Jane Yeh

Self-Portrait as Perpetuity after a painting by Soheila Sokhanvari Whatever time it is, the horses will drag you back To the woods or the room where you’re sitting in an argyle sweater vest, Dripping with possibilities. Someone is handing you a vase of lilies, Someone arranges a gold snake around your neck. Click. In the room the sofas are always square and unrelenting, The carpet wet like tongues. You’re used to it. There’s a feeling That could be called ‘perpetual snow globe’ or ‘a lasagne Of one’s own’. You’re sitting with your arms folded across your chest Like a vamp in a coffin, your hair wavy with emotion. What if Everything that comes after this could still be reversed, The woods and the vase and the basement where you didn’t get Your first kiss. Click. To be alive and dead at the same time Is like being in a poem. Someone is painting your nails blue And dressing you in a cotton shift. You’re running through a house Looking fetching while a guitar plays heavy riffs, doors flying open Like concussions. There’s an infinite corridor and an attic Full of bees. There’s a wood-panelled rec room and very distinct Aromas. You’re panting like a Bernese mountain dog in a boiler suit When you glimpse your face in the window, so much older. You won’t get away with it. Your hopes crumple like a beer can In the sinister mist. In the distance, something howls.

The Pretender (NBC, 1996-2000) You can’t help it if the saucepan of your envy sometimes bubbles over Or if your life is like a pleather coat— sweaty and unfragrant. It’s not your job to reveal the existence of a sinister institution Or to be jarring and unplaceable, like a Belgian accent. When was the fruit roll-up of your dreams first chomped on? You know you weren’t like the other children. Like a moustache, your bad luck is always with you. Like pasta, it sticks together and sits in your tummy. Playing Chinese checkers against a Pomeranian With ‘special abilities’, or evading an armed goon Are everyday activities for you. Think of the voice on an old Recording. A long bob on a pretty girl. Keep wheeling your regrets around like an oxygen tank; Get to California and win a prize. The long road of your resentments Ends here, Mr Nice Guy. You can hop off like a turkey Into the petulant sunset, square and ungainly. Good times.

Truly thrilled to have these 2 new poems in the spring issue of Poetry London! Many thanks to editor Niall Campbell & all at Poetry London. Thanks also again to the brilliant artist Soheila Sokhanvari for her inspiration, & thinking of her at this time❤️❤️

Self-Portrait as Proximity after two paintings by Soheila Sokhanvari It is 3.30 in the afternoon of my life. Things aren’t black and white any more, The squares on the chequerboard lose their shape. The swirl of my dress Is a coded message, like the wavy lines on an ECG. Prepare to be shocked. I’m only willing to sign a false confession. When I look outside, the clouds Are like bars. You can pull back the curtain and peek into someone’s life, But beneath the window is always another window. Throw me a rope? On the floor, tiled stars lead to an invisible cinema. The pattern Of the leaves says how many years until I find true love. Ask again later. Twirl around like a girl in an Italian movie, arms wide as hope. I can sit polite as a cat in a living room, waiting for a meal. My arms Have clean edges, fold in like a paper doll’s. Behind me the same garden Repeated in a mirror, plastic flowers predicting that not much will grow.

Self-Portrait as Philosophy after three paintings by Soheila Sokhanvari The bagel of the afternoon is split down the middle— before And after. Tapping and tapping my tortoiseshell nails, Just killing time. My newspaper face crackles, unfolds. You can lead a horse to water... It’s been a while Since anyone stopped by this house painted blue and red like a toy With the ghost of a movie star sitting in an armchair out back, Hand-me-down. To be loved is like wearing candy-coloured bangles With a perfectly matching outfit. To be unloved is a curse Like when a witch dislikes your vibe. You can lead a horse To a cobbler... I watch the joggers go by In their sensible clothes. I watch the tomatoes next door Getting bigger, like fruit-shaped embryos. What in the world Is the world to an animal like a horse, amiably chewing In a field? My feelings are overstuffed as an American sandwich And the timer goes off like a dainty bell.

Thrilled to have 2 new poems in the latest issue of The Kenyon Review! Many thanks to the editors & staff ❤️❤️

JANE YEH • Entrevista y traducción: Teresa Soto Tafalla @tteresa_inverba / teresa.inverba@gmail.com Edición: Equipo Thalamus @thalamusmagazine / editorial@thalamusmagazine.com London – Madrid […]

Many thanks to Teresa (& Thalamus magazine) for interviewing me & translating 4 of my old poems into Spanish! ❤️❤️

www.thalamusmagazine.com/2026/01/27/j...

Screenshot of the blog page

'Self-Portrait as Psychology' *after two paintings by Soheila Sokhanvari* The straps on my shoes make an X across my feet. My eyes snap open and shut like a purse. *Plink plink*. The way we depart from ourselves when the moon comes out. The way a cat shows its claws when picked up and held. If this is the slow kind of hell, I’m used to it— My hands are folded the wrong way, the cat sits on the bed Like a limpet, the sun drops out of the sky, inexorable As a chandelier earring. I don’t believe in forgiveness Or holding hands or the kind of people who keep treasured Figurines. Sometimes the truth is impossible as a bodice Spilling over with boobs, it just can’t be contained. What do you have to do to get arrested around here? The pictures on the wall look back with no pity. Sometimes The truth is unpalatable as a stain. Even the cactus Judges me from its corner, arms raised like it’s giving up.

Thanks to the Best American Poetry blog for reprinting my poem 'Self-Portrait as Psychology' as their Pick of the Week! (It originally appeared in the NYRB.) Thanks also to the wonderful artist Soheila Sokhanvari, whose paintings initially inspired it.

blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_ame...

I had the pleasure of chatting with the brilliant Chris Lloyd on Episode 15 of his podcast, Books Up Close, which has just been released 🌷 We discussed poetry book recommendations, writing tips, & a poem of mine called 'This Morning,' 🌸 Check it out wherever you listen to podcasts! 🌺

Just testing

A cute chihuahua (from We Rate Dogs iirc) running down a beige hallway sooo fast with its eyes bulging. It looks like it's smiling & it's running so fast its paws are blurry.

I'm teaching a Verve Poetry Zoom Workshop online this Tuesday, 12 August, 7-9pm UK time. It's called 'Pop Culture Poetics' & will focus on infusing poetry with pop culture (especially music, TV, & film). All are welcome! Link for details:

www.eventbrite.com/e/jane-yeh-w...

newsprint photo. 8 young women are kneeling down and hold up signs that spell out "The Potato Eight", each is in a matching gymanstic outfit. Behind them is an art deco swimming pavilion.

"The Potato Eight". 🥔🥔🥔🥔🥔🥔🥔🥔
These "glamour girls" of the Potato Marketing Board toured British seaside resorts in summer 1939 to promote eating potatoes as a route to health and efficiency and "overturn old fashioned notions about the potato being taboo for the woman who wants to keep her figure" 🤸

Self-Portrait as Psychology (after two paintings by Soheila Sokhanvari) The straps on my shoes make an X across my feet. My eyes snap open and shut like a purse. Plink plink. The way we depart from ourselves when the moon comes out. The way a cat shows its claws when picked up and caught. If this is the slow kind of hell, I’m used to it— My hands are folded the wrong way, the cat sits on the bed Like a limpet, the sun drops out of the sky, inexorable As a chandelier earring. I don’t believe in forgiveness Or holding hands or the kind of people who keep treasured Figurines. Sometimes the truth is impossible as a bodice Spilling over with boobs, it just can’t be contained. What do you have to do to get arrested around here? The pictures on the wall look back with no pity. Sometimes The truth is unpalatable as a stain. Even the cactus Judges me from its corner, arms raised like it’s giving up.

Thrilled to have a new poem in the New York Review of Books 🥰 With many thanks to editor Jana Prikryl (& to artist Soheila Sokhanvari for the initial inspiration!) 🌺

Also readable on the NYRB website (no paywall) ❤️
www.nybooks.com/articles/202...

The show runner went on to co-run Warrior, check it out! The Asian actor from Banshee is on Warrior too

🤤🤤

Big thanks to editor Maggie Millner & everyone at The Yale Review! 🥳

🧑‍🍳💋

🎯

Still of Agent Dale Cooper driving in his car while holding a voice recorder in one hand, subtitled, 'Diane, 11:30 a.m., February 24th. Entering the town of Twin Peaks.'

What TV show will ever have the impact of Twin Peaks S1? RIP David Lynch ❤️❤️

Poster for this event featuring the info in the tweet

Delighted to read this Monday, 20 Jan, at The Social in central London for Canon Fodder! An event series featuring poetry, live music, & brief open mic.

I'll be reading with Susannah Dickey & Will Burns, with music from Mock Deer 🥳

All welcome, tickets at: www.tickettailor.com/events/canon...

Richard Scott, Emily Berry & Jane Yeh: That Broke Into Shining Crystals To celebrate publication of That Broke into Shining Crystals, (Faber) Richard will be reading alongside fellow poets Emily Berry & Jane Yeh

Thrilled to be reading on Thurs, 13 Feb, at the London Review Bookshop with Emily Berry, as support for Richard Scott's reading from his new collection! 🥰🥳🍸🥰

See for tickets:
www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/richard-sc...

Omg sweet donks! 🥰🥰

Their best by a long chalk imo!

Trump is now < 50%, and leads Harris < 2%. This election was extremely close.

That margin will have enormous consequences. But it’s small enough that instead of debating which vulnerable groups and standards of decency Dems should abandon, they could just focus on how to better defend both.