Oakland poet Kenji Liu is a 1.5 generation Japanese-born Taiwanese American expatriate of New Jersey suburbia. His writing arises from his work as an activist, educator and cultural worker.

"When I first moved to California and landed in Oakland," he says, "it took about eight years to start feeling at home here," he said.

"The city eased me in slowly, but eventually showed me a vibrant place full of people creating interesting political, cultural and arts projects all the time, often with very few resources. There's also a lot of history worth studying here, from the US-Mexico War and the Angel Island Immigration Station to the American Indian Movement's Alcatraz occupation and the Black Panthers.

"Teaching about these at Laney College and Merritt College as an ethnic studies instructor for a few years helped me see how important it is to really know where you live. These lessons learned in Oakland continually remind me that history is crucial to understanding a place, and I see examination of places, no matter how large or tiny, as very important to my writing."

Liu coordinates the Oakland Word program for the Oakland Public Library, which will be offering free creative writing classes to the public starting with the goal of provoking dialogue and encouraging creativity, literacy and self-sufficiency by providing opportunities for underrepresented youth and adults.  The program begins in February. (More info: Oakland Word Facebook page.)

Here are a few of Liu's poems:

What we knew (when you left) 

Dad, when you left Toufen

did you know

you’d never return? 

with children in tow

ah po knew

fleeing from Allied bombers

buzzing overhead 

robber flies 

en route to Hiroshima they

left craters in Taiwan

the size of Japanese factories 

out marched the dogs

in squealed the pigs 

but Nippon was still

the place to emigrate

like America but closer. 

Mom, did you know

you’d never return

when you left Kyoto? 

to the west

six sunrises in four days

a hundred forty thousand

scorched away

seventy four thousand

following them shrieking

into birdless sky 

obaachan knew. 

Little Boy and Fat Man

were white men

but for us America was still

the place to go. 

ah po and obaachan 

i return to you now

because what i know and do today

is never

fully me or mine. 

Letter to myself

(inspired by Adam Zagajewski’s “To Go to Lvov”)

go homeward with a suitcase full

of dew, gazing back

at red dawn just beginning.

three tiny steps

to your train, but then a gulf so widened

a shinkansen swims for days.

home is on no map, and explorers

will never find it. that time has passed.

nor will any magic

return home to you, even the river

running toward it or the torii

framing its general magnificence.

still, you remember

diesel-perfumed lawns emptied

cicada skins shrill

mosquito screen nights;

wet asphalt winds heavy

fumblings with girls steamy

purpled evenings

starred and orchestrated by fireflies;

fiery mounds of leafy sweet decay;

mom’s creased hands writing

dark snowflakes of kanji;

you and ah kung on a distant motorcycle;

strange, undulating fruits

of childhood, jerry-rigged

with simple explanations, injured

by routine.

going may compel

many comforts, but also vague

dissatisfaction, this geography

without you in it.

no horse, taxi or ship will

take you, and even if they do

no old friend or hotel will house you

because your residence papers are

from an old regime

others have come to

take up your jagged life, and

all around, a barbarian country

so familiar, yet selling nothing

but the loss you have owned

for years.

“What we knew (when you left)”, “Letter to Myself” and “Gesture” are taken from You Left Without Your Shoes, available at Modern Times Bookstore in San Francisco, Finishing Line Press and amazon.com. 

Liu’'s poetry chapbook You Left Without Your Shoes (Finishing Line Press 2009) was nominated for a California Book Award. His writing has appeared in Tea Party Magazine, Kartika Review, and the 2009 Intergenerational Writer’s Workshop online anthology Flick of My Tongue. His “Poem to Myself as a Newborn” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Liu was a presenting literary artist at APAture 2009, a multidisciplinary Asian Pacific American art festival. He will be the new poetry editor at Kartika Review starting with issue 7 and is working on a multi-genre full-length collection of poetry, prose and visual art.  

Liu is a freelance graphic designer and also holds an MA in Cultural Anthropology and Social Transformation from the California Institute of Integral Studies. When not writing, he paints, boulders, chases sunshine and hangs out with puppies. His biggest writing pet peeve is when people don’t know the difference between its and it'’s.

Oakland Poets is our weekly feature highlighting The Town's talented wordsmiths.  If you know someone we should feature or would like your work considered, email Kwan@oaklandlocal.com.