Tag: Poem

To Be Sorry

Posted on by Emilyn in Prose

 “Don’t come back here! I have a bomb,” he said with no hesitation in his voice.

With an undertone of laughter, he pointed at me with pure determination to frighten me away. As laughter arose from the depth of the leather bus seats and the black aisle, he was joined by the other kids in roars of squeals and giggles. I walked down the bus aisle to find an open seat, praying it would be the next. As he pointed, I took a few steps back. Hold your head high. Hold your tears back. I heard my father’s voice in the back of my head. Hold your chin up, look him right in the eye.  I remembered my grandfather said in his story of a war he once lived through. His wrinkles on a corner of his eye as he pounded his fist against the table to get a strong point across. There was no fear in his eyes, his body figure was tall and strong as I looked up at him. I’ve been through this before. Pre-school, when I came home with red blotches on my skin – bruises forming from an abusive friend. She was ‘just kidding’.

 As I made me way to the back of the bus to find a seat, he began to chant louder into my ears. “Don’t come back here! I have a bomb! Don’t come back here! I have a bomb! Don’t come back here! I have a bomb!” he repeatedly shouted. A silent storm started to erupt. Snowflake turned into hail as its rage, but I forced the tears behind my eyelids till it ached; till my heart began to pound harder and my skin began to react to the heated yellow bus.

Slowly but cautiously my feet started to move, as if courage was something I was taught; as if my heart could tread any faster or as a myocardial infarction could erupt. My feet were weights, dragged on by life, as it must go on. My dry slanted eyes of my ethnicity forced tears back until my eyes were a desert that never sought water. My hands climbing back to the back while eye were captured on me, my hands trembling towards every seat. A treacherous journey, day by retched day, hour by hour, minute by minute, second by slowing second. My head was constantly on a move to find a seat. I repeat: a seat.

 My eye caught onto a girl crying. I remember her face. Her long dirty blonde locks down her back. I remember her. “Sixteen and pregnant”. I remember her name from the whispers down the hallway. To believe them was enforced by the cliques of popularity. She was a savage sent off from the clique: let go. A used tool of a popularity game. True or not, she was human, and beautiful. Her beauty was a bright, glowing face, blonde hair down her slim figure against the others in her group of friends. Her face in the hallways, as she stopped me. My face covered in acne, from the late nights stress and heredity’s genes. My eyes in complete shock to what exploded out of her mouth, “There might be some acne cream to fix your face, but it won’t fix you.”

As if the rumors were worth a death of innocent girl. Rumors hold a fate, as if words meant more than truth. Jealousy raging and fighting an innocent girl who gave me the same fate. I looked at her, and her eyes were placed on mine, and I opened my mouth and said, “I’m sorry”, as if there was no past between us. I smiled at her, and her tears started to ease. Her stained face of mascara started to dry upon her face. She smiled and started to laugh among the other on the bus.

Quick remarks, and kind hearts could only go in such way. Maybe we met at the wrong time, and that’s what I’ll tell myself for now. Maybe one day, years from now, we’ll meet again, and we could give a friendship another shot. For now laughs from afar seemed too close, and hallucination-like views were too real to be forgiven. Chanting kids like screaming angry chimpanzees on Animal Planet.

If finding a seat was this difficult, maybe walking a few miles home seemed to be easier. I turned away and started to walk towards the exit of the bus, the bus driver giving me an ugly stare, “Where are you going?” he asked. The bus monitor’s stubborn eyes glared at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. ‘Sorry’ seemed to be the only thing I could say. I repeated, “I’m sorry”. Sorry, a word of apology, a word for expressing pity.

“Nothing to be sorry for, but please take a seat,” he said.

 I nodded. “Sorry.”

Again, a seat on a full bus of kids was rare. Two in a seat. “Can I sit with you?” I asked a girl. Her brown hair was put up in a messy bun, her soccer cleats on her lap.

“No. This might be too close to the back for you. I don’t want to be hurt by the bomb too.” She replied.

I nodded. Again: “Sorry.”

I reached the back of the bus, closer to the boys who acted as terrorists. As if my eyes defined who I was – it did, but as if it defined who I was in the inside. Stereotypes are too mainstream.

 Closer I came to the back of the bud, kids were joined in by other kids on the back of the bus, one screamed, “Do come back, maybe It’ll straighten out your eyes!” Laughs started to erupt, exploding from a volcano. Sparks falling from the sky, first piercing my skin, then burning it, killing me. I sat next to that boy…the bus monitor asked him to move over so I could take a seat. His eyes were watering. I wasn’t sure if he wasn’t taking his bad day out on me or if it was from the laughter. As if it was funny from the beginning.

 To this day, these words still ring throughout my ears, and it’s still packed in the back of my mind. I still remember the people who were on that bus, their faces and how they still give me dirty glares as I pass down the hallways. Maybe a few years from now, in a café shop, we’ll get along, and maybe we could give it another shot, starting with a hello.

 I looked at him with his spiky hair in class today, and he helped me pick up my stuff when I dropped it. While picking papers up, our hands collided and our head bumped, and I didn’t realize it was him, but he has the same eyes: blue and bright. I forgave him for everything…”Sorry.”

–         Emilyn Nguyen, To Be Sorry

The Eight Figure Knot

Posted on by Emilyn in Prose

It was the adrenaline of being tangled, swinging many feet from the ground, with you, holding the rope, anchoring me, keeping a hold of me even when I was levitating miles above. From the top, my arms were cramping up, and my legs were shaking – my fear unbearable – but I quickly close my eyes and climb further up looking down when my heart was speeding at its brink and – there you are.

You look like the boy who kept his desk too clean in Elementary School. The boy who rose his hand to answer all the questions in Middle School, moving on to High School as Valedictorian. You look like the boy who grew up denying everything, as if you were any less than a common man – you are not a common man. You remind me of myself, with your glasses always standing firm at the bridge of your nose. Securely they stand, reflecting the light when you turn your head from side to side, glancing at the rock wall; glancing at me. You seem like one to savor the rain, and the humidity of an exotic forest; one to capture every moment in a picture even if the droplets are pelting into our skins. Your hair is short but long enough for me to notice the curls above your ears. They collect sunflower pollen, and you don’t notice, but the curls above your ears constantly dancing to the light shown in.

You seem to be the equivalent to my white bedroom walls, holding my secrets to the brown wooden frames capturing my success. I believe that they are bound with the ties to my God. My religion forbids suffering, but my desire persists. I admit that there is dust collecting on my bookshelves and perhaps this is a sin to my desires. Scarcely, I am heard, with my mind that creates the words: I am ready.

The vines I have started growing up these walls, and I know that the time has come. I tuck my hair behind my ears, and let my eyes wander to analyze your face, only when you aren’t looking. I see your eyes in my peripheral vision, so blue, and clear to me, as you tie the ropes to my waist.

My reflexes – even for my eyes – are fast, but it is hard when I am with you. Your eyes keep meeting mine, as you tie the robe to my harness, the rope gliding against my skin, and around my waist precisely. When our fingers touch I wonder if the butterflies that flooded me reached and carried throughout you.

My fingers trace the rocky walls – rough, and I analyze the heights I will climb, and I close my eyes, as I feel your hands bend the rope into an infinity sign – twice. Despite my angst of heights, my fear seems to be approaching its death. I tuck my discomposure away behind my eyes, and this time, I hide from my anxiety, from these thoughts. I glimpse down at the ropes last knot, and lastly at your eyes, and I know that: I am ready.

You tell me that once you reach the top yell at the top of your lungs that you’ve made it, because “you are capable of everything” and your worlds ring inside of me. Your hands are worldly to a fortune teller. You were everything you aspired to be – everything I aspire to be. Climbing became your hobby, for you were afraid of shallow living only aiming to heights. With this in mind, I realize: I’ve made it.

I looked down at my palms, lines and creases, blended alike. You are worldly. Your hands are worldly to me. Eight times again – Infinitely.

–          Emilyn Nguyen, The Eight Figure Knot

Birthday Wishes

Posted on by Emilyn in Prose

From the first to the last day, I want to write a story about the memories I’ve experienced and the words I’ve exchanged. Sentences to chapters I’ve written, avoiding the sun, because it was something we could never control. As the earth moves, and the sun – so stationary stays – daylight soon moves to sunset, quickly to night, and the moonlight blinds me, and all I know is the time is drying out. I write and write as the sun rays glide across my paper, sometimes blinding me, and my story never is complete – never feels complete. I sit on a hill; a forty five angle away from the sun, for it isn’t like a candle I can relight, but my candles are blown out, the night sky finally fades and I wish to be a year younger, never to let go the memories, for words were never enough.

– Emilyn Nguyen, Birthday Wishes

My Father’s Shadow

Posted on by Emilyn in Prose

My shadow holds me against my bones, reminding me that I am a whole, walking to the place on paper, speaking in dark shadows of words. Be the whole, be the half, be the fraction of a fourth that becomes missing. If this slicked hair becomes hazy in the shadow, my shadow is lying. I am the mess, covered by a shadow – my shadow, or yours. I hope my shadow is the handshake with my father. I hope he’s back to stay, beside me, dancing shadow in shadow until the rose fades to black as night time dawns, taking my father away from me again. Shadow, come back with my father. Be back with his shadow, because I am not whole without his touch, I am lost. Be the handshake with my father for just one night. The roses clutched tightly in my palm, forgetting the thorns for just one night. When the light returns I hope he’s there, but you’ve left me with a white rose, and his shadow behind me, watching me love at my own pace.

–         Emilyn Nguyen, My Father’s Shadow

Hide and Seek

Posted on by Emilyn in Poetry

It took a long while for you to find me
through our treasure trove.
Look for me, and an acquisition it was,
my heart treaded to your tarantella.

Through the white desert sandy blankets and the spilled seas,
you came to search for me.
Closets, Hidden Hatches, Attics,
I told you to find me, come protect me.

Despite the tedious counting, you told me you were coming.
I questioned if you had surrendered to your fear of fear,
so you could win one battle against these chromosomes.
I thought I’d be lost forever, that you’d be lost forever.

Marco to the Polo,
crimson tie-dye on your childish shirt,
Colors wanting to collide, to bond but only,
Stuck between two intersecting ways of a chromatography-inked maze.

I yelled, “Over here!” to help you,
only to confuse you with the echoes drumming in your ears.
I was paralyzed in time, tick to the tock, dusk to dawn.
Waiting – hinting you by ruckuses, pots and pans,
making it easier for you, from my love for you.

Only until you reached my hiding spot,
your face became blank, striking with fear in your soft cheeks,
I had realized you weren’t looking for me, in a childish game:
You were looking for a hiding spot of your own.

–         Emilyn Nguyen, Hide And Seek

Note from the Poet:
This poem is about my cousin, who had been diagnosed with Down Syndrome. When we were younger, we enjoyed the simplest of life’s pleasure such as ‘Hide and Seek’. He is the most clever little [maybe not so little anymore] boy. He is the brightest kid I know. Despite his disorder, I was never so proud of him each and every day developing like any other kid in the world. Labeling him disabled was never an option. There was a never ending quality to him that some of are missing in our lives everyday: happiness.

One out of seven hundred babies each year are born with Down Syndrome. Genetically common, four hundred thousand people in the United States harbor this condition. When Down Syndrome occurs when an individual has a a full or partial extra copy of chromosome 21. The enticing material alters the course of development leading to health problems and causes the characteristics associated with Down Syndrome: low muscle tone, small stature, an upward slant to the eyes, and a single deep crease across the center of the palm.

I came across a program that gears independent fundraisers interested in raising money on behalf of the National Down Syndrome Society (NDSS):

NDSS Your Way is an online program geared towards independent fundraisers interested in raising money on behalf of the National Down Syndrome Society (NDSS). Participants in this program create personalized fundraising web pages in support of an event or individual pursuit. Each individual event is hosted independently and oversight is provided by  NDSS.

Fundraisers are invited to create a customizable web page in one of three categories—Compete, Celebrate and Create—no matter which category you choose, your personal page can pay tribute to someone who inspires and motivates you.

As a Fundraiser, you are helping to further the mission of the National Down Syndrome Society. NDSS works to create a culture that values, accepts and includes the more than 400,000 Americans with Down syndrome. NDSS envisions a world in which all people with Down syndrome have the opportunity to enhance their quality of life, realize their life aspirations, and become valued members of welcoming communities.

I encourage everyone to check out the website and donate.

– Emilyn Nguyen, Hide and Seek 

Falling in Love with an Artist

Posted on by Emilyn in About, Poetry

Illusions are where we were bound – Indelible.
I fell for the artist, as a writer, embedding his love into black ink.
He painted the words I could no longer write:

Ask the priest down the street about the heart you wish to possess;
how you want to relapse the emotion you once had after widowed.
You merely questioned how one’s pure beating chest,
wasn’t contracted with a light headed soul as yours
– now that you’ve seen her face,
the skin between your fingers tingled with an emptiness of a brush.

In a year, your scintillations glows a bit more gold than these blue ink pens,
a locale of open fields  and color-blocked mountains use as a barricade.
Paths painted inset – layered beneath and below the certainty of years,
all of this useless chaos swirling in about these empty distractions, and feeble
pretense –
as you paint her; sculpt her colors.

Enfold our inevitable surrender,
sculpting faces in 100 Celsius; sloughing yellowed paper to Mache her skin.
Pressing your face against the damasked canvas to remember,
her neck of a turquoise necklace, on your rosewood table
as you paint a familiar face.

Saved a memory in the clot in your forehead,
that you’ve strayed into sickle shapes and fickle pieces.
Cautiously you paint her ashes red of your pain, her eyes emerald green and blue:
Spring has come, and you remember her face as you sit here…
Plucking flowers from her grave.
We were the notch in the naïf; complete tessellations in a slew of opals.

He blew past me, subtle in strength, silent in the hymns of prayers;
transfixing beauty to the encounter of the wind
gentle as breeze lifts seeds off dandelion manes, spiraling, winding.
An echo in his heart conjures up a colorful time torn beneath his feet.

He was the color endowed in me, painting flowers on my grave.
Loving him was the fortunate occurrence of serendipity in each page I wrote
like the scintillating sun follows, brightest as we become a climatic whole.

–          Emilyn Nguyen, Falling in Love with an Artist

Paper Airplanes

Posted on by Emilyn in Poetry

You challenge an innocent being:
Chasing her soul on the wall her shadow fell upon,
she beckons to run far ahead,
but she hid in the mist of your making: an illusion of your trickery.
She coughs up you only to be breathing you again,
thick and heavy, devouring in you – pounds of your opium embedded inside her.

You drown her in gases, synthetic poetry:
It makes her go numb,
up and down her red and blue veins,
dumb on the brisk of cold frost on grass tips as
mountains tips only croon towards her, leaving her hanging on a cliff,
falling, then flying to heaven – only to have you shake her out of the clouds again.

You scorch heroin into her, dictating her vision:
Blinded by truth violated by your words, exposed in a mirror,
Her heart limps, throats sore, bruised lined skin, slit throats
dried lips to alcoholic kisses,
an aching body left on the bottom emotional shelf.
Passive, Aggressive: Murder – Inability to grieve, Inability to receive…

Bombarded her with paper airplanes, love notes:
her flesh being imprinted with dropping spitballs,
carrying jokes dark as the bags under her eyes –
dark as the memories they may possess.
Pulses quickening towards a swift, sick conclusion of humor,
erupting World War because

You were afraid to tell her you loved her.

–         Emilyn Nguyen, Paper Airplanes