Tag: Lit

In Between the Lines

Posted on by Emilyn in Poetry

“My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.”

– Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters

Reading Virginia,
as if I understand her morals.
“Do not,” She has written.

Analyzing Woolf,
“One cannot think well,” she says.
my tongue is dry of new air, to “…love well…”

“…sleep well…” – Nightmares mostly,
leftover sleep and a dew of overdue promises
evaporating off my lips,  purging with blood.

She ended, “…if one has not dined well.”
I began: “Do Not Speak to me about Hunger;
Speak to me about War.”

Here I stay: barefooted in between
airport tile floors –  they tell me,
Gritting my teeth to the dreams,
forbidden desire and will to shining silver linings.

The cruelty, unrivaled, taking parts of a dream,
leaving most to die, but she’s hungry,
they told her the war’s over, but she won’t heel,
filling a God-sized hole.

–         Emilyn Nguyen, In Between the Lines

3:45

Posted on by Emilyn in Prose

From midnight on, I couldn’t help staring at the light ignited from the phone; waiting anxiously for a message I, for some reason, knew I wouldn’t receive. The night is longer than day, so cruel of overthinking possibility being held in the air. To add, the moon couldn’t keep away, its light kept shining; temping me to call, like the loose thread on my sheets I couldn’t resist to pull – I didn’t. I couldn’t wait till day, so the moon could meet the sun, and the stars could lie in the clouds. The coldness of the night’s snow shown sheets embraced the moon, cradled me into the clean white blankets, but I wanted the embrace of the burning sun as it would rage. Rage for me, rage at the moon.  By 1 o’clock, the sheets became my comfort embedding itself into the heat I radiate, waiting impatiently. Imagining the warmth of my blankets as the radiating heat of your body against mine. By 2 o’clock, I went unnoticed, the sky lightening, my crippling exhaustion leaving me numb. My eyelids heavy at the hallucinations I was witnessing. You became a vision, and like the moon you were fading, fading – gone. My fascination towards phone lights dimmed towards to growing moon – bigger and smaller like the strength of my heart. At 2:45, I became taunted to close my eyes completely. Through withdrawal, I only crash, slipping slowly under my sheets completely. I only fear that I will suffocate myself; deprive myself of air before 3. From the moon to the stars, counted the stars and the constellations like I counted the minutes I waited. The 45 after 2, taunted me, the titanic sinking deeper in my heart. Second per second, minute per minute waiting until 3. By 3:45, I only saw how your eyes lit up when you saw me in the night’s moonlight, trying to count the stars between our giggles in our dreams…

–         Emilyn Nguyen, 3:45 A.M

Meghana

Posted on by Emilyn in Prose

In the reflection of the sunrise,
a cloud disrupts the clear sky with one single tear,
and I can see the joy in the eyes of those who held you first:

White, and pure into their hands, before it evaporates. Notice how she smiles, molding into the palms of your hands, but she may stay or leave you, no matter what she’ll leave you a mark of goodness, reminding you that it exists. It might be an unparticular date, January 27th, but the clouds still form. There might be rain, maybe snow today, perhaps hail, but this cloud stands alone, brushing dust off the back of her hand to start waving, whispering her wishes in a bashful hush. “Something ought to come out of those clouds, something out to come of me.”  Twisting through the white-blue sky, a background of blue snow, her words are a reason to become winded. She becomes all of the elements of the sky that one holds between their fingers while their head is tilted back and up blinded by the brightness of the sky. You don’t even know. Within you, you’ve shared stories, and painted in breezes. Illusions unfold, and rewind together within you sometimes you escape once again though… you always return to watch over me once again. Sometimes, you will not say a word, but in visuals you write in strength, smiles and hope – aspiring to inspire. You grow in shapes and sizes, aside the bright sun, and you’re a cloud. You can become everything and anything here or even beyond the white-blue skies.

It feels like a cotton breeze,
as I watch the sun rise, and you appear.
“Meghana,” they call you.

–               Emilyn Nguyen, Meghana

Bittersweet

Posted on by Emilyn in Prose

I am bitter.

I am not sweet.

I am not even a taste of in between. I am not bittersweet with a glimpse of both lemon taffies, and my grandmother’s lemonade. I am so very bitter.

I admit I will never stop appreciating the beauty of – yellow custard lemon tarts, for its ability to be sour, and at the same time: tasteful. You see, I am very good at using useless metaphors, weak symbolism, and analogies that speak like chimes to the people of the gray.

I over analyze life, but I am very bad at telling people how I feel – so he interrupts me, and says that I am sweet, never bitter, “and if you don’t believe me, you’ll believe me when I tell you that your voice is my favorite sound, no matter what words you use – from your analogies, weak symbolism, and useless metaphors. I must be the people of the gray.”

You don’t understand why I don’t discuss my first love with you. I repeat that it is because I am very bad at telling people how I feel, but especially because he is too sweet, and this might mean that I am in love with him still. I am very bitter at even the idea love.

I will admit though, that I am starting to believe in him. His eyes are too soft for me to handle – too sweet, and I don’t think you understand my fear when you look at me with those eyes and tell me that you think that I am sweet, that inside…

“I love you.”

I am not sweet. I am bitter. I am not even a taste of in between. I have repeated, and don’t you dare repeat those words, because I don’t believe in love. I don’t know what love is. I am no one to love. I am not bittersweet with a glimpse between my mother’s key lime pie, and my father’s burnt lemon tarts. I am bitter. You don’t understand why I don’t discuss my first love with you. He is too sweet, and I am too afraid to admit that I am vulnerable – so I am bitter as a hypocrite confessing my feelings to the people of the gray.

They tell me that I shouldn’t invite them into my life if they are inconsistently in love, but love is anything but inconsistent. For since the second I have met I fell in love with his sweet eyes.

You couldn’t possibly understand why I don’t discuss my first love with you and it is because he is sweet, and I can’t fight the bitter sweetness to be vulnerable to admit for the first time – to any one:

“I love you too.”

–            Emilyn Nguyen, Bittersweet

 

 

Pigeons

Posted on by Emilyn in Poetry

(Sometimes) Lovers are strangers – recipients of commerce.

Lend me a pen for swooping calligraphy.
Give me a time,
a place at the Willow Tree
blooming orchids of fate but,

(You) Mourn bliss, sacrificed for Oblivion.

No sense,
no Holy Halos –
Hopes to be forward but short –

hopelessly distant,

Birds (have to) bless you
beneath the sun’s radiance –
fly to you, to wish to embrace you.

Carrying penned words of:
ardent thanks,
sincere sympathy,
greetings …

then sealed.

Free (fall) freedom feelings:
blushed cheeks,
scarlet smiles,
faint porcelain skin,

(Before) falling head on in love with words,
setting skies, and singing birds –

I fell over my heels with reminiscing of home.

Free (flying) as the high atmosphere –
unslept hours staring at the depth of his breath,

To stare to an endless dream.

(Let go) Exhale a petal,
pick a petal,
my dear mockingbird.

Love me or Love me not –

pick a petal,

drop a petal…

Thoughts (so) breathlessly taken,
here or there,
timed and placed.

(You) Send me part two,
(can) will fly from heaven,

and back to me.

When birds (fly) amongst the sky to you and (back),
Only to settle where it may: (to me)

penned –home.

–               Emilyn Nguyen, Pigeons

 

 

From Arm’s Reach

Posted on by Emilyn in Prose

What do you do when your dreams are further than what feels like you can reach, but it is the only thing that feeds your heart and mind with adrenaline tingling throughout your body to the tips of your fingers and toes to only stretch further than you possibly could believe before? What do you do when your dreams are so full of uncertainty that you can’t help but ponder upon it every second of every day? How do you make the time pass faster to see where you would end up?  How do you slow down the process to make sure that you haven’t missed a step, or a moment to record this journey on paper with pen? Give me a moment to breathe, and ground myself in my roots; to inhale the air of determination, and exhale the stress that it beholds. I’ve found my voice and ambitions on the other side of places, those I am unsure of and unable to talk about until I get there. All I hear about, even now, are comments of uncertainty, and the shouts of markers that I have missed. All the thoughts that surround me are those of what people is unknown, and there is no faith from people but myself. They told me to walk away, but I know that I can push from millions miles further than they believe I can. An arm’s reach is only a step, but day by day, it’s an arm’s reach that will get me there. Reaching for heights that I will grasp one day, but for now, from arm’s reach.

–                Emilyn Nguyen, From Arm’s Reach

 

Blank Canvases: New Beginings

Posted on by Emilyn in Life, My Journal (My Life), Photography, Prose

In a bundle of blankets wrapped around my legs, my toes still wander among them. They curl in a cold numbness, but move slowly outside of the sheets, only crawling back for sanctuary when it had decided to wander too far, sending a glimpse of the winter air invading the warmth I feel.

In retrospect, there are several candles burning simultaneously. Scents intermixing and seemingly to interchange with each other – “Vanilla Bean  Noel”, “Leaves”, “Vanilla Frosted Cupcakes”, and “Apple Orchids”.  The beginning of the wax melting and the ends of the wicks burning into the glass Mason jar, their aura of entitled seasons and settings – colliding with memories gathering at the frontal cortex of my mind, telling me to “remember…”

I remember faintly, but waking up to a New Year, my eyelids are heavy amongst morning light, but I can still feel the ache of my body against the hardwood floor beneath me. There is a mess of my books scrambled amongst the polished hardwood floor. Paint brushes and pens are spread apart messily from each other next to opened paint palettes, and untouched new sketch books – all lying still as if I were painting still life; a beautiful mess.

My journals are opened up to my favorite entries, for I was frantically flipping through them for inspiration; in a frantic search for a new idea. I have a fear to become a closed, quiet, and reserved mind, but against the wall, a blank canvas is still at the head of the mess is white and waiting patiently for a painting anew.

I think I must have fallen asleep staring at the canvas. There is still a paintbrush in my hand, wet with moisture. I reached for my brown journal the simplicity in the page catches my eye. It says, “If you want to know where your heart is, look to where your mind goes when it wanders.”

Useless.

I must admit I have been an empty mind, searching for what my mother calls a “lost cause.” Empty canvases are bad luck.

I can taste the candle burning now, overpowering in the memories they have connected to this room – this home. I drag my blankets off my legs walking to the window, and the snow is too bright for my eyes. A new sheet of ice has appeared on my window, but the white sheet of blankness and stillness appeals to me, leading me to start wandering.

I am falling into a white abyss.

There are indications of where I am, but I am inclined to find the root of its origin. There are parts that remind me of my childhood like a flashback of photos – quickly, so you feel like so much time has passed. What you don’t see is all the time that is coming.

You don’t know how much time is coming, but think far. Think far ahead. Dream far ahead, and only look back when reflecting, to better improve yourself. Wander. Wander far ahead with your dreams tucked behind your ears.

I recall memories of comfort and dread and in between them now is where I lie. It is something that I am sure of; something I am connected to. It is a tangible feeling that I feel. One minute you imagine that you’re eight, and others an age of sixteen.

To realize, I quiver in a dream walking as a paintbrush on a white-as-snow canvas, letting myself fall heavily into a white abyss. New snow falls for a new year; this lost cause is a new beginning.

–

I’ve picked up the paintbrush and begun to paint.

Photography By: Michelle Dee

Currently Listening To: Move Together By James Bay

–           Emilyn Nguyen, Blank Canvases: New Beginnings

Twenty-Fourteen

Posted on by Emilyn in Life

Hellos are met at the front door with sincere waves and smiles. Notice the curvatures of their lips – their off-white teeth and cracked lips shining like moonlight towards an opening of one’s heart and letting someone in. The creak of the porch served as a stoic warning, but I entered. My awkward posture, fidgeting hands, and a discrete smile, I entered with such caution, and propriety; still feeling the uneasy step in to a white abyss: a new year. A blank space it was. In the depths of my persona, I was a pair of bright eyes, very little of a voice, and an overfilled brown leather journal. On the twenty-fourth page of it, I wrote:

 “Twenty-Fourteen is about an evolution; a change in time with an entirely different meaning; an emerging voice; another side of fear; laughing endlessly; loving ceaselessly; running regularly; remembering the smallest moments; reading hundreds; writing even more; an exploration somewhere near, and somewhere far; an adventure; learning something new, and something old; freely living – infinitely, and fearlessly.”

Now, I think:

Changing. Perhaps.

Evolving. Entirely.

I finally found my voice, and it was no longer in the symbolism of neither my poetry, prose, nor strokes of my brushes, but the sound waves when I spoke. I didn’t believe my mother when she told me that “you’d grow into your voice. It’s okay to be shy,” but eventually I did. My anxiety when speaking eventually evaporated and my voice did emerge along with an obnoxious laugh, the way my mother says my father tilts his head back and squeals in silent laughter, and a contagious chuckle. I evolved. I was no longer just entering the front doors with sincere waves, and smiles, but I was letting people enter with a darling hello. I became observant of the smallest of memories in book characters, and new found friends. I was the greeter at the door by the end of Twenty-Fourteen.

I let people freely enter my life. I welcomed them. I met people that loved me, changed me, cared for me, but also love, and cherish in return. I met people for days a time, only a week, to grow as sisters – still growing, still evolving. I met people that laughed and loved me for one bad joke and an obscure giggle. I met people that understand me, and that don’t; people that were distinctively at the opposite end of the pole of where I was, but those were where the adventures were best. For once, I was content with not being able to understand content with having neither an explanation nor reason for all that I do in my lifetime. I can love science while loving religion as an old blanket; I can be creative while being innovative…

 

“With a mind like yours, stay true to what you believe…”

I was blessed with adventures, small and large with these people. Explorations with them, I found pieces of myself in each place I found myself wandering in, the good and the bad: my plan to start anew. I was met face to face with my fears and my failures, and this alone was a blessing. Through my books, my long strolls, running reminiscing in the rain, spinning in summer dresses, getting lost in old libraries, biking in the woods, I was no longer afraid to let go, be wild, be free, and be misunderstood. Twenty-Fourteen loved me, made me, broke me, and changed me.  Until now, I realize that I’m surrounded by such energy in this life, of both love and such fearlessness, I am no longer afraid to wander alone into a welcoming white abyss: this New Year.

 –            Emilyn Nguyen, Twenty-Fourteen

 Currently Listening To: Your Song By Elton John

 

Collection of Memories of Twenty-Fourteen:
(Opening My Memory Jar)

  • Beyond the Microscope: (January) Medical Center Science Research Symposium – With Claire, Matthew, and Allison
  • Love in 14 Ways: (Valentine’s Day, February) Carnation Giving at Hospital – With Claire, Juliana, Meghana, and Allison
  • Discovering Water Colors: (March) Rediscovering Water Color Paints! How Beautiful!
  • First Large Canvas Painting: (April) C’est Paris! Painting of Paris Completed!
  • Honored: (May) National Honor Society Initiation Ceremony
  • First Fears: (May) First Science Research Presentation – With Matthew, Allison, Claire, and Science Research Class
  • All Dolled Up: (June) Junior Prom – With Allison, Claire, Juliana (and Meghana in spirit)
  • Claire Bear: (July) Claire’s Birthday Surprise! – With Meghana, and Allison
  • Motivational Friends = Motivation is Contagious: (July) CURIE Academy at Cornell University – With CURIE Girls Internationally
  • Carolina Shores: (July) Outerbanks – with Lily, and Family
  • Hurricane Arthur: (July) Maryland for Sanctuary – With Ethan, Emma, Lily, Danny, Timothy, and Family
  • Land of the Free: (July) Little Ethan finds comfort in my arms for the Fourth of July Fireworks in Maryland – With Lily, Emma, Ethan, Danny Timothy, and Family
  • Seventeen in Ithaca: (July) Birthday Insomnia Cookies, Breakfast, Presentation, Lunch & Dinner – With CURIE Girls, Lily, Timothy, and Family
  • Broken Humerus, Not Humorous (July): Timothy’s Surgery
  • Running in Place: (August) Rochester Scholars Session B: Biomedical technology: Engineer, Doctor, or Both?
  • I’m Listening: (August) Rochester2014 Session B: Cochlea: Microphone of the Inner Ear
  • “I Can’t Pose!”: (September) Senior Photos – With Michelle
  • More Bitter than Sweet: (September) Last Year of High School
  • Trojans, Trojans what’s Your Cry? V-I-C-T-O-R-Y: (October) Spirit Week/ Homecoming! – With Friends
  • Last Season: (October) Meghana’s Last Tennis Match of her High School Career: She won! – With Juliana, and Bethany
  • At Hallows: (October) Cat for Taekwondo Halloween Party, Zombies for Halloween Trick-Or-Treating – With Lily, Danny, and Timothy
  • Before Thanksgiving: (November) College, College, College [Applications]
  • Thankful Thanks: (November) Thanksgiving at Lynn’s House – With Lynn, Michelle, Lily, and Family
  • Midnight Rumble: (November) Black Friday – With Lily & Mom
  • With the People of the Era, Where I Belong: Senior to Senior Intergenerational Dance – With Kat, Meghana, Claire &
  • Elephant Santa: (December) Gag Gifts Secret Santa – With Friends
  • Baby, It’s Cold Outside:(December) Holiday Party – with Allison, Claire, Meghana, and Juliana

IMG_7070

 

The Present & Future

Posted on by Emilyn in Poetry

There is no future without the present day.

There is no present without an idea of the future.

Perhaps this is where our problems begin.

I wish I could be able to live more in the present,
but my head is always dreaming about a future.
I forget that I have to get there first.

I don’t have a future yet –
it has yet to only exist in my dreams.
So I lay my head down walking on clouds, as a dreamer.

I do not know what will happen –
Nothing is for certain, but for the sake of shame,
I admit it is the only thing that I have control over.

Now – Day by Day for and to a Future Anew.

I’ll admit that I carry a fear of the future,
its aura of mysterious vines and suspenseful drapes.
In my dreams , I am able to a push them aside,

Now – Dreaming of the Present,
What I must do for a New Future.

Finally, something we can agree on.

–         Emilyn Nguyen, The Present & Future

La Laconde (The Mona Lisa)

Posted on by Emilyn in Poetry

La Joconde1

Now that you’ve seen her face,
the skin between his fingers tingled of the emptiness of a brush:
That smile illuminated the world around her –
her patented smirk, softly carved out;
her delicate features,
her piercing stare spreading,
contemplating.

There are many counting countenances of those who try to replicate her – I.
the skin between my eyebrows, in wonder, in utter introspection,
Those eyes confused the audience around her:
For there is a woman with confidence in beauty.

Exceeding all manifested bounds.

From 1503,
From a canvas taut with lack of a woman’s color,
scraped the muter shades with a blade’s edge,
Layering her textures – alive.

Seeing and
Painting myself over the top.

Her paths are painted inset – layered beneath the certainty and knowledge of her years.
All of this useless chaos swirling in about these empty distractions, and feeble
pretense –
as you stare back at her, the roads seems clear.

Her scintillations glow a bit more gold than white,
in front of a locale of open fields, feared of windblown hair.
She is the center of the color blocked mountains.

Her perspective is in my self-possession.

Her lightly dust on her powdered skin
shading in soft contours in vibrant hues of blues
and,  reds and,  yellows and,  greens as forests grow.
Blending dusky shades and blurring shadows
to highlight regal undertones.

The names became opulent
a match for your alias,
She was Bernadette, Carol, David, Leo, Meryl – Myself.

Finished in 1517 to –
She is seen through the glass of geometric pyramids,
I am standing behind a crowd until I am the only one left standing,
And I have become her eyes, and her contagious smile.

I know what she in the canvas  is saying:
“I know what the wind tastes like,
and I am scared no longer.”
To be a woman,

to be a confident woman – with  ambition , dedication and pride…
To have the eyes and a smile illuminating the world around her,

 To be La Laconde.

–         Emilyn Nguyen, La Laconde

1: La Joconde: The Mona Lisa by Leonardo Da Vinci (French)