Untitled- Summer 2010

***I was actually thinking about where I (mis)placed this poem the other day and lo and behold, I found it today while emptying my second to last box of college stuff. I wrote this in the summer of last year (during animal physiology I believe) and it was actually the first piece of writing I'd ever recited in front of an audience! But first are some random unfinished lines written on the same page. Do let me know what you think. EDIT: I just reread the random beginning here a few times, and realized what I'd been trying to do.. I think I like how it turned out after all!!***


Random Beginnings:
Eyes like a Venus fly trap
snap shut, startling the air around them
releasing saline juices
uncontrollably

Wiped away by the back of your hand
leaving behind a green smear
and red eyes
dew drops sprinkled on your cheeks,


AND NOW THE ACTUAL POEM:

The icy waves push me out,
they don't want my warmth to penetrate their chills,
to defrost the sheets of ice that have accumulated.

I know I'll get accustomed to it.
Until then, I'll imagine my floatees are heated,
that I'm needed even though I'm but a speck in the soggy oasis around me.
Even though I'm being shoved out
and my hypotonic nature is at odds with your hypertonicity.
Even though I retain my shape and you constantly lose yours.

I'll try wading in a little deeper every time,
because I'm drawn to your deep blues.
But the coldness freezes my legs in place.
A little fire would be nice.
It doesn't seem like my yellow will turn green.

You flow around me,
but I stand in place--Still
afraid of losing my balance,
careful not to slip,
because I'm not sure if lost in your own depths
you'd push me back up to the surface
or even notice I'm no longer there.

I understand that due to your vastness
you aren't always aware of where you are,
you can't be.
But I can only stand this coldness for so long.
My teeth are already chattering and my body shivering.
A flickering flame would be nice.

Edit #2:


The icy waves push me out.
They don’t want my warmth to penetrate their chills.
I know I’ll get used to it with time.

Until then, I'll imagine my floatees are heated,
that I'm needed even though I'm but a speck in the soggy oasis
Even though I'm being shoved out
My hypotonic nature at odds with your hypertonicity.
I'll try wading in a little deeper
Because I’m drawn to your deep blues.
But it doesn't seem like my yellow will turn green.
A little fire would be nice.

You flow around me,
as I retain my shape and you constantly lose yours.
but I stand in place careful not to slip,
afraid of losing my balance,
because I'm not sure if lost in your own depths
you'd push me back up to the surface
or even notice I'm no longer there.

***(NAZIFA how can I fix the last three lines you are referring to here: (“the last three lines feel like exposition more than a real integral part of the poem – I’d think about rewording them to add some more flow”)? I did change the stanza a little, did it help?)

I understand that due to your vastness
you aren't always aware of where you are,
But I can only stand this coldness for so long.
My teeth are already chattering and my body shivering.
A flickering flame would be nice.

Snapshot No. 1

***Sometimes I feel like I carry an album in my head. However, instead of containing photographs, it contains snapshots of events that I think best reflect the people around me. Sometimes this includes my interactions with them, other times things I saw them do when they thought no one was looking. Some of these events are good, others may not be. But henceforth, whenever I think of that person, I find myself viewing them through the colors and perspective of this snapshot first. If they are lucky and I get to know them for long enough, my collection of events involving them grows (I suppose you could also call the snapshots memories, but that would be boring). Using that same idea, here is an album of snapshots.***

****AND THIS STILL NEEDS A LOT OF WORK BUT I HAVEN'T PUT ANYTHING UP IN AWHILE... SO FEEDBACK IS ALWAYS WELCOME!!****

6/19/11

Leaving you brings tears to my eyes
Tears that otherwise refuse to tumble down my cheeks when summoned
But the thought of parting ways with you always does the trick

Despite our strong blood ties,
We never spent much time together
But you made me realize that it’s not quantity
But rather quality.

Every two years, I see you for a month
Maybe two
But in those months you taught me to ride the train
We surged through the streets on the bus
We drank roadside Energee drinks
And ice cold sugar cane juice

You took me to the doctor and on the way back ordered me to drink warm boiled water only
You said I couldn’t drink any more cold water as you bought me my favorite ice cream from Natural

Do you remember-
That one smelly night?
When I woke up hurling food everywhere
Leaving a trail of vomit from my bed to the sink
That sink didn’t have a chance
Do you remember how you woke up and held my hair back
Cheerful the whole time
Smiling comfortingly
How you tucked me into bed and told me you’d take care of my stinky mess
I knew then everything was going to be alright

Do you remember-
You would take us for long walks along the sea face
Cajoling us out of bed at 6 am so we could see the beautiful sunrise
And feel the tendrils of the cool breeze curling throughout the city before it awoke
Climbing up four stories to get back to our flat because the power had gone out


I know my tears aren’t wasted on you
I know you feel the same way every time life forces us apart
I saw your tears, which you didn’t bother to hide
When my sister got married
If she didn’t already belong to you
You shed enough tears to make her one of your own that night
I think you need to know, should know, that we are yours.

Rational Anger

6/11/2011
**As rational as anger can get I think. I'm curious, what type of emotion does reading this evoke in you? Can you feel the anger or not?**

If only you knew the self-control
It takes to not let my words slap you in the face
My words would burn
Leaving behind a nasty red imprint on your soul

Once I release my barricades
My fury and resentment will seep out
I might even utter words that I may later regret
But right now, it’s the truth
And I want to hurt you
So I don’t care

What you think is a submissive stare down at the floor
Is really my best attempt to hide my rage
My last attempt to control myself
But I know one day soon, that will no longer be enough

I’ve tried convincing myself several times
That perhaps it is I who is in the wrong
But because my characteristic ability to see both sides does not fail me
I know this to be untrue

I’ve rehearsed the scene many times
Sometimes it involves a calm coolness
With fully articulate thoughts
Other times tears
But always angry raised voices

Sometimes we work things out
Other times we sever our ties
I’m uncertain as to which I want
I know my partiality is preventing me
From acknowledging your positives
But I don’t care

All I know is I feel imprisoned
And I want to be free

As my resentment puts distance between us
Your anger grows
My anger grows
And the distance increases
Soon we’ll be seeing each other from two different continents

By then it might be too late
To understand where each of us is coming from
But right now
I really don’t care

The Sweet Vietnamese Man

***I've been working on a few projects for the past few days but have yet to complete any to my satisfaction! Sometimes I feel like words and stories have a will of their own and they drag you (regardless of how much you may resist) to the place where they want to go. I'm still fighting with my words, hopefully they will give in soon and find their way to me (I'm tired of giving in all the time ;) ) It is sort of similar to those creepy Ouija boards we used to play with when we were children. Remember those? All those stories of kids that tried to throw it away, only to find it back in their room (I bet their mom's put it there because they couldn't understand why their children kept throwing away a perfectly good game! Haha). But that's not the point. This post is about a sweet, old Vietnamese man I met last weekend (in case the title does not say this clearly enough) that is written with A LOT (see the capitalization? It stresses how much creative liberty was put into this) of creative liberty. As I was writing it, I began to realize the importance of Fathers, which is very fitting since Father's Day is coming up in 12 days. I thought about saving this for then, but quickly realized that Father's Day should be whenever you think about doing something nice and thoughtful, so here it is! ***

6/7/11

Adorned with enough rings to age a tree 7 years, the 66 year old Vietnamese man beside me exudes an appetite for life that is often missing in healthy, privileged 22 year olds. Newly retired, wrinkled hands passionately gesturing in the air as he describes his future plans. He’s going to travel to Italy and France, and then if time will have it, to the rest of the world. Attempt to catch up on the youth he missed out on as he worked full time and studied while trying to support a family. There is no regret in his soft black eyes. It’s refreshing to finally see a pair of eyes content with what life has dealt them. Eyes without anger at the late hours they had to stay up to study after putting the children to sleep.

He has three beautiful and successful sons. He worked hard to ensure their success in every aspect of their lives. He made sure their English was clear, not muddy like his. He convinced them to pursue professional careers and now two of his sons are doctors and the third a lawyer. However, he realizes they did it for him. His age and worldly experiences have taught him the importance of a stable occupation. His only desire for them is to live a more comfortable life, one lacking the financial worry that constantly wormed its way into his. Age has given him the insight to know that his grandkids will most likely pick a career that incorporates their passion, even if that means they will lack financial stability. He’s fine with that. He knows the importance of passion. He knows that as time goes on, values change. Whether he has had the opportunity to engage in this conversation with his sons is unknown to me. All I know is what I’ve been told and what I’ve observed.

His Cheshire cat smile fills the room. His radiant aura emits positivity. Despite the vast difference of our age—about forty years—we communicate with ease. He wants to share his life experiences. His wisdom, rightly acquired, gathers dust. His generosity towards me, his readiness to share the pearly white truths of life is flattering. I hesitate and he acknowledges that his truths may not be mine. But he’s still willing to share if I’m still willing to learn.

By now, he knows the best way to teach is through stories. He doesn’t demand my attention or respect, but earns it at the utterance of each word. He describes his youth, his struggles, his family history. He outlines for me his dreams. Up until recently, there had been no room for himself in his dreams. Isn’t that strange? To dream prosperous dreams for others? He talks about the sacrifices he made for his family, that his family made for him. What I like most about him, is his ability to understand inverse relationships. He talks of the love he feels when he visits his family, the colorful joviality that bursts from his children and from his grandchildren. Tears well up in my eyes as I think about my own family. The selfless sacrifices made by my own parents, unbeknownst to me. He doesn’t mention ingratitude. The thought doesn’t even occur to him—that his children might be ungrateful. Or perhaps he doesn’t care. He did what he wanted to, for those he cared about. In his eyes, I see the determination and grit of a father’s silent love—often underappreciated, frequently unacknowledged.

In the Negative

**This was written a few years back. It's a little confusing because it doesn't attempt to describe a person using descriptions and facts that characterizes them, but rather what does not. This is a VERY rough draft that was written to play around with this technique of writing! What do you think? Is it confusing? A useful technique? Did you try it? When I use this technique in the future, I think I'll use it in moderation instead of doing an entire description like this...**

He wasn't five foot nine, tall, dark or handsome. He hated to read, write, cook and despised taking long walks on the beach because he hated to watch the sun rise. He never knew how to describe himself because he didn't realize he couldn't stand looking in the mirror. He abhorred the color green, regardless of whether that included the trees, the grass, the leaves or weeds. He didn't care that green wasn't the color of his house or that his mom had never owned a green hat, because to tell you the truth, he wasn't even sure he didn't hate the color green.

He was repulsed by ponds and hated watching fish as they didn't swim around lazily in circles. He loathed putting his feet into the water and dangling it around. He couldn't endure sunny days, a warm wind, or a good night's sleep. He couldn't tolerate his family, bear his friends, and detested bubble baths. He didn't hate the smell of fresh bread that floated in through his open window on Sunday mornings because he never opened his window since he wasn't afraid he would get a nice draft of fresh air. He didn't wear black nor did he not comb his hair. In fact, it was just about impossible to find a bottle of hair gel in his hands because he never had any in his hair. He didn't like to wear cologne because he didn't like to smear it on. He did not prefer to spray it on, even though he never rubbed it on either.

He never called his girlfriend because he had never had one. When deciding how long to go to school, he had decided to not go to graduate school because he had simply never been interested in any occupation that required so many years of formal education. He never knew when it was Thursday but that never prevented him from not eating chicken on such an unhappy day. He didn't even let the smell of chicken reach his nostrils and since he never discriminated he didn't care whether the chicken was fried, baked, grilled, broiled, steamed or raw because he had never had chicken noodle soup. From the age of five he had never scrunched his eyes and had concluded that it was useless to walk briskly which is why he chose to never walk slowly. It wasn't his destiny to never scrub behind his ears and he had deemed it unnecessary to examine his own thoughts because there was no point in examining  thoughts when he didn't like to think. When he chose not to go to his high school reunion he decided he hated people that talked a lot because he didn't like to listen to them. And because he didn't like to listen to people he hated people that were good listeners because he didn't like to talk. His favorite pastime was not getting the mail as long there was mail for him. But if he didn’t have any mail then his favorite past time was replaced with tirelessly getting the mail.

One time his friend had called him and asked him if he wanted to go see a movie and even though he didn't like to see movies he hated sitting still even more so he had had the unfortunate experience of not turning down his friend.