So I was looking through old boxes and stuff (I'm a bit of a pack rat, apparently), and I found yet ANOTHER poem that I wrote back in high school. I think I wrote this for a project either my freshman or sophomore years. I do, however, remember exactly what it is about. I had a best friend who I drifted away from as we grew older, and this is, I guess, a culmination of my thoughts on our friendship. Yes, I was an emo little thing back then, haha.
Shattered
there in the blur of time and distance
in the fists of separation and indifference
we crushed the fragile glass flower
shattered pieces of trust and love
once unbroken and luminous
litter the recesses of my heart
i grasp at these fragmented shards,
desired slivers burrow deep, petals chip,
splinters, stitches in my pride and dignity,
i look to you, once my sole confidant,
and see only traces of tenderness
erased by a slow insidious darkness
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
glass stomach
those things, lightning and air,
upon processing the information
quickly ground between grinding teeth,
rest unwell in this glass stomach,
and the need to retch and expel
the excess of incompatible elements
burns hotly in the recesses of this bowl
and they crawl up, expanding with heat,
and gather a force, pry open the hinges,
and desire to spew out in a nauseous fury
upon processing the information
quickly ground between grinding teeth,
rest unwell in this glass stomach,
and the need to retch and expel
the excess of incompatible elements
burns hotly in the recesses of this bowl
and they crawl up, expanding with heat,
and gather a force, pry open the hinges,
and desire to spew out in a nauseous fury
Monday, May 11, 2009
Softly Shaped Diamond
Personal Narrative from high school.
As far back as I can remember, I have always admired pianists and their ability to play such beautiful music. There were few things I was passionate about as a child, except for summer and vacations and piano. Since I was able, whenever I caught even a tiny glimpse of a piano, I would toddle over to it and press its cool ivory keys randomly, a song I'd heard recently playing in my head. When my mother brought out her electronic keyboard, I would pester her unceasingly until she sat with me and taught me a little diddle she learned from her past.
It was not long before I had exhausted every piano song from my mother's mind. However, my insatiable thirst for the piano had not abated. So, partly to appease me and partly to save herself from my constant nagging, my mother enrolled me for piano clsses with an elderly woman named Mrs. Jenner.
When this news was given to me, I could not have been more overjoyed. The week before I was to attend my first lesson, I would sit in front of the keyboard and play the songs I knew over and over again. By the time the glorious day of my lesson arrived, I had perfected every one of my mother's songs and was eager to show Mrs. Jenner my piano playing skills.
Mrs. Helen Jenner lived in a neighborhood outside the city limits of Clayton, North Carolina. Her subdivision was nestled in the woods; the roads and houses were perpetually covered in the dappled shadows of pine, oak, and maple trees. Her neighborhood always reminded me of the fall, a cool breeze always drifting playfully through the branches and through leaves left over from autumns long before. Her house, a cozy home made of brink, was hidden behind a labyrinth of trees.
Though I remember her abode on more fond terms, those who did not know her would think that her house was slightly foreboding, like a house from a horror movie. I thought exactly this when I arrived at her house for my first lesson. The bony trees that veiled her house reminded me unpleasantly of the scowling trees from Snow White, and a severe bespectacled women kept appearing in my mind. I imagined Mrs. Jenner would be an ancient, withered old thing, like the mother in Psycho, and just as psychotic, too. In my childish mind, I kept seeing myself backed into a dark, cobwebbed corner with a bony crone standing above me, bloodied butcher knife in hand.
Fear had gripped my heart, my thoughts whirling dangerously in my mind. As I got out of the car and my parents lowered their window to wish me luck, I gripped my father's arm. "Don't leave. Come with me, please!" I pleaded, my eyes widened with an imagined fear. Shaking off my arm, my father stated that I would be fine, but after more incessant begging on my part, my parents gave in and accompanied me to the front steps (which were covered liberally in spider webs) as I rang the doorbell.
The first thing I heard after ringing the doorbell was a frantic scuttling sound from the clawed paws of a dog. Then, high-pitched barks accompanied the wild scampering. "Coming!" a muffled voice yelled from somewhere deep inside the house. Seconds later, I heard deep thumps created by a person heavily descending the stairs. The door unlocked, the click a menacing sound, and the door creaked open slowly.
Upon seeing the woman in front of me, I let out a long breath I was not aware I had been holding. The elderly woman standing in front of me with a smile on her face was nothing like the woman wielding a weapon that I had conjured in my mind.
Shaped like a rounded diamond with her hips being the widest part of her physique, this woman was large and soft looking; I was sure that if I poked her with my finger, it would easily sink into her skin. She was like a mountain, majestic and sturdy. Mrs. Jenner had white, wispy hair cropped short, reminiscent of a softly glowing moon on a clear cool night. Her blue eyes reminded me of the sky behind the green, snow-capped mountains in the musical, "The Sound of Music." Her skin had a worn, transparent leathery look that told of her years just as much as the age spots that dotted her arms and neck.
She beckoned us to enter, immediately striking up a conversation with me. How old was I? Was I looking forward to playing? Had I ever had lessons before? Since the start of fourth grade, I had been afflicted with a painful shyness. When spoken to, my eyes would immediately dart to the ground or to my feet and my ears would redden, my face heating. I would mumble one or two words of just enough to answer whatever was asked. So, at Mrs. Jenner's barrage of questions, I gave my customary no's and yeses.
"All right then," Mrs. Jenner said in her clear, warm voice, "I'll see you two in about an hour."
My head snapped up, and I looked toward my parents. True, Mrs. Jenner was not some serial killer they needed to protect me from, but I still wanted them to stay. To my dismay, my parents nodded and smiled, saying their goodbyes and telling me to work hard. Then they left.
Alone with Mrs. Jenner, I began to notice my surroundings more. Her living room was quite spacious, though cluttered with instruments. An old and warm looking grand piano sat patiently in the corner in all its eight feet glory while several feet back, a love seat faced it and a sofa ran perpendicular. Her fireplace emitted a dull smell of gas and on the mantle above it sat a vase of shiny turquoise and purple peacock feathers. Behind the love seat, on the far right wall, there was a cabinet meant for china collections. Instead of delicate tea sets, there were recorders of different shapes, sizes and colors. Other small instruments lay strewn around on her tables and hanging on walls. Through the back glass doors, I could see a leaf-covered back yard with a medium sized pear tree, its leaves rustling.
Her house smelled perpetually like cigarette smoke, but it never really bothered me. The smell of her smoke, which gradually became a comforting scent, was always slightly aromatic, like sandal and cherry wood. Back then, she had a small Corgi named Wendy. Wendy was an animated dog that ran about at our ankles and always left little surprises on the floor for me and Mrs. Jenner to discover, and, after smelling an unpleasant odor following us around, later find out that her little gifts had stuck themselves onto the soles of our shoes.
Sensing my shyness, Mrs. Jenner refrained from any more questions and sat me down in front of her grand piano. I remember that in front of me, on the ledge meant for music pieces, was a ash tray, a bent stub of a cigarette sitting on top of a bed of gray ashes as if waiting for me to give a recital. The keys were chilled and different from my mother's keyboard. These keys were strong and sturdy and took quite an amount of pressure to depress. I particularly remember enjoying the dull thunk of the key hitting felt-covered wood heard behind every note that I played on her piano.
In thirty minutes I learned to play by memory seven scales (C, F, D, A, E, B and F) as well as several variations of children's tunes. Mrs. Jenner was amazed. She praised me and told me how talented I was. "You're a natural piano player!" she had exclaimed after seeing my near perfect scales. I blushed No one had ever praised me so readily or abundantly before. Growing up in a family with a typically Asian culture and values, criticisms were more liberally presented than praise.
The last thirty to forty-five minutes of my lesson was devoted to songs. Mrs. Jenner bade me to play any songs I knew, and I gladly though timidly recited all the pieces my mother had taught me. Mrs. Jenner grinned praising me again and telling me that she knew I would become one of her best pupils. I smiled sheepishly back, finally able to look into her glowing cornflower-blue eyes.
After teaching me some simple songs from a book, Mrs. Jenner sat down to play some of her favorite songs. From the moment she placed her hands upon the ivory an ebony keys, to the moment she lifted them, I was sucked into a magical spell. She became my own portal to a fantasy world that I had been yearning to visit ever since I arrived into this reality.
Her music started a song deep within me and as she played the piano, she struck chords in me as well. It was as if the keys were connected to strings inside my soul and as she pressed just the right keys for certain chords and melodies, she sweetly plucked my emotions like a harp. Staring at her and her fingers darting elegantly and deftly across the board, I made a promise to myself, though to this day, I've yet to find out what that promise was.
By the end of the lesson, Mrs. Jenner had not only succeeded in teaching me seven scales and three songs, she had also succeeded in opening the closed flower hidden in my chest. In the short period that I had been with her, my heart and mind had opened to her smiles and laughter. Her music had gone from my ears to my heart and had nestled itself quite comfortably in my soul, content to let its gentle vibrations emanate throughout my entire being and through my entire life.
I left her house that day brimming with confidence from her praise. I don't think Mrs. Jenner ever fathomed the extent of her influence on me, but inside of me she had planted a seed of confidence and love and understanding. With each visit I made to her, she watered and nurtured that little seed. She spoke to it, played music for it, talked to it and loved it. And slowly, every slowly, that little seed grew into a beautiful little flower, growing toward her, the sun.
As far back as I can remember, I have always admired pianists and their ability to play such beautiful music. There were few things I was passionate about as a child, except for summer and vacations and piano. Since I was able, whenever I caught even a tiny glimpse of a piano, I would toddle over to it and press its cool ivory keys randomly, a song I'd heard recently playing in my head. When my mother brought out her electronic keyboard, I would pester her unceasingly until she sat with me and taught me a little diddle she learned from her past.
It was not long before I had exhausted every piano song from my mother's mind. However, my insatiable thirst for the piano had not abated. So, partly to appease me and partly to save herself from my constant nagging, my mother enrolled me for piano clsses with an elderly woman named Mrs. Jenner.
When this news was given to me, I could not have been more overjoyed. The week before I was to attend my first lesson, I would sit in front of the keyboard and play the songs I knew over and over again. By the time the glorious day of my lesson arrived, I had perfected every one of my mother's songs and was eager to show Mrs. Jenner my piano playing skills.
Mrs. Helen Jenner lived in a neighborhood outside the city limits of Clayton, North Carolina. Her subdivision was nestled in the woods; the roads and houses were perpetually covered in the dappled shadows of pine, oak, and maple trees. Her neighborhood always reminded me of the fall, a cool breeze always drifting playfully through the branches and through leaves left over from autumns long before. Her house, a cozy home made of brink, was hidden behind a labyrinth of trees.
Though I remember her abode on more fond terms, those who did not know her would think that her house was slightly foreboding, like a house from a horror movie. I thought exactly this when I arrived at her house for my first lesson. The bony trees that veiled her house reminded me unpleasantly of the scowling trees from Snow White, and a severe bespectacled women kept appearing in my mind. I imagined Mrs. Jenner would be an ancient, withered old thing, like the mother in Psycho, and just as psychotic, too. In my childish mind, I kept seeing myself backed into a dark, cobwebbed corner with a bony crone standing above me, bloodied butcher knife in hand.
Fear had gripped my heart, my thoughts whirling dangerously in my mind. As I got out of the car and my parents lowered their window to wish me luck, I gripped my father's arm. "Don't leave. Come with me, please!" I pleaded, my eyes widened with an imagined fear. Shaking off my arm, my father stated that I would be fine, but after more incessant begging on my part, my parents gave in and accompanied me to the front steps (which were covered liberally in spider webs) as I rang the doorbell.
The first thing I heard after ringing the doorbell was a frantic scuttling sound from the clawed paws of a dog. Then, high-pitched barks accompanied the wild scampering. "Coming!" a muffled voice yelled from somewhere deep inside the house. Seconds later, I heard deep thumps created by a person heavily descending the stairs. The door unlocked, the click a menacing sound, and the door creaked open slowly.
Upon seeing the woman in front of me, I let out a long breath I was not aware I had been holding. The elderly woman standing in front of me with a smile on her face was nothing like the woman wielding a weapon that I had conjured in my mind.
Shaped like a rounded diamond with her hips being the widest part of her physique, this woman was large and soft looking; I was sure that if I poked her with my finger, it would easily sink into her skin. She was like a mountain, majestic and sturdy. Mrs. Jenner had white, wispy hair cropped short, reminiscent of a softly glowing moon on a clear cool night. Her blue eyes reminded me of the sky behind the green, snow-capped mountains in the musical, "The Sound of Music." Her skin had a worn, transparent leathery look that told of her years just as much as the age spots that dotted her arms and neck.
She beckoned us to enter, immediately striking up a conversation with me. How old was I? Was I looking forward to playing? Had I ever had lessons before? Since the start of fourth grade, I had been afflicted with a painful shyness. When spoken to, my eyes would immediately dart to the ground or to my feet and my ears would redden, my face heating. I would mumble one or two words of just enough to answer whatever was asked. So, at Mrs. Jenner's barrage of questions, I gave my customary no's and yeses.
"All right then," Mrs. Jenner said in her clear, warm voice, "I'll see you two in about an hour."
My head snapped up, and I looked toward my parents. True, Mrs. Jenner was not some serial killer they needed to protect me from, but I still wanted them to stay. To my dismay, my parents nodded and smiled, saying their goodbyes and telling me to work hard. Then they left.
Alone with Mrs. Jenner, I began to notice my surroundings more. Her living room was quite spacious, though cluttered with instruments. An old and warm looking grand piano sat patiently in the corner in all its eight feet glory while several feet back, a love seat faced it and a sofa ran perpendicular. Her fireplace emitted a dull smell of gas and on the mantle above it sat a vase of shiny turquoise and purple peacock feathers. Behind the love seat, on the far right wall, there was a cabinet meant for china collections. Instead of delicate tea sets, there were recorders of different shapes, sizes and colors. Other small instruments lay strewn around on her tables and hanging on walls. Through the back glass doors, I could see a leaf-covered back yard with a medium sized pear tree, its leaves rustling.
Her house smelled perpetually like cigarette smoke, but it never really bothered me. The smell of her smoke, which gradually became a comforting scent, was always slightly aromatic, like sandal and cherry wood. Back then, she had a small Corgi named Wendy. Wendy was an animated dog that ran about at our ankles and always left little surprises on the floor for me and Mrs. Jenner to discover, and, after smelling an unpleasant odor following us around, later find out that her little gifts had stuck themselves onto the soles of our shoes.
Sensing my shyness, Mrs. Jenner refrained from any more questions and sat me down in front of her grand piano. I remember that in front of me, on the ledge meant for music pieces, was a ash tray, a bent stub of a cigarette sitting on top of a bed of gray ashes as if waiting for me to give a recital. The keys were chilled and different from my mother's keyboard. These keys were strong and sturdy and took quite an amount of pressure to depress. I particularly remember enjoying the dull thunk of the key hitting felt-covered wood heard behind every note that I played on her piano.
In thirty minutes I learned to play by memory seven scales (C, F, D, A, E, B and F) as well as several variations of children's tunes. Mrs. Jenner was amazed. She praised me and told me how talented I was. "You're a natural piano player!" she had exclaimed after seeing my near perfect scales. I blushed No one had ever praised me so readily or abundantly before. Growing up in a family with a typically Asian culture and values, criticisms were more liberally presented than praise.
The last thirty to forty-five minutes of my lesson was devoted to songs. Mrs. Jenner bade me to play any songs I knew, and I gladly though timidly recited all the pieces my mother had taught me. Mrs. Jenner grinned praising me again and telling me that she knew I would become one of her best pupils. I smiled sheepishly back, finally able to look into her glowing cornflower-blue eyes.
After teaching me some simple songs from a book, Mrs. Jenner sat down to play some of her favorite songs. From the moment she placed her hands upon the ivory an ebony keys, to the moment she lifted them, I was sucked into a magical spell. She became my own portal to a fantasy world that I had been yearning to visit ever since I arrived into this reality.
Her music started a song deep within me and as she played the piano, she struck chords in me as well. It was as if the keys were connected to strings inside my soul and as she pressed just the right keys for certain chords and melodies, she sweetly plucked my emotions like a harp. Staring at her and her fingers darting elegantly and deftly across the board, I made a promise to myself, though to this day, I've yet to find out what that promise was.
By the end of the lesson, Mrs. Jenner had not only succeeded in teaching me seven scales and three songs, she had also succeeded in opening the closed flower hidden in my chest. In the short period that I had been with her, my heart and mind had opened to her smiles and laughter. Her music had gone from my ears to my heart and had nestled itself quite comfortably in my soul, content to let its gentle vibrations emanate throughout my entire being and through my entire life.
I left her house that day brimming with confidence from her praise. I don't think Mrs. Jenner ever fathomed the extent of her influence on me, but inside of me she had planted a seed of confidence and love and understanding. With each visit I made to her, she watered and nurtured that little seed. She spoke to it, played music for it, talked to it and loved it. And slowly, every slowly, that little seed grew into a beautiful little flower, growing toward her, the sun.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
More poems from my past!
So for mother's day, my family and I went to my grandparent's house, which used to be our old house. I was rifling through my old filing cabinet and found even MORE poems that I was forced to write in middle school. I say forced because that's the only reason I wrote poetry in middle/high school. I always hated poems until recently. I thought they were just retarded spurts of thought said in an esoteric and abstract way so as to impress people. I guess I just had to give it some time.
Anyway, this is from a poetry project. You had to pick a theme and write poems with different techniques. I apparently chose "Night" as my theme (along with an excessive use of commas). These are my favorites.
Moonlight
(Lyric)
The moon shines its light,
On everything in sight,
Its silvery beams,
Never fail to bring me dreams,
And while the stars prance,
In my mind I dance,
In lands faraway, faraway, faraway...
Moon Man
(Metaphor)
The moon is like a man
Who watches over me,
But I wonder why he has no tan,
Since he is by the sea,
Perhaps he does not like the light,
And does not like to ever fight,
With his counterpart, the Sun.
The Habits of Dreams
(Alliteration)
Dreams disappear during the day,
But when night comes, they always want to play,
Dreams are fickle friends, you know,
Like a thin blanket of newly laid snow.
Anyway, this is from a poetry project. You had to pick a theme and write poems with different techniques. I apparently chose "Night" as my theme (along with an excessive use of commas). These are my favorites.
Moonlight
(Lyric)
The moon shines its light,
On everything in sight,
Its silvery beams,
Never fail to bring me dreams,
And while the stars prance,
In my mind I dance,
In lands faraway, faraway, faraway...
Moon Man
(Metaphor)
The moon is like a man
Who watches over me,
But I wonder why he has no tan,
Since he is by the sea,
Perhaps he does not like the light,
And does not like to ever fight,
With his counterpart, the Sun.
The Habits of Dreams
(Alliteration)
Dreams disappear during the day,
But when night comes, they always want to play,
Dreams are fickle friends, you know,
Like a thin blanket of newly laid snow.
Friday, May 8, 2009
burst
ever since i emerged from that womb,
since that first sharp intake of air
ripped an opening in my lungs,
i've been reaching toward the dirt,
wanting to take it in my grasp
and feel its earthy musk
cover my skin, like a veil
and wanting, yearning, pining
to start digging
because ever since i've seen,
i've been digging,
digging my own grave
since that first sharp intake of air
ripped an opening in my lungs,
i've been reaching toward the dirt,
wanting to take it in my grasp
and feel its earthy musk
cover my skin, like a veil
and wanting, yearning, pining
to start digging
because ever since i've seen,
i've been digging,
digging my own grave
Monday, May 4, 2009
futility
we rage against this
unchangeable reality
and though we claw at its eyes
and bite at its neck
and spew curses at its ears
it cannot be thwarted
instead it continues
relentless, regardless
unchangeable reality
and though we claw at its eyes
and bite at its neck
and spew curses at its ears
it cannot be thwarted
instead it continues
relentless, regardless
Saturday, May 2, 2009
within me
what cumbersome beast is this
that comes lumbering from the cave,
swathed in chains, swaying with
the weight of evils unspoken;
o, behold this creature
lowly and pitiful and
repulsive
from what unison
arose this deathly
dearth of light and goodness?
and how, pray tell,
might it again be
suppressed before
its presence is made
even more known
to the world?
that comes lumbering from the cave,
swathed in chains, swaying with
the weight of evils unspoken;
o, behold this creature
lowly and pitiful and
repulsive
from what unison
arose this deathly
dearth of light and goodness?
and how, pray tell,
might it again be
suppressed before
its presence is made
even more known
to the world?
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