poems into pixels

Poems like these make standardized tests enjoyable. Had to share.

The world is a white bowl, the continents are carnations.
Finger-painted on iPad because stylus went into hiding :(. 

The Poems of Our Climate (1977)

by Wallace Stevens

I

Clear water in a brilliant bowl,

Pink and white carnations. The light

In the room more like a snowy air,

Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow

At the end of winter when afternoons return.

Pink and white carnations – one desires

So much more than that. The day itself

Is simplified: a bowl of white,

Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,

With nothing more than the carnations there.

II

Say even that this complete simplicity

Stripped one of all one’s torments, concealed

The evilly compounded, vital I

And made it fresh in a world of white,

A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,

Still one would want more, one would need more,

More than a world of white and snowy scents.

III

There would still remain the never-resting mind,

So that one would want to escape, come back

To what had been so long composed.

The imperfect is our paradise.

Note that, in this bitterness, delight,

Since the imperfect is so hot in us,

Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.

muah (ha ha)!

Yet another collaboration with my dear Julianne (woolianne) in Lit class! Today's exercise required us to churn out two sonnets in a half-hour. Sadly, we had barely finished the first quatrain of each before Madame Teacher collected them. In need of closure, I rushed home to complete the Shakespearean sonnet here (never mind Petrarch). Thus, I present to you Sonnet I, inspired by numerous after-school adventures at CVS Pharmacy, sub-titled "MAC Viva Glam IV" or "The Case for Lip Lacquer":

Within the garden of your pink visage,
The two-lipped tulip breaketh barren soil;
Though some would say it bare makes best corsage,
Gild them instead with hydrolyzèd oil.
Make no mistake, do not equate her to
Those ball-point instruments incarnadine --
The errant marks and quarks she does not woo,
Rather enhances character with shine. 
As pilgrims' palms and flushèd cheeks do meet,
A crimson cape seeks contours to caress;
Hark, hear her from cylindric bed entreat, 
Dost thou intend to waste her coy largesse?
When winter maketh lips Grand Canyon-shaped,
Ensure they be in blushing curtain draped.

... Our early Valentine's Day salute to you. XO 

Apron (adult to adult) (prologue to a new project)

In my world, cupboards are magnetic.

Mother and child.

My mom spends lots of time with suds. She was an accidental homemaker -- she did not expect to spend a quarter of her life cooking and washing. I reassure her, though, that her impact as a mother surpasses the one she would have made as an Oracle employee. To thank her for this sacrifice, I drew this on her birthday, filling it with things she loves: Pinky and Qiomi, her pet koi fish; Dizzy, the neighborhood cat; the sprouted onion project and porcelain pickle jar. My mom churns out new edibles every day, to the delight of designated samplers (me and me) of her Pesto Variations (from walnut to nettle!) and Tunisian tajine (my mom has mastered cuisine from every continent). There is no scene I love more -- a bag full of treasures from Trader Joe’s, some leafy greens awaiting the guillotine. The heart of our home is the kitchen, and my mom is the pulse, sending life to each extremity.

7:22 AM

The sun rises in Saratoga.

On the last dawn of 2013, I sat on a hill with ☃. It's a special place that we go to, hidden just a short hike away. From our perch above the fog, I can pinpoint every place that has meaning to me: the light-bedecked Safeway strip mall, assorted Asian shops along De Anza Boulevard, sprawling silhouettes of yellow East Bay mountains.

As morning matures, tips of trees puncture the woolly cloud blanket; constellations of crows soar across the sky, weaving between bay laurel branches. We receive the sun with squints, watch it gild the day. A new layer of light, fine as foundation (NARS Sheer Glow, to be exact. This is for you, Julianne!), settles into the concrete crevices and nettle-ridden notches of our hometown. 

I remember the old hymn by Folliott Sandford Pierpoint:

For the beauty of the earth

for the beauty of the skies

for the love which from our birth

over and around us lies

For the beauty of each hour

of the day and of the night

hill and vale, and tree and flower,

sun and moon, and stars of light.

If every day began this way... 

a small Christmas thought

Today, we wish Christ a happy birthday, and give gifts to each other. Perhaps there's another layer in the symbolic exchange of gifts, for "God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory." Colossians 1:27.
Happy birthday, Jesus, and happy re-birthday to you, too.

for my teacher

It's been a semester full of surprises, some more welcome than others. One month ago, my music theory teacher Mr. Yowell announced his sudden retirement. To de-numb myself, I scoured through the why's, but found no answer. So instead, I'll present my small why's for Mr. Y: why his departure hurts so deeply, and why he shall stick in my memory.

Mr. Yowell took on the music theory class, but his primary attentions lay with school choirs, in which I sung for two school years and a summer. Cantare Chorale, the all-female ensemble, was by far the best time of the day. Following every class, we girl-chorists gamboled down the halls, humming "Follow Me Down to Carlow" and Tahitian folk songs. Mr. Yowell elicited confidence from shy singers like mine, hammered good posture into the sluggish ones, made smiles from sleepless scowls. From a mishmash of voices (some mellifluous, most... crunchy), Mr. Yowell crafted a single, fine instrument, which he played masterfully.

With his encouragement, I explored new territory:

• uke-strumming for "Hey Soul Sister"
• tricks of the piano-accompanist trade
• ad libitum violin solos
• the percussive-ness plastic eggs, zippers, claves, and tupperware
• golden hand-bells (with which I famously ruined the beginning of a solemn Latin dirge, in-concert. As I chimed the opening chord, I [and the audience] realized that I had grabbed a tri-tone instead of a perfect fifth. He... hehehe)

Last summer, Mr. Yowell led the choirs on a tour of Italy. Somehow, he arranged for his high-school minstrels to sing Franz Biebl's "Ave Maria" in the Vatican. For me, it was the performance of a lifetime--reverent and resounding. We bused up the boot, singing for fishermen and their fan-swishing wives at their seaside chiesa, distributing flyers in rudimentary Italian in shady alleys, chomping our way through sun-dried tomato everything. Lo sono in cielo, I am in heaven, fell glibly from our oft-opened lips.   

  

In a public school that scorns public declarations of faith, Mr. Yowell courageously included Christian repertoire in every song set ('twas natural; the bulk of classical choral compositions are ecclesiastical). Students barred from wishing others a "Merry Christmas," caroled it instead. With music as his medium, Mr. Yowell advanced his ministry.

Summer arrives, music-sheets hit the recycling bin, and the piano dons its dust-cover. The choirs sing "Irish Blessing" to send off seniors, variables in the high-school equation. I expected Mr. Yowell to be a constant, but he, too, has shifted. In farewell, here's an Irish Blessing for my teacher:

May the road rise up to meet you. 

May the wind always be at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

and the rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again, my friend,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

helplessly hoping

Stand by the stairway, you'll see something certain to tell you. My dad spotted an M. C. Esher-esque photo op.

I present to you selections from Crosby, Stills & Nash, pieced together with colored patches of my own. Wrap up in the quilt!

Helplessly hoping her harlequin hovers nearby 
H... h... h... hahhhh. I love the way alliteration hums along.
Awaiting a word 
Accompanied by the sound of silence: In restless dreams I walked alone/narrow streets of cobblestone. Narrow streets, elsewhere: “Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few. Matthew 7:13-14.
Gasping at glimpses of gentle true spirit 
How might a spirit be both gentle and true? How easily I supply the former, often in a feigned fashion. Is it really possible to hold others higher than oneself?
He runs wishing he could fly only to trip at the sound of good-bye... 
Alas, poor fellow. Every good-bye leaves the tingly possibility of another hello. 


Stand by the stairway, you'll see something certain to tell you 
S... s... s... My fourth grade teacher gave everyone detention for hissing.
Confusion has its cost 
Best to speak, for silence leaves more room for misinterpretation.
Love isn't lying, it's loose in a lady who lingers
Lingering... Waiting for the denouement, answer, affirmation.
Saying she is lost and choking on hello
So be patient with her. 


They are one person, they are two alone
They are three together, they are for each other.
Hey, Plain White T's! I've spotted a maybe-root of the song "1234": There's only one way/two say/three words/for you. The syntactic idea is the similar, but the sentiment differs. "1234" is aglow with warm love, but in "Helplessly Hoping," love is distant, and demands third-person treatment

Here's the actual song, uninterrupted by globbish glibbering. I also have a soft spot for the King's Singers' rendition.