secret poetry page

I’ve come across a few sestinas in Lit class and have always wanted to try it out. It was fun coming up with new ways to use the words and exploring their different meanings! In the first 6 stanzas of a sestina, the last word of each line is repeated in each stanza in a different order. In the last stanza, all six words are used, two per line. The last stanza was especially hard and kind of bad, but I have no idea how to improve it 😭. Anyways, this poem was inspired by the prompt: “Write a sestina that takes inspiration from a song”.

The song is I Had a King by Joni Mitchell. It is about the breakup of her marriage to Chuck Mitchell. She met him when she was 21 and married him just 4 months later. Go listen to it!

I Had a King

When I was young, I used to lie
on the grass dreaming of the King
who rode out of the closing 
hills. I floated like a balloon
to the clouds before going dizzy
in despair when he left me in a flash of colour

and light. But I clung to the coloured
picture of Cinderella lying 
on my shelf. She danced herself dizzy
at the wedding with her King
and like a child who is gifted a balloon,
the image brought sadness to a close.

Then came a day hazy and close
where I met he who made the lilies colour.
The oppressive heat deflated my balloon
and I languished, lying
drenched till my eyes met his kingly
face and he swept away in a dizzy

haze. Sick with love I stood dizzily 
up and followed him, longing to be close
to him, never dreaming that three days later he would be my King.
After the coronation he coloured
my snow-white balloon red as I lay
in his arms on a hot air balloon. 

But he changed the moment the hot air balloon
landed. He said my craziness made him dizzy
and he accused me of lying
in my songs. He raged when I closed
my eyes, calling me blind, and in colourful
words the queen was lambasted by the King. 

Till the Queen raised her arm and the King
was checkmated. Then with a ‘pop’ the balloon
erupted and drops crimson-coloured
rained on him as he fell from dizzy
heights. His castle door I closed
as I told the world the fairy tales lied.

I had a King, but now I see him in a different colour.
After the dizzy explosion, I blew up a new one closed
away from him. There it lies above the clouds— my new balloon.

A poem inspired by the painting The silent voice.

The silent voice, Gerald Moira, 1898.

  

i 
she insisted on being painted at night.
he obeyed, squinting in the dark at her
faint outline. wrapped up in an 
inky cloak swallowed by the gloom
of night, all he could see was her pallid
face.

ii
with trembling hands he picked up his 
brush, running it lightly down the canvas;
she remained transfixed, gazing with 
glazed eyes at an area two inches from the 
doorknob. shapes danced behind her, shadowy
wisps that crossed and merged in a mass
of fumes.

iii
her breath quickened; ragged gasps pierced 
the still night air. he became aware of a 
hand not her own resting on her
bosom. the brush slipped 
from his fingers and the shapes swayed out
of the darkness.

iv 
she felt a thrill course through her 
veins as a breath tickled in her ear.
drunk by the voice that swam in her head 
and the melody that swirled in her blood,
yet gazing stubbornly on at the area two
inches from the doorknob. her figure
sharpened, yet something 
was lost, something misty that descended 
into the dark pools beyond, a crease 
widening into a gaping hole, a cry fading 
into the night.

v
eyes closed, a flash of lightning. he dared 
not open them till they were pulled back.
she was gone, she and the shapes. 
off with the wind, sighing among the stars, 
floating along the river bank.
lost forever in that darkness beyond, 
only her gift remained — the completed 
canvas, touched by her lingering hand 
before it was snatched out of view
by the cruel night.

My thoughts: I can’t believe it but this painting was actually inspired by a poem written by Lord Tennyson! A poem inspiring a painting inspiring another poem??? That’s crazy! I didn’t even know it when I was writing my poem. Anyways, I was curious to see whether my poem was in any way similar to the original, titled The Two Voices. It’s a very, very long poem where one voice (the silent voice) urges suicide, while the other argues against it.

A still small voice spake unto me,
‘Thou art so full of misery,
Were it not better not to be?’

Then to the still small voice I said;
‘Let me not cast in endless shade
What is so wonderfully made.’

~The Two Voices

In the painting, the girl is the arguing voice, while the silent voice is the figure whispering in her ear.

Next, a poem in response to the prompt: “Use prose poetry to describe a stormy night and the impressions it leaves.” I have mixed feelings about this one but decided to include it anyway since it’s different from the rest.

Behind the leaves a bird peeked out, its feathers quivering as the storm raged around it. Unaware of the delicate white petal that sat atop its head, the bird watched the world as the petal bowed, enduring the blows and strikes of the rain without complaint. Down, down the rain poured mercilessly on the petal, a protective halo that shone over the little bird. Water overflowed from the tiny palms of leaves, spilling over boughs that lifted and bent like fingers. Everything weeped, everything raged, the flowers drooped, the trees clashed. Lightning ripped the sky open, leaving a scar that blazed white hot in the darkness beyond. Roars of thunder pierced the still night air like a dagger. Yet when all else is in turmoil there always sits one who is calm. And the bird watched the storm in wonder. Amazed at the rain that shunned it like the plague, never thinking to look up. Perhaps it will never know. Perhaps he will never know. That behind every beautiful childhood —one tainted not by drops of poison nor sodden with the rains of filth— is a mother. A mother who spreads her arms around her child, shielding him, guarding him, from the horrors of the world. That the acrid potion from the vial of evil should never be tipped down his delicate throat, nor mingle with his blood, nor run down his limbs and pool at his feet. No. She willed instead for it all to be lavished onto her, to drown her in its putrid stench. And through it all he, he who she gave everything for, was dazzled by the lightning’s fury and startled by the thunder’s ire. Yet he knew not how or where or why. It was only at the end of the storm, when the rain ceased and the clouds parted and the sun emerged, that he finally realised. For when the sun bathed the tree in its light he and the bird emerged from their hiding place. Away, away, to a new place, a new life! Yet one backward glance, thank God for that glance! If not for it the bird would never see that dripping petal, now brown around the edges, still weighed down by the storm. Nor would he have seen a mother, tearful yet smiling, as she watched her son take flight.

Lastly, here’s something I wrote a few years ago. Inspired by this story written by Kristin Wong, where she tries to relearn a language she has forgotten, I imagined what it would be like if I too stopped reading and speaking Chinese for many years.

Forgotten melody

Tears, struggles, hatred — these were the words I associated with my mother tongue. Hours were spent wrestling with tones foreign to me, while afternoons were set aside to memorise long lists of idioms. With a grimace I recall the reading aloud sessions, where we children pretended to move our mouths, or mumbled halfheartedly behind the teacher’s booming voice. The dreaded 习字, where we painstakingly copied characters over and over again in a cramped exercise book. Or after-school tuition, where we were forced to conquer a towering stack of worksheets before we could leave. Mother tongue soon became a word distasteful to my ears; a bitter pill rejected by my tongue. Its name puzzled me exceedingly — “mother tongue” — as though to learn it we had to yank our mother’s tongue off. The image disturbed me and clothed the language in another layer of horror.

The years passed and my views of my mother tongue were further cemented. I struggled, not because I was bad at the subject, but by the monotony of it. I buckled under the heaviness of repetition, cringing under the rule of characters I viewed not as friends but as oppressors. Sometimes I would gaze at my classmates —those who enjoyed the language— and wonder what secret they had, what key I had fumbled and dropped. I noticed the spark in their eyes, the excited tremor in their voice and asked myself, “Could I feel such joy too?” But I soon forgot about it, letting instead the groans of the majority wash over me, allowing their hatred of the language seep into me, filling every ounce of my body.

The day I graduated was the happiest of my life, not only because of the excitement a new chapter brought, but also because I could finally say goodbye to my mother tongue. It was a farewell marked not by regret or sadness but by joy and relief. My fantasizing began the moment I was released from its grasp. Now that it was no longer present in my education, I would seek to extinguish it in every other area of my life. With dreamy eyes I thought of myself continuing my education in a country far away, and perhaps working there too. In that country few would know my mother tongue, and fewer still would speak it fluently. It was a wish I cherished, and a wish that was, for better or for worse, fulfilled.

Thus began the slow, painless process of losing a language, painless then but oh so painful now. Looking back at those years, I feel an ache in my heart as I remember the rope of my mother tongue slowly unraveling. The rope, once long and thick, has frayed into countless little threads, swimming around me like noodles in a bowl of soup. It is a loss, a shedding of the skin that makes me me, and though like the caterpillar I rejoice at my new shiny covering, I cannot help but feel a tinge of sadness for the layer I had lost. Even if I have shunned it, abhorred it all those years, it still formed a part of me, a part that cannot be shaken off easily. A part that I have come to appreciate a little too late.

Now the characters are mostly forgotten, now the tones are as foreign as they were twenty years ago. Yet what remains is the feeling, the memory of a time that seems so distant now. Going back to my childhood home and uncovering old picture books is a joy I have never known. As I thumb through the tattered pages, nostalgia wraps me in a warm embrace. Once again I hear the innocent giggles of my childhood. Once again I see the bright-eyed girl tracing over the characters with her finger, devouring the pages before her. The girl who had a hunger for learning, a love for her language that was her identity, that was rich with the history of her ancestors. The girl who had the key I searched for for so many years.

I feel like a child again as I try to read the characters before me. Yet I do not feel like I am relearning a language. No, I am rediscovering it and reclaiming the roots of my heritage. For language is so much more than practices and exams — it has a soul. It is a piece of music that accompanies us always, rich and nuanced in its tone and expression. Even if that language is slowly lost, the forgotten melody still sings in the soul, waiting for the body to return its tune. And as I flip through pages of Chinese poetry, as I learn about the history of my people, of valiant battles won and lost, I feel my body and soul become one again, the melody finally complete. The melody that will reign on and on, joining the frayed ropes around me, forming once again a rope long and thick. A rope not to wrap around me, but to connect me to where I belong. For no longer do I associate “mother tongue” with pain, with the yanking of my mother’s tongue. No, now I think of it with fondness, with the knowledge that it is a language passed on by my mother from her mother, a gift from one generation to the next. A language spoken by countless mothers before me, and I pray, by countless mothers after me.

My thoughts:

My relationship with Chinese has always been complicated. What I had written may read like a personal essay, but some parts aren’t true in my life. When I first started learning Chinese, I actually liked it! My P1-P2 Chinese teacher was very nice, and I was naturally good at it, so even the more tedious tasks like 习字 didn’t bother me. I even got a Best in Chinese award in P3 🤣. However, in my Upper Primary and Secondary years, I started to dislike Chinese. One reason was having to go for tuition —something I really dreaded. Besides that, I found the way Chinese was taught to be rigid, with little room for creativity or imagination.

Then, in Secondary 3, my Chinese teacher asked me an unusual question after a mock oral practice. “你最进有没有看华文书?”. For a moment I wondered whether it was because I had spoken badly. Thankfully, she didn’t sound angry. Maybe she was just curious? Whatever her reason, the question made me realize that I hadn’t cracked open a Chinese book in a long time. Since the O Level HCL exams were taking place next year, I decided that I had better start reading Chinese books now.

Most helpfully, our December homework was to do a presentation on a Chinese book we read. I chose the translated version of Helen Keller’s Story of My Life as I had read an excerpt of it in English class and liked it. If I liked the English version, surely I would like it in Chinese as well! I was right. Honestly, I was shocked at how much I enjoyed the book. It made me realise all languages are the same — they all have the power to move, to inspire, to delight. Sometimes, when I read an English book, I come across a delicious phrase and reread it just to savor it. The same thing can happen when I read a Chinese book! It was an obvious observation, but perhaps I had overlooked it because of the frustration I had long harboured towards Chinese.

Despite this realisation, my dislike for Chinese soon returned. In secondary 4, we were deluged by a flood of worksheets, comprehensions and compositions to prepare us for the O levels. At that time, phrases like “I can’t wait for the day I no longer need to take Chinese lessons again,” became common among us.

Thankfully, the Chinese textbook grew more interesting. Poems, tales of historical figures, as well as stories by famous authors began to appear in the textbook. They reminded me of a richer side to Chinese that I had once glimpsed and then forgotten. As a result, Chinese lessons became less of a pain. Besides this, I thought of ways to make learning more enjoyable. I started reading the magazines our school gave out. Apart from the news articles, I also read the entertaining stories that readers submitted. When I was sick of writing another composition, I pulled out a notebook and wrote my own story. Fantastic plots, ridiculous characters, crazy endings…there were no limits! It was such great fun.

By the time the O Levels ended, all my previous loathing for Chinese had seeped away. After spending so many hours on Chinese, it felt liberating to know that there were no more Chinese lessons. During this time, I came across a story written by Kristin Wong which inspired me to write my own. Forgotten melody imagines what my life would be like if I neglected my mother tongue after my O levels. Besides that, I think it’s something that my friends and classmates relate to and may even experience in the future. While some of my friends still hold a strong command of their mother tongue, some are now struggling to speak it. Perhaps they will not regret it like I will, but I still find it a little sad 😔.

So did I manage to escape the fate described in Forgotten melody? Right now, things aren’t looking too good. During my hectic JC life, I’ve only managed to read one Chinese book. Now that I have a lot more free time, I should definitely read more. On the other hand, because I worked in a Chinese tuition centre after A levels, I’m still able to speak the language with ease. When I told people about my job, some were impressed, while others asked me whether I did it to improve my Chinese. The truth is, I have no idea why I chose to work there. The thought came to me and I snatched it up impulsively. There are times when I regretted it, such as when I was blundering through my first job interview, or when I forgot how to write a Chinese character during work. But over time, I have come to see it as part of my journey, a way to introduce Chinese back into my life.

My thoughts part 2:
I can’t believe I wrote another essay in response to the story I wrote 2 years ago…I guess I got carried away!
Update: I quit my job so do y'all have any chinese books to recommend HAHAHA.