A speck of dust,
Borrowing the mass
Of the sun
A lone candela,
Denying its basic
Luminance,
Converging
Into an aperture,
A variable slit,
An ardent kiss.
Dancing around
Black holes until they
Trapped themselves
Into the dense
Unknown.
(Note: this was written in 2017 during my MFA poetry class.)
Seeing my house: a wasteland
Of things I am unable to use
On a daily basis. I live beyond
my means. Am I rich or am I
Irresponsible? Rich enough to own trinkets.
Irresponsible enough to be in subtle debt.
It’s a cycle of consumerism. Impulse ate
My virtues. Any concern of wastefulness
Or nature, from which this all came from,
Thrown out the window. It is then shut
To prevent carbon monoxide from entering.
Of which I have contributed a great percentage
By existing. Regret comes in a blind box. Which one
Is it today: a glorious high or buyer’s remorse?
‘Oh’, just a sigh powered by capitalism.
You deserve the deepest hues
At whichever wavelength your monsters
Require. I live your myths before fully
Grasping the lore, even argue with sphinxes
To preserve it. I’ll let you go
As easily as conscience goes.
You can calm the experience through
Verses or claim it as an afterthought.
I’d fondly regret on days when
Everyone else has denied me and go
Back to where we were blinded by
Rose colored spaces – only to awake
As mundane and monochrome.
Yet, I’ll live as you can no longer.
Ahead of the tapestry, a weaver
Does not philosophize about the thread.
Shed. Pick. Beat. Repeat. Not relishing
In completion, only fixating on
pushing the weft into place.
And yet, here I am, blocking
the stark sunlight with the promise
of a curtain. They lift and lower with
Control. Altered tension breaks
The monotony of color. Rhythmic but
Not musical. I celebrate at every beat,
Grin at each syllable that’s stuck
In the drafts formed by fleeting discipline.
Unable to finish. Unable to let go.
I wrote a poem inspired by an artwork at Singapore’s ArtScience Museum.
If Hokusai Depicted the Shore
I found that things do not stagnate
Always inching towards flourishing
Or decaying. Maybe enchanted
By the ocean or engulfed by the flood.
It is water in essence yet functionally
Different. I’ll fixate on this: Could they carry
A drowning man’s struggle for the surface
To the nearest shore? Please send
Help – someone help him float – hope
That it gets to the one gasping for air.
Give it a century, the man is absent
The shore is no more. The water’s
Approach to tranquility til there’s no more surface to cover. It would be difficult
To hope otherwise.
Someone decides to play
God on an impulse, taking
Advantage of the hour
Before anyone glorious enough
To stop you is awake. An exercise
On digestion: stretch the tract’s
Limit before it churned the last
Excess dose. If one is lucky
Enough, you’d taste what
Mother made for breakfast, brew
A fresh pot of coffee and limp
Through another day. Here’s hoping
The next time that thought
Plays, you’d be strong
Enough to recognize it.
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