in progress

sometimes i just think of little vignettes, and I have no idea where the poem is supposed to go. I thought I would list them here in case I am inspired once more.

Or maybe, three lines makes a poem? Probably not though.

-----

the words won't come out
my throat, rough and raw,
from breathing through an open mouth

anxiety.

I feel in my heart, a wheel turning
like the cogs of a clock steadily churning,
Unwound and rewound,
hidden between empty expansive lungs,
brittle tissue sacs and blue cooled blood,
thick and sticking like day old mud,
all the while, the last fibers of my heart beat,
a thundering stampede, erratic and frantic,
like a parade of elephants running 'cross the chest
Pressure burning like iron branding the flesh.

dry air.

crack open a window
i cant breathe in this
dry hot air like a desert
filling the room.

my lungs are crumbled,
starched straight and fragile,
like fine grains of sand
in between sheets of papyrus.
i'm wheezing from the smoke
the stain of harsh yellow
on my breath
so i shut my mouth
to hold in the clean air.

my skin is in a cover,
a sheet of dry dirt that is
hungry for the easy humidity
of clouds crying in a rainforest
where the air is heavy with condensation.

when will this dryness end,
when will i feel something
feel a hand holding mine
without the agony of shriveled
and cracked skin?
feel moisture on my tongue,
cool water on dry breath?

snow.

snow falls on my dreams
while i sleep, like
a tree fallin in an empty wood
quiet as a smile
sharp like cracked lips
and crinkled skin
in the winter chill.

you are there with me
the white in your hair
like you are wiser and
softer with the magic (of the
snow snow snow)
the color marking the years
gone by with nary a word
just a twinkle in your eyes
quick like the glimmer of
neon lights on the subway panes

i hug you like i would the ocean
grip you tightly and watch
you slip between my breasts
and hands and soul
leaving me ice cold and
standing alone on the train stop
watching the tail lights
of your train, your soul leaving me

quiet women.

i am a quiet woman
i come from a line of quiet woman
Too scared to open our mouths
And let out what we
think & feel, deep & sure
But still,

We hold the words back
&clasp our hearts in
our chests
Bite our tongue
&just
let it go, (No need
to start a fight)

But,
For my my daughter, I want more
I want her to know
&be sure
Hold her head up,
Be loud and proud
&keep her feet rooted to the ground
Feel the power of the earth
In her every move
Because she is an equal,
no matter what any
man should say

Because she is beautiful
Now&Will be
beautiful as a woman,
an unquiet woman
who can create storms

staining my lips.

i hold my tongue
and drink my bitter tea,
staining my lips,
like a memory.
and sewn shut
are all of those times,
when i needed more,
than a poor man's dime.

(more than just an offering
more than a feather off of
a bird's back,
more than what you're givin' me.
more than i do expect.)

push my lips together
clench my teeth, must
grind grind grind them
down to asphalt and dust,
cage my tears and hide
my hiccups and fears behind:
"i'm fine"s and "i don't mind"s.
and now,
i'm not sure i know any other words
(well at least none that you listen to.)

if you knew.

I wish you could love me the way i need you to
Know when I'm feeling so very alone
and just understand,
hold my face in your hands,
soft skin against your palms,
look in my eyes and know.

that i need you to kiss me real slow,
like you love me so very much
like you need me to touch
like all you want is me.

i wish you knew.
i wish you thought of me
instead of only you.

a reminder.

i hate these silences
and the empty promises
they stretch over the sky
like wispy clouds above our heads

they feel like soft goodbyes and
falling-apart like gritty sand,
all the fights we couldn't mend,
while driving too fast around the bend.

like awkward touches saying
I don't know if I'm allowed,
allowed to touch you.
(am i -- am i, babe? --
allowed to touch your face
and get in your space
or will you shove me down,
shut me down?)

you seem so far away,
drifting along like long summer days,
a ghost of who we used to be
a reminder that this is all we can be.

writing.

sometimes, i read poetry and cannot help but be moved by the delicate way that these imaginers juxtapose words.

for instance, my favorite poet is pablo neruda. his poetry is beautiful in spanish (though I am by no means fluent, I have only taken a couple classes of spanish and a crash course in a spanish speaking country), the words just flow and curl around your tongue like the sweetest of flavors. But I read most of his work in english, and the translation is like a wonderful melody.

"i remembered you with my soul clenched/in that sadness of mine that you know"

How I know this feeling! With my soul clenched! I wish I had thought of that phrase to describe this gut wrenching missing, emptiness.

In truth, I love writing. But I write like I have no time and I need to get these words down now, now now. Because I don't take time pouring over which adjective would be best, and most times, I don't bother trying to rhyme because it interrupts my thoughts.

When I try too hard, and look too closely, I end up with a manufactured and stilted piece of poetry that has no soul, that sounds like a printed receipt from a machine, listing things without any love. It is rhyming, and all the lines are the same number of syllables, and well, I don't sense any feeling of what prompted me to write in the first place. How do writers go through drafts and drafts, when all I know is blurting what is in my mind, like an unsophisticated blob?

in you

in you, i see the river,
strong and slow as unquiet stones
running across the land without a
moment of rest,
blue flowers at your bank,
curling in to sip at your sweetness.
in you, i wish to bathe,
pour the water on my skin, sliding
like silk across rough patches
and scars from past loves lost
across the skies.
in you, i wish to drown my soul
letting its words whisper to those
who might lay by your river
and dream, ponder, while
looking towards the sky.
in you, i think of spring, the frost
melting from a season of barren trees
and wilted moss and wet earth.
in you, i see so much sun, tanning the
white earth brown, turning brown to green
like the loveliest shades of your eyes.

in you, i see the turn of winter chills,
and the start of sudden, molten thrills
like the sun's smiling down on us.

---

Someone once told me that the greatest writing you would ever write is a love letter. I think this is true. I could write hundreds of love letters and poems and never capture the feeling. It's elusive and warms to the core of your soul. There is something earthy and wholesome and something outworldly. Like, you say to yourself, what is this? what is this feeling?

So, inadequately, I keep writing love poems, like so many poets before me. We try again and again to capture the feeling, writing hundreds of thousands of millions of words dedicated to one feeling.

--

in the palm of my hand.

I hold my home in the palm of my hand.
Its warmth like a sun ray caressing the land.
Diffusing out, like gentle thoughts on the edge
of my mind, like family photographs sliding off the ledge.
Well, when I feel alone, without a comfort in sight,
I hold my home in the palm of my hand
and try to hold on with all my might.
I let it ground me, surround me, and confound me
with lovely illustrations of family and support.
I try to capture the flood of memories,
spilling like grains of sand through my hand.
They rush back and forth, rapids in a gentle river,
as I try to stay afloat.

---

There have been times when I thought I could be strong and stoic: all alone, but not lonely. I thought about the fact that I could cool my heart down, trap feelings under the sense of responsibility and adulthood, and leave behind the memories. I thought I was immune to these feelings of homesickness, but instead, it seems that I am just as susceptible, just as compromised. I miss my family, left behind as I moved forward to find myself again. Though it seems like we are the edges of a map, distance measured in miles upon miles, distance seeming like stretching deserts of molten sand, distance seeming like the unseen other shore of the ocean. But they are not far.

They are not far, I know, for they are in my heart.

-

grape in the sun.

you stand there with your hands to your side
relaxed, but for a twitch, the first truth in the lie
(read once in a crumpled magazine
placing your arms across your chest means
you're worthless and you're weak).

but i can see more than the false bravado
and the puffed out chest like a bird,
pride and immodesty your motto,
displaying like you're the best
(we all know you're just acting, love,
give it a rest).

i can see your teeth clenched

hear the crackling of the bone

grinding your teeth and smiling

like you are sturdy as a stone. 

like honey, you feed them lines

a steam of lies curling -- like signs
that you are not who you say you are.

you simper and cajol, and
make love to them all. 

but inside, you're curled up

shriveled up like a grape in the sun

and maybe one day 

(yes, one day you'll learn

to stand tall, you think) 

maybe one day, you'll see that 

if you don't actually swim, you'll sink. 

Waiting on the world to change.

I just think to myself, is this worth it? I could live day by day, just worried about making myself happy. I could be selfish and do something that doesn't require responsibility or duty. I could travel the world and take jobs at cafes and little bookstores, speaking stuttering French, Greek, Italian, with soft eyes filled with wonder. Oh my, look at this world around me. I don't even watch the news anymore, I hardly have time to read current events, and I hardly know what's going on in the world.

I think about the fact that for the last 21 years of my life, I've been waiting for my life to start. It seems I keep waiting, and telling myself, soon I'll have everything I want. Except when I'm a doctor, I'll have just as many restrictions as I do now, only different kinds. The kinds that mean others' lives.

Is that all life is? Waiting for the next big moment?

john mayer: 'I keep waiting, waiting for the world to change'

not okay.

i just hope that when you finally push me away you'll be okay with the thought that you didn't even fight for us. i hope that you'll be okay with the fact that you thought i wasn't worth your time. i guess you'll be happy i'm not around to keep trying to make us work. i'm not fighting with you anymore. i just thought you should know that i'm not sure how long i can keep doing this.


you pretend we're okay so you won't have to deal with our issues. you wait it out until my hurt just bleeds and bleeds, and i yell because i can't take it anymore. and you tell me to forget. so i crumble up the pieces of my damaged and faint heart, put the jagged edges together, and place the paper ball of a heart back in my chest.


you think we're okay. i know we're not.

Dreams like Cotton

I've been having sad, soft dreams and headaches lately. Like my head is protesting against the constant barrage of science and body. My dreams are filled with things of how i wish my life was (soft memories of days with my family and love and art and just beauty, beauty, beauty all around me. days of young child, memories of laughter and kisses and goodnight wishes.) Sometimes, my dreams are not nice packages of sweet nostalgia, but rough dreams of things spiraling out of my control. I dream of running, running, sometimes hiding, sometimes dying. Sometimes I am crazy, sometimes i am sane and all around me is crazy. Sometimes snow, sometimes clouds. Sometimes, she dies and I watch, living the moment again and again so I might save her. Sometimes, she hates me and I cry and cry and wait for some sort of redemption. Sometimes, i find that I know this cannot be real and cannot break away from it. Still now, awake and lucid, I feel the dreams at the edges of my mind, haunting me like a chilling requiem.

Still now, awake, I am hungover, imbibed with alcohol tasting vaguely of nightmares and drunken chaos. I have a headache, pounding and stuffing my head with cotton. I cannot think straight, instead I am dazed and parched. I feel water sloshing in my mind, like vodka in a drunk man's cup (it is bitter and sharp and pungent). My dreams feel like dry sandpaper, scraping the edges of my jagged consciousness, scratching, leaving behind scars and bruises.  Like cotton, I feel these dreams crowd (fill, stuff, pack, compress, compact) my mind and I feel dry, dry. Dry and wrung out and waiting for the rain to drown me again.

long time.

it's been a long time
since i've put my pen down to paper
and let the thoughts fill up the
glass, like water and sand
it sludges slowly,
my mind.


it's been a long time
since i've felt happy or felt
less lonely, because all that's
left to talk to is the dry
tunnel in the sky.


oh
and it's been a long time
since i've had faith
that i could hold,
like
a penny found
on the ground,
luck curled around it
like a sleeping snake.


its been a long time around.

emily dickinson.

“Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all.” Emily Dickinson


She's one of my favorite poets, simply for her lack of concern towards conventional poetry and literature. And because she writes simply, but with great meaning. 

anchor.

surrounded by ships going and going
their bright sails whistling in the wind
like the wings of a bird
flittering over the sea, and here i am
tending to the waves, watching
motionless
as their colors disappear into the horizon.

and I watch as the sea simmers down
empty planes of blue stretching,
gaps widening, and i am alone,
left behind by ships and sailors.
and anchored in one place,
i hold myself close
and look to the sky
wishing i could fly, fly away.

if we are ever lost.

if we are ever lost,
i would be glad that you are with me.
when you are frightened
and feel so very alone,
ill open up my palm
and show you all the stars
dancing like fireflies in my hand.

i'll look in your eyes,
and see the glowing world
within their depths, then softly,
with gentle hands, draw out a map
so that we may find our way back.

we'll lay our heads down
and look up at the night velvet sky
and journey our way home
following the bright threads of our dreams.

missing you.

there is a warmth

in my mind where you live.

you pull the threads of my

memory and imagination,

like an impatient child,

and wrap them around yourself.

threads weave into a blanket with

hues of plum and honeysuckle

and cerulean blue, gently glowing

like a kaleidoscope around you.

slowly, with a sad, sad smile,

i fold you into a bright little star,

pulling you close and tucking you in.

and then, my mind brushes against you

in a good night kiss

before you drift away.

golden renewal

i lay my head down, on hot sand
let the grains fall through my hand
feel the heat beneath my skin
crawling into my skin like fog
rising from the ground.

the sun, like waves and pulses
of humid sea water,
melts my cold, hardened skin
(tough from loneliness and bitter cold)
into a pliant sheet of
golden wax, slowly pours it over
a geometry of old weathered bones
and stretched, taut muscles.

and i am revived, made anew
newly stitched skin over crackling old bones,
lungs filled, expanding after frozen so long,
body all angles and awkward limbs,
soul glowing with gold.

summers.

the dirt feels soft
as i reach into the body of
the earth, pulling out the
stems and roots of things,
things like tumors,
growing rapidly without cause
and strangling everything around it.

in its place, i plant crisp peppers
and yellow-red tomatoes, growing like
vines up the red, red fence.
my hands are dark and dingy,
caked with dirt underneath my
fingernails and in the creases my palm.

and when the rain opens up the skies
i sit on the ground, surrounded by the
smell of sweet peppers in the air
and the light lingering scent of mint.
i sit still as a flower, rooted into the earth
Let hot-cold waves of summer rain
wash over me as if i were a
league of thirsty men in a desert,
i let the rain soak into my skin,
wishing i could, like a straggling plant, absorb it
into my very being.

i sit as the water continues to pour,
and the plants drown in the relentless torrent
puddles forming in the dirt like
lakes that have been left untended
dirty and without beauty.
i clench my fists in the ground,
feel the tangles of roots and rocks,
and the cling of the dirt on my skin
and think
i have never felt more beautiful.

on others' angry words.

I read these poems, words by others
Loud and proud about their anger
their frustration, and all their bothers
Decorating the page with red gems
that flare and spark and rage.

And I think, they are in pain
and need to beat against the drum
of the world, making noise like a storm
and letting their lips twist with anger, plump
with emotions too loud to be held
in their tiny little chest.

but for me, i write about anger softly,
like a wave lapping at the shore.
pain as a dull ache, oscitant and yawning.
stretching out, probing, creating small scars
growing on my skin like a sun dawning.
for me, I let it grow through me
like a disease languidly making its way
from my mouth down to my tiny little heart.

apologies.

i will sit here and wait
watch the sun fade in and out
in the silence, i will
drink my tea with the softness
of a lover singing
with their soft eyes
mellow and meaningful goodbyes.
wait until the tea cools,
pools in my cup, stains delicate porcelain
with a deepened ring, like the ring
constricting my chest.

the breath of a sigh leaves my lips
frosting in the air like
dew drops on icicle leaves.
but i will be here, as my
eyes get hazy, clouds crowding
on the edges of vision,
and i think, maybe the clouds
in my eyes are raining,
thundering and pouring like a summer storm
for my eyes seem damp
with bitter raindrops.
and still, i will be here
and i will sit here and wait.

bleeding hearts.

when the sky cries, it lends its tears,
sown already in the ground
and the roots of hearts, growing like
unwanted weeds in between sidewalk cracks
on hot summer days,
dig deep, searching for its lament
and oh how they grow, these unwanted pests

from the penumbra of aching limbs,
and the light wispy tongues of thirsty shrubs
ah, how they falter and wait a moment, these

bleeding hearts, like jewels ,

fragile, hanging by a small stem encased in air

i only know them for the lush lush

red dripping down, i reach out and squeeze

feel its heated soul, burning like a coin in my palm

water clings to its wrinkled surface:

tears, already sown in the ground

growing more bleeding hearts

stars and sky and universe.

I sat with my mother on the balcony one night, and I thought I could see myself in her eyes, though hers are older than my own. I could see the stars and sky and universe in the planes of her face. She had a gentle smile, like a flower unfurling, and I smiled back. We held a steaming cup of tea and watched as the city lights slowly quieted down, curling up to go to sleep. Listening to the cars and busy soft sounds, as if it were a lullaby.

And now that I am growing infinitely older, and as the time passes, the distance between mother and daughter seems to be stars and sky and universe. But all the same, I know I'll always see myself in her eyes. Just as she is forever in mine, since the glint and sparkle and sunlit honeycombs of my eyes are all her.

new project.

i'm starting a new art project. i've been inspired by spring. I'm painting three 12x12" canvas of flowers in burnt oranges, whites, and deep browns (main color palette) because those are the three colors in my bedroom.

I think i might paint a poppy. and tulips. ah, the possibilities. i haven't painted flowers in a long time and am excited.

if i died young.

I'm young and green.

I'm still trying to anchor my roots into the earth. I still thirst for the cool puddle of water, aching to taste something. I still reach for my ray of sunlight, so that my shadow will make an imprint on the world. I'm still eager, eager. But I had a thought today, of how it would be if I died young.

I want the day of my ceremony to be a cloudless rain, with the humid summer air covering the earth in a soft and gentle blanket. I want my people to stand outside in the rain without umbrellas, looking up at the sky, with the gentle drops of rain on their bare and naked faces. With their eyes closed, let the summer sweet rain fall, like gentle kisses from me. Remind them that this weather, this lovely beautiful warm caressing rain, is a day I would love.

I don't want anything grand or overdone. I want a love song at dawn, I want a candle on the river in the soft glow of twilight,  and my oh my, I want you to smile.

simplicity.

I believe in simplicity. Truly I do. 

On most days, I believe in the simplicity of words. Stripped and washed cleaned of any extra padding, hung out to dry in the humid sun, where the descriptive and over-fluffed words melt into the air and disappear. I believe in the strength of a single word. And the strength of a period in ending a thought. I think saying

I love you.

is more powerful than saying a million words proclaiming how much you love someone. It is sweet and tender, and whenever I see those three words followed by a simple, happy period, I am overjoyed. Other people don't understand this part of me, instead they think I'm being short or abrupt. They don't see the sweetness of a few well-placed words. I think of words like God or Peace or Awe and I know, deep in my bones, the light and the beautiful music that accompanies those words.

I think this concept, for me, is derived by the way I see nature and life and the world around me.  My heart pounds when I see a lone tree in a field, or the small creek bustling over some rocks, or a little girl drawing smileys on the sidewalk. I remember seeing photographs of these quaint, beautiful farm houses. Where a girl walked through the corn fields. Where two girls laid down on the crisp grass and pointed at constellations. I remember the images of wild horses running on the sand, while the tide of the ocean rolls in.  I want to draw these moments in, form a patchwork quilt of memories sewn into my skin.  

In truth, I am a simple person. I think I could look at a river all day, and think about how a person saw it five, ten, twenty years ago. How where I'm standing a little boy once stood, learning about fly fishing from his father (who in turn had learned it from his father). I think of the way the river carved through the earth, etching its place in this world. And most of all, the river runs simply, moving through life in a gentle cascade of motion.

today.

i talk until my voice gets hoarse and crass, like sandpaper on sound waves. i see my words bouncing off your head, hyperactive buoyancy on a trampoline. the crescendo increases, comes to a wave's breaking point and tumbles over the rocks. i can't help myself, i just want to be heard. is that such a bad thing, to want you to listen to me? is it such a bad thing if i ask you to stop, stop it cause you're hurting me. and you don't seem to understand.

i talk until my voice dims down, and i can't speak anymore. you tell me to be quiet, you're making a scene, and soon i'm dumbed down. too hurt to care and much too hurt to talk anymore.

physiology.

I have come to realize that physiology is all about balance and cause-and-effect. if one thing disturbs the inner peace that is your body, a mechanism, a motion, or an action is set forth to correct it. it's like a balancing act... teeter-totter, up and down, and around and around we go. everyday, we walk around without any concern for how we are living. or that with every breath we take, all the little cells in our body are dancing around frantically, moving things, holding onto precious things, letting go of the useless, ugly things in our lives.  and yet, in a moment, our body will fix itself. too much bicarb, or sodium, or potassium, or calcium or ADH or aldosterone, or any number of compounds, it's all under control. - on autopilot, cruise control. it's a well-oiled and experienced machine, with the responses already cocked and ready to fire. 


but the very essence of what makes us, well, us: our soul, our mind,our hearts, our character, our morality. whatever you want to call it. but that part of us, well, we have problems. we go through our whole lives fixing ourselves. we spend so much time patching up that broken heart, filling the empty hole in our soul, putting together the puzzle pieces of our sanity. we talk about our problems with therapists (or well meaning, but often times condescending, friends) until our throats are sore and our eyes are weary with tears. we write about the disappointments, the highs and lows. we spend energy, in volts and ounces and meters, thinking about that one moment over and over again. 


and i have come to realize that the two parts of us, physical and emotional, are two different halves of a whole. two twins that look nothing alike. on a normal day, our bodies are efficient, under control, functional. on a normal day, my mind would be lucky if it managed just one tiny moment of true functionality. 


-in general, i am just awed by our bodies, which does so much more in one day than I could ever hope to accomplish. 

a tidbit about me.

because people always say i'm quiet. as if it's a bad thing. as if i had nothing to offer, because i was too shy, too repressed, too isolated. sometimes, i need someone to see the me i see. see that i am just a girl who looks at the world sometimes through starry eyes and at others, through weathered and experienced eyes. 


sometimes, i need people to understand that though i am quiet, i have things to say. i have thoughts, such beautiful thoughts, and perhaps, that is why i am quiet. i am lost in the comforting sea of my own colors, visions, and recollections. 


it is a good place to be.

Disappointment.

Disappointment. It burns like acid down the throat, leaving a dry and bitter taste trailing behind it. 

Failure, too, feels like this to me. Like the after taste of something decidedly unpleasant and foul. I imagine it to be a slow, faded path, traveling leisurely, unknown to its host. It erodes at my insides, carves a beaten path, and wriggles itself into a niche. A niche that will never be gone, forever imprinted on my soul and conscience. I have recently felt this, like a parasite inside of me. It feeds on my sadness, my hard work, and my heart-- leaving nothing but the ruins of my perseverance in return. 


there are simply no lovely words. in fact, were i not now in a state of acceptance, i am sure i could think of some more words that are as blackened, disfigured, and as ugly as this feeling i feel now. to me, disappointment equals the loss of hard work, the loss of my sense of self and confidence. it means questioning who i am, should i be here, and ultimately- have i reached the end of my growth? is this my limit, my stopping point? can i push no further? have i reached my level of incompetence?

away from the sun.

At night, I run out from the house barefoot. I feel the cooling grass under my feet, slightly wet and dewy from the afternoon rains. I feel the damp soil of the earth beneath me, curling in between my toes. I feel rooted then, in this moment, with just me and the moon and the damp, damp earth. I imagine myself cocooned within a tree, wrapped in wispy twigs and the brittle old bark. Encased in the solid oak trunk, feeling more condensed as the number of rings of bark increases with age. The roots, thick and branching, reaching into the cooling earth for some relief from the balmy air of the night. I am bundled, nestled, held, nurtured -- away from the world in this one moment to myself. I can think clearly, I can see clearly, and I can feel without any boundaries. I often think I see the world through different eyes. When I see the stark oak in the expansive field, I do not imagine running freely in the grass. I picture myself as old as the tree, standing still and silent, through storm and tempest, through mother nature's wistful cries, through mother earth's sorrowful trembles. I am rooted, bound, and an innate part of the wondrous world.

The leaves, both green and gold, are reaching towards the sun, but I, I am always looking away from the sun. I much prefer the inside of my sturdy tree, cool and calm and collected.

open.

Open your arms, let the sun filter in

Like I would, like I would warm your heart

Let me entwine in your being, never far apart

Oh, my dear, open your soul, let me hold you from within

Open your ears, let the blue sky echo its sound

Like I would, like I would mouth words of love

See my light when underwater, the light that hits above

So my child, open your eyes, and see that I am all around

As you keep running forward, looking to the next moment,

Know that I am in the sound of your footsteps

In your running spirit, and

In every breath you take, it is I.

early august.

a moment of realizing i'm in a different place now, without the usual loving support of my family and familiar faces and friends around me - written in two ways.

(1)

The day ends, with a soft sky

Blanketing the sun, oh my oh my

The world gently slows down

As the sun kisses the ground

Lighting up the sky with lines of colors

The trees, ancient and old, stretch,

Shakily reaching up, to the sun

Their leaves trembling, as the day is nearly done

The cities slumber, dark and stark silhouettes

Stippled across the fire lit expanse

And I, I watch alone

(2)

The day has come to an end. She can tell by the changes in the sky, the way it undergoes a metamorphosis of pigments and hues. This is when the sun kisses the ground, cosseting the world in color as it does so. The light glimmers and shivers, blurring in the august heat.

She pictures the mourning of the trees and flowers, all wanting a moment longing with the sun's glory. Their leaves are shaking, trembling, reaching out to the sky. A lone leaf struggles, but wavers and flutters slowly to the ground. She stands on her balcony twelve stories high, feeling adrift in the sky, feeling shipwrecked on the rush of light and dark caressing the land. Standing still and silent, she feels as though the sun's sweet melody is playing in her mind. Whispering words of how the world turns and how it has aged, once young and green, now turning black and gray with steel.

She shivers, though it is warm outside. The breeze has picked up and is whistling through the trees. And so she hugs herself, and imagines it is a technicolor embrace from the sky.

a man.

a man looks at his wife and thinks, i want to write harmonies about you. i want to strum the stiff strings of a guitar into submission, into a soft croon of all that makes you, you. i want to make a rhythm like the sound of your heart beat when you tell me you love me. i want to write lyrics floating on the edges of a blue jay's wings, soaring through the sky, eclipsing on the sun. let it emanate, glow, like the sweet taste of dew drops on honeysuckle, savored on the tongue like the raspberries that stain your hand. let them entangle like vines on an old schoolhouse, mystify like fog in the morning. so distinct, like the whorls and swirls of her fingerprints, delicate and beautiful when i hold them in my own. i want the sound to echo like the rumbling thunder of a humid summer storm, make you feel the song in your bones like the distinct chill when you're running running in the rain. i want the words to enrapture you, oh my oh my, like lightning striking you. a man looks at his wife, and thinks. if only, if only i could. for now, i shall hold your hand and tell you i love you. i hope that is enough.

tonight. the sky.

i went outside on my balcony. it was chilly and foggy and the lights of the buildings around me burned in a soft glow. i felt less alone, because with every light, there must be a soul, living, breathing. And, maybe some of these lights that shine at night has an owner thinking about life, and maybe, just maybe, feeling the same way i do.

my art.

didn't feel much like writing.
so here are two of my pieces from last year. i should start painting again.


when the sky touches the sea. by leena danawala


weight. by leena danawala

homesick.

There are times when I lay down and I feel the softness of the sheets beneath me and the pillow under my head. But, my mind is flittering away, on the edges of an organic notion of timelessness. I feel as though I am a soul without a body, a sun without a sky, diverting my attention from the physical planes of my body and thinking about my mind's place in the world. I feel my body shifting through landscapes, one moment I feel the grass beneath my skin, prickling and irritating and itchy. The sun beaming its warmth over me like a soothing hug, while the breeze lifts my hair and places it lightly on my face. I morph again, shifting from the cocoon of warmth to the freedom of flying through the sky. I feel the air beneath me, my clothes fluttering like useless wings allowing me to float. I feel the clouds condensing around me, a thunder sound in belly of the horizon and a lightning flash from the periphery of my vision. The colors dance underneath my eyelids, and I feel energized. This feeling, this wandering lost feeling, is one I experience late at night, with the thick blackness overwhelming me. I can't see where I am or where I am going.
In this moment, there is this sense of motionless time. I feel in one place, but in another at the same time. In the dark, I can't see where I am, physically, emotionally, mentally. Am I in this new place, with different sounds, smells, and feels? Am I lost between places, between home and change? So, I close my eyes, and I think of myself at home in Chicago. On the couch with my favorite blanket. The sounds of my mother cooking downstairs, my sister upstairs, and my dad walking in the front door -- all soft lullabies of comfort, safety, and belonging crooning in my ear. The smells of a home cooked meal and the crisp air wafting in from the open door that my dad just walked in. Outside the window, snow falls in snowflakes to the ground like small kisses from the sky. In the next instant, I remember I am nowhere near home. I am at my new home, which may be temporary or permanent, and I feel lost and drifting. Will I ever find once again the roots of family and home, when I cannot feel more disconnected from my own? Or will I be forced to find a new location, a new emotional anchor? Perhaps I need a new place to rest my head, where I can listen to the sounds around me and they'll croon to me like a lullaby. And maybe then, during those cold nights, I can shut my eyes and feel truly at rest. Truly at home.

her hands.

Her hands had wrinkles,

Like little valleys carved into her skin,

Veins, dark and stark, purple and blue,

Appearing overnight like honeysuckle dew.

Droopy and withered away with age,

They shook and shook, her hands so small

And wavered like an autumn leaf about to fall.

And so, I held her hand,

Her hand trembling, like a flower unfurling for the first time,

Mine steady, as an old, aged oak.

Her voice, saying words in soft, slurred speech,

Heal me, honey, heal these aching hands of mine.

See those little bottles on the wall with the little pink pills.

They wear me down, baby.

Keep me dosed and drugged up, maybe,

But in time, someday soon you’ll see

Everyone’s in the hospital someday.

And so, I held her hand,

Her hand sure, with conviction and age,

Mine young, as a newborn blinking for the first time.

She was ill, her mind was hazy and her hands shook.

And they said, she’s slowly wearing down,

Old age and disease spreading like moss on the ground,

Ugly and brittle like a lingering stench.

And so, they gave her no little, sweet lies.

They just looked at her with sad, sad eyes,

Disgusted and disparaging and waving her away,

Saying she won’t be the same.

She was ill and unwanted, but

Her eyes were clear and a gentle, delicate brown

As we talked, hand in hand.

Yes, for you, your path is healing, she said.

You should lead the pack, don’t be led.

Be strong, though these arduous years,

Filled with vigorous work and tears

And be the doctor that holds the hand with compassion.

The one that knows one day he’ll be here, sick and ill,

Taking these drugs, this horrible pink pill.

Just don’t be the doctor who only sees the patient

As blackened and disfigured and dirty with disease.

clay.

your feet were clay, cracked and speckled and dirty

so i hold them, mold them, and shape them, thumbing the arch

smoothing, removing the creases between your toes

moving my hands in lovely little rows.

i cup the heel, feeling its weight and sturdiness

and i blend in the imperfections,

With great thought and pride, erased them from sight

and removed the gauze of dirt by casting some light.

i kneed them, taking away the calluses from hard work

and the cuts from old wounds, from walking on glass

from tiptoeing on fire, from running through the tall grass,

from dancing in the stream, from rainshowers on the distant shore,

from climbing those rocks and trees to be higher than you were before.

But,

You never stood still. Never for a moment

Can't you see, how perfect you are?

How you shouldn't sully your world with

Whirls and swirls, and sparks and marks,

Of flavor and color, and thought and journeys?

I want to create a smooth, slender expanse of brown

so that you may stand tall, rooted in the ground

Planted and firmly in place, holding your poise and grace.

Why must you go out, and let these cracks collect

Speckles and shards which only reflect

your loss of purity and convoluted luminescence?

feet of clay : a vulnerability, a failing, or a weakness

- Book of Daniel in the Bible

Words

Words are the only comfort in this solitude. I have so much to say, I want to pack all the thoughts swirling in my head in this room. But there's no one to listen to these obscure letters and sounds. So, I twist them around and shape them, wrapping them around my tongue like they're the most succulent of flavors. Sometimes, I believe I can make the world change and morph, sparking with new thought and colors more vibrant than the sun. But, when there is only silence all around me, echoing like a stark canyon in the breeze, I feel the stillness. The words choke in my throat, lump like clumps of sand in my hand, fade like the sun in mourning. I can feel the cold then, spreading from my toes to the tips of my fingers, tingling and stinging like tears on my raw, red cheeks. like icicles freezing in the frigid air. Why can we not go back to the time when our vocabulary was not limited by slang and abbreviations, when poetry was in every syllable like the sweetest scent of honeysuckle in the humid, sticky summer air? Maybe someday, people will talk like they enjoy every word. Making art in their phrases, building sculptures with their voices, or drowning out the static silence with their crescendo of adjectives. I feel the words on my lips, moist and sweet like fresh rain water. It is only time until i find the strength to let them out.

.. leena

Wasted

.
I don't want to waste my time thinking about formulas, chemicals, and body plans. I don't want to waste my time thinking about complaints, pains, casualties, and deep bone aches. I want to let my spirit and soul run free, like children in an open field with the wide blue sky above them. The sun sparkling like champagne, glittering like soft teary eyes. I want the colors to absorb into my skin, forming patches of blended lovely messes. Messes of creativity and imagination and peace.

I don't want to think straight and logical and rational and perpendicular. I want to be organic, free flowing like a river carving its own path on the newborn earth. I don't want to waste my time listening to the droning of judicious voices, when all I feel is this high paced world spinning around me. I don't want to waste my time on high brow attitudes and intellect as my only companion. I want to hear the soft lullaby of the sea, rushes of sound and silence. I want to hear the whispers of legends of places I've never been. When you could discover and feel all that's in your heart, why would you want to cut open a heart and carve out a piece in a sterile silent room?

.. leena

Me.

.
i am a medical student. but i have recently discovered (or rather rediscovered) the power of words and thought. i am trapped in a world of my making, in a world of science and industry, fast and scribbled notes that hardly make sense. in a world of scientific, etiological words like cauda equina and levator ani and pollicis brevis. where we examine bodies and see them as parts, like a mechanic would see a car, (what's out of order, what's not functioning?) instead of looking at symphonies of beauty in every inch of luminous skin, or admiring the glossy undertone of muscles. in a world brimming with the labyrinth of messy words and scalpels and dissecting the human body until all you see is raw aching skin and tired cut down nerves. until you hold each organ in your hand, feeling its weight and density, detached from the fact that this was a person. until you hold a heart in your hand, still and unbeating, changeless and hapless and then, you realize, perhaps you should examine your own heart, feel its weight, and hear its thoughts.

.. leena