1st Quarter Poetry Journal Reflection

Traffic Jam

If it hadn’t been for the traffic jam

I might never have noticed

the mist hanging low above the cornfield

a sunken cloud

the nebulous haze of unbroken sleep

pierced only by the golden

cylinders of sunshine

and faint red glow of taillights -- they who,

among Nature’s lazy morning slumber,

have long awoken and long

slipped into the rhythm

of growing impatience.

Hesitantly

You say my name hesitantly

as if tasting a drink,

rolling it around your tongue

and swallowing delicately.

You’re wearing your friendly mask,

every smiling muscle in your face

trembling halfway, like

balancing the light switch between on

and off.

And so I do the same, we’re

two sides of a mirror

colliding, falling through.

Could I but decipher

the contours of your raw

skin behind your mask? for

my nose strains

to catch the subtle

smell of defeat.

August

August

is when new year’s resolutions

start to peel away

and the squeaky-shine voice

of conscience takes over.

August

is when you’ve outgrown your old

skin and try to stitch

another one back together.

August
is friends and strangers

switching roles

a film of frost on

every word.

August

is a balancing act,

a fiery maroon

coaxing dying embers.

August

is when mistakes and sweet

remembrances pulse back and

linger like

a crooked arabesque.

First thing, can we agree to give me a minor fangirl moment? I just want to say gush that the daily poetry journal response is literally my favorite thing every single day. The opportunity to honestly express myself in my weird, abstract, metaphor-adoring (see, this is what happens when you listen to way too much Lorde) way is really rare for my fast-paced life right now, and I'm constantly so thirsty for quiet reflection and appreciation of beautiful writing. *gushy hand gestures*

Okay so I'm done with that whole kiss-up-to-Mrs-Leitsch thing (but I actually mean it).

I don't remember which poems "Traffic Jam" and "Hesitantly" were responses to; I think I might have done a free write. "Traffic Jam", obviously, addresses the conflict between nature and human activity, which has been an increasingly common theme in my poems. In the poem, I sort of lament the fact that humans are constantly looking for a more fast-paced lifestyle, while failing to see the beauty in their natural surroundings. I paid a lot of attention to my diction (I just love playing around with words >_<) and imagery: "golden cylinders of sunshine" and "the nebulous haze of unbroken sleep" are two lines that I'm somewhat proud of.

The second poem, "Hesitantly", was kind of a weird experience for me; I wrote it in response to passing someone in the school hallway whom I used to have rivalry and tension with and I hadn't seen in a while. It brought up some... interesting ideas, because I wasn't sure what the person thought of me now that almost two years had passed and I wasn't sure whether he/she had let go of what had happened. It came out of kind of a weird thought process, but I liked the similes that I tried to weave into it, like "as if tasting a drink, rolling it around your tongue and swallowing delicately".

"August" was a response to the poem, also titled "August", that we read in class. I really worked on my imagery and metaphors in this piece. I tried to use repetition in an artful way, being very careful not to make it too monotonous or predictable (because that can happen soooo easily -_-). I also played around with my line breaks (wow the poem looks really narrow xD) and switched lines in the middle of phrases where they sounded kind of out-of-place and unnatural, trying to mirror the disconnected thoughts of teenagers going back to school in the fall. Last year, I did a lot of things that I now regret, so I wrote this poem in response to how those incidents made me feel and where they have now landed me.

1st Quarter Independent Reading Reflection

Well hasn't it been one hectic quarter. *sighs, arms akimbo*

This quarter, I finished a grand total of two books and abandoned one.

The first book I read was Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden, a historical fiction book that I had met on Goodreads (Goodreads is basically my Tinder for online book-dating xD). I was captivated by the intricately realistic detail and vivid emotions that Golden portrayed, a quality made even more astonishing by the fact that Golden is an American male author writing from the first-person perspective of a Japanese woman. This was one of the few books that I feel really deserved my "spiritual reading"; it really opened my eyes to the culture of Japanese geisha during the time of the World Wars, and I was also able to pick up and appreciate the beautiful writing style and figurative language. I feel like I really rediscovered historical fiction and I hope to read more in the future, because it was a window into a whole different culture and time period.

I am debating over whether to see the movie or not... I fear it might ruin the beautiful imagery in my mind from the book, but I also think it might be intriguing to see someone else's interpretation. For those who have seen the movie — any suggestions?

The other book that I finished was Angels and Demons by Dan Brown, on a recommendation from Jason Zhang, who claims that the book changed his entire perspective of the world. Unfortunately, it didn't seem to have nearly as strong of an impact on me. I read The Davinci Code, also by Brown, last year, and the first thing I noticed was how strikingly (and almost amusingly) similar these two books were. The storyline is amazingly parallel: Harvard professor Robert Langdon gets a call from a mysterious official late in the night on account of an unexplained murder, and he whizzes off to a famous location in Europe to investigate a series of obscure clues put in place by a secret satanic cult seeking to destroy the Catholic Church (while picking up an attractive young female scientist along the way), all in a matter of twenty-four hours. Hashtag deja vu.

This book was one of the faster reads for me, and I didn't connect with it on such a spiritual level because (okay you can disagree with me) there didn't seem to be as much human emotion and beautiful, image-filled writing to savor. Nonetheless, Angels and Demons did not fail to thrill and captivate me with Langdon's superhuman intelligence and the smooth elegance with which all the details of the situation fit together, and after finishing the book, it is hard to believe that the Illuminati doesn't really exist. I will never look at a one-dollar bill the same way.

I will admit that I didn't get to read as many books as I had hoped (BUT I CAN EXPLAIN) because I've spent these couple months scrambling around frantically, trying to adjust to the new rhythm of high school life, tackle a new AP course (fist...pump), get ahead in Science Olympiad, write my oratory speech for Speech and Debate, and manage to keep up with practicing violin, all in one big gulp, leaving me extremely limited time to pursue my reading and do justice to the title of my blog (wow that whole paragraph was one enormous sentence #syntax). I do hope that next quarter, I'll be able to squeeze out more time from in between my other activities to unwind and read.

Speaking of studying for Scioly, I actually believe that during the past quarter, I've read far more than ever before — not in terms of books, but in terms of pages and new knowledge that I've gained. Scioly, a competitive club in which students compete in various subjects in science (mine include anatomy and biology), is one of my most demanding extracurricular commitments. Soooo... does this count as my independent reading? *adorable smile* :)

During second quarter, my reading goal is to finish at least four books, including at least one classic (perhaps Victor Hugo's Les Miserables and/or Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, which happen to already be sitting in my Kindle library). I also want to explore more historical fiction, which is kind of a genre I just "rediscovered". One such book on my Goodreads to-read list is Kathryn Stockett's The Help, which I've been wanting to read for, like, forever T_T

City Roofs

City Roofs

by Charles Hanson Towne

Roof-tops, roof-tops, what do you cover? 

Sad folk, bad folk, and many a glowing lover; 

Wise people, simple people, children of despair -- 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, hiding pain and care. 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, O what sin you're knowing, 

While above you in the sky the white clouds are blowing; 

While beneath you, agony and dolor and grim strife 

Fight the olden battle, the olden war of Life. 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, cover up their shame -- 

Wretched souls, prisoned souls too piteous to name; 

Man himself hath built you all to hide away the stars -- 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, you hide ten million scars. 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, well I know you cover 

Many solemn tragedies and many a lonely lover; 

But ah, you hide the good that lives in the throbbing city -- 

Patient wives, and tenderness, forgiveness, faith, and pity. 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, this is what I wonder: 

You are thick as poisonous plants, thick the people under; 

Yet roofless, and homeless, and shelterless they roam, 

The driftwood of the town who have no roof-top and no home! 

In my narrative, "We are But Clowns", I explore the idea that the injustice of animal cruelty often goes unnoticed because appearances are very different from reality. The piece is centered around the fact that many people, oblivious to the cruel conditions that circus animals such as elephants are forced to live under, regard the circus as joyful and carefree. Little do they know that they enjoy the show at the expense of these animals' livelihoods, and quite possibly, lives. The circus, which expertly deceives the audiences by using attractive colors, music, and astounding performances, is able to continue and keep most people blind to their unethical practices, a saddening fact. To the circus impresarios, the cruel confinement and "training" of elephants are simply means to earn profit, as long as their dark secrets are not revealed. Thus, the audience lives under the illusion that the circus is a happy place, when in reality, the brightly colored roof hides so much pain and abuse, both physical and mental, that the enslaved animals endure daily. The theme that appearances are very different from reality is reinforced by the recurring motif of the clowns, a common symbol for feigning lightheartedness and humor to hide pain. Like the circus elephants, they entertain their audiences and must adopt public identities that are very different from who they really are, for they too are people and have their own lives, passions, and pains. I make this connection clear at the conclusion of the narrative, when I make a drawing of an elephant whose face has been painted as a clown. Audiences view circus elephants simply as entertainers, as clowns, but are blind to the injustice and cruelty behind the scenes.

Similarly, in "City Roofs", poet Charles Hanson Towne suggests that most of what happens in the world, both good and bad, is hidden because people build up barriers to hide their struggles. The roof-tops of a sleeping city give the illusion that the city is peaceful, when in reality, they hide the tragedies and pain in the lives of the people beneath, but at the same time also the "tenderness,/ forgiveness, faith, and pity" that still lives on alongside the pain. Beneath the roof-tops of the city reside a wide range of people, from wretched souls to patient wives, with very different backgrounds, who know virtually nothing of each other's lives. People build these roofs for privacy of their own accord, which is what the author meant by "Man himself hath built you all/ to hide away the stars". An instance of this discussed in my narrative is that of the circus. The red and white striped roof, another motif, represents the effort that the circus makes to keep its mistreatment of elephants under cover, for it profits off the audience's oblivion. However, this is but one example of a general human inclination for secrecy. Everyone has regrets, sins, and dark elements of their pasts that they wish to keep in the shadows, and thus we can never really see what happens beneath the roof-tops of our world.

We are But Clowns

(I know we didn't technically have to post our narratives, but I felt like it so hey why not?)

Look. We're as happy as any of you will ever be.

We spend all day parading around with our comrades, adorned in fake gold and the richest of colors, among the fairest of maidens swept up on our tide. We, fueled by this insatiable craze, bask in the applause, the acclaim, the approval. And maybe it's all just a double-edged scheme, but as long as I'm still standing you'll think I'm still fine. Am I right?

The thing about roofs is that they all look the same — stony and expressionless keepers of secrets by the side of the road, lips sealed shut, not telling a soul what they cover. Warm fires, tethers, filled stockings, broken plates, broken trust, broken hearts — and the roofs watch all, and hide, and no one ever knows.

Four years ago, I looked up at the big, round peppermint candy of a roof over the Barnum and Bailey circus, striped red and white like pleasant memories. Crowds buzzed in the stands around the periphery, the volume of their voices rivaling the music blasting the speakers. Flashing purple lights illuminated the stage with a garish glow. Eyes riveted on the three rings in which dancers and acrobats stood in full regalia, ready to begin their act. Clowns paraded up and down the aisles, squirting unsuspecting spectators with seltzer water. Waddling in shoes at least three sizes too big, one clown with bright yellow hair approached me as if to evaluate whether I was worthy of being his next victim, bright red lips curved like a pair of smoked sausages. I, a newly crowned tweenager, too young to be frightened but too old to be amused, turned away from this pasty-faced buffoon, stuck my fingers in my ears to block out the brouhaha and eyed the scene dispassionately. Impress me, you tacky dancers in traffic-cone orange. Give me a reason to be impressed.

My breath had yet to be stolen.

The acts of the dancers and acrobats made little impression on my memory; all I remembered were the elephants. They paraded out from backstage, with ladies dressed like brilliant spring flowers on their backs, footsteps in perfect synchrony. Arranging themselves in a circle, they performed a variety of stunts: perching on small stools, balls, and barrels, catching hula hoops on their trunks, balancing on their hind legs and each other’s backs.

“Jenny, look!” my mother hollered over the crowd’s cheering as she zoomed in on the elephants with her video camera. “Do you like it?”

“Um sure,” I said in an unnaturally cheery voice. “But do kindly refrain from recording your voice in the video.” This was a habit of my mother’s, a pet peeve of mine.

Though I feigned enthusiasm, my thoughts were swirling. For some reason, this part of the performance didn’t feel right. The dances and acrobatics had been much more entertaining, because they were done by people who had control over their lives and who had chosen to perform, but these elephants were different. Something about seeing them filing around and balancing in unnatural positions felt wrong to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time.

“Woah! The elephants are standing up! This is so cool!” my mother exclaimed.

“Okay, are you really this excited? Because I’m a ten-year-old kid so I think I’m supposed to be more excited than you are,” I muttered under my breath as I clapped politely.

I averted my eyes to a smaller ring on the side, where a circle of clowns tumbled, juggled, and performed other crazy antics. All of them, with brightly colored wigs, makeup, and costumes, differed in appearance, but in a way they looked the same: arching black eyebrows, puffy red noses, powdery white faces, like masks. I wondered what they looked like in their normal lives, without the wigs and makeup but simply natural, bare faces exposed. Each had his creases, creases that told stories, little bits of his soul, his family, and his life that were so much more a part of him than juggling or riding unicycles were. And yet the neon-colored balls and unicycles were all the audiences saw. I absorbed myself in this thought for a few minutes.

We know the bite of the bullhooks and the zap of the prods, the cans spewing Wonder Dust on our skin. We know the sting of the whips and the thud of the baton, all the wounds that you can’t see. The musty, narrow boxcars are our home. The soles of our feet are thick from walking long miles but we’re pachyderms only on the outside.

Something clicked inside me. How long had it taken to train these elephants, for elephants most certainly did not dance of their own accord? How much pain had they endured? How many bullhook wounds, how many whips had they lived through? How much had they been confined, isolated, shut away from the rest of the world in darkness? As happy as they seemed, adorned with bright accessories and stepping in sync with the music, what were they forced to hide that the crowds would never know?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small burst of flame and an acrobat doing flips, and the crowd began to howl as the music picked up its rhythm. My eyes swept around the scene, eyes and clapping hands and the walls glowing red, white, and happy. The circus wanted people to believe that it was a joyful place, and everyone believed it.

Suddenly, I felt a pang of guilt I couldn’t really explain. Why was I here among others, watching these suffering creatures, and cheering them on? Why had my family spent our money to see this act of torture? I was a ten-year-old child, and I was supposed to enjoy watching circuses, and yet I felt as if I shouldn’t be there, as if I were misplaced.

We are but lost spirits, ghosts, interrupted memories of our childhoods, stifled and beaten down. We are but automatons draped in wrinkly gray curtains, trapped inside bodies we can hardly call our own. We are but lonely souls brought here against our will with no knowledge of our destinies. We, trained to crack open our mouths as if in a smile to boast how happy we are, raise laughter among the crowds, who are oblivious to our suffering. We are but clowns.

Years later, I now sit cross-legged in a chair in my dining room, though the name “dining room” can only be used very loosely. Stubs of vine charcoal, trays of fresh Prismacolor colored pencils in all colors of the spectrum, sketchbooks, and drawings in various stages of completion litter the table. A clean sketchbook page and my graphite pencils arranged before me, I let my hands guide me as I begin to draw. The faint outline of a large head, the base of a trunk, and large, fan-like ears appear on the paper. Gradually, wrinkles, shadows, dimples, creases, — the fingerprints of time — materialize. The coarse, leathery texture of skin appears: nicks, cracks, deep folds like fabric in great need of ironing. On either side of the great head, I position the eyes, framed with thick, white eyelashes and myriad wrinkles — bunny lines, crow’s feet, smile lines, frown lines.

Picking up my Prismacolors, I slash the eye wrinkles with a vertical, diamond-shaped streak of Bleu D’Outremer, accented with Bleu Violet. I trace the outline of two black clown eyebrows with Noir, interrupted by cracks and splits in the skin underneath, and fill in the space between the eyes and eyebrows with stark white. And in the center of the face, I draw a big circle of Rouge Carmin and Rouge Toscan like a runny dollop of paint forming a streak down the trunk amidst the wrinkles.

I take a 6B pencil and swirl my initials in the bottom corner, dotting my “J” with a heart like I always do. Standing up to stretch my legs and rearrange my artistically messy bun, I look down at my sketchbook. The wide-set eyes, broad white forehead, and arching black eyebrows gaze back at me pleadingly, and with a start, I realize that this is a face I recognize.

A close-up on the eye of my drawing..

Go Light Your World

"Carry your candle, run to the darkness

Seek out the helpless, confused and torn

And hold out your candle for all to see it

Take your candle, and go light your world"

~Chris Rice, "Go Light Your World"

These are the lyrics that have forever been etched into the deepest creases of my spirit.

"Go Light Your World", a 2004 single by the American singer-songwriter Chris Rice, has landed its secure place among my all-time favorite songs. Though this song is generally considered to be a piece of contemporary Christian music, I feel that it can speak to and inspire people of all religions and backgrounds. This excerpt, the song's simple but elegant chorus, embodies the heart of the song's message by using an extended metaphor: Our candles are our spirits, and we have the power to inspire and influence others, to change their days, outlooks, maybe even lives.

I first came across this song two summers ago, at OASC (Ohio Association of Student Councils) summer workshop. Although I didn't know it at the time, this week turned out to be a big aha-moment-life-changing experience for me. Each night, we ended with a Closing, where all of us campers would gather cross-legged on the patio under a blanket of stars and sing OASC songs together from an inspirational songbook, and our staff members would sometimes give us short motivational speeches. The closing that I feel impacted me the most was Friday night. We sang Chris Rice's "Go Light Your World", all our imperfect voices blending together into one. Afterward, we each received a long white candle, and our staff members lit them for us. We carried them as we walked back to the dormitories, a path of flickering will-o'-the-wisps lighting up the night sky. It was a cool, breezy night, and we relit each other's candles whenever the wind blew them out.

Kindness, like fire, does not dwindle when given away. It only spreads. Lighting someone else's candle does not diminish the size of your own flame. But it does add another light to the night sky, another bright spirit, shining all its own. And chances are, that candle will go on to light many more, leaving a trail of flames in its wake. Just the same, giving someone a small act of kindness or love does not diminish what you own.

People often ask, "What is the meaning of life? What was I sent here to do?" I think Chris Rice has at least part of this thing figured out. We're here to light candles. So let us keep our own candles burning bright, shield them from the wind, and pass on the flame to others. Make us a beacon in darkest times; a thousand flames, woven together into constellations.


Oh haha to end things on a slightly lighter note, here's a (super adorable) picture of me from this summer's vacation so pretend like you guys care a lot—