Vincent Hostak
November 8, 2026
Saṃsāra, in Buddhist cosmology, imagines an endless cycle of life, death, and rebirth that can only be interrupted by attaining enlightenment. Saṃsāra contians six realms of existence: Hell (Niraya), Hungry Ghosts (Pretas), Animals (Tiryak), Humans (Manushya), Gods (Devas, heavenly) and Demi-gods (asuras). Some cycle through the undesirable realms through rebirth due to unresolved ignorance, desires, and unethical actions in one of the other realms. Hungry Ghosts previously lived in near constant desire, jealous of those in more desired realms. They continue their longing in the Preta state. Poems from this Testament of Hungry Ghosts were discovered near the beginning of the 21st Century. Works of pathos, they are thought to be appeals from the Pretas themselves. Sources for translations are unknown. Judging from references found in the works, they likely span a timeline of centuries across the Western calendar.
Bitter Fruit
by 針口鬼
The Needle-Mouthed
I brought bitter fruit
to your table.
I served words
hastily prepared,
said I thought
“I was being funny.”
I scalded the hands
you opened to me
in friendship.
I brought bitter fruit
to the sweetest bowl.
You lined it with saffron,
phyllo and berries.
I sit in the darkness
I designed
alongside the ghost
of my thoughtlessness.
He and I are the ones who go hungry.
An Empty Vessel
by 食水鬼
The Water Eater
I am like my Dharma eating cousin in life,
prone to spread false doctrine:
“Water is not precious. The seas are vast.
The sky will forever bring more.”
My barren body sits by your drain,
like dry, fermented skipjack;
as moisture-poor as dried kelp.
Water is my only food, but I can no
longer hold it in my depleted skin.
Water may still nourish you.
Think of me as you walk the
deserted ridges above your empty levees.
Song of the Ever-Wandering
by 鑊身鬼
The Cauldron-Bodied
From this heap of dung
I read from your Western canon,
your Wandering Aengus. Like him
I was captivated by a fish-spirit among the carp:
silver clad with whiskers he leapt before my eyes.
I collected him and others,
leaving it to my unpaid servants
to clean and score their flesh,
season and prepare a feast for me alone to
cure my stomach’s longing, hour after hour.
I wandered in my way,
unlike your knight-errant.
I was never lonely as a cloud above
Mt. Haguro’s peak. Friends and lovers
surrounded me, always, each as loyal to me
as I was a miser who never shared his delicacies.
Where are their lively shapes?
Now, no one picks Sakura cherries on
my behalf. There are no blossoms upon
which I may lay naked after the Spring harvest.
All is suffering I am told. I need not hear your poets
tell me: I suffered privilege and will suffer its loss more.
Vincent Hostak is a writer and media producer from Texas now living with his family and faithful canine, Lola, near the Front Range of Colorado. His recently published poems are found in the journals The Dewdrop (Vanessa Able, Editor-In-Chief), Sonder Midwest, The Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas, and the Texas Poetry Assignment. His contributions also appear in the anthologies The 30th Annual Poetry Ink Anthology (Moonstone Arts, Philadelphia, 2025), Lone Star Poetry, and The Senior Class-100 Poets on Aging (Lamar University Press, Laurence Musgrove, Editor). His podcast on classic and contemporary poetry, and the novel ways it reaches audiences, relaunches in 2026.
