Poems That Mean the World to Me

There are two poems that I would keep under my pillow if I were in the habit of doing that.  As it is, I have them pinned to the noticeboard in my study and below are my favourite fragments from them.  They seem to speak my words, my thoughts, my heart (but so much better than I ever could).  The first one I discovered a long time ago, as a teenager; the second one I came across only a few months ago, but it sparked my creative renaissance. The sentiments seem to lie at opposite ends of the spectrum. Yet, we all have contradictions within ourselves, don’t we?

You said: ‘I’ll go to another country, go to another shore,

find another city better than this one’.

[…]

You won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore.

This city will always pursue you.

You’ll walk the same streets, grow old

int he same neighbourhoods, turn grey in these same houses.

You’ll always end up in this city.  Don’t hope for things elsewhere:

there’s no ship for you, there’s no road.

Now that you’ve wasted your life here, in this small corner,

you’ve destroyed it everywhere in the world.

(C.P. Cavafy)

When they say Don’t I know you?
say no.

When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
If they say we should get together.
say why?

It’s not that you don’t love them any more.
You’re trying to remember something
too important to forget.
Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.
Tell them you have a new project.
It will never be finished.

Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second.
Then decide what to do with your time.

(Naomi Shihab Nye)

 

Who Am I? (The Third Culture Kid)

Or even fourth or fifth culture kid…  This is the internationally accepted term for children who have spent a significant portion of their formative years in cultures different from their own, or their parents.  I didn’t know I was one while I was growing up – now I am raising a couple of my own.  Personally, I much prefer the term ‘global nomad’ – has more of a glamorous ring to it, doesn’t it? But what I do have is that feeling of fragmentation: I do not have a solid, whole concrete façade, but  am made up of so many different little pebbles of influence.

Fragmentation

I used to think moving on is a blessing,

the moved upon powerless and grieving.

Head down, I’d prepare for exit and re-entry, again, and again,

glad to be the one gathering no moss.

But ultimately revenge is theirs:

for they sprout roots, link up, grow together, form tissue

richly alive with many shared hours and insights and tales.

All the shortcuts roll glib off their tongues,

always creating and leading their own trend,

while the mover is running to catch up, to fuddle,

stuck in the language of past generations,

never quite getting the nuance, the slang.

See that flying line of geese?  There’s one just off,

destroying the symmetry of their formation.

I fear I am something of a disappointment:

not enough of a glamour-bird when you want to preen with me,

yet not sufficiently aligned and meek.

My ducks in a row askew,

so easy to shoot at, and never enough time

to grieve.

I’ve learnt to hide my real thoughts

my own thoughts

my solitude.

I’ve learnt a short answer to the question:

‘Where are you from?’, tinged with just enough humour

and self-deprecation to disarm and charm.

Who am I?

I am all that is half-forgotten,

half-mourned, half-understood.

I am all the places in which I’ve left my heart.

I am all that is buried deep inside and want to excavate no more.

I am all that I dare not show you

for fear that you will drown.