Published in Otoliths

Two of my poems have been published in the new issue of Otoliths. Thank you, Mark Young.


Dear Heart: 150 New Zealand Love Poems

I’m honoured to have a poem of mine included in the beautiful new anthology Dear Heart: 150 New Zealand Love Poems, edited by Paula Green for Godwit Press (Random House).

Thank you, Paula.


On Unpredictability

a poem on fictionaut


Birth

I was born in a village.
The stars were not shining.

My father drove my mother to the hospital.
My sister said
when she visited me
after I was born,
my face was very red.

I stuck my tongue out at her.

I should’ve been born two months later.

My mother reached up
to get a jar
from a kitchen shelf
and the water broke.

From then on,
I have been fascinated
by things that arrive prematurely.

The sunken garden is already blooming,
the whitewashed frame of the window
with the patched up screen,
and the slow fuse of a feeling
burning the night
up to the ceiling.

I am slowly moving away
from my birth
toward another birth.
That of a wind carefully shhhhing the leaves
off the ground.

I should’ve been there too
but I am too busy paying attention to myself,
picking up memory,
losing the words
and finding us both.

from Becoming Someone Who Isn’t (ESAW, 2007)


New release – On Love: a poem sequence

On Love: a poem sequence

http://www.amazon.com/On-Love-a-poem-sequence-Jill-Chan/dp/1463721439/

64 pages

My new collection of poetry is a sequence on love–the many sides of romance, the depths of longing, and other subtleties in between.

“There was this sound
then nothing after;
a quickness
then what quickened you;
a style then
how we stood aside
like a generous condemnation,
like delight
at something gone,
never to be confused
again with coming.”

free digital edition


Another poem in The Camel Saloon

My poem “Morning” is published in The Camel Saloon.  Thank you again, Russell!


The Camel Saloon

My poem “Because We Were Born” is published on The Camel Saloon.  Thank you, Russell.


Disappearance

There’s nothing deaf
about not listening,
about taking other people’s words,
and wasting their presence
like you own them.
They just disappear.
Everything to be heard
for the last time.
A voice then is known
for the way it leaves—
action dissolves to memory
if not picked up
like some afternoon shadow.
If suddenly without words,
I come to you.

from These Hands Are Not Ours (ESAW, 2009)


Free digital version of Early Work

I’ve uploaded a free digital version of Early Work: Poems 2000-2007.  Check it out.

Thank you.


from On Love: a poem sequence

1

There was this sound
then nothing after;
a quickness
then what quickened you;
a style then
how we stood aside
like a generous condemnation,
like delight
at something gone,
never to be confused
again with coming.

Then there was this ache
and nowhere you’d rather be.

There was this murmur
and no heart
but a crowd of beats
and sorrow.

Where does it lead?
Where does ache follow
but where we couldn’t
satisfy?
And then you denounce
and I remove your pronouncements
like love.
How silent love is,
shaking us off.
We are tempted
and near;
we are slow
and desired.
What can happen in a day
but more day.
More heart to melt
the cold
like you could be
drowning.
And satisfaction
is set aside.
We are compassionate,
done with keeping time,
full of beauty
nearly loved.