Pluvia Issue IV

Welcome to Issue IV of Pluvia

Welcome to Issue IV of Pluvia


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ISSUE <strong>IV</strong> FALL 2022<br />


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2<br />

Rising Upon by Nina Tsai<br />

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By NAME<br />


FALL 2022<br />

ISSUE <strong>IV</strong><br />

PLUVIA<br />

EXECUT<strong>IV</strong>E + EDITORIAL<br />

Maggie Yang<br />

Joyce Huang<br />

Priscilla Raitza<br />

Emily Li<br />

Alyssa Xu<br />


EST. 2021<br />

Amy Park<br />

Angelina Liu<br />

Brian Yoo<br />

Brian You<br />

Chloe Lin<br />

Christ Keivom<br />

Cynthia Chen<br />

David Tang<br />

Edison Chen<br />

Jenny Eun<br />

Jenny Zou<br />

Jimena Yengle<br />

Jingjie Chen<br />

John Muro<br />

Khaliya Rajan<br />

Laura Ferries<br />

Louis Liu<br />

Lynn White<br />

Martine Rancarani<br />

Natasha Bredle<br />

Phobe Chen<br />

Priscilla Raitza<br />

Rachel Zhang<br />

Ralph Lam<br />

Richard Xu<br />

Ruby Zhang<br />

Sarah Lam<br />

Sunnie Qiu<br />

Tia Li<br />

Vicky Nguyen<br />

Viela Hu<br />

YanQing Shen<br />

Cover artwork: Revive Tomorrow (P.22)<br />

Magazine Designer: Maggie Yang<br />

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TABLE OF<br />


5<br />

Editor’s Letter<br />

6 - 15<br />

In the strawberry field by Vicky Nguyen<br />

Wish by Jenny Zou<br />

eye of the storm by Chloe Lin<br />

Untitled by Brian You<br />

Psychoanalysis: A Self-Portrait by Christ Keivom<br />

Lost in Translation by Sunnie Qiu<br />

Running Water by Tia Li<br />

A Cappella by Laura Ferries<br />

Untitled by Sarah Lam<br />

24 - 31<br />

Fortuity by John Muro<br />

Fine Bright Line by John Muro<br />

heaven by Cynthia Chen<br />

Untitled by Sunnie Qiu<br />

breadth by Phobe Chen<br />

Othering Fortune by Ralph Lam<br />

Untitled by Jenny Eun<br />

birds by Martine Rancarani<br />

as a child by Cynthia Chen<br />

Embarrassment by Christ Keivom<br />

Clarinet by Sarah Lam<br />

16 - 23<br />

Piece of life by Jimena Yengle<br />

Untitled by Jingjie Chen<br />

August Rain by Laura Ferries<br />

Untitled by Priscilla Raitza<br />

UP & DOWN: The Pathway of Life by Viela Hu<br />

Growth by Jenny Zou<br />

Revive Tomorrow by see p.38<br />

32 - 39<br />

4<br />

Breathless by Lynn White<br />

How We Miss Understanding by Natasha Bredle<br />

Lost in Translation by Sunnie Qiu<br />

Untitled by Richard Xu<br />

At The Beach by Khaliya Rajan<br />

Untitled by Richard Xu<br />


EDITOR’S<br />

LETTER<br />

REV<strong>IV</strong>E TOMORROW<br />


As leaves fall to the rhythm of our footsteps in autumn and life lifts its curtains to let in the dawning<br />

light, the canvas holding our writing and art broadens as well, in hopes of a year gleaming with new<br />

colors and memories. In this particular issue of <strong>Pluvia</strong>, there are many pieces that resonate with daily<br />

aspects of our lives, whether it be personal memories or cultural traditions. From Vicky Nguyen’s<br />

poem echoing her memories of a strawberry field to Sunnie Qiu’s artwork shaped uniquely by her<br />

impressions of language, this issue is unequivocally evocative in that each piece has its own way of<br />

connecting and grounding the reader in experiences. When reading through and curating these pieces,<br />

my team and I noticed this common thread, and want to bring this to the forefront as you read<br />

through <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>IV</strong> of <strong>Pluvia</strong>.<br />

With an increased number of art submissions for this issue, I encourage you to take time to pause<br />

and dwell on the pieces as if each page was a wall in an art gallery—that behind the canvas or brushstrokes<br />

there are memorable and powerful emotions and experiences yet to be uncovered. I hope that<br />

through this issue you can discover a personal connection to these pieces, and possibly find inspiration<br />

or meaning in them.<br />

That being said, I am delighted to present to you <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>IV</strong> of <strong>Pluvia</strong>.<br />

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WISH<br />

In the strawberry<br />

field<br />


In the strawberry field, no one is worried.<br />

The sky is crisp azure, as if nothing could stop it from being so.<br />

The stretching beds embrace the horizons<br />

with their sweet kisses of tender strawberries<br />

Their after-kiss fragrance lingers in the air,<br />

filled the chickadee’s jubilant songs<br />

to harken the advent of summer.<br />

In the strawberry field, no one is worried.<br />

Little kids run around barefoot, their plump fingers clutched<br />

with a bucketful of crimson sweetness<br />

while their parents, tucked in crisp denim and flowing floral dresses,<br />

gaze adoringly at their exuberant enfants.<br />

The flashes from cameras overshine the sun,<br />

glittering the sparks of asphalt on the country road.<br />

In the strawberry field, no one is worried.<br />

Alas, I wish I could be so!<br />

Summer has come, yet my thoughts do not have wings<br />

to soar out of the reality entrenched<br />

deep into my soul, about what the future may hold<br />

beyond the strawberry field.<br />


6<br />


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eye of the storm<br />


our friend said she was like a tornado<br />

but thinking about it now<br />

you were the tornado<br />

i stumbled blindly into your whirlwind<br />

and kept spinning so fast in it<br />

that i couldn’t stop and was powerless to leave<br />

and even if i begged you to let me go<br />

you wouldn’t have heard me<br />

but every so often<br />

i was suddenly released<br />

into the eye of the storm<br />

where everything was calm and<br />

our friendship was good<br />

but before i could even savour it<br />

you threw me back into your tornado<br />

and it was the same thing again<br />

because you pinched me<br />

when i asked you not to<br />

you lightly punched me<br />

in the stomach only to realize<br />

(in awe)<br />

that i had a flat-ish stomach<br />

you didn’t always give me<br />

space just to talk<br />

and ignored me utterly and completely<br />

you sometimes said hurtful things<br />

ignoring my reaction and then my existence<br />

but you also sat with me<br />

at recess and lunch<br />

our backs pressed together<br />

as you drew and i wrote<br />

you loved some of my story ideas<br />

and the way certain words<br />

looked in my cursive<br />

do it again you’d say<br />

write it on the inside cover of my sketchbook<br />

and then you’d admire it<br />

like you had never seen cursive writing before<br />

and i was always admiring you<br />

for your courage and your intelligence<br />

how you were so incessantly impatient<br />

making things right when they were wrong<br />

when i was too scared to do anything<br />

yet simultaneously soft-spoken with<br />

the special needs student in our class<br />

the way your art looked and the fire<br />

that burned constantly in you<br />

how you were always honest<br />

and didn’t care about other people’s opinions<br />

i haven’t seen you or talked to you<br />

in so long that i’ve almost forgotten<br />

what our friendship was like<br />

and whether it was good or bad<br />

or somewhere inbetween<br />

in the grey area that defined<br />

almost all of my elementary school friendships<br />

and i’ve forgotten how much you’ve hurt me<br />

and if you even did at all<br />

because my memory is quite good<br />

at concealing the things i don’t want to remember<br />

and hiding the details so i forget<br />

but if you squint hard enough<br />

you’ll see the cracks and fractures you left me<br />

i’ve escaped your tornado now<br />

your whirlwind of anger and uncertainty<br />

your calm eye of the storm<br />

that never seemed to last long enough<br />

but knowing me<br />

i could be caught up in it<br />

just as fast as i fell the first time<br />

8<br />




By Maggie Yang<br />

www.pluvialitmag.com<br />



Psychoanalysis:<br />

BY CHRIST KE<strong>IV</strong>OM<br />

A Self-Portrait<br />

Forgive me, again, that I write you an elegy where a love poem should be- Brian Tierney<br />

They say it would hurt. And it does.<br />

I know not who said it and to whom.<br />

It’s true I can no longer remember the memory<br />

Or lack of memory for the way things were.<br />

It’s been a long time since the time-<br />

When we first met and the day you left<br />

Which never came to end.<br />

You walked in. As an event marked on the calendar.<br />

Your face- a wide palm leaf that<br />

Blocks the sun and briefly shadows the eye,<br />

Blurring close distinction, which did say to me<br />

“Memory makes for such an unreliable witness”<br />

Now, so long after that<br />

I kept the sound of it throbbing still<br />

Like a heartbeat of some years ago,<br />

The way music still lingers in the room<br />

In this circle of time which like a hand<br />

Guides you nowhere. I don’t think<br />

I’d recognise you or be recognised<br />

If I met you on the street, though in<br />

By Jingjie Chen<br />

The early part of my life. I thought<br />

The later part would always be you.<br />

How much longer I’ve lived and must<br />

Continue to live without you and not with.<br />

There’s never enough to writing after all that’s<br />

Been written. There’s never enough to saying<br />

After all that’s been said and left unsaid.<br />

And there’s no point in forgetting if it’s<br />

Not followed by dying. So how am I, to<br />

Abandon those little things I know about you<br />

When I know so little?<br />

After it has faded. As if to remind us:<br />

“Though there will always be new music<br />

Again, none will ever be as deep and<br />

Wide as this”.<br />

10<br />




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12<br />


TER<br />

BY TIA LI<br />

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A Cappella<br />

I piece together these jigsaw words<br />

thread them together in broken verse<br />

spaghetti sentences<br />

spun around my tongue<br />

tangled elegantly<br />

tagliatelle<br />

a language not so much spoken but sung<br />

staccato<br />

I season my accent,<br />

pepper my punctuation;<br />

marinate slowly the sentence formation.<br />

Meanwhile his English is crystal clear,<br />

distilled<br />

but still<br />

A capella<br />

I learn the lyrics<br />

I wing the words<br />

still songless birds<br />

raw in the word<br />

down to the bone<br />

unusual dictionary<br />

devouring the words, I nurture them known.<br />

14<br />



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By Amelia Lim<br />

HANDS<br />

Piece of life<br />


I’ve lost a stream of light<br />

The enchanted chorus of a song<br />

My piano key, G string<br />

a piece of truth<br />

Not the cup, not the thirst<br />

I have lost the heap of sugar that I kept in my heart<br />

My confessions, a comic face<br />

Every bristly actor’s dream<br />

His commitment, and my question<br />

I have lost a world of roses<br />

The sky that my little “me” painted<br />

Who guides Lady Liberty<br />

Who moves so many signs in the sea<br />

I have lost the prince of my carousel<br />

Who flies and forgets, the child of the good<br />

My essence of thunder, my ray of sunshine<br />

Who remembers the story of the rain?<br />

I have missed a part of this story.<br />

I only have to write again.<br />


16<br />


A Cappella<br />

August<br />


Rain<br />


High July sun submits<br />

to August rain,<br />

summer soundtrack<br />

of water on glass<br />

and your beautiful name,<br />

in summer- and sugar rain<br />

crystals trickle down the window pane.<br />

Suspended time<br />

morning coffee to midnight wine<br />

intertwined<br />

night then day<br />

then day then night then day again.<br />

Skin on skin<br />

touch on touch<br />

I’m treading water, gilded,<br />

in a silver shiver, a river rush<br />

a dream awake, here we are awash<br />

in summer rain.<br />

It cleanses old sin,<br />

lets the freshwater in.<br />

We let go then we go again.<br />

ZA<br />


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18<br />


UP and DOWN: The Pathway of<br />

Life is a mixed media sculpture<br />

that combines traditional Chinese<br />

ink painting with fabric<br />

painting and technology, creating<br />

a moving loop of people<br />

falling to explore — as the<br />

name suggests — the ups and<br />

downs of life. The work focuses<br />

on the experience of living and<br />

how it is the same for anyone.<br />

UP and DOWN:<br />

The Pathway<br />

of Life<br />


By Vanessa Chan<br />

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GROWTH<br />

20<br />



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REV<strong>IV</strong>E TO<br />

By: Viela Hu, David Tang, Brian Yoo, YanQing Shen (Eric), Ruby Zhang, Rachel Zhang,<br />

Angelina Liu, Richard Xu, Louis Liu, Amy Park<br />

“Our ideas are expressed through symbolism of colour and shape where red strips equate to natural elements and strips of<br />

purple represent life itself. Blue strips stand for the essential elements of life, such as water. Land points to exploited earth.<br />

The ball is the key or button needed to recover our world. Why is it floating upon the ocean? The first sign of life came<br />

from the ocean. These uses of natural forms symbolize human attempts to dominate and exploit nature. The mountain<br />

refers to the Old Testament because humans desired to be on an equal footing as God, but were condemned. Colours and<br />

violent brushstrokes communicate a sense of frustration due to the destroyed land and the resulting atmosphere of despair.<br />

The structural impression of nature in harmony yields an idea of the organic sphere, so suggesting that the elements are<br />

key to reviving the future in our cycle of life. The audience can scan the artwork and thus symbolically revive the future.”<br />

22<br />


MORROW<br />

Inspirations:<br />

- James Jean (art composition).<br />

- Francis Bacon (brushstrokes/<br />

colour)<br />

- Salvador Dali (expression, composition).<br />

To enjoy the AR (augmented reality) implementation on<br />

this work, please download the Artivive app<br />

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Fortuity<br />

Fine Bright<br />


Now, just as the world<br />

wears out and night leaks<br />

into day, shadows sliding<br />

in silent trespass across a<br />

desolate landscape and a<br />

meager wind – day’s final<br />

wingbeat – settles under<br />

the eaves, hold close those<br />

bright astonishments that<br />

still beguile and bewilder<br />

and are sprinkled like rare<br />

tokens of hope throughout<br />

the world. Draw a certain<br />

comfort from those exquisite<br />

endearments and illusory fragments<br />

of dream-stuff that help to<br />

make our rush to ruin bearable;<br />

and then, for all that, tell me<br />

again, beneath the haze of<br />

woodsmoke and smudge of<br />

star light, how life will once<br />

again come to greenness and<br />

what form forgiveness takes.<br />

Line<br />


Certainly, the far horizon<br />

dividing sea from sky<br />

with a sliver of silver light,<br />

or a falling star’s trail<br />

of tinseled filament at night;<br />

to the human eye,<br />

a slender wire strung,<br />

separating cloud from sail.<br />

But, no, I’m thinking<br />

of those imperceptible<br />

lines that separate<br />

the very makings of a life;<br />

those that, say, Fate creates,<br />

both strange and intangible,<br />

others of our own making:<br />

blindness and sight.<br />

heaven<br />


comes in sips<br />

through rays of sunlight<br />

and patters of rain<br />

it comes in layers<br />

chocolate cake and turtlenecks<br />

feelings of certainty and self doubt<br />

swirled into the frostings<br />

it comes in whispers<br />

sweet nothings and mirrored promises<br />

forever is too short<br />

we’ll meet again in hums.<br />

24<br />



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BREA<br />

26<br />



CHAN<br />


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Othering Fortune<br />

28<br />

Auw:<br />

Door handle far too small. Weary from immigration<br />

lines, stale coffee, and silver-lined tongues; the doorbell<br />

feels heavy. Digital rendition für elise pricks earlobes—<br />

stubborn attempt to keep past in the present. He swore<br />

he’d never live anywhere that has rain again, or anywhere<br />

that has enough humidity to embrace him. Light drizzle<br />

begins to pour down.<br />

Mom dressed in work attire; longer hours mean<br />

darker bags. No affectionate greeting; he’s come and gone<br />

so much that his return has lost all significance. He offers<br />

his luggage to Mom. She accepts and carries it through<br />

the doorway: narrow enough to keep you out, but also to<br />

lock you in. Air freshener seeps into his nostrils: the scent<br />

of shame, manufactured delight. She doesn’t say much,<br />

knowing he detests small talk. Three steps into the house<br />

and his eyes are already looking out the window.<br />

Windows: eyes to the soul.<br />

His eyes: two shades lighter than when he left.<br />

His soul: four grams heavier than the last time he<br />

checked.<br />

“Are grades out yet?” She asks, feigning sincerity.<br />

“Next Wednesday,” he grunts. His eyes twitch.<br />

Whether from fatigue or irritation, she could never tell.<br />

He was always an imbalanced mixture of both, an adulteration<br />

in perpetuum.<br />

“Oh.” She knew to stop prodding. He didn’t need<br />

to say any more: she shouldn’t say any more.<br />

Clambering, he seeks his room. Stairs covered<br />

with rough fabric, false promises of comfort. Welts of<br />

twine dig into soles—atonement for wrongdoings he hasn’t<br />

committed yet.The room is a blighted meadow, a Marie<br />

Kondo thought experiment taken five steps too far. Holding<br />

onto objects for too long, they lose their joy. He keeps<br />

his distance, living in impermanence.<br />

Bed sheets are striking azure. His body wants to<br />

say bye-bye: ashes to ashes, dust to dust.<br />

Thus, he falls.<br />

Mee:<br />

Awake now. Six nights since he was last gripped<br />

by sleep paralysis. He doesn’t know who to thank for that<br />

privilege. Slits of sunlight seep through the blinds. Marigold<br />

slashes across his skin; he has slept in again.<br />

Kitchen, mom’s detested sacrosanct. Doesn’t let<br />

anyone in. Doesn’t seem to enjoy being in there either. She<br />

preheats the oven, listening to the click click click of the dials<br />

instead of reading the temperature. She is, however, trying<br />

to read some packaging.<br />

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“I got you a Cornish pay-stee.” Her mouth chews<br />

on a mess of vowels and consonants: cacophonous breakfast.<br />

His instinctual wince.<br />

“They say pass-tee here.” His eyes sink to cold marble<br />

tiles: she could at least try to adapt.<br />

Correction ignored.<br />

“They like to eat a lot of frozen food.” Tongue<br />

tethered to Sham Shui Po.<br />

She cuts into the packaging. Pop! Ssss… He remembers,<br />

clutching his forearm: temptation, regret. In<br />

this body, he bleeds blue.<br />

An oven-treated pasty pastry, unappetizing in<br />

a 3-Star Yelp review kind of way. Knife puzzles around<br />

reluctant knots. He never told her how little he ate: how<br />

much of a picky eater he became. His stomach grew to<br />

growl four octaves deeper.<br />

Bite. It’s cold, so cold—frigid, even. His breakfast<br />

is a freezing blanket on a bleak New England morning. All<br />

plane tickets lead to shivering destination weddings. He<br />

doesn’t say anything, opening his mouth is too much of an<br />

inconvenience at this point. The plate is returned half-finished.<br />

He lusts after some mouthwash.<br />

Later, purple spat into the sink. He sees a cat near<br />

the window and wishes he had one: Siamese or Maine<br />

Coon. He’d name it Juno, Zephyr, or Chelsea, something<br />

that you would find eight scrolls down the Unique Cat Names<br />

list. Never Whiskey, Brandy, Mochi, Boba, Franklin, or<br />

other names that you would find leading the Cute Names to<br />

Call Your Cat list.<br />

He remembers the stray cats lining the streets back<br />

home, faces planted on moldy pavement; they seemed<br />

closer to the city than he ever was, than he ever could be.<br />

Taw:<br />

It’s raining heavier today.<br />

Arachnid in the corner, strange eight-legged fellow.<br />

Legs in excess: he hates it. Tests its durability with a<br />

chopstick—found wanting. Appendages curl fast; it didn’t<br />

have the chance to mourn itself. He couldn’t do it justice<br />

anyways.<br />

Mom hears the ruckus and rushes up. On dropped<br />

knees and folded hands, digit origami.<br />

“Auw mee taw faw… auw mee taw faw… auw<br />

mee taw faw.” She prays for peace from Buddha. He’s never<br />

heard her use that phrase back home.<br />

Everything is a karmic apology.<br />

She hands him another pendant. The current one<br />

is rusty from oxidation and sweat, carrying his burdens.<br />

For (more) protection, for (more) luck, for (more) good<br />

health; in her eyes, he will never have enough. This new<br />

burden is silver, twisting patterns, serpentine; it bites into<br />


His soul: another gram.<br />

“Buddha will give you more strength now.” Her<br />

words are pleading.<br />

Palms towards the sky. Knees to the floor: perfect<br />

equilibrium. Giving and taking in a single form.<br />

The shield granted is another shackle, another weight;<br />

humbling, really. They say Buddha has many faces;<br />

Mom says they’re all for his safety and wellbeing, just<br />

like her many faces.<br />

Wind whispering with the window. Branches<br />

mourn their lost flowers, sad soiree in January. Swaying<br />

creates negative space, enough to fill voids.<br />

Faw:<br />

“Just something simple mom.”<br />

Dinner was not simple. Plates line a plastic-wrapped<br />

table set for three; she’ll be eating the same<br />

flavor for the next couple days. The flight leaves tomorrow<br />

morning. She knew he couldn’t stomach much beforehand.<br />

She knew he would feel too heavy. She knew.<br />

Whenever the plane leaves tarmac, his stomach, always<br />

out of tune, plays leapfrog with his lungs. There’s<br />

always children entertainment-hunting in the seat-pocket.<br />

His mind returns to the food, daunting, taunting—each<br />

bite a promise, a covenant, a debt: payment<br />

has had many forms.<br />

“Have you packed yet?” She asks tentatively.<br />

Clicking chopsticks, in his mind, are an acceptable<br />

response to anything; however, he relented.<br />

“Yeah.”<br />

“I made the fish just the way you like it.” She<br />

apologizes with food.<br />

“I can see that.”<br />

“Eat. You’ve lost weight.”<br />

Incorrect. Since he arrived, his steps have felt<br />

slower, his legs have become heavier, he’s gained too<br />

much.<br />

She continues piling food into his bowl. Stomach<br />

and heart: inverse proportions. One fills. One<br />

drains. He thinks it’s an atonement for growing up,<br />

growing away. The apple rolls farther and farther from<br />

the tree; its luscious red coat caked in dirt, attractive to<br />

worms, but it eats away at itself from the inside first.<br />

Self-destruction is an ephemeral blessing.<br />

He sighs and digs into the bowl, deeper… deeper.<br />

His chopsticks groan, thinking about his stomach<br />

tomorrow morning before the flight. He’ll be gripping<br />

the side of a toilet bowl, tossing out his mother’s heart,<br />

feeling four grams lighter.<br />

Outside, light breeze envelops drizzling droplets,<br />

waltzing.<br />



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as a child<br />

Embarrassme<br />


have you ever wanted to walk<br />

on the ceiling upright or<br />

crawl on all fours<br />

it doesn’t matter because you just wanted to<br />

be up there among the<br />

lights and grooves along the edges<br />

feel the popcorn texture on your bare feet<br />

bare knees<br />

and you had no trouble baring yourself to the world<br />

but naked dreams are mere naked dreams and i’m<br />

too scared to actually show any parts of myself<br />

metaphorical or not<br />

i’m just a little too long now to fit my bed<br />

my feet dangle and so does my heart<br />

my back hurts often and my posture is nearly unfixable<br />

but i still find myself crouching, making<br />

myself small to fit into the impossibly miniscule<br />

closet underneath the stairs, a safe haven<br />

maybe i can be even smaller<br />

maybe i can still fit<br />

maybe i never have to move out.<br />

BY CHRIST KE<strong>IV</strong>OM<br />

I<br />

You smile and they come into effect:<br />

We call these eyes. They capture what<br />

We call moments, which defy the perpetuity of time—<br />

Where inconsequent is the effect of death.<br />

We call these fingertips. They feel what the eyes<br />

Cannot touch and excite the nerves like musical<br />

Strings. Where there is silence—<br />

They make the heart strum a new hymn.<br />

II<br />

You smile and I’m put on the spot;<br />

Embarrassed by the crowd, as if you’ve<br />

Found my poems and read each one of them<br />

Aloud. Think of Prufrock, shy and daunted<br />

To talk with women (should the women<br />

Reject his advance) “And should I then presume?<br />

And how should I begin?” with this feeling,<br />

Ubiquitous as the sky, that joins me from here<br />

To wherever you are. As I turn my face to<br />

Your turning face. You smile. I look away.<br />

*The poem borrows lines from T.S. Elliot’s<br />

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.<br />


Two rabbits by Irina Novikova<br />


30<br />


nt<br />

T<br />

www.pluvialitmag.com<br />


Breathless How We Miss<br />


In this new society<br />

of masks and miasmas<br />

we are being suffocated<br />

with pillows of power<br />

and prejudice,<br />

hardly hidden,<br />

in the institutions<br />

we were told would protect<br />

us all.<br />

Some of us<br />

believed it.<br />

But the old masks are off now,<br />

forced off the face by lies.<br />

All they hid is exposed.<br />

We know it now.<br />

So in these new times<br />

we will put on our masks<br />

carefully<br />

to protect<br />

ourselves.<br />

We know now<br />

that we are all<br />

George Floyd<br />

potentially<br />

later or sooner.<br />

And we know<br />

we are all his killers<br />

potentially<br />

later or sooner<br />

unless we look behind the masks.<br />

Understanding<br />


love, i heard<br />

you were trying to fit the world<br />

through a funnel, again. funny<br />

how the spout<br />

grows narrower and narrower<br />

the more you learn. i promise,<br />

it gets easier<br />

once you accept that the trees<br />

are statutory and do not want to speak,<br />

but neither<br />

are they complicit in destruction. no,<br />

they grow and give and give as they<br />

were meant to, as you<br />

will do what you were meant to,<br />

love. be the first to hear the change<br />

in the wind.<br />

be the first to ascend before<br />

cascading to relieve the land like rain.<br />

patience is<br />

a virtue for a reason. come morning<br />

you will identify with the birds<br />

returning<br />

to an empty feeder, the fox reeling<br />

from a forgotten landmine, the slaughtered<br />

tree, lying peacefully<br />

on its deathbed: the earth, a part of its own self<br />

or, itself a part of the earth. unaccustomed, unbeholden<br />

to it,<br />

these creatures can only know, intrinsically,<br />

that the world was never obliged to answer their questions.<br />

32<br />



www.pluvialitmag.com<br />



At The Beach<br />


The sound of waves<br />

rippling,<br />

and splashing,<br />

is covered by,<br />

the sound of kids playing,<br />

and laughing,<br />

and screaming.<br />

At the beach.<br />

The grains of sand<br />

shifting between my toes,<br />

the feel of the sun’s rays,<br />

burning on my skin,<br />

the gentle sway of a light breeze<br />

giving a moment of coolness,<br />

and relief.<br />

At the beach.<br />

The sight of the beautiful ocean waves,<br />

hitting the sand,<br />

one<br />

after<br />

the other,<br />

combined with the sight of kids running,<br />

couples walking,<br />

and others lying under umbrellas.<br />

At the beach.<br />

The briny,<br />

salty,<br />

crisp smell of the ocean,<br />

wafting,<br />

towards me.<br />

At the beach.<br />

The taste of the ice-cold lemonade,<br />

the fresh fruit,<br />

all the snacks,<br />

that I am<br />

devouring.<br />

At the beach.<br />

34<br />




READ NOW<br />

READ NOW<br />


SUMMER 2022<br />

www.pluvialitmag.com<br />



SOCIAL<br />

MEDIA<br />



36<br />



C O N T R I B U T O R S<br />


Chloe Jiatong Lin is a Chinese-Canadian high school student from Lord Byng Secondary School. From scribbles on construction<br />

paper to thought-provoking poems on Google Docs, she has loved writing from the very beginning. When she isn’t<br />

writing poems, you can find her laughing with her parents and two siblings, immersed in a novel, or playing the viola. You can<br />

find more of her work on her Instagram account @cordiallychloe.<br />

CHRIST KE<strong>IV</strong>OM<br />

Christ Keivom (he/him) is currently pursuing his master’s in English Literature at Delhi University. His work has previously<br />

appeared in Novus Literary Arts Journal, Mulberry Literary, Monograph Mag, Farside Review, Spotlong Review, The Chakkar,<br />

and Write now lit to name a few. You can reach out to him on Instagram at @passmethecigarettes.<br />


Cynthia Chen is an incoming freshman at Northeastern University. She enjoys writing about anything and everything, from<br />

shower thoughts to 2 AM ideas, confused feelings and old memories, little bits and pieces of her life. Her poetry has previously<br />

been published by <strong>Pluvia</strong> Literary Magazine.<br />




Jenny Zou is a junior at York House School. She enjoys acrylic, oil, and watercolour painting and suffers from existential crises<br />

about her artistic career. Jenny appreciates greek column orders and can be found cooking up bizarre recipes in her spare<br />

time. Jenny also loves cats and hopes to own one after she leaves for college.<br />


Jimena Yengle (she/her) is a multidisciplinary artist, known for her book Roma Enamorada and her lyrical work. She is the<br />

director of two virtual spaces: Roma Enamorada (aimed at young people) and Magic Maneuvers (aimed at children). Her writing<br />

and visual art works have been published by various international magazines. She directed the play “Life of August” for<br />

the Juvenis Festival in Kingston, and published her second book on May 1, 2022.<br />


Jingjie Chen is an interactive media artist currently based in San Francisco. Graduated from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, her works<br />

often explore how human memory, sentiments and consciousness can exist and evolve in the virtual world, through mediums<br />

like AR/VR experiences, narrative games and photography.<br />


Twice nominated for the 2021 Pushcart Prize, John is a resident of Connecticut and a lover of all things chocolate. His first<br />

book of poems, In the Lilac Hour, was published in 2020 by Antrim House, and it is available on Amazon. Since then, John’s<br />

poems have been published or are forthcoming in numerous journals and anthologies, including Acumen, Barnstorm, Euphony,<br />

Grey Sparrow, River Heron and Sky Island. His most recent volume of poems, Pastoral Suite, was released in June and it,<br />

too, is available on Amazon. Instagram: @johntmuro.<br />


Khaliya is a conscientious and hardworking girl. She gives every task 100% effort and always tries her best. She is quiet and<br />

shy but when she does speak up she can be very insightful. Khaliya loves to read and write short stories, poems and more. She<br />

has had her work featured in other publications.<br />


Laura Ferries is a high school English teacher and writer who explores life, love, place, and space in her poetry. She runs a<br />

travel blog at www.lauraferries.com and has self-published two collections of her poems. Laura has a love of languages, and<br />

speaks Spanish and Italian. Laura performs regularly at spoken word events in Liverpool and she hosted her own bilingual<br />

English-Spanish poetry night in October 2021.<br />

www.pluvialitmag.com<br />



Lynn White lives in North Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has<br />

known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted<br />

in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a<br />

Rhysling Award. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/.<br />


Martine Rancarani teaches Arts, and she practices every day all its different techniques. She examines, tries, explores, experiments,<br />

and starts over again, in order to express her commitments through stills or animated images. She most often produces<br />

series. She leaves a lot to chance, and observes what happens. As an actress and a spectator of her visual Art, she puts in<br />

perspective the image and the technique used to produce it. Ecology, body language, the image and the position of women in<br />

society, clothing, and nature vs. culture are the major issues she considers through her work.<br />


Natasha Bredle is an emerging writer based in Ohio. She likes sunsets and the quiet, and is the caretaker of several exotic pets.<br />

You can find her work in Peach Mag, Full House Lit, and Anti-Heroin Chic, to name a few.<br />



Priscilla Raitza is a bookworm, musician, debater and tennis-player. She is 16 years old and lives in Baden-Württemberg,<br />

Germany. Priscilla is intrigued by realistic fiction and hopes to amplify the voices of today’s generation. She loves to travel and<br />

capture moments of beauty. Her favorite school subjects are German, English and Ethics.<br />


Ralph Lam is a junior at Phillips Academy Andover from Hong Kong. Ralph enjoys writing about family, culture, and the impact<br />

they have on identity; he likes to read his work in front of his plants, as they make for a quiet and respectful audience. He<br />

also tends to look far too closely into every scene of a movie. Ralph’s work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing<br />

Awards and published in various literary journals. When Ralph isn’t sitting at his desk, he is traveling across Hong Kong<br />

to encourage younger generations to pick up a pencil and write; he believes that everyone should have access to a platform to<br />

express their creative agency.<br />




TIA LI<br />

Tia Li is an art student at Crofton House School. She enjoys animation and concept design and wishes to enter the field of<br />

animation. She believes animation is an essential visual influence that delivers animators’ messages to all people, all classes,<br />

and nations.<br />


Vicky (Vy) Nguyen grew up in Saigon and lives in BC, but often finds herself jet-lagged anywhere in between. She is a rising<br />

senior interested in history, politics, and life sciences. Vicky enjoys chuckling at history memes, unsuccessfully quoting<br />

Frost, not learning the subjunctive mood, and sipping cold matcha latte. Her writings can be found on her blog Rants and<br />

Rambles at talesoftwocountries.blogspot.com, where she overuses the past tense.<br />

VIELA HU<br />

Viela Hu is an artist based in Vancouver, BC, Canada. Her works range a variety from ink illustration to large scale installations<br />

while exploring the relationships between herself, the people around her, and the world in which she lives in. Her<br />

website is www.vielahu.com.<br />

ARTISTS FROM REV<strong>IV</strong>E TOMORROW (p.22)<br />

Viela Hu, David Tang, Brian Yoo, YanQing Shen (Eric), Ruby Zhang, Rachel Zhang, Angelina Liu, Richard Xu,<br />

Louis Liu, Amy Park<br />

38<br />



ABOUT<br />

PLUVIA<br />



<strong>Pluvia</strong> is an international non-profit literary arts journal<br />

that publishes online 3-4 times a year. We accept creative<br />

art forms, whether it be poetry, prose, or visual arts.<br />

We seek to amplify both emerging and established<br />

voices, with a particular emphasis on BIPOC and underrepresented<br />

writers and artists. Inspired by rain’s<br />

beauty and by how often it is overlooked, our mission<br />

is to utilize the creative arts as a path for societal<br />

change and expression of the inner self. We hope<br />

to publish works that are raw and honest; works<br />

that excavate and uncover the beauty in the small.<br />

We are not looking for a particular theme or aesthetic<br />

so we welcome all works, whether they<br />

be lost in the tumultuous waves of existence, or<br />

basking under the emerging sun of a rainstorm.<br />

​<br />

www.pluvialitmag.com<br />


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