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Just because I’m awake doesn’t mean I can’t dream.

  • 01/04/2024

    after a million firsts this week is going to be a beautiful bittersweet compilation of my last firsts.
    my last first day of school, my last school diary, my last first foyer assembly.
    it feels like yesterday i was burdened by an extra textbook i carried to school a a first grader,
    the biggest problem in my life was that i told my friend to break a pencil and he was able to do it but we got shouted at for breaking a pencil.
    fourth grader me would not believe she got into student council,
    that she made it to twelfth standard in a matter of minutes.
    it was yesterday that i was the head of the cheshire cat, my best annual day role, i’m so proud of nine year old me.
    just a few hours ago today i was a fifth grader who proudly announced i wanted to become an astronaut and go to mars but i wanted to write a musical before that.
    and a few minutes ago, i was an eighth grader arguing about brutus and julius caesar and human nature,
    a tenth grader rethinking my life decisions and crying when i got my final exam results.
    i suddenly grew up a second ago.
    there’s no way back.
    it’s how djo says- it’s the end of the beginning.
    we keep moving forward, we’re pawns hoping to get to the end of our column unscathed
    so we can transform into stealthier knights or a castle perhaps.
    we’re galloping in a field- we don’t know if we’re even going in the right direction
    we just want to reach somewhere.
    soon i won’t be a teenager anymore.
    i won’t have to worry about broken pencils and annual day- imagine not complaining about school every day.
    it seems far away. i hope it stays like that.

    Writtten by
    Milomi
    On 1st April, 2024.

    Something from the archives.

  • it doesn’t snow in my city – poem

    i’m right at home in between 25C and 27C,
    the perfect temperature to live comfortably and contemplate efficiently.
    it never gets too cold where i live
    and it’s never even dipped below 15C, thank gosh,
    i would become a snow-woman.

    still, last week, i mulled over events without mulled wine,
    and i saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills,
    that moment was an anchor, my anchor.

    but what snow and what hills and what reflection?
    i shudder in humid clouds and terrible air quality index,
    i shrink away from thick tendrils of smoke and wounding sunlight, this city is hot.
    i still went on and told my friend’s dog that really, my life changed when i saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills.

    my head is swirling now-
    i’ve ridden north, hopping trains and searching for that
    glass mountain
    to finish my song and to return my humid head to cool.
    i saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
    and i wondered what the dog would say if he saw it too, he might ask if the landslide brought me down.

    my head is still swirling
    my words lost all semblance of sense five weeks ago when i first saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills.
    try to get some sleep, maybe
    you’re seeing things, it’s just a mirage.
    my reflection waves at me.
    i wonder if i should wave back.

    Written by
    Milomi.

    Day 11/30- Landslide by Fleetwood Mac and NaPoWriMo’s lyric prompt are a dangerous combination. I apologise.

    Image source: https://unsplash.com/photos/a-mountain-covered-in-snow-with-trees-in-the-foreground-u8YSlZgzBzg

  • michelangelo painted standing up- poem

    art is not a number.

    the sistine chapel covers at least 12,000 square feet,
    it is 134 feet long,
    44 feet wide,
    68 feet high,
    it took michelangelo 4 years to complete,
    it began to be made 517 years ago.

    the numbers make the art more brilliant and more
    apparent,
    but the art is not a number.

    it is not how many frescoes or how many
    paintbrushes or how many
    nights or how many
    people.

    art is the story between the strokes
    that we learn on our second visit,
    that some people
    can’t quite understand till their fifth visit.
    art is not a number.

    art is the agony in continuous creation,
    it is the cramping of twisted hands that are hidden and sacrificed
    for a better purpose.
    it is the unquestionable, relentless march, stubborn,
    despite tangled muscles and limp limbs,
    no,
    art is not a number.

    Written by

    Milomi.

    Day 10/30.

  • The Piece of Paper- poem

    I found a piece of paper and coloured it blue.
    There. I held a small part of the sky.
    I told my friend that it was mine but it could be hers too;
    I would share.
    I held that piece of paper close to my chest
    And we whispered secrets that her clouds would keep forever.
    We even put it to test
    Checking that the sky was true to its promise.
    Too many years later, I find that same paper,
    Its frayed ends, holes, tears, and greyish appearance terrify me.
    Maybe this is an act of nature.
    Maybe not.

    Written by
    Milomi.

    Day 9/30.

    Image source: https://unsplash.com/photos/blue-and-white-labeled-box-VjnuqdJvq3Q

  • i haven’t fallen out of Love just yet – poem

    lost and found, in and out, love and i play hide and seek
    climax builds, subsides again- is she who i should really seek?

    i’ve emptied my cupboard and looked beneath the floor tiles,
    dismantled my life trying to earn this token i eagerly seek.

    pages torn out of books, loose thread from clothes, all possible
    inks on my skin, but my mind tells me to only seek

    that which i fear but that which i yearn for, i swear it’s right
    around the corner. an encore of you’re not weak. seek.

    there’s not a road i haven’t combed, a sky i haven’t searched,
    maybe love is my shadow, maybe that’s what i should seek;

    as i turn around, i see her, she is a thousand prisms, a million
    promises. she grants me a wish and tells me only to seek.

    i’m tearful, i’m fearless, i’m careful, i’m not. she’s here, she’s not.
    i had just started falling and now it’s her chance to seek.

    i’ve lost my shadow, cursed to be a half-moon, never whole.
    Milomi, will you be found before i run out of time to seek?

    Written by
    Milomi.

    Day 8/30, inspired by Patricia Smith’s work as per the NaPoWriMo prompt!

  • Why I Am Not a Film – poem

    To be so unfettered, almost disconnected from the world’s thoughts,
    Yet deeply rooted in emotions and
    Rich in comfort and meaning
    Is beyond me.
    To make my own story without waiting for destiny to
    Painstakingly pen down a predictable arc,
    Terrifies me and
    To still deny convention, defy odds, all in the span of
    Three hours,
    Is wildly improbable.
    I cannot be a work of Tarantino or Nolan, I lack the
    Depth but even more, the confidence
    In my story – that I might awe some and inspire more.
    I lack the precision of words, and a certain kind of
    Hope, that twinkles through the screen.
    Too dazed, not as amazed, but not at all fazed by the realisation-
    Maybe I’m more fitting as a single frame of a film-
    A fickle feeling, a fleeting flower,
    A memory that left too soon.

    Written by
    Milomi.

    7/30.

  • Oranges- poem

    Bright and blinding, I hold a
    Star in my hand.
    Bold and believing, I dare myself
    To peel layers of the star’s secrets.

    Beauty and beast, the star gurgles,
    Trying to save itself but
    Beloved and bittersweet, I finally
    Take an awaited bite.

    Becoming and become, I realise that my
    Star tastes like hope and promises.
    Befuddled and bested, I’m irreverent as I
    Wish for a sea full of these wistful stars.

    Written by
    Milomi.

    6/30, in response to ‘oranges’, ‘gurgle’, and ‘irreverent’.

  • a march in april- poem

    walk in a straight line, head tall, shoulders back,
    this is the last time you’ll march,
    make it count.

    an announcer’s words hung hazily in the air,
    claps and hoots and chitter-chatter faded into the background,
    and i could only hear
    “pomp and circumstance”-
    an anthem. and suddenly i was a child chilled with goosebumps, excited and scared.

    the walk was never-ending and i could hear
    the crescendo of feelings, the crescendo of my feelings.
    i could hear hope in this nostalgic tune,
    carrying me forward to the stage in some sort of dream.

    it was a song of pride, an encore of fulfilment, a pinnacle.

    i stood, with not pomp, in this wistful circumstance,
    and i could swear the conductor indicated the orchestra in that recording, to play,
    louder than possible.
    one last time, the last dance, my last march.

    i took my last bow, walking off the stage,
    wondering if this was my flight landing and me heading to ‘arrivals’ to another city or if i was still at the beginning-
    that i just now reached ‘departures’,
    and saw my flight would board from gate 54B.
    cue the strings.

    louder.

    Written by
    Milomi.

    ‘louder than possible’, ‘march’, ‘departures’, happened to be the prompts for NaPoWriMo Day 5/30- fits perfectly on graduation.

  • length by breadth by home- poem

    it hangs there; it is hanging in there,
    a painted poem,
    just above our grey sofa.

    when i’m confused and find myself asking too many
    questions, and lacking as many
    answers, i find myself a bit too
    lost within the thick strokes of this canvas.

    it is not comforting.
    it doesn’t offer answers nor consolation nor guidance-
    i think it has as many questions about the world as i do. it looks just as confused and befuddled.

    so when everyone around me knows the
    correct answer,
    i turn to this painting. i find solace and solidarity
    in its confusion.

    Written by
    Milomi.

    Inspired by Denise Levertov’s ‘Living with a Painting’. Day 4/30.

  • <untitled>- poem

    today, i will be reciting a poem. it has no title.

    “i know that the poet cared about this piece a lot,

    so much so that she could not

    find a title she loved enough to part with and bestow upon

    this nameless child.

    ‘is art still art if it is untitled?’ she wondered.

    ‘is my poem still a poem if i love it too much to name it?’

    the poet sat helplessly in a heap of handwriting,

    glimpsing words, phrases, sentences, that held meaning, meaning, meaning,

    but

    wouldn’t so much meaning, meaning, meaning crush the meaning of her poem,

    wouldn’t a title become the poem?

    how could she find a title that already was the poem, that didn’t change the poem or diminish it or undermine the poem? because she loved that poem.

    why restrict a poem?

    after all, it is a poem.”

    Written by
    Milomi.

    Inspired by NaPoWriMo’s Day 3/30 resource of South Korea’s National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art- which has an exhibit called ‘The Art of Naming‘.