Postcards. Sarah Kay.

This is one of my favorite poems from Sarah Kay. It is extremely beautiful, and there is a strong connection between her words and my mind. I don't always understand poems. Sometimes, I'd like to think, or pretend, that I do. But this time, I feel like I understand.

I'd like to know the answers to her questions. I'd want to use those words, words for 'sucker-punching someone in the heart', or for the feeling of 'the flip in your stomach from the fall, before you have even moved'  on a roller coaster, or even, 'the moment you win tug-of-war' 'how even though you've won you still end up with muddy knees and burns on your hands'. I wish our language has words to describe them. I understand all these indescribable emotions and moments, that she is trying to describe. I feel them and I understand.

I've tried. There is indeed only so much you can fit in postcards and messages and space. The distance is never gone. It can perhaps be gone physically, but the distance in the heart? If it's there, it will always be there. I don't want to run out of words once the physical distance is gone. There is no excuse anymore once we are sitting side by side. There is no excuse and no distance and -

Neither one of us

with anything left to say.

My favorite stanza(s) of this poem is:

Practice does not make perfect.

Practice make permanent.

Repeat the same mistakes over and over,

and you don't get any closer to Carnegie Hall.

Even I know that.

Repeat the same mistakes over and over,

and you don't get any closer.

You -

Never get any closer.

Sarah Kay has spoken truth. Come to think of it, practice indeed does not make perfect. So what happens if it's already imperfect in the beginning? You never get any closer. You just never get any closer. Not closer to Carnegie Hall, not closer to postcard promises, not closer to love.

Transcript:

I had already fallen in love with 

far too many postage stamps,

when you appeared on my doorstep,

wearing nothing but a postcard promise.

No. Appear is the wrong word.

Is there a word for sucker-punching

someone in the heart?

Is there a word for when you are sitting

at the bottom of a roller coaster,

and you realize the climb is coming,

that you know what the climb means,

that you can already feel the flip in your

stomach from the fall, before you have

even moved - is there a word for that?

There should be.

You can only fit so many words in a postcard.

Only so many in a phone call.

Only so many into space, before you forget

that words are sometimes used for things

other than filling emptiness.

It is hard to build a body out of words.

I have tried. We have both tried.

Instead of laying your head on my chest,

I tell you about the boy who lives downstairs,

who stays up all night playing his drum set.

The neighbors have complained:

they have busy days tomorrow.

But he keeps on thumping through the night,

convinced, I think that practice makes perfect.

Instead of holding my hand, you tell me about

the sandwich you made for lunch, the way the

pickles fit so perfectly against the lettuce.

Practice does not make perfect.

Practice makes permanent.

Repeat the same mistakes over and over,

and you don't get any closer to Carnegie Hall.

Even I know that.

Repeat the same mistakes over and over,

and you don't get any closer.

You -

never get any closer.

Is there a word for the moment you win

tug-of-war? When the weight gives,

and all that extra rope comes hurtling

towards you, how even though you've won, 

you still end up with muddy knees and 

burns on your hands?

Is there a word for that?

I wish there was.

I would have said it, when we were finally

alone together on your couch, neither one of us

with anything left to say.

Still now, I send letters into space,

hoping that some mailman somewhere

will track you down and recognize you

from the descriptions in my poems;

he will place the stack of them in your hands

and tell you, There is a girl who still writes you.

She doesn't know how not to.

The Light and the Little Girl

The Light and the Little Girl from Jih-E Peng on Vimeo.

This is a lovely, poetic video of a little girl interacting with light, understanding the world around her. The entire film is backed with wonderful piano and strings playing delicately, and the little girl hopping and dancing around the Light as delicately as the chorus of the piano keys. The Light is as if a character came to life, playfully running away from the girl. 

This short can speak differently to different people. The Light may be seen as hope, innocence, dreams, etc. To me, the Light is as if love. When the girl first encounters the Light, it is warm, beautiful, wondrous and magical. We can see her little feet dancing on the wooden floor, her fingers trailing the edges of the teacup under the light, her eyes marveling at the glimmering of dust as she blows them into the air. As she realizes that the magical is slipping away, she tries capturing it, but in vain. Nothing really stays in life. When the girl unravels the mason jar from the bunched up blanket, audience could see the spark in her eyes extinguished. The magical couldn't stay, and the magical turns out to be the plain ordinary.  

The playful and whimsical undertones of the short depict the wild imaginations of a child. But the quiet ending also depicts the realization of the worldly limits and the loss of innocence of a child; as in the final scene, the girl's eyes, despite seeing the glorious morning rays shining through the windows, has dimmed into a dull stare. Her excitement, dead; heart, broken.

Jasmine Mans' 'I Know You Didn't Mean to Kill Him'

The more I watch Jasmine Mans' spoken word performances, the more I am mesmerized by her words and her energy. I was just as awe-struck seeing 'I Know You Didn't Mean to Kill Him' as I was the first time I saw 'Dear Ex-Lover'. Her passion in her voice and the tone she employs as she presents her unique mix of words have created this raw and naked power that shake people's hearts.

She begins her poem with the Amadou Diallo shooting in 1999, and followed up with the Sean Bell shooting in 2006. She then describes passionately, the problems society face today. The police brutality, the racial profiling, the gangs, the hoods and the guns...These issues and problems still hold true now, with the Ferguson Michael Brown shooting, as they were true back in 1999, perhaps even way back till hundreds of years ago, and who knows, perhaps in the future too.

So many instances in her performance and in her words have tugged hard at my heartstrings, and it is way too long, to list them all out. But a few of my favorite lines goes,

But I know, I know black mothers don't breed hate and sin to their first born men, 
just as much as I know she did not choose for him to be a martyr for them.
You can never tell the difference between the mother of the murdered
and the mother of the murderer. 
Both shook in solemn, both eyes and memory blue in tint, both lost their grips
when they lost their sons; developed a stutter in their palms.
One became scared of her shadow, while the other just became one.

Babies, are all born plain paper. And I wonder what have gotten to them, have eaten away their souls, may that be fear, desire, power, or what not, to have made them murderers, to have made them pull the triggers. And I just like Mans, I wonder, have those murderers thought of the pain and disappointment their mothers would live with, and the loss of world the mother of the dead will be in? I couldn't imagine, and I raise the same question.

"Boy, where'd you get all that hate from? All that culture from? 
All them damn guns, them damn guns from?"

Mans seem to believe that it is society that have brought them to this. And I do agree with her mostly. People growing up in the hood might have never been given enough. They might have grown up in difficult situations; with injustice, with society pinning names and shame and danger on the steps of their doors, their neighborhood. Indeed, like Mans has said, 

This world has given them nothing at all to lose,

and everything to prove, so they stand on the front lines, 

naked, ready to make a man out of themselves,

with the only tools click clack this world

has never given a nigga to use.

This poem, is ultimately a poem of forgiveness. For Mans understands and forgives and prays for those who'have made chalk outlines of so many of my (her) childhood friends'. This poem is a powerful piece that raises and discusses the subjects of violence, hate, love and forgiveness. Mans have indeed produced some piece of work.

See full transcript here: http://lit.genius.com/Jasmine-mans-i-know-you-didnt-mean-to-kill-him-annotated

Janice Mans' Dear Ex-Lover

I swear, my heart broke a little when her voice started breaking in the middle of the poem. From her loud desperate cries and wails, I could feel that Mans was as shattered, crushed and crumbled as she said she was, if not more so. The pain, the agony in her voice is so immense that now I am terribly afraid of being heart broken, even more so than before. 

I love the imageries she used in the poem, it's all so poetic. 'Lay my heart on his chest like red roses on Mahogany caskets', 'we loved, like there were expiration dates tattooed on our inner thighs', 'your heartbeat sounded like guns shells tripping over battered cement', 'never regret loving in permanent ink', 'with hearts filled with thousand of fireflies', 'we hurt like c-section birthing dead babies'... All of these lines, filled with death, beauty, hopelessness, intimacy, violence, pain and light; it is something to produce words and lines as such. And it takes some experience, some hurt and some broken heart and some courage, to be able to write and read like Mans does.

Dear Ex Lover,I hope my daughter never knows what a goodbye kiss feels like…

I hope she never knows what “I’ll see you later.” really means.

I hope she never memorizes the dial-tone of a last conversation,

because a broken heart feels like poisoned butterflies taking their last flutters in the pit of your stomach

This single stanza caught my eyes and ears when I first heard this poem. This stanza is so relatable, so real. It will be great to never know what a goodbye kiss feels like. And never experience the loss, the losing of a person, of love, that would never come back. Because a broken heart, feels like the poisoned butterflies dying and corroding into your acid stomach. Mans sounded so personal in these lines, and made them sincere prayers for the innocence and happiness of her future daughter, the protection from pain and sorrows.

One of my favorite line in Mans' poem is 'And that we loved women who loved women, who loved people that did not love us.' This line is so strong, so desolate and absolute. That was the end and the truth for Mans.  Well, and then this line obviously does not solely work for female female relationships. It works for everyone and any type of love. And that we loved people who loved people, who loved the persons that did not love us...Because love is a game that makes strangers fall for strangers, and turns strangers into lovers and into strangers.

'Never regret loving in permanent ink.'

This is the line that struck me most. I know as of now, I am paving my own way, either to a deathly fall that would kill my heart, or a nirvana of love and affection. I desperately hope that the latter one would be the truth. No matter how happy I am now, it is hard to be naive and assume that things will be all happily ever after. It is all kind of sad, I understand, but then I promised to believe and so I will.  

I don't think I will regret loving in permanent ink, I am just quite afraid of loving in permanant ink. Anyhow, the needles are already going deeper and deeper now and the ink is already spreading all over.  I sincerely wish I never have to 'stop chasing memories in my dreams', and can dream up worlds and blue skies, diners and fire escapes, beds and rooftops and everything else, and never have to stop. I hope I could cry and pray and laugh with love 'like our smiles were the only ones that mattered in this world' till the day...till th

Dear Ex Lover,

I promise I’ll stop chasing your memory in my dreams.
I’ll stop bringing your

name up over cups of coffee, muffins, and loneliness.
I will marry a man
and I will lay my heart on his chest like red roses on Mahogany caskets
and
I’ll have his daughter and she’ll have eyes reminding me that God still believes
in second chances.

And if she ever decided to love a woman, I will rub bravery down her spine.
I will be reminded of all the times that we loved, like there were expiration dates tattooed on our inner thighs.
If she ever comes home with eyelids like cracking Levis and bruised kneecaps and a heart filled with question marks
I will hold her like my mother never held me.

I will clasp her face in my palms like the new testament on judgement day.
I’ll tell her that love is the passion that allows you to do the right thing,
and that no woman can play coaster to a half empty heart.
And if she ever feels as if she is alone,
as if she is a hand-me-down pulled out of the depths of mummy’s closet.

I’ll remember your name and I’ll mumble it under my breath and if she asks me what I said;
I’ll tell her I know what it’s like to drag a woman out of a cold war
and then being too worn to clean up the battlefield that it has made of you.
I’ll tell her that your heartbeat sounded like gun shells tripping over battered cement.

I’ll tell her that i know what it’s like just to want someone to remember you
and that some women are as foul as expired men in produce isles
and that apologies are like oxygen masks on a hijacked plane.
Forgive yourself before you ever forgive the person sitting next to you.
I’ll tell her to never regret loving in permanent ink,
and that scars only give you stretch marks,
something to gossip about
and that hearts and stop signs are fraternal twins,
lost in open roads and hollow chests.

And if my daughter’s mirror ever looks unfamiliar and she’s too embarrassed and prideful to run into mummy’s arms
I’ll pray, that she has friends with hearts filled with thousands of fire flies,
who are not too cool to pray with her,
who will tell her to stop looking for the light at the end of the tunnel and find God in the darkness.

If my daughter ever walks in my house like shattering glass,
I’ll tell her about you.
I’ll tell her that we hurt like c-sections birthing dead babies,
and that we cried together, and we prayed together, and we laughed
like our smiles were the only ones that mattered in this world.
And that we hurt like women who loved women, who loved people that did not love us.

Dear Ex Lover,I hope my daughter never knows what a goodbye kiss feels like…
I hope she never knows what “I’ll see you later.” really means.
I hope she never memorizes the dial-tone of a last conversation,
because a broken heart feels like poisoned butterflies taking their last flutters in the pit of your stomach

Dear Ex Lover, I hope my daughter never bears her soul at a poetry showcase with her first love sitting in the audience,
knowing that the hands she’ll use to applaud her with, will be the same hands that will never hold her again.

waves.

Howl

In Howl, James Franco played Allen Ginsberg, the writer of 'Howl', a poem reflecting the way Ginsberg saw society from his point of view.  I have yet to read the poem itself, but from what is seen and heard from the movie, the publisher of 'Howl and Other Poems' was in court trial due to the fact that some people found the language, the imagery and the poem itself obscene and unsuitable for publication.

I guess the main debate in the court case of Howl is 'What is the definition of art?'  What is obscene and what is creative expression?  It has always been a debatable question and I don't see any answer to it, nor any point in trying to reach a conclusion to the question because, well, art is undefinable.  Everyone has his or her own take on any piece of art, on literature, on music.  Everyone has his or her own moral boundaries and own creative expressions.  It is unfair to classify others' works as obscene and inappropriate just because they do not fit one's own rule book.  And there shouldn't be any rules to art anyway. There shouldn't be any rule book to creative expression because if so, there wouldn't be artistic freedom, or any kind of freedom, for everything is art.  

One thing art is, as I concluded from the movie, is honesty.  Art, no matter in what form, is an expression of self.  Making art and presenting one's work is to share a piece of oneself for the world to see.  Art is a medium for people to tap into themselves, to sort out their insides; a medium of expressing what they think and feel.  Ginsberg is bold and honest in 'Howl', and frank in his speech and diction. He didn't hide away from nor conform to general literary and societal confinements on art and on expression.  He wrote true to heart, integrating and merging his muse with his friends, his family, his past experiences, his life, himself.  

The movie jumps between time and space, and is essentially composed of four settings.  There is the interview scenes with the older Ginsberg in his apartment; there is the black and white scenes depicting his past and his growth; there is the scene of young Ginsberg reading his piece with passion to an audience; and there is the court scene where the debates about 'Howl' happen.  It isn't difficult to follow, the jumps of time and space.  In fact, they serve as pretty nice cuts and chapters of the movie.  The film also implemented animated scenes during young Ginsberg's reading of his poetry, which I personally did not appreciate that much.  I feel like it broke the realism of the film.

Howl is a great movie and it is worth to watch, even just for listening to James Franco's vivid and passionate reading of 'Howl'.  I love it.

A Finger, Two Dots Then Me

This is absolutely beautiful.  A Finger, Two Dots Then Me is written and performed by spoken word poet, Derrick Brown, and directed by David and Daniel Holechek.  In this piece, Brown wrote of love and his depictions of the afterlife.  He, like poets do, gives romanticized images of love and afterlife, and achieves perfection.  The way he wrote it, the prose, the imagery, the rhetoric; the way he read it, the voice, the rhythm, the rises and falls of tones and emotions all work miraculously and harmoniously together to form the core of this short film.  His words are so powerful, they hooked me in right from the start.  The visuals that the Holechek brothers filmed and edited enhanced the ocular experience of Brown's performance.  The short jumps from multi-angled shots of Brown passionately reading, to the many different imageries that are present in the poem made the short a perfect harmony and composition words, sound and visuals.  Perfection.


A Finger, Two Dots Then Me

Lying together in the park on Seventh,
our backs smoosh grass and I say
I will love you till I become a child again,
when feeding me and bathing me is no longer romantic,
but rather necessary.

I will love you till there is no till.
Till I die.
And when that electroencephalogram shuts down, darlin'
that’s when the real lovin’ kicks in.

Forgive me for sounding selfish
but I won’t be able to wait under the earth for you
I will not be able to wait for you…

but I will meet up with you
and here’s where you will find me:
get a pen–

Hold your finger up
(two fingers if your hands are frail by now)
and count two stars directly to the left
of the North American moon.
You will find me there.
You will find me darting behind amazing quasars
Behind bright flirtatious winks
of blasting boom stars!

Sometimes charging so far into space
the darkness goes blue.
I will be there chasing sound waves
riding them like two-dollar pony horses
that have finally broken from side carousels.
I will be facing backwards, lying sideways,
no hands, sidesaddle, sometimes standing
sometimes screaming zip zang zowie!
My God, it’s good to be back in space… Where is everybody?

You will recognize my voice.
You will see the flash of a fire trail
burning off the back of me
burning like a gasoline comet kerosene sapphire.
This is my voice.
Don’t look for my body or a ghost.
I’ll resemble more a pilot light than a man now.

I’m sure some will see
this cobalt star white light from earth
and cast me a wish like a wonder bomb.
And I’ll think “Hmmph. people still do that?”

I’m sure I’ll collect and take the light wonder bombs
to the point in the universe
where sound does end.
The back porch of God’s summer home.

It’s so quiet here, you float.
It feels the way cotton candy tastes.

I say to him, God… why do I call you God?
He says ‘Because Grand Poobah would sound ridiculous.’
And I say, Yes! I knew you have a sense of humor.  I saw what you did to Phenix.

But God, so many poets have tried to tackle it, Ginsberg, Corso and they missed, what is holy? What is actually holy?’

At that moment,
the planets begin to spin and awaken
and large movie screens appear on Mars, Saturn and Venus
each bearing images I have witnessed throughout my life
and over each and every clip flashes the word holy.

armadillos–holy
magic tricks–holy
cows’ tongues–holy
snowballs upside the head–holy
clumsy first kisses–holy
sneaking into movies–holy
your mother teaching you to slow dance
the fear returning
the fear overcome–holy
eating top ramen on upside-down frisbees
cause it was either plates or more beer–holy
drunk beach cruiser nights–holy
the $5.00 you made in vegas
and the $450.00 you lost–holy
the last time you were nervous holding hands–holy
feeling God at a pool hall but not church–holy
sleeping during your uncle’s memorized dinner prayer–holy
losing your watch in the waves and all that signifies–holy
the day you got to really speak to your father cause the television broke–holy
the day your grandmother told you something meaningful
cause she was dying–holy
the medicine
the hope
the blood
the fear
the trust
the crush
the work
the loss
the love
the test
the birth
the end
the finale
the design
in the stars
is the same
in our hearts
the design
in the stars
is the same
in our hearts
in the rebuilt machinery of our hearts

So love, you will know exactly what to look for
and exactly where to go…

Take your time and don’t worry about getting lost.
You’ll find me.
Up there, a finger and two dots away.
If you’re wondering if I’ll still be able to hold you
…I don’t know

But I do know that I could still fall for
a swish of light that comes barreling
and cascading towards me.

It will resemble your sweet definite hands.
The universe will bend.
The planets will bow.
And I will say “Oh, there you are.  Now we can go.”

And the two pilot lights go zoooooooom
into the black construction paper night

as somewhere else
two other lovers lie down on their backs, stare hard into the night sky and say
“What the hell was that?”

Saddest Poem

(Apologies for the absence.  School has been extremely busy; especially for a freshmen as myself, I have been adjusting and getting used to college life.  Other life troubles also contribute to the m.i.a but it's all good.  Life is not bad. I will try to queue up more posts during Winter break. Promise.)

Saddest Poem

by Pablo Neruda

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. 

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,

and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance." 

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings. 

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. 

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.

I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky. 

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.

How could I not have loved her large, still eyes? 

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her. 

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.

And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass. 

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.

The night is full of stars and she is not with me. 

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.

My soul is lost without her. 

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.

My heart searches for her and she is not with me. 

The same night that whitens the same trees.

We, we who were, we are the same no longer. 

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.

My voice searched the wind to touch her ear. 

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once

belonged to my kisses.

Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes. 

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.

Love is so short and oblivion so long. 

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,

my soul is lost without her. 

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,

and this may be the last poem I write for her. 

'I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.' This poem is so sad and so beautiful.  It contains so much emotions, so much memories and feelings of lost love.  It is so honest, brave and sacrificial.  And I think, the most powerful of all is the acceptance at the end.  The imageries of the sky and the stars, of nighttime and of nature complemented one another perfectly and paint exquisite and calming images of memories of the past and unsalvaged love.

Call me selfish, but I do wish I could find a man that feels such emotions for me.  Or perhaps it will be the other way round.  I would write poems as such, filled with hurt and beauty, for the man that would once hold me.  I wish when the time comes, when pain hits, I could produce elegance as such, and through my words, my lost love would live forever. 

Poetry,out loud: Sarah Kay

This TED talk is from quite some time ago.  It is she, Sarah Kay, who introduced me to the world of spoken word poetry.  I have to admit, I have not tried it before, and I don't think I dare to in the near future due to my over-self-consciousness and hate for being in the spotlight and performing.  I still love watching her, and other spoken word poets nonetheless; listening to their words, their thoughts and their worlds.  I'd love to one day be one of them, and produce beautiful poetry that moves people, inspires people and leave people in awe.  Here are a few of my favorites of Sarah Kay, apart from "B" and "Hiroshima" in the above video.

Mad Girl's Love Song

(I always get creeped out by old head shots of people.  The way the people in those photo seemed really give me chills.  This is already a less creepy one I found of Sylvia Plath.  I apologize in advance if you have the same problem with old head shots.) 

I came across Sylvia Plath's Mad Girl's Love Song recently, and I really like it.  Here it goes.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Reading this poem was as if an insight into how the actual 'I'm madly in love with (insert a guy here)' feels like. Reading the poem, I felt sucked in into the speaker's snippets of dreams.  I was brought into her imaginations of being madly in love with her man under the night sky, kissing madly, and feeling as if the world is theirs and that they are invincible and infinite.    Indeed, this is a love song, and even so, a mad girl's love song by a girl fallen madly in a love that isn't mutual.  Perhaps it really is so magical when one finds THE person.  Perhaps it really feels so extraordinary when one is in love.  I don't know yet how love feels, and I cannot judge.

The line "(I think I made you up inside my head.)" also made me think.  I remember watching an interview with Edward Norton for "The Painted Veil",  and he said that when people fall in love with people, they fall in love with what they want them to be, or what they thought they are.  This is really true, and I think this idea is kind of expressed in the line.  Another thought about this line is, I was thinking, perhaps when one first falls in love with a person, one would see all the beauty and perfections of that person, and would start to wonder if such perfection can really exist in a person, or doubt if one had made it all up in one's head.  Am I right?

I've studied Sylvia Plath's poems at school, and I didn't really like them.  I thought they were all so depressing and dark (I was half weirded out and half confused when I read Poppies in July), and I didn't get them or know what to do about them.  I am lucky enough to not have felt such tragic feelings to be able to relate to Plath's troubles.  But this poem is different.  Sylvia Plath wrote this poem when she was twenty one and I guess that is the reason why I relate to it more: because, perhaps I am still just a teenager, and I get this, or I am still waiting on the day when I will get this poem.  I think many girls will connect with this poem, because feelings like this can really hit us, right?

Disclaimer: Hope you guys liked my sort-of-romantic side and my crappy thoughts on the poem.  I am still trying this analyzing-poems-alone-and-in-structured-thoughts-and-sentences-thingy out.  Please let me know if I did really bad, I'll stop.  Promise.