisayo Buchanan

A gorgeously wrought novel, variously about love, mythology, mental illness, Japanese beer, and the times we need to seek out milder psychological climates, Rowan Hisayo Buchanan’s Starling Days—written in exquisite prose rich with lightly ironic empathy—is a complex and compelling work of fiction by a singularly gifted writer.

Cut to Bloom by Arhm Choi Wild

What does it take to unlearn the survival instinct of trauma? What does it take to choose our tools instead of wearing down the ones we’ve been handed? In Cut to Bloom, Arhm Choi Wild attempts to forge answers to these questions by navigating the hyphen, sometimes chasm, between the Asian and American identity, between queerness and the politics of belonging, between survival and the possibility of choice.

Foreign Bodies by Kimiko Hahn

Kimiko Hahn’s tenth collection investigates the grip that seemingly insignificant objects exert on our lives. Itself a cabinet of curiosities, the collection provokes the same surprise, wonder, and pangs of recognition Hahn felt upon opening drawer after drawer of these swallowed, and retrieved, objects—a radiator key, a child’s perfect attendance pin, a mother-of-pearl button. The speaker of these moving poems sees reflections of these items in the heartbreaking detritus of her family home, and in her long-dead mother’s Japanese jewelry.

little gods by Meng Jin

On the night of June Fourth, a woman gives birth in a Beijing hospital alone. Thus begins the unraveling of Su Lan, a brilliant physicist who until this moment has successfully erased her past, fighting what she calls the mind’s arrow of time. A story of migrations literal and emotional, spanning time, space and class, Little Gods is a sharp yet expansive exploration of the aftermath of unfulfilled dreams, an immigrant story in negative that grapples with our tenuous connections to memory, history, and self.

The Magical Language of Others by E.J. Koh

The Magical Language of Others is a powerful and aching love story in letters, from mother to daughter. After living in America for over a decade, Eun Ji Koh’s parents return to South Korea for work, leaving fifteen-year-old Eun Ji and her brother behind in California. Overnight, Eun Ji finds herself abandoned and adrift in a world made strange by her mother’s absence. Her mother writes letters, in Korean, over the years seeking forgiveness and love―letters Eun Ji cannot fully understand until she finds them years later hidden in a box.

Habitat Threshold by Craig Santos Perez

With Habitat Threshold, Craig Santos Perez has crafted a timely collection of eco-poetry that explores his ancestry as a native Pacific Islander, the ecological plight of his homeland, and his fears for the future. The book begins with the birth of the author’s daughter, capturing her growth and childlike awe at the wonders of nature. As it progresses, Perez confronts the impacts of environmental injustice, the ravages of global capitalism, toxic waste, animal extinction, water rights, human violence, mass migration, and climate change. Throughout, he mourns lost habitats and species, and confronts his fears for the future world his daughter will inherit.

A Nail the Evening Hangs On by Monica Sok

Monica Sok illuminates the experiences of Cambodian diaspora and reflects on America’s role in escalating the genocide in Cambodia. A Nail the Evening Hangs On travels from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap, where Tuol Sleng and other war museums reshape the imagination of a child of refugees; to New York City and Lancaster, where the dailiness of intergenerational trauma persists on the subway or among the cornfields of a small hometown. Embracing collective memory, both real and imagined, these poems move across time to break familial silence. Sok pieces together voices and fragments—using persona, myth, and imagination—in a transformative work that builds towards wholeness.

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This Is One Way to Dance by Sejal Shah

In the linked essays that make up her debut collection, This Is One Way to Dance, Sejal Shah explores culture, language, family, and place. Throughout the collection, Shah reflects on what it means to make oneself visible and legible through writing in a country that struggles with race and maps her identity as an American, South Asian American, writer of color, and feminist. Shah asks and attempts to answer the question: How do you move in such a way that loss does not limit you? This Is One Way to Dance introduces a vital new voice to the conversation about race and belonging in America.

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Shahr-e-jaanaan: The City of the Beloved by Adeeba Shahid Talukder

Shahr-e-jaanaan sets out to recreate the universe of Urdu and Persian poetic tradition. As the speaker maps her romances onto legends, directing their characters perform her own tragedy, their fantastical metaphors easily lend themselves to her fluctuating mental state. Cycling between delirious grandeur and wretched despair, she is torn between two selves— the pitiable lover continually rejected, and the cruel, unattainable beloved comparable in her exaltation to a god.

Read an interview with the author here!

2020 Kundiman Retreat Update

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We hope you and your family are safe and healthy during these difficult times.

We’ve made the difficult decision to cancel the 2020 Retreat, as Fordham University has canceled all summer conferences that require housing this year. While we understand this is the safest option, this is disappointing news for us, as we’re sure that it must be for our incoming fellows and faculty. We are grateful to everyone who shared their work with us by applying, as well as the fellows and faculty who carved out a week of their summer schedule to be with us. We are deferring our 2020 fellows to the 2021 Retreat and will later be in touch with what this means for applications next year. Meanwhile, we hope everyone stays safe and virtually in touch with our community. We are looking into new ways to stay connected to everyone, so stay tuned!

10 Asian American Poems of Protest to Read this April

Courtesy of Corky Lee/UCLA Labor Center

Courtesy of Corky Lee/UCLA Labor Center

In celebration of National Poetry Month, we’ve curated a list of poems continuing along the theme of March 2020’s Poetry Coalition Project, I am deliberate and afraid of nothing: Poetry & Protest, based off the poem “New Year’s Day” by Audre Lorde.

This collection of writing speaks to how poetry can be used to provoke dialogue around the long-standing issues that have been present within our diverse Asian American communities, such as topics of immigration, gender, sexuality, politics, & many more.

Audre Lorde’s use of the word “deliberate” suggests intention–– these poems are not aimless in their fearlessness. They are poems that approach these particular issues through anger, through grief, through joy, through love & through loss. In light of spring 2020’s period of lockdown and isolation, we hope that these poems spark not only awareness, but also a sense of community, solidarity, & courage during difficult times. As Jess Rizkallah writes: “i was an animal in the heat / i was better than any son. / i could have easily escaped / but for once i wanted / to win.”

––Helli Fang, Spring Communications Intern ‘20

New Year’s Day by Audre Lorde

The day feels put together hastily
like a gift for grateful beggars
being better than no time at all
but the bells are ringing
in cities I have never visited
and my name is printed over doorways
I have never seen
While extracting a bone
or whatever is tender or fruitful
from the core of indifferent days
I have forgotten
the touch of sun
cutting through uncommitted mornings
The night is full of messages
I cannot read
I am too busy forgetting
air like fur on my tongue
and these tears
which do not come from sadness
but from grit in a sometimes wind

Rain falls like tar on my skin
my son picks up a chicken heart at dinner
asking
does this thing love?
Deft unmalicious fingers of ghosts
pluck over my dreaming
hiding whatever it is of sorrow
that would profit me

I am deliberate
and afraid
of nothing.


10 Asian American Poems of Protest to Read this April

from “Hades” by Aria Aber

Where did he go? I asked.
Where do the missing ever go?

Imagine silence, the tyrant, growing thick
over the casket lowered into the ground

from “Quarantine” by Franny Choi

Because I did not have to smell the cow’s fear,
because I did not have to pin the man, watch his eyes
go feral, because I did not have to drag the stones
that formed in the child’s body,

from “After Being Asked if I Write the “Occasional Poem” By Kimiko Hahn

After leaving Raxruhá, after
crossing Mexico with a coyote,
after reaching at midnight
that barren New Mexico border,
a man and his daughter
looked to Antelope Wells
for asylum and were arrested.

from “Aubade for Non-Citizens” by Lo Kwa Mei-en

Alien status, a blue bourgeouis dress, the hustle of Rome. A waltz—
zoom out—the citizen ingenue's cool, cool crinoline and persona
buckling in the silhouette the ahistorical hourglass.

from “[ ]” by Sahar Muradi

to retreat, move back
from a forward or threatened position
              as in chess, a piece

to withdraw, leave
to remove or take away
              as in love

from “One Vote” by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

My parents are from countries
where mangoes grow wild and bold
and eagles cry the sky in arcs and dips.
America loved this bird too and made

it clutch olives and arrows.

from “icarus puts on her make up” by Jess Rizkallah

i tied my hair into a ponytail
and when a strand on one side came loose
to frame my face, i felt beautiful
like an arab woman.

from “Check (Incantation Composed on the Occasion of Being Classified as Inadmissable)” by Patrick Rosal

Too
      solemn Too here Too
there Too queer
    In this era     every world I enter
checks a passport      And
      every room   is a world

from “Shooting for the Sky by Purvi Shah

  Survival


is more than instinct –– it is soul
                        prerogative –– a silver

spoon in a girl’s underwear.

from “Chinese Silence No. 22” by Timothy Yu

And when I say a wall,
I do not mean a wall of thousands of miles
that is visible from the moon.

Remembering Kimarlee Nguyen

Kimarlee reading at the Mentorship Lab Final Reading at Books Are Magic on December 11, 2019.

Kimarlee reading at the Mentorship Lab Final Reading at Books Are Magic on December 11, 2019.

It is with great sadness that we share the loss of Kimarlee Nguyen, a dear member of our community & an inaugural Mentorship Fellow, who passed away on April 5, 2020 at age 33 due to complications from COVID-19. Kimarlee was a brilliant, unforgettable writer we are devastated to lose. She was one of three fiction writers in Kundiman’s first Mentorship Lab, which brought together nine emerging writers for an intensive six-month program. In her application letter, she spoke about the importance of community, and we count ourselves as lucky to have communed and shared space alongside her this past year. At the end of the program, we asked each writer to send in a testimonial about their time in the program. Kimarlee’s was especially representative of her generous, warm spirit and her devotion to community:

“I’m really bad at stuff like this — explaining in just a few sentences how a six-month fellowship has changed me. I can go on and on about things like community and confidence and representation, all things that Kundiman gave me in spades. But perhaps the most important thing this mentorship has given me is the belief that things can be different.

I came from an MFA program where the majority of my classmates either ignored my work or spent time ‘othering’ my narrative. I have only recently come to terms with how damaging that environment was to not only my writing but also to my own self-confidence.

People out there can be so cruel. But people can also be so kind, so loving and that’s what this mentorship has taught me. We writers do not need to be at each other’s throats, trying to one up the other in order to be some crazy version of ‘the best’ or ‘the most accomplished’. The Mentorship Lab is a space where all of us are fully ourselves, doing the hard work of creating and revising in a space that is safe, where all of us is seen, in all our genius and with all our flaws.” —Kimarlee Nguyen, December 2019

To honor Kimarlee, we’ve compiled a selection of her writing as well as remembrances from those who knew her. There is also a memorial fund for Kimarlee to assist her family with funeral costs; please consider donating if you can.

Kimarlee Nguyen and Monica Sok at the 2019 Kundiman Benefit. Photo by Jess X. Snow

Kimarlee Nguyen and Monica Sok at the 2019 Kundiman Benefit. Photo by Jess X. Snow

Writing

Please join us in reading and remembering Kimarlee’s crucial voice and beautiful storytelling.

The Ear of the Sky’ in Hyphen Magazine:

“Underneath the blanket, bouncing off the window, her words crawl up my arm and circle his bowed head. She speaks in Pali, the old language. I can’t follow along, but the words bring with them the heat of summer, the smell of incense and the saffron robes the monks wore, all gathered in a line.”

We Gather Here’ in Adroit Journal:

Kimarlee Nguyen at the 2019 Asian American Literature Festival. Photo by Tommy Piantone.

Kimarlee Nguyen at the 2019 Asian American Literature Festival. Photo by Tommy Piantone.

I put in to my nose and I take a deep, long smell. The panties still smell like her – I flick out my tongue and taste the inside triangle of silk. Just a taste of salt and something deeper too. I move quietly, taking off my shorts and slipping into the panties one leg at a time.

And In Your Eyes, It Looks Like…” in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal:

You are thinking to yourself that once this is all over, you will never wear beige again. For fourteen years of your life, the same colour, all the time, except for those six months where you were free and the world was technicoloured, and you wore every colour you could think of.

If You Cut Me Open, Right Now, This Is What You’ll Find’ in Drunken Boat:

“Where life gets real hard and the winters here get so cold that I feel my bones breaking and everyone in the house is screaming about stupid things that won’t matter tomorrow, I tip my head back like this, right and remember me, all bruises and anger, leaning back, just holding the mango to my nose, smelling, smelling all the good that is yet to come.”

A Short Reminder of How History Works’ in Matador Review

Mentorship Lab Reading at Books are Magic

Mentorship Lab Reading at Books are Magic

“When they came for her, she was busy packing a suitcase, something Ma told her to do, but like all girls who were straddling the line between teenager and adult, she didn’t think her Ma knew anything and waited until the square of light from the window was shadowed by the approaching iron-toed boots and hunched shoulders.”

Love Story’ in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal:

“You and I, on the edge of the seawall and I wanted to tremble in the radiance of the sun at its highest point in the sky. I would have said nothing and basked in the glory but you turned to me and told me to tell. So I did and I gave you the words for you to carry.”

This is a Story We All Know’ in Kartika Review:

“At school, our teachers would ask us if we were scared living where we lived, and we could only say, it’s home. Back then, we didn’t know a lot, but we knew what was and what wasn’t a secret.”

Memories

Pik-Shuen Fung & Kimarlee Nguyen.

Pik-Shuen Fung & Kimarlee Nguyen.

Pik-Shuen Fung, Mentorship Fellow: "The first time I spoke to Kimarlee was at the Lit Fest in DC, and I had just signed with the same agent as her. We only got to talk for a few minutes, but Kim was so warm and generous with her advice. She said, What do we call each other now that we have the same agent? I laughed bc I thought she was joking, but she said she was serious, and then took a selfie to commemorate the moment. What I remember now is how she had this beautiful unconstrained quality about her, and how much she absolutely unabashedly loved selfies."

Bushra Rehman, Mentorship Lab Fiction Mentor: "Love you Kimarlee. Everyone’s talking about the ways you were light. You are. The light of the world has dimmed with your passing. I hope you joy in your journey. I feel you would want me to talk about your writing. It was what brought us together, so I will: From the moment I read your work, I knew you were special. Then I met you in person and realized you were a powerhouse of spirit and talent. I was lucky enough to be your writing mentor through Kundiman. We talked often about your dreams, your future and the book you were so close to finishing. We talked about how difficult it was to balance the writing life with the demands of New York City public school teaching, as much as we loved our students.

You knew something was shifting. You were feeling so excited about the future, about living a writer’s life. I was excited for you, knowing how amazing you and your work were. I don’t know how to hold these dreams now. It’s been part of the ripping heartache.

Kimarlee, light to you, your extraordinary story-telling, your unforgettable smile, your light and your charm."

Kundiman Mentorship Lab Fiction Group: Divya Nair, Kimarlee Nguyen, Shrima, & Bushra Rehman.

Kundiman Mentorship Lab Fiction Group: Divya Nair, Kimarlee Nguyen, Shrima, & Bushra Rehman.

T Kira Madden, Mentorship Lab Creative Nonfiction Mentor: "Kimarlee Nguyen was and is an energy source that warms and deepens anyone lucky enough to share space with her, with her words. Just being near her, sitting next to her in a classroom, felt like a tremendous gift, an enlightening. I loved hearing about her students, about her artistic process; the way she described anything and everything from a square to a horse to her family was transcendent and indicative of a greater understanding. The literary community, and the world at large, will be lesser because of this physical loss, but her art and generosity of spirit will move through us, on and on."

2019 Mentorship Lab

2019 Mentorship Lab

Danielle Ola, Mentorship Fellow: "Over the past few days, I've found memories of Kimarlee in the most mundane places. In my morning coffee. In the ache of my shoulders. In a blinking cursor on a blank page. No matter how I try, they come to me in piecemeal. But I remember this: how Kimarlee would lift her chin whenever she spoke about her students, proud and reaching. How, within minutes of talking to her, it felt like I was missing home on the shoulder of an old friend. How she was always the first to remind us how precious we were to one another; how precious we were to her.

Kimarlee knew how special it was that we'd come to the Mentorship Lab and built a little family, one that knew how to hold each other in one moment and push forward in the next. In so many words, from the first reading to the last, she reminded us of this. We are so lucky we are to have one another. Be grateful.

You are so loved, Kimarlee. We're grateful for you."

Sulagna Sarkar, Student: "She wasn’t just a teacher, she wasn’t just another staff member. She was a role model, an influence, and a source of hope. Many of us students resorted to Ms. Nguyen to just talk. I remember once walking in when visiting her and although my friends and I would visit many of the teachers. My best friend had just been greeted with hugs joy laughter by Ms. Nguyen. She began to ask everything from how was the family, to how school was, to how he’s coping with anxiety, and not only did she do the same for me but she continued to ask us both such specific things to our life. It showed not only did she listen when we would go to her but she cared. So no, she wasn’t just a teacher. She was everything for a person that was struggling in our school. She was understanding and loving. She loved us all like her own children and she was loved, even if she didn’t know it, by ten times as many people because that’s just who she was. We will always love you Ms. Nguyen. Rest In Peace to a beautiful person both in and out."

Subarno, TBLS Class of 2004: "Ms. Nguyen was not only a teacher, she was a friend. At times I would feel so tired of the school environment and lose all motivation to work, but she kept me in check and made sure I not only was working but also having fun in the class. She was always so kind and made sure no one was ever upset or sad. We lost a teacher, a friend, a great person. The world will greatly miss your presence Ms. Nguyen. RIP."

Divya Nair, Mentorship Fellow: "Dear Kimarlee,

I wish the tears would flow from my eyes. Those are the tears that offer some catharsis, a fleeting lightness. But these are the tears that gush from the center of the spine, filling the ribcage to bursting -- a symptom of a particular grief

It is a rapacious grief, gulping up all the many orbiting, dormant, and subconscious sorrows of the heart, magnifying them in the context of this new reality.

This new reality no longer contains the corporeal you. Naps in parks on crisp fall days, hands clasped with an old friend but new love at a concert, a particular passion for lengthy train scenes in stories, sparkling eyes as you share warm and insightful wisdoms, a beautiful denim jumpsuit with hoop earrings, an eager anticipation of Cambodian Thanksgiving with family -- the kind of Thanksgiving that involves karaoke of course. These are the precious bits I remember of that you that is no longer here.

Nevertheless the celestial you persists in your stories -- potent, electric, important. They were stories that left those fortunate enough to behold them stripped naked, vulnerable, breathless.

And that's the crux of it all -- the power you wielded with your spirit and with your pen. This is what you leave for us -- fused tight upon itself into a North Star burning hot and wild in the liminal space separating our worlds.

No star can take your place but it will guide us as we wait to share your world again.

Love, Divya"

Paul Aster Stone-Tsao, Mentorship Fellow: "I remember when I first met you in DC at the Asian American Lit Fest. Exuberant. That's the word that first comes to mind.

I remember thinking to myself wow– what a beautiful person with such radiant energy. I was so excited that you were a fellow Kundiman fellow and that we'd get to spend time together the next couple months. I remember wanting to be pals with you almost immediately and was jabbering on about some nonsense because I wanted to talk to you more and was curious about who you were and how your trip to DC was as you were joining us from another writers' residency you had just wrapped with.

You were so gracious and kind and I will never forget the space you held for all of us and the way you held yourself– such power, grace, strength, and a tenderness so fierce it strikes me today in its lingering resonance, thrumming and gold– molten. It is warming my heart now, to hear the sonorous sweetness of your voice– the fearlessness with which you spoke your truth, how even the smallest blade of grass would sway to how it is your words would reach into the recesses of what most of us would turn away from but you faced it, and spoke. I heard you. We heard you. And are listening still. Truly, unforgettable.

It is and has been an honor to have been blessed enough to have witnessed you in your presence– to have gotten to share time and space and energy with you. Your being touched me entirely and you made a difference by simply being in the goddamn world, shining and dazzling absolutely everyone with your smile and the love you had for all of us lucky enough to have known you even if for a little while. I remember it to this day– how your smile, your laughter, your wit could light up an entire room even on the most tough days of working through hard and difficult matters of memory, trauma, emotional windstorms during our Kundiman workshops. You were a beacon of such hope and wisdom– and it continues to radiate even today as I write this.

My time shared with you is a gift I will cherish quite simply forever– in and through all the iterations of it– with and alongside the memory of you and how this memory perseveres on– giving to all of us, light.

You said that 'perhaps the most important thing this mentorship has given to me is the belief that things can be different'– and indeed, with you and the way you dared to touch the world back– they can.

My love to you Kimarlee, and to your family, loved ones, friends, colleagues, students, mentors– quite simply, all the people you touched in this living. I will miss you dearly. Thank you, for you."

2019 Mentorship Lab at the Kundiman Benefit.

2019 Mentorship Lab at the Kundiman Benefit.

A Poem for Kimarlee

by Paul Aster Stone-Tsao

4/07/20

...as a creek on a spring day/ when all the flowers/ still sing for you

I. 

disguised as a coin

an angel tosses itself. 

it lands somewhere in your hand. 

you reach for a moment

and the glass at the tables' edge trembles. 

under the creek, a birds' cry. 

in your dreams tonight

a melody blooms

II

that the tears/ tears

are flowing now 

in more than one direction. 

life still brims over

in the multiplicity of this folded moment. 

"i love you" is a gesture

too, that gives toward how your memory could exceed itself

and continue in the invaginative

time of the Now,     and live

Together While Apart

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Dear Kundiman Fam, 

During a virtual meeting last week, Kundiman Staff and Board discussed how our rapidly-changing reality has necessitated a radical rethink about what it means to be together, while apart. How do we care—for our loved ones, our colleagues, and even our families—from a distance? How can we at Kundiman serve you, our community, during this time of upheaval and uncertainty?

In our conversation, with board and staff, we returned to what we know best, the power of community. We know that we need you—our readers, fellows, workshop participants, lovers of literature—more than ever. 

Almost two decades ago, Sarah Gambito and Joseph Legaspi sought to create a nurturing environment for Asian American literature. We write you from a distance, but we want to assure you that we are as connected today as we have ever been.  

This unprecedented time of social distancing is a solitary one, but it doesn’t need to be.  Please reach out to us and we’ll do everything possible to respond with consideration and care. We at Kundiman are devoted to create new and meaningful ways of being together, even while apart. I am deeply grateful for the compassion and support demonstrated daily by this community. Let’s continue to take care of each other during this turbulent time, and long after!

In Solidarity,

J. Mae Barizo, Board President
Cathy Linh Che, Executive Director

March 2020 Events for the Poetry Coalition

Each year, we love taking part in the Poetry Coalition's month of dedicated programming. The Poetry Coalition is a national alliance dedicated to working together to promote the value poets bring to our culture and the important contribution poetry makes in the lives of people of all ages and backgrounds. Members are nonprofit multi-genre literary organizations that serve poets of specific racial, ethnic, or gender identities, backgrounds, or communities, and we are proud to be a founding member. Each March, members present programming across the country on a theme of social importance. March 2020's theme is "I am deliberate / and afraid / of nothing: Poetry & Protest." Read more about this month's programming here!

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For this year's social impact March programming with the Poetry Coalition, we have two special projects. We'll be presenting Poetry of Protest: A Workshop with Purvi Shah at The Ace Hotel New York on March 15th. This workshop will examine poetic engagement with protest, particularly the connections of public engagement, craft, and lyrical activism on the page and shared aloud in the world. We will draw upon mentor poems to guide our discussion of the techniques poets use to develop a landscape of protest and action, and we will practice using these techniques in our own writing via a series of prompts. Please register in advance if you are interested!

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We will also be hosting our annual Postcard Project! Fellows will be writing and mailing one postcard poem each day while meditating on the theme of poetry and protest. Please join us by writing your own postcards and sending them out. We'll be uploading pictures of postcards all month on our social media. You can tweet us @kundimanforever or email an image of your postcard to communications@kundiman.org. Make sure to use the Poetry Coalition hashtags #PoetryandProtest and #PoetryCoalition!

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Now Available: Shahr-e-jaanaan: The City of the Beloved by Adeeba Shahid Talukder

We're thrilled to announce that the winner of the 2017 Kundiman Poetry Prize, Shahr-e-jaanaan: The City of the Beloved by Adeeba Shahid Talukder, is now available from Tupelo Press!

Shahr-e-jaanaan sets out to recreate the universe of Urdu and Persian poetic tradition. As the speaker maps her romances onto legends, directing their characters perform her own tragedy, their fantastical metaphors easily lend themselves to her fluctuating mental state. Cycling between delirious grandeur and wretched despair, she is torn between two selves— the pitiable lover continually rejected, and the cruel, unattainable beloved comparable in her exaltation to a god.

Check out this wonderful interview our 2019-20 Communications Intern, Helli Fang, did with Adeeba, and order your copy here!

An excerpt from the collection:

When in the dark/ my mind brightened

I realized I could no longer
wait to be beautiful. Thus, I pushed
bangles upon bangles
onto my wrist, rubbing
my hands raw with metal
and glass.

Each time a bangle broke, I watched
the blood at my veins
with a grim face,
feeling more like a woman.

No symmetry or sequence.
All colors clanged upon my arms,
bright, jeweled, and dissonant.

That night, the window air was open,
the full moon luminous. I waited
for my mother to turn, to see me
as a bride.

I wanted to tell her:

The world is adorning itself
for my wedding.

That night, my mother looked
into my eyes with terror. That night,
she wouldn’t let me leave.


Praise for the collection:

I stayed in a perpetual state of goosebumps while reading Adeeba Talukder’s debut collection, Shahr-e-jaanan, no lie. Maybe because the settings evoked are familiar and tangible but also magical, otherworldly. Maybe it’s that I fell, despite myself, captive to the spells of its stories—Scheherezade and her command over wild nights of imagination come to mind. Maybe it’s the way Talukder manages to both evoke Urdu poetic tradition and create her own—these poems swoon with the restrained sensuality of the old world while dancing with the glittering passions of the new. Let yourself get caught up in this book’s wondrous whorls and whirls—you won’t regret it.

—Tarfia Faizullah, author of Registers of Illuminated Villages and Seam

“The only way for any literature to grow is to be in conversation with other traditions, other voices. Where would the intricate and deeply moving tradition of English sonnets be without Sir Thomas Wyatt and Henry Howard’s bringing it from Italy in the 16th century? Or, more recently, where would we be without Agha Shahid Ali’s passionate pursuit of ghazal in English, expanding American tradition in ways that no one could have predicted. Adeeba Shahid Talukder enters this conversation between traditions with elegance and insight. Herein we discover Urdu poetics of giants as different as Mirza Ghalib and Faiz Ahmed Faiz, gently brought into English by Talukder’s own hand. Opening this book in the middle— starting with short lyrics such as ‘The Scaffold’s Branch’ and ‘Exotica’— I was immediately taken with their elegance of striking yet tender tonal shifts. Then, I dove into the the longer poem, ‘On Beauty,’ marveling at its integrities of the unsaid, its singing, its questions. This is one of those books that truly teaches us how to read it. After everything we thought we knew about the moon, herein is a chance to see it with new eyes. After everything we thought we knew about ourselves, and our loss, there is more to find: ‘When the color left / my cheeks,’ the poet writes, ‘You / left too.’ This book is an exquisite lyrical feast.”

— Ilya Kaminsky, author of Deaf Republic and Dancing in Odessa

“Adeeba Talukder’s City of the Beloved hovers on the nexus of heartache and joy, a meeting of point of arrival and exodus, and where love is the revolving door to the world of the unknown. Recalling the concision and scintillating acumen of Emily Dickinson, Mirabai, Rabia and Sappho, and drawing on the masters of Urdu and Persian poetry, Talukder renders a full world of heart, soul, and body, profound and dauting, sensual and sacred, enchanting and redeemable. This is a beautiful, stunning and unforgettable book.”

— Khaled Mattawa, author of Mare Nostrum

“Beauty and urgency, lyricism and violence are carefully orchestrated into conversation. The beauty of these poems arises from their complexity, the infinite ways they bring together lyricism and urgency, femininity and violence, adornment and danger. ‘In this intricacy is power.’ This is a first book you will not soon forget.”

— Kristina Marie Darling, author of Dark Horse: Poems & Editor-in-Chief of Tupelo Press

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Adeeba Shahid Talukder is a Pakistani American poet, singer, and translator of Urdu and Persian poetry. She is the author of What Is Not Beautiful (Glass Poetry Press, 2018) and her book Shahr-e-jaanaan: The City of the Beloved, is a winner of the Kundiman Poetry Prize. Her poetry has appeared in Poem-A-DayGulf CoastMeridianThe Margins, and elsewhere. A Best of the Net finalist and a Pushcart nominee, Adeeba holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Michigan and is the recipient of an Emerging Poets Fellowship from Poets House.

Now Accepting Applications: Sewanee Writer's Conference Kundiman Fellowship

The Sewanee Writers’ Conference, July 21–August 2, 2020, is located at The University of the South in Sewanee, TN and offers workshops in fiction, poetry, playwriting, and nonfiction. The program also includes an individual meeting with a faculty member, readings, lectures, and master classes.

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The Conference is offering a Kundiman fellowship, open to all Asian American writers with at least one book in print by the time of the conference. Fellows are waived the $1800 cost to attend, which includes room and board, and are only responsible for their travel costs. Each fellow is asked to be an active member in workshop, give a 15-minute reading at Sewanee, and meet individually with five writers from their workshop for half hour manuscript consultations. Fellows also have an opportunity to teach a one-hour master class at Sewanee, for which they would receive a $500 honorarium.

This summer’s faculty includes fiction writers Chris Bachelder, Jamel Brinkley, Sarah Shun-lien Bynum, Adrianne Harun, Randall Kenan, Katie Kitamura, Jill McCorkle, Claire Messud, Jess Walter, and Stephanie Powell Watts; poets Erica Dawson, Mark Jarman, Marilyn Nelson, Carl Phillips, A. E. Stallings, and Monica Youn; nonfiction writersAlexander Chee, Amitava Kumar, Elena Passarello, and Aisha Sabatini Sloan; and playwrights Naomi Iizuka, Dan O’Brien, Liliana Padilla, and Lloyd Suh.

The deadline to apply has been extended to March 19, 2020 Midnight PT. Details on how to apply can be found here. Fellows must have books in print by the time of the Conference in order to apply and can’t have attended the Conference as a fellow before. Any writer interested in applying for a Kundiman fellowship should please note that they are applying as such in the first sentence of their statement of interest.

A Conversation with Adeeba Shahid Talukder

Helli Fang, Kundiman's Fall/Spring 2019-2020 Communications Intern, interviewed Adeeba Shahid Talukder on her poetry collection Shahr-e-jaanaan: The City of the Beloved, the winner of the 2017 Kundiman Poetry Prize, which will be published on March 1st, 2020 by Tupelo Press.

Shahr-e-jaanaan sets out to recreate the universe of Urdu and Persian poetic tradition. As the speaker maps her romances onto legends, directing their characters perform her own tragedy, their fantastical metaphors easily lend themselves to her fluctuating mental state. Cycling between delirious grandeur and wretched despair, she is torn between two selves— the pitiable lover continually rejected, and the cruel, unattainable beloved comparable in her exaltation to a god.

Order Adeeba’s book here!

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In this collection, the speaker’s personal life and struggles are conveyed within the worlds of Urdu and Persian poetic traditions––what is described in the preface as “lenses and mirrors for the speaker’s reality.” Your first collection, What is Not Beautiful, similarly incorporates Urdu literary traditions into its poems to reflect more personal themes of marriage, family, and womanhood. What are your intentions in bringing these two worlds together, and how has writing about these realities through this lens affected or informed your perception of your own life?

It wasn’t intentional at first—some years ago, I regularly attended a gathering in which we read and interpreted Mirza Ghalib’s poetry. That group was both my literary and social life back then. It was a nerdy sort of thing—Ghalib used many difficult Persian phrases and constructions in his ghazals, and it felt like we were solving puzzles. My friends who attended the group would jokingly assign the tropes to members of the group—our professor, Frances Pritchett, was the Beloved (mashuq), the student she favored was the Rival (raqeeb), and we, of course, were the hopeless Lovers (ushaaq). During that time, these legends and their worlds were where my imagination lived, and the realm from which I wrote. It lent my life a grandiosity and romance I craved.

The line separating this world from reality would dissolve almost wholly in the grandiosity I experienced through mania—everything in the ghazal world would become literal, become alive. I composed some of the poems in Shahr-e-jaanaan while manic, and those poems especially came out of this disintegration. But this state of mind is so wild and so dangerous that it spills into all my writing, even after the episode itself has passed.  I’ve tried to summon this spell, this feeling of delirious grandeur with a sort of desperation, perhaps to convince myself it happened at all. 

After some time, I did become more intentional in trying to bring the traditions together. Urdu and English have never quite conversed on equal terms, with English tradition dominant and Urdu tradition either exoticized or wholly dismissed. As someone who writes in English but whose writing is profoundly influenced by Urdu and Persian tradition, my writing, too, was often dismissed and written off as “inaccessible.” It was difficult not to get dispirited by the comments, but over time, I began to understand it as an issue of translation. Most English speakers didn’t live in the world of Laila Majnoon, Shirin Farhad, and Mansur al-Hallaj. They did not know the ghazal universe, with its cast of characters, tropes, and metaphors, nor the Sufi concept of fanaa, or what it was to annihilate oneself in love. So part of my intention in writing Shahr-e-jaanaan was to gather as many pieces of this world I knew and translate them into English in order to create space for this understanding.

In addition to the direct translations that are incorporated in the language of this collection, there are also a number of poems that draw from traditional stories, legends, and mythologies, such as “Fanaa: End of Self” and its reference to the Arab legend of Laila Majnoon. In these translations and retellings, are there any restrictions to remain as objective and as close to the original language and narratives as possible? In other words, how much personal liberty do you take in your direct translations and retellings of these stories?

A lot. I use legend to guide me but cannot restrain my imagination. I try to keep the direct translations as literal as possible, though I cannot pretend they are objectively true to the original. I would feel more comfortable referring to both the more direct translations and the more creative interpretations as within the realm of transcreation—a space where I engage with the texts rather than seek to convey their absolute meaning. And as someone who has translated works on commission, and with greater intention of literality and faithfulness, I know that this is merely an ideal—and as with any representation, can only exist asymptotically.

One thing I loved about this collection is how recurring themes, such as water, the moon, wrists, jewelry, transform across the expansive universe of this collection. For example, the opening poem of the collection,  which writes, “I pushed / bangles upon bangles / onto my wrists, rubbing / my hands raw with metal and glass…” is revisited later in the collection, opening with the second stanza of the original: “Each time a bangle broke, / I watched the blood at my veins…” How have you personally transformed throughout the process of writing these poems, and what do you hope readers will take away from reading this collection?

A lot of the images you mention have to do, in my mind, with beauty, adornment, and spectacle: in Urdu ghazal poetry, the faces of beautiful women are compared to the full moon, and in my own imagination, water is a mirror. The wrist, in its delicateness, is culturally a symbol of woman’s slightness and grace. In films I grew up with, for a man to hold a woman by the wrist was an act of domination but, once again, beautiful, because this power dynamic is a symbol and manifestation of love and desire. I’ve long understood the power these ideas have over me, but it is frightening to learn the depth of this entanglement each time they manifest in my psychosis. The poem with these lines is one of the few poems in my book where I speak plainly rather than from metaphor. When I write of feeling beautiful when glass bangles break at my wrists, I want to talk about the terror of this desire for beauty, the violence of this spectacle.

Some of the final few poems I wrote for this collection—On Beauty and the title poem Shahr-e-jaanaan—chronicle the falling of this facade, the exposure of all this metaphor as insubstantial and vulnerable to collapse. In the grandiosity of mania, each thought becomes larger, more exaggerated. I think, in this glorification of beauty’s martyrdom, readers will recognize something of the absurd. That they will see the end of this line of thinking and understand its danger, realize the ways in which we are hurting ourselves for beauty’s sake. Over the decade it’s taken me to write this book, I have come a little closer to this clarity. It could take a lifetime, though, to truly rid myself of the instinct to perform beauty.

As a neurodiverse person, I inhabit not only two literary worlds but also two modes of existence, and my goal in writing many of these poems was to communicate what it means to have bipolar disorder, how terrifying it is to be in the throes of mania and depression. I want to translate this world, too, to those who are not from it—its intensity, its capacity for destruction. And maybe part of it is a hope to turn some of the stigma into compassion: as a bipolar person, I’ve lost so much. The discrimination I’ve received, from strangers and close friends alike, has been shattering. If my poems can help someone understand or approach a bipolar person with kindness, it will mean everything to me.

Continuing on with this idea of transformation and growth, what are you working on now, and what are you looking forward to?

For much of my life, I’ve dreamt of becoming a ghazal singer. Growing up, though, I faced a lot of discouragement from my family, both due to religious strictures and associations of moral decadence with the profession. This forced me to push music to the background and focus on writing, which was my other love, and less objectionable. All the while, though, I felt my expression of spirit to be incomplete.

Fortunately, circumstances have changed. I have much more support now from those around me and have been able to start training in classical singing. My teacher, Ustad Salamat Ali, is a true master, and a student of the legendary Mehdi Hassan himself. I’ve been learning to sing ghazals by some of my favorite poets—Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Parveen Shakir, Murtaza Birlas—it has been a dream. I think it is in this marriage between poetry and song that my soul resides, where I find my self to be whole.

I’ve fallen in love with a song about the legend of  Sohni and Mahiwal—a story about a married woman who crosses the Chenab River every night to her lover’s hut, holding onto a baked earthen pot to keep her afloat. One night, when her sister-in-law replaces her pot with an unbaked one, it dissolves in the water and Sohni drowns. Sohni has made an appearance in a few poems already, and I imagine she will find her way into more. Here is a bit from my poem “Sohni, to her earthen pot”:

The night is cold,
rising—

a dome, 
& then a world.

Hold me,
the water surges 

like a flame;
when I leapt,

my mind woke 
to my eyes’ madness, 

my color 
scattering into dark,

& marveled.

I am also trying to find a translation of Waris Shah’s story of Heer and Ranjha, and perhaps some poems will emerge from there. It seems I cannot separate myself from the world of legend.

A second book also seems to be shaping up, and I truly am so excited about it! It doesn’t have a title yet, but an order is starting to develop, and themes are starting to emerge. Despite my excitement and impatience, I want to let myself sit with the poems longer and consider whether I truly want to pursue their permanence. Both Shahr-e-jaanaan and What Is Not Beautiful hold poems that have required me to be brave. I need to ask myself whether these are poems I am willing to be brave for.

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Adeeba Shahid Talukder is a Pakistani American poet, singer, and translator of Urdu and Persian poetry. She is the author of What Is Not Beautiful (Glass Poetry Press, 2018) and her book Shahr-e-jaanaan: The City of the Beloved, is a winner of the Kundiman Poetry Prize. Her poetry has appeared in Poem-A-DayGulf CoastMeridianThe Margins, and elsewhere. A Best of the Net finalist and a Pushcart nominee, Adeeba holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Michigan and is the recipient of an Emerging Poets Fellowship from Poets House.

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Helli Fang is the author of the chapbook Village of Knives (Driftwood Press). An undergraduate student at Bard College, her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Diode, The Margins, Salt Hill, The Adroit Journal, DIALOGIST, Columbia Journal, Blueshift Journal, Wildness, and more, and has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, Columbia College of Chicago, and Bennington College. She has also participated in programs such as Iowa Young Writer’s Workshop, The Adroit Mentorship Program, and The Speakeasy Project. When Helli is not writing, she enjoys playing the violin and climbing trees.

10 Asian American Love Stories to Read on Valentine's Day

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The term Kundiman comes from the Tagalog phrase "kung hindi man," or "if it were not so." These Filipino love songs sang not just of love, but of love of country in a time of colonization and political unrest.

Adding to our collection of Kundiman Love Poems, we've curated this list of short stories, essays, and novels written by Asian American authors. These stories reconfigure, recomplicate, and reimagine love in our world today-– whatever form of love that may be. Like Kundiman, we hope that these voices, singing together, bring forth light and possibility.

This list is curated by 2020-21 Communications Intern Helli Fang.

I am “queer” for two reasons — because I am gay and because my body — a half-Pakistani body by law if not by blood or ancestry — lies out the mainstream of what the mother country now considers acceptable.

I long to come home, to come home and be welcomed, to be welcomed and held, to be held and known.

––from “A Letter from an Indian in Exile” by Kazim Ali

The girl and I share a bowl of watermelon on the sidewalk, the juice steaming warm as our bowels. We eat the meat, suck out its lineage of seeds, and spit them as far as we can at the cars at the sun at the squirrels at the lampposts at the stray cat at the house across the street with its white cactus garden, its orchard of bones. In her mouth, seedlight. The shape of the seed’s future body: mine. We aim our mouths, shotgunning the seeds across the street. They mature mid-air and land on the far sidewalk, full-grown watermelons spilling soft rubies of meat, sweet before we know the word for it.

––from “Consequences of Water” by K-Ming Chang

Their romance has started in earnest this summer, but the prologue took up the whole previous year. All fall and spring of the previous year they lived with exclusive reference to each other, and were viewed as an unspoken duo by everyone else. Little remarked, universally felt, this taut, even dangerous energy running between them. 

––from Trust Exercise by Susan Choi

I am the kind of person who is always coming to a precipice in her life. She must sit quietly there. The idea of herself, the person she needed herself to be in order to be okay, has fallen apart. In the last seven or so years I have come to this precipice over and over again. I wanted a different kind of life, a life as fortress. My mother wanted me to have this kind of life: she wanted me to be safe.

––from “Safe House” by Shamala Gallagher

For me, writing poems is a way of breaking that cage, a way to have the unicorn become the narwhal become the speaker become the writer become the reader all at once. It is a resistance to colonial forms of Imaginary takeover—a rebuke of having my dream space occupied by measures that insure that what the United States calls a chair is a chair. Sometimes a chair is a kursi, a pirha, a golposh, a saddle, a chariot. I want to ride the possibilities of what a chair can be into the darkest shadow of Lemuria, or across the galaxies.

––from “Unicorns, Narwhals, and Poets” by Rajiv Mohabir

It’s true that if you cry hard enough for long enough you can end up with blurred vision.

I was lying down, it was the middle of the day, but I was in bed. All the crying had given me a headache, I’d had a throbbing headache for days. I got up and went to look out the window. It was winter yet, it was cold by the window, there was a draft. But it felt good—as it felt good to press my forehead against the icy glass. I kept blinking, but my eyes wouldn’t clear. I thought of the women who’d cried themselves blind. I blinked and blinked, fear rising. Then I saw you.

––from The Friend by Sigrid Nunez

He kisses her. She returns with a sudden heat. The scent of incense, bergamot perfume. They are already lying down on her bed. Some of their clothes are tossed to the side. He can feel the arch of her body, pressing closer against his. He wants to be overwhelmed. He wants to give in. But he feels himself pulling away.

“What’s the matter?” The flash of unease in her eyes cripples him further. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry. I want to, I really do.” 

“Okay?”

“I just can’t.” 

––from “Enlightenment” by William Pei Shih

I marry a man when winter ends. Our wedding is private and tastes like burnt sugar spilled over snow. My husband smells like cedar trees and coffee and I have fallen for the cleanliness of his light blue eyes. Our counters are never sticky and our meals paired with wines that all taste the same, but they go well with the chicken breast that has been trimmed of its fat and skin and flavor. Could I get more salt? I ask the waiter at the restaurant near the university. And pepper? I think of my mother but I still do not call. I have not seen her in five years but if I saw her again, I would sniff her sleeve the way I did as a child.

––from “Fish Paste” by Nay Saysourinho

Mama taught me everything: how to dress, draw my eyebrows, pencil in my lips, articulate, sit up straight and like a lady, cross my legs, command a room, distract a stranger if he insulted me, laugh, make friends, debate, trust my intellect, fight for my intellect.

––from “Remembering My Lola By Teaching Myself How to Cook” by Melissa R. Sipin

For once, I won’t be one of those poets who say: What I’m trying to say is. No, this time I just say it, ruthlessly sentimental. Without hesitation or simile or metaphor: “I love you.”

And when he says it back to me, slowly, like dipping a toe in a needle-cold lake, I imagine all the mosquitoes in the world bowing their glassy wings.

––from “To Love a Mosquito” by Jane Wong