For the next 30 days on my YouTube channel Loving the Language of Literacy, I will be posting an original poem of mine along with behind the scenes knowledge of my inspiration, the creative process, and any other lessons / tips & tricks I have to offer.
This is a poem I actually wrote and didn't particularly like but when I made the video, I somehow fell in love with it for the first time. This is the first real reflection of transition into a more slam poetry style and I really like this phase.
Broken Hearts & Broken Art
My poetry and my heart are never broken at the same time
Maybe then, I could get some work done
When I fall in love
all the nutrients - that could go
to the brain that might actually need it
are instead detoured, no devoured
by the selfish butterflies in my stomach
and the time it takes to wonder
what my first name would look like with your last
When I fall out of love
I am too busy - reading affirmations
about independence and starting that couch to 5k program
we said we’d always try together
then relapsing when I see the polaroid from out first date,
still taped to the mirror - then I speculate about what you’d say
about my body, which worked so hard
to squeeze into the jeans I would have begged
you to take off of me,
So I guess my only choices are to join a convent
where I can dedicate my life to an eternal husband
and dream about living the one I always wanted
then trying to attend enough hours of confession
to make myself feel worthy,
or I could look myself straight in the eye while removing
already cried-off mascara and telling
the actually angst-ridden teenage girl
not even close to approaching middle aged woman
the truth ; that it was worth it.
For the next 30 days on my YouTube channel Loving the Language of Literacy, I will be posting an original poem of mine along with behind the scenes knowledge of my inspiration, the creative process, and any other lessons / tips & tricks I have to offer.
This is as close as I'm ever going to get to a volume two of the poem Outlier. It's actually based off the format of a poem from the person who Outlier was based off of. He's a brilliant poet and I was trying and pretty much failed to emulate his style. It's different but it most certainly is a poem for all the complicated people in your life.
Understandings
I read it again
Read into it, I guess
Would be more accurate
I've spent the past 2 months
Analyzing every moment
Of silence hung between
Two confused people
On a wash line
Desperate,
I ramble and I wonder
What it would be like
Again to have someone
There for me
But that is the worst part
Because you are
The closest thing I've got,
I have tried so hard
Not to make this about me
Tried not to succumb
To wanting a legacy
And I'm trying not
To use you like a cigarette
-another way to alleviate
The people I have struck
Down as items on my to do list,
I want to explain
Why I've sent you paragraphs
Of a person I won't remember
By the time regret
Kicks in tomorrow,
I want to tell you
The delusions are not
My attempts at squinting
To see what has never been
There, but the only way
I know how to tell you
That I have tried to understand
For the next 30 days on my YouTube channel Loving the Language of Literacy, I will be posting an original poem of mine along with behind the scenes knowledge of my inspiration, the creative process, and any other lessons / tips & tricks I have to offer.
I wrote this poem not necessarily because this is the way I felt about the day but because it's the way people do feel when cynicism kicks in. It poses the question - is cynicism are requirement of making art? I most definitely think that it isn't, but it was fun playing with the topic.
The Cynic Returns Home
After a day of being with people
I go to the dark room,
hang up the happiness
I decided to try on today
- a free trial
some lady offered me
in a department store,
I dump the film
into the only substance
I’ve ever known
to yield a solution,
then - I wait
for the man scraping
his dentures in the train seat
behind me an d the pained expression
responds to the gaudy tie you purchased
at the thrift store next door
to show up in the background,
that’s why I don’t
like photos with extreme depth of field
because they fill in the blanks
we were supposed to paint
with independent thought,
and accidents don’t happen
when the somber shows the score
of who sold themselves out
for a bit of verification
that they told the truth,
they told me to never end a story
with “and then they wake up”
but guess what? not doing so
is what makes this a story
because we don’t get photos
mid laugh, mid cry, mid conversation
without posing for them
For the next 30 days on my YouTube channel Loving the Language of Literacy, I will be posting an original poem of mine along with behind the scenes knowledge of my inspiration, the creative process, and any other lessons / tips & tricks I have to offer.
This was written to the prompt of writing about a word that has taken on a completely different meaning in your family or culture than the one that is commonly known. Coincidentally, the photo used for the thumbnail is one written exactly 10 years ago from the time the video was posted, give or take only a week.
I haven’t thought of her in ten years
The little girl whose grand plan on a Friday night
was family dinner at The Only Place in Town
where she was happy to order sprite, a hamburger,
and fries with a spice something like paprika
Who was guiltiest about the cartoons she watched past her bedtime
and holding one parent’s hand longer than the other,
Her mother imagined the word as a way to preserve innocence
while having a jolly good time doing it
I hadn’t actually realized there was any other term
for that bodily function we like to call a fart
and giggle hysterically whilst placing the blame
on the criss cross apple sauced person that’s most annoyed you today
After everyone asks what I could possibly be referring to
I stop using it
and there designates where that little girl died
Sometime when I began giving a crap.
For the next 30 days on my YouTube channel Loving the Language of Literacy, I will be posting an original poem of mine along with behind the scenes knowledge of my inspiration, the creative process, and any other lessons / tips & tricks I have to offer.
I didn't actually write this poem to any particular prompt except for the feelings I had towards the school and my life in New York versus England. And look, they didn't know she was coming
With a purple jumper in her suitcase
And skin cells that have sunk beneath stereotypes to feel the satisfying squish of English soil,
Instead of a one way ticket from somewhere she never took the time to know
And a caucus of politicians, too clawed into campsite trash bags to make any decisions
So when they ask her - jokingly - if she's learned the language
She will have to admit; she didn't allow herself to become fluent
She's always imagined them catching their reflections in her armor
too absorbed to notice the coagulated rust, let alone the person underneath
Once again, she has the chance to invent the piece of themselves they manage to see in her, which is all they will remember anyways,
or so she hopes.
It started in Spanish class, when Ahmad is defeated by the predicate tense and announces to everyone that she would have known the answer.
Then it was to object of her objections, who texted, to ask how she was doing.
After, it was the guidance counselor, who received email number seven and told her to stop writing.
That's when she realizes, her arrival will be noticed
And that is the misery, or the miracle, of being missed
For the next 30 days on my YouTube channel Loving the Language of Literacy, I will be posting an original poem of mine along with behind the scenes knowledge of my inspiration, the creative process, and any other lessons / tips & tricks I have to offer.
This poem was prompted by a poem where someone who had never been out of England and pretty much remained in their small town all their life started listing all the things he hasn't experienced and places he hasn't gone but then writes about all the ones he has which are truly remarkable and irreplaceable in terms of the grand scheme of his existence.
I have not been among
the chosen ones, clad
in the colors and confidence
of those comfortable in climax,
I have sat next to a girl in Spanish class
and learned what it means to love.
I have not been a recipient of the most
recognized award on the east coast,
mispronounced name crackled and crunched
over the intercom as the few who care
to listen learn my worth, but I have
sat on a grassy hill, overlooking the formerly
strange city, writing a goodbye to the boy
who bought me ice cream at the Lan
and shared it there.
I have pedaled the Erie Canal on Christmas Day,
desperate to get away
from the fibrous shadows floating across
my consciousness like a tumbleweed,
passing every mile I have already run,
until my inbox tells me; I must return.
I have not been the one whose name
everyone greets as they shuffle down the hall,
who is tussled about tongues and tangled
itself in tension; but those in the english class before
For the next 30 days on my YouTube channel Loving the Language of Literacy, I will be posting an original poem of mine along with behind the scenes knowledge of my inspiration, the creative process, and any other lessons / tips & tricks I have to offer. This poem was inspired by "Full Length Portrait of the Moon" by Alice Oswald.
Outlier
He could be any child at all;
The class president type
With a smile like ‘salutations’
And a heart of hindrance,
Or the pop culture enthusiast
Who is assumed to have nothing to say,
A voice like stepped-on broken glass when he does.
A touch always trailing after
The left impressions of
Penciled intentions
Already erased and erased
And what they think he’s after
Is you
To leave him
Alone.
He forgets he’s supposed to feel grateful
If the people who chose him
Would actually choose
To provide the care they signed for
Maybe then
The unbearable would become tolerable,
When you ask him a question
He replies flatly
Generating surprise
He expected to hear.
“Brother can you spare a dime?”
On the archaic game known as apathy
For he lost his own
Around the same time
He gave up thinking you would care,
Now you will only hear loose change
When he spends the residue of hope
And it clanks against the empty efforts
You had promised him.
You know what “children” are like;
Misunderstood. Angst-Ridden. Tired.
They carry on as they’ve been taught
Heads down the depths of disapproval
And tongues tied between
Choked on charity and
Silicon slicked slivers of ‘sorry’
As they grow into people
You wouldn’t recognize,
His story is lost
Amongst BREAKING NEWS and
Other things that matter more
But what’s the use of deliberations
When all he’s ever wanted
Is an end to the lonely.
Version Revised by Kate
He could be any child at all;
The class president type
With a smile like ‘salutations’
Or the pop culture enthusiast
Who is assumed to have nothing to say,
A voice like stepped-on broken glass when he does,
For the next 30 days on my YouTube channel Loving the Language of Literacy, I will be posting an original poem of mine along with behind the scenes knowledge of my inspiration, the creative process, and any other lessons / tips & tricks I have to offer.
Ask About When
They ask me to bare the innerworkings of my mind
So that they may glimpse the generator,
The creator, Some kind of all-satisfying answer,
To the demands and prying eyes that come with age.
Yet what they should not be asking is
Why I say what I do
How I come up with the notions
Where this supposed wisdom is born
Those are easy.
#1. Because there is so much idiocy in this world
That frustration has become the motivation to speak
#2. Because someone or something else’s words
Have inspired ones of my own;
I am no original, but the culmination of
Trial, Error, and Observation
#3. Because I am just another marionette
Turned martyr, and remain as one of the few
That have learned to tug on my strings,
Yet no one has ever questioned the When.
If they think for one second of any day
That I have no filter
That I have not carefully
Calculated, Whittled, and Re-Sculpted
My words
Constantly gambling on every
Bat of an eyelash,
Fluctuation in frequency of tone,
Strike on the scoreboard that is
Their impression of me,
Then they are even more moronic than I had thought.
I used to be the girl
Whose only mar on a perfect record
Was due to the fact that I had been
Bursting to contribute my opinion
From gun control to the structure of the word purple
And then one day, I stayed long enough
To gauge their opinions of me
Those subtle eye rolls only apparent to
Everyone in the room except for myself
Those imperceptible exhalations of “that’s just Sofia,”
Now, in a new time, new place,
As a person whose definitions of the world have been
Through the laundry machine of time
I still don’t reveal what the answer is in slope intercept form
And wouldn’t dare unfurl my opinions on the 6 ‘o clock news
I guess that’s why they see me in the light that they do
As I have been in charge of every utterance of
Thought that has ever touched down on a page,
Maybe now they’ll realize that opening up means nothing
When those answers have always been there
And there are still less complicated questions to ask
Because I am only just Sofia.
——— Sofia Shohue Liaw
They ask me to undress the innerworkings of my mind
So that they may glimpse the generator,
The creator, Some kind of all-satisfying answer,
To the commands and prying eyes that come with age.
Yet what they shouldn’t be asking -
Why I say what I do
How I come up with them
Where this supposed wisdom is born
Those are easy.
#1. Because there is so much idiocy in this world
That frustration has become the motivation to speak
#2. Because someone or something else’s words
Have inspired ones of my own.
I am no original, but the culmination of
Trial, Error, and Observation
#3. Because I am just another marionette
Turned victim, and reman as one of the few
That have learned to tug on my strings
Yet no one has ever questioned the When.
If they think for one second of any day
That I have no filter
That I have not carefully
Calculated, Whittled, and Re-sculpted
My words
Constantly gambling on every
Bat of an eyelash,
Fluctuation in frequency of time,
Strike on the scoreboard that is
Their impression of me,
Then they are even more moronic than I had thought.
I used to be the girl
Whose only mar on a perfect record
Was due to the fact that I had been
Bursting to share and contribute my opinion
From gun control to the structure of the word purple
And then one day, I stayed long enough
To gauge their opinions of me
Those subtle eyeballs only apparent to
Everyone in the room except for myself
Those imperceptible exhalations of “that’s just Sofia”
Now, in a new time, new place,
As a person whose definitions of the world have been
Through the laundry machine of time
I still don’t reveal what the answer is in slope intercept form
And wouldn’t dare unfurl my opinions on the news
I guess that’s why they see me in the light that they do
As I have been in charge of every utterance of
Thought that has ever touched down on a page
Maybe now they’ll realize that opening up means nothing
When those answers have always been there
And there are still less complicated questions to ask.
Because I am only just Sofia. The Creation of Ask About When
This is an exact copy of the explanation I wrote in April of 2015 and handed in along with the rest of my poetry portfolio. My voice is a lot different even then and while some of the things I said are no longer true, they were at the time and that's the point of writing, to see how far we have come.
Ask About When is one of the few poems I have written and genuinely felt proud of from the moment of conception, which happened in the midst of Mr. K’s lesson (you can’t deny the muses when they strike), and throughout the lengthy revision process.
In a class discussion, Mr. K brought up the observation that the particular 2014/2015 class was the most closed-off of any he had encountered so far in his teaching career as well as his opinion that most of the poetry that had been submitted throughout the unit was mediocre at best. From the very first line, Ask About When is my own answer to his statement, on levels both as a student and a person, where I present the issue at hand, and then combat it, all while spiraling deeper into why this topic has so much personal meaning. It addresses the crippling part of my personality - the reluctance and actual fear of participating in class - that I have dealt with since 2nd grade.
There are two impressions of who Sofia is that influenced word choice in the second and third lines. The first being that I am a machine-like perfectionist (generator) and the second being that the words I speak and write are somehow insightful or intelligent sounding (creator). From the moment we are born, we are in a constant state of sensory overload accompanied with living that makes the commonplace person not as trusting and naive, which is what the first and fourth lines suggest, as I have been asked to put the way I think on display because people question my word.
The second and third stanzas cover the questions people have always asked, the ones that beat around the bush and don’t actually fulfill their inquiries. This is simply because if I’m willing to answer you, whether out of the need to impress or compassion, that is answer in and of itself.
The fourth stanza addresses the questions from the second in a more slam-poetry style and are some of the most important lines in the poem. In short, the only reason I seem “smart” is because I have realized that I have to play the game of life if my favor in I ever want to establish some sort of independence from others, but that doesn’t mean that I am any better or try to be.
The fifth and sixth stanzas are the funnel of the whirlpool as I delve deeper and deeper into my social anxiety that comes with participation in class as well as showcasing my personal snarkiness that ties back to my frustration with idiocy. Furthermore, it alerts readers of my self-awareness and lets them know of my best attempts to draw a favorable hand.
The seventh stanza is truly where I hit home as an explanation to what controls when I speak. In Kindergarten, I had perfect grades in every standard, both social and intellectual, except for the one concerning speaking out of turn. I had been a constant fireball of positive energy, continuously eager to learn and contribute my opinion. In 2nd grade, I became aware of my surroundings and the people around me, the fact that I wasn’t “normal,” and through the use of irony, lay my fear of judgement out on the table.
The eighth and ninth stanza attempts to portray the gap of both time and personality that sits between my New York and Californian lives. I had thought it would be different coming to a new school, but the fact of the matter is that I’m still afraid and my teachers have picked up on this as well.
The tenth stanza is my three line ode (even though I could have used 3,000 lines) to my passion for the written word and writing. As someone who considers themselves a poet (being good has absolutely nothing to do with the declaration), I love nothing more than being in control. I will tell anyone anything about myself through writing, but reader’s must remember that that is my own conscious decision to do so.
The ending to Ask About When is something I struggled with because I thought, “Well, I’ve written all of this and made some pretty bold statements. How the heck do I wrap this all up?” The classic ending designed to make readers think was the original cutoff for the poem. Upon a peer editor’s suggestion, I spun the poem’s conclusion into something I feel sums up (as well as continues to perplex) its message. I am just a teenage year old fangirl who is learning how to navigate the waters of young love and spends her free time running and making videos, who uses the written word as her currency through time, who is stubborn and passionate (which keeps things interesting for my teachers), and who moved to Syracuse in the first place because I lost my mom (yes, I know that’s a euphemism).
Lastly, I think Ask About When is my own angst-ridden teenager-y shout into the void that’s supposed to alert people (who actually cared to read this far into my portfolio) of the fact that I have a problem and am doing the best that I can to do deal with it. And I hope, 10 years from now when I’m digging through old school assignments and poetry (once I’m a New York Times Bestselling author, of course), that this will only be a time capsule of the person I am today.
