I randomly remembered this poem that I wrote years ago (maybe around 1995 or 1996?) but do not have in this blog, as far as I know. It was first written for my friend David and later became my personal email signature. It's a good poem for any good friendship, perhaps!
Though shadows lengthen and fade
And seasons brown the blade
May we on friendship's lawn stay
Forever and a day.
Spring green leaves against a storm blue sky is a type of joy.
The sound of temple bells in the half-dark of evening, the smell of agarbatti and piled jasmine, a gentle breeze rustling the trees - that is a type of peace.
The smell of ripe, fresh cut jackfruit on a hot afternoon - that is a type of happiness.
When the headlights of a passing car throw shadow and light across your bedroom wall at 4 am - that is a type of loneliness.
When passing cars fill the rainy early evening with susurrations - that is a type of loneliness.
When you realize you're not actually a part of something that you are a part of - that is a type of loneliness.
When someone gets wonderful news or has something positive happen to them, when you see them smile and shout for happiness, and your heart fills with a vicarious joy, when you first thought is how glad you are for them - that is a type of wealth.
When you have a good memory that you can easily remember, with every smell, color, sound, and feeling, and just closing your eyes brings it to life even in your darkest moments - that is a type of wealthy.
When evening has fallen but the sky is not yet dark, when shadows appear in the unlit recesses of balconies and porches and on the fronts of darkened houses where no one is home yet, then a car's passing headlights throw brief and halfhearted light over them—this is a type of loneliness.
Imagine having just enough friends that you decide not to have any more, no matter how interesting, kind, or compelling a person is. This is a type of wealth.
Last night I saw the moon again
After so many cloudy nights.
I wonder if the moon likes the clouds
Because he can hide behind them,
Shine a little less brightly,
Give into the emotion
Of being alone in the crowded sky
Out of reach & untouched
On the outside looking in
For years.
Being angry & sad that we're still so broken despite literally more than a century of activism, art & effort is the wrong approach. A day may come when our voices fall silent & are silenced, when activism is dead & art forbidden. May every voice that can help hold back that day.
There is this dialect in the language of love
That I hear and see others use
Which seems forever unknown to me.
Though I don't need subtitles to understand it
I need experience to comprehend it.
Photo by Naitian（Tony） Wang on Unsplash
When I die
They will come for me
Carry me out under a sheet and
Wonder what to do with
My cats
My random notebooks full of words
That mean something only to me
My piles of towels and steel dinnerware
The plaid shirts and floral bowties
The ankle braces and walking canes
The daily medications and soymilk packets
The puzzle books and Kindle.
They won’t know what to do with
The memories that hover in each room
And on the balconies and terrace
In the bath and on the stairs
The endearments for each cat
The introspections on identity and desire
The monological battles fought in bed
On the couch and in the chairs
When the neighborhood slept or sped by in loud cars
The moments of desolation and joy
Of despair and wonder
Debates over loneliness or solitude
Over worth and privilege
Over rights and change
The poems that never heard words
The art that never saw color
The stages that never saw performances.
They won’t know what to do with these
Because they won’t see any of it
They carried all that out
Under a sheet
While they muttered about the weight
And wondered who to call
Checked their phones and their lists
For whom else they must pick up
Before they can say
They earned a tea break.
Photo by Mads Schmidt Rasmussen on Unsplash
