NICOLE RAZIYA FONG
 

Nicole Raziya Fong is a poet from Western Canada, with roots in the Caribbean island-nation of Trinidad and the country of Suriname. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry is Dead, Doll Hospital, ditch, Cordite, as well as in a chapbook that was part of the Poetry Will Be Made By All project. She currently lives in Montreal.

SOCIAL MEDIA

https://www.facebook.com/nicole.raziya.fong

BOOKS, PUBLICATIONS, PROJECTS

http://www.ditchpoetry.com/nicoleraziyafong.htm
http://cordite.org.au/poetry/transpacific/evasions/
http://poetrywillbemadebyall.ch/book/fargone/
http://orisont.wordpress.com/
https://leigh-gillam.squarespace.com/#/bed-door-the-order-of-things/

 

from TRACE

 

An alteration did not respond to the
original apprehension

Coming out of the surface that is
inscribed

What may or may not be remembered is
all there is to see

Opening under another hand

 

                                                                                              While crossing means traversal into a
                                                                                              undifferentiated state

                                                                                              Tolled essence, the relative embodiment

                                                                                              A drawn or acquired character of scrutiny

                                                                                              It all mattered, I had space inside me for all of it

 

The valley draws near in layers, hinging
the features of the inhabited body

The instance is all I know, but that is not enough
to make it mine

Simmering outside of shape

Body is the moment where what
perceives, endures

 

                                                                                              What I end continues on in me

                                                                                              I walk that road, myself an image, passing the
                                                                                              motion of conceivability

                                                                                              It could be complete without knowing
                                                                                              what it posed

                                                                                              If I am being moved, or witnessing someone else be
                                                                                              moved

 

I will this to exist, whether sun caused the vision
or only illuminated it

The face we present isn’t our own

I make an image and it is that thought

A reflection that does not glance from my gaze but
originates in it

 

                                                                                              The trajectory of meaning constructs its
                                                                                              boundaries

                                                                                              Sound occupying purpose

                                                                                              The distance between this window and that—the
                                                                                              distance I can hear

                                                                                              The continuities intersect

 

Wind ceases the night

Negation of capacities between clouds

That single concentrated point of myself, drawn
into engorged simplicity

At every moment we would divide

 

                                                                                               It could have been there, above a
                                                                                               landscape unburdened by people

                                                                                               Where light touches the skin, I burn, and the
                                                                                               sensation comes from elsewhere

                                                                                              There is life passing through the skies

                                                                                              My trace, following the shadows that keep me
                                                                                              from igniting