Issue 1. Volume 1.

Bi-Lingual Literary Magazine

i

EDITORIAL NOTE

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1

Dear Reader,

I am not an Editor. I am a man. I am a socialized

man, who very well might be a woman, but I have

not meditated enough to find out. I could also be

an elephant. Or a brick.

Can we go out back and talk one on one? Okay,

good. See, the thing is, I have no idea how to edit a

literary magazine, much less write an Editor’s Note,

and I was kind of hoping that you’d help me out

here.

I was actually hoping that we could do this

together, and then maybe afterwards we could get a

cup of tea or coffee and talk for a little bit. Maybe

you could tell me something you haven’t told

anyone before. Maybe you could show me

something you’ve written! Oh, man. That’d be so

nice. And yes, of course, if you ask me, I’d love to

show you some stuff I’ve been reading. I’ve been

reading a lot lately. A lot of it’s in here, actually.

There’s stuff in English and stuff in Burmese.

There’s poetry and prose. It’s some pretty good

stuff…and…you know…it’d mean a lot to me if you

read it.

Alright, you know what? I’m going to stop dancing

around it. I love you, okay. I’ve loved you for a

very long time, and I’m sorry it took me so long to

say so. It just takes a lot to make a literary

magazine, you know? Actually, that’s bullshit. It

doesn’t take a lot. It just takes another person who

wants to do it…at least for the first issue. And

well…I guess that’s why I’m really writing this. I

need you. I need your writing. I need it like I need

air. I know I’ve been quiet, but that doesn’t mean I

haven’t thought about you on my walks. It doesn’t

mean that I haven’t written you poetry in my

journal. Please. Please send your art.

I don’t know where I’m going.

I don’t know when I’m going home.

I don’t know where I’m going tomorrow.

I don’t even know where the hell I’m going with

this sentence.

But I want to go there with you.

Love,

Your Editor,

Joseph A. Decker

!

၀

၀

1 2

TABLE OF CONTENTS

POETRY

“no time can see itself” 3

4

Goattysburg Address 7

Exist to Me, Please 10

A restaurant Bar 11

A Stress Prayer 12

/ Bonsai 14

Ode To a Cup 15

A SCENE FROM i p. 16

PROSE

(၈ 17

၏ 18

MORE POETRY

Life 30

31

32

The Unwritten 35

3

no Time can see itself or wish to wish

that Change could sleep a while

and Now could stand to kiss

something

that is an isn't

or is is,

behind a word, or before, a before is.

and should a mirror appear before Time

could Knowing ever grow know

and paint words between color

and hang space on pale poles?

and Emptiness could invite

all his friends into

them

sel

ve

s

and the party would never end or

(parenthesis) begun,

and beginning would birth itself

and Never, ever aring,

now would Now is now and whering

there is no consciousness outside of star

i

n

g

)n(

(o)

Bekalu Abeyo

(၁)

(၂)

(၃)

( )

4

2

(၄)

-

(၅)

5

(၆)

..

( )

6

Goattysburg Address

“Government of the goat, by the goat, for the goat”

- Amarham Lingoat -

”

… …

7

… … …

”

”

”

”

”

” ”

8

ပါ

Exist to Me, Please

Please,

Tell me, you must, please.

If I do not know what think

You, I will not know where you are.

If I do not know where you are,

where you are now,

I will not, cannot be close to you,

Close to you be,

Though I am right here.

Nothing,

Then who, what are you?

If you think not here you are not

to me here, here with me,

Which I need,

Then how am I to believe

that you are that

With which I am in love -

That I am in love at all?

Helen Waller

10

A restaurant Bar

The intersection

the red light

and a thousand cars stopping by

The number might well go beyond....

A restaurant bar..

the intersection

Where one's end meets the other’s belly…

A tiny parking lot..

The music of the 90s…

the attention of the taxi-drivers

And old men alike…

We wondered..

Why aren't there any young men…

Not to mention a demoiselle..

Maybe..

Said I..

How about a gas-station?

said my friend..

Instead of a bar..

That's better

said I..

And time moves by

This too will be gone..

I too will be dead…

What matters now..

May not be what matters tomorrow..

Pawan Goutham

11

A Stress Prayer

I like to break onto the roofs of Yangon hotels to pray,

but I’m worried that if I tell you that,

you’ll think I like talking about it

more than doing it,

and I’m more worried that you don’t think I’m worried,

when I told you I was just now,

that you think I put in that little disclaimer

to show off what a clever shit I am,

that I don’t care about praying or poetry

and I’m only writing this to get some girl to sleep with me,

which is funny because since I arrived here,

I’ve been too stressed to shit solids,

let alone think about sex or love,

but if my school somehow organized itself,

my student loans paid themselves off,

my students were enlightened,

and all my friends and family from the United States moved into my

apartment complex,

aaand I were fluent in Burmese and just ate a slice of pizza,

I wouldn’t want to sleep with you at all.

I’d want to sleep with this girl named Ei Ei

I saw for one afternoon in a village in Shan State

because she poured tea so eloquently

I thought she was the mother of Christ,

but my mother wants me to come home,

and it’d be too easy to say I don’t know where home is anymore,

12

but I found it in the pupil of a German couchsurfer

at the tea shop next to the Maha Wizara,

when she smiled and I saw my grandmother

who hasn’t been able to make new memories

since my Grandpa Giovanni passed away—

everyone said I looked like him—

and when that couchsurfer said Italians and Germans

make wonderful couples,

I wanted to marry her

and start the farm she’s too scared to start

or move to Brooklyn

and become groupies,

which is her back-up plan,

which reminds me:

what the fuck is my back-up plan?

Plan A was falling in love with someone

who is actually God

and robbing banks like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid

but Butch and Sundance died

and humans can’t be God,

only the space between us can,

which is all to say that

I like trespassing and praying on top of Yangon hotels alone,

but if someone were to come with me,

I’d look way less suspicious.

Jack Shank

13

...........

႕ ...

႕

...

႕ ႕

႕ ႕

...

...

...

...

.........................................................

Bonsai

.........

Leafy ...

But can't make it shadowy.

Living in a limited liberty,

Once a day ... I get thirsty.

Without the freshness of the morning...

Without the sweet chirps of birdies ...

On such meaningless days ...

My mind tends to stray.

Within the restricted chance of living ...

Taking a breath of timidity ...

Pretending to feel no sorrow ...

I'm just gazing at the window ...

While defining the phrase "100% liberty"

With a sense of aesthetic philosophy.

.......................................................

Soe Thu Ra

14

Ode to a Cup

There you sit before me,

with your circle rim

shining like the moon

out of the darkness

of your insides.

Black as coal.

On your wall stands

drawings of lions

Proud.

Then I realised,

all those colours and lines

are the result of culture

over eons of times

A collective adventure.

Yet you are,

A cup.

Nothing

A mere container

You hold water

or perhaps liquor

You can hold hot tea

You can hold pee.

Kyaw San Min

15

A Scene From i

(A barn in the Shan hills which are also the

Appalachian hills. A bloody man pushes open the

barn door and falls onto the ground. He reaches

out to the reader.)

Bloody Man

Please (coughs.) please submit (He breaks into an attack of coughing that lasts

two minutes. He curls into himself and lies very still.

He then starts crawling towards the reader.)

Please submit to i (coughs. coughs.) at submit@izine.org.

(A masked man walks out of the barn brandishing

a shotgun. He looks around until he sees the bloody man.

He begins walking towards the bloody man. The bloody

man is unaware of the masked man’s advance. The bloody

man spits up blood.)

And visit our website at www.izine.org.

(The masked man stops walking and aims his shot gun

at the bloody man. The bloody man smiles at the reader.

Black.

A reader raises an eyebrow.

An editor looks out the window.

A finger pulls a trigger.

A hundred and sixty-eight birds fly into a page.)

El Fin

16

Zaw Maw

(Undergradute student studying Western Philosohpy at St. John's College in Santa Fe, New

Mexico. Likes to go running whenever free. A great fan of Kya Seint tea since 1998)

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28

G.I. ZEN RIO! ZERO GIN—I…

I GIZ RENO: I RIG ZENO. GO IN, REZI IZINE.ORG

Life

I always ask "What is life?"

Is it peace or is it a fight?

If it is peace, why is it so rough?

If it is a fight, the opponent is really tough

We always say that life is unfair

I have to admit, a fair life is truly rare

Of course, life has it's ups and downs

However, it is up to you whether to smile or frown

One's life is always unseen

And most of the time it may mean

But life being mean doesn't mark the end

Mistakes are always meant to be mend

Are you going to cry, and let your hopes die?

Or are you going to fly, into the beautiful sky?

The grass is always greener on the other side

So keep on fighting, don't run and hide

Life is really just a big test

Don't ever give up and do your best

There will definitely be a time

When you're supposed to shine

So stop walking and try to run.

But above all make sure you have fun.

Take your chances and take some risks,

Because all in all that's what life really is

Daniel Sky

30

႔

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။

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SUBMIT@IZINE.ORG!

The Unwritten Men in tattooed shoulders with bird-feathers tuck behind their ears-- proud Gods of their island-realm. They are claiming the sea with crude spears in hand. A Great Shadow cast upon them. The shadow with its heavy, draped wings spread out, blocking the evening Sun. The men's wives with their naked chests watch, in apprehensive wonder, as the big bird rises in the horizon. Until the BOOM of the guns awe men into diving, cap-sizing their canoes while their wives run scattered with a hysterical child in hand. Time—a changing. In the early of the mornings, you can lie awake with the oarsmen singing sweet as their hearts pump an energy that flows to their arms then to the boat and combines with the wind caught in the sails. They have rowed this boat for six full-moons now. At times calm ocean is the only window to their souls. Their thoughts in motion come into suspension as dark balloons of clouds appear in the horizon which they have just passed.

35

Dark, boiling smog and then a tall, thin chimney and the ceiling of the captain's room and finally the tip of the Bow. As they watch, the steamer gets all the time bigger. until it consumes their starboard horizon. they watch it rolls away till white foams of its tail are a specter haunting the road ahead. The wind howls of a sea change. The room is hot-- red with smolder revealing the Hell in the cast iron pots. The beads of sweat on the man's forehead have made their way to the brows—brimming there like a river at the mouth of a dam. He wipes it off with the back of his hand. leaving a smudge in its wake. His eyes show red veins and if you look attentively, you can see two flames in each hollow socket. The flame of the smolder and the fire of a life tiredly spent. These are attentive eyes. They have labored hand-in-hand with his arms. With twenty-pound heavy Pincers. Now they cast their look on a breathless metallic

36

where once stood a panting friend. A specter is haunting. Yangon: I love this city. The crowds flow through the landmarks of its history: colossal, Union Flag era buildings that stand witness to the Pansodan Road flowing down its way with heavy human presence to the jetty where it tapers off at a corner with the ancient aura of the Port Authority Building. Rickshaw men of Yangon are unmistakable. If they are young, they adore long hairs with youthful recklessness on their faces. If they are older, the grooves on their face bear the resigned acceptance of their present. They were the Kings of the gutters. Now the Kings look upon the new-born species that a year ago lived in the colorful box streamed LIVE from Seoul, NYC, London and Tokyo. They bear the names of invasive species: Honda, Proton, GMC, Chrysler. The time of the Kings has come to flicker and hopefully leaves its mark on the city in quiet, chauffeured, flown-in Revolution. Who will tell them? Aung Hein

37

You must act, but you must remember.

You must remember, but you must forget.

You must submit, but you must never submit.

i submit

to the eye that blinks tear-ink

before it thinks and after it winks,

the i in the အိုင္ in the eye

of the woods, the city,

and the mind: the i behind

the eye

behind the အုိင္.

You must act, but you must remember.

You must remember, but you must forget.

You must submit, but you must never submit.

i submit

to the eye that blinks tear-ink

before it thinks and after it winks,

the i in the အိုင္ in the eye

of the woods, the city,

and the mind: the i behind

the eye

behind the အုိင္.