Creator - Andrew Song Author's Note: As it's AAPI Heritage Month, I found it fitting to write a poem based on my experiences as an Asian American. My mother, like most immigrant mothers, tell their children to make sure every bit of meat on a bone is eaten - even the tough parts, even the parts that most wouldn't eat. Saving every penny when our parents started with nothing then becomes second nature. “Clean the bones.”
Mama said. “But Mama” said I, “The cap is so hard and tough” “Meat is hard to find” Mama said. “So clean the bones.” “But Mama,” said I, “We stopped by the store the other day, And I saw rows and rows of meat Like the cornfields we passed.” “Meat costs money,” Mama said. “So clean the bones.” “But Mama,” said I, “Jeannie Smith at school has money. She doesn’t have to clean the bones So why can’t her family share money with us?” “Money costs time,” Mama said. “So clean the bones.” “But Mama,” said I, “Mr. Smith works just as long as you. And Jeannie doesn’t need to clean the bones. And besides, the meat clings onto bone like you to a dollar.” Mama sighed. “Meat costs money Money costs time Therefore meat is hard to find. Who says the Smiths and the Bais are alike? We Bais came from China and the Smiths, they are...” Mama stopped. "Clean the bones.” Because my Mama picked her fingers to the bone, I learned to pick the bones with my fingers. Even when we ate off china and silk That habit of having meager is a habit that lingers. Being rich and Bai is not the same as rich and Smith because Rich and Bai does not translate to rich and white. Until The value of time depends not where you call home I clean the bones, I clean the bones, I clean the bones, I clean the bones.
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Creator - Andrew Song Author's Note: It's AAPI Heritage Month, and I found it fitting to write a poem that relates uniquely to the children of immigrants - a story of competition, of jealousy motivated by forlorn hope and undeserved pride. It's unfortunate to see that this awful competition is motivated by noble intentions - that of immigrants trying to provide a better life for their children - and I hope that in writing this, we all understand the root cause of this ugliness and move past it. These guests are very rude -
The Yangs haven’t taken off their shoes, though they left their loafers by the door. Otherwise how could they tread so carefully? They ask when is he leaving for college who are his teachers where did he get those awards what did he write on his essays what clubs is he in what did he get on his APs his IBs his SATs his ACTs They can’t just say “WHY is YOUR son going to a better school than my son?” “WHY is YOUR son going to Columbia and mine only to Columbus?” “WHY is my son less than YOURS?” Because why would you run your mouth when you have no face? They don’t because they can’t and they can’t because they don’t They keep their shoes on because with nothing to cover the stench of the feet is apparent. But taking off one’s shoes in someone else’s house is only polite - and besides, I doubt something that small will get the Yangs kicked out of the dinner party. After all, Does it matter the stench of the feet, whether through boots or bare soles, When the ones who smell have enough face to have a nose? Creator - Hex Hogan A note from the author: I think of this poem as a reflection of ones self- it’s the feeling of grasping at straws trying to give meaning to everything when in the end, our lives are all just experiences that flicker on, off, and out. But there’s something really beautiful, almost comforting about that. Being forgotten isn’t always bad, but in some sense freeing. Do what you will with your life, live for you and your triumphs and failures and the things that make you happy and do so with peace of mind.
Creator - Hex Hogan Melatonin and longing
A distorted image of a plaid comforter Christmas music plays, lonely ambience December reaches out its frostbit fingers and a shiver shoots down my spine The cold cradles me in it’s arms, whispering into my ear all the little things I should’ve forgotten Memories instead are wrapped up like a present and placed snugly under the tree “Just a little longer” reads the tag Just a little longer A note from the author: The December cold mixed with the stifling loneliness of the pandemic this year has lead me to a more reflective and inherently destructive state of mind. Trying to move on seems impossible when all you have are your own echoing thoughts dissolving into the cold air. Creator - Tanmayi Six months ago
You promised the stars to stay with me forever to never leave my side, but a broken promise hung in the wind that day. Waiting to pounce. Now the stars don't shine as bright as they used to, my bed stays hostile and alone, cold fingers wrap around my neck at night, and in my chest lies a gaping hole. Wandering around in the middle of the night, I ask the stars, "When did you decide, My Love, That we're better off six feet apart?" Creator - Hex Hogan I'm broken because he saved me
I accepted his words as a reason to believe I was worth more then the voices in my head For once I was loved Safe Home I should've known to check the batteries in the smoke alarm when I was already nose blind to the smell of cherry wood burning The fire caught quietly, our entire house going up in flames while I slept Change is a myth made up by people who know they can't... Believe me ...I have burns from a pyromaniac I trusted with a lighter Creator - Hex Hogan Author's Note: This is one of my oldest poems that I’m still proud of. I wrote it the summer after freshman year, during my first real relationship. I hadn’t thought about it for years until a few weeks ago when my English teacher asked me to write a values essay. The value I settled on was love, titled “what is love?” and this poem is my entire second paragraph. Heartbeat: pulsing
Veins: flowing Head: rushing Face: blushing You Just may be My downfall Breath wispy as the words linger on my tongue I hide my face So you can't see What's building inside me |
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