"foreignness" poems
I forgot how much I loved the
Foreignness of a stranger's hands on me.
My waist, my arm, my ***
I felt every touch
Like an infrared light sensor
The heat from your hand
Stayed and glowed on
my arm, my breast, my thigh
It's fine though,
Nothing more.
I have a boyfriend,
And you have
A Fiance and a Baby on the way
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC
The kaleidoscope patterns of our footprints in the sand
And those of the seagulls that litter the beach
Like black and white winged pebbles
Are slowly being washed away by the rising water line,
Time and the encroaching tide welcoming us
Into the sea, with the Dolphins and the mermaids
Swimming and lounging on little mountains of rock
Close to the shore, beckoning us into their world.
Our world lies further back, behind the tide line,
The umbrellas and sunscreen and such
To shield us from the blazing sun
That sustains all life in their realm and ours,
And is, perhaps, the first and strongest connection we share
In this blinding world of sand and sunshine,
Where we and them become us.
We wade into the sea, all tentative, coltish legs
And shivers as the waves crash over us.
Everything turns magical as we dive in,
The underwater world blinding us with
It's salty, sandy currents and steams,
But through the rose tint borne
Of our foreignness in this place,
All I can see are dreams coming true.
A lady of the sea paddles up to us,
Offering us her treasures if we'll come
Live in her coral home and breathe the same salt water,
And I, lost in her world, found in her beauty,
Reach out to take her pale hand in mine,
And become as she says,
"I am yours, forever now, as you are forever mine."
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 8:11 AM UTC
I hear the sounds of the city I the distance.
Cars, truck and auto rickshaws screaming for space on the bypass.
Far from my terrace they seem to be
Yet they are close to enough that the breeze brings their fumes.
A shawl is spread beneath me
To keep my clothes from the dust that is not washed away up here.
Up here, where my eyes can barely see the treetops.
Up here, where the sun is strong and browning my fair skin.
Up here, where I am exposed and unseen.
The worries of all my differences are erased when I alight the steps to my rooftop.
It doesn't matter that I don't speak Bengali .
It doesn't matter that I'm sick of Dal and the Baigan Bharta is too spicy.
It doesn't matter that I am a foreigner and always will be.
I am celebrated by the the crows and mosquitos that find solace above Kolkata.
In turn, I can celebrate the fact that I've found a corner where my foreignness is not offensive nor inviting.
It just is, and I'm just me; far above the dusty streets and the stray dogs that keep me up a night with their howls.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
Rinsing over porcelain skin
Skin still too pale for the end of summer
Washing, cleansing, every curve, every bend
Water droplets gather in pools around my unpainted toes
Parachuting raindrops released from freshly-trimmed ends
Of hair that will soon disappear
Naked green eyes clear of disoperation
Gaze at the foreignness of this summer waterfall.
I part my lips to taste the mountain air
Condensed into a life source
Icy in July, fresher than filtered
A German Shepard gazes at my silhouette
Caramel and black, fur bristling with excitement
With kind brown eyes
Sparked with curiosity,
Lapping the water with his pink tongue.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
there is a constant ache behind the eyes - dim,
like the dying embers of a fire. my stomach
is always too full of everything I didn't eat, the
foreignness spread like black mold beneath the
surface of everything.
picking at hangnails, picking at chapped lips, picking
the scabs that scabbed over my spirit.
my tongue is scratched like a scratched cd,
I have only one or two things that I keep
repreprepeating.
there is a build-up in my throat of apologies,
lingering on my breath and the truth I have been
keeping in my belly, the truth I have swallowed so
greedily, the truth is I haven't
much
truth.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
he goes
swinging arms set on
leaning shoulders and
feet that climb pavement
every step
taking inches before miles before the span of her heart
infected with a childhood
an unfitting frame for
such words and
sometimes he feels sick,
at the size of his own hands
isthmus, island
sick at the foreignness of being
skin native to all the touches
but blood that tastes only enemies, shies away
she thinks how, how,
beautiful the white skin
light strains he looks at nothing, not her
dull eyes, white eyes,
never enough of night,
eyes
he will bend and glance
deep, to taste a bit of his own death
trapped in his clutched palm
annoyed,
she thinks what sweet bitter held hands
I don't want to be your friend
don't want to lose a friend
the child builds love where it doesn't belong, everywhere
stacking towers against God, unlearning,
the child fights, he fights
they resist and scratch and embrace
and he bends
his fingers
May 29, 2011
May 29, 2011 at 9:26 AM UTC
fearing the foreignness
entering still, just to explore
leaving the warm certainty
loosing the new game
the highscores we made before
are a forgotten imagination of an invented name
bored by the new
excited of wrinkled vintage
getting lost in the try
to satisfy our needs
while searching for a ******
reaching the top
of an endless gorge
behind you is what you want
in the fall is what you need
who of you would turn?
who would prefer a german Gift?
who will earn?
a Gift
like grass,
like leaves,
like the smell of these, sometimes
like the sea's, so green.
like the sky,
the tide,
merging in their insides, sometimes
like the sea's so blue.
the clue is to fly, from level to level
leaving all of the coins
keep place in your 60's pocket
for what
in a new level wont let you feel forlorn
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC