Jonathan Chan is a writer, editor, and translator of poems and essays. His first collection of poems, going home (Landmark, 2022), was a finalist for the Singapore Literature Prize in 2024. He serves as Managing Editor of the poetry archive poetry.sg. He has recently been moved by the work of Prasanthi Ram, Danez Smith, and Samuel Caleb Wee. More of his writing can be found at jonbcy.wordpress.com.
tremor
in the corner of the sanctuary, rehearsing the perch
of the soul, i watched over the many acts
that hope for the formation of piety.
a tattered conscience seeks the whistle
of peace, as in the spirituality carried
in the desert sands, the mountains
enveloped by the shaking of thunder
and smoke. or the stasis of an arctic
wind, waters washing the carcass
of a polar bear. heat bears down
on an artificial beach. the peacock
is an unimagined thing
that has feathers. in the fickle
turning comes the memory of
bodily inversion. i listened to
the susurrus of the morning wind.
i heard the blossoms in the hot
evening of november. remember
how the body must twist, its
posture must fold. obedience
and all the muscle it can muster.
darkness, then the sudden croaking
into light.
prayer (xxx)
Bangkok, Thailand
— after Korakrit Arunanondchai's 'nostalgia for unity'
dried earth cracks
in an abandoned
cavern. the voices echo, love,
and entwine. mist rises from
beneath the floors,
cloaking mantras emerging in
gothic script. in the landscape
of mourning, sunlight frustrates
the smoke. a space is known
only by its absence, caressed
by suggestions of rebirth
and ash. on any
given day, someone’s
body is in the midst
of decay. decrepitude
is a state that refuses
resistance. a printing house
is the likeliest place to catch
fire, to feed the licks of the
flames. the swirl of vapour
mocks the alterity of the
chill. the smog traps the
heat and congeals on
the skin. it bends the
frustration of sporadic
light until all that is
within the lightness
of seeing is a full
and total darkness,
a salve to a panicked
sunday, toying with the most
pained perception of
prayer.
patience (ii)
the other day i thought i might
just make it out of the twenty-seven club.
it was a thought of no possession.
thinking of mortality can seem so gauche.
the mind projects into concrete
a spiritual tragedy. think of the guitarists
and songwriters and artists. they who
gave the void its colour. too much of the
world resides in each of us. we fear
no iconoclasm. look at the motion of
the sunsets. see the joy of Camus’s
Sisyphus, the stone rolling against the
body, the struggle that fills the human
heart. it is exquisite. the stars hang
against the flesh. its agony. a divine voice
appears only when Job has uttered his
final complaint. time compresses beyond
a physical limit. watch how the waning light
arches out of sight. in the snow of darkness,
i finally met the Lord in the air.
summer
Seoul, South Korea
each morning brings no insignificant light
after tossing about each night on the floor.
it is the promise of summer, heat thick and
hung in the air. it stays in the commutes from
north to south of the river. meaning pours
in half blank stares and the furrowing of brows.
the masters paint their words in brushstrokes
or the compression of new earthen materials
into panels. you lift a rice ball gratefully into your mouth.
you add salt to a bowl full of samgyetang, eaten with
perilla leaf kimchi, laid out by your grandmother’s pellucid
hands. old factories become pop-ups and cafes. an expo
hall displays prints, paintings, and installations.
neon lights dot the emptying streets. once the
vinyl bars and distant clubs and gallery walks
have tired themselves out, you blink sleep from
your eyes as you wait for the
sun to rise.