Hawai‘i Literature & Art
— Since 1978 —
the first time i fell in love wasn’t known to me until much later, after the god of time had passed me by. my mind blurred the lines of infatuation and adoration of loyalty and learning until i didn’t know which was which. I tottered forward on baby legs into a world unknown…
home. home is the warm brown in your eyes, the feeling of your skin upon mine, the dance of your fingers across the bareness of my skin. home is the shine of your teeth, the glow of your cheeks, the way the light glimmers as you sit in the sun. home is the…
Loke Swims Like Ka poʻe Moananuiākea Oceania’s people. Where do they come from? We’re all supposed to be one beeeg ʻohana. That’s what archaeologists say. Transported On the first wave Transported on the first broad current like seeds in the wind, scattering scattering. On the sinking islands of Moananuiākea. Loke ponders. Who were they? Who…
Milton stumbles shakily around Mānoa Valley amid traffic. Petrarch perambulates Punchbowl Cemetery perusing stark headstones of veterans. Shakespeare window-shops for Hawaiian souvenirs at Ala Moana Center. Whitman whistles while he waits for a bus at the corner of Ward and Kapi‘olani. Dickinson rents a Biki bike at University and rides down Beretania to Alakea Street….
Once, walking through the forest where the Bayan Tree Plaza stands today, I stepped on a branch with a thorn so long and strong it penetrated the sole of my sneakers and drew much blood. Once, diving off a wooden bridge near the lighthouse at Hana, I came up stepping on an aged Wana, one…
ON HE RODE — Chapter Forty-Eight In the meantime I’ll take advantage of what must be the most comfortable seating accommodation anywhere, the first five miles of riding any Greyhound or Trailways cross-country hauler. It never fails, ever. The first thing I sit down I can’t believe how anatomically perfect this wonderful combination of lounge…
Happy May to all of you. May is Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month. This reminds me of something that we don’t emphasize enough here in the Bamboo Shoots realm. We welcome writing in any language. If you choose to add an English translation as well, that will help you reach a wider audience…
It was well past time. You knew. Months ago it tumbled from that top shelf, scattering silk flowers and spewing a wide swath of powdery paper crumbs. You rehomed the flowers and vacuumed up the detritus, but set the carcass proper in that corner, where it waited. You hoped, foolishly, didn’t you, you might repair…
It lay on the floor, a lonely black hairpin in the bathroom stall unsure of its place. It did not leave the head of the Black woman, her head flowing with long weaves or from the young Scottish girl, her honey blonde hair a thick braided bun. It did not drop from the head of…
Food and memories go a long way From fork to mouth to ties that transcend The passing of time, of life. Take papaya, soft-boiled eggs, and toast People find it strange that I liked old people food From when I was a young girl, It’s the feeling of comfort and memory now Of eating with…