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’.
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.
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.
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‘.
a person is gone-
the person went, some space was earlier occupied and now it’s not, a simple plus and minus.
you can try to poke around that person’s life and find a way to fill the void,
like finding a piece of sellotape or duct tape
to seal the wound shut.
you can deconstruct her room,
arrange all her belongings alphabetically and
display all her emails, journal entries, and confessions from her phone’s notes app chronologically.
you can print every picture she ever took,
build a museum built on memories, tethered by items she touched and lived with,
but truly, she must be more than the sum of these objects? is she?
Written by
Milomi.
Inspired by a prompt I found online about the Georgia O’Keefe Museum in Santa Fe, which includes her artworks as well as photos of items she owned, to document her whole life. 2/30.
Three years ago, I sat, buried by my physics textbook,
Committing to memory Newton’s three sacred laws
Moving, turning pages, coming back for just another look
At the formula which escaped me, at another effect of a cause.
I was a pendulum in a vacuum- swinging and swinging
And swinging again and transforming energy-
But never losing it. Precious, loved, and lived-in,
My vacuum kept me going, unsurprisingly.
I was that person from my textbook, who stood in that moving train,
Watching people and stories and struggles whiz by-
My life was in motion but I never felt the strain
After all, I was standing still. Should I have asked why?
It was effortless, this feeling, of going, of movement.
I was always swimming tirelessly- a natural flow.
Sector after sector, cycle after cycle, stint after stint,
Impossible and unimaginable to stop a finger or toe
From running again or starting yet another lap
For my bravery was bottomless, my thirst unquenched,
My words were infinite, my ideas knew no cap,
And inertia worked with me, in sync, till it was wrenched-
Surprisingly, unsuspectingly, I met an old enemy- friction.
My legs tired, my breath heaved, my mind dipped,
The train slowed and the voice announced we’d reached another station.
I got off in a haze and couldn’t find my words. I was unequipped
For the first time since my introduction to Newton.
I was a bowling ball that veered off course,
Unwillingly to a stop, before it could strike a pin.
This was inertia- the blessings and curse of a force.
For months I was a mountain that couldn’t be moved,
Standing tall, standing stiff, standing strong,
But standing still. Here was Newton’s law proved.
I knew Newton could free me, but why did he take this long?
Why can’t I be a boulder that is pushed off a cliff
To keep rolling and rolling and rolling again, some more,
As people and stories and struggles by me whiz,
What had I done wrong then? What had I done right before?
Months later, I finally get around to opening Newton’s Principia,
I can hear the whistling train not so far away from home-
Nudging me to climb on, make amends, and see that opposite me sat inertia.
I hope movement roars back to me, being inspired by a tome.
I know this journey isn’t effortless and that bravery comes with limits,
But none that I can’t graph, solve, and prove.
This time, I’m ready to flow and with buoyed spirits,
To dance with inertia, to be grateful to move.
Written by
Milomi.
Image source: https://unsplash.com/photos/well-lit-street-lamp-during-night-time-8_9Rix4OvrM
.
After an extended hiatus, this could be a daily April ’25 journey of trying to find movement. Day 1/30.
I fell down two days ago.
Sharp pain, helplessness, tension, all rushed toward me – high tide toward the innocent sea shore – you will not leave this site unscathed.
Today, my knee boasts a purple bruise. I made it out of war alive and that is my medal.
Tomorrow, I realise my injury is closing up, healing, nurturing. Next week, the scar is not as crimson as I remember it to be. Next year, I will forget what the pain feels like.
I despise the fact that wounds heal.
I will never fully remember or be able to replicate that sharp pain. A faint scar on my knee may or may not remind me of the memory,
A gruesome picture might make me wince, but never again
Will I bask in the same agony as I did two days ago.
In economics, we learn about market forces moving demand and supply to finally rock back and forth to reach a peaceful equilibrium price and quantity. A simple fact. Not debated, not refuted, not repealed. Wholly accepted.
We go to our happiest and soon hit rock bottom but our life rocks back and forth to find an equilibrium point- a point of neutrality. Middle ground. State of rest.
Our joy fades, our sorrow fades, and we return as we came, blank.
My momentary elation will escape me, my grief will evaporate.
Grief is to love as death is to life- not opposites, but complements of each other. Yet, grief heals over time and leaves us with love, and as much as it
Pains me to write,
Love heals over time to leave us with a scar not as crimson as we remember it to be.
Next year, we will forget what the pain feels like.
I despise the fact that wounds heal because I can no longer cry over what hurt me seven years ago nor can I even fully celebrate what happened last week.
What scares me the most is not life, not death, not love, not heartbreak, but the thought that one day I’ll reach my equilibrium point,
My life will have finished its rocking back and forth, numb to any external policies or government action, embracing equilibrium. I am afraid I will have a day where I don’t complain about the weather nor praise it, where I don’t tear up in sadness or in joy, where I don’t sit or stand.
I dread water being completely still.
I fell down two days ago. Today, my bruise is open and screaming. Tomorrow, it will begin to heal.
I hope, for my own sake, I fall down again.
Written by
Milomi.
Image source: https://unsplash.com/photos/a-close-up-of-a-water-drop-on-the-surface-of-a-body-of-water-CvdfrGqFNu8
How can I miss something that hasn’t happened yet?
‘Miss’ points to the past, it’s a signpost towards longing and yearning for a past moment.
We look behind and we miss the people we were. We’re the same colour but today we perhaps wear a different shade or don a fresher texture. We’re painted in hues of our hopes and in tones of our transformations.
How can I miss a part of me I haven’t become?
Just as a snake cannot miss the skin she has yet to shed, and a caterpillar cannot yearn for the free wings of a butterfly she has not yet become, we too struggle with the notion of missing what has not come to pass.
Are we so steeped in the knowledge and fear of transience that we miss the passing of every second?
Are we now shores? That yearn for the rolling waves of the sea that are yet to grace the sand with experience.
A deep ocean lingers at our fingertips, all open, all ready for us. It tells us to wait patiently for the water of memories to rebirth us.
We live in silent sadness, knowing that waves roll back after licking the shore briefly, eventually residing in the mother of memories- time.
We can try to hold this sacrosanct water cupped in our hands, or maybe even douse ourselves in it to capture the chilled and calming relief.
Yet, eventually, water returns to water, marking both the beginning and end of life.
In this cycle, we are allowed to miss the waves yet to come and to miss the feelings that never last; we are allowed to miss our firsts, to miss our lasts, and to miss everything in between.
We are allowed to miss what’s yet to come.
Just as a caterpillar is allowed to miss being a butterfly, she must not evade the experience of transformation in the fear of it passing by.
She shouldn’t miss the journey in trying to miss the reaching of a destination.
We cannot miss the journey in trying to miss the reaching of a destination.
Written by
Milomi.
Image source: https://unsplash.com/photos/blue-and-black-butterfly-on-brown-stick-hteXWSF9jA4
“will love fold or will love fight?”
the words echoed and ricocheted- a question was suddenly
a thousand doubts all at once.
time stared into the distance, she had always warned
infatuation of this inevitable arriving tornado,
yet here she was wondering if love is secure, safe, and sturdy enough to withstand the rage of the world.
is love all in?
she played the first few rounds blind, betting on a bluff and bluffing on a bet,
waiting in anticipation for a sign- a green light- a shadow of question across her opponents- a nudge to push her chips into the centre of the solar system-
the question stood unafraid.
is love all in?
or will love swallow her pride, muffle her dreams, discard her so-so hand of cards, and walk out the door of this twisted game?
the scale of stakes lies shaking, never steady.
apprehension, inspiration, bliss, frustration, and grief all stare at love as time stretches to fit her hesitation.
we will all wait for love, they agreed. we will wait.
love stared at her trembling hands holding a brave hand of cards, toeing the line of risk and stupidity,
with a burning heart she whispered a quiet prayer.
numb, loud, terrified, sure,
to live is to see,
to see is to love,
to love is to fight.
years later, she smiled. all in knowing
love’s gamble was the only game worth playing.
you never walk away,
you never truly lose.
Written by
Milomi.
Image source: https://unsplash.com/photos/person-holding-king-of-spade-playing-card-9sbO_vzyG40
‘i remembered you like golden daffodils and black coffee with a shot of orange juice,
and that you carefully gave me instructions on
how exactly to hug you and cup your cheek,
you probably thought i’ll forget but it’s the one thing i’ll always know.
if you wake me up at 03:27 in the morning and ask me what exactly you’ll be doing at 17:18, i’ll be able to tell you and describe just the way
your mouth pulls up into a half-smile when your train is on time and how
white lights outline your birthmark like a halo,
the whole world rushes to claim you as an angel- an ethereal being.
you deserve you deserve you deserve so much so much so much-
i try i try i try everyday everyday everyday.
are the daffodils golden enough? is the sloppy duckling on your latte the barista called ‘coffee art’ enough to make you smile or do you want your usual orange coffee (because we can get that too)? i love the suspense of asking, i love the unpredictability and the surprising safety of love, i love the comfort and the sarcasm and i love the warmth.
you’re not bound by skin, you cannot be captured by ink, your soul is too large to fit the sky.
you escape this world. you escape expression.
stay with me, i want to bring you daffodils everyday and draw lines in the crevices of your palm and etch your grin in every alley of my heart-
i like hugging you and knowing that when we meet, our hearts beat in tandem and complete each other, whispering
i missed you. but i’m grateful i remember you.’
Written by
Milomi.
Milomi's world 