Poetic License

I'll be updating my blog later on, but due to technical difficulties (my camera seems to be broken, and my smartphone is uploading photographs quite slowly), enjoy a written piece of work for now!

Vous m'avez dit,

            (we whispered secrets when we were younger, but now)

                        le monde n'existe que dans ma tête, sur mes rêves, sans explications

                                    (I wonder if the things we never said have a heavier weight)

                        je ne vous ai pas cru

            (as if they could hang around our necks, impede us like a Pilgrim's Progress)

mais maintenant, j'ai tout compris

            (it is another's duty to bring these words forth)

                        bien que les écrivains ne pourraient pas plus être plein d'esprit

                                    (after all, a pun of mei, mei, mei, means none, beautiful, every)

                                                [没人, 美人, 每人]

                                                [no person, beautiful person, every person]

les langues me moquent, et j'ai rien compris.

            (I can imagine your lips curled in some bizarre smirk)

                        [于是你和我, 语言和雨眼]

                        [yu shi ni he wo, yu yan he yu yan]

                        [therefore, it is you and me, language and rainy eyes]

(There is something saddening when  jokes only make sense in the language of

                                                                                                                                                origin)

meanwhile,

If I could, then I would RISE

            (je resterai en pointe)

                        on tip-toe with  fingers outstretched

            (dans la direction du soleil)

just so that 

I could wander

            (in wonder)

                        into this building, with all the neat and tidy rows

                                    (of languages and fonts, too STILTED and NOT MY OWN)

                                                of baggage and luggage and crates

                                    (they look with disdain)

                        that are stacked and loaded on slats half-broken

            (I have spoken too much, too soon, too loud)

and reach forth, to grasp a hand(le) and move onto another destination

            (rules and books can't prepare you for the unknown, when even they don't  know)

Study Abroad: Part 25 [Writing and Burning Out]

So, this week/weekend/month has been kind of stressful.  Our deadline for our independent study program is   looming closer and closer, but what makes it even scarier is the general sense of SHNOO-T-F (for the derija-illiterate, it's our program's version of WTF).

I'm worried about my article.  I don't think it's horrible, but I feel that it's so... rough. It's bare-bones and little facts that I've dug up from my interviews, thrown together, and given a heavy shake.  And oh, I love the ideas and hopes and possibilities, but it's not. quite. there.

Anyways, I've been working on my creative writing as well.  I figured, since I am obviously unable to give you gracious readers the brilliant blog post you deserve until I finish this rough draft, I'll let you ruminate over some of my poems for now.

POEM 1:

wahed

the thing about travel

is not what sticks

to your soul and sings

out at night

or in moments 

that you remember.

the thing about travel,

is that wander-

lust

burns through your veins

in every breath

that you exhale

in every word

that you mouth.

the thing about travel

that drives me 

restless with twitchy

fingers

and wondering, wandering

thoughts.

and though i lift my feet,

i somehow think

that i should put down roots 

some

where.

POEM 2:

juge

the rhythm thrums

drums

an incessant beat

that i can't 

and somehow

won't

relate to.

the point of a public square

is to attract

gleaming coins

and faded coins

as if the displays

of art

are irresistable

summons.

still, 

my eyes

track the others

who are as out-

of-

place

as i am.

POEM 3:

tehleta

the road,

they say,

is long and windy.

the road,

they murmur,

is filled with trouble and shadowy things.

the land, 

she said,

was filled with milk 

that glimmered

and honey

that glowed.

the water,

he grinned,

was crystalline 

cold,

a shock to 

the system.

the road,

they say,

is long and windy.

the road, 

they murmur,

is filled with trouble and shadowy things.

the end,

i promise,

solemnly, to myself,

is worth it.

POEM 4:

araba

he is an almost stranger,

and yet, he is someone i could 

acutely

actually

accurately

believe in.

the honest truth is that,

despite time and foolish fancy,

i hold that he is an almost stranger.

he is eccentric,

bizarre,

not like me.

but he is special,

and simple,

and honest.

if illusions were worth more 

than memory and glimpses

into another world

and another time,

i would say,

the waters gave him up to me,

the stars sparked little secrets about us,

and yet,

despite all this,

he is an almost stranger.

POEM 5:

hamsa

there is something

unsettling

about the end.

the end of what,

you stare,

trying to be inconspicuous,

at my eyes,

when you ask

what i mean.

the end of an era?

of us?

of them, of you,

of me,

of who?

the end,

is for all

intents and purposes,

a pause, a break

in a continuance.

the end of this

moment

will give me reason

to move on.

but still,

i wonder

if i should 

put down roots.

after all,

a tumbleweed comes 

from one place,

and must go someplace 

else.

Hookah, Smoke, Lounge

The secret isn't in how you breathe in the smoke, it's in how you let it out. Too fast and you don't get that high. Too slow and you start to choke, forgetting the reason you started this. Your eyes water from the scents in the air, the tobacco that hangs heavy on your tongue, the liquid that soothes your throat even if it's just vapors of water in the air, the cologne and perfume of people trying to lose themselves in this lounge. Wreathes of smoke circle people, streams exhaled noisily by business men, wisps gently puffed out by classier broads and the hacking chuckles of boys and girls barely old enough to be here.

He isn't the kind of guy you want to talk to and she isn't the type of girl you buy a drink for. But right here, right now, they're all you get and just for tonight, they're giving you a chance to move on and play pretend. It doesn't matter if you'll forget it in the morning, as long as you can make it through the next six hours just fine. Breathe in and out slowly.

Shudder

There is something

S (upernatural)
A (ttractive)
T (empting)
I (nsistent)
S (tupefying)
F (ascinating)
Y (earnful)
I (nviting)
N (onsensical)
G (ratifying and overwhelming)
about gliding
one
finger down to
watch
the ripples spread,
like series of waves that CRASH
over you,
make you feel
like
drowning.
Twist your head slightly,
O-o-open
your mouth,
only to let your skin
vibrate
as skin rubs
against
skin.
He whispers
to you
"Let go."
And you can only let
the waves
rise up
and
capsize both of you,
dragging you down
in some siren-song,
curled up in a desperate embrace.
It is
S (udden)
U (nbelievable)
B (reathtaking)
L (iberating)
I (ntense)
M (agical)
E (verything he can give you for right now).

"The Kiss" by Gustav Klimt

Sepia Tones

I bought a box the other day. Not just any box, but a faded cardboard box covered in modge-podge and lace, a modge-podge covered box filled with photographs, photographs faded and done-up in old black-and-white, contrasting shades mellowed out by sepia tones.

I don't quite remember why I bought it, or who I bought it for. I do remember looking through it, pausing at this bundle of glossy paper. There was one that just made me stop and stare. It was a woman, dressed up, standing in front of a microphone. Thin hands for a figure that fills the picture are loosely wrapped around the stand. Her lips are dark black in the color, parted as if she's just finished a line in a song, and her eyes are drawn upward and off, towards a person who isn't in the photograph. She's wearing sensible heels, sturdy soles and thick clasps.

Somehow, I feel a strong connection to this woman who I don't even know. I want to know her story, want to know where she was, why the back of the photo says "Ruth. December", who she's thinking of and why she's in ten other photographs, looking sadder and sadder as I flip through. Who was this dark-haired woman, what is this proof that one Christmas season so many years ago, she sang a song for a man who wasn't even there?

The last picture makes my heart clench and my eyes tear a little. She's in the background, watching a couple dancing. The couple is both strikingly beautiful, the type of All-American look that comes from being born with it. The man's wearing a hat, suspenders and long black-blue-maybe-charcoal pants. His shoes are far too clean, scuff marks all dressed up and only the gleam of the camera's flash let's you know that he was wearing shoes. The woman's eyes are staring at his and she's laughing, her skirt flying back, kicked up as he seems to pull her up out of a dip. Her hair's longer, pulled up in a ponytail, with a scarf hanging off the end.

And suddenly, I understand. Ruth's the one on the outside, wanting in. She fell in love with this man: James, Eric, Andrew, whoever. But he fell in love with this girl: Susie, Elle, Kathy. Her name's far too bright, new, fast-paced and her character's even shinier than Ruth can keep up with. Ruth's tradition, formal dresses, glasses of wine and perfect etiquette. This other girl, she's fast cars, cigarettes, the new glamour of Hollywood and neon lights.

Image courtesy of Liverpool Museum