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a shanghai poetry zine

vision & direction: giuseppe daddeo

the awesome team: giuseppe daddeo, damon l. hansen,

patrick schiefen & stan vullings

cover art: aidan bra

events manager: lexi rhodes

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A Shanghai Poetry Zine

SANITY

Winter 2018/19

Poems:

Ryan Thorpe In the Clouds 9

安荷 Centered 10

(translated by Black Dove)

Peter Niu Mania 13

Damon Hansen By a Silken Strand of Sanity 16

Sara F. Costa The psychotic architecture 18

Patrick Schiefen morning routine 20

Brady Riddle All the Anger We Cannot See 22

Chris Nash He has come through… 24

Stan Vullings Your Sanity is Not Welcome Here 25

T.C. Murphy Black Flamingo 28

Alexandra Millward postcard to a friend 29

Yangyang Zhou The Edge 32

Clock Li 偏执/Bigotry 35

(translated by Penny Wei)

Giuseppe Daddeo AN ODE TO ALL 38

Peter Yu World Peace 41

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Artwork:

Sky Light Image3 8

Ina Isnaedi Stay on these roads 12

Redic Untitled 15

Cecilia Wu A Woman and her fabric 19

Matthew Manigrassi Untitled 21

Amy Xu Untitled 23

Shaun Gingell 24HR Love 27

Fourtoeight Sanity 4 31

Yijun Yao Disappearing Amy 34

Elena Hasnaş The World of a poet 37

Orlando Daga Castles in the air 42

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Image3

Sky Light

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In the Clouds

Ryan Thorpe

She told me sanity

resembled a cloudy

day—reaching up with

her finger, tracing out

tigers with crab claws,

fish with wings. For her,

it was trapped high

where people

reached for it. Some

jumped. Some climbed.

Other leaped from cliff tops,

thinking they only needed

speed, a push to get started.

I told her I was more a ladder

guy, climbing a little

higher, but never reaching

it. Never. I saw it

far in the distance,

through squinted eyes.

She giggled as if I'd told a

joke, then pointed out more

shapes: a birdcage with antlers,

an unsigned letter, a tired

sparrow, flying upside down.

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Centered

安荷

Like raindrops, like dancing with a slow lament,

In the mediocrity of one’s life, in the temporalness,

Cold, merciless, a final whisper

Into an ear that no longer hears,

Having lived among all that does not belong

And all that could never be,

In the very heart of the abyss,

Mad, isolated, longing for nothing more

Than to be centered, than to be normal.

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Centered

安荷

Translated by: Black Dove

如同雨滴

如同与迟滞的哀恸共舞

在生命的平庸之核

在易逝的永恒之间

无闻的耳听见最后的叹息

僵冷，无情

生活在无所归属

全然无可实现的世界当中

在深渊的心脏

疯狂，孤绝

所期所求

无外乎专心一处

无外乎正常

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Stay on these roads

Ina Isnaedi

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Mania

Peter Niu

It will be a spectacular shipwreck.

You enter twilight with your heart oozing coffee and single malt, tittering on the edge

of aneurysms bursting, bursting riotously to the pulse of stars beating, beating like

drums.

Returning nightly to a vacant den dining on an expensive takeout meal for one.

Mock me if you will. You say to them. My vomit is your rent.

You still carry the guilt from your last vacation.

But you’re not there yet, and there’s no glory to a smoking pile of ashes without

recompense.

You’re missing the point.

At the end of ends what matters in life is with whom you spend it,

In the end, bones will rot, and all your accolades will turn to dust, but those whom

you hold dear will make this tepid middling life sparkle.

You have seen the sparkle.

Aye. Felt it too, at times.

Shimmering lights at the tip of a wing. It fluttered away in the long, long ago of

yesterday.

And it has left you falling, falling.

But this was what you wanted –

the wish, the dream, the spaces in between, where the thing you were and the thing

you hoped to be meld into a tangle of faces.

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You wake up at night looking into its eyes, glinting; keeps the embers in your guts

shivering – shivering –

like starlight, or is it just froth and bubbles born of the Whale and the lice that fed

Him,

and the critters that creeped between pickled stars and rusted moons to escape Him,

and the mighty crab, clad in diamond shells, riding on a thousand fluttering wings,

tearing through the folds of time to evade Him?

All at once you are timid, wearied, frenzied, and broken.

Today you’re old. Clock hand cricked past morning and left a trail of soiled brains

in its wake. You’re buried at noon, beneath rotten flowers next to that old tree.

Worms will keep you company.

And you still have other stifled dreams kept folded and pressed beneath your pillow,

words faded.

All these years of mania have made you hollow.

This,

now,

your life,

crumpled and yellowed.

In and out of your withered heart, vapid, here –

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Untitled

Redic

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By a Silken Strand of Sanity

Damon Hansen

Dissolution of sanity into fragmented and

serrated shards stands as the ever-present

threat on the threshold of consciousness ---

as the maggots of schizophrenia erode my soul.

Dissolution of sanity beckons with each breath and

pulsation thrusting hemoglobin into the crevasses

of my cerebral tissue.

Desperate for self-cognizance I reflexively peruse the DSM

“A disorder occurring for a prolonged period

characterized by a disturbance in social of occupational functioning.”

Sanity was but an adolescent pipe dream ---

As I spent hours searching deep into my psyche and self-diagnosing

Histrionic Personality disorder

Emotions spring forth and my sanity hangs like an envenomated fly hanging by

thread and dangling in the wind.

The boiling over of emotions into superfluity of speech.

The cup of my cranium runneth over with the urge to be heard.

Vocal amplification of internal states to the hilt of hyperbole.

I shred the pages of an ill-suited diagnosis with an indignant sneer

Maybe sanity is illusory ---

Pigeonholing my patterns into a ill-contrived cognitive cubicle

Restricting idiosyncrasy as the tarantula towers overhead and hangs our corpse in

silken strands.

Wielding the proverbial hammer of socialization that beats, maims, and pulverizes

the psyche.

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Maybe sanity is trivial ---

Cognition along the tracks lain in centuries hence.

Emotive moments spoken in scripted prose penned with

a cultural meme.

Fuck that haughty hogwash!

Fuck the systemic prejudice against my joyride along a lifetime as the caboose of the

funny wagon.

Eyes glued to the DSM I dance on the tabletops in fits of homage to my insanity.

With a zeal and joviality I embrace psychosis

Not a diagnosis, but an emerald encapsulation round my noggin.

Not a hindrance, but an vehicle of life-affirming perseverance

With grace I embrace my nymphomaniacal fits

Perusing scantily clad objectified corpses on social media until my eyeballs burst.

With grace I embrace my rapid cycling bipolar mania

Moods like bloated boulders whose ebb and flow thrusts me into bursts of creativity.

Normative mental modes

Prescribed lines of thought

Beckon the viscous clay of my grey matter

--- to be molded like them

--- to be inhibited like them

--- to be synthesized and inculcated with the bug-infested code of robotic

programming in my psyche like them.

Fuck that haughty hogwash!

I wear my insanity as a trophy of triumph!

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The psychotic architecture

Sara F. Costa

there is a river of anti-psychotics

at the tips of the fingers of the house,

that's where i go every night.

a man i do not know

constantly tries to save me as i drown,

runs without success until my successive deaths.

i let the water in my lungs carry me

to the fingerprints of my deceased grandmother,

who slept in this house before me.

there i stand as a poetic soldier until dawn.

the day awakens within the sleep of the sun,

the house disappears,

i will never return to this body.

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A Woman and her fabric ABSTRACT

Cecilia Wu

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morning routine

Patrick Schiefen

redact headlines in real-time

before they cloud your eyes like the creamer

poured in your morning coffee

swallow a crushed antidepressant

with your burnt toast and scrambled eggs

maybe not to smile but at least not to frown

scrub your enamel with fluoride

so that when you lick the insides of your teeth

the taste of aluminum is dulled by a minty freshness

run your fingers through your hair in the mirror

and repeat it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok

as your own eyes stare back in betrayal

look for your lost keys again

and act as if instead you have lost your mind

until you find them in last night’s pants pocket

catalog a history of violence and of hurt

and release it with a long exhale

step out the door.

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Untitled

Matthew Manigrassi

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All the Anger We Cannot See

Brady Riddle

A volcano, peaceful when it’s dormant:

soft hued blues draped with clouds in mystery—

promise of trust ruptured in an instant.

Its temper, when it burns, burns radiant.

Hardest stone can’t keep it from breaking free

but peaceful, beautiful when it’s dormant.

Ages can pass with no heated moment.

Then fury unleashed melts tranquility—

the trust you once had, gone in an instant.

No place is safe when the volcano vents.

Earth contorts, angry fists drag lives to sea.

Quick-forgotten beauty when it’s dormant.

The heart blisters, desperate voice lost against

spitting stone, splitting tight-drawn skin, to bleed—

immolation of trust in an instant.

When the ash settles, the last shudder spent

and again you move to love what you see:

the volcano, peaceful when it’s dormant,

but a promise of trust gone in an instant.

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Untitled

Amy Xu

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He has come through...

Chris Nash

“O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!

Hysterica passio, down, thou climbing sorrow,

Thy element's below!” King Lear

With all the delicate strength

Of Spring’s finger tip-shoots

He turns his lost face to light,

Lost to him, lost to the world,

Returning now in very first time

Shaking off claw-winter’s length;

His skin, scraped as razor thin

In breaking points of tension

Relaxes into dots of release;

Old darkness masses beneath,

Memories wrenching in roots

Pain in clay stabs and stains;

Crimes draw his lips into lines

On his cheeks, breezes uncurl.

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Your Sanity is Not Welcome Here

Stan Vullings

Your sanity is not welcome here.

I do not care that you understand;

that you stand here in my doorstep,

clad in some cloak of wisdom,

woven with strings of ration.

You weasel.

I do not care that you now see my perspective, and hope for me to see yours.

Your sanity is not welcome here.

Mind carrying on and tug your reasoning along

with you.

And your concepts.

And your theories.

"Why?" you ask,

"will we not talk like grown-ups,

and find common ground?"

'tis I, ignorant?

I long for your insanity brother,

I miss it.

To discuss not, nor grow into

some fine balance

and silent contempt.

But, to leave me crave for your respect.

To see you see me.

Not because you understand,

but because we both did not.

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The nicest thing you said:

"I am the only one allowed to call you idiot".

Twisting my arm because you could.

Telling on me because you should.

The most heartfelt insult.

You standing here and telling me

"sorry"?

Brother, the only sorry I need, is mother telling father to tell you to tell me

sorry.

You know,

completely insincere and in defeat.

So now I reminisce,

irrationally,

in tears.

Yes, you pushed me down

and spit in the sand afore

kicking it in my face.

But brother, for old times' sake,

take my arm

lift me up

pinch my shoulder

and call me idiot.

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24HR Love

Shaun Gingell

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Black Flamingo

T.C. Murphy

Coos and chuckles of life

left elsewhere, permeate

my drum...as they

dissolve...disseminate

icy laced

promises

dripping glee

into

dilated vesicles

inside

negative neural

connections.

Boom.

A

Story

About

Nothing – I'm

Benign

(but you cared for a moment,

right?)

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postcard to a friend

Alexandra Millward

this one’s for you

for the hour-long conversations over

skype

to try and make sense

of situations so unimaginably

mine to comprehend

for the books you placed in my path

to teach me lessons

to help me fathom the

unfathomable – and

to realise that

i wasn’t the first.

just wanted to let you know

i’m one step closer

to the next chapter of my own version

of that self-same book

after my own messy endings

i’ve been happily eating my way

through China

and am headed to Nepal

not to pray per se

just to keep the journey moving

in a prayerful

‘mind over body’

kinda way

it made sense

to make even more space

for me

and to detox

from the many months of alcohol and

food abuse

i’ve put my body through

it will be a refreshing change

to eat clean –

to live clean –

to spend time practising

the art of meditation

even if it’s only for a week

just long enough

to try to persuade yourself

that such escape

from the traps and false promises of

consumerism

is possible

i’m not looking forward to

5:30 am wakeups

and twelve hours a day

of silence

seems hardly enough to drown out and

replace

all the shit

that’s been rattling around in my brain

these last few months

but

we’ll see.

still haven’t found love

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keep telling myself that i’m not

actively

in the market for it

(though numerous tinder dates

and a few drunken couplings

say otherwise)

just difficult

y’know

got to stay busy

or at least have the illusion of it.

hope the family’s well.

xx

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Sanity 4

Fourtoeight

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The Edge

Yangyang Zhou

My father used to say this to me

When I was little

Be careful when you put your glass down

You should never put it

Too close to the edge

Of the table

So my water glass

Always lands in the middle

Right in the center

Of the table

In those hot summer nights

I would creep to the kitchen in my dreams

Get a glass of water

And watch it come alive

And walk itself all the way to the edge

Without stopping

Without turning back

It stared at its transparent body

It stared at the weight center with water about to tilt

It would inevitably,

Slowly,

Step over the point

Of no return

The edge of the table

I always woke up then

Not knowing if I was glad

Or sad

That I didn't get to see

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The rest

Perhaps the glass will fall into a thousand pieces

Perhaps the water will spill

Or perhaps, it will keep falling

Never touching the ground

Honestly I don't know

Which would have terrified me more

I am standing at the shopping mall

Looking down,

the rails that guard the edge

Of all the floors

They bloom

Like flowers

They burn

They spread

Layers of petals

I see people I don't know

They talk to me

I hear languages I do not understand

They stuff my ears

I watch the black light

Soaking through the black night

The shopping mall at 4am

Is never empty

I hold on to one of the rails

Leaning

Knowing

I am a glass of water

On the edge of the table

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Disappearing Amy

Yijun Yao

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偏执

Clock Li

上弦月带走心底最后一片柔软

我挟着仅有的那份痴狂

在这挚爱的红色

玻璃渣土地上奔跑

等着痛的忘掉了自己名字

会有一轮新月，还有那份柔软

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Bigotry

Clock Li

Translated by: Penny Wei

The first quarter moon

took away the last piece of softness

from my deep heart.

With the only madness,

I'm running on the red land,

which is my devotion,

in glass slag.

Until aching,

until I forget my name,

there will be a new moon,

with the piece of silver shine.

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The World of a poet

Elena Hasnaş

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AN ODE TO ALL

Giuseppe Daddeo

I am the light

that dims softly

on your crooked night

that destroys your beliefs

and throws you

on that spot

where rain can’t stop falling

where safeness can’t reach you

until you quit wondering

and accept it

without understanding

I am City

I am the asshole

who desecrates your dreams

when you try to hide

that violates your virgin beauty

and leaves you empty

fucked up right

where music stopped playing

where reasons didn’t count

even if they wished to

until you realized

you were lost forever

I am Love

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I am the breeze

that cracks over

these forgotten windows

and swipes away imaginary sins

upon which you linger

around which you lie

then nothing will remain

except drops of dust

and passionate darkness

that comes unfolded

by meaningless words

I am Sanity

I am the worm

that eats you alive

and compromises your rotten soul

which wastes away years of hopes

woven around corners

of expected comfort

that sits you down

on the edge of nothing

and keeps you away

from what you belong

from who you really are

I am Tomorrow

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I am the lines

that don’t make sense

and keep you up

at the borders of the day

that sink in hard

on what you fail to believe

where songs stop singing

and doubts come crawling

to free us finally

from a destiny

never required

I am Poetry

I am the City

I am Love

I am Sanity if possible

I am Tomorrow

I am Poetry

and when you cried

I wasn’t there for you

because to learn

it takes pain

and to live

it takes madness

I am You

And You

are Me

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World Peace

Peter Yu

You and I could bridge

the ends of the world together

promote world peace,

teach dictators how to smile,

no, how to really smile.

We could do this

on a weekend sometime,

or maybe over fall break.

when you have nothing

better to do. Can evil

be so tangibly in one person

and holiness in another?

I do not believe it,

but I want to. And so I fall

like the morning star, in a

flash of brilliant lightning,

buried in mortality’s maternal grip,

afraid of who I have become.

So teach me how to smile,

no, how to really smile,

help me understand peace,

and whether the world really needs it,

Explain why we build bridges.

And once you do,

let us never build one.

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Castles in the air

Orlando Daga

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digital graphic support: asiffa mutia kahfi & erica felita

visuals & artworks support: alina levyz

chinese translations & extra support: wei ming pei

special thanks to: aleksandra arbuzova, elliot li (李政燊),

chris nash, brady riddle, marius ziubrys

for their support and collaboration

for contacts and info through WeChat:

giuseppedaddeo

or follow A Shanghai Poetry Zine’s official WeChat account:

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