a (mostly) balanced alternation of pretty words and pretty pictures, with a smattering of musical pieces that (hopefully) pair well with pretty words and pretty pictures
the blog
me
self-written tidbits
My first (not-quite-)official poetry portfolio. (: Cheers!
Someone Quiet
He speaks softly, and thinks deeply—
Shying away from prying eyes,
Hiding behind the silent guise
Of an ambivalent onlooker—
But breathes his heart into the words
He puts to voice
And conserves his breaths, tucking them away,
As if meaning were something that could seep
From the mouth
Like water droplets from an abandoned faucet.
He smiles rarely, but cares with his entire being—
Memorizing the smiles of strangers
Whom he’d never admit to remembering,
Claiming instead that they were objects of temporary fancy
Whose lines meant nothing to him,
And whose covers were all he needed to assume
That they were sad fables not worth his time—
And would, with patience,
Delve into life stories
As if they were the most beautiful novels.
He shares his empathy, but weeps alone—
Protecting others from
The truth he locks within his grief—
Because his concern
Is that which goes in a single direction
And asks for no reciprocation,
Lest those upon whom
He wish no pain
Feel the grief
That he would never share.
He lives in a world that feeds on ambition—
That preys on those that lack the will to hunt for
The good will of strangers and swallow them whole—
And finds himself with nothing to offer
Aside from a weary imitation
Of a kind of harshness that he wished he could become,
If only to survive
And let himself be sustenance for the vultures
That he can’t help but love.
He wears the mask he wants to break— —
Tucks his soft words into pouches
And hangs them from nooses woven by
Nothing more than the desire to stay alive,
Pretending that kindness is a type of moral currency
Wherein good deeds are done to be repaid
And selflessness equates to weakness in the face
Of bleak realityWhen, more than anything,
He believes in his own kindness.
It brings him to tears.
My Darling Portrait
I promised I would make you beautiful
even if your fingers were wed
to edges of a gilded frame.
For your eyes shut like blinds in death,
acrylic circles offered in their stead,
I promised I would make you beautiful
beyond imagination’s breadth
and freeze your lips at words unsaid
to edges of a gilded frame.
Before your wings were plucked feathers,
before your life was pricked and bled,
I promised I would make you beautiful
and keep your memory tethered
on a stack of love letters read
to edges of a gilded frame.
My darling, hideous ‘till your last breath;
rather than courting your deathbed,
I promised I would make you beautiful
to edges of a gilded frame.
(Artwork: John Singer Sargent, Lady Agnew of Lochnaw)
a curtain of raindrops (human faces)
seen
pure from the clouds (wombs)
glisten (learn)
acknowledged
before falling to the ground (world)
and darkening (living in) it
as they cling to leave their marks (ambitions)
until they’re forced to evaporate (die)
forgotten
In immeasurable drops of amaranthine tears,
The glow of past and poignant fears
Extends its coils around wisps of last breaths
And buries the spirit in amber;
Whispered valleys within violet pyre
Turn ash martyr’s desire
For repose of the eternal soul
That drowns in rivers extinct;
Shattered fragments trace streaks in eros,
Mirroring blind arrows,
Begging asphyxiation,
And sharing last wills.
“Bathe me in cobalt,”
From throats contained in asphalt
Call upon fanged marble
To reap the remnants of dying gasp,
As if translucent cages
Made way for wisdom’s final stages,
That which calls, in media res,
Threads of platinum to pierce the shrieking sky
And siphon not yet liquid heartbeats
Still enveloping orbs drenched in ebony—
A poet’s pulsing embryo—
To silence reservation and lay the thorns to rest.
{ It’s not supposed to make sense. }
Like some invisible Cupid pirouetting between hushed whispers to find his targets, the harmony echoes through throngs and pierces those two, who can’t help but breathe it in. A pause from her, a breath from him—they’re submerged between the verses, and all they can do is swim. From opposite sides of the same pavilion, they simultaneously hold their breaths and close their eyes, offering themselves to the lyrics and percussion that envelop their hearts in warmth. They stand, and dance with the parts of their souls now being carried through the currents that only they can feel. Soon, they’ll be roused by the darkening sky. They’ll rush to find each other then, as though there were no crowds at all.
December 25th, 1996.
A coloring book, inside the stocking
hung on the doorknob, because anywhere would’ve been fine.
A card made from paper, folded hamburger style,
with “From Santa” written on the inside.
Santa must’ve been the most amazing thing in the world.
December 25th, 1999.
A dictionary, complete with wrapping paper
under an plastic tree, because a real one was too much.
A crayon drawing, sent to Santa in gratitude.
A reply: “Thank you.”
Santa’s handwriting looked familiar.
December 25th, 2002.
A box of ‘Schoolhouse Rock’ CD-ROMs,
next to the fireplace painting, because there was no fireplace
A letter to Santa asking how he managed to get in.
A reply: “Magic.”
What a silly answer.
December 25th 2005.
A plain, letter-sized envelope with ten dollars inside
placed on the living room desk, because nothing was set up
A question for Mom and Dad, about where the envelope came from.
A reply: “We don’t know.”
They didn’t notice the open cabinet, with a box of envelopes still inside.
December 25th 2008.
Nothing.
A question for Mom:
Where’s Santa?
No reply.
She didn’t notice that Santa didn’t visit.
December 25th 2011.
A card made from paper, folded hamburger style,
with “To Santa” written on the outside,
saved, because it didn’t need to be delivered.
“Thank you for everything,
Especially letting me believe
That some bearded fat man could possibly
Have loved me more than you did.”
Santa really was the most amazing thing in the world.
Like some invisible Cupid
Pirouetting between hushed songs,
The harmony echoes through throngs
And those two can’t help but feel.
A pause from her, a breath from him—
They’re submerged between the verses,
For this is their first melody
And all they can do is swim,
Holding their breaths and closing their eyes,
Seeking lyrics and percussions
To envelop their hearts in warmth
‘Till they’re roused by the darkening sky,
When they’ll rush to find each other,
As though there were no crowds at all.
My best friend was a cowboy
Complete with trusty steed
Decked in cotton corduroy,
Trimmed with woven tweed.
Mr. Cowboy never left me,
Mr. Cowboy never moved.
I knew he wouldn’t forget me
That’s not what best friends do.
So even now, from far away,
I hope that he’s all right.
I hope his horse won’t go astray
And run away some night.
I wonder if he’s still the same,
Staring straight ahead,
As if his ranch is just so tame
That he’d ask for a desert instead.
I wonder if he’s gotten bored,
Waiting, reins in hand
For places yet to be explored
Or plots of unseen land.
Maybe he just rode along
After I left home,
Decided waiting felt too wrong
For a cowboy born to roam.
Maybe he’s been in the exact same spot
On standby all this time,
Lying in my toy box,
Waiting for a goodbye.
We grow up being told we’re special. We’re told that we can make a difference in the world; we can become whoever we want to be; we should dream big. But where’s the truth in the notion that we’re unique? Quite frankly, we’re all chopped out of the same slab of corporeal clay. We’re fundamentally the same—just pulled, mashed, given different features, and thrown onto different parts of the giant map we call “Earth.” And yet…we try to stand out, try to cover our little clay bodies in the most expensive pieces of fabric, live in the nicest little boxes, and fill them with the shiniest trinkets. We try to outdo each other despite the fact that we’re all insignificant little blocks of clay.
Go outside at night; look around you. You’re surrounded by lights—streetlights, signs, headlights. But when you look beyond what’s in front of you, can you see anything else? When you’re walking, riding the bus, driving your car…can you see stars? They’re drowned out by the flood of lights. In the same way, each and every one of us drowns in the mass of humanity…in the sheer amount of people we’re surrounded by. We’re all tiny, trivial in the growing, writhing mass of human headlights. And yet…we try to stand out, forcing one another out of the way just for a better box, better strips of cloth, shinier rocks to wear on our necks and fingers so we can brag that we’re somehow different…special…that we’re somehow stars.
In a worldwide scope, humans can’t be special. There’re just too damn many of us. And there’re more coming every day; and they’ll keep coming until we all suffocate each other. This twisting, viral mass of human clay will continue to breed, smothering any semblances of digression, gorging itself on human greed, the human desire for perpetuation, until all that can be made out is one bloated mass—one huge slab—swelling until it becomes so utterly homogenous that not a single individual can be distinguished. And then disintegrating, as all eventually will.
Why does humanity think itself significant? Why do humans think we’re special? Why do you? Your name? You’re not the only one who has it. Appearance? Plenty of others look like you. Belongings? Plenty of others have what you have, wear what you wear. Personality? Plenty of others like what you like, do what you do. You’re not special.
We’re all going to crumble regardless of what little trinkets we leave behind and what boxes we housed our little clay selves in, and how much currency we managed to accumulate by bringing our little clay selves to work for other little clay blocks. For some reason, humanity believes that these little clay figures have meaning; that these puny blocks have some sort of importance or potential that justifies their existence in a world that’s already overflowing with the blocks of the very same kind.
But in the end, regardless of so-called “potential,” everything will disappear—Earth, our little clay selves, the shiny trinkets we call “property”, the strips of cloth we call “fashion”, the flimsy boxes we call “houses.” Turn yourself into a fine clay figure, buy yourself a bigger box and call it a mansion, but in the end, you’ll crumble just like everyone else. The writhing onslaught of humanity just keeps pouring out; the Earth is filled with clay blocks and their toys, born to deteriorate. And yet, we try to stand out.
I have to ask, why do we try? Why attempt to escape the coarse reality of humanity? Why try to outdo other clay blocks? What difference will we make? There’re so many individuals, so many lights, so many pieces of clay, that the stars—people who have the potential to be special—are ignored. We don’t notice them because there’re so damn many of us and we’re all blinded by each other. As humanity grows, individuality deteriorates. At this point, nobody is unique.
We’re all trivial essences—insignificant beings in an infinite universe, born to die. The most we can do is leave behind temporary legacies—trinkets that’ll disappear, memories that’ll die with the rest of humanity, and crumbs of existence, specks of our little clay selves that’ll crumble into dust, as all eventually will. So why do we try? We do live lying to one another, using each other, trampling each other for the shiny trinkets we call “property”, the strips of cloth we call “fashion”, the flimsy boxes we call “houses”? Why do we strive for a higher position in this pointless thing we call “life”? That’s something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fathom.
- - - - -
This was a a little something I wrote for my Speech class last semester. I do wonder why people constantly try to outdo each other (It’s silly, don’t you think?), but I’m perfectly content with living as I am now. No, I’m not a nihilist. (:
Dear child, are you lost?
Don’t simply drift in these ebony streams. Surely, there’s something that you’d like to see. Step onto the sand. Dash into this midnight jungle; claim it as your field of dreams. Take the moon; steep it in sapphire polish until it becomes a perfect marble. Let it roll away and watch as bluebirds and lilies emerge from its winding trail, blessing your savanna with cerulean spring.
Then, imagine yourself weightless, floating along silver gusts, turning clouds into translucent bouquets. Ask a petal to be your guide; sail it through placid ripples, as white blooms cascade from your floral Shangri-La.
Accept my greatest gift—my voice, my words.
You gave me a pen, so my words could live.
I said, “Let me give you a universe,”
and you dove into drops of ink, without fear or reluctance,
to collect my thoughts and
craft them into roads that rival heavens.
Dear child, navigate them as you will.
Let my prose be your infinite canvas.
If a beggar ever asked me,
“ Could you please spare some change? ”
I wouldn’t mind, at least, to give him a reply:
“ If only I knew that you would be frugal,
If only I knew that you’d be a good man,
If only I could trust (and in someone I’ve just met, no less)
If only I could see your past, how you’d spent your money last,
If only I were certain of your intentions,
If only I were certain that your words were true,
If only I had a penchant for giving (and forgiving),
If only I had an excess so large, my coins would seem sparse,
If only I knew that I could be frugal,
If only I knew I were a good person,
If only I were trusting at heart (and still had a good heart),
If only I could forget my past, the mistakes I’d made last,
If only I hadn’t had sinful intentions,
If only I hadn’t had a mouth that spit lies,
If only I could forgive myself (and let myself forgive),
If only I still had excess at all, coins to call my own,
If only I could stand and say
That all these things were true,
I guarantee you, I really would spare some change. ”
