an event planner and art's fundraiser. her works have been exhibited in the bay area and international. she's working on poems entitled, from a fanatic heart. grace. written at a time when i'd say was my hungry period. the first is bones. my bones are bleached white under your stare while you warm your hands under my open wounds i swallow the air you exheal and pluck the bones from your rib cage and i will make a man out of you. my bones memorized the weight of your since. they are brittle with forgiveness. my thighs unfold as you press the palm of your hand against my

curving spine and plant your bones inside my garden. this one is draft it's the one in thean tholology. he smoothed the wrinkles on my bell and he sucked my bitter fruit. we plowed an ocean in my navel and sowed mountains of regrets into fields. we allowed only the memory of water to sustain our thirst. we dreamt of rain and listened for our trees to bare fruit. >> the next is inspired by my mother, are we all? this is garden. the gate to my mother's garden

opened always trees flirt with shadows and the grass says my same. asleep in flowered boxes pay for rain. i open always the gate to my mother's garden. i will plant my sum in a clay pot an offering to jealous gods and stretch my arms like branches bearing fruft foregiveness. this was inspired by my mother who likes to sew. always had an old singer sewing machine and i bought her a new one but she never uses it. this is called cloth. her cracked lipped clenched to thread a dulling needle. the folds of my mother's dress are sewn with blody hands.

tattered promises and button holes filled with bottomless dreams. her she was held up with borrowed strent. she asked, when will i have a home? one day i uttered. i will plant around my house she said. green ooh vy will grow and the cat will lay to the grass dreaming of snow. >> my mother's dress i folded in the suitcase. what slowly devour the fabric quietly releasing my mother's scent. caught in the decaying cloth. i'm sorry. i'm sorry about that.

this piece was inspired by you know what happens to people during the war. and the war affects not only people that are in the middle of the war but generations therefore. this is called, which means flash fire and a wild sharp blades of grass that grows all over the philippines. the room was soaked with the fragrance of mangos. my mind is buzzing with flies. in the other room, my mother is mumbling and crying in her sleep. every night she dreams of the young american solder, the prisoner of war she had seen as a child in the philippineses.

he was a blue eyed giant towering over the japanese soldiers. his khaki uniform was torn and stained with dried blood and mud. the faded white tag across his shirt read, private d packston. the solders marched him to the river and made him kneel bite coconut trees on the riverbanks much the japanese officer drew his long sword, dip it in the running water, swung it high and one swoop, cut the american's head off. seconds before the blade hit him the american shouted something. perhaps his mother's name or a lover he had back home. may be it was the name of his

god. he called out, but it did not matter. his head turned circles in the air before landing with a small that you had on the soft muddy banks of the river. my mother opened her mouth and tried to scream as the head rolled past her feet. on the far hills red sparks littered dark skies like fire flies swimming. the crackling of the burning grass hiszed at the quiet country night. my mother wis perred. in the last stages of the war the retrieving army would burn the dry grass. my mother's family came upon the burnt out fields and found the body of a dog still smoking from

the fire. it's tongue was sticking out of his charred skull. my mother heard it whine. it's only the wind my grand mother told her. but the clouds above stood still. there was no wind that day. it is almost dawn. she is quiet now. mother, i said, stroking her hair and forehead. she opens her eyes and for a moment creeps me with a blank stare as if i was part of the nightmare. but she smiles and the past restores itself. i kept you up again my mother said. no. it was the heat, i answered softly. inhealing the frayingance of mangos that drifted in from the orchard. and bowed my head to the mercy

of the flies. my last piece is about what it was like what it might feel like to be dead. i was diagnosed with breast cancer a year ago. luckily i'm here but there were sleepless nights i thought, what would it be like to be dead. so -- >> the dead listened with her ice. their voices heavy with regret drop like grain on deaf pavements where children listen and trace their shadow. they dance memorize steps on wooden stairways. they sleep with their eyes open dreaming of half eaten cake. low hum of a car radio.

the feel of water. the taste of skin. thank you. [applause]. closing out our evening of readers is ahn wa received msa of creative writing. and the ardela literary composition prize in creative nonfiction. her work has been published in several an tholologies including our cheers to muses. in addition to writing and performing she published and hand bound artist books and is a photographer and print maker. lives and creates in oakland. i would like to introduce ahmwa. [applause] flesh of my flesh.

the woman who invented clothes was a woman. she knew the power of a well placed leash. knew there was no looking back. once man laid himself upon her he was cleave into her. need the clay of her. she knew then shield always need a sheath. a shield from shame. the early pain of having been divided. >> first sin. forgive me for coveting my mother's breast until it bled iodine to deceive me. 165. you cried when i left for

california. you and bastand figure the driveway. i didn't expect that from you. wasn't prepare for the weeping that would last until i cross the the state border. when i got to oakland my emotions leaked like a wildfire. they are the kind that destroy you, your security your shell. it almost killed me the home sickness the longing and anger that flawed itself into a stone in my throat. 165 days until i see you again. how many days in a semester. how long before i can go home? sometimes you need to burn everything to begin a new and here there are no science the deaths are not as severe the pure ifkification not complete. to let the natural of the sun

have it's way with me. to feel the tips of grass force through the ashes of earth the complicated earth that seechls soft at the surface and yet so deep. that is how i feel the hidden layers of hardness, liquid and flame. can anything survive at the core. must i always hold people at a distance never let them settle inside me. mother there is not enough room for me in your womb. that's why i left. to seek a home a place where i could grow. 165 miles i crieds, 165 times i missed you today. 165 meals that did not satisfy. 165 was not the number of my

dorm room. 165 dollars for a 1 way ticket. 651 the area code home. >> this is a record. phone rings, a set in mother tone asks, what are you eating, how are you getting around? warns me to lock all the locks on the door. my voice plays over and over half truths with fragmented vietnamese. i don't tell her that the locks have already been locked the click, click change of chain to groove. i don't tell her about my fear. i don't tell her i can't lock out the sirens, smut and paranoia of taxi cabs. the tortured baby crying scents of yeast from the bagel shop. extremes of heat and fall and

unexpected rain. i don't tell her that hearing the weariness of her voice i can feel her flannel nightgown wet with my tierce much the smell of ponds cold cream makes me sad. how i long to wrap my arms around her warm bell e. instead i say, i'm fine. eating, taking subway. i don't tell her that today i wept over a bowel of ph o. >> 100 degrees cellsius. there is no going back you and i. like broth clouded by the blood. so this next poem is actually in the tears to me antholology.

a vietnamese woman artist, composure you name it she does it. i wonder if she bakes i never asked her but. this is a buddhist heart. each time i burned my body for you my heart remanipulained in . i watched the saffron flames engulf me seer my skin, flesh of a plum stripped of it's peel. tender and glowing like mars, i would rise to the sky for you to see me. in those moments i was your torch and we were united. united by the scents the heat the shutter. for love of another i'd say to myself, faithful in muted pain.

my hope, my heart extinguishing as you stood there paralyzed each time like a still camera unable to look away. infraction. if my love were smooth and lustrous would you spit me open and fill me up again. would you kiss the scar you made of me name it and claim me like a mountain. bear witness to holiness where 2 rocks collide. if my was unpenetrable and clear would you search your whole life destroying me just to hold me to the light? i am listening you like rain that slips through fingers

missing you like childhood dreams and mother's mill ik. like an earing under a bed. links of moon that pass. with years reflected in glass. the silver seams behind eyes. if you happen to find my love hidden in the openal of your memory, would you return my uncertainty? my last poem, i'd like to dedicate to all the people who have ever lost someone that they love. and as nancy said you get to a certain age and people start passing away. and it's kind of bizarre when you lose a parent and realize you are a member of some strange society where no one understands how you feel. i want to say this is something that i'd like to share.

inheritance. you were stubborn until the end. i felt your spirit tremor in my hand, your fears gach. the hospital room was filled with ice witnesses that denied me the last thing imented from you to lay curled with you alone once more. to be a girl again and feel the balloon of your belly rise and fall. pat your cheeks soft as apcots. hear your breathing soothe me to sleep. that day i wrapped my arms around the shirt necessary your closet still hanging i felt them fill my grieve felt them hallow in your absence much the waling never ends inside and sometimes i think i have lost you like a hat.

misplaced you in the messiness of my surroundings. you see, your stubbornness was woven into me woven into the clothes we both wore. strands that decide where we shared resistance, pushed needles. that's how i held on to you how a sewed myself to your side a seam raised into a scar at the end. thank you. [applause]

>> thank you.

thank you. i have um... thank you and peace be with you. there's three mike's here so i don't know if i should put this down. um... before i start, i've had the great honor to - i love to talk at schools. k through graduate school and one question i ask children in america is i ask them how many of you have talked great detail to your grandparents or elders or fore father's about world war ii or the depression or vietnam or civil rights movement, or perhaps if your parents or grandparents came from another country and settled here what

it's like. only five to ten percent of the ands come up. if i asked that same question in afghanistan or pakistan or africa 90% of ands come up and i think the as great tragedy we've lost that oral tradition and a rich tradition about folklore and heritage and faith and heritage. to honor that today i'd like to share with you a little story. it's a hard cover book that came out in march of 2006. anybody have a hard cover. wave it up here. you might not want it after i say this. i got to pick the title. three cups of tea but viking told me they would pick the subtitle and they picked one man mission to fight terrorism one school at a time. i objected because obviously

there's- ways to fight tear riz m with education but i said i do this to promote peace and i started 8 years before 911 and this is about promoting peace through education. i've worked afghanistan and pakistan many years and i said we need to have a tribal council. i went to manhattan in the fall of 2005 and the big boss of the whole group, nancy shepherd and carlin coburn in publicity. we met in a little room and i stated my case and they said, this is your first book so you need to listen to a few things here. first of all only 12 percent of nonfiction books make a profit and 2/3 are pre chosen by the publisher. we'd like to put our marketing arm behind us but your having

to fight tear riz m to this. since i grew up in africa and worked pakistan for many years you never settle a deal without driving a hard bargain so i said if the hard cover doesn't do well, i'd like the subtitle changed later on for the paper back. julia and our other board relently pounded away month after month. i was in pakistan of december of 2006 and there was a new editor on the book and they said they decided to change the title to one man's mission to promote peace. the hard cover didn't do that well. sold 20,000 copies. while the paper back came out on january 30th of this year and since out it's been on the new york times best seller selling over 700,000 copies now. and it's one man's mission to

promote peace. and they're still baffleed manhattan because they're scratching their heads the first month because there's only - well no big city book editor did it so to be a best seller you need new york times or the chronicle or boston globes to give you good book reviews. no national t.v. or, m pr so paul said what's going on out there. i said, you know this is what i think it's about book clubs and women's groups, synagogues, mosques and churches and an incredible amount of book clubs here in the bay view area and about people yearning for piece and looking for the answers of peace. any ways it's been really incredible and aspire together see people from all walks of life i really think can re late

to promoting peace one child at a time. we got some news last month that the pentagon purchased 5,000 copies. let me finish it. and it's for counter intelligence training, 101 and mandatory reading for they're course encounter intelligence. this is in tan sa any a. i went there when i was three years old and my father founded a medical center and my mother started a school. it was a wonderful childhood. i went to school with children from two dozen countries. with jews and christians and hindus and for me that was the way the world was. finally it came time to come back to america. i was in high school and really looking forward to coming back

to a place whether i heard about fourth of jewels lies anulies . i got beat up. they said you're not from america. it wasn't in africa that i learned about racism but here in united states. we were completely broke and i did something real unpopular at the time. four days after high school i joind the united states army. not only to serve my country but to get the,gi bill to continue my education. then i saw young men and women from all across america. from farms and ranches and it matedm made me realize the strength in

this country is not from commonality but our great diversity. i had a younger sister named gift of god and christa was a special girl because she suffered from severe epilepsy. she never once complained. she never said across word and it could or would take her an hour or two to line um... up her clothes and do our homework and get her lunch b bag ready. i'm the five minutes bed to - bus kind of guy, you know? well krista saw the baseball movie called field of dreams. very inspiring movie that takes place in the corn field in iowa and decided for her 23rd birthday she wanted to go see that place. she was living in minneapolis

and packed her bags to go to the field of dreams. when my mother went to wake her up on july 24th 1992 she had died in her sleep from a massive seizure and it was devastating for all of us. i was climbing quite a bit and roaming around quite a bit and every summer i would take a month and do something with her. every year we could go to disneyland and i took her to yosemite. it was very special to do that with my sister. at the time i was climbing a lot, i thought i'm going to pick a big bad mountain to climb in honor of krista. she had an amber necklace she got on the indian ocean coast and i was going to take that and put it on top of,k 2. when