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I

To the Ascari, a poem is
neither found nor composed,
it is always planted.

The poem is read as it
grows and gains shoot and
leaves and bark and climbs
stanza-wise to the Sun.

Words on these poems do not
grow old, similes discarded as
easily as leaves, while roots
drink deep of the times'
passions and feed flowers as
beautiful as youth.

II

Some poem trees are planted
in simple square lined plots,
allowing you to walked enchanted
among their thousand perfumed thoughts.

Others are in wild tangled woods,
and unlike the centipede-bodied
Ascari, humans cannot walk
easily through these woods. Once
a lifetime they may go in.
They wander naked and mapless,
branches and thorns tearing skin,
blood trickling down to feed
the forest.
Until at last they come to
the tree that speaks to them,

They run their hands over
its rough bark and are granted,
sometimes in flower, sometimes in leaf,
the answer they always carried
with them.

III

To be granted a seedling
from a poem tree is
both a blessing and a curse.

To be bound to the earth.
To find a house and land you
will live on for the rest
of your life.

To plant the seedling and
watch its words slowly grow
and unfold with age and
demand that you bequeath it
to your child.

Who will look upon it
every day with the resentment
of the certainly fated.

Who on some days will
approach it with axe or saw,
and with an unexpected wind,
feel its branches caressing
his face, and who will then
walk back ashamed.

And who on other days will
find a leaf laying casually
on her desk, who will
run her fingers down its
perfect veins in wonder and
press it, with all the others,
between the pages of a book,
certain that she will one day
understand them all.




Rohinton Daruwala lives and works in Pune, India. He tweets as @wordbandar and blogs at https://wordbandar.wordpress.com/. His first collection of poems is The Sand Libraries of Timbuktu (Speaking Tiger 2016). His work has previously appeared in Strange Horizons, New Myths, Star*Line, Liminality, Through the Gate, and Silver Blade.
Current Issue
29 May 2023

We are touched and encouraged to see an overwhelming response from writers from the Sino diaspora as well as BIPOC creators in various parts of the world. And such diverse and daring takes of wuxia and xianxia, from contemporary to the far reaches of space!
By: L Chan
The air was redolent with machine oil; rich and unctuous, and synthesised alcohol, sharper than a knife on the tongue.
“Leaping Crane don’t want me to tell you this,” Poppy continued, “but I’m the most dangerous thing in the West. We’ll get you to your brother safe before you know it.”
Many eons ago, when the first dawn broke over the newborn mortal world, the children of the Heavenly Realm assembled at the Golden Sky Palace.
Winter storm: lightning flashes old ghosts on my blade.
transplanted from your temple and missing the persimmons in bloom
immigrant daughters dodge sharp barbs thrown in ambush 十面埋伏 from all directions
Many trans and marginalised people in our world can do the exact same things that everyone else has done to overcome challenges and find happiness, only for others to come in and do what they want as Ren Woxing did, and probably, when asked why, they would simply say Xiang Wentian: to ask the heavens. And perhaps we the readers, who are told this story from Linghu Chong’s point of view, should do more to question the actions of people before blindly following along to cause harm.
Before the Occupation, righteousness might have meant taking overt stands against the distant invaders of their ancestral homelands through donating money, labour, or expertise to Chinese wartime efforts. Yet during the Occupation, such behaviour would get one killed or suspected of treason; one might find it better to remain discreet and fade into the background, or leave for safer shores. Could one uphold justice and righteousness quietly, subtly, and effectively within such a world of harshness and deprivation?
Issue 22 May 2023
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Issue 10 Apr 2023
Issue 3 Apr 2023
Issue 27 Mar 2023
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