An atmospheric collection of poetry traversing the haunted fault lines of memory, military service, migration, and ritual across Singapore and Aotearoa New Zealand.
In Clay Eaters, Gregory Kan weaves together personal grief, military reconnaissance training on Pulau Tekong, and the fading spiritual traditions of island temples. The poems trace alternating currents between domestic quietude and wild jungle terrains, contrasting memories of an aging father and the loss of a beloved cat, Gilgamesh, with archival fragments of spirit mediums like Madam Dai and training logs of Uncle Chee Boon.
Moving across shifting topographies from colonial bungalows and secondary belukar forests to suburban rooms in Wellington and Auckland, this work examines what the living inherit and what remains when physical places change forever. Readers of contemporary lyric sequences, diasporic literature, and experimental verse will find a spare, resonant meditation on displacement, family, and the ghosts that inhabit everyday objects.