Poetry
Alissa Tu is a first year MFA student in Creative Writing at UCSD. Even though she was given the opportunity to fly back home to Washington and maintain in-state residency eligibility, she decided to stay alone in San Diego.
Instagram: @heyalissa
Dear Asian Girl,
Let me tell you a story
She was young, at first
Young and proud, at first.
Roots nurtured by her ancestors,
she would lie on the ground
to soak up their wisdom.
Short, stubby branches reached out
to touch their souls
and she would feel the life
that once danced on this sacred land.
She would taste the golden nectar of her language
from the seeds her mother planted.
Her pride: the sunlight that fed,
her stories: the sweet water that nurtured,
her traditions: the soil—a structure of all things beautiful.
But soon, her branches grew,
grew into the unknown,
And she went into the world
in search of greener pastures,
But instead she found dying roots.
Savage—they called her
Chink, Paki, Dink, Gook, Raghead.
They claimed she stung with her thorns
But they didn’t know her thorns were her beauty
And they tainted her sunlight, until the fire burned her insides
Casted a dry spell until it robbed her of her water
Stole her fruit,
Snapped her branches,
Colonized her soil.
Until her songs became only a faint memory on her lips
And her stories, stayed forgotten dreams
But Dear Asian Girl,
Do not forget where you came from.
Lie on the ground again and
turn back the clock.
Revisit your mother’s kitchen,
fill the air with notes of sour and sweet,
And feel prickles of spice soothe your throat
And Dear Asian Girl,
you know you’re home.
Like that of a child,
let your people’s lullaby sing you to sleep,
Harmonize to a chorus so sweet
That you can taste the wonders on your tongue
Because Dear Asian Girl,
We sing our tunes in different tongues
Different swirls and different drums
beat the same beat,
Our hearts still beat the same beat
And together, Asian girl, we create our own harmony-
A battle cry so loud,
you can hear it in your chest when you breathe
and smell the burning fire when you scream
Look around you,
see how far we’ve come?
Well dear Asian girl,
we’ve only just begun.
Stephanie:
“Stephanie Hu is a 16 year old Chinese American living in Southern California. She is the founder of Dear Asian Youth, an organization that works to empower Asians from across the world. She wrote this piece to celebrate the incredible strength Asian women possess, especially during trying times like this."
Tesoro High School | instagram: @stephaniee.hu & @dearasiangirl
2:13AM journal entry
failed to fall asleep
even though my body is
exhausted to the core
my mind was thinking
too much so I got up and
drew in my sketchbook
I am feeling nostalgic and
sentimental for the
past, even though I would
never choose to relive
the moments in real life
I much prefer re-living
them through my journals
I am enjoying this
self-inflicted sadness
the kind that makes you
appreciate life just
a bit more
when your college friend
texts you a long
affectionate paragraph that
makes your throat choke up
with gratitude
and you think, oh no
when was the last time
I cried
and suddenly you are
hyper-aware of your
emotions and the
tumultuous state that
they are in
back to being tired now
post-catharsis in this
modern day love letter
DAWN
I’m going to try something new
even though new is out of my
comfort zone (but what else isn’t)
what are the barriers that stop
you from pursuing the new?
are you living in fear of
goodbyes that are too early and
greetings that you don’t
feel prepared for?
that emotion that envelops
your core, do you know
what that means?
recognition of the unknown and
of the unfamiliar — that is
what I’m chasing after but
I can’t, no I don’t think I can,
if the boundary between the
core and the surface
thickens
like a cell
I need to breathe
in the new day and feel
the gratitude that is meant to
keep me moving in these uncertain
waves
like a fierce ocean clashing
against dawn.
EARTHLY PLEASURES
Besides celestial bodies and
interstellar happenings, let us
thank our home on earth for
enduring so much for us without
asking for much in return
I wish this could mean that
the earth could last forever
but no, the earth needs love
too, just as humans seek
our own desires and lustful
yearnings — as silly as it
may seem
If we lived in a world without
physical contact, is this what
it’d be like? Afraid of
breathing the same air?
If we could only have each
other without being able to
touch, would we feel the same way?
I wonder. If all we really
yearn for are the sparks
we feel in a moment of
excitement when we are
calling for each other’s
skin, if the core of our
satisfaction derives from
your body wrapping around
mine. But that is
forbidden now
so tell me
do you still want me
would you still want me
in this war?
GROWTH / DECAY
An exponential change in feeling
does not eliminate the mundane
nor should it! Daily life full of
spontaneous conversations, endless
tasks to accomplish but never enough
time to do so. Is this how each day
used to go? The mundane holds
power in itself and
credibility over the extraordinary
as a resting state, a baseline
to rely on, and isn’t that
something we could all use more of
Up and down
fluctuations intertwine with a
steady rate of constancy
companionship in a modern
lonely story
do you hear the rustle of
change? Disrupting the flow
of what the people are used to.
I crave change but only
the kind of change that will
shift my light
forward, against all odds.
IS ANYONE LISTENING?
you are all wonderful
everything we could’ve asked for
I feel heard, I feel seen
in moments when I can take the
mic and speak to my
audience
we can control how we
respond to events and yet I
feel dominated by the other
voices; those of fear and
anxiety and rejection
pouring over my shell
I crave a listener
to receive my
woes with open
arms and
turn them into
silver linings
let me collect
these pockets
of stillness to
soothe my soul
Hayoung:
“Upon returning home after leaving campus with the knowledge that I would not be coming back as a student again, I searched desperately for ways to cope with my despair. I turned to my journal, as I often do in these types of situations, and put pen to paper to create this anthology of quarantine poetry. I speak on loneliness, intimacy, and dealing with change.
Harvard ‘20 | instagram: @hay0ung
We're fighting a war,
as if the enemy is new.
Avoid unnecessary contact,
as if we had a choice.
This is a once-in-a-lifetime rally
we've been fighting day in, day out.
Welcome - we've been lonely, we've been waiting.
Fear and relief strike in equal measure.
We're not alone now
for a moment it seems, before
the young replace the old,
the fit engaged in a wholesale raid.
The war will never be won; the young and fit
will soon forget their spoils, their bounty.
Soon you will wave goodbye, good luck, good riddance,
as we press on alone.
Welcome. We were here before, we will be here
long after.
Grace:
“I moved to the UK from Malaysia several years ago and also have a severe disability. This poem is meant to represent how a disabled person may feel during this pandemic, especially when some like me have always lived with a fear of viruses due to how we are at higher risk, and how others may even have been self-isolating for years. The world is now catching up with how we feel and whilst we all seem relatively united about not spreading viruses, etc, and I am hopeful that, for example, one result of the pandemic is that people will actually not go into the office sick, I feel that people are going to go back to their daily lives once this is over and forget this feeling. This poem serves as a reminder that this is what many disabled people have been experiencing all their lives." "
University of Cambridge | instagram: @gracehuiauthor | facebook: @gracehuiauthor | twitter: @gracehuiauthor
near the old bridge in new jersey, the last
chinese restaurant, shutters kicked in, plastic
bags strewn, grease traps and clogged sink
smelling of sesame oil, remains
my father came by on saturdays to order,
number 44, broccoli with beef, braised pork over rice,
reminder to put the forks on the side, an encouragement
in mandarin, a knot stuck in my throat
i pick up the phone, and the words don't flow
like black sugar and honey, they crystallize on
my tongue
please, i'll have the spareribs « qing
wo yao paigu » the silence brimming
when the neighbors speak, english traced
with bengali, spanish, korean, the current subsides
but then it returns, a lifetime of words spilling
too many for my tongue, a spray of syllables
swirling from my lips, preparing tones that stumble
& stretch & crack on my teeth, tearing &
flooding my flesh, piercing & prodding
my cheeks as the accents melt together
& sugar dissolves into bitterness &
a click on the line
the cashier says nothing when i arrive
a rattle of coins, some scratched up pens,
plastic bag exchanged for bills
i return with a linger of sweetness
« xie xie » a taste of the
saccharine sounds
Sharon Lin is in her third year at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. She is the daughter of Chinese immigrants.
MIT ‘21 | twitter @sharontlin | facebook @sharonlinnyc
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