A Quote by Shirley Geok-lin Lim

Sometimes the taproot and the vines are far apart. Like English and the Asian poem. — © Shirley Geok-lin Lim
Sometimes the taproot and the vines are far apart. Like English and the Asian poem.
You know how the bonds of family are, my lady... They cling as tightly as vines. And sometimes, like vines, they cling tightly enough to kill.
All of the Vines that were acted & setup & had nice cameras, those weren't the good Vines. The good Vines were, like, a random little kid in the middle of a forest, like, yelling.
Sometimes the only way I know how to work through something is by writing a poem. And sometimes I get to the end of the poem and look back and go, 'Oh, that's what this is all about,' and sometimes I get to the end of the poem and haven't solved anything, but at least I have a new poem out of it.
In a manner of speaking, the poem is its own knower, neither poet nor reader knowing anything that the poem says apart from the words of the poem.
The subject of the poem usually dictates the rhythm or the rhyme and its form. Sometimes, when you finish the poem and you think the poem is finished, the poem says, "You're not finished with me yet," and you have to go back and revise, and you may have another poem altogether. It has its own life to live.
The Chinese Student Association at Cornell put together their own play. It was all Asian people in the cast except for me, because they wanted to do a couple of scenes about an interracial relationship. I was the only non-Asian person on stage; the entire audience was Asian apart from my 10 friends that showed up.
Our nature as sensitive beings is far too complex to break apart, re-examine and reshape in a poem.
Like a pianist runs her fingers over the keys, I'll search my mind for what to say. Now, the poem may want you to write it. And then sometimes you see a situation and think, 'I'd like to write about that.' Those are two different ways of being approached by a poem, or approaching a poem.
The lives of people are like young trees in a forest. They are being choked by climbing vines. The vines are old thoughts and beliefs planted by dead men.
People are like vines ... We are born and we grow. Like vines, people also need a tree to cling to, to give them support.
I like to use research to enlarge the poem. And sometimes a rhetorical or syntactical gesture stitches the poem along.
I've been to every single Asian country apart from Myanmar, on work, listening to human interest stories, giving me a broad outlook on all Asian cultures.
Sometimes you finish the poem, and that last piece clicks in place. Sometimes the poem is finished with you.
Perhaps first and foremost is the challenge of taking what I find as a reader and making it into a poem that, primarily, has to be a plausible poem in English.
The heart of the matter seems to me to be the direct interaction between one's making a poem in English and a poem in the language that one understands and values. I don't see how you can do it otherwise.
And so it became a priority for me to make sure that all Asian Canadians or Asian Americans or wherever you are, Asian Australians, felt like they belonged.
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