Johanna's BlogAndy Quan
b. 1969, Vancouver, Canada
Andy Quan’s latest collection of poetry is Bowling Pin Fire. His writing often explores the themes of community, identity, heritage and travel. He is the author of three previous books, one of short fiction, Calendar Boy, one of poetry, Slant, and one of gay erotica, Six Positions. He was the co-editor of Swallowing Clouds, an Anthology of Chinese Canadian Poetry. Born in Vancouver, Canada, he has lived in Sydney, Australia since 1999 and works as a consultant on HIV issues in Asia. He’s also a singer and songwriter. http://www.andyquan.com/
Andy’s poem ‘A Word from the Feral Pigeon’ was commissioned for the Pigeon Poetry project in 2008 and features again in Poems to Share albums as part of a collaboration between The Red Room Company and Corban & Blair.
Publications
1999: ed. by Andy Quan & Jim Wong-Chu. Swallowing Clouds: An Anthology of Chinese-Canadian Poetry (Arsenal Pulp Press)
2001: Calendar Boy (New Star Books)
2001: Slant (Nightwood Editions)
2005: Six Positions: Sex Writing by Andy Quan (Green Candy Press)
2007: Bowling Pin Fire (Signature Editions)
A Word From The Feral Pigeon
prologue: feather
The quill and shaft, the side branches
attached by barbules and hamuli
the barbs together: the vane.
Evolved as insulation structure
or mating markers, considered
only a secondary purpose: flight.
freedom
Rats of the sky, with wings
why us? Not the lucky farking doves
-a few shades lighter- who escape
disdain, logos of lefties world-over.
We're mascots of the displaced, crowded,
overpopulated, but our cooing as beautiful
their excretion just as corrosive.
Meanwhile our carrier cousins
whoring for acceptance, purpose
or someone else's folly. Our benefactors
benign, theirs make them race and race.
We possess secrets read from the soles of feet
are familiar with the kind and the crazed
know shapes to salve loneliness
accept gifts as meant to be received.
Look at these heavy tulip bulbs, the torsos
we lift into the air. Can you? We guard
your immobilized heroes
bring them and your concrete piazzas
to life, are smartly unromantic
about the outmoded countryside,
have no need for medals,
our collars, iridescent violet-green
bind us to no master.
