mostly water (poem)

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.

the ticking of a clock

the ticking of a clock
somehow melodiously
reminds me of
the plucking of grass
on a field not too long ago
or was that
20 years
gone by already fast
and
steady bye
is the tire swing that
used to hang and sway
in the island wind
and the creaking trees
blown down by storms
long past forgotten
scars never healed
yet somehow
integrated into a new
memory of a body
now wrinkled, soft
and warm.


Just took a break from studying and I somehow managed to concentrate on my course material despite the constant ticking of my watch. I’ve always found comfort in the tick and tock of a clock – and I don’t think it’s any coincidence that I took note of my watch while reading my course text: Adulthood and Aging.

This poem is about the immediacy of our memories and how we can experience something long passed as recently as the afternoon wind blowing on our face. I tried to capture the beauty of aging and the joy and pleasure of feeling old in old bones. There is something comforting in the fact that our bodies continue to grow and lose youth. In the absence of that vitality is a patience, a love, and a kind of peace that mirrors life. “Death is the easy part” is a quote that comes to mind, and the acceptance of an aging body somehow reconciles the gradual loss of ephemeral youth. I live with my grandparents and they are a constant reminder that life is meant for every age, and that aging is beautiful. I hope this gives you the same feeling.

Defining Art

Art comes to us in many forms. Sometimes art is the dynamic captured moment in a photograph or the serene picturesque painting of scenery. Sometimes it is the delicate movement of dancers on stage or the brilliant, forgotten idea in the old diary lost in a box somewhere. Sometimes art is some paint splashed across a canvas or strawberries sequentially pinned onto a board. Sometimes art is a mixture of tastes and textures that enriches your palate or the presence of a character in the theatre that encapsulates you and reminds you of place so familiar. Art is so much and it is growing with each creation.

To me, art is a subjective understanding of meaning; it is ineffable, yet makes sense. Every given art form has boundaries and rules to distinguish it, yet the wonder of art is in how pieces of different shapes and colours can expand or play within those boundaries. Art is raw or refined and a place where the only idea of perfection is to match the product with the intent and vision. Art may involve getting it just right, but more often than not art is passion and truth in fruition. Art is an extension of self and an inclusion of other.

I like that art is sometimes this jumble of confusion splattered onto a page. Only when it is incubated within the artist then born violently onto the page can all see its beauty.