I spoke to the guqin once
by Paul Liu
I love spouting nonsense / like the man down the street / somewhere in the world where / fairies dance in the meadow / jiuweihu, where are you? / I sat down once / and wrote and wrote / until I was writing no more / the willow quivered / suddenly / the little lady by the river waved her little wave / and I sipped tea from tea cups wiser than me / and I wonder whether / the wind swept me here / or if the words became alive / and took me into their arms / suddenly / existentialism unravels / nothing but now / as I twirl / with my nine-tailed companion / sing with the sirens by the sea / farewell to the gray / settling in little stone houses / and / suddenly / the quiet song of the scholar rises / like odorless smoke / curling around the trees / singing to the universe / in sophistication / it begs simplicity / here is loneliness / here is a beautiful lotus / drowning after her lover / in the Qingshui river / here is the Summer monsoon / precious rain of life / here is the harsh winter / suddenly / death / I spoke to the guqin / I asked him if he knew / what it was I needed to do / to escape his claw / he said / shift your perspective / I laughed / what a silly guqin you are! / yet his whisper resounded in my mind / you are as sad as you think you are / and the willow quivered / and I realized in my waking / I am as sad as I think I am.
the woman who was a dragon
by Paul Liu
And I strolled on the paved road with
cracks like creeping vines on bark
through rows of skylights called trees
fracturing beams and spilling them
on the floor in the form of little
bright souls who wander in the day
and I flew away with the spirits–
forgetting where I set out to go
grinning like a swaying leaf in
forgetfulness––Then I came upon
a queen who was really a dragon
she sat on an obsidian bench and
all the drifting spirits glistened
on her skin as if finding the place–
the infinite where lost dreams go––
and the she-dragon raised her claw
inhaling––the firefly spirits part–
and I see upon her face the festering
pains of the universe––
catharsis or a similar miracle in
exhale and my brilliant friends
scatter with the dragon-smoke
that smells like charcoal embers in Winter
or dreams slipping out of grasp
gray dissipates…
She puts out her
cigarette.
cracks like creeping vines on bark
through rows of skylights called trees
fracturing beams and spilling them
on the floor in the form of little
bright souls who wander in the day
and I flew away with the spirits–
forgetting where I set out to go
grinning like a swaying leaf in
forgetfulness––Then I came upon
a queen who was really a dragon
she sat on an obsidian bench and
all the drifting spirits glistened
on her skin as if finding the place–
the infinite where lost dreams go––
and the she-dragon raised her claw
inhaling––the firefly spirits part–
and I see upon her face the festering
pains of the universe––
catharsis or a similar miracle in
exhale and my brilliant friends
scatter with the dragon-smoke
that smells like charcoal embers in Winter
or dreams slipping out of grasp
gray dissipates…
She puts out her
cigarette.
kid's guidebook to divorce
by Clarissa Gao
Beep
Beep
Beep
9:00 AM
You don’t want to get up. You hear hurried footsteps and plastic bags shuffle. Groaning, you pull the blanket back over your face. Breathe in the moment because it won’t last and exhale. It’ll be warm and you still really won’t want to get up. But, do it because you’ve already heard your dad slam the bathroom mirror door seven times in frantic search of the Maybelline concealing eye cream your mom’s asking for, and it's under the kitchen sink where you hid it two months ago when mom and dad were screaming and you felt helpless.
Yell coming so he knows you’re awake but drag out the ing while exhaling so he knows it’ll take a while for you to actually come.
He’ll chuckle a bit when you show him the eye cream and ask how it got there, but don’t answer him, shove it in your pocket, and go brush your teeth. The bottle is cold and slightly wet, and the cap is cracked from being thrown around. Is the sink leaking or is it the bottle? You’re not awake enough to care about pajama stains, but you don’t think anyone ever is.
Help your dad find the next item on the list -- hairbrush, the blue one, Conair Pro was haphazardly scribbled on the back of a Target receipt. There's no hair coiled in the bristles when you run your fingers through them and you realize that she never ended up using it. She started using yours for good luck when she wanted her dark curls back.
Get in the car. When your dad asks you whether you want to go or not, say I don’t know, because it's the truth and he wasn’t sure how he wanted you to answer anyway. The car ride to Starbucks is an underwater, muffled quiet until your dad turns on the radio. It's the music he burned into a CD for you; you stopped listening to that musical years ago, and he shoots a glance at the rearview mirror to see if you’re humming, or at least bobbing along. But you won’t be able to bring yourself to do so, so just stare at the same picture of your friend’s trip to Italy on Instagram.
When your dad pulls in to the parking lot and you see her, she’ll be tilting her head up and looking expectantly for a Honda Accord. You’re not sure why she’s so anxious, visitations are the same time, same place, every Saturday. She will be looking for the bird poop stain on the left window and your face behind it. You wonder whether the windows are tinted, and tell yourself to remember to check later.
I’ll be back here in an hour, tell me how it goes okay? Nod, and sling your backpack over one shoulder. Your Calculus textbook thumps on your back, but you probably won’t get to it until Sunday night. Remember to give her her stuff-I know. Take the plastic bag and wait until you turn around to roll your eyes, or he’ll overthink it. You’re not annoyed at him.
Walk over and take the seat between your mom and the woman with cheeto hair. The chair screeches at the concrete and you savor the grimace on your mom’s face. You shiver at your sadism, but her eyes narrow, and her lips disappear into a curl as you are reminded of everything that ever came out of them. The window reads Starbucks Magic: We’re at our best when we’re together. The words blur, and you pretend you’re sneaking another glance at the cheeto hair when your mom turns to look at the window.
Tell her you didn’t find the Maybelline eye cream, but you have the rest of the stuff she asked for. She tells you it's fine, she can always buy another one.
The woman introduces herself as Eloina; her eyes don’t smile as vividly as her lip injections do. Maybe she just got them done, or maybe you just don't see the creases because she uses Maybelline too. I’m your social worker for this visitation so I’ll jus’ be sittin’ here n’ takin’ notes on everything ya’ll say so make sure to be speakn’ English.
Smile back and tell her okay.
Beep
Beep
9:00 AM
You don’t want to get up. You hear hurried footsteps and plastic bags shuffle. Groaning, you pull the blanket back over your face. Breathe in the moment because it won’t last and exhale. It’ll be warm and you still really won’t want to get up. But, do it because you’ve already heard your dad slam the bathroom mirror door seven times in frantic search of the Maybelline concealing eye cream your mom’s asking for, and it's under the kitchen sink where you hid it two months ago when mom and dad were screaming and you felt helpless.
Yell coming so he knows you’re awake but drag out the ing while exhaling so he knows it’ll take a while for you to actually come.
He’ll chuckle a bit when you show him the eye cream and ask how it got there, but don’t answer him, shove it in your pocket, and go brush your teeth. The bottle is cold and slightly wet, and the cap is cracked from being thrown around. Is the sink leaking or is it the bottle? You’re not awake enough to care about pajama stains, but you don’t think anyone ever is.
Help your dad find the next item on the list -- hairbrush, the blue one, Conair Pro was haphazardly scribbled on the back of a Target receipt. There's no hair coiled in the bristles when you run your fingers through them and you realize that she never ended up using it. She started using yours for good luck when she wanted her dark curls back.
Get in the car. When your dad asks you whether you want to go or not, say I don’t know, because it's the truth and he wasn’t sure how he wanted you to answer anyway. The car ride to Starbucks is an underwater, muffled quiet until your dad turns on the radio. It's the music he burned into a CD for you; you stopped listening to that musical years ago, and he shoots a glance at the rearview mirror to see if you’re humming, or at least bobbing along. But you won’t be able to bring yourself to do so, so just stare at the same picture of your friend’s trip to Italy on Instagram.
When your dad pulls in to the parking lot and you see her, she’ll be tilting her head up and looking expectantly for a Honda Accord. You’re not sure why she’s so anxious, visitations are the same time, same place, every Saturday. She will be looking for the bird poop stain on the left window and your face behind it. You wonder whether the windows are tinted, and tell yourself to remember to check later.
I’ll be back here in an hour, tell me how it goes okay? Nod, and sling your backpack over one shoulder. Your Calculus textbook thumps on your back, but you probably won’t get to it until Sunday night. Remember to give her her stuff-I know. Take the plastic bag and wait until you turn around to roll your eyes, or he’ll overthink it. You’re not annoyed at him.
Walk over and take the seat between your mom and the woman with cheeto hair. The chair screeches at the concrete and you savor the grimace on your mom’s face. You shiver at your sadism, but her eyes narrow, and her lips disappear into a curl as you are reminded of everything that ever came out of them. The window reads Starbucks Magic: We’re at our best when we’re together. The words blur, and you pretend you’re sneaking another glance at the cheeto hair when your mom turns to look at the window.
Tell her you didn’t find the Maybelline eye cream, but you have the rest of the stuff she asked for. She tells you it's fine, she can always buy another one.
The woman introduces herself as Eloina; her eyes don’t smile as vividly as her lip injections do. Maybe she just got them done, or maybe you just don't see the creases because she uses Maybelline too. I’m your social worker for this visitation so I’ll jus’ be sittin’ here n’ takin’ notes on everything ya’ll say so make sure to be speakn’ English.
Smile back and tell her okay.
pipe dream
by Clarissa Gao
im not sure whether i am unearthed pearls and unsheathed blade
or oyster’s coatings of calcium carbonate and
blacksmith’s charred calloused palms
but to idle in unquiet calm
proves absolutely nothing
the paradoxical dream of having one at all is
plastered on classroom walls across the nation
but do i be who i am or who i want to be
i mean i dont want to be limited
roads diverge into roads diverged
i can only take one
step forward, but for nobody does time turn back
what am i even supposed to love
the pursuit or the completion
because if dreams realized is deletion
should i just go for as many as i can
or take longer
sometimes it spirals and trusts in its own validity so vehemently
it pleads doubt to run its course
to pull me out of its pipe dream
into a prufrockian paralysis
or oyster’s coatings of calcium carbonate and
blacksmith’s charred calloused palms
but to idle in unquiet calm
proves absolutely nothing
the paradoxical dream of having one at all is
plastered on classroom walls across the nation
but do i be who i am or who i want to be
i mean i dont want to be limited
roads diverge into roads diverged
i can only take one
step forward, but for nobody does time turn back
what am i even supposed to love
the pursuit or the completion
because if dreams realized is deletion
should i just go for as many as i can
or take longer
sometimes it spirals and trusts in its own validity so vehemently
it pleads doubt to run its course
to pull me out of its pipe dream
into a prufrockian paralysis
ETYMOLOGY
by 3
SINGLE EYE
Have grace, giving viewer:
No more gifts, no more words, no more creation;
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE I
Creation as to be definite upon witness:
The viewer as the final god?
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE II
Nothing is given freely, but feel free to give anyway.
Two in two in three for two- effervescent, can't it be?
If nothing else, relative! It can and is.
POWERS
And let not my manner turn your healthy animal!
Favor the founding of your better axis:
The future holds much, but not here.
AVATAR
For you here, shepherd Prince of Pangaea,
From in honest hearts well springs spring wells
But and with your hearted king, Crown Prince crowned
Of the shards of quicker Sirius.
Ecosystem, with life and generous: Three good of else.
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE III
This will be sure to be remembered, and
Wrong, or how wrong they get it!
Blameless maybe does not erase your eyes' fault in mine.
I hope I know love when I see it.
GEODE
You, or for all that stand tired!
Or standing tired standing all-
Certainty is fleeting, but please do respect linear time.
Excuse me, is it good here to listen?
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE IV
Consider the melodrama! The atmosphere!
Some things by trial by fire are the only way.
And in fire, you forge what you must-
But wary they should be what smiths will learn to craft.
DRUID
What you are, and jealous of a hawk!
Take this, and talk a while with me and mine.
Breathy and lush, and you are near it as any
But not of dreams as three devils ride with squires of uncertainty,
And we entreat her lady of near fates.
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE V
Near fates as fatal as any demigodded plague,
Or so they tell me! And so have they been told!
-Laughter friendlier than most.
MAZE
Golden to be the conductor's offhand thought
Of obelisk apparent of deities obscured.
And sidelong magic, his majesty performer takes so,
Decadent for happy living to treaties undersigned
What resident? So defined: Nothing given here, I'm sure.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE VI
I'm sure.
You know, these feel further and further the more they do.
MEMENTO MORI
Regretted, worship isn't to be found.
The moon fruits luxury, with cellars and wine
The sun, left for fruit- typeset rotting! Grace betrays.
From further, candid power, and convenienced commons.
Here- draw courage.- Dedications and surround sound.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE VII / AFOREMENTIONED
Clever of you regardless! Good luck starred.
Your Illinois or chemistry, collected works.
Pace of play- Faultline, if you look too hard!- Thanks.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE VIII
This is a casserole.
AFOREMENTIONED / TRANSLATOR'S NOTE IX
Hidden in among nebulous nostalgic space,
It has to be hard to make the numbers make sense, yeah?
Not my department. Take care!
Have grace, giving viewer:
No more gifts, no more words, no more creation;
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE I
Creation as to be definite upon witness:
The viewer as the final god?
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE II
Nothing is given freely, but feel free to give anyway.
Two in two in three for two- effervescent, can't it be?
If nothing else, relative! It can and is.
POWERS
And let not my manner turn your healthy animal!
Favor the founding of your better axis:
The future holds much, but not here.
AVATAR
For you here, shepherd Prince of Pangaea,
From in honest hearts well springs spring wells
But and with your hearted king, Crown Prince crowned
Of the shards of quicker Sirius.
Ecosystem, with life and generous: Three good of else.
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE III
This will be sure to be remembered, and
Wrong, or how wrong they get it!
Blameless maybe does not erase your eyes' fault in mine.
I hope I know love when I see it.
GEODE
You, or for all that stand tired!
Or standing tired standing all-
Certainty is fleeting, but please do respect linear time.
Excuse me, is it good here to listen?
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE IV
Consider the melodrama! The atmosphere!
Some things by trial by fire are the only way.
And in fire, you forge what you must-
But wary they should be what smiths will learn to craft.
DRUID
What you are, and jealous of a hawk!
Take this, and talk a while with me and mine.
Breathy and lush, and you are near it as any
But not of dreams as three devils ride with squires of uncertainty,
And we entreat her lady of near fates.
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE V
Near fates as fatal as any demigodded plague,
Or so they tell me! And so have they been told!
-Laughter friendlier than most.
MAZE
Golden to be the conductor's offhand thought
Of obelisk apparent of deities obscured.
And sidelong magic, his majesty performer takes so,
Decadent for happy living to treaties undersigned
What resident? So defined: Nothing given here, I'm sure.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE VI
I'm sure.
You know, these feel further and further the more they do.
MEMENTO MORI
Regretted, worship isn't to be found.
The moon fruits luxury, with cellars and wine
The sun, left for fruit- typeset rotting! Grace betrays.
From further, candid power, and convenienced commons.
Here- draw courage.- Dedications and surround sound.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE VII / AFOREMENTIONED
Clever of you regardless! Good luck starred.
Your Illinois or chemistry, collected works.
Pace of play- Faultline, if you look too hard!- Thanks.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE VIII
This is a casserole.
AFOREMENTIONED / TRANSLATOR'S NOTE IX
Hidden in among nebulous nostalgic space,
It has to be hard to make the numbers make sense, yeah?
Not my department. Take care!
Surrender
by Melody Chen
There was something beautiful about the words all the same. I’d never really considered all the stars that have fallen with each ring of a syllable. The words let loose—tumbling into my tongues into a heap of bells, ringing ceaselessly and divinely. How could I ever afford to soak into the pages of Kingsolver into a world replete with untimed shooting stars? I have ached through more emotions in a book than I could ever realize in a lifetime. I was born in the wrong era: soon, I will ride through different time zones, chasing the words that I can only savor in my mouth. Sometimes, the only way to catch the truth is to walk through as many stories as you can, tripping over stones of raw truths and fiction. Yet, the truth may only be a fleeting illusion that takes the shape of something learned wrong. I can’t collect stones the same way anymore—slipping through the gaps and pockets of my own learned palm. I can’t spare to hold on to something that will only escape me. I long for something more permanent—something you could invite all your five senses to. I want to spread my fingers through a constellation of metaphors and symbols—a web of words so pristine that allows me to bask in a sea of vulnerability.
The Star Series
by Melody Chen
the downward spiral
the night falls, doesn’t it? but, don’t we see night rise like a black wallpaper, rising above the horizon. a sheet of black carbon paper. stars dot the areas where the paper is scratched out. i just read a chapter from the handmaid’s tale and offred made the same contemplation. daytime rises like anything else. a silver plate filters out the light into random corners of the world. we are so predictable: we ignore what we don’t like as if not thinking about it would make it disappear from the universe. we love to build towers, covering up the things we refuse to see. night falls because it’s temporary. night is too stiff; night seizes on the stars and planets like toy chandeliers revolving in a baby’s nest—circling endlessly in the same way. i want a way to the facts, strip naked from all the unneeded details. yet, how ironic? coming from a girl with too many details.
massacre of stars
the stars have disappeared. just a large blanket of ink is left in the massacre. for humans have sucked out all the light from the most beautiful object in the universe. we take in so much light, without knowing its source. the empty sockets in the wake lay deep and weary.
the edible sky
i want to pick the clouds in the sky and eat them, for they are warm and fluffy, yet wispy when you spread your hands around them.
the night falls, doesn’t it? but, don’t we see night rise like a black wallpaper, rising above the horizon. a sheet of black carbon paper. stars dot the areas where the paper is scratched out. i just read a chapter from the handmaid’s tale and offred made the same contemplation. daytime rises like anything else. a silver plate filters out the light into random corners of the world. we are so predictable: we ignore what we don’t like as if not thinking about it would make it disappear from the universe. we love to build towers, covering up the things we refuse to see. night falls because it’s temporary. night is too stiff; night seizes on the stars and planets like toy chandeliers revolving in a baby’s nest—circling endlessly in the same way. i want a way to the facts, strip naked from all the unneeded details. yet, how ironic? coming from a girl with too many details.
massacre of stars
the stars have disappeared. just a large blanket of ink is left in the massacre. for humans have sucked out all the light from the most beautiful object in the universe. we take in so much light, without knowing its source. the empty sockets in the wake lay deep and weary.
the edible sky
i want to pick the clouds in the sky and eat them, for they are warm and fluffy, yet wispy when you spread your hands around them.
Humphrey Dumpty Fantasy
by Matthew Yu
The winds howled and screamed through a curtain of heavy rain and hail. A flash of
lightning illuminated the wall for a brief instant. Its towering form rose hundreds of feet into the
air; constructed of impenetrable stone and weathered from old age, it exuded dominance and fear
across the landscape.
Atop the wall sat a dark form, barely visible from the ground. It struck an un-nameless
fear into any traveler unfortunate enough to gaze upon it, for its darkness was so terrible and so
profound that even the night sky contrasted with its hue. This creature was none other than
Humpty Dumpty, the guardian of the wall - none could pass its withering regard and therefore,
none passed the wall.
This night however was unusual, in that the winds and the rain possessed extreme vigor;
so powerful was the storm that Humpty Dumpty was seen to slip and fall! Flying down the wall
with incredible speed, the creature hit the ground with a resounding crack. The sound of its
impact could be heard echoing across the land for miles. Suddenly, the rains ceased and the sun
broke across the horizon. The night was over and the wall had lost its fearful aura.
Bringing their tools and their machines and their medicines and their magic, the king’s
men came in full force to save Humpty from his ruin. They labored tirelessly for days and nights,
but to no avail. Finally, one day, the sun dawned bright and spread its luminescent rays across
the land on a scene of great peace. The king’s men had departed, leaving Humpty Dumpty to lie
broken and irreparable by the base of the wall as a monument to any travelers seeking passage.
lightning illuminated the wall for a brief instant. Its towering form rose hundreds of feet into the
air; constructed of impenetrable stone and weathered from old age, it exuded dominance and fear
across the landscape.
Atop the wall sat a dark form, barely visible from the ground. It struck an un-nameless
fear into any traveler unfortunate enough to gaze upon it, for its darkness was so terrible and so
profound that even the night sky contrasted with its hue. This creature was none other than
Humpty Dumpty, the guardian of the wall - none could pass its withering regard and therefore,
none passed the wall.
This night however was unusual, in that the winds and the rain possessed extreme vigor;
so powerful was the storm that Humpty Dumpty was seen to slip and fall! Flying down the wall
with incredible speed, the creature hit the ground with a resounding crack. The sound of its
impact could be heard echoing across the land for miles. Suddenly, the rains ceased and the sun
broke across the horizon. The night was over and the wall had lost its fearful aura.
Bringing their tools and their machines and their medicines and their magic, the king’s
men came in full force to save Humpty from his ruin. They labored tirelessly for days and nights,
but to no avail. Finally, one day, the sun dawned bright and spread its luminescent rays across
the land on a scene of great peace. The king’s men had departed, leaving Humpty Dumpty to lie
broken and irreparable by the base of the wall as a monument to any travelers seeking passage.
On PDA: A Series of Haiku
by oswale
Over text
let’s do pda.
No, what will the children think?
ur rlly no fun.
In my head
I imitated
a duck. She leaned in for a
kiss. I backed away.
Spoken
Am I your bf?
Well, I don’t know. Am I yours?
Let go of my hand.
Telepathically
Hey. My arms are out
because I would like a hug.
Goooood night, my dear friend.
let’s do pda.
No, what will the children think?
ur rlly no fun.
In my head
I imitated
a duck. She leaned in for a
kiss. I backed away.
Spoken
Am I your bf?
Well, I don’t know. Am I yours?
Let go of my hand.
Telepathically
Hey. My arms are out
because I would like a hug.
Goooood night, my dear friend.
A Father's Farewell
Anonymous
As they sat waiting
The son’s excitement buoyed him upwards
Like a balloon, stretching and lifting, close to bursting,
Alone denying the misery draping over the land.
The father hung like limp clothing on a hanger,
Shirt pooling in never-ending ripples.
His face creased and puckered as though in anger,
But heart throbbing at the thought of what was to come.
The son’s eyes were fastened to the land,
Hungrily waiting to pounce on the train
That would bring him away from cruel sun and rough hands,
While the father grimly prepared to watch his son drift away.
The son’s excitement buoyed him upwards
Like a balloon, stretching and lifting, close to bursting,
Alone denying the misery draping over the land.
The father hung like limp clothing on a hanger,
Shirt pooling in never-ending ripples.
His face creased and puckered as though in anger,
But heart throbbing at the thought of what was to come.
The son’s eyes were fastened to the land,
Hungrily waiting to pounce on the train
That would bring him away from cruel sun and rough hands,
While the father grimly prepared to watch his son drift away.
Dawn
Anonymous
Rich golden light shot through the air,
Turning the land a pale molten yellow.
Fierce shadows burst from from the ground,
And the clean sharp smell of morning hung in the air
Within a curtain of brown cast by a solemn, battered car
A father and son sat together,
The boy making corners and edges with his body,
Dreaming of future and change
With a heartbeat of a hummingbird’s.
The father sitting like a severed puppet,
eyes friendless and wandering,
Drowning and shredding his pain.
Turning the land a pale molten yellow.
Fierce shadows burst from from the ground,
And the clean sharp smell of morning hung in the air
Within a curtain of brown cast by a solemn, battered car
A father and son sat together,
The boy making corners and edges with his body,
Dreaming of future and change
With a heartbeat of a hummingbird’s.
The father sitting like a severed puppet,
eyes friendless and wandering,
Drowning and shredding his pain.
From Life of Pi by Yann Martel
Anonymous
Soft green algae
tiny translucent shrimp
fish permanently under X-ray
black worms with white spines
green gelatinous slugs
motley -colored fish with potbellies.
The sea is a city.
Highways, boulevards, streets bustling with submarine traffic
dense, glassy, flecked water from millions of lit-up specks of plankton
evanescent trails of phosphorescent green bubbles
like time-exposure photographs
Collisions bursting above the water
in showers of luminescence.
tiny translucent shrimp
fish permanently under X-ray
black worms with white spines
green gelatinous slugs
motley -colored fish with potbellies.
The sea is a city.
Highways, boulevards, streets bustling with submarine traffic
dense, glassy, flecked water from millions of lit-up specks of plankton
evanescent trails of phosphorescent green bubbles
like time-exposure photographs
Collisions bursting above the water
in showers of luminescence.
My house
Anonymous
My house isn’t like a cat nestled up by the edge of a street, sitting comfortably on its haunches, ready to greet me as soon as I arrive. It’s tucked far away, shy and lonely. Just to reach the front door that I share with many others I have to walk up paths and steps. The once white wall of the house has now become streaked with shades of black and grey. It looks menacing and cold, with its black rigid squares for windows and its small cement balconies.
I scale six more flights of stairs to reach my house. Bravely at first, slightly winded by the last one. The smooth tiles on the ground are like slices of salami, speckled with different colors.
Even inside the house there is a small flight of stairs to reach the short hallway. To the left there is a kitchen. When I cook in there a countertop or a cabinet meets me wherever I turn. The countertops are an ugly blue color, made of some plastic material. The cupboards and the cabinets are a dreary grey.
To the right the hallway leads to the three rooms. It’s lined with bookshelves filled with all sorts of books. Korean, English, German, Dutch. My room is at the very end. The closet is white. The bed is white. The bookshelf is white. The desk is white. The bed table is white. The walls are white. The curtains are white. And the feeble rectangle of floor that peeks out from between the mass of white is brown.
My house is a building, a place where I sleep, a place where I eat and talk and walk and read but it’s not a home. At night, we can’t leave the windows open because nasty tendrils of cigarette smoke drift up. I can’t practice violin after eight. On Sundays we sit like sardines in a can, walking gently, laughing softly, hoping that we don’t disturb the precious holy day. Can’t paint the walls, can’t hang up pictures. Can’t have a dog, can’t ruin the floors. Can’t leave the windows open when the sky splits and rain rushes down from sky. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t.
I don’t like living in a house where I share the very air that enters my lungs with other people. I detest the lingering thought that nags me from the back of my mind: People can hear you. They are judging you.
Once a note appeared, tacked onto our front door. In curly handwriting it says, Yesterday you did the dishwashing at 11. The insolence of that silly little note burns red later in my mind.
And then the landlords come, the woman with the wispy yellow hair and the man with the broad face and brown cap. They run their fingers over the dishwasher, peer into the sink, examine the rooms and peek into nooks and crannies. They murmur and mutter and present us with floor polish and stove top cleaners. Presents with a fierce message: Keep this place clean. It’s ours.
I scale six more flights of stairs to reach my house. Bravely at first, slightly winded by the last one. The smooth tiles on the ground are like slices of salami, speckled with different colors.
Even inside the house there is a small flight of stairs to reach the short hallway. To the left there is a kitchen. When I cook in there a countertop or a cabinet meets me wherever I turn. The countertops are an ugly blue color, made of some plastic material. The cupboards and the cabinets are a dreary grey.
To the right the hallway leads to the three rooms. It’s lined with bookshelves filled with all sorts of books. Korean, English, German, Dutch. My room is at the very end. The closet is white. The bed is white. The bookshelf is white. The desk is white. The bed table is white. The walls are white. The curtains are white. And the feeble rectangle of floor that peeks out from between the mass of white is brown.
My house is a building, a place where I sleep, a place where I eat and talk and walk and read but it’s not a home. At night, we can’t leave the windows open because nasty tendrils of cigarette smoke drift up. I can’t practice violin after eight. On Sundays we sit like sardines in a can, walking gently, laughing softly, hoping that we don’t disturb the precious holy day. Can’t paint the walls, can’t hang up pictures. Can’t have a dog, can’t ruin the floors. Can’t leave the windows open when the sky splits and rain rushes down from sky. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t.
I don’t like living in a house where I share the very air that enters my lungs with other people. I detest the lingering thought that nags me from the back of my mind: People can hear you. They are judging you.
Once a note appeared, tacked onto our front door. In curly handwriting it says, Yesterday you did the dishwashing at 11. The insolence of that silly little note burns red later in my mind.
And then the landlords come, the woman with the wispy yellow hair and the man with the broad face and brown cap. They run their fingers over the dishwasher, peer into the sink, examine the rooms and peek into nooks and crannies. They murmur and mutter and present us with floor polish and stove top cleaners. Presents with a fierce message: Keep this place clean. It’s ours.
Letter to the Editor
Anonymous
Dear Editor,
I recently read Jeremy Rifkin’s article, “A Change of Heart About Animals” and I agree with his argument that animals deserve better treatment because they are more similar to humans than is commonly believed.
Rifkin uses rhetorical devices in order to convince the reader that animals are similar to humans and deserve more empathy. He uses logic by arguing that since scientific evidence has found that animals are similar to humans, people should not treat them cruelly or inhumanely with the excuse that they do feel, behave, and think differently from humans. Furthermore, he utilizes emotion to persuade his audience by drawing similarities between animals and humans, causing the reader to feel more empathy toward animals when the ethics of animal abuse is questioned by the author. Lastly, he uses authority to persuade the reader by using evidence from recent scientific studies to support his claims and by stating the advancement of animal rights in Germany and at U.S. law schools.
However, some of the evidence utilized by Jeremy Rifkin in his article “A Change of Heart About Animals” is ineffective at supporting his claim that animals are similar to humans, and therefore deserve better treatment. Rifkin uses Koko the gorilla and Abel and Betty, New Caledonian crows, to demonstrate that animals are capable of tool-making and sophisticated language skills. He makes the hasty generalization that these examples of individuals from certain animal species prove that animals are capable of skills which were once thought to be exclusive to humans. Also, elephants standing by their dead kin does not prove that they understand the concept of death. It shows that they grieve, but this not the same thing as being aware of death and understanding one’s own mortality. People often anthropomorphize animals, leading them to draw incorrect conclusions based on their observations of animal behavior.
Although I was skeptical about some of the evidence Rifkin used to support his arguments, I am still a firm believer that animals need to be treated with more empathy and kindness. From my personal experience with animals, I have learned that they are intelligent, sensitive creatures that must be treated with respect and care. Animals definitely do have feelings and suffer greatly from abuse by humans, and It is unfair to justify the mistreatment of animals because they are different from humans, whether this is true or not.
I recently read Jeremy Rifkin’s article, “A Change of Heart About Animals” and I agree with his argument that animals deserve better treatment because they are more similar to humans than is commonly believed.
Rifkin uses rhetorical devices in order to convince the reader that animals are similar to humans and deserve more empathy. He uses logic by arguing that since scientific evidence has found that animals are similar to humans, people should not treat them cruelly or inhumanely with the excuse that they do feel, behave, and think differently from humans. Furthermore, he utilizes emotion to persuade his audience by drawing similarities between animals and humans, causing the reader to feel more empathy toward animals when the ethics of animal abuse is questioned by the author. Lastly, he uses authority to persuade the reader by using evidence from recent scientific studies to support his claims and by stating the advancement of animal rights in Germany and at U.S. law schools.
However, some of the evidence utilized by Jeremy Rifkin in his article “A Change of Heart About Animals” is ineffective at supporting his claim that animals are similar to humans, and therefore deserve better treatment. Rifkin uses Koko the gorilla and Abel and Betty, New Caledonian crows, to demonstrate that animals are capable of tool-making and sophisticated language skills. He makes the hasty generalization that these examples of individuals from certain animal species prove that animals are capable of skills which were once thought to be exclusive to humans. Also, elephants standing by their dead kin does not prove that they understand the concept of death. It shows that they grieve, but this not the same thing as being aware of death and understanding one’s own mortality. People often anthropomorphize animals, leading them to draw incorrect conclusions based on their observations of animal behavior.
Although I was skeptical about some of the evidence Rifkin used to support his arguments, I am still a firm believer that animals need to be treated with more empathy and kindness. From my personal experience with animals, I have learned that they are intelligent, sensitive creatures that must be treated with respect and care. Animals definitely do have feelings and suffer greatly from abuse by humans, and It is unfair to justify the mistreatment of animals because they are different from humans, whether this is true or not.
Silly
Anonymous
Brown shaggy boulders
Dotted with sienna spots
Chomping peacefully
There once was a fish from the sea
who lived in pink anemones.
His son swept away,
He crossed coral bays,
While fighting his anxiety.
Dotted with sienna spots
Chomping peacefully
There once was a fish from the sea
who lived in pink anemones.
His son swept away,
He crossed coral bays,
While fighting his anxiety.
Where are you from?
Anonymous
People always ask, Where are you from? I want to ask, Why does it matter? They ask, Are you Chinese? I long to say, Why can’t you know better? They continue to demand and inquire, seeking answers for everything that pops into their mind. They rummage through my hair and creep under my skin. They are like little raccoons, whimpering in their excitement, groping with their eager nimble fingers, probing me until I scream with the indignity and frustration. Why are they so anxious to ferret out all their curiosities? Why can’t they just leave me alone, instead of sweeping me further and further away from themselves with each question?
They murmur, they point, and they stare. When I walk through them I feel the prickling on the back of my neck, the tensing of my skin from pairs of eyes following me, attached to my back as though fastened by gossamer strings. I disappear, melting away until all that’s left of me is my dark hair, my different features, my Asianness.
Who are they? The Germans. The people with the thin wispy hair, colored every shade of blond, honey, and light brown. The people with eyes the color of the sea or the forest. Their skin is a pale color, light pinks and creams, so delicate and fragile. To me, they seem so alike. Perhaps it’s because all of them try to point out the fact that I’m different. They’re like a horde of buffalo, stampeding away from everything that is new and unexpected.
With every ignorant word the wound grows deeper and deeper. Soon it’s affected all of us, an angry and festering disease of the heart in my mother, my father, and me. Like a dog growling to guard its food, we’ve learned that we lose something - our pride, our dignity - when we don’t defend ourselves.
We’ve just finished swimming at the Schwimmbad in Stuttgart. My family is waiting to pay. The heat and humidity of the room hugs us tightly. The air is sticky and heavy with the smell of chlorine, until it can almost be tasted. Three loud young men walk up behind us. They snigger and chuckle. Their arrogance seeps out of their skin. We hear a word. Chinatown. They say it again. They laugh. My eyes flicker back toward them. A frown creases my face.
Suddenly, my dad whisks around. He is scowling, and he looks so angry that it scares me.
What did you say? he hisses.
Oh..uhh…nothing.
I’m surprised at how meek they’ve become.
I heard you say something. I heard you say Chinatown, my dad insists.
Uh…ehh.. I was just saying..maybe…maybe you wanted to go to Chinatown.
We’re not Chinese, he says through clenched teeth.
My mother pulls on my dad’s clothes, tugging, her voice reduced to a high-pitched whine.
It’s not a big deal, she says. My dad glares at the men, then he turns around, and we march off.
Just another adventure in Germany.
They murmur, they point, and they stare. When I walk through them I feel the prickling on the back of my neck, the tensing of my skin from pairs of eyes following me, attached to my back as though fastened by gossamer strings. I disappear, melting away until all that’s left of me is my dark hair, my different features, my Asianness.
Who are they? The Germans. The people with the thin wispy hair, colored every shade of blond, honey, and light brown. The people with eyes the color of the sea or the forest. Their skin is a pale color, light pinks and creams, so delicate and fragile. To me, they seem so alike. Perhaps it’s because all of them try to point out the fact that I’m different. They’re like a horde of buffalo, stampeding away from everything that is new and unexpected.
With every ignorant word the wound grows deeper and deeper. Soon it’s affected all of us, an angry and festering disease of the heart in my mother, my father, and me. Like a dog growling to guard its food, we’ve learned that we lose something - our pride, our dignity - when we don’t defend ourselves.
We’ve just finished swimming at the Schwimmbad in Stuttgart. My family is waiting to pay. The heat and humidity of the room hugs us tightly. The air is sticky and heavy with the smell of chlorine, until it can almost be tasted. Three loud young men walk up behind us. They snigger and chuckle. Their arrogance seeps out of their skin. We hear a word. Chinatown. They say it again. They laugh. My eyes flicker back toward them. A frown creases my face.
Suddenly, my dad whisks around. He is scowling, and he looks so angry that it scares me.
What did you say? he hisses.
Oh..uhh…nothing.
I’m surprised at how meek they’ve become.
I heard you say something. I heard you say Chinatown, my dad insists.
Uh…ehh.. I was just saying..maybe…maybe you wanted to go to Chinatown.
We’re not Chinese, he says through clenched teeth.
My mother pulls on my dad’s clothes, tugging, her voice reduced to a high-pitched whine.
It’s not a big deal, she says. My dad glares at the men, then he turns around, and we march off.
Just another adventure in Germany.
An unheard Graduation Speech
Nikhil Kulkarni
Welcome friends, families, teachers, and students. Thank you for joining us in celebrating this momentous occasion. I stand before you today dumbfounded on what I can say that can encompass the strength of what I see in the class of 2019. We are fierce, strong willed, and open-hearted to new possibilities and ideas. It’s one of the reasons I often find myself staying back past the 3:30 bell, and just looking in awe at the beautiful things this school has created not only for myself, but for all of you today.
I remember walking through those front gates in freshman year thinking I had it all planned out. I would work hard in my classes, play soccer for the school team, and soon enough be playing in the League. But by sophomore year my passions and priorities had slowly changed. I soon found a love for dance and art, and felt that I had a different purpose with my time here at Homestead. And I found it to be like a Netflix show. Binge watched and passed through time, each episode bringing to light a different conflict and showcasing something new about each of the people in my life. And occasionally, high school caught me burning out, asking “Are you still watching?” yet it showed me something new every time. It taught me that failure is never what it seems to be. With each stride through uncertainty that we take, we find ourselves slipping and falling. Whether that be due to academics, mental health, extracurriculars, family, you name it, we have all struggled with something. But it's the persistence that I see in each and everyone of you today that makes us unique. Because we have created a community here at Homestead, that does more than cheer at the rallies and sports events. We have found a way to positively uplift ourselves, fostering a community that empowers a difference of perspective and culture to continuously grow. We have become relentless in our pursuit of excellence.
And as all of us will soon be beginning new chapters in our lives, and with so many people going to so many different places across the U.S. and abroad, I have found a love for writing letters. And I often write to a good friend of mine, whom I tell that I find us, as people, a lot like plants. We all have our unique flowers of personality, branching out in the places we have gone, and spreading the seeds of positive vibes to the places we have been. Yet I find us to be more similar than not. To me, we are all like the Jasmine plant. With their small flowers budding out, each one of has worked and grown to reach this point, soaking up the information of classes, friends, and finding a way to blossom against all odds. Yet, take this second now to just quickly reflect on the positive effect each one of you has made on this campus. From your friends, to your extracurriculars, and even on your teachers, we all learn from each other. And so what I find the most fascinating about blooming Jasmine is the aroma it creates. It radiates itself, bringing itself through the air of where you may be and speaking to you in an inaudible language. A language of love, empathy, and gratitude for being taught for being watered for being desired to be grown. Because we didn’t reach this point without ever facing a drought, but along the way, we have inspired others with the effect we naturally spread, making connections that we never even realized existed until we look below the soil
And so I say to each and everyone of you that you make a difference in this world. The hello’s in the hallway to the ride or die friends, each of you have made a positive impact in this community that has helped shape us into the beautiful young minds that we are. So as we enter this new chapter of our life, that will play in what feels like the next 15 seconds, let us be excited for the unknown, thankful for the possibilities and grateful for the opportunity, because we never know what this next season of episodes could bring. Thank you.
I remember walking through those front gates in freshman year thinking I had it all planned out. I would work hard in my classes, play soccer for the school team, and soon enough be playing in the League. But by sophomore year my passions and priorities had slowly changed. I soon found a love for dance and art, and felt that I had a different purpose with my time here at Homestead. And I found it to be like a Netflix show. Binge watched and passed through time, each episode bringing to light a different conflict and showcasing something new about each of the people in my life. And occasionally, high school caught me burning out, asking “Are you still watching?” yet it showed me something new every time. It taught me that failure is never what it seems to be. With each stride through uncertainty that we take, we find ourselves slipping and falling. Whether that be due to academics, mental health, extracurriculars, family, you name it, we have all struggled with something. But it's the persistence that I see in each and everyone of you today that makes us unique. Because we have created a community here at Homestead, that does more than cheer at the rallies and sports events. We have found a way to positively uplift ourselves, fostering a community that empowers a difference of perspective and culture to continuously grow. We have become relentless in our pursuit of excellence.
And as all of us will soon be beginning new chapters in our lives, and with so many people going to so many different places across the U.S. and abroad, I have found a love for writing letters. And I often write to a good friend of mine, whom I tell that I find us, as people, a lot like plants. We all have our unique flowers of personality, branching out in the places we have gone, and spreading the seeds of positive vibes to the places we have been. Yet I find us to be more similar than not. To me, we are all like the Jasmine plant. With their small flowers budding out, each one of has worked and grown to reach this point, soaking up the information of classes, friends, and finding a way to blossom against all odds. Yet, take this second now to just quickly reflect on the positive effect each one of you has made on this campus. From your friends, to your extracurriculars, and even on your teachers, we all learn from each other. And so what I find the most fascinating about blooming Jasmine is the aroma it creates. It radiates itself, bringing itself through the air of where you may be and speaking to you in an inaudible language. A language of love, empathy, and gratitude for being taught for being watered for being desired to be grown. Because we didn’t reach this point without ever facing a drought, but along the way, we have inspired others with the effect we naturally spread, making connections that we never even realized existed until we look below the soil
And so I say to each and everyone of you that you make a difference in this world. The hello’s in the hallway to the ride or die friends, each of you have made a positive impact in this community that has helped shape us into the beautiful young minds that we are. So as we enter this new chapter of our life, that will play in what feels like the next 15 seconds, let us be excited for the unknown, thankful for the possibilities and grateful for the opportunity, because we never know what this next season of episodes could bring. Thank you.
Artistic Influences
Nikhil Kulkarni
He stood on the side of the dirt road. Wearing his plastic chappals and dusted school uniform, he looked at the camera from across the street. Both eyes speaking the multitudes of desperation to escape the nights of skipping meals and studying till late just to pass the annual exams. Yet he had a rhythm. One he would describe as, “dahk-chikka-dahk-chikka-dahk”. A classic beat of Indian songwriters like R.D. Burman and Kishore Kumar. It reminded him that there is something larger past the guava tree in his backyard and wooden homes in his small town of Nipani. There was America.
My father brought over his love of music, and shared it with my brother and I. Ye Sham Mastani was a staple in our household. Being sung from the corner room of our home, its vibrations stretched past the living room into the numerous temples and self-organized concerts my family performed in. At the age of 8, I was performing on stage singing songs I had practiced with my father in the evenings leading up to the show.
And although I sing in English only now, my father’s impact of music has made me an expressive individual. He showed me that I am the only person that will consistently be there for myself, and so I need to find a way to keep myself happy. And when I found happiness through music and dance, I began sharing it with the world. I started posting motivational videos on Instagram, applying my skills of editing and knowledge about the power of encouragement, to inspire others to create their own paths in life. Because his love for music, positive attitude, humor in the silliest of things, and love for cooking has influenced me to embody similar characteristics, shaping me into the individual I am today.
My father brought over his love of music, and shared it with my brother and I. Ye Sham Mastani was a staple in our household. Being sung from the corner room of our home, its vibrations stretched past the living room into the numerous temples and self-organized concerts my family performed in. At the age of 8, I was performing on stage singing songs I had practiced with my father in the evenings leading up to the show.
And although I sing in English only now, my father’s impact of music has made me an expressive individual. He showed me that I am the only person that will consistently be there for myself, and so I need to find a way to keep myself happy. And when I found happiness through music and dance, I began sharing it with the world. I started posting motivational videos on Instagram, applying my skills of editing and knowledge about the power of encouragement, to inspire others to create their own paths in life. Because his love for music, positive attitude, humor in the silliest of things, and love for cooking has influenced me to embody similar characteristics, shaping me into the individual I am today.
Dear my Beautiful Friend
Nikhil Kulkarni
Dear my Beautiful Friend
“Your words make me feel somberly strong”
A text sent without thought
Yet inspired by a 5 page paper
Most of which was blank
But it was the silence between
The space above and below
That lit the griddle of emotion and made my heart sink
6 lines, 4 interactions, 3 words unacted upon, and one consistent feeling
Somberly strong
Repetition;
a phrase in the word itself
For the numerous cycles of activities
Harvested, practiced, and worked for until completion
So evidently seen
By oneself
Alone.
Somberly strong
Two eyes meet dancing amongst the stars
And my heart skips a beat
Such beauty and divine nature torn away by the hurricane of difficulty
Ripped from the sheets she lay too and taken to a new place every day.
I wait
8 Days
I’m feeling better.
Recovered, experienced, wept, and driven,
I sigh with joy and speak of care.
Love, heartened by the face of life, experienced by only those who dare to dream,
To take the first step
To be vulnerable and understand that one can still be
Someberly strong, together
Where the line is no longer detached and alone
Where it stands with one another, together
Sharing their scars and empty moments,
Invigorating moments of companionship and courtship,
Because a thousand grains of sand is futile in the face of a determined force.
And around it dances the sea of love, showing the two on the beach:
Under the sun, believing that they were unlikely to be together,
But here they are
Smiling,
Laughing,
Crying together.
Filling the Silence with,
Space.
Just as a rough rock can grow a pelage of warm moss,
There is a beauty,
in being
somberly strong.
“Your words make me feel somberly strong”
A text sent without thought
Yet inspired by a 5 page paper
Most of which was blank
But it was the silence between
The space above and below
That lit the griddle of emotion and made my heart sink
6 lines, 4 interactions, 3 words unacted upon, and one consistent feeling
Somberly strong
Repetition;
a phrase in the word itself
For the numerous cycles of activities
Harvested, practiced, and worked for until completion
So evidently seen
By oneself
Alone.
Somberly strong
Two eyes meet dancing amongst the stars
And my heart skips a beat
Such beauty and divine nature torn away by the hurricane of difficulty
Ripped from the sheets she lay too and taken to a new place every day.
I wait
8 Days
I’m feeling better.
Recovered, experienced, wept, and driven,
I sigh with joy and speak of care.
Love, heartened by the face of life, experienced by only those who dare to dream,
To take the first step
To be vulnerable and understand that one can still be
Someberly strong, together
Where the line is no longer detached and alone
Where it stands with one another, together
Sharing their scars and empty moments,
Invigorating moments of companionship and courtship,
Because a thousand grains of sand is futile in the face of a determined force.
And around it dances the sea of love, showing the two on the beach:
Under the sun, believing that they were unlikely to be together,
But here they are
Smiling,
Laughing,
Crying together.
Filling the Silence with,
Space.
Just as a rough rock can grow a pelage of warm moss,
There is a beauty,
in being
somberly strong.
Eyes
Nikhil Kulkarni
The blue, the brown, the green,
And every color between
From dark winded shades
To tears covered in blades
We surpass
Crying for those before us who we lost
But alas
We have found this soul,
This gateway,
A tunnel to where anyone can travel,
And live the experiences of your life.
A Chocolate, hazelnut swirl
Ones behind the glasses of a girl
Who’s onomatopeias reign the streets
Of low lit arcade feats
“You choose the song, because i have never played”
Are recurring words that I know will eventually fade,
Because the neon lights,
Tickets and sights
Seduce us to believe
That we--young and free
Have found what it means to see
The best in one another. The best we could be.
Because all it took was a young smile,
With dimples that ended up staying for a while,
And upon a grassy ground we lay
Watching an owner and its dog play.
You cried, I tried, but I could never let it escape,
From its long steel bars, wrapped up like a cage.
I wish I could have said it right then and right there
I hope this explained my “its nothing” stare
Because when you asked, “you look like you have something to say”
I wasn’t sure at the time, but the words were saranghae.
And every color between
From dark winded shades
To tears covered in blades
We surpass
Crying for those before us who we lost
But alas
We have found this soul,
This gateway,
A tunnel to where anyone can travel,
And live the experiences of your life.
A Chocolate, hazelnut swirl
Ones behind the glasses of a girl
Who’s onomatopeias reign the streets
Of low lit arcade feats
“You choose the song, because i have never played”
Are recurring words that I know will eventually fade,
Because the neon lights,
Tickets and sights
Seduce us to believe
That we--young and free
Have found what it means to see
The best in one another. The best we could be.
Because all it took was a young smile,
With dimples that ended up staying for a while,
And upon a grassy ground we lay
Watching an owner and its dog play.
You cried, I tried, but I could never let it escape,
From its long steel bars, wrapped up like a cage.
I wish I could have said it right then and right there
I hope this explained my “its nothing” stare
Because when you asked, “you look like you have something to say”
I wasn’t sure at the time, but the words were saranghae.
Insecurity
Nikhil Kulkarni
I’m scared to tell the world,
That it is not fun as I make it to be.
That the giggles in the corner,
Just may be a facade for a fallen tree.
With my uprooted roots I lay there in the middle of the road;
Cars honk, nature winces, yet I lay impenetrable to life expectations.
I stand firm,
In an ideological belief that I must rest here forever,
I, just like the plants around me, continue to grow in ways that the world cannot measure in the hour,
I stand tall,
Ceaselessly fighting against the elements
Hoping to take a stand for something I believe in:
The beauty of oneself.
But in an ecosystem that devours one another,
I lay unsecured to the ground,
Pervasive thoughts fill me veins and infect my roots,
Making my bark rot from the inside.
I’m afraid that the person I love will one day leave me,
Yet the more I reflect the more I realize:
Things don’t happen all of a sudden.
They build, they grow, and when the soil becomes too weak to contain them they fall.
Sprawling over the interstate highway of goals and aspirations.
And thus it requires a change in approach.
An unconventional way to reach the other side.
For me,
it was burning the writing of people who have hurt me.
It was taking a break from the daily commotion of life to just breathe.
It was reading Calvin and Hobbes, spending time with my dad, learning a new language, painting with friends, not looking at my electronics, focusing on my health, and rewiring how I saw the world
I’m insecure because I am afraid to be hurt again
Yet the more vulnerable I can be,
The greater power of confidence I hold.
Because no longer am I worried about my imperfections of
Overthinking,
Anxiety about the future,
Or whether certain friendships will die out.
I know that there is so much love I must have for myself:
For my ambitious, creative nature,
whose unique perspective often doesn’t always make sense,
Yet still finds beautiful nuances in the smallest of things.
I’m productive, thoughtful, kind, and reflective.
I appreciate those that care about me and love them deeply.
Self Love isn’t about gloating what you possess,
but rather,
Appreciating the colors of the flowers growing beside you on your unique path of life.
This poem was an exercise for me,
But a snapshot of time as well.
To show the world where I’m at,
With each of my fallen trees.
That it is not fun as I make it to be.
That the giggles in the corner,
Just may be a facade for a fallen tree.
With my uprooted roots I lay there in the middle of the road;
Cars honk, nature winces, yet I lay impenetrable to life expectations.
I stand firm,
In an ideological belief that I must rest here forever,
I, just like the plants around me, continue to grow in ways that the world cannot measure in the hour,
I stand tall,
Ceaselessly fighting against the elements
Hoping to take a stand for something I believe in:
The beauty of oneself.
But in an ecosystem that devours one another,
I lay unsecured to the ground,
Pervasive thoughts fill me veins and infect my roots,
Making my bark rot from the inside.
I’m afraid that the person I love will one day leave me,
Yet the more I reflect the more I realize:
Things don’t happen all of a sudden.
They build, they grow, and when the soil becomes too weak to contain them they fall.
Sprawling over the interstate highway of goals and aspirations.
And thus it requires a change in approach.
An unconventional way to reach the other side.
For me,
it was burning the writing of people who have hurt me.
It was taking a break from the daily commotion of life to just breathe.
It was reading Calvin and Hobbes, spending time with my dad, learning a new language, painting with friends, not looking at my electronics, focusing on my health, and rewiring how I saw the world
I’m insecure because I am afraid to be hurt again
Yet the more vulnerable I can be,
The greater power of confidence I hold.
Because no longer am I worried about my imperfections of
Overthinking,
Anxiety about the future,
Or whether certain friendships will die out.
I know that there is so much love I must have for myself:
For my ambitious, creative nature,
whose unique perspective often doesn’t always make sense,
Yet still finds beautiful nuances in the smallest of things.
I’m productive, thoughtful, kind, and reflective.
I appreciate those that care about me and love them deeply.
Self Love isn’t about gloating what you possess,
but rather,
Appreciating the colors of the flowers growing beside you on your unique path of life.
This poem was an exercise for me,
But a snapshot of time as well.
To show the world where I’m at,
With each of my fallen trees.
Jasmine Flowers
Nikhil Kulkarni
The jasmine flowers circle around the court,
For their smell encompasses my soul
Upon the riverbed they grow amongst each other,
A little white, in the summers day
Their smell sparks nostalgia of a time that passed lucidly by
For their sweet scented aroma, lives long past their pollinating butterfly
I was young, unafraid, and convinced in my belief
Of being able to do a wheelie with my bike, It must be no feat.
For the eight year old me had gone past the wave point,
And i watched, as the swirls of tsunami’s suddenly were strung over me.
It was no longer dancing in the white of spring,
Rather being reminded of a childhood with no strings.
One where I was free like the plants, living from the soil of the air it breathes
And speaking my truth like the flowers that grew upon leaves.
For now i have changed,
become something else
Something more, something different,
even rearranged.
Because it is no longer that I stand in peace and watch the wind wash over my face
Or see the pollinating bees flying high amongst the garden ahead.
With their little whiskers of feet,
spreading the yellow orbs of joy,
They bring color and life,
to a world, that would be blind without it.
And so I lay fondly in this grass, examining what lay in front of me.
A ladybug with no spots, unusual as it may be,
Has a story of some sorts, a family and more,
Because he, she, me and you, speak of beauty like love: flying free.
It rings, it sings, it even wallows in the air.
Dancing amongst itself from a bunny to a bear,
Life is so beautiful, so fragile in its sight.
They may only live for 3 months,
But you must commemorate, the jasmine flowers aromatic fight.
For their smell encompasses my soul
Upon the riverbed they grow amongst each other,
A little white, in the summers day
Their smell sparks nostalgia of a time that passed lucidly by
For their sweet scented aroma, lives long past their pollinating butterfly
I was young, unafraid, and convinced in my belief
Of being able to do a wheelie with my bike, It must be no feat.
For the eight year old me had gone past the wave point,
And i watched, as the swirls of tsunami’s suddenly were strung over me.
It was no longer dancing in the white of spring,
Rather being reminded of a childhood with no strings.
One where I was free like the plants, living from the soil of the air it breathes
And speaking my truth like the flowers that grew upon leaves.
For now i have changed,
become something else
Something more, something different,
even rearranged.
Because it is no longer that I stand in peace and watch the wind wash over my face
Or see the pollinating bees flying high amongst the garden ahead.
With their little whiskers of feet,
spreading the yellow orbs of joy,
They bring color and life,
to a world, that would be blind without it.
And so I lay fondly in this grass, examining what lay in front of me.
A ladybug with no spots, unusual as it may be,
Has a story of some sorts, a family and more,
Because he, she, me and you, speak of beauty like love: flying free.
It rings, it sings, it even wallows in the air.
Dancing amongst itself from a bunny to a bear,
Life is so beautiful, so fragile in its sight.
They may only live for 3 months,
But you must commemorate, the jasmine flowers aromatic fight.
My Name
Christina Park
My mother tells me that she called me Jong Jong when I was in her stomach. The name is like little bells, ringing and tinkling with delight and carefreeness. It is like little baby birds, covered with impossibly silky white down, chirping away. Or like tiny sticky toddler hands, clinging on to fathers with their chubby fingers and nails like pretty pink seashells. It reminds me of a time long gone, of memories only crafted from the vivid tapestries my mother spun when she told me her stories.
My Korean name is Park Jongwon. Some girls giggle with incredulity when they hear my name, a title for grandfathers and sons. But I would never trade my name for one of theirs. Their names are like aged paper, feeble and spineless.
My name is like gold, solid and pure. It is my mother’s voice. Oh, my mother’s voice. When she calls my name, it’s like a warm and tender hand, lifting hearts off of crumpled knees. It’s the salty drops of resolution and hardship; the piercing cries of rejoice and triumph. My name has the strength of a river, never resisting, always gaining. I cherish my name, a name that reminds me of me, a name that will forever give me a stepping stone and a guiding hand.
I like to keep Jongwon hidden away, tucked into the very crevices of my soul. It’s a name I want to protect and cherish. When my family calls my name it bounces off the walls, resonating with a deep rumble, a loud and proud sound that sweeps me off my feet and fills my chest. But as soon as I gently loosen the bonds I’ve made around my name and someone else gets a chance see it, they grasp it greedily and snatch it away. They pop it into their mouths, tasting it, savoring its sweetness and the way it melts on the tongue. Then they spit it out, all garbled and ugly, full of cracks and wrinkles, until I’m too ashamed to even try to mend it.
My last name is one of the mighty three: Park, Kim, and Lee. Park isn’t plain or common. It’s a powerful and striking name, as though sparked from the crash of a gong. King Hyeokgeose is the founding monarch of Silla, one of Korea’s Three Kingdoms. He is the great ancestor of all Park clans. I am proud to share my surname with so many others, since it is a reminder of Hyeokgeose’s mighty legacy. It has always been comforting to see those four familiar letters clustered loosely on a page behind another name.
I have an English name, Christina Park. Christina is a biblical name, meaning follower of Christ. It was given to me by my parents, woven together from blossoming hopes and aspirations. I use Christina at school, because it’s a name people can say with the precision of a cut diamond, clear and crisp, with clean corners and a polished sheen. It’s a name with many homes of its own. It’s the sound of soft, whispered phrases. A reminder of love. Of innocence. Of childhood. Of devotion.
I have two nationalities, two languages, two countries, two homes. Nothing can show the different sides of the real me better than my two very different names.
My Korean name is Park Jongwon. Some girls giggle with incredulity when they hear my name, a title for grandfathers and sons. But I would never trade my name for one of theirs. Their names are like aged paper, feeble and spineless.
My name is like gold, solid and pure. It is my mother’s voice. Oh, my mother’s voice. When she calls my name, it’s like a warm and tender hand, lifting hearts off of crumpled knees. It’s the salty drops of resolution and hardship; the piercing cries of rejoice and triumph. My name has the strength of a river, never resisting, always gaining. I cherish my name, a name that reminds me of me, a name that will forever give me a stepping stone and a guiding hand.
I like to keep Jongwon hidden away, tucked into the very crevices of my soul. It’s a name I want to protect and cherish. When my family calls my name it bounces off the walls, resonating with a deep rumble, a loud and proud sound that sweeps me off my feet and fills my chest. But as soon as I gently loosen the bonds I’ve made around my name and someone else gets a chance see it, they grasp it greedily and snatch it away. They pop it into their mouths, tasting it, savoring its sweetness and the way it melts on the tongue. Then they spit it out, all garbled and ugly, full of cracks and wrinkles, until I’m too ashamed to even try to mend it.
My last name is one of the mighty three: Park, Kim, and Lee. Park isn’t plain or common. It’s a powerful and striking name, as though sparked from the crash of a gong. King Hyeokgeose is the founding monarch of Silla, one of Korea’s Three Kingdoms. He is the great ancestor of all Park clans. I am proud to share my surname with so many others, since it is a reminder of Hyeokgeose’s mighty legacy. It has always been comforting to see those four familiar letters clustered loosely on a page behind another name.
I have an English name, Christina Park. Christina is a biblical name, meaning follower of Christ. It was given to me by my parents, woven together from blossoming hopes and aspirations. I use Christina at school, because it’s a name people can say with the precision of a cut diamond, clear and crisp, with clean corners and a polished sheen. It’s a name with many homes of its own. It’s the sound of soft, whispered phrases. A reminder of love. Of innocence. Of childhood. Of devotion.
I have two nationalities, two languages, two countries, two homes. Nothing can show the different sides of the real me better than my two very different names.
Untitled
Anonymous
The final lines of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony 6, Pathetique. The upper strings drop light, fluffy pizzicato notes, like plopping smooth round stones in water, the sound moving silkily through the air, tamed and softened by a light vibrato and a careful scooping pluck with the fingertip.
I glance around, refraining from staring at the music which is already ringing inside of me, drawing my fingers like heavy coils of rope so that the notes are inevitable
Each ringing pluck drops like a footstep on the walk to a pure, clean, world, filled with soft heavy light and sweet warmth, a meandering endless walk where the silhouette of a loved one becomes masked with cottony whiteness until……
It's just pure bliss.
I glance around, refraining from staring at the music which is already ringing inside of me, drawing my fingers like heavy coils of rope so that the notes are inevitable
Each ringing pluck drops like a footstep on the walk to a pure, clean, world, filled with soft heavy light and sweet warmth, a meandering endless walk where the silhouette of a loved one becomes masked with cottony whiteness until……
It's just pure bliss.
Untitled
Anonymous
The problems I went through when I moved to a public high school with 2400 students after attending small international schools in Germany and the Netherlands for six years cannot describe my personality. My personality can be best described by the email I wrote to my guidance counselor, after she contacted me when two teachers were concerned.
“I had a hard day yesterday, because I felt difficulty managing my school work, college applications, and personal life. I believe this is a very normal thing for seniors to feel at this time of year. I know what it feels like to be anxious and depressed, and I certainly do not feel that way right now. College applications are making me reflect on my life and think about personal issues. I believe that is not a dangerous thing to happen. I was bullied for almost two years and I wanted to leave high school because I did not feel safe. I spoke honestly with my teachers and I resolved all the issues, so I no longer feel any stress, and my teachers completely understood my situation. My teachers told me that they would respect my privacy and feelings, and would refrain from taking further steps without my consent.
But at the end of the day while I was waiting in the school office for my parents to pick me up from school, I felt forced to speak to someone with authority that I didn't know at all, and I couldn't trust or feel comfortable confiding in him. He refused to leave me alone until I specifically asked him if I could have some space, although I clearly showed with my words and body language that I was uncomfortable. He seemed frustrated and annoyed that I refused to talk to him.
This event makes me regret that I did not keep my emotions under control. I feel that there are sometimes negative repercussions to opening up to teachers and adults at school to explain my emotions. I do not feel comfortable explaining what exactly is worrying me to someone I don't know, because I am under stress for personal reasons.
I have my friends and family that are supportive and respectful of me, and I trust them. They are able to support me through this situation. However, I feel scared when I am called into the office to talk to someone that I do not know, or I feel pressured into talking to an adult with authority. I am a private and introverted person. Talking about my personal issues is difficult for me, even with people I know well. Handling this issue with the support of the people closest to me is extremely important to my emotional stability right now.
I would not like to be called in to talk to anybody at the high school office for the moment, because my experience from yesterday made me feel as though my rights as an individual were not completely acknowledged. I would like to remain completely anonymous in this situation, so that I do not feel that my rights are violated. I do not want more people to know my situation, regardless of their experience or authority at this school, because I feel like this situation is escalating instead of being resolved. I would like to maintain trust in the people I have confided in so far, since I believe they were trying to help. Although I am mentally capable of explaining exactly what I am feeling, I am 17 and a minor, and I believe I am not mature enough to empathize with every adult at this school, even if they tell me they are just doing their job.”
“I had a hard day yesterday, because I felt difficulty managing my school work, college applications, and personal life. I believe this is a very normal thing for seniors to feel at this time of year. I know what it feels like to be anxious and depressed, and I certainly do not feel that way right now. College applications are making me reflect on my life and think about personal issues. I believe that is not a dangerous thing to happen. I was bullied for almost two years and I wanted to leave high school because I did not feel safe. I spoke honestly with my teachers and I resolved all the issues, so I no longer feel any stress, and my teachers completely understood my situation. My teachers told me that they would respect my privacy and feelings, and would refrain from taking further steps without my consent.
But at the end of the day while I was waiting in the school office for my parents to pick me up from school, I felt forced to speak to someone with authority that I didn't know at all, and I couldn't trust or feel comfortable confiding in him. He refused to leave me alone until I specifically asked him if I could have some space, although I clearly showed with my words and body language that I was uncomfortable. He seemed frustrated and annoyed that I refused to talk to him.
This event makes me regret that I did not keep my emotions under control. I feel that there are sometimes negative repercussions to opening up to teachers and adults at school to explain my emotions. I do not feel comfortable explaining what exactly is worrying me to someone I don't know, because I am under stress for personal reasons.
I have my friends and family that are supportive and respectful of me, and I trust them. They are able to support me through this situation. However, I feel scared when I am called into the office to talk to someone that I do not know, or I feel pressured into talking to an adult with authority. I am a private and introverted person. Talking about my personal issues is difficult for me, even with people I know well. Handling this issue with the support of the people closest to me is extremely important to my emotional stability right now.
I would not like to be called in to talk to anybody at the high school office for the moment, because my experience from yesterday made me feel as though my rights as an individual were not completely acknowledged. I would like to remain completely anonymous in this situation, so that I do not feel that my rights are violated. I do not want more people to know my situation, regardless of their experience or authority at this school, because I feel like this situation is escalating instead of being resolved. I would like to maintain trust in the people I have confided in so far, since I believe they were trying to help. Although I am mentally capable of explaining exactly what I am feeling, I am 17 and a minor, and I believe I am not mature enough to empathize with every adult at this school, even if they tell me they are just doing their job.”