GAS Featured Musician and Poet: San Lin Tun

Belinda: When I first started getting bio info on you all I saw was your accomplishments as a writer. I have only heard your music.  Do you, in fact, play a guitar?

San:  Yes, I do. I play an acoustic guitar. I would like to create my own instrumentals. My debut instrumental album titled “Acoustic Recital” came out in 2024. A mini-album with my lyrics recently came out in early 2025.My music career is only three years old because I decided to be an acoustic guitarist in early 2023 while I started writing career in 2000.  

I have published over a dozen English books including “Reading a George Orwell Novel in a Myanmar Teashop and Other Essays” “An English Writer (novel)” “A Shirt and Other Poems” and my recent one is a publication of Penguin SEA and its title is Yangon Days.

On Amazon

Belinda: I don’t think you’ve ever posted written work in GAS.  At the end of these question please post at least two of your best poems.

San: No, I don’t. But, my instrumental appeared in GAS 20. 

Belinda: Which came first, the writing or the music?

San:  Actually, the music came first because I began playing the guitar when I was in my middle school days in 1987. I learnt to play the guitar firstly from my neighbor who had an acoustic

guitar. He taught me some basic chords such as C major, A minor, E minor and G major. Using those chords, I could play some Myanmar songs. Later, in our three-month long summer holidays, I took up a short guitar course with Ko Myo Sint to whom I came to know through a music instruments rental service in an uptown ward. KMS was a lawyer by profession, but he could also play the guitar well. He taught me the basic rhythm patterns and more chords. Luckily, when I was in my high school days in 1990s, I had a classmate who was interested in playing classical guitar and we became close friends. We met often at his place, practicing and playing classical guitars. Through him, I came to know Salai Zalyan, the legendary bassist of ACES music band and we both studied music with him. Also, we learnt playing the guitar from Ko Myo Tun, another legendary lead guitarist of The WILD ONES music band. In fact, I had another guitar instructor whose name is Aung Ko Ko who taught me music notations, and music theories. That time, heavy metal was very popular among youths and I had a great admiration for those speed guitarists such as Joe Satriani, Paul Gilbert, Richie Sambora, etc. Not only heavy metal, I also like rock, Spanish, blues and jazz too..

Belinda: I read that you are a translator.  What languages do you translate to and from?

San: Yes, I am a bilingual writer. My native tongue is Myanmar and so, I translate Myanmar works into English and English into Myanmar.

Belinda:Yangon, Myanmar seems to influence your work a lot. Is this the place of your birth and where you still live?  Have you traveled and worked in other countries? If so, where and what did you do?

San: Yangon is my birthplace, and I live downtown in which there are many heritage buildings. And famous international writers such as Rudyard Kipling, Somerset Maugham, H.G Wells, Pablo Neruda, George Orwell, etc visited and lived in Rangoon (the former name of Yangon). Those literary luminaries are my inspiration. I haven’t traveled other countries. 

In 2013, I participated in a literary project called H2 project organized by British Council and I became a short story writing instructor to conduct a short story writing workshop. Later, the first time ethnic short story book both in Myanmar and English was published locally and in U.K in 2015. In the meantime, I became a licensed tour guide after attending TTS (Tourism Training School) in 2018. Since then, I showed people around literary spots in downtown Yangon in which there are many heritage buildings. I feel quite happy to show people around those places. At the same time, I worked locally as a freelance contributor for local newspapers, journal and magazines such as Myanmar Times, Myanmore, My Yangon Magazine, Home and Service Journal, etc.I also submit my writings to literary magazines in the Asia Pacific Region, UK, and U.S such as Asia Literary Review, Kitaab, Mekong Review, Borderless Journal, etc.

 

A MONTH AWAY FROM MAY

Heat comes uninvitingly,

even more blatantly, patronizingly,

though rain should be amiably let in.

There is no choice,

as vox pop say,

It is best to accept what it is.

What will be for those

who could not afford A.C fully on,

who live in destitute and distress?

Blaring, prickling, scorching,

sweating, suffocating, nuseating,

cursing, swearing, complaining, withal condemning . . .

But, it is still in May,

just sporadic rumbling, thundering,

just signs they are.

Rain seems still far away,

though it’s only a month away,

to usher in a monsoon paragon damsel.

TO THE MAN WHO LIVED IN 29^TH STREET

He who loved Yangon streets, not because Fraser’ city’s plan,

Nor Lord Dalhousie’s dreams; simply, he fell in love with the 

cosmopolitan city.

What he found in it was amazing, he said to his best friend,

That there are treasures hidden in these streets,

Digging those up when he had a chance.

Among other things, authors like Rudyard Kipling,

George Orwell, Pablo Neruda, Paul Theroux, Ludu Sein Win,

And Aung Cheit

Inspired him greatly while he was living in Yangon.

He really loved the literary life, and being an author,

He even managed to finish his doctorate in creative writing.

He walked freely in the maze of streets, wide and small,

Slinging his red bag on his left shoulder, with his panama hat,

his Apple laptop and quick-to-smile expression,

Making friends with locals, no discriminations towards age or

gender,

He loved chatting, joking, philosophizing, and venturing,

A true global citizen and down-to-earth personality.

In his neighborhood in 29^th Street, he was known as “Mr Bob”,

And well-liked by his friends and peers, showing their 

willingness,

And comfort in his association; they saw humor in him, and

a quick wit,

He made their existence more meaningful and strengthened 

their identity.

To them, he was a sensible, true man.

Among his fascinations were Art House movies, 

Also, Raymond Carver’s books; he had a liking for old books,

Post-cards, and posters which he managed to revive again,

On the stagnant walls of residents, expats and locals alike, 

With his creative sense, and human touch.

Among his many successes is “Walking the Streets of Yangon”,

Which has become the Bible to those who like to explore the 

city’s life, 

He embossed his name in the city of Yangon, fully living in it,

Never wasting his time, always exploring and discovering,

He is remembered, not just on 29^th Street, not just in Yangon.

Su Zi's Review of Juliet Cook's REVOLTING!

 

For a generation now, or better, writers have been able to connect with each other through electronic methods of writing. While some writers may use these means to disseminate their work, others tell us about new works in the hopes that a few of us will buy a book, a physical book. It is in this way of announcement that we who read are presented with opportunities for our personal libraries; and herein it must be stated that civilized people have personal libraries, and these collections ought to contain a few rare items, such as chapbooks. For the book lover, holding a rare and potentially fragile print entity speaks to intimate and hidden histories: it’s a physical experience.

Often, the chapbook might come from someone we actually do not know. Oh, obviously we saw the post about this new work, and maybe other posts from the press or the author, but we don’t really know their favorite flavor of ice cream. We are gambling that perhaps there will be something here to ponder, something that speaks to our interior selves. 

When the book comes, it is folded into a few sheets of colored, better weight printer bond that feels as if it’s part of the cover. The cover itself is a collage printed on cardstock stapled to cream colored hot press paper that enhances the readability of the standard font used. The work has neither contents or pagination, and it’s not necessary with a chapbook that’s a dozen folded sheets. The book is a pure example of the chapbook format, and this one has a subtle and elegant presence. Ironic to this perception is the book’s title Revolting (Cul-de-sac of Blood, 2024), the work being a recent offering from Juliet Cook.

Those unfamiliar with Cook are provided with both an acknowledgments page and an author bio that testify to some years dedication to poetry. The website for the press includes a purchase option through PayPal; potential readers are thus assured that this is a more professional indie press. There’s also a list of other books from the press, and the website has a submission link for the press’s periodical zine.

Thus, we can confidently approach the poems. Cook’s style oscillates between the conversational and the surreal without ever being derailed from the poem’s thesis. There’s a fun energy here, a sense of play, even when the topics themselves might not be lighthearted. The centerfold poems in this chapbook discuss being a poet on the left side, “Fifty Mice” and a physical injury on the right, “Thorns Stuck Inside My Left Foot”. Both poems use a conversational language, with “Fifty Mice” employing repetition and interior experience, while “Thorns [...] Foot” employs a narrative sequence. However, the acuity of imagery and the use of self-deprecation elevate this poem. The first stanza of “Thorns[...]Foot” shows an elegant fluidity

I fell down on a Sunday.

Better to fall than to bow.

I fell down in a restaurant,

Landed on my knees with my feet bent backwards,

almost automatically bruised, as if

to teach me a lesson for walking for myself

My left foot looked like a strange stigmata

with the blood stuck inside, growing dark.

The reader is in the scene, a relatively ordinary slip fall agony, but is immediately struck with the facetious tone reinforced by “better to fall than to bow” and “to teach me a lesson for walking”, so that the empathetic ouch leads not to tragedy but transforms into the familiarity of self-derision. The sonically sensitive will also note the opening slant assonance in “down/Sunday/bow/down” shifts with the plot to long e with “knees/feet/teach” and the various a vowels that culminates in “strange stigmata [...] growing dark” , so that the poem itself howls e—a as it opens and we all fall.

As rare as it is to physically resonant with a poem, to feel it in our physical selves, it is a moment in reading that reinforces why we read—the connection with other selves. And while chapbooks aren’t often found in bookstores—when they are, they require patient inspection—becoming mostly centered in the ouroboros realm of book festivals, they are the bread and butter of many an independent press. In our times now of needing to prioritize individual makers over global producers, it does a greater good to buy a chapbook for our libraries. Sometimes, the author even signs it.

Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago.

                     

Check out her author page on Amazon.

GAS Featured Poet: Jason Ryberg

 

 Jason Ryberg is the author of nineteen books of poetry,

six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders,

notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be

(loosely) construed as a novel, and countless

love letters (never sent). He is currently an artist-in-

residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted

P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an

editor and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection

of poems is “Bullet Holes in the Mailbox (Cigarette Burns

in the Sheets) (Back of the Class Press, 2024).” 

He lives part-time in Kansas City, MO with a rooster

named Little Red and a Billy-goat named Giuseppe,

and part-time somewhere in the Ozarks, near the

Gasconade River, where there are also many strange

and wonderful woodland critters. 

Miles Away

 

 

God’s cold blue eye

is peering

through the window

tonight,

 

while the wind

is attempting to squeeze

the life from the house

with its old farmer’s hands.

 

And still the mysterious

mechanical cricket

turns the crank

on its rusty music box

in the basement.

 

Meanwhile, miles away

from the once virgin plain

of the page,

a range war is raging

in the canyon

of my skull

 

and here I sit,

waiting for the signal,

but the lines are down

from the fighting.

 

GAS Featured Poet: Olivia LeBlanc

 

Olivia LeBlanc

"My work as a queer and neurodivergent poet often draws from the forgotten and unspoken aspects of humanity and nature. Growing up in New Bedford, Massachusetts—a town steeped in the history of the Whaling City—has deeply influenced my writing, as has my time spent hiking and foraging in the forests and wildlife preserves around Boston.

In my poetry, I strive to create a safe space for readers to explore thoughts often left unspoken, find connection in shared experiences, and feel a sense of freedom from societal pressures. "

Private Love

I love my body in private,

though I’m too proud

to address her by name.

I sit with her in our favorite positions.

We arrange ourselves

in the way only we can—

comfortable,

sacred.

On our own,

she is mine, and I am hers.

I welcome her like perfect bathwater;

she welcomes me like a reaching child.

I’m not sure anyone would understand

what we have

when the shades are drawn.

But I can’t help but wish

we could exist this way

beyond the curve of my driveway.

Bell-Tower

I wish to be in that Boston bell-tower.

I think it’s high enough to promise me safety—

my responsibilities left on the stairs,

with each city-scummed footprint.

But not without a fight.

They stick and pull at my shoes,

like the pale grey chewing gum

spotting the city sidewalks.

They cry out to me,

the terrible cries of damned souls.

But don’t they know

I don’t need shoes where I’m headed?

When I reach my end,

my beginning,

I know the cool breeze

would temper my bones

and smooth out my goosebumps.

The pigeons would pluck the pins from my hair

and place a crown

of iridescent feathers on my frizzy head.

I’d watch from my arch, the flecks of people

and their shoes,

lifting and pulling,

lifting and pulling.

GAS Featured Poet: Linda M. Crate

 Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has twelve published chapbooks the latest being: Searching Stained Glass Windows For An Answer (Alien Buddha Publishing, December 2022).

no questions ever asked 

let me be as happy

as a lark,

or a crow

singing happiness

in october;

let me dance in creeks

washing away centuries of

pain and anger and worries—

nature always welcomes

me in all of my feral,

wild, and weird;

never has she judged me 

or insisted i change—

let the moon give me 

her wisdom,

and let the sun kiss me

with warmth as if i am a flower

in a state of blooming;

let the rain be kind not cold—

all i have ever wanted was

to be loved,

and nature loves me as i am;

no questions ever asked.

GAS Featured Poet: Sam Hendrian

Sam Hendrian is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker and poet striving to foster empathy through art. Every Sunday, he writes personalized poems for passersby outside of Chevalier’s Books, LA’s oldest independent bookstore. You can find his poetry and film links on Instagram at @samhendrian143. 

Nudist Colony for Ring Fingers

Glanced up at the ceiling 

In the way a person does 

When they hear their favorite song 

On the coffee shop radio. 

A purer form of temporary relief 

Than food or mood-enhancing drugs,

The flash of a flashback smile 

Radiating a room full of anti-adulting adults. 

She figured her life would be over 

As soon as she started dating 

So she ironed her eyes with “Maybe”

And did not dare let them grow wrinkled.

There must be a nudist colony for ring fingers, 

A place of connection for the purposefully disconnected 

Who celebrate their independence 

One closeted tear at a time. 

Occasionally compensated with a public park or crowded hallway 

But always wound up wondering what the point was 

Since everyone was trained to instantly crop out 

Evidence of human company. 

Sometimes the only voice she heard all day 

Was the elevator saying “Going up” 

Which tempted her to go back down

Just to continue the conversation. 

Rouge-Cheeked Wish 

A litter of kittens meowed to canonize 

Janitor Jan, hero of the strip mall 

Whose hunched-over stance and trance-prone eyes 

Were camouflaged by the trash cans and vending machines. 

Heard her phone vibrate and took it out 

Then ignored the message as if to say 

I’m getting used to you being gone 

While you’re still here. 

Sympathetic Sandy almost tossed her a buck 

Like she would a leftovers-loaded homeless man

Before remembering that charity 

Implied a power disparity. 

And she certainly wasn’t more powerful 

Whistling “Someone to Watch Over Me”

As she gazed at the local liquor store,

The fragile fabric of a fading fantasy. 

Went to dinner then to lunch, 

Hospice then the infant ward 

Figuring backwards motion 

Might lighten the plight of moving forwards. 

Caught a sunset glimpse of Janitor Jan

Mopping up vomit between Chili’s and Tillys 

And immediately echoed her rouge-cheeked wish 

To look invisible but feel seen.