"portman" poems
Wimbledon’s playing on the TV in the living room. Dad and I are watching on the sofa.
In the kitchen, Mom cuts carrots and cucumbers with a long blade. She slices the vegetables one by one. Orange pieces. Green pieces.
I glance over Mom chops up the carrots and cucumbers without a cutting board, taking each long carrot and cucumber and slices it with precision, as though she’s a professional like the film with Natalie Portman and Jean Reno.
But she’s not a little girl and she’s not a Frenchman. She’s like a mix-in-between, like the asphalt in our driveway and the grass sprouting in between the cracks.
Dad is a computer engineer. He used to be an artist. Used to study technical drawing in a university in Saigon.
He met mom when he was working on a play. She was the lead actress. Shakespeare had said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”
He’s right, but right now I can’t tell what act I’m in. Dad focuses on the TV. Watches Federer and Djokovic, his eyes, darting from left to right like the mood of a young boy that crosses back and forth from light to dark, and back again.
Blade in hand, Mom makes longer and deeper cuts across the cucumber, cutting away the skin, leaving deep cuts in the vegetable. Dad turns his head towards her, his neck cracking like the forehand swung by Federer.
He clears his throat, softly, soft as gas leaking out from a stovetop from a studio apartment, like the scene in Fight Club, a match about to be struck.
Mom sets the blade down on the table, and bites her lip. Her nostrils flare. I press down on the couch arm, and stand up, my head bent, my eyes wandering to the doorway.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
those
who has so long been submerged
in the water of the womb-cave
now when the sun rises
would they put their lips in action
the pantograph
the wheat-plants
that has been sowed in autumn
the shyness of the houses
going away farther and farther
how much should i become glum
for those stations
on which i suppose to never put my steps
since taking birth
the same story of huggis and wrappers
i’ve told you to say good bye
to the portman
full of rust
and to make an aquarium
for the flying-fishes
with the water-moon
there may also exist
some social forestry
mr slumber
you can’t keep the good-wishes
arranged properly
so as soon as the eyes get open
the palpitations start
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 5:39 AM UTC
It was my first time
I was fifteen years old
And it was 8 inches.
Eight. Whole. Inches.
Laying motionless in my hands,
Long and lifeless as I stared excitedly, nervously
My first ...haircut
I spun around in the salon chair to see my exposed jaw, shoulders, neck
Holding in my hands a ponytail that would soon be sent to Locks of Love
My first legitimate haircut, not the simple snips my mom would attempt in the bathroom when split ends were too unbearable,
A real style
Back straight and shoulders proud,
Uncertainty left on the tiles beneath the feet of beaming confidence,
Leaving dead the sheet that covered scared eyes and shy smiles…ever since I've developed an addiction to change,
Can't leave it the same for more than two months
And the chime of the door behind me opened endless opportunities:
Brown, auburn, gold, red, blond, yellow
Black
Brown black, blue black, soft black, natural black, always back to black
Straight, curly, layered, cropped, feathered, fringed, shaved
Undercut, mohawk, faux hawk, that weird thing where I gel it to the side and kind of look like a boy...
And yeah, sometimes I get sick of the sexist comments
People telling me I've got a boy's haircut
That short hair is for men, but
So were the olympics and voting and public education and getting published,
And thriving in the workplace and wearing pants,
And god knows im not going to give up either my Levi's or my razor
I'm not going to keep worrying; man's words will stop me from doing what i love
And I've been called lesbian, boyish, butch, manly, androgynous, anti-effeminate,
But I know I don't stand alone.
So thank you, Natalie Portman, P!nk,
Rihanna, Katy Perry, Anne Hathaway,
Kaley, Megan, Erin, Kim, Skylar
I don't know all of you well,
But the risks you've taken with your hair
Are an inspiration to those who care
So short haired women,
Keep doing your thang.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
Your liquid is
leaking
all over my table
yet
you stand tall
beckoning me
4:13 with no mercy
please save
me
drink me
drink me
light another
cigar
...ette
Miette? Miette?
Me yet?
How does this
make sense to
a Frenchman?
How come some
people get fat
but then stop
at a certain point?
Is it
possible to not
lie?
:Tell the truth
all the time
We're all liars
bigots
********
creators of filth
Will my hair
stop falling out?
Will my hands
stop shaking?
Will my feet
stop pounding?
Will my thoughts
quit pouring out?
Will this
beer
stop flowing down
my throat?
Will the Cure
stop making me cry?
Will Tool ever
break up?
What do people do
when I'm sleeping?
Who do I like more
Black Sabbath or
Led Zeppelin?
Dead Kennedys or
The Misfits?
Mozart or
Beethoven?
Philip Seymour Hoffman or
Daniel Day Lewis?
Natalie Portman or
Scarlett Johannson?
Goth chicks or
Nerdy chicks?
or both
or all of the above?
Do my eyes
perceive reality?
Do my fingers
feel gravity?
Does my tongue
taste sarcasm?
Do my ears
dare to fathom?
Can I trust my friends?
Should I trust my lover?
Mother
should I trust
the government?
Who do I hate more
Nicholas Cage or
Ben Affleck?
Nickelback or
Linkin Park?
George W. Bush or
Adolf ******
Money or
Women?
or both
or all of the above?
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 2:07 AM UTC
Hello, dear friends and family,
I write you on behalf of your own dis-functionality. Break away the molds of a less mortal man. Ne'er again will I be what I am. I am anachronistic I'm a flower. I expect sunshine I expect showers. I am lesser than an 8th grade child. Come with me Mr. Rogers, stay awhile.
Ulcers, explosions, colonoscopy, I'd like "things that come from the back side of me" for 500, Alex.
Reflex my mental perceptions and premarital sexuality. I'm Catholic, we're catholic; I think you're understanding me.
I used to write for you, but now I write for me. Pac Man ate my ***** yesterday, and a ghost I shall be.
Fan me the cool feels, fan me the sweet deals; I'd like to make money sometimes, but that's just the worldly me.
Let's be humerus, I'm flexing my skeletal muscles. Bone me twice, I'm flexible: tussle.
An antiperception of lesser mortal men, let us not take umbrage to the second tense of Portman's skin.
I see you, girl; I see you girl. I'm not interested, but that body speaks worlds.
Is that weird? I guess you can admire beauty without falling into lust. I suppose that's normal, save when staring at bust.
Let me anchor you; let me father. I'm not writing for my son, nor my daughter.
There's some serious necessities, there's some serious faults. I love you, and that's the honest truth, but what happens if we're lost? Five more words to go.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
Whose visions
Were established here
Where cold stones brush the sky
While mirrored in their icy grace
The homeless men walk by
Aesthetically
The Portman breed
Revised the urban face
How could such soaring intellect
Conceive this heartless place
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
Brad Pitt picks his nose and eats it
Natalie Portman cries in the tub over trivial things
President Obama has sleep apnea
And you are afraid of the dark
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
You look at me like you're dreaming.
Like I'm your personal Jesus.
Like I've been sent to begin you,
to start you again.
You look at me like I'm a ray of sun,
like you've never seen something so
transcendental.
Like, 'I could die right now.'
Why?
Why am I that to you?
How can I be that to you?
I'm not that.
I'm pretty, but not Natalie Portman,
smart, but not Stephen Hawking,
kind, but not Mother Theresa,
talented, but not YoYo Ma.
So why are you looking at me like that?
Quit looking at me like that.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
Night and day I see your face at stores;
A famous one, seen in different shapes,
That does express life, which each fan adores,
Adventures with downfalls and escapes.
Like stars of olden days, in black and white,
In every scene you shine with emotions,
Each smile, each tear a different sight,
Praised for many philosophical notions.
Oh, and my teenage years were filled with you,
Right and left I would see you for a while,
Till I would suddenly find someone new,
Making me feel safe with a lonely smile.
Amongst the loved ones you were then, O star,
Nonstop, while I was always apart so far.
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 7:39 AM UTC
im wrapping these lights around the balustrade? of my stairs and i thought they looked beautiful but now that
im stepping off my chair they
don't look that nice um
they look sloppy and tacky
like the ones off the side of a Mexican restaurant
i wonder how natalie portman decorates her christmas lights.
they must be nice.
i used tape
she probably gets someone else to stick it up anyways but
the tape is pretty when the light hits it and the
colors blend and stutter like it's trying to short circuit the tape but
the tape is swimming in it even though there
is only light in glass in light
i stick the tape on the wall.
there is something psychedelic about holding a handful of rainbow lights alone on a chair until they start spilling over and you tilt your neck to see where they go but
there is only the ground there is only the ground there is no where to fall into but
the light is moving again because
you are the tape
and you are standing on the chair where the glass blooms with filaments that you
touch and suddenly you are
swimming in colors that don't seem sloppy and tacky anymore.
you pull the plug.
the house is bright again.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC