Superwoman

Spoken Word/Free Verse 

You told me
once upon a time
that you too would grow old
like grandmother
a prisoner of her own body
but you see
I refused
to let those words infect my ear
I refused
to believe it
impossible
you are superwoman
impossible

But now as my belly grows bigger
and your body grows smaller
I understand what those words on my deaf ears
really meant

So I will linger on each fragile moment
loving you

When the desert road seems too endless
and the clouds above your head too thick to push past
when you’ve fallen too far into the well
there I will be with you
with my rope
and my tape
ready to hold you up
or pick you up from your shattered pieces
taping you together
piece by piece
as you did for me

I will be your Dimetapp in the late nights and early mornings
your earl grey tea
with two sugars and one milk in the afternoon
as you were for me

My pancakes and butter will waft through your linen dreams
I will be your “someone”
that doesn’t just give you a shoulder
or a hand
when I know you need a spine

When your rain boots grow holes
I will splash my bare feet alongside yours
as you did with me

My footprints will line the mud beside yours
I will walk by your side
when the days are bright
sharing your butterflies and cherry blossoms
run by your side
when the fire's blaze is too hot to stay
and when the day comes that you can walk no more
mine will be the footprints
carrying yours
as you did for me

But some days, most days
I don’t want to face it
I don’t want it to be true that the day will come
that day
when your body stops dying
and your hugs turn cold

So once again
I lend my deaf ear
to the voices that whisper
tick tock
I bury that truth
because I will not bury you

I don’t want to see the colour on your face flush
the skin beneath your eyes sink into your face
or the fingers that stroked my newborn skin and hair
frozen
in time
always the victim of time

God, can’t you spare a moment or two?
command the sun to walk back a couple steps
tell the hands on the clock to forget about its job
if only the words
in the book of time could be erased
this must be some mistake in the your blueprints
some slight wrinkle in the universe
forgotten to be ironed
a slip in the poet's hand
perhaps an angel sneezed as you were at the drawing table
no
no

Your plan is perfect
I know it

So I will let that day come
when the pills and diapers take over
when your feet can no longer walk themselves
I will be there
to feed you by your favourite spoon
as you once did for me
to comb your thin silver hair
as you once did for me

I guess for now
like the squirrels that scamper the leaf strewn autumn
I will save up your smiles
and rocket blown kisses
and bear hugs
and jellyfish pinches
and Santa Claus laughter
for when the rain comes pouring down on the windowsill
I can take them from the hidden corners of my pocket
and piece together
one by one
what I have left
of your face
your scent
your touch
your voice

So I will linger on each fragile moment
loving you
and loving her
her and her little hands that wrap around my thumb
and pink wrinkled face
with her eyes that haven’t yet learned to open
I will love her
as you did for me

Jealousy and the Cat

Jealousy is the cat on your windowsill

You, sitting there with no one but your lonely self
Enjoying a nice hot cup of tea beside your warm fireplace
Then suddenly you meet eyes with
It

It is lonely, sad, shivering in the cold blisters outside
It appears to be warm and fuzzy and enchanting
It seems harmless
So you let it in
Let it into your dwelling
But your longing eyes pierce into the depths of its ice-cold soul
Revealing its true self
The selfish parasitic monster
That desires nothing from you except food
Nothing but to
Consume your
Cold
Dead
Body

My Wart

The spinach in your teeth is the wart on my toe

Your teeth are beautiful, really
As is my toe
It’s your pride and joy, I know
As is my toe

But you got a little something
Stuck
Right there
Somewhere between the left one
And the right one
You know,
The one in the middle of your face

Ugh this whole tooth situation
It’s bugging me
Like my wart
It gnashes my soul every time I think about it

Like my wart

So I try to ignore it
Like my wart

But I can’t

Like my wart
I must

I have to 

I need to
Just
Pick at it

Like my wart 

So I do
And then it hurts me
Like you do
When I tell you
That ya got a little some’n
Right
There

Love of My Life

(Half Cento, half original)

You tore the night apart
and ripped the silent skies in half
your light breaks through dark
here our worlds collide

Divinity in man confined
you hold the ends of time
yet placed yourself here into mine
my life never the same

In silence
heaven whispered out
took me up in arms
wide and warm
enveloped in light
in a world of darkness
once broken, in chains
now it’s the chains that are broken

Tearing through the veil of darkness
you’ve set me free
the scandal of grace
you died in my place
so my soul
might
live

A reckless love
too wild to understand
you own the skies and still
you want my heart
casting your throne aside
to lift me up

You, who loved me
when I hated you
you, who chose to carry
all my shame
I’m done chasing shadows
Jesus here I am

Lead me through
the fire
and rain
your blood is the life
running through my veins

King of Heaven
on the earth be found
Emmanuel
God with us

So I will rest in your embrace
for I am yours
and you are mine
my heart on your heart
and my eyes on yours 


Cento Poem: a poem composed of verses taken from other authors, disposed in a new form or order.

Miss Penny

          It’s the people who are least likely to transform our lives that do.

          Ten years ago, my sister and I had this piano teacher, Miss Penny (even the name sounds adorable right?). Neither of us can remember exactly how long she taught us, but for the few months - or years - that she did, she had inspired a love for music and teaching. We only had her for a short while since she needed to clear up her schedule for her ARCT Performer’s (she got her teacher’s certificate while in university so after she got her PhD in biochemistry (I know, smart and adorable!) she went for the performer’s certificate just for the fun of it).  But before she let us out the door at our last lesson, she brought me into the kitchen, gave me a blue plush flower key chain (which naturally I lost… but it’s ok because my sister still had her white one which I “adopted”…), and gave me a letter (which I lost). The letter said things like how she loved teaching me and how (even then) she could see my musicality. But what really struck me was what she wrote at the end: “I think you’re going to make a really great piano teacher one day”. (Awww! Enter waterworks…)

            

            These past few weeks –especially since my big piano teaching exams are right around the corner- I’ve been thinking about the impact that one little letter has made on my life. From that moment, she incited this obsession in me of wanting to inspire, to share what I love, to be that ‘Miss Penny’ for others.

So that’s what I see myself doing ten years from now: teaching the world to see music for what it truly is. That it’s not just ink on paper, but a soul’s longings poured out in a moment of abandoned solitude, a colourful tapestry of intricately woven vibrations, a letter from the past read out loud to thousands, a painting of hope on the canvas of death’s silence, a rebel’s war cry in a plume of blood and disaster…. As you might already be thinking, I could go on… and on… and on… and on… but I won’t J to save you some brain cells. (Thank me later.) Every Saturday morning, as I’m sitting beside my adorable kids (piano students… I call them my kids… don’t judge -_-) I can count on this tingly feeling of equilibrium to fill the very tendrils of my body. That teacher’s chair, that piano, those kids, that’s where I’m meant to be. That’s my ‘ecological niche’ in the world (as my sciencey dork self would call it).

            It’s quite funny really, how freakishly accurate Miss Penny turned out to be. My mom remembers how she predicted my sister would only make it up to the advanced level and quit because she lacked patience. This of course came true for that reason exactly. Amazing it is how life can only be understood backwards. My sister and I were on the brink of quitting when we had to transfer to this horrible old hag of a piano teacher (ok not that bad, but still pretty bad). But just as we were thinking of giving up, Miss Penny called and told us about her teacher who taught her up to her teachers’ level. To this day, I’m still studying with her (well, mine now) teacher. 

Lifeless

a short story in the perspective of my mom when she smashed the tv when i was in grade 6 (legit.)... wrote this when i was reading Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury (it makes more sense if you've read the book). 

                The clock struck, bringing about another hour, on another day, on another week. And that for her meant nothing more than another episode, another spin on the never-ending merry-go-round of watching, waiting, watching, waiting...
                It had been six hours already and her eyes were still seized by the brightly moving colours.
                I thought I should talk. “You know, it would help if you actually started homework not at eleven.”
                Nothing.
                “Then... maybe you wouldn’t have to sleep at three all the time.”
                I heard what I thought to be a faint grunt.
                “Can you look at me when I’m talking to you?” I could feel my voice straining, climbing higher, higher, higher.
                “Mm hmm. Yeah... in a minute.” My daughter replied, obviously irritated.
                Bright light flashed about the room.
                “Mm hmm! Yeah! In a minute!” Someone took hold of my voice and I could suddenly see myself from the other side of the room. “Then another minute, then another minute.... How many minutes have you wasted staring at that box?! Don’t you see what a waste this is of you?! How many minutes have you spent watching this?!  And how many doing homework? Talking? Living!? How many?!”
                Her face was blank and eyes empty.
                I felt as if she was slipping through my fingers and all I could do was watch. So I did the only thing I knew I could do next. Get rid of it. Destroy the monster that is destroying my daughter. No, no, get a hold of yourself. But my hands moved, and I watched; watched as the screen shattered to pieces, watched as my daughters pleaded for me to stop, watched as I ruined the thing that ruined me...

yup. i had a phase where i would watch TV for something like nine hours a day... i was addicted to television. so looking back, i'm glad my mom did what she did albeit she could've done it in a less dramatic way but meh...

Pot Love

Nope, not that kinda pot.

I really like making stuff. So one day, I decided to make some pottery. And after 230 hours, 20 pounds of clay, and who knows how many pounds of inhaled dust, this I ended up with this!

Fell in love with a pie pan at William Sonoma... then I looked at the price tag and almost died. So instead, I spent $250 at the pottery studio to make it instead.
Common sense ain't so common... 

potter mug for my sister 

And my study buddy :)

I'm procrastinating. I should stop. Ok bye.

One Hundred, Ninety Six hours, and Forty Two Minutes

(a narrative about my nights in culinary co op)

My face is too hot. I’m hot. I hate this uniform. It is way too big. I’m going to catch on fire because of this thing. How on earth is this the smallest size? I hate this. I look at the clock. One hundred... ninety six hours… and forty two minutes to go… hang in there Michelle.

                                                                        ~

I’d always wanted to be a chef - that and a sheep farmer in New Zealand. It all started one fateful afternoon when I was surfing through the whole 15 channels we had on our “technologically advanced” (quote tacky salesperson from Chinatown) antenna. I was looking for something to waste away to before I wasted away to Arthur on TVO kids when suddenly, the heavens split and shone the most beautiful light upon a delicately plated single seared scallop atop a bed of lichen and basil, topped with honeysuckle jelly and drizzled with a red wine shitake reduction. Sigh And there it was: love. Love at first blissfully delectable sight. I wanted to create art on the plate and the palate.

So here I was, cooped up between a premenstrual chef (it’s funny because he’s an old man), flames roaring at my oversized sleeve, hot pans, dead cows (that I swear are expired. They’re green), some very inappropriate coworkers for a sixteen year old, and a sous chef who’s madly infatuated with me and I can’t bring myself to tell him I love him like a brother… all inside a too tiny kitchen for a too tinselly restaurant.

“Pickup table 25,” Remy, one of the waiters called out.

“You’re s****ing me. F***ing serious?” Chef spat. “That order came in five minutes ago. I’m not making a f**ing lamb roast, salmon, penne, or whatever the hell they wanted in five minutes. Tell them they can go f*** themselves.” 

Oh goodness... what colorful use of the English language…

My job was simple: make the appetizers, prep the pasta, do the salads, sides, and potatoes, make the lasagnas, manicottis, whatever ees, do the desserts (this part was actually fun… because I was in the back… away from the chef), make the lamb racks, ossobucco… all, preferably, without losing any limbs or my sanity…

To put things in perspective, there were 150 people to serve. This was my first Saturday, it was the dinner rush, and the kitchen consisted of me, Chef, the sous chef, and Raj, the dishwasher.

The clock struck its halfway point. Six thirty. Showtime.

It’s like people just stand outside, waiting for the clock to strike 6:30 so they can all shuffle in at the same time and freak out the new co-op student.

                                                                        ~

Watching people come in is like watching some kind of freakish episode of National Geographic’s Great Migrations, but with the human species. The humans are an interesting type. Before the mating ritual, I’ve noticed that the female humans like to go through this ceremonial sacrament of pressing powders on their faces and covering their bodies with the most reflective objects they can find.

Weird. I swear I learned in Biology that it’s the males that are supposed to be the flashy ones.  Ha… Blue Footed Booby from the Galapagos… double ha… because they need to inseminate their spawns into fertile wombs… oh ha ha… Michelle, that’s not even funny… you are so weird…

“Hey! I’m talking to you! Young lady!” It was Remy.

Huh? Ugh, I hate it when they call me young lady.

“I said, is this the baked goat for table 36?”

“… Yes.” My lips spoke for me. They figured they might as well; it was a 50/50 chance.

What followed was a jumbled flurry of fire, knives, dead chickens, hot oil, and bus pans. Oh, and adrenaline, sweat, what could have been human blood, a couple burns, and a crying baby.

And then peace. It was nice.

Until it got boring.

Ti-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-c…k…. to-o…ck… T-i---…. Eight fourteen. Ok so that’s…. one hour, forty six minutes to go. Not bad, not bad. You got this Michelle.

After what had seemed like the longest one hour, forty six minutes in my life, I was done! Finally free from this imprisonment of precariously placed sharp objects and rotting animals!

As I stepped out of the shabby back door, I inhaled so hard I swear I bruised a rib. Air. Cool, fresh, autumn night air. I couldn’t have enough. After breathing in what seemed to be a sufficient amount of nitrogen and oxygen, I went home. With a plethora of thoughts – anger, confusion, gratefulness, anxiety – still swirling about in my head, I meandered my way to my family’s economically sized Honda civic, and with nothing but an obnoxiously crinkly emergency blanket, plunked my dazed self onto its roof.

Ok. Go. Think.

Nothing.

THINK. How do you feel? Are you stressed? Hello? Anybody in there?

Nothing.

This self dialogue continued for a while – rational self, irrational self, rational self, irrational self… until rational self decided to tie up irrational self and bury her in some cold, forsaken corner of the brain because she was annoyed. Rational self let the crisp autumn air cool her hot face and with each breath, breathe away the stresses of the kitchen. Then suddenly…

LIGHTBULB.

 “I GOT IT!” Rational self said at once.

“Errh crooel! Wehrd ouu gt?” (Translation: “Oh cool! What’d you get?”) Irrational self replied from her cold, forsaken corner.

And in a new perspective and understanding, rational self spoke.

“I am here because… not because I made some irrational decision to follow my six year old dream of becoming Carlo Rota from The Great Canadian Food Show, but rather…  I am here because subconsciously… subconsciously I knew what I needed was to be placed in an environment that challenges me, an environment that makes me give it all I got BECAUSE I HAVE GRIT! And grit is the real world. THIS is what I struggle with most: doing things quickly, working under pressure, working under a “Gordon Ramsey”. I should be thankful! Heck, I AM!!!”   

(This is where ‘rational’ self stands up on the roof of the car, drapes the emergency blanket like a superhero cloak, and speaks much too loudly for a suburban neighborhood of middleclass Chinese families at 1:23 in the morning.)

‘Rational’ self continued, “I’m here to prove MYSELF to MYSELF, to overcome one of the toughest work environments and be able to tell myself, “Stop whining, you've done something infinitely more difficult,” the next time I’m tempted to quit something. Michelle, YOU CAN DO IT!”

“Errh crooel,” replied a voice from a cold, forsaken corner of my brain. 

a donkey, a cat, and a rat.

we're studying children's literature in writer's craft right now. essentially, we were given a picture of a donkey, a cat, and a rat. so here's a little story i wrote about a donkey, a cat, and a rat. 

“It was a size 6,” Donkey said, “no no, I'm sure of it. No, I do not want a bigger size. I am a size six.”

You see, Donkey was a sad little Donkey. He felt bad about his Donkey self. His belly was too hairy, his nose stuck out too much, his tail was too fat, and his mane was greying. He was just not happy. Every day he would stare into the mirror of his shabby motel room and ask, “oh mirror mirror on the wall… do these (insert garment here) make me look fat?” and when mirror didn't reply, he would ask the cat, who naturally, as a cat, didn't reply (because animals don’t talk, of course).

One day, when cat and mirror – his only real friends in the world – began to bore him, he left them. And good thing he did! Because as soon as Donkey stepped outside his white - walled 16’ by 16’ room, he realized all that he’d been missing out on!

Gasp! “The world is in… what’s the word…in…in…”

“COLOUR!” shouted a little rat from behind. This little rat was dressed in pinstripe suspenders with a matching tweed overcoat to go with it. What a fashionable little rat… His ears peeked out from his tweed poorboy hat just slightly when he spoke.

“Yer see muh dear, this whole time you been lookin’ at all the wrong places for your hap’ness! Stop lookin’ inside at yourself, and look out! Look up! Look around!”

“Gee whiz! So... you mean I’m not a fat hairy ugly old Donkey?”

“Oh no, of course yer are! But yer see, ev’n fat hairy ugly old Donkeys can find hap’niss!”

And so Donkey made a friend. And he brought this little friend back home to introduce to his other friends, cat and mirror.

All was well until cat saw rat. Cat ate him.

And Donkey was sad again. 

I am From…

I am from glue guns and glitter,

From on sale Barbies and ballet slippers 

I am from giant holes of mud pies

And snowmen with raisins for eyes

I am from puddles and yellow rain boots 

From where grass still smell of rain 

And where wispy white linens dance to the sound of piano keys

I am from moon cakes and paper lanterns

From the poor carpenter and the merchants on the Guangdong seas

I’m from late night hot pots and bubbletea 

And family time at “lup law” and “cos-e-co”

From “do unto others…” to “hakuna matatas”

And sick days spent swallowing down the most awful tasting Chinese herbal medicine 

I’m from streets of cookie cutter houses

“Chow Fahn” and dumplings
From the grit of my 6 year old “maa ma” roughing out a war 

To yards of seams hemmed by my “goo jeh”

I am from shelves of dust stained Polaroids

Of memories alive within the walls 

number one of many more to come...

Ahh the first post... people always expect a lot of the first post... well, hate to break it to you but you might as well just crush those expectations now before i crush them for you because it's not going to be much of a first post.

see? exhibit A.