I remember you as you were those months ago –
The budding marigold in the arms of the wind.
Time has spiked silence on our court and pinned
Our tangled nights to the bullseye, but even so
In my thoughts your gaze still volleys with mine;
We walk through the zoo of lights, aquarium of words,
Bump shoulders and fingers. Still, the birds we heard
In the cedar trees have long since flown. The train line
We rode to the same place has stopped for now.
But I’ll pick up the blossoms of days with you from the ground,
And put them in a vase until we meet again, whenever
That may be. I’ll set them on the mantlepiece and vow
To leave and let it bloom, till the day comes around –
We’ll meet, we’ll embrace, and embrace – a moment of forever.
Written January 17, 2019.
Parameters: Inspired by Pablo Neruda’s own “I remember you as you were” poem, very loose Petrarchan sonnet
Continue reading ““I remember you as you were””
For my French study abroad semester, orientation was 2 weeks long and is finally nearing its end. It’s been an exhausting time, though nowhere near as intense as the orientation in Yokoze, Japan for the fall. Comparing the two, as well as my internship program in Mongolia, brings about some interesting reflections about what constitutes a “good” study abroad program. Namely, I feel that integration into the community for students is key to developing a truly fulfilling experience.
Continue reading “What Makes A “Good” Study Abroad Program”
Pretty city, won’t you tell me
Why when the river sighs on rainy nights,
I think of singing 燕 (tsubame) perched to the right
Of couples embracing on the benches by the sea?
Why, oh pretty city, as I flâne beside the plane trees
I think of 杉木 (sugiki) and 蝶 (chou)’s spiral flight,
And columns conjure skyscrapers and the sight
Of tangled iron, wood, and glass that brought the passioned to their knees?
Dear pretty city, when your bells toll and chime,
I hear the branches whisper on the maple leaf and sakura hill
Where on a cool Monday moonrise I belonged
In the arms of one I loved, who loved me. How time
Pounds like taiko drums, fate blades like moulin windmills.
Do I wait on the bridge, or follow the swallow song?
Written January 7, 2019.
Continue reading ““Pretty city, won’t you tell me””
While I was reading, in the purple pen with which you wrote your letter, I could hear your laughing voice, and more.
Continue reading “詩歌: 毎週”
On a dark street, sleeping eyes were made to open by your innocent humming.
Continue reading “詩歌: 道徳”
The constellations were covered by the smoke
Of your cigar, and as I squinted at Cygnus,
“What’s so amazing about stars,” you spoke,
“That keeps us gazing at night?” For Polaris
We chase no more down the banks of River Tuul,
And we’ve never understood the astronomer’s charts.
But someone once said, “Make a wish and you’ll
Be answered.” So lovers and thinkers sat in parks
In Lisbon and Kyoto watching swans
Glide on long pearled lake lights and thought
How gold and clear the sky shines at dawn
And constellations connect more than just the dots.
That might be why – When we part to places new
I know we’ll keep on stargazing then too.
Written December 31, 2018.
Parameters: Shakespearean sonnet, memories of this past year
It’s that time of the year again where I tell myself that I’m going to strike it rich, get six pack abs, and marry a hot K-Pop star. Usually by the time January 3rd rolls around, I look at my empty bank account, get the gin, and get annoyed with men, then say, “Looks like I’ll have to try again next year.”
Continue reading “Ripping Away The Calendar Pages”
My final article at the UB Post, unedited version. My boss requested that I write an article detailing particular impressions I had of Mongolia as a foreigner, but this wound up being a piece on Asian-American identity and the ambiguous place of Asian adoptees in ethnic communities. Link to original is currently unavailable.
When I first arrived, I hopped in a taxi with a Mongolian cab driver who spoke no English. He was a cheery fellow, blasting and humming along to 1960s radio tunes.
While we were waiting in traffic, he asked me something in rapid Mongolian. I shook my head and said I didn’t understand. He said more slowly, “Bi, mongold. Chi?”
“Bi mongold bish,” I replied, the only sentence I knew at the time. He demanded, what was I, then – Japan? Korea? Mexico? I told him, “American.”
Continue reading “Racial identity in Mongolia as a foreigner”