It’s Because of Winter

It’s because of winter that my hands turn cold, my body turns weak;

I refused your hands, your warmth, and all the sweetness

but would now grab you and tuck me in you with a cheek kiss.

 

It’s because of winter that my nostalgia accumulates;

I miss the uproar and disorder of a city life,

the hustle and bustle of motorbikes leaning forward

hastily like cutting wind on stormy days;

the people to whom etiquette turns out to be absurd

for there lies a connection that has been infinite.

 

It’s because of winter that my brain turns illogical;

I have a delusion that the cold would turn all jerks into gentlemen,

gentlemen who drink hot Americano

and listen to Louis Armstrong

and read Edgar Allan Poe

and talk about Nietzsche

and make a cocoon of love with a touch on my hair curl.

 

It’s all because of winter that my heart turns fragile;

The season has killed those yellow leaves

and replaced them with fancy, icy dunes of snow.

Then maybe,

it can vaporize the ones with rich souls

and leave behind those with big, strong vacant hearts

that would invite me in,

let me stay, and lock me up with warmth.

 

It’s also because of winter that sometimes,

I don’t need people to be funny or witty,

but could just be there around me in silence

or with bland stories

that are time-wasting enough to distract me from this winter.

 

It’s because of winter that I want to live with my emotions and person.

Because my love grows stronger,

my independence fades away,

and my mind becomes irrational.

It’s all because of winter.

A free verse poem.

You

For my beloved friend, because you’re not boring!

I am like a cup of hot Oolong tea,

often accompanied by a romantic novel on a rainy afternoon.

You are like an unwanted empty bottle of Heineken beer

rolling on the ground of a rowdy bar at midnight.

I am like a vibrant New York immersed in noise and complication,

and you are simple and solemn like a desserted Maine.

I am like a giant and boisterous shopping mall with chains of classy brands.

You are like a quiet and small thrift shop with donated and cheap stuff.

I am like what my parents told me to be. And my parents wouldn’t like you.

They told me not to marry guys like you.

 

Still,

you are in my life because sometimes I would love bars and cool foam beers,

sometimes I would go to Maine to find some solitude if I get bored of New York.

You are in my life because sometimes I feel more convenient with thrift stores

to shop for casual clothes, and don’t care what other people think and want me to do.

You are in my life because you are bland, you are easy-going,

and I figure out that sometimes I don’t need people to be splendid and noble,

but be bland around me and let my rely on.

A free verse poem.

On Walking

It was on a cold Friday night when I had very random thoughts and decided to go for a walk. I don’t usually walk on Friday nights, because I would either curled up on my sofa for a movie or hang out with my friends. But I do like walking, and when I walk, I often walk alone. I often consider walking as some time for myself, some “me time” in the hustle and bustle of life. I guess it’s simply because I cannot do thinking when I sit still at one place. I often get distracted by many things when I sit still—I would feel the need to treat myself with a cup of tea, accompanied by a novel, or savor the beautiful scenery out of my window. When I walk, I have a realistic feeling that the world is still going on around me, and I become more focused on it. I have a more lively sense that humans and nature are both engulfed in earthly motions, and there I am—I am standing on another trajectory to observe these little beings.

I often walk alone at nights, usually around the campus through the creek to the orchard hill, sometimes go as far as reaching the highway and edge on the walkways. I don’t just walk when I feel sad or uncertain of things that I need answers, although that would sometimes be the case. Contrary to what people often think about walking, that walking is a solution for your problems, that when you walk, you think, and you solve, walking is more like a catalyst to my thinking, a trigger that pulls unsolved problems. I walk when I feel blank with my thoughts—either too many things invade my mind that push it into a deserted and dead corner, or nothing is there and the soul is too dry and lonely that it wants some “issues” to enliven it. Walking to me is an act of contemplating and meditating, reflecting on myself as a small being in the sea of humans and seeing its significance.

Sometimes, I do prefer walking with people, but usually a few friends in my close circle. I enjoy company when I feel the need to bond and express my concerns. When we sit in a room, we would often watch a movie or people will get distracted by their mobile phones. But when we walk, we focus on the act of walking, and thereby paying attention to smaller details on others—their posture, their walks, their speed, and their habits when walking. These are small details we may never notice in daily life when we sit down and look at each other’s faces, but we may care when we walk, and from that, we want to know more about each other.

I remember it was a cold and breezy Friday night of my sophomore year when I went for a walk with a friend. I didn’t know her very well, so I hesitated at first, but then I thought that if it was walking, it would be less awkward. Walking was unlike sitting and enduring an awkward silence with a person who you barely know—a person who is more than a stranger but less than a good friend—who I don’t have a good term for that. Sometimes, people walk to avoid conversations and distract each other from the existence of a company, because walking is such an ideal way to have both togetherness and aloneness at the same time—you can still do your work (walking) and having someone beside. With that, I decided to walk with my friend, so we walked step by step, stopped and looked at each other sometimes, feeling a bit uneasy and immersing in our steps to distract each other from the awkwardness at first. Then following the walking steps, we started talking. I think she started it first, but we talked about small things like schoolwork and family at first, and then somehow started confiding about our childhood and relationships we’ve been through. We came back to sleep after three hours that night. I think it was the first night when I enjoyed having a company that much—just a company, despite who she is and if I am close to her, because walking will pull us closer. Walking will make bonding.

When I walk, I often lose a sense that time and distance exist. Time becomes invisible for me, and so does the distance of the road that I’ve traveled. My legs would move unconsciously on the road until they become fatigued and I start to have an aching sense. For me, walking is a means of communications rather than a means of transportation. People who consider walking as a means of transportation simply walk to move from place to place. But I consider walking as a means of communications in which I can converse with myself and others, pay closer attention to movements of things around and putting questions, thereby finding myself in the flow of life and getting to know others. There is an inner voice, or a sophisticated mechanical system that works inside my head and triggers my thinking and reasoning process when I walk. For some people, they think the best when they shower, or have a cup of coffee when it rains, or be surrounded by friends who question them. For me, I think the best when I walk. There’s something about the continuous movement of my own body that forces my brain to work continuously in harmony. I believe that learning how to walk in a way that we can enjoy and appreciate it can be a difficult task, because walking is a habit, a lifestyle which constitutes our attitudes and views on life and our approaches to it.

He & I

He often sleeps with me at nights when I’m lonely.

Nose by nose, breath by breath, my long hair touches his face and my leg cuddles his leg. He often curves his body like a shrimp in a beautiful dream, while I often spend the night immersing in my thinking. Sometimes, he turns his body and pushes me to the edge of the bed. It often goes with a sleep talk that I cannot interpret under his hoarse voice.

“Sissy… sissy…”

My younger brother is a tall, slim guy with pale complexion that boost his naiveté. His appearance makes him stand out among his classmates, in addition to his gift in playing basketball—I guess girls in my country like boys like him, a boy with an innocent and pupil look. Girls seek after him like grains during harvest time, and if he likes to, he can just pour his hand out and grab some. He does, sometimes, and I oppose to it. I believe in a relationship built from accidental moments and sincere efforts. I believe in true love that one has to wait for the whole life. I believe it worth the patience.

He doesn’t, however. He believes in trials and errors, in the meanings of life residing in risks and momentary presence. He says I may not live long enough to wait for a true love, and end up having no love at all. “Yolo, sis!” he says. He’s a very extroverted guy, a must-have guest at all parties, or an ideal gossip partner for a coffee date. I am his opposite version, an introvert in her nature, a soliloquy who loves a warm movie night at home, or a coffee date by the window on rainy days.

My brother is that “favorite child” of my parents, just like any family who craves for a son. He is not favored because he is a son—for my parents love us both equally—but he has a good way of expressing his emotions that I get stuck with. He can sit down and chat with mother about his friends, his school and his emotions comfortably, while I am a loner keeping thoughts to myself and expecting mother to understand. He is a guy with an impressive sense of humor—he can joke and make people laugh. I am a girl with a remarkable sense of diplomacy—everything I say sounds academic like I am reading it from a textbook. If I were a textbook, he would be a novel of any genre, because the word “novel” itself is more appealing and interesting than a textbook.

We share a lot of similarities, but within these similarities, we see differences. We love romantic movies, for we always watch movies together on a weekend night. He watches it because he learns relational lessons from the plot; I watch it because of the actor I like. I blame his cheesiness, he blames my fandom. We also love reading, for reading is a way of meditating, but he reads anime and fantasy novels, and I read nonfiction and philosophical books. He thinks that these books kill brains, I think that his novels wash brains. We argue, we fight, then end up separating our corners on the bookshelf.

My brother is 5 feet 7 tall, so sometimes, I have a realistic feeling that he is my older brother. He knows me, and is sentimental to me. He understands my feeling of insecurity during lonely nights on a bed with cold mattress. He comes to my room and tenderly puts my head on his arm. I feel safe and loved in his embrace. We talk, we hold our laugh and he always falls asleep first. Sometimes, I realize that differences only brings people closer. In the blanket that he keeps kicking out, I have a thought that nobody should be anyone’s doppelganger, because if they are, they just cannot be together.

The Faults of Time

 

 

 

 

 

 

I often find myself trapped in an endless night with a cup of tea that has turned cold. The ticking sound of the clock overwhelms the space, wriggling into every interstices of my brain and failing to escape my ears. In a moment of exhaustion, I want to smash the clock. To kill time. Yes. To stop the echoing sound, a loud and bombastic sound that keeps groaning in anguish.

My fear for time arises in creaking nights like this, as I accidentally touch the blemishes that time has carved upon this planet. I wonder, why people keep saying that time is invisible. Flipping through the old diary pages and the italic calligraphy, looking at myself in some musty photo albums, retrieving past conversations on Yahoo360 Messenger—time has never been more visible in the cruelest way. Time flirts with me; it seduces me but never gets serious with my needs. Time caresses me; it embraces me but also leaves traces on my life. Time suffocates me; it controls how I live and would be possessive sometimes. So gradually, I start to grow fear for time.

I fear for time because I need time. I want it. I look for it. I crave for the old memories, old wonders, old dreams, old people, old habits, old interests, old wilderness, old carefreeness, old simplicity. I crave for breezy afternoons being taken on a motorbike that speeds recklessly on the roads, or some torrential rain drops onto my face, or a few food stalls in late nights with sweet confessions from few couples echoing in the atmosphere. I wonder why time doesn’t come back and please my needs? Is it because time is inherently cruel in nature? If not, maybe, time is just a complicated being whose soul is like a philosophical book.

Time is complicated because it is born with self-paradoxes that confuse people. Time makes certain things seem so distant though they are so close, but pushes other things closer when they seem so far away. Sometimes, things that have just happened a few days ago seem like forgotten news pieces of last year. A math class on a Monday. A long flight to a country. A drunken party where one drops his consciousness. Some other times, things that have happened decades ago could stay firm as stories of just yesterday. A deep conversation with a few friends. A kiss on the lips. A marriage.

Time has the ability to corrode the concreteness of a friendship, making friends slip by each other on the street. We don’t remember the faces of people who used to be our acquaintances, or are only slightly triggered when their names are mentioned. But time can also thicken a bond, giving people some time apart to miss and appreciate the time being together. It’s amazing how there are relationships in which we don’t have to see and talk to each other every day—we are miles apart, separated by oceans—but when we meet, conversations are just naturally smoothened out. This is when the bond is stronger than time—it beats time and ends the mental game of challenging people and their hearts.

Time also gives a person nerves when he is getting ages older but a lot of things have never changed. Like a Sunday morning wandering around the city for some peace, or midnights watching a soccer match with my father. It’s funny that despite the fast development of civilization and modernism, some things in humanity still crosses the time gap to remain its authenticity. Jane Austen is still one of the best novelists in the world, Harry Potter remains my favorite fiction series, and Vietnam is a communist country.

But time also scares people and brings them into reality because so many things have changed. Like Facebook has become the most popular site replacing My Space, or I have stopped reading those teenage romance novels. Time seems to stop at some moments, and moves forward faster at other points. Time is such a tender girl after whom guys pursue and want to hold her heart, but also resembles an old love affair that they want to let go and move on with the fast speed of life.

Time never comes back once it goes, like a straight line whose end never intersects with a point of its own. If then, why seasons and months keep repeating? Spring comes, then summer; fall comes, then winter. Twelve months pass, another twelve months come. They are steady as a programmed machine, heartless and insensitive. The cruel cycle keeps digging people in a deep hole where they are blinded and can’t escape. No wonder in the coldest winter days, I long for a distant breeze with some lilac petals being blown away. I wish I could just extend my hands, grab the air, and feel happiness crystallized neatly in my grip. No wonder although people are very far away from their memories, they still return to old places and let nostalgia rush in.

I often think that the faults don’t lie in memories, but they lie in time. Time is such a brutal man—he doesn’t stop for a while to show care and ask how people are doing, but determinedly moves forward and leave people with their own problems. Time makes me curious and want to ask questions, so I would stare into the dark sky outside my window in the nights. Then I realize that, time will not stop to answer my questions, just like things that pass will never go back again. So time is still a very straight, ongoing line.

Poetics Statement #2 (What I think about Writing)

I can’t wait for my emotions to burst out to write.  I want to create literary masterpieces. I want to devise a coffer for extraordinary moments. I would go to the beach and let strong sea waves splash white foams on my face. I would be the conqueror of nature and draft a poem about my underlings. The gigantic sea, the salty foam on my face, and the candy-floss glazing sheep sky. They would all be beautiful on my pages.

People say writers don’t make a fortune. I bit the inner of my lip—how like people. They place money as a ruler to estimate human brains, and position and status as scales to measure their worthiness. As if money is not made of papers, or writings are merely cheaper papers. As if money can help them create stunning writings, and stunning writings cannot help them produce money. I, too, want to be a noble. A passionate and respected noble who makes the ordinary feel noble in their values through cheap papers. Not that kind of ordinary noble who roams around and boasts about her stacks of dollars, only to make herself contemptuous.

Bambi eyes, I would ogle back at people, saying I’d write for children, money, society, meanings, feelings. And love. Lots of love. Not infatuation that prostitution can fetch, or adulation that money can bring. I’d throw back at people these vague big words and a bold smirk because true love makes creative writing. Love for people, love for various truths, love for happy moments, love for sorrowful time, love for the depth, love for the nonsense, love for writing itself. People have an inelastic demand for love, and they use creative writing as a token of their immense affection and devotion.

I love writing fiction stories for its inherent haphazard. There is just no plan in writing fiction stories. Stories naturally come, then come characters and events. They can be mornings of hearing birds twittering, going to work, getting a parcel, or any event, any person that happens in life. And that makes literature. That is aesthetics. Because literature and aesthetics lie in random and simple things around, without intention or modification, under no camouflage or deception.

I don’t just sit in one place and think of anything myself. I have a pen, a paper and a passion for recording my life. Writers are like hinges—the intersection of their real world and their dream world. They connect, select key points and write them down. As if they were children solving puzzles, not knowing what a next puzzle piece will look like, but putting it at its right place when it came.

A privilege of writers is that they write stories in their own wishful way. Putting themselves amidst endless sources of life, they write what they notice and want to write, and write with specific tone and attitudes. As if they were dreaming in their awake reality. They fix a few things in their dreams, change certain place, people or actions to make the dream appealing.

There are people who do not know what to do with their life. There are also people who know what they will do with their life and still fail. As they move forward a step, they move backward two steps. They say they want to be creative writers, but they claim that they come up with nothing. They decide to watch another episode of a television show and think about writing later. It’s hard to find a passion in life. But it’s even harder to commit to that passion and make a living out of it. Aesthetics is not about producing a creative writing and changing one’s passion. It is all about the process of producing creative things, and then feeling a stronger passion for producing other creative things. It is all about consistency, which is beyond passion, because it requires more than just passion itself.

Today I know what I want to do. I want to be a journalist who reflects truths, and a creative writer who produces beautiful fantasies. I want to publish not only best-selling novels and most-read articles at one point of time, but also novels that people would want to keep in their house for long, and articles that people would not hesitate reading again and again. I thought twice about a literary tone that I want to pursue for good, to only be left with two words—concise and simple. Concise so that my readers don’t have to agonize thinking what they are reading, where they are stopping, why this or that happens. Simple so that words are comprehensible but memorable. Profound and abstract words appeal to youngsters, who wish to boast their vocabulary. Then the more complicated, the more inert words become. The simpler, the easier for words to absorb in souls. The process of selecting simple words is tougher, for one has to moderate her romance and imagination with reality.

Writing is an exhausting race, without strength, one will fall. I don’t want to fall. I create principles for myself so that I won’t fall. I try to write in a specific period of time in a day when I can fully focus on writing. It’s easy to create a masterpiece when one has inspiration, but being able to create a masterpiece without interest or inspiration is a talent. I strive for that ability, because I want to continue being a hinge, a rushed life-recorder, and an aesthetics explorer, writing down ceaseless lives like constant winds on massive paddy fields.

What I Think About Writing (Poetics Statement)

To me, anyone can become writers, as long as they have a pen, a paper, and a passion for writing. Writers don’t have to take certain English classes, or be above a certain age to be qualified and called writers. They can be children, teenagers, adults, scientists, socialists, politicians who approach to writing with various purposes and create diverse genres of writings.

During the winter break, I went to my friend’s uncle’s house; my friend had a cousin who was a ten-year-old boy and wrote a novel dedicated to his parents. I was astonished at what he wrote and how he wrote the novel. To me, it was a superior novel written by a ten-year-old boy. The grammar, vocabulary and sentence structures were all correct and sophisticated, and the content of the novel was not merely a child story. The ten-year-old boy talked about his life and how to have a successful life. He concluded the story that everyone should bear in mind two things to achieve success in the fastest way. First, get an education, because it will offer you more options and paths to success in life. Second, do not procrastinate, as success will not come to people who, for instance, want to get an A on a paper, but wait until the night before the due date to start writing the paper.

His novel, though unpublished, has a strange attraction that amazed me and drew me in. I would say that I, a college student, never thought about simple yet memorable things that he, a ten-year-old boy, said in his novel. It struck me that people are inherent writers provided that they want to write, and they are able to draw certain people in their writings with their experience and meanings embedded in the writings. Even for those who don’t write well, as long as they want to write, they can learn to improve their writing day by day with their passion and persistence. Sometimes, I even enjoy reading a clumsy writing with incorrect sentence structures and inappropriate word choices for I still learn something from that writing. My friend who is a business major has a poor writing skill and she always sends her papers to me to look over before submitting them. I learn from each inept expression in her paper what words can be better used for this expression, why this or that term sounds awkward and think whether I have ever used the same expression before. By being a reader, I come to know what readers expect in a writing and what kind of expression is often awkward or bad that sometimes I don’t realize when I am in the flow of writing.

For creative writers, I think they play an important role in bringing the world to all kinds of people through various genres of literature. Children read Dr. Seuss’ books, teenagers read Meg Cabot’s novels, and adults read work of Stephen King, Dan Brown or Mark Twain in order to learn about the world in their own way which fits their age and thinking. Yet, some creations have no age gap and can be read and enjoyed by anyone, like Harry Potter which children, teenagers, and adults all understand and prefer. It is the way people interpret the story that makes a difference. Children may like Harry Potter simply because he is brave and smart. Teenagers are fond of Harry Potter for broader reasons such as he is a good friend and altruistic person who places other people above himself. Adults, yet, have more profound reasons for reading Harry Potter. They admire the way J. K. Rowling developed the plot and characters in the novel; they feel as if they were growing up each day with Harry Potter throughout seven books, and the events in the story are connected and supplement each other well. Adults would also like the use of language and ending that Rowling had, for the language is simple, comprehensible but captivating, and the ending is inevitable and offers a closure to the story. The beauty of a writing, thus, lies in readers’ different interpretations and reactions that sometimes, are even beyond the author’s intentional meanings. A beautiful writing to me, in general, is something that evokes people’s feelings, makes them think, learn, wonder, change or put questions. It leads people to do something, rather than just close a book and think, “I’m done reading this.”

At the age of 19, I prefer fiction novels containing profound meanings that challenge my thinking, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t read Roald Dahl’s work or Meg Cabot’s the princess’ diaries series. With a grown up mind, I enjoyed Willie Wonka and the chocolate factory for its humor and moral, and I read the princess’ diaries because I want to remember my past childhood when I used to wish for a “charming prince” like Michael in the story, struggled with my friendships and wondered how to be a popular girl at school. I think writers like Roald Dahl and Meg Cabot who created work in which they had to place themselves in a different age and era owned a great courage and a timeless imagination. Some people at my age would say Roald Dahl’s work is so childlike, or Meg Cabot’s novels are so superficial. I would nod my head and say yes, because Roald Dahl wrote for children so if his work is childlike, it is a successful work. Meg Cabot’s fiction characters are superficial because we used to be superficial like that when we were 12 to 15, paying attention to how popular we were at school and whether this boy, that boy liked us or not. I embrace the beauty of literature by engulfing myself with various genres and types of writing in order to understand the world around me in different positions, and be able to see and view things differently in each position.

I think one of the important goals of writers is to transmit emotions to readers through writings, make readers feel more than simply know. Given a novel and a movie that is based on the novel, I would prefer to read the novel, because I am able to feel characters, understand what characters in the novel think and how they are like, which sometimes are unclearly portrayed in movies. I often found myself drawn to a novel because of the inner thoughts, wonders and feelings of characters, rather than any specific events in the story. However, for movies, I look for actions and events to guess what characters think and feel, how certain characters are like. For instance, if a novel describing in details inner feelings and confession of a man when looking at his wife sleeping, how can movies portray that scene? We cannot thoroughly tell what he really thinks by looking at his facial expression, and hearing him saying out loud his thinking and confession is unnatural. Many things are better to be read rather than seen or heard visually. When I read my favorite novel Scarlet Heart, the letter of the female protagonist shed me to tears. However, when I watched the movie and heard the character reading the letter out loud, the letter did not leave me with any feelings. I felt that the letter was not that touching and significant like it was in the novel. Hence, another beauty of writing and literature in general is that people are able to approach to art in another form that in many cases, it turns out to be the best “stage” for an idea to be displayed that no other forms can replace.

I love writing fiction stories and think that two most difficult things in creating a good story are what communication theorists call the coherence and fidelity of events in the story. Coherence of a story is how connected and consistent events and characters in that story are. Fidelity is how true and credible events and characters are to readers based on their experience and points of view. The novel Scarlet Heart novel that I like has the ending that is very controversial. Because the female protagonist and the male protagonist go through a lot of challenges when they live together, the female protagonist decides to break up with her lover although she knows that she is going to die soon. She thinks that it is better for them to be separated during the last days she lives so that they don’t have to go through any more challenges, and that she is able to think about the man she loves in peace. I personally think that the ending is very logical and inevitable. This is because I think that love does not mean that two people have to live together and be side by side with each other. As long as two people keep each other’s images and good memories in their mind and heart, their love still exists no matter where they are. However, many people including my best friend think that there can also be another logical and inevitable ending in which the female protagonist keeps living with her lover because she is aware that she is going to die soon. My best friend would prefer that ending because it rings true with her personalities and how she views the world. She thinks that love only exists and is permanent when two people can be together. Once two characters in a story are separated, it is a sad ending no matter what.

By this, I think that some stories have one and only inevitable ending, but some have more than one inevitable ending and writers subjectively choose a path that they think will leave the deepest impact on readers, or will turn the story into a moral and meaningful one. It is possible but difficult to write a story that pleases all types of readers and rings true to everyone’s experience. However, writers try to place themselves in readers’ position to understand what is called “common sense”, what most readers would expect in the ending, in events of a story. I call myself a creative writer as I started writing fiction stories and had some published since I was in the eleventh grade. When my stories were published either online or on magazines, readers discussed about my stories and gave mixed opinions. I was always open to criticism by saying thank-you to readers for their comments and suggestions, and defensive only when it is reasonable to defend my writing. For example, a few readers once told me that one of my stories sounded similar to something that they read. I defended my writing by saying that I came up with the plot myself and sometimes, I could not avoid certain cliche in literature that made them thought that the story was not entirely unique. Overall, I think that writers should limit their defensiveness to the lowest level because they should be listening to learn from other people more than saying and going on their own ways.

This is because the beauty of writing is the fact that it is a mutual process, that we not only write for ourselves, to express our feelings, beliefs and transmit our imagination into papers, but we also write for other people. We write to have people read and listen to our confession, to sympathize with depressing issues that we portray in stories, and to reinforce their beliefs and points of view about the world. The beauty of writing is that it is such another tool of communication that conveys and connects people.

Kiss Me Tonight

Kiss me,

like we are going to be separated by war

and buried in some dark grave.

Kiss me,

like we are forced to a refuge by flood or drought,

and stuck with each other for life.

 

Kiss me,

like we are Rose and Jack on the Titanic

standing on the railing of the ship.

Your hands grab my arms and extend them out;

your lips reach out for mine in the red sunset like a fireball.

Kiss me,

like I am a simple Sally who meets Harry by chance

and we brighten each other’s life

like sunshine gleams on a garden of daisy flowers,

making them bloom.

 

Kiss me,

like I am an asshole who dumped you for another man,

and, (now vulnerable in your arms like an obedient kitten),

you will kiss me,

like you miss the taste of my blood,

bitter like Johnnie Walker whisky,

pleasant like the rain

to punish me.

 

Kiss me,

like I am a prostitute in a red-light district,

asking and tempting you to a hotel room

filled with rose petals on a white bed with the subtle scent of lilacs.

And you will kiss me on my lips and my cheeks,

on my breasts and my buttocks,

to savor every nook of my body

like a beggar chewing a piece of sour bread

voraciously till the last crumb to satisfy his hunger.

 

Kiss me,

like we were 16 again,

having our first kiss, bumping our noses,

colliding our jaws, dribbling our saliva,

laughing and thinking that the kiss is wet and weird.

Kiss me,

like we were old and on the line of death,

having our last kiss, touching our tremulous lips,

quivering with our puffed breath, embracing each other’s life.

 

I want you to kiss me tonight

like you are going to inject a circuit of electricity into me,

numb me with your romance,

and the wounds in our hearts

will turn into inches of memories.

My Mother’s Hands

A Shakespearean sonnet

She stayed up late to wash the clothes on cold

nights when her child slept in a cozy place.

Her hands turned red and pale; I could behold

as if she plowed the field for a whole day.

 

She cooked good food to make it “home sweet home.”

Her hands were dirty; they did smell so foul

like bad asparagus. But I can’t roam

to somewhere food would take away my soul.

 

She taught me how to neatly write the words—

calligraphy conveys one’s own rewards.

Her hands drew straight words like a knight’s long swords,

and organized like words could dance a waltz.

 

She held my hands in hardships like strong storms—

My mother’s hands, where I grew up in warmth.

Crossing Pattaya* on a Summer Night

* : A beach city in Thailand, known for its red-light district Walking Street.

I walked on the downtown street of Pattaya.

Colored neon signs dazzled my eyes;

I startled for a while, did not know where to head.

Go-go bars, brothels, discotheque,

interweave with seafood restaurants, coffee shops, clothing stores,

as if two different worlds were mixed in one giant universe—

one world of innocence, simplicity, pure happiness

where people sat, gulped coffee, felt blessed

amidst a Thai uproar.

 

Another world belonged to complication, corruption, seduction.

I saw transvestites whose breasts and buttocks were exposed,

Russian prostitutes curving chests and taut tight hips

behind glass cages like mobile manikins, and men

throwing about-to-dribble gazes, as if

they dreamt of a soft bed

of sweet sodomy or mutual masturbation.

 

A gigolo ogled me with a price board next to him.

His thin wet lips smiled coquettishly

like sunset swallowed up a fiery afternoon with its defiant sky

covered with dark and somber colors.

I turned my head away to catch a tuk-tuk,

gliding through other tuk-tuks and honking cars,

through swarming gayboys and ladyboys,

kissing passionately,

hooking up to give sincere

or insincere confession.

 

The tuk tuk stopped at the beach.

I went down, walked on the smooth yellow sand

as if my feet were stepping on the 1000-thread-count cotton.

The wind breezed gently at my hair and skin,

dissipating extreme heat of a June night;

Sea waves made hushing sounds crashing against the shore,

mingling with humid smell and human noise.

I looked at the dark space like a black giant velvet carpet—

therein lied reflections of colored neon signs

like beautified sparkling patterns

on a Pattaya’s night carpet.