deep white curtain dancing green aurora envelope of the earth's life aura without it we turn to dust stars mars
i am a foreigner only, i don't know from which land i am foreign to. here, in a nation called "Canada" i am not treated as a citizen. though, i was born here and qualify by the rules. i am treated as an outsider within my own people, gossip passed in front of me, like a bottle of wine around a young child. contents forbidden. and when i go back 'home' i cannot read the signs in my language, only in English. i need a translator to speak to my elders. and, though i try to find a home in the name of "wanderer" i do not really go wandering. if anything, i am searching, purposefully looking with intent, but the results are not easy and as i dig, and dig, and dig, the deeper i go, & the wider the hole. the wider the hole. the wider the hole.
i'll never give up my history to assimilate into a culture that has forgotten its name a culture whose web of ancestry.com videos tries to sell back family history that was lost because it was more convenient not to have to carry ID. the stories of my people involve telling white people with white tongues how to fill out white papers. a white stamp on our head tax certificate: a white lie. the least wanted: the most documented and white i white my story, 50, 100, 150 years later white letters turn brown in well-whited archives listed addresses in the white pages never white delivered to village homes in red china. still,lost grandfather's secrets murmur beneath white blankets on gold mountain, under a fresh layer of white noise.
This poem was inspired by the ACCESS community television broadcast series Uncovering Gold, which discusses Chinese-Canadian migration through a multimedia format. Part 1 can be found here: http://youtu.be/eP5dakbuXG8.
we don't need a new sidewalk, we need a new road. we need a new road. we need a new road. we need a new road.
if i could see a drop of rain from the inside i would still never understand water even in my bed at night my body somehow leaks moisture and i am left thirsty, forced to trek from my cocoon for another drink in a glass of water a pencil becomes a bended ray of light pointing at impossible angles and when removed is again straight the glass no less changed than before water is not the air i breathe yet it is a part of each breath water shapes the world the morning dew from which bees drink, the slow drip that smooths canyon walls and hollows mountains, the summer waterfalls over desert cliffs the deep springs lapped from the lips of deer water is more necessary to life than air we are born in water, and that is where we will return. we are not dust turning to dust, nor ash to ash, but we are water turning to water.
if your life is a song, then every moment is a note that sometimes strings together other memories that remind me of the moment that remind me of the memories an open note a reminder of the rest depending on my mood.
Have I always lusted for the past? Always longed to walk down Rouen Avec une baguette in tow. Always wished my present moment Were coloured and blushed With the pigment of nostalgic memory Glossed with centuries-old ink. Do the shards of heartbreak fester like a quill Or does the spirit heal over them? Dissolving like glass into glass. Until the vase's cracks have reached perfection. Stained windows, glowing in the moonlight. A great intelligence, cursed by a speck of sadness.