this evening

there’s a comforting silence

when the orange flaming sun

casts its last glances

across the Western skies

she sits cross-legged
savoring a few more syllables
under a tree perhaps
above her a blue jay sings

though it is becoming clear

that this story is really not
her story, but we let her be

for just a few more lines

snow queen

beyond the grassy ledge
there is a valley
made of slippery ice
and sparkling glass
a french speaking queen
luring small children
and often big ones
fall in by mistake
that is if they jump
chasing a star or a hare

inside the brain of an orchestra conductor (symphony no.9)

birds are whispering
small armies marching
quietly on fields of lilac

a bald man's cheek
pressed against his viola

two dozen wrists flickering
in all seriousness

crescendo decrescendo
waves crashing
engines churning

bobbing heads, torsos
singing hallelujah
an ode to joy

memories without meaning

are like overhead images
no form, shape, or weight
sliding by on a blank screen
faced by the glassy stare
of a solitary audience

now "next!"
a telecom voice speaks
i stand up and nod
exit

hand

Michaelangelo saw the moment
when God made man a man.
Divinity touched his hand,
the hand through which life was given--
a life of seeking and erring.

My hand held his hand
across the thin blue glove.
The fleshy palm that warmed another's palm,
once held by his mother's hands,
once much stronger than my hand.

The earthly creases,
the familiar grooves,
passing a universe
of immortalities unknown.

He feels,
the warmth of my blood.
I am stunned,
by its likeness to my own.

Carefully, I let go.
Stay, rest,
remember here lies
the beginning of a man.

realism, art

The body is a canvas...the well-striated muscles, the diamond made by the trapezius of the back, the anchoring of the serratus, from colored to colorless. I unfold each sheet, a new geometry unravels. Those long bundles of the erector spinae that made a man stand tall and handsome, their strength remains, beauty stays. Yesterday a simple corpse, embalmed and lying in silent dignity, today he cries of mystery and knowledge. Teach me the intricacies of every fiber and nerve, give me the desire to marvel and explore. When all that is done, allow me to remember you, share with me a treasured lesson, a small piece of your undying humanity.

in hac spe vivo

I said you need to get a grip over yourself. You who are bouncing this way and that, running, spinning down the road along that crisp new green. The world is in vertigo motion, skylights beaming, endless melodies embracing me into a deep slumber. I am lying away happily exhausted, never again seeing. Illusions are better than reality.

Hello and goodbye, no, not this time. We stand modestly, childish and beautiful. Tell me your stories, so I can pick away every crumb of your thought. I want to hear you say what you said, again and again, the same old and I would never get bored. Hold on before I replace these thoughts with useless science and philosophy. "In hac spe vivo (in this hope I live)" says the Prince of Tyre, says me.

On the Eve of inspiration. In Memory of Eve Continued.

You were the silly freshman who went on and on about your crush as we walked through campus together, your eyes beaming and your feet practically skipping.

In English class, you wrote about first time shaving, sharing with us your awkward teenage years, striking a familiar cord in all.

You always asked too many questions in genetics class, even when everyone else is falling asleep.

During final exam week, you could not pull yourself away from facebook, you must procrastinate just as much as everyone else.

You wondered if you were too accepting of everything, lacking true beliefs. I wish I could have told you, your passions brought you closer to the truth than anyone I know. The conversation was unfinished, you should have stayed.

Every time I think of you, Eve, I want to smile a little harder, understand a little more, and love a little deeper. Your presence was larger than this life, your imperfections only made you more endearing. Where mortality ends, immortality begins. Your inspirations will stay.

In Memory of Eve

These were the words of Eve, "World, inspire me! Share with me just hints of your glory and atrocity!"

This is the Eve that I will always remember- someone intrigued by life, someone so full of life, and someone who shared her life so generously.

Eve, rest in peace.

Rain

There is a tornado warning tonight, mother and father called twice to remind me to stay in. Reading Aristotle, eating Wasabi peas, and drinking tea by yourself is not a bad way to spend the last semester of college. I sit and listen to the wind howling outside of the window, stomping and twirling in the rain, setting off rows of fancy automobile alarms. If only I was light enough, I could be engulfed away in that piercing melody, twisted and churned, my thoughts and impulses rearranged and sent back anew. I could melt with those splotches of water drops on the glass, twinkling with yellow street light. I could learn the rhythm of rain drops, beating or drizzling as I please. Maybe then I would think of this sickening feeling with fond memories. Surely I will.

physics (af)fairs

I have fond memories associated with the State Fair. Five years ago, I walked all around the fair with my accelerometers and climbed on top of a haunted house to make eye-level measurements for Kolena's physics lab. Fair-goers looked at us with half suspicion and half amusement. Two years ago, I found myself at the fair with an unexpected date. As we had to weave through the crowds, I thought about holding his hand and blending in with the hundreds of other hand-holders there. I would never do such a thing of course, what silly thoughts. We shared a deep-fried twinkie and a slice of cheesecake on a stick together--standing there under the booth light as if we had always shared twinkies and cheesecakes. When we were waiting in line for the "ring of fire", he said things that could have possibly meant that we should keep on sharing those twinkies and cheesecake slices, bring them into the mountains, bring them into broadway shows. He was pretty suave for a physics major. The fireworks went off at 9:30pm, we were second in line for the ferris wheel. We were on the ferris wheel and the fireworks lit up the right side of our faces. I could feel the heat from the sparks, and my stomach was a little tight at high altitudes. We both pretended not to notice that his knee was slightly touching mine. The old couple across from us exclaimed how nothing like this had ever happened to them in their half a century of union. We soared above the fairgrounds. We soared and soared, he said a new decade was a decade for changes. We soared and soared, he said those sugar-coated apples on sticks were delicious. I ate mine and he ate his. We soared from this continent to that, my stomach was just a little queasy. When he was thousands of miles away, he said, just remember, one day we would be here again. I said, sounds good to me. And that was the end of this story.

brownie points for williams

If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,--
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"

If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,--

Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
-"Danse Russe", William Carlos Williams

love this poem!
Not that I identify with dancing nakedly in front of the mirror, but something about its ridiculousness strikes a chord in me. Wouldn't you like to be the happy genius of your household?

cords of harmony
deaf to my ear
useless conversations
empty words
music that I cannot understand

how foolish of me
to rant and plead
give in to that last teenage angst

I need no sympathy
for your life is lovely
flowers and gardens
starry nights
I dare not taint it

tomorrow the tears will vanish
I will never let you
be burdened with this sight

jeg hedder ikke nom

As I marched up South Road (the stretch where it is utterly treeless and shadeless) toward the bus stop, sweat crawled up my forehead and out of pores that I didn't even know existed. I couldn't help but miss those chilly evenings in Copenhagen. I missed walking down to the train station at nine o'clock in the morning when the Scandinavian sun was just making its first appearance. I missed walking back home in the dark, accompanied by a drizzle that dripped from the sky for days at a time. Even as I crossed the busiest intersections, I was only surrounded by people speaking in undecipherable tongues while I continued on in my own little world. How easy it was to be content with simple thoughts and desires. I counted how many minutes it was until the next train came, when I should go visit Netto again to stock up on dark chocolate, and hoped that my host family did not cook medium-rare steak again for dinner. I was in the country that I didn't dare dream of visiting when I lied in bed reading Andersen's tales as a child. Yet there I was, promenading down the streets of Denmark all alone. I never thought of myself as the type to look for escape, to seek solitude and quietness, but somehow I found comfort in this frigidly unfamiliar place.

Here I was, back in the gentle embrace of North Carolina. I have everything that I could have wanted, and they are all bearing down on me like the sun burning over my head. I have a strange need to throw it all away, to relieve myself. What an easy life would I have then, with no expectations, no obligations, no ties, and no love.