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Chan Kwan Ee Tom, Listen, Atmosphere Press, 2023.

In monochrome, a fallen beast is manipulated by puppet strings that ensnare a hand. Upon closer inspection, one cannot help but enquire: what does one expect to glean from an anthology urging readers to “Listen”? Trite metaphors about heartstrings? Yet these strings emanate from the radial artery, as if seeking to reclaim the bewildered heart that had leapt out of its designated vat.

A Chinese physician, when taking a pulse, discerns twelve polyrhythms corresponding to acupuncture meridians. In Chan Kwan Ee Tom’s poetry collection, Listen, there are four—each representing a dimension of growing intimacy as the poet examines his own soul. The reader or listener quickly realises that every marginalised group celebrated in Allen Ginsberg’s Howl—whether due to their sexuality, race, radical political beliefs, artistic or musical pursuits, or struggles with addiction—resonates deeply within the core of one’s own consciousness. We are all shaped by the same same, different different realities—uniquely configured through infinite combinatorial possibilities.

The four parts of the anthology are presented without headings, although each is prefaced by a nocturnal incantation. My suggestion is not to over-interpret these preludes. They serve to establish a mood in anticipation of the poems rather than to invite rationalisation. Take the prelude to Part I, for example, where the famous line “Do not go gentle into that good night” is sputtered out, dripping schematically below the words, “Starving. Hysterical. Naked.” Whether one perceives the layout as a very narrow pubic triangle awaiting penetration, an ice p(r)ick, or a cross-section of space-time curvature is immaterial. Whatever the interpretation, the mind certainly conjures neither rainbows nor teddy bears.

That suffices to draw the reader into the next page, where they are commanded to “Listen” to a stream of deliberated Wernicke’s aphasic chatter. The series of “no” that opens this first piece is significant. Images arise in the reader’s mind, yet the poet is absolved of any responsibility for their creation. After all, he negated, did he not?

The entire anthology might be viewed as a soliloquy, threading together moments that evoke the bittersweetness of a poignant stroll through the cityscape of Hong Kong. I wonder if the poet debated with himself about whether to use this piece as the collection’s preface before ultimately deciding to situate it at the opening of Part I.

One is ill-advised to decode many of the poems in Part I. A warning applicable also to the other three parts. There is a very real … threat / an uneasy child makes / when walking / on trembling feet (from “Trembling Feet”, pp. 12–13). There are those who will stop at nothing to remove the innocent who threaten with a passion for truth and justice. The innocent will not stop, either. For whom should the poet eulogise? For whom should the historian narrate? For whom should the archivist curate? Without explicitly saying so, our poet appears to have interrogated himself with these questions, answering them in “Awake” (pp. 17–23), when his … chest opens up / like a rose spewing life, / the howls will not end / for the rest of the night. He shall tell of the … heavy heads / forced on tyrannical ground (from “Trickling Waters”, p. 26). In lines such as these, the reader finds cathartic moments similar to reading the essays of Howard Zinn.

Part I concludes with a hopeful declaration for a return to normalcy, tempered by a gentle reminder that such a return would take an exceedingly long time (p. 43). Yet this hope is quickly shattered by Ginsberg’s call to follow one’s inner moonlight, which refuses to allow lunacy to be concealed or denied. Thus, the reader spirals down into Part II, which begins with a psychedelic whirl of avarice, intoxicated by bouts of false hope and genuine despair. The chocolate-coated almond in “A Shopping Prayer for Little Possessions” (pp. 47–49) must have tasted like cyanide-laced marzipan.

From there, the reader seems to float, as if experiencing an out-of-body perspective, looking down onto the timescale of Hong Kong SAR. The focus on the past 25 years gradually shifts, exposing a broader socio-cultural frame. I do not suggest that the poems were written in the sequence presented, whether chronologically or otherwise. However, in reading the anthology, I felt that the arrangement was anything but careless. It is difficult to articulate what Chan might have had in mind, but I suspect his process relied more on intuition and gut feeling than on a calculated plan.

My initial impression was a growing sense of intimacy as the pages turned, as though the reader were being led into increasingly private chambers of the poet’s emotions. Upon subsequent readings, it became apparent that the poet is tapping into progressively universal experiences. This is achieved through personal narratives that serve as case studies, easily extrapolated into broader human concerns. “Like That” (pp. 63–64) is a striking example, where the poet critiques social expectations of identity, complicated by physical appearance and linguistic preferences. Though the context is a distinctly Hong Kong one, it resonates with any multilingual, multicultural individual striving to balance the depth of monolingual, monocultural expression with the need to remain sincere, genuine, and authentic.

This pattern of an expanding frame coupled with a downward spiral reaches its culmination in “A Cute Depression”. Here, the poet presents a long sequence of relative clauses beginning with “who …” (pp. 70–73), followed by an equally long list of “to do …” (pp. 73–75).

The reader arrives at Part III, trapped behind the window where Jack Kerouac’s fattened, rusty moon lingers at the horizon. By now, the reader will have noticed that each section diminishes in page count. Has the poet lost steam, exhausted his poems, or is it simply becoming increasingly difficult to speak of certain things?

Here, the poet turns to his family, beginning with unnamed neighbours (“From Where I Start”, pp. 81–82), slipping into friends who are mis- or unrecognised, invoking past and unforgotten unease (“Recognised”, pp. 85–90). The intensity deepens as modern transhuman awareness begins to pass judgment on familial foods and lifestyles: “Pickled Chicken Feet” (pp. 91–92), “Midnight Walking on Tai On Street” (pp. 93–94), or “Find the Fish Dwellers” (pp. 95–96), to name a few. These pave the way for stories about the poet’s grandfather and parents, culminating in pieces like “Mother” (pp. 101–102).

As an older reader, I cannot help but wonder if, someday, the relatively younger mind of the poet might soften enough to smile at the psychological tingles of … (his) euphoric deranged state of mind / if need be provide a standard licence / from father to son: that I, the son, / must honor my duties / to receive a well-deserved royal beating (from “Lesser Grass”, p. 108).

Part IV returns to Ginsberg, embracing the act of thinking what you truly think, making the private world public. Rather than going gentle into the night, Part IV offers a celebration—disturbing in “Insomniacs” (pp. 113–120) and hopeful in “The Peel Street Poets of Our Time” (pp. 128–132).

What had I hoped to hear when I obeyed the call to “Listen”? I had hoped to hear nothing akin to the shooting in Prague, which took place on the very day I wrote this review in the nearby city of Olomouc. I had hoped to hear violence rendered silent, injustices long dead and gone. In some ways, I heard exactly what I anticipated from poets who believe themselves woke and aware. Yet it does not matter how many times these messages are heard. As long as certain realities remain unchanged, these messages must continue to be voiced, constantly evolving to meet the moment.

^{Written on 23 December 2023, day of mourning over Prague shooting on 21 December 2023.}

How to cite: Wee, Lian-Hee. “What Did I Hope to Hear?: A Review of Chan Kwan Ee Tom’s Listen.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 7 Jan. 2025, chajournal.blog/2025/01/07/listen-tom-chan.

Lian-Hee Wee is a phonologist whose libertarian political views are rooted in a naïve sense of empirical rationalism, believing that rights and responsibilities extend even to predator-prey relationships. Often frustrated by the ineffability of emotions, Lian-Hee finds himself more easily intoxicated by affection than by alcohol—though, when offered either or both, he might choose to flee. He crafts the guqin and xiao that he plays. His dystopia is a self-constructed world shaped by his hyperopia, which he alternately interprets as foresight or simply none of anyone else’s business. [Lian-Hee Wee in Cha.]