a triptych of moments
I believe that each of us is defined by a collection of moments. These lived experiences shape our personalities and perspectives, molding us into the people we are today. Here is a collection of three poems from three moments over the past year that have defined me.
29th Place Trail: July 29, 2021
feet slapping the pavement,
a violent word for a violent act,
cerebral and skeletal boxing
in the stadium of my soul
as my body floats through the air,
leaving my mind back
on the hanging bench by the sound.
now don’t get me wrong,
floating doesn’t make it easy,
truth be told,
tearing my legs out of the jello-y air
almost matches the pain
of rerooting the swamp-grass
planted years ago.
yet, righting the willows
tilted left by the hurricanes,
sometimes i’m just too far gone,
i sprint down the boardwalk
only for the undergrowth to latch on
like a pair of clasped hands.
i succumb
to the siren song of the cypress,
and i’ll never bloom quite
as full.
In writing this poem, I reflected on the stagnancy and melancholy I felt when returning to school in-person and full-time in the fall of 2021. These feelings came to a head when I went with my family to the beach a final time that season. As the first day of my senior year approached, I felt restricted and rejected by my small-town high school. I was ready for a change and a new environment, and dreaded the prospect of going back to the “marsh” from whence I came.
Whenever my emotions become overwhelming, I often turn to physical activity (especially the primal act of running) to expel my energy. To capture this, I used the metaphor of running through the humid air of an estuary to discuss my trepidations surrounding my final year of high school.
Orange High School Rd: November 9, 2021
crows dot telephone wire staves
as the conductors lifts his eyes
from score
to band,
commanding attention
with a simple glance.
lifted hands breathe life into notes on the page
as ‘bones blare
and trumpets scream,
soaring high above,
eagles in the wind.
hummingbird saxes show off
colorful runs, feathers,
flapping in the wind
as keys click
and pads slap.
the drummer knocks a beat into the bass,
hi-hat clicking time,
a woodpecker,
setting the background.
basslines glide up and down,
pelicans along the shore
as the waves sound and seethe,
pod squawking
to an astounding crescendo.
silence.
a nightingale’s song fills the stage,
as the soloist stands
and warblings of love, pain, triumph,
hover in electric air.
the band picks back up,
a cacophony of gulls
descending upon an abandoned bag of chips
as hummingbirds flutter, pelicans glide, eagles soar,
and the last note echoes into the auditorium.
the conductor’s hands pause, fall,
the Great-Horned Owl has landed on his perch.
clapping starts like wings flapping, preparing for flight,
and the audience of fledglings
flees their comfortable nest
for this newfound love.
I wrote this poem about a concert I sadly missed performing in. I’ve never been a huge fan of jazz music (whether performing or listening). However, I’ve come to realize that these misgivings are due to a lackluster jazz education which led me to associate the style with rigidity and a fear of misinterpretation rather than free-flowing effervescent sound. As I reflected on this concert, which would have been my first indoor performance post-quarantine, I began to find a new appreciation for jazz and music in general that had been missing from my life these past few years.
Franklin St: June 9, 2022
sitting in Cafe 411,
23 hours out,
tassel turning formalities
on the horizon of headlights,
a Dean Dome procession
felt like another traffic jam,
students driving around trash-filled front seats
or lavender-scented air fresheners
next to the Volkswagen Beetle
of my memory.
song quotes,
mom quotes,
about hometown blues,
or, more accurately,
blues of realizing
your home wasn’t the oasis
once perceived,
popped into my head,
bruschetta and bolognese
occupying my stomach.
“pedestrian friendly” streets
actually packed with cars,
surrounded by high-rises
and dispensaries
that “must’ve gone through 12 iterations in the past two years”
(according to the development-deaf locals
that are my parents),
my future home,
15 minutes down the road,
a lifetime away in understanding,
came into crystal Carolina clarity.
the cliche verbiage
and overly optimistic outlook
isn’t lost on me,
but with senior year pulled over,
the highway patrol of “unforeseen circumstances,”
stereotypical teenage desire
for new beginnings
is exactly
the refreshing normalcy
i’m looking for.
People always say that coming back to your hometown is bittersweet, but I’ve learned that, like most things, it never really hits until it happens to you. Returning to Hillsborough for high school graduation after a gap semester in Asheville brought back a lot of contradictory feelings, especially given that 2 years ago I was dead-set on leaving North Carolina for college and now I’m an incoming student at UNC Chapel Hill. In this poem, I hope to make sense of at least some of what I’m feeling.
Living in the Triangle for my entire life (excluding a 13 month “sabbatical” to Maryland in 2016), I feel a special appreciation for the change that’s happened these past 18 years and how it’s mirrored my own growth and maturation. As I look to my college journey ahead, I feel ready to start anew (no matter how cliche that is) while carrying the perspective of my lived experiences, planned or unplanned, in my back pocket.
