CAREEN (Noemi Press, 2019)
full-length poetry collection
== CHAPBOOKS ==
winner of Ahsahta Press Chapbook Award, judged by Kerri Webster
‘After years, months, days of assurances pouring in/from all over the realms,’ Grace Shuyi Liew writes in PROP, ‘the sisters/finally embrace their nationlessness’—and yet by the time the reader finishes this chapbook, she feels she has witnessed a rogue state, an Ur-state, and seen the way in which a plurality of bodies—even if only two—can become Law, Custom, Historicity, the Body Politic beautifully tailed and smelling of citronella. This is a deft and assured sequence, and I look forward to reading Liew’s work for years to come.
— Kerri Webster, judge for Ahsahta Chapbook Prize 2016
‘I wear my body as infiltration’ announces Grace Shuyi Liew, fusing erotics with geo-political, transborder resistance. The radical, unflinching ‘I’ of these poems shines ‘like a sun that desiccates rather than animates,’ searing the symbology of systemic horrors into a map of private, locatable griefs. The intelligence here is wickedly formidable, flexing and extinguishing itself, refusing to channel its own sense of embodied damage and colonization into narratives of redemption or rapture. These poems ask us ‘To un-see, to pre-see, to march / latent cognition into / an unmarked grave.’ I’m thrilled to relinquish my sight to these marvelous poems that speak from the place where ‘the sky turned over and vanished us.’
— Lara Glenum, author of The Hounds of No, Maximum Gaga, Pop Corpse, and All Hopped Up On Fleshy Dumdums
The poems in Book of Interludes discern the guts of a thing, the qualities of the body with “postcolonial tan lines.” Grace Shuyi Liew grapples with the alienation of our physical postures throughout her lithe and rhetorically capacious lines. These poems say: “Nothing that comes out of / Me is an accident.” These poems speak to the coherence of bodies that are flung onto a faulty framework and then requested to speak and be. Bodies matter, and so does every word, and so does the inescapable grid of power that permeates these ferociously smart and lyrically unflinching poems. “What you have stolen I don’t even want anymore,” they say. Instead, “Do you: Carry murder in yourself?
— Ginger Ko, author of Motherlover, Comorbid, and Inherit