Poetry Breathing your small inauspicious body almost  into incomprehension, supine and crouched, lost to the world, or to that portion   only dachshund speech describes,  your propulsive unyielding deeds underwritten now  by everyone who threatens our front door. (I suspect  they are all terrified. Perhaps we...

Non-fictionFor the past thirty-odd years, Hideo has worked exclusively in Japanese, publishing several novels and collections of criticism and essays. Why Japanese? is a question he is often asked. It harbours a kind of suspicion: why would a native speaker of the English language, the language of power and prestige and capital ... give it all up in favour of a comparatively minor language, a marked and ethnicised tongue?

PoetryWe pause in front of a fallen eucalypt blackened trunk glistening with charcoal grids decode species-information: the time of its seeding and the intensity of the fire which consumed it.

FictionIt was always busy there in Palermo. During a snow shower I’d sit in the cafés, small corner net connections. Sometimes the weather was a little heavy – I’d kick my boots clean of ice at the entrance, umbrella heavy with sleet. The man you paid to use the internet would be singing in Farsi; a woman would speak in hushed tones in the cubicle. Sometimes not so hushed. Talking to her family on the other side of the world. Where maybe it was snowing, too. And together they could listen to each other. Together in the snow they could talk.