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2012 Year in Review Anna Yin but warn you…

my jammed friends
we don’t know each other
— ——
My life in China was normal like the early stage of a butterfly in a cocoon, but passion for poetry bloomed after immigrating to Canada. Although I am an IT professional, mysteriously I have grown wings blending Chinese and Western cultures.
Years later
I am here
The road less travelled
From “Toronto, No More Weeping” to “Root Carving”, I have struggled with the meaning of writing. I almost gave up until I wrote “Farewell to Sunflowers” and found that quitting would have given me a broken heart. I asked myself what I am searching for. As most of us, we all look for some reward. Afterward, I understood that the reward for writing is writing itself. I see that writing builds a path to connect an inner world and the universe.
Today I try my best to embrace the power of  “Wings toward Sunlight”; what I see now is that writing is a mirror, reflecting both here and there, a journey to myself and to the world. When reality builds walls, writing breaks through.

Naming a Fish by Reid Mitchell (Review of “Wings Toward Sunlight”)

Book Review on Cha Magazine (Hongkong)“I am just an indifferent fish,
not concerned with extended life.
Air is what I swallow.
At present, I need only this.” 
A few plain words from Anna Yin—nothing fancy, nothing unparseable—and we are already at sea. She only asks us for air, the not-empty space around us. She only asks to breathe around us but strongly suspects this will be denied. She presents herself to us as the eternal immigrant, the eternal foreigner, the eternal wife. So quiet, so humble, so intent on demanding her place through image and language and metaphor. At present she needs only enough air to create a world for us. 
On terra firma, Anna Yin might best be characterized as a Chinese poet who writes in English.  She is also a Canadian poet, but her sensibility and approach to poetry is grounded in China’s literary tradition, particularly the short Chinese lyric.  She employs simple language, simple diction, simple syntax. But her poems are not simple.  After all, dreams often use no words at all.  Most of Yin’s poems have an easily accessible surface meaning, but at her farthermost extremes, she is mythopoetic.  Our common, almost domesticated, natural world provides most of the symbols for her mythmaking.  Continuing to read this review