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The Calligrapher   Try grasping a piece of wood between your thumb, middle & ring finger – as if the drip- dripping of ink was a typhoon you could play in Loosen the right wrist, scrape the weight of too-much from brush/heart across ink bowl; let its round rim reassure Sculpt the brush- tip till shrill: sharp as papercut Let ink seep: a dot, a line, then a mad dash to the last stroke till interlocking arms form terraced paddies bursting with meaning: the character fortune made up of the shirt on your back, the roof over your head & the promise of a stomach satisfied with rice   *   When people ask why, reply: my mother wished I would write with the grace of those ancient Chinese poets whose tapestry now slips easily from my ten-year-old tongue into a diptych of shapes Hour upon hour, my wrist aches as the ink dries to a crust My eyes blink back water, but this is precisely the moment to continue Once more the fingers dip, slide, lift I am not a dancer, but this is a dance My mother tells me: see how Chinese characters are sunflowers that seek out the eyes Seeds of ink unfurl suddenly from your wrist, blooming into time –       The Importance of Tea   When your aunt arrived, she asked for normal tea, which, to my untrained ears, sounded a bit like normality In Hong Kong, normal tea is green, or white, or red It took my mind several moments to move from green to white to red to land on black Your aunt was flexible: any Assam, Darjeeling, or Earl Grey? We only had Matcha, some loose-leaf Iron-Buddha in the cupboard, no milk Your aunt looked at you as if you’d failed at being British, me as if I’d failed to properly assimilate After, you said I was projecting onto your aunt the fears I harboured No matter how many years I’ve spent in this country, how I interpret normal tea, what is normal to me You are learning Mandarin Chinese I see how the