Utopia: Haiku Series

Through unguarded streets,
curious minds take steady strides—
girl, imagine that!


Inside our snow globe,
every child is fast asleep
away from the cold.


Their hazy eyes stare
as I wear a content smile
on my warm deathbed.


Artwork by Lee Merrion


how many hands did god
cut – makers
of coffeebeans & compost &
money, mahals
how many hands 

left carpets 
of wool & ice & persian delight &
skin severed; centerpiece 

in the sun, 
my hand reveals the brushwork
the veins & their decisions
i have written, here

my wonder & my questions
the stones i have thrown 
in god’s koi 
pond watching for ripple 
to sunburst upon 

this ruin 
i stand 

killing a fern

it takes a lot to kill a fern
delicate filigree masking
tenacious determination
to cling onto life

your carer deprives you of water
slow abuse
sucking rich green veins
to browned desecration

crackle and snap
leaving crushed whispers

dust falling into earth
welcomed back


By Jane Ayres

Photo by Soumyabrata Roy “when an arrow kills someone.” Taken at Babughat, Kolkata, India.


Hazed is a short collection of poetry on the total penetration of the palm oil industry in our daily life, as well as its oft unseen effects on animals, plants, and indigenous communities.

By destabilizing our capitalist human gaze, I rediscovered the magnitude of the problem—not only are non-human lives completely destroyed, but the palm oil industry also holds eerily colonial characteristics. The rainforests in Malaysia used to be hideouts for the anti-colonial communist resistance movement, the grounds of which the palm oil industry have now claimed, thus erasing nonhuman witnesses to history. Furthermore, fauna like orangutans and sun bears are forced out of forests. They often turn to the surrounding palm oil plantations for food, where they are treated as pests and brutally shot down. Additionally, increasing colonization of land for commercial use gravely endangers the lives of indigenous peoples. Their food and medicinal supplies are dwindling, and their waters are poisoned by the pesticides used by palm farmers. As their land diminishes, their youth, seeing no future in the dying tribes, move to cities and adopt new languages, and hence new identities.

National boundaries do not control natural environments. The palm oil industry in Malaysia and Indonesia has led to the deterioration of rainforests and human life within and beyond. Territories like Singapore, Brunei, and Thailand are affected by the haze caused by the slash and burn technique of land clearing as well. However, the utilisation of palm oil has reached an almost ubiquitous level, and turning to other plant oil alternatives will lead to other consequences. Like our many dependencies, our addiction to palm oil is a symptom and enabler of our accelerating slide into irreversible environmental destruction.

Eulogy for the Orangutan

It wasn’t you
It was the fire that took away her child who crumble
In the greedy fire like Israeli troops storming in
She screeched as the world ate
Burnt limbs, felt no pain in the inferno
Until unconscious, at the foot of a tree
She was picked up by creatures who looked into a mirror
But only saw where the skin peeled red, like raw steak
Hauled her into a truck and took pictures
Just like that, an internet sensation

I heard she succumbed to her injuries
The hospital could not do much
For a dying flame. They said she was severely malnourished
There was no emergency contact, nor funeral wreaths
Only a fleeting image on the scrolling screen
On another hazy day, when the smell of grilling satay
Tempts the passerby on the street

Little House

School is canceled
Sister jumped for joy and turned the TV on full blast
Mama said we should help her with the housework
Get to cleaning the behinds of dusty cupboards and spider-webbed corners

It is very hot
And I have cut myself on broken glass
Trying to shut the windows to keep the bad air out
Sister threw a plastic cup at my head and I saw flashes of yellow and red

Our cats ran up and down the stairs
Leaving behind clumps of fur that Papa hates
So he screamed at Mama for his financial rut
And locked himself in with the air conditioner

After we finished crying there was still a lot to do
Mama had left the house into the grey world, said she’s not coming back
At least she’s got a car
We better clean the ceiling fan and mop up the blood

In case she comes home coughing
Will we have dinner tonight?
We watch the evening news with swollen eyes, just in case
Feeling too big for this little house


I saw you on the hospital bed in my dream last night
The tubes made you look superhuman
The same spell they casted on grandfather’s static figure
As a last hurrah he loudly gasped for air, his death throe bulged his fat eyeballs
Before all calmed down

Already, your face constantly in masks during the haze seasons
And your pale skin twitching as you cough and sneeze
Or falling asleep on a plank, with an air purifier humming eerily
Alert comatose, alive vegetable
Seeing, feeling, but not moving
Life around the house goes faster, faster

You said next year you would run away from the smoke
Those bastards, clearing land and endangering your lungs
You would take a plane, and go to lands untouched by fire
Where the birds of paradise fly low
And waters are pregnant with life
And there on a hammock, you would think about the family you left behind
But breathing, at last,
Maybe then you’d start thinking what
You are living for.

A forgotten war

When the bulldozers trampled your voluminous body
Money hungry, trembling at the potential energy
You carry, I was angered by their audacity
For you were a creature of many in the past
Here, fungi consumed by slugs
Above, a bird nest fern overrun by ant colonies
The colorful hornbill once built a nest on the tree over there
Who stood tall amongst her sisters
And hidden, softly breathing,
Freedom fighters anticipated attacks

I held my breath as colonial descendants
Felled yet another acre
Your friends and comrades, howling
Now refugees on bare lands. Some shot down in defending their birthright,
Some charred to carcasses, or simply disappeared
No international outcry and no memory etched as proof

Only more trucks, more toiling bodies.
As your skin thins and dries, new settlers come:
First the rats, then the snakes, and then the owls
I know you miss your old friends
I saw a starving sun bear dig for insects one afternoon, a year later
They shot her with a crooked grin

Drying out, your scarcity
Feeds abundance elsewhere

Uncharismatic microfauna

Oh, you unnamed millions
Of scaly skin or feathery backs
Or abundant eyes or twitchy legs
I hunted on the internet for your names, or a face
But no one cares about you
Your brains too small and your bodies not plush-toy replicable
Like the Sumatran tiger
You don’t have wet eyes like the Orangutan
Nor you are big and steady like the Javan rhinoceros
You backboneless creatures, our little
Ligaments of the forests, without many organs
You easily hide
When a monkey briefly blinks and rubs his eye
You disappear into tree trunks and edges of the screen
Die within days
Without the chance to even become peripheral


His face carries a hundred thousand faces
People whose lineage embedded in
Landscapes I do not understand
I see his firm stature, rooted.
As alien bulldozers and lorries
Come to shrink a country

Nativity here is not skin deep
Nor is it claimed with such ferocity and greed
On the basis of national borders
But like an exposed land the richness leeches
Battered by the currents of modernity that sees no prize in love
Eats away at the core. Emptying out
His brothers, who saw no excitement in watching medicines go extinct
And pygmy elephants limping to find bare land after land
Run to cramped shop lots and adopt another face

He says the toxic is in the waters
And in the air. It chews away at the fibers of his roots, forbidding natural growth
Like rotating machinery extracting oil. Churning, churning
To be bottled up in plastic labels, as dizziness settles
Into pure oil, sealed tight
In tanks like stolen inheritance
By dried out hands, like a sacrificial ritual for the documentaries
A day’s worth of work done, as Dendi walks away from the camera
And the worker washes his face before dinnertime

Hazed Children

When the haze season begins
And breathability becomes a headline
Competition in my classroom pops open like a champagne bottle
Starting with the boy with the white turtle shell mask
The next day, a girl comes in with a pink Hello Kitty one
I know she has trouble breathing through the fabric
So I wore a paper thin one, going back to the basics
Which prompted the kid with a mole on his face to bring in a heavy-duty gas mask
In awe, the teacher came in the next day
Abandoning his completely

Our daily reading becomes muffled
As the creaking ceiling fans spin above us
And the windows grow heavy with soot
Elsewhere, schools get canceled on Fridays and Mondays
While us Northern children, tough like tigers
Strain our eyes to find our daddies in the crowd
As soon as the bell rings
To return to homes with air conditioners, hot showers
Before the evening news fizzles into snores on the couchAnd we tuck ourselves into bed, dreaming of the December holidays


She cradles her child, humming softly
The tune of the rising sun, a lullaby to celebrate
The golden crescent around his neck, he breathes gently the heavy air
She remembers stories of a quieter time, where
Honey was in abundance, and fear near absent
Standing on two hind legs or crawling amongst the undergrowth
You lived amongst food, and spirits who tire of life outside
Watch over you with tenderness

Baby, baby
You’re beautiful like honey
Baby, baby
What will you do when I am gone?

She cannot bear to tell him how it always goes
His paws are too small, she hopes they never chop them off
His face is too precious, she hopes they never lay eyes on it
His curious snout, puppy-like, so many times she pressed her own against it
And saw their ancestors, muscular and vain
By chance if they were to take him, it would not be the first
But let this be the last; she would rather be shot than
Feel an empty chest, nowhere to go

Baby, baby
You’re beautiful like honey
Baby, baby
What will you do when I am gone?

Beyond the fringes of the shrinking jungle
In a run-down hut, where water tastes like earth
And snakes are common as mosquitos
A girl cradles her firstborn child, humming softly
Her husband just left with the boys on the truck for another day’s work
She remembers stories of a quieter time, when
Family provided abundance, and fear near absent

Baby, baby
You’re beautiful like honey
Baby, baby
What will you do when I am gone?


Forgive me, for I did not mean to kill
Long ago they took my ancestors by the seeds
From a land far away. The climate felt right for germination
On surgical tables and glass plates, they altered me many times over
Eugenics, I think you call it that, against the grain of my nature
And then sowed duplicates on raw land with such precision

I fail to recognize myself, when I see rows and rows of
The unalive. I am unsure if they are copies of me or
If I am copies of them. Like cows whose milk is pumped forcefully
To pour into cereal bowls. I am taken forcefully to make cereal
And more. It brings me pleasure, to know how much I am needed,
And to see those who exploit me become so vulnerable

Those creatures killed in my name, I assumed they
Were not meant for world domination. I am in your digestive
System and the air you breathe in. I have men in suits and
Power in their pens protecting my right to grow in larger numbers
And your petitions are useless against chocolates and baked goods
For I have become one with everything you desire.

Photograph by Isaac Cordal

A True War Story

Up in the mountains, we found a baby VC water buffalo. It had no reason to be there, but then neither did we, if you sat and thought hard about it. A few of us chased the thing down, Rat Kiley and Timmy and Sanders and me, and took it with us to camp. I’d just finished my beans when I saw Rat go over to the creature. He touched it. Actually, he petted it. Even opened up some cans of food and waved it under its nose. But the thing just looked at him. Seemed like it didn’t move a muscle. Rat shrugged. I saw his face, so white like paper, almost shining.

It was just a thing, you know. Just a thing. Who cares?

Who the fuck cares?

Someone was shot. I saw the buffalo sink and Rat Kiley holding the gun. The silence rang, more piercing than any sound. I heard my breath, struggling. I heard Sanders’ breath next to me. Everything frantic and slamming but not making a sound. I looked back at the buffalo – still up. Still. Not moving. My eyes were fixed there, looking at everything but also at nothing. How was the buffalo up? There was no sound at all, the thing didn’t even whimper. I wanted to speak. I didn’t stop Rat but I wanted to puncture that goddamn silence, shoot it up, bomb it, drown it, just make it cry.

Another shot. Had Rat stepped back or forward this time? It didn’t matter. For a second, the silence was gone and it filled our eyes. It was even beautiful. How sharply Rat had attacked that silence, aimed his gun right for once. The buffalo lost an ear. Was it the ear? How lucky. How lucky and Rat realised it too so he shot it in the hindquarters and in the hump. I could feel Sanders’ heart and my heart beating in agreement.

He shot the thing twice, right in its middle. Yes. Yes. He shot it in the mouth, got real close and clean took it all off. We stood there and watched like some fucking day out at the movies. And the buffalo swallowed it all up. Who the fuck cares. Lemon was gone. Rat shot the tail off. Lemon and Kiley were best friends. Brothers. You come here and nobody gets to choose who you love, who’s your friend, who gets hurt. Kiley didn’t get to choose. He’s no God.

He shoots the thing in its chest, pieces of flesh falling to the ground. The air smells like it always does – green, smoke, hot, death. It isn’t new, just fresh so we take it, all dirty desperate greedy. Lemon is dead. Who the fuck cares?

Nobody cared. Rat switched to automatic. The gun kept going, killing that silence. This was important. This was the whole war and nobody said anything. It was wondrous that the buffalo was not dead after all those bullets. Rat kept shooting as if he was unpacking a suitcase, one shirt out after the other. Yes. Yes. Yes. He knelt down and carefully shot the thing’s knee. It fell. It couldn’t get up. Just lay there on its side. How the fuck could it give up like that? Pathetic. Can’t even be a damn hero for yourself. Can’t even matter.

Rat shot its nose. He swooped forward and whispered to it, putting it to sleep and all, I guess, and then he shot it in the throat. It was beautiful. Like a real Hollywood picture. Sending off your lover slowly because you love them but you also really hate them and none of it even matters. And it’s funny but right now, I remembered this girl I once had but now I don’t.

Maybe the baby buffalo was really braver than us. It could take the silence. It made the silence. It could lie there, it could just be, while we shot everything up. We couldn’t even take ourselves, the existence of our bodies, and how they ran but didn’t make a sound. Nobody’s a fucking hero and I saw it in the buffalo’s eyes, the only thing that had any bit of life ever in it.
Who cares?

Rat was crying. I put my hand to my cheek and it was wet too and was it tears or sweat or blood, who ever knows here? He tried to speak but the silence got the better of him so he hugged his gun and went off because he probably didn’t know what else to do. We didn’t either. We had no name or feeling or thing to shoot. Just silence.

This piece is a retelling of a scene from Tim O’Brien’s “How to Tell a True War Story”, from the perspective of another soldier.

Image taken from the film “Full Metal Jacket”, dir. by Stanley Kubrick


butter sizzles in the bottom of a nondescript black pan
I watch it scorch and send strings of smoke to heaven,
perhaps this is what happens when those of good faith die.
the second step squeaks on the left side but not the right
and the cabinet hasn’t fully closed in at least fifteen years
but we lock the door at night and wash the windows sometimes.
I watch the flowers wilt and then rot in an ancient blue vase,
I watch my hands as they grow lined and shadow-spotted
the fruit tree is surrounded by a ring of wasted opportunity.
everyone knows that it’s bad luck to paint a bedroom blue
it’s been empty for a decade, swathed in moth-eaten gauze
childhood books line the room’s perimeter, ever watchful.
I believe in the expansion of color in the sky as the sun travels
the vulnerability of people who have just woken up
trusting in the validity of expiration dates and quick dry nail polish.
decidedly lacking diner coffee fuels my most daring of dreams
chasing down something that won’t fit in a pocket or pouch
light brown curls escape an artist’s ponytail, I ache.
vacancy signs litter a town that was something more once
chipped windchimes and roads riddled with cracks and craters
people baked into its foundation, scarred into invisible martyrdom.

Artwork by Vincent Van Gogh, “Wheat Fields.”

Plastic Doesn’t Die

Alex Oswith still life

Dangle on my arm:

Like Dante
Like a flimsy object that can be swept
away by the wind

The era is in motion
Children who have seen too much
who don’t want to play with plastic bags
upon their eyes
Love approaching its extinction,
The only traces left are self
love or whatever they imbue in materials

Brew coffee
Just to take a picture because
You can’t handle its bitterness

Sip life in portions for
Plastic plants don’t need watering
but they do need dusting
A problem you didn’t take into account

Plants die,
and you are a child who can’t handle
more Death
You’ve already seen enough

Wash the body by parts
start with the head
that way you don’t have to look at the face
But look once more
At what was Life.
Eyelids seal:
Beauty and Laughter
Like closed cardboard boxes

Let the dust settle
Have it become the pollen of artificial flora
Then avoid this problem when people enter
This will let you instigate other problems
Problems children can deal with
While watering plastic plants



Artwork by Alex Oswith “Still Life”