xx
Sunday, 13 May 2012
my mother's hands
Last week I woke up to an email informing me that my poem My Mother's Hands has been awarded first prize in an open-themed poetry contest held in Texas. I'm not very good at coming up with titles for any of my works so I believe that "my mother's hands" is more than enough to tell you about what I've written. Inspiration for this poem wasn't my mother's hands per se but experiencing what she had done for me. And what better time to win this contest than now for this was like an early present to my mother for Mother's Day. Thanking my mother with a poem wasn't enough, I felt, so I spent an afternoon learning to make rainbow cakes and another morning making one just for her.
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
had you known?
For my grandmother
the streets are lined with autumn's ghosts who
have danced until the dawn of winter, leaving
no footprints in their wake while we bid goodbye
to you from a distant memory. it was only yesterday
but why have you gone so far away to a place where we
can no longer feel your knotted hands and trace the
lines on your face like you have for us to straighten our
red, angry features when we cried in your arms. flakes
of ash lace our lashes as we watch the flames consume
your heart we have held in our hands. your lonely heart
you displayed on a stranger's window sill as you
observed the moon and wondered if you could be more
alone. but we came, and walked with you until the end
of the road but had you expected that even your ghost
would be embraced by those you never knew?
------
My grandmother left us about two weeks ago and I have not written about it until now because I also wanted to dedicate a poem to her. My grandmother was a strong and wonderful woman, and often, she appeared cold but she was truly kind and loving. I spent a part of my childhood in her home, and I won't forget the times my brother and I got into trouble with her, or when she fed me lunch, or when she made her famous curry that every one loved. I only know my grandmother from the moments I had shared with her but I know that there is so much more to learn about her in her 80 years. I will never know everything about her, but I will always remember her for who I had known, that lovely old lady who smiled only when she meant it.
the streets are lined with autumn's ghosts who
have danced until the dawn of winter, leaving
no footprints in their wake while we bid goodbye
to you from a distant memory. it was only yesterday
but why have you gone so far away to a place where we
can no longer feel your knotted hands and trace the
lines on your face like you have for us to straighten our
red, angry features when we cried in your arms. flakes
of ash lace our lashes as we watch the flames consume
your heart we have held in our hands. your lonely heart
you displayed on a stranger's window sill as you
observed the moon and wondered if you could be more
alone. but we came, and walked with you until the end
of the road but had you expected that even your ghost
would be embraced by those you never knew?
------
My grandmother left us about two weeks ago and I have not written about it until now because I also wanted to dedicate a poem to her. My grandmother was a strong and wonderful woman, and often, she appeared cold but she was truly kind and loving. I spent a part of my childhood in her home, and I won't forget the times my brother and I got into trouble with her, or when she fed me lunch, or when she made her famous curry that every one loved. I only know my grandmother from the moments I had shared with her but I know that there is so much more to learn about her in her 80 years. I will never know everything about her, but I will always remember her for who I had known, that lovely old lady who smiled only when she meant it.
Saturday, 21 April 2012
short story: Angel in a Bottle (part 2)
Click for part #1
Quietly, I sat in a dark little room and read an expensive map my parents had obtained. They made sure that the routes I had to take were inked on my heart so that I would never forget who I was.
But who was I? What was I?
These questions constantly rang in my head as I penned down thoughts that had been planted in my head by those who wanted others to think like them. I had stopped responding to my name and in my memory there was a faceless man who wrote a strange name on my hand in bright red ink and said, "This is you." In my dreams I managed to wipe away the name and I was happy. But when I was awake I looked in the mirror and there it was, the word 'ALIEN' carved on the flesh across my forehead. It was a term coined by the creators of normalcy, an incantation to turn ugly ducklings into beautiful swans.
Those around me were horrified. They tried to conceal what they saw and took away pieces of my life that I had loved and made me whole. I thought longingly of a time in my childhood when I spoke to imaginary friends and was protected by a little angel who lived in a bottle beside my bed.
To be continued...
Quietly, I sat in a dark little room and read an expensive map my parents had obtained. They made sure that the routes I had to take were inked on my heart so that I would never forget who I was.
But who was I? What was I?
These questions constantly rang in my head as I penned down thoughts that had been planted in my head by those who wanted others to think like them. I had stopped responding to my name and in my memory there was a faceless man who wrote a strange name on my hand in bright red ink and said, "This is you." In my dreams I managed to wipe away the name and I was happy. But when I was awake I looked in the mirror and there it was, the word 'ALIEN' carved on the flesh across my forehead. It was a term coined by the creators of normalcy, an incantation to turn ugly ducklings into beautiful swans.
Those around me were horrified. They tried to conceal what they saw and took away pieces of my life that I had loved and made me whole. I thought longingly of a time in my childhood when I spoke to imaginary friends and was protected by a little angel who lived in a bottle beside my bed.
To be continued...
Monday, 16 April 2012
Project: Rain (#2)
We've entered the 20th day of rain but I've yet to write any of the 20 poems for my project. Shortly after I announced (ignore that little hint of self-importance) that I was embarking on this project I suffered a mini breakdown and decided that I didn't want to write anymore. I moped around for a while and then picked up my pen again. I have been working on my short story (part #1 was written a long time ago) and I'm very happy with what I have so far. So please keep checking back for parts #2, #3 and #4 (and maybe #5)- I promise I will present something good.
I try my best to take pictures of the rain so that I will remember the moment better and help myself to write a poem for that day of rain. Here are some pictures from the 13th day of rain:
I try my best to take pictures of the rain so that I will remember the moment better and help myself to write a poem for that day of rain. Here are some pictures from the 13th day of rain:
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