Poetry
poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence ~ Audre Lorde
Untitled
I find it hardest to write
When I’m happy
When my emotions are stable
Chemically balancing
Stimuli vanishing
Feeling much less like therapy
And more of a challenge
One comprehensive mountain climb
Melancholy is a tonic
That only the sad comfortably stomach
Makes the jolly man vomit
Maybe it has to be this way
Maybe I must
Absorb myself
In it’s state
Maybe by ruminating
Too hard
The happy would erase
I fear to dissect it
Lest it turns to dust
And I adore it too late
There’s a transparency
In those windows
Riddled with mildew
That the happy glass
Doesn’t have
It I struggle to see through
I wish to able to to find
Inspiration
In sunshine
In rainbows
In faerie gardens
In flowers that sit in pretty rows
But I only know how to really
Talk
Speak
Voice
Debate
Pain
And how it freezes you
How the downs in life
Reduce you
Like a jeu
But produce the best in you
Too
I want to swing from rafters with glee
And write about these things
Unapologetically
But the human in me
Sees happy as
Defeat
As far too neat
Not abstract enough
Not deep
When I’m happy
My grasp on language
Simply retreats
Maybe I’m stuck believing
Torment is living
And contentment is giving in
And that’s why these happy states
I don’t stay in
I can’t hold my happy too tight
Or like a butterfly it just might
Fly far far away
Out of my sight
So I keep worry to the side of me
And despair in my pocket
So that when I’ve lost it
That joy
That harmony
When from it I’ve been accosted
I can slot right back in
Back into the gloomy
Semantic glory
I know best
The safest kind of nest
And lay my writers block
To rest
by Forest
If/Make It With You
i replay the record till it scratches and skips,
i keep repeating the same old verses even when
they start to stink; it is good enough that the smell
is there to remind me of you, and every inch of
your stupidity that once endeared you to me,
somehow i do not have it anymore and i can
only find it in shallow lyrics where i pretend there
is a better story than this, some sort of alternative, but
i just know i would have made all the same mistakes
only to swear by my innocence—if i bleed white
then so be it, it is proof only to me and no one else;
if i bleed red, then let yourself be marooned by me,
when i know i could launch more than a thousand ships.
track 1: accidentally in love - counting crows
i secretly grew tired of this song, and now i resent it
even more, even more now that it only reminds me of
you—it uses the word “love” every other verse and no
longer do i want to associate you with that grotesque
word, no longer do i want to know what you do or who
you’re with, but freedom is cruel now that i have it,
and so were you when i had you, i do not want for any
more in this world, i take everything i own for granted.
track 2: kiss me - sixpence none the richer
it is better, a source of relief even, that this is one track
that does not bring back the thought of you, i think of
autumns i have never visited, and leaves that do not fall,
i am alone and none the lonelier, but i have friends that
i dial up for days and nights and answer to every call;
there is too much love that once i had for you, that now
is just all up for fifty per cent off, i let your love go; it
wasn’t my call to make but i do not ask for any payback.
by Leya Kuan
The Fall of 2024
Today I tried to write again, but my mind is empty and
So are my hands; I have spent them all away, on
Blouses just to prove that I lost a couple of pounds,
And bits of some things to show myself that I have more
Than a couple of pounds—my mind is far, far away, and
Yet—but—so—and—half of me has been here to bear
Witness, to bare what is left of me before it all chips
Away, a way to remember the words I have used only to
Pour the ink all over the curves and blur it all back
Together, but at least this is what remains, and what is
Left of me, the last bit of common sense that I will
Never use, from the beginning to the present end.
I am still young, I tell myself, and there is still so much
Time left in the world, all of it, time enough for only
you and I, in the lateness of the morning and the early
Beginnings at the end of the year, but every candidate For my affections brings this old feeling that only you
Bore, by land or by sea, whatever it is, there is still
Distance by heart or by proximity, so I keep ringing up
The couriers and reminding them of my free shipping,
I keep calling you up so you know that I am living, who
Cares to live if it is not for your love? Spill that apathy
From my lips to your faithless country, spit that venom
From your faith to my fate, let it go every time we touch.
Today I remind myself that I am a writer so I must write
But I have given all my words away to the garden of
False fairies and godless gnomes, I claim it’s charity but
I truly only need a facade of generosity for my vanity,
I let myself believe that I have kindness in my heart, so
I may put myself to sleep in the belief of my purity,
You have robbed me of my sentences to string you
Along, now there are no more words to fill up a meaning
And there are no more syllables to make up your song,
You have judged to sentence me to a silent misery,
If there is some regret in you, may it chain you to every
Inch of the servitude that I once volunteered for you.
I carry with me my words and our noises, I recite it with
A couple thousands steps along the way to put me in
God’s way and to my own ease—if physicality is your
Intimacy then you must be as pure as the Madonna, if
Words are my intimacy then I should be as filthy as any
Other smut on a whore, but who are you to fall to your
Feet and declare yourself my friend? And who is he to
Turn on his feet and become a heartless foe? Call it
What you want—whatever lies you may tell yourself
And wherever your heart belongs, whoever you are
Holding me now in your hand, I know a thousand
Poems cannot save me anymore, more than ever before.
by Leya Kuan
You are Just a Friend
Every lie you tell me belongs in Heaven
and every shred of truth can go right down to the depths of Hell—pour it out of half my soul and fill up your cup
Just because you are just, just because we only are just,
You make me nineteen in the same way you are, you
Bring me back to the childhood I lost when I was fifteen,
Stop the time and stop that man! Stop it all at the line,
Can’t we just be alone with no other entity to prey upon
Us? Can’t we be left alone on our own without a prayer?
Maybe I will never be her, I cannot love you because
Someone else got to get to you first, but there is this
One beating in my heart that I cannot put to a feeling,
But how nice that she got to hold you in her arms and
Declare that skin hers to feel to a fault, I get to hold you
Too but without a word to hold me accountable, even if
I am content with this worthless warmth, Winehouse has
To warn me some waiting urgency, that my heart will
Break for you every time, just because I am/was not her.
And as much as I dream and delude myself into
Believing I am some film star with a camera trailing my
My lines and my moves, you will remember that certain
Part of me that no one else will bother with, no one no
More, the more I feel, the more I would like to forget,
I write this in my underwear, I do not let you look
Under where my truth leads to, there is nothing more
Than what meets the naked eye, I am so predictable that
Everybody already knows, everybody talks as if they do.
Whatever you want to call me, love, or Leya,
Let me fall in love alone and mend the heart you did not get to break, it is not your fault that my days are filled with you, even worse when my days have no hint of you,
Have you the courage equal to my desire? I clap with
One hand tied behind my back, fingers crossed, in
Anticipation or to relieve me of any red herring you laid
Out for me to trip all over, I could swear that there was
Someone for me to love, another Troy for me to destroy.
by Leya Kuan
A Writer’s Prescription for Unexplained Aches
A large dose of words—
by candlelight and in patterned socks/ to be
found on a shelf within a strong spine/ or passed
through lips/ in song/ chant/ prayer/ apology/ in a
coffee shop with your friend with kind eyes/ cradled
in your lover’s arms/ a large dose of words/ large enough
to fill pages in blue ink/ or overflow your kitchen sink/ repeat
until you see emerald grass and a sapphire sky/ until the night
air is not hungry for your blood/ repeat until the weight of the
world lifts from the small of your back/ until each word lays
a brick for the house you needed since your bones were young
Untitled
i. An ex-lover told me that I chew people up and spit them out after I am finished with them. They are left half-consumed, the enzymes from my saliva still working at their gnawed flesh. I cannot deny the way I used to toy around with hearts like a curious kitten, pawing back and forth at them until they served no use to me.
I did not know what love was then.
Maybe I still don’t.
ii. Jackson C. Frank’s warbling through the tin-toned speakers reminds me that even if I caught a boat back to England, maybe even to Spain, that the blues would catch up with me either way. And not the type of blue that washes over you as a weighted blanket, a calm that envelops you in peaceful slumber. But rather a blue in which you drown, that eventually consumes you in all manners of sadness. A dark blue tidal wave crashes into you, shifting tides and carrying you in its undertow as you struggle to surface.
Please do not leave me.
Please do not make me succumb to this spectrum of blue.
iii. Scars are just the remnants of an open and bare flesh wound. One day, with time and effort, they will heal. Topical ointments do their damnedest to soothe the tissue, but it is not a cure-all healing salve. Just like heartbreak. Just like the way you left in the middle of the night, in silence. A ghost that haunts me even now; to this day. Perhaps I deserve this. Maybe it is our God-given right to have our souls remain shackled at the ankles for all our transgressions against one another.
You were right: I am but a lowly sinner, I can try to atone at your feet, exalting your name and paying you alms for all the petty jabs and stabs I managed to get in.
But so are you.
A toxic flower with petals unfurled, yearning to bloom, but no proper fertiliser and care, so you remain an unsprouted bulb, your roots so meek and feeble that the former shadow of yourself no longer exists.
by Christa Lei
Breaded Chicken Fillet with Egg Recipe
Trigger warnings: implied eating disorder, body shaming
—
One: boneless chicken breast–spineless as you are. You laugh at the shadow of my reflection and yet you loathe yours; you simply cannot bear the sight of your own face dawning upon you. How does it feel to be wretchedly cruel, to the world and to yourself? Two: marinate Italian style. Ride the yacht you cannot afford and come home to your two-storey apartment paid with dirty money. Speak a language you cannot fathom. Call me when you need me, between the lines of “what does it all mean?”; let me ask you the same: how did you mean it all? Ridicule me, please, for not believing in a god that let your most beloved pass as though their existence were disposable. How can you live with it all, carrying the weight of your words like twisting a dull knife pierced into my wound? I make it all about me, don’t I? (I do, I do, I do) If I make this about you, will you forgive me for my untamed wit they all keep chasing me for? Three: eggs. The first crack in the shell is in the image of you crumbling beneath the lightest of pressure. The unfamiliar has always been daunting, hasn’t it? I wonder if you think of me now, between the lines of the poem you so desperately try to comprehend, yet it remains unbeknownst to you. Where has your brain gone amidst all the facade that is your beauty? Does it hide beneath all your grandeur? Four: garlic. Freshly minced to perfection. You do have an eye for it, don’t you? Every crevice of my existence is a sin for yours. All that I am was a pitiful cry for help; the girl meant to be at the back of the photograph—were their preening eyes enough to make a saint out of you? Serve on a sizzling plate. Hot and scorching and burning through your bones. It was debilitating to be known by you. The love I know of now at the touch of my fingertips is a far cry from the grasp of your cold hands. Let me devour what I deserve for it is all mine—none of the food in your mouth is ever worth digesting. I am sorry for choking you with a love you never deserved. I have learned my lesson to not swallow things I cannot fit in the roof of my mouth. All of it now is teeth and gums–a vision you would surely die for. Wallow in the limelight of my glory, would you? The pleasure is all mine.
para mi vato
unas palabras para el vato que quiero
a piece of mexican love, from my chicana heart.
mi vato, eres lluvia
eres mi tristeza y mi crecimiento,
me haces sentir diferente cada día,
aunque mis emociones terminan siendo las mismas,
te quiero, podría declarar fácilmente bajo cualquier juramento – eres tu, vato, el que tiene mi corazón.
yo sé que tu sabes –
pero también sé que el recordatorio no hace daño. así que por última vez, mi vato, te quiero.
sinceramente,
mia.
by M.S. Blues
mi amor está aquí (esperándote)
para chris
–
siempre fui hipnotizado por ti, quierdo,
mucho antes de que te conviertes en hombre, te quiera.
cuando dejamos de hablar la primera vez, traté de olvidarte.
me entregué a las distracciones y al mal amor.
lo cual funcionó, porque durante años, mi mente estaba vacía de cualquier recuerdo tuyo.
luego vino el cine el 1 de noviembre mi cumpleaños –
habían pasado años desde que te vi,
sin embargo, viejos sentimientos regresaron a mi corazón,
y me di cuenta de que ahora eres un hombre, ya no solo el vato que me gustaba en aquel entonces –
tu voz se hizo más profunda,
tus ojos tenían un propósito,
y tu boca pronunció palabras reales,
no las tonterías y maldiciones que pronunciamos en aquel entonces.
después de estas observaciones, supe que mi amor se había encendido nuevamente,
sólo la llama era mayor que antes.
continúe siguiendo esa llama,
… y comenzamos a hablar de nuevo,
olvidándonos de los años transcurridos entre nosotros.
era como si volviéramos a ser jóvenes, salvajes, y libres.
a medida que pasaban los días, más me enamoraba de ti.
se volvió demasiado difícil de soportar,
así que un día abrí la boca y te lo dije,
y tu amor mió, respondiste diciendo: “intentemoslo.”
no podría haber estado más feliz.
pero, como suele decirse, la felicidad no llega fácilmente,
me abandonaste, amor, antes de que pudiéramos dar el primer paso juntos como uno solo.
no entendí, así que hice lo que sólo sabía. me fui de nuevo y tomamos caminos separados.
pero eso no significa que no estuviera devastada.
durante meses, amor mió, eras todo lo que tenía en mente.
cerraría los ojos y tu rostro estaría allí, mientras tu voz resonaba en mis oídos.
supongo que realmente eres especial.
–
luego llegó febrero,
y volviste a la anarquía de mi vida.
me recogiste de hamilton y, con un amigo, nos aventuramos por la ciudad.
se intercambiaron palabras bajo los ojos de sol,
y hice lo mejor que pude para escuchar,
a pesar de la hipnosis de este maldito amor que me invade cada vez que hablas.
solo desearía que supieras lo que me hiciste.
al final de la noche, declaramos hablar de nuevo, reavivar la llama.
y lo hicimos.
hablamos y esa llama en mi corazón se convirtió en un infierno de amor abrumador.
creo que finalmente reconociste mi amor por ti,
porque me expresaste una verdad que has albergado durante mucho tiempo.
crees que no eres lo suficientemente buena para mi.
crees que me arrastraras hacia abajo.
amante, no podría estar más en contra de estos pensamientos que tienes.
déjame decirte, mi amor.
te mereces todo lo que hay en mi –
cada maldito pedazo de mi corazón, alma, mente, cuerpo y amor.
te lo doy todo.
pero la elección es tuya, mi amor.
tienes que luchar contra tus demonios y cruzar el otro lado de la carretera –
porque ahí es donde estoy, esperando.
mi amor y yo estamos aquí, esperándote.
by M.S. Blues
My Faith in Fate
You used to be someone—
Never mind who, never mind when,
But you used to
Cry at heartbreaking moments of a talkie,
Sob at the words at the end of a knife,
Do your tears dry up when you’re sixty?
Or is it all gone,
That surface-level sorrow, that lonesome feeling,
At the sight of your first wrinkle in the mirror?
You wished to be someone—
Never mind those dreams, never mind them at all,
Because they are figments of your imagination,
And they linger, still, in the corners of your mind,
Vanishing behind the shadows of your children,
And on the heels of your husband’s leather shoes,
A singer, no, you couldn’t get to the highest notes,
A surgeon, no, you hate ketchup and blood,
Resigned to being somebody’s wife, someone’s mother.
You talked about yourself—
Never mind your name, never mind your voice,
They see your face, pat your husband on the back,
They talk to you through your husband,
You don’t know words, you are deaf and mute,
You are spoken for, and speak only when spoken to,
A child, you are ushered towards the other wives,
Have fun, play with toys till it’s time to go,
You hate them all, the talking heads and drunkards.
You don’t know what to do–
Never mind yourself, never mind yourself at all,
They don’t know your name, they don’t remember,
You are Mrs So-and-So, So-and-So’s mother!
Your mother-in-law is a mother only to to your husband,
Only till you belong to the Earth once more,
To be resigned to fate once is divine punishment,
To meet a coincidence of fate again divine death,
And yet the dirt in between your toes disappears.
by Leya Kuan
Shadow of a Star - Leslie Cheung
Shadow of a Star
Has your soul changed at all
Since we last spoke?
This month your voice sounds the loudest,
I remember your death more than your birthday,
I remember the tears I shed every April First,
Mourning each passing year as it
Comes and goes like the droplets on my cheeks,
I remember your shadow more than your presence,
Mourning a person I never even knew
A voice on the radio, a reflection of light,
In your grasp, in your eyes, the world is small.
Has your voice changed,
Would you sing for me, if Heaven, if Hell,
Could you remind me of
The way things used to be,
Even though I never knew it, never knew you,
But maybe—just maybe—
In your foregone reality, there’s still the possibility,
And I think we could’ve been great friends,
Or maybe you would’ve hated me,
Maybe it could’ve all passed us by,
Like nameless ships in the sea, nothing ever exchanged.
Love of my life, love of many lives,
Your voice remains in my mind still,
You are gone, but a mere shadow,
But maybe–just maybe–
We shall leave together, you and I,
When I am alone, your soul remains with me still,
A friend in the dark, a voice, a shadow nonetheless,
I have to remind myself that you are far away,
And I do not know you, I never did,
Yet there is today, a missed opportunity of time,
Until next time, farewell my concubine.
by Leya Kuan
You/I Will
Sweetheart, I call you,
One day, if that day should ever begin,
You will be with your family, your children, your wife
And you will think of me, of us,
And you will stare at the yellowed photos of us,
It sends you into a trance, it was a simpler time,
Of days of flowers and folded notes,
Fleeing, fleeting, lost to the ashes of time.
Darling, I say your name,
You will be asleep on the couch, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned,
You can’t hear me, or rather, you choose not to,
And I’ll wonder whatever this was all for,
If not for love, then for the guarantee of it,
I’ll put a blanket over you, think about holding a pillow over you,
And the days go by, just like that,
Slowly, surely, lost to the obscurity of our family’s time.
Sweetheart, I say again,
You will tell some story about us being young lovers,
And I will–obviously–beg you to spare me the blushing cheeks,
Each time you tell it there’s a different detail,
Each time I smile there’s a different wrinkle,
But when the children and grandchildren disperse out the door,
You’ll still be waiting there to see if anyone’s looking,
Softly, secretly, a kiss between two old youngsters.
Darling, if that day should ever come,
Then I’ll call my friends up and tell them I’m a fortune teller,
I’ve got the hottest news on celebrity gossip and lottery numbers,
But you’ll sit here, and you’ll wait for me, as I brag and cackle,
If that day should never come, then you will be there,
Still in a trance, still next to your wife, and I will be
Gone, or somewhere far away with someone else,
Always, after all, still on your mind.
by Leya Kuan
The Apocalypse Never Ends For Some of Us
They call it assimilation
I call it annihilation.
The belief that you must shed yourself
to access the white man’s bliss
when they have labeled you the white man’s burden.
It cuts like a dull knife, rough, & jagged, and though there’s no blood
there’s still loss; not all violence is as clear as a fist to the face.
Many give in to survive, but whether it is self-inflicted or imposed
it creates a wound that will not close. Not on its own.
I’ve heard it said that not all skinfolk are kinfolk
and it’s sad how we confuse monoliths for unity
and shrug off our communities.
They teach us if we don’t speak right we don’t deserve to be heard
by who holds the power. They cannot exert it if they don’t have it.
And they cannot have it unless you give it, so instead they take it.
And it’s not a crime if it’s sanctioned by the state
when violence becomes law they don’t have to negotiate
because ‘the law is the law’.
This is why they don’t want us to think.
So, when they call for my assimilation
I will respond with this declaration.
-yo no me quito.
I will not swallow the mothballs you try to feed me
I am at my softest physically and mentally
and that makes some people uncomfortable
(with themselves).
Statues of aphrodite reveal that the goddess of beauty and love
had some meat on her bones, as do I,
but I know I am not the West’s ideal type.
Maybe that’s why I’m not allowed to take up more space.
Maybe that's why I’m given less room to wiggle in.
My ass and tits have grown a bit
when it happened; I didn't realize that it was sacrilege.
I wonder what Taino deity represents beauty. I wonder what she looks like.
Is her hair long? Does she view herself as a her? Does she think she is beautiful? Or does that assessment come from others? Does she even care for beauty? Or is it just a known part of her?
I’ve gone through a metamorphosis and came out the other end thicker.
Who says the caterpillar must become a butterfly?
Maybe I’m a moth.
I like my softness, it makes me sturdier, and don’t we all need some padding
from the beatings of this world
from the beating of our own hearts
from the beating of the drums that tells you to get back up.
The butterfly is drawn to the flower.
I am drawn to the light
in the darkness.
BLOOD SUCKING SUCCUBUS
You’ve stuffed my heart with empty words
Fatten and full, ripe for picking.
You’ve eaten the hearts of all those before me
But you won’t eat mine.
You’ve bitten, nibble, sucked,
No more than a mouthful
But you won’t fill your belly on me.
Find someone else to roll over,
Crack open their ribs and feast on their soul
Fill your desolate tank of broken hearts,
But you won't get mine.
Not over my dead body
Or my blood-fattened heart.
PENT UP
I wanna rip every fingernail out from beneath
my skin and stick metal screws in their place
I wanna throw punches through a wall
with the temperament of a white man
as I watch the nail slow jam their
way further into my finger, so I’ll
Have a reason.
All I need is a reason.
I wanna slice open my skin and pull back
Each layer of fat and a muscle, rummage
Through each tendon until I find the veins I’ve never seen
glow through the first layer of my skin
And pluck at my veins until my heart stops,
So I’ll have a reason.
All I need is a reason.
I wanna rip my jaw clean off my skull
then people will finally fucking listen to me.
MARIGOLDS
“You’re worth more than marigolds” but less than your shoes. Footprints left on the petals of my skin and the roots of my mind. Brittle and bruised, picked and used by you. Absent of any light or hope, I’ll wait for you. After all you put me through, I’ll wait for you. You planted yourself next to my self-worth and shouted “Pick me, pick me”. As soon as I took you back, you bruised me. A wilted flower in a pretty garden, no one will want me.
I. won’t. wither.
When my husband turned 70
They gave him a cane carved
with the body
of the red-winged sparrow.
I was left
with dried lily petals
melting into my tongue
as I peeled
hardened skins of summer
grapes beneath my fingernails.
When my husband turned 75
He brought a dancing girl home.
Her name sounded like
"Red-tipped carnation of the West Wind"
She plucked the seeds out of
spring strawberries
with slender twin fingers.
When my husband turned 80
He filled my bowels with
cheap white wine
and forced me to sleep with
alley-way cats.
I shared a feast
of rotting salmon and fishbone
with the blind black
tiger.
When my husband died
Our son carried me upon his back
to the Forest of One Thousand Whispers
He set me beneath the eldest oak
Kissed my spotted cheek and
bade me a tearless farewell.
Still,
My legs entwine
with the roots of the
great Oak, my fingers take the flight
of ten thousand cerulean
swallows
My lips form the
babbling brook of the east meadow
as my eyes turn to
seaglass
beneath unturned stones.
I. won't. wither.
The Fireflies Sing Tonight
Murmurs hum in the thick August air like the
beating of a bumblebee's heart, the invisible
orchestra's cadence drawing the final curtain upon
the fox's tail cradling an orange sun.
Mother runs through the auburn fields, coal-colored
braids trailing in the wind. Her weathered hands carry a
tin pot, where she drops moonstones, bluebonnets and
lovebugs in a concoction of sap — "Honeypot tricks," she calls them.
As the sky becomes swatched with indigo hues and
black clouds, I take a wooden spoon and clang it against
Mother's honeypot. The fireflies come to feast upon her offerings
and, in return, show me the path to the city.
Twinkling lights dot the skyline as jazz beyond the bayou
shakes the earth beneath the soles of my feet. Coca-Cola lines
stretch around the curb as ladies in black sequins and
smoky pearls enter golden doors under neon lights. Boys
and girls in summer shorts & pinstripe tees chase the sparks
of orange fireworks.
I follow them but they are lost in cobblestone storefronts. Busboy
caps line the streetlamps as newspaper rags form coats of steel along the
brick walls of alleyways. A man with broken teeth who looks like me
asks, "Got a quarter for me, Missy?" but the fireflies ignore him and fly on.
I sequester myself in a silent theater as a piano crescendo
collides with the rainstorm brewing outside. The movie
begins to play, and I begin to cry for Mother.