It was an important 3 months in other ways. Less than two weeks after we left, while we were somewhere west of the Aleutian Islands on our way to Japan, we woke up to find that hijackers had crashed planes into the World Trade Center. We disembarked in Japan two days later, and at the Hiroshima monument, two Japanese women asked me if they could pray for my country. The America we came back to 3 months later was not the one we had left. And I could not look at it with the same eyes.
In addition, one of my friends from college was killed in a hit-and-run accident that semester while we were gone. I never got to say goodbye to her. To this day I feel like I never fully processed her death- it was just as if she were there before I left and gone when I came back.
At any rate, I wrote this poem when I returned. It's a little too cheesy, and the end isn't quite how I want it, but I think parts of it captured how I felt upon my return. Be nice :) - I'm certainly not a poet (nor was my 21 year old self)! I'm kind of nervous about sharing this. But in honor of reflecting on this moment in my life 9 years ago, I thought I would post it:
Inside the world
it’s nearly February
The people in Vietnam must be wading in their rice paddies
In Chennai, they’re praying for rain to fill their dusty streets
I feel the world in my bones
My mind floats in the ocean of memory
of people who are gone, of red molten sunsets dripping
With gold into the sea,
Of stars that hang precariously from darkness
i dream of eggrolls and chopsticks
cigars and a two-man band playing in smoky streets
The smell of cows
The tinkle of coins in a beggar’s hand
rummy and limes
The laughter of children
the smell of lotus flowers in the morning
the feel of silk against skin and the feeling of finally
finally
belonging somewhere
it’s nearly february, and
what is home now?
not an American flag, not endless meetings and to-do lists
not people you have to pretend to like
not fast cars and nice clothes and don’t forget the ever important pressure for success
home is much smaller than that
home is hugging my parents
drinking lemonade on the porch in the summer
dreaming of anything possible and what’s-to-come
home is the ship of my soul that carries me back to who i am
it’s nearly February
The people in Vietnam must be wading in their rice paddies
In Chennai, they’re praying for rain to fill their dusty streets
I feel the world in my bones
My mind floats in the ocean of memory
of people who are gone, of red molten sunsets dripping
With gold into the sea,
Of stars that hang precariously from darkness
i dream of eggrolls and chopsticks
cigars and a two-man band playing in smoky streets
The smell of cows
The tinkle of coins in a beggar’s hand
rummy and limes
The laughter of children
the smell of lotus flowers in the morning
the feel of silk against skin and the feeling of finally
finally
belonging somewhere
it’s nearly february, and
what is home now?
not an American flag, not endless meetings and to-do lists
not people you have to pretend to like
not fast cars and nice clothes and don’t forget the ever important pressure for success
home is much smaller than that
home is hugging my parents
drinking lemonade on the porch in the summer
dreaming of anything possible and what’s-to-come
home is the ship of my soul that carries me back to who i am
Amy- I have read a lot of poetry- and this is simply beautiful! Thanks for having the courage to publish it- Erin
ReplyDeleteI have no idea what makes "good" or "bad" poetry, but I do know I like the feelings and thoughts of home that your poem brings up, and the way it makes me think about home. And I agree, I think it takes a lot of courage to publish it. Thanks for sharing it with us!
ReplyDeleteThanks you guys!
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