I'll love you in all the ways
you can't love yourself,
so that you may find reprieve
from the soil and the silt
Lit Recognition Re-IntroductionGreetings and Salutations!
Allow me to introduce you all to LitRecognition, a group focused on featuring those in the community and sharing their magnificent words. We do not accept submissions through this group, but we do accept suggestions for people and pieces to feature. It is our goal to give proper recognition to the little-known works that deserve that extra attention.
Throughout the week, we will be presenting several different types of features for you all to enjoy. But, we certainly cannot do it all ourselves! We are always going to be looking for participation from the community to help keep things rolling; it was, is, and always will be, a community-based feature.
Over the last handful of months, two of us have been brainstorming and plotting our way to this moment; the grand re-opening of an old deviantArt Literature staple. Despite strange schedules, new jobs, and life, we have finally reached this point. And, at this point, we would like to introduce ourselves, and sha
a new year-ningi.
sifting the racks
in search of new skin
and days just as cloying
iii. closing shop before midnight
in yesteryear —
the merchants’ wares
sleepful visions chastised
by Divinity’s drum —
the hound awakens
of familial strangers —
bagan beginnings i.
kissed by the slinking sun
derelict relics —
by the bare feet of pilgrims
or just afterI.
her love affair with flightless birds began long before she met me, with the chickens in her kampong — they were her “feathered friends”, who plumed as she bloomed.
during the sabbath of sienna sunsets, she aches and speaks of childhood cankers, those sediments of sentiment that perch in us perpetually (“they are not migratory birds. no, no, they nest in your heart.”)
“one fine afternoon,” she said. “wingspans ago, pa told me to call the chickens ‘fowl’ because they were ‘not quite birds’. and so began my acquaintance with the tragedy of a taxonomy that casually defines birds as flying creatures, lumps chickens in that category and then brands them exceptions.” when i wheedled her for her melodrama — “and you call me the pretentious one?”, she spilled (quietly, quiet as that suspended moment before the crow of the cock, just when the shy sun slinks out into our world) —
rain, rainunder heaven’s loose faucet
shy snails suscitate -
I.nurturing affection -
dandelions? weeds? -
in your backyard
MediumThis pen and ink is not my preferred medium.
As much as I wish to weave silver
From my fingertips,
I fall matte (and flat);
I prick my hand on the spindle.
Yet I keep spinning words,
Hoping to form something new and golden.
But the sun doesn’t shine
In the shade (and grayed
Areas don’t mean anything).
To speak and be heard is all I ever wanted,
All I’ve been working for my entire life;
But my vocal chords are ripped
And the lovesick music
Is all I have left to show.
Is sweet like wine,
So snap out of it.
FrostbiteThe floor is covered so I can hardly walk;
Any step I take could be my last.
And so here I lay
In the catacombs of my past
Wasting away as if I, myself, were a cadaver.
If I sit here any longer, I’m going to get frostbite.
But I continue to lay here
For if I move, it will be the end of me.
I hear my name, calling from the outside;
I feel the pull in my chest, tugging at me to get up.
Yet, I do not dare to move.
I’m sitting here longer; bring on the frostbite.
The Things You Leave on the BeachShe stepped into the waves crashing on the beach. Funny, she didn’t remember the water being red, nor the dead body washed upon the shore.
Orchids, SpecificallySeason of sun,
Seasoned with cinnamon;
Lavender icing smoothed on top
Tempts something sweeter
Very few can taste.
And on her deathbed
I will place
Diagnosis: A Poetry Anthology*
Practical lessons in medical terminology
So much more intense than a classroom
This is not just an exam I’m writing
These are questions I could answer if anyone else were asking
But I am the child and yet
My elders turn to me
Eyes shining for explanations
A list of technical symptoms
Measurements, scans, jargon
Gloss over what is really a human life
A man, a father
Brother, uncle, grandfather
Carpenter cook artist
And the baggage that is his family
Reduced to a thin manila folder
A pile of prevarication
No one wants to say the word
And waiting is so hard
Can they not see that each
AmorphousHeaviness drips from my pituitary
To settle behind my sternum
And drag my limbs to a standstill.
It is huge and tactile and real,
But somehow I cannot describe its shape.
RestorationMy inner voice is static screaming
Snow on an old tv
Outside, the silent storm deposits a veneer of cold peacefulness
Going to the side of town where the streets have not yet been plowed,
I cannot see the lane markings
But this road is engraved on the memory of my heart
The road to a place where I feel the spirit of my mother and sister and grandparents still moving
This place where I can still feel the laughter of the children who forged me into womanhood
The joy and sadness absorbed by these unchanging stones
Are now mingled with fear
That this park’s namesake will roll armored down the boulevard to terrorize my people, my city
And kill a little boy I once knew
And that fear flares to consuming fire
The smoke and flames insist on the notice of sanctimonious outsiders
I’ve driven past this place but never stopped before today
On the national news, you saw the charred husk
the best blessingstwo daughters
friend and friend
to cheer a long evening
fill the house
VolumeShe had hardly allowed her
to think of
to fill the house