Cha: An Asian Literary Journal

Cha, founded in 2007, a decade after the handover, is the first Hong Kong-based English online literary journal; it is dedicated to publishing quality poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, reviews and photography & art. Cha has a strong focus on Asian-themed creative work and work done by Asian writers and artists. It also publishes established and emerging writers/artists from around the world. The journal had a launch in Beijing on 31 August 2009 by Royston Tester. Cha is an affiliated organisation of the Asia-Pacific Writing Partnership and it is catalogued in the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) Library, among other universities.  Read two poems from Cha's February 2011 issue Vineet Kaul Born in Ahmedabad, India, Vineet "the Troubadour" Kaul has been exploring words as his medium of expression through poetry, prose and music (guitarist/lyricist). He works as a journalist/freelance copywriter and performs as the Troubadour that is fast becoming his pen name as well. Though 25, he has been writing since the age of 13 and more than a decade later his poetry has or will be featured in Calliope Nerve, Asia Writes, the brown critique, The Asian Age, the Maynard, Bearing North (an anthology published by Midwest Literary Magazine) and many other newspapers and magazines. He won the Asian Age All India Poetry contest (and runner up twice). He is currently working on his manuscript of poems that is slated for release around September 2011 (tentatively titled Tug of Warp)   Parapraxis by Vineet Kaul Fingerprints a la prima facie Of a sin consisting of just us three. Me and you, then, and it: In our involuntary, regressive, redundant fit. Locked in the solitude Amongst a consortium of faces, And we? Chose the closed comfort of silence: Communication blasphemy. Turn around turnaround. You passed me the pillow and the music stood down. Played like a fiddle Then burnt like a witch. Incessantly embedded earworm twitch. Tongues rolled with fervor But 'twas endeavor's hitch... Broken attention in that Machiavellian pitch. The music was loudest between the songs, With too many strings attached To all the puppets wrong. Who once was the judge Is now wagered to play clown, The red nosed historian of a banana peel crown. Sly vaudeville - Out to conquer all the boudoir action, Vain valency - To explore a fabled opposite attraction.    Pass the buck like your pillow, Cross-armed till the pause. Vengeance is vehement in jilted applause. Subconsciously engineered – The promises thrown, Flawlessly faulted and out of necessity grown. Rolled up sleeves don't help with wearing your heart Whence subjugated to savoring scars. For it's the same place from where we started And worse yet The same place from where we depart.    These memories shall time, both, erase and unwind. Truth is in all negligence of presence of mind. The journey will dictate to the journal The methods to err In a manner to overlook as the gradients blur. Long after, in folly, we our destinations skip Yielding to emotions that time can't ascertain Recollections of Confessions-of-love will remain Nothing more than a listless Freudian Slip. Nicholas Y.B. Wong is the winner of Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition and a nominee for Best of the Net (2010) and Best of Web(2011) anthologies. His poetry is forthcoming in Assaracus: Journal of Gay Poetry, Prime Number Magazine, San Pedro River Review, Lambda Literary Foundation, Third Wednesday and the Sentinel Champion Series#5. He is currently an MFA Candidate at the City University of Hong Kong and a poetry editor at THIS Literary Magazine. Visit his website for more details. ) Appetites by Nicholas Y.B. Wong 1. Scientists say one’s want reflects one’s lack. Let’s say in the street, you see the smooth thighs of women. Then, an urge from the parietal lobe in your watery cerebrum kicks in, so you want to suck a cherry dipped in dark hot chocolate. This association is nothing erotic. It is biological – your body simply lacks sugar and fiber. 2. Here I am, in a two-star Michelin restaurant, reviewing your signature green lies, soaked in a thin layer of lemon liqueur and ginger oil. They look fresh and organic. I put a slice, soft and creamy, on my tongue, the one that you tasted and tasted you. The lies melt at once, followed by an after-kick of tepid alcohol. Then, you appear from the kitchen in white, looking professional even without the tall ruffled chef hat, and ask me how many stars your gratifying lies are worth. 3. I wake up this morning, with a compulsion to taste my blood. I distrust Descartes; I believe in the body, so I listen to it. I slide a razor along my chin, the sound of which so calming, almost quiet, like a cat licking its paws. A thin red line appears, blood slowly soaking the white foam. I look into the mirror, bored with my surface. Then, I wipe a drop of red with my finger and have a good taste of my inner self. 4. Last day of every month, in this elderly home, the same birthday song dies out, followed by disjointed rounds of clapping. Wishes then fill up the room, wishes whispered by those who cannot name names and recall when they were born. Their bed, their breaths and their hair smell fetidly the same. Nurses urge them to make wishes before it is too late. They do. Wallpapers are busy listening, contemplating what they want. Let me live one more day I want to see my children I will give them up if only I could live one more day Then, they gather the greatest strength from their weakest lungs and blow the candles. As they wish, the flames are gone, leaving the lonely sugar-coated cake on the table, surrounded by soulless gazes that truly appreciate perhaps their last sweetness in life. 5. He finally confessed his dirty deeds. She did not cry. Her face once hidden in her body surfaced slowly. She started to become like a human especially when he introduced his pores to her fingertips again – warm but crunchy like home-baked brownies. He endorsed the divine touch. She repaid with discreet food from the microwave that gorged their stomachs gorgeously in micro ways. After eating, he hushed her. He forbade speeches. He skipped pillow talks. A woman’s lips – he thought – should chant for his hairy skin. To him, words lost what they meant when said to those who meant nothing. Ssshhhh!That mouth should be sealed and concealed – proper-ssshhh-ly. Read more at asiancha.com