clear as tears

way back when

they said that rain was when gods cried

//over the misery of the world? because they felt bad for their creatures?//

but crying always did me good,

as if I needed the tears

to clear my vision

and help me see again

 

so maybe then these god tears

are a shot at redemption:

everything is washed away,

a final burst of emotion

before the start of a new day

 

~ ~ ~

I felt obligated, or rather, the impulse to write because it’s presently raining outside and it’s been a while since it rained and I’m excited to see how the world will look more fresh tomorrow.

clear as tears, perhaps

washed away

Anyhow. I’m tired but I wanted to put something up, anything, perhaps as a sign that my creative mind is still bustling around and aching to be heard.

~ajc

to move a city//montreal

I was reading an article for my Cultural Anthropology class (exam tomorrow!) about climate change and it was saying that it was difficult to move a city because of rising sea levels. The phrase “to move a city” stuck in my mind, begging to be written about, and so, here’s the fruit of my mini productive study break~

I wrote this poem thinking of Montreal…

  /////

We always moved to different cities

/but why not move the city with us?

 

with its accents etched onto my breath,

its roads embedded onto my fingers,

its people engraved onto my mind,

the rich tapestry of cultures

breathing in the same air,

United by the spinning kaleidoscope that is this city

 

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Cities can only give so much

but when we leave, they stay,

Continually watering the dreams of its residents

 

and those who leave have only memories

stamped onto our minds,

dreams we don’t want to

wake up from

 

Until we return, finally,

and we are watered again by the city/its people/

its roads/its languages/its culture/

its music/

its soul

Wilco: One Sunday Morning Ekphrasic

ekphrasic: art created/inspired by other art

For my creative writing for the musician class, we listened to Wilco’s “One Sunday Morning” and wrote what came into our mind, or rather, what the song inspired us to write. This was the process of making an ekphrasic, which I actually did before with my Mozart poem story (click here to read a story about princesses, knights, and operatic love). “One Sunday Morning” was different, thought, because it had words and was a different genre.

Continue reading

to melt oneself into colors

Let me melt myself into colors

Like a candle melting into a puddle of wax, spilling everywhere, hot to the touch, leaving a mess

 

Perhaps, then, will you understand me?/ If I’m in the colors familiar to your childhood, the colors of the crayons you bought in the pack of sixty-four that you wanted to show off to your friends with the sharpener in the back?

 

You used to be an artist before too, smearing those crayons in your grubby little hands,

Proudly showing them off to your mother/who would tack it onto the fridge

A trophy

 

But now, when I try to explain,

You don’t get it

 

You want lines, you want sharp angles, you want black and white

And maybe, some gray/but not too much

 

But why not?

Wasn’t your favorite color red at one time?-

 

///

Wow, it’s been a while since I wrote poetry. It feels so good~ This was an ekphrasic, a reaction to someone else’s art. My friend shared some poetry with me and the line ‘melt into colours’ stuck out, begging to have its own piece. And so, this happened.

Hope you guys enjoyed it~

~ajc