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.