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This post has a small sampling of poetry: one I've written and one that a dear friend wrote.
by Sarah Yung
by Sarah Yung
Look: I am no stranger to bearing
the burdens of disappointment, losses
glinting from their piles, winking coins
at rock bottom of the well. I don’t want
to brag, but I know how to sink
ships; how to wallow in the liminal
spaces, the interstices of almost, of
what if. I am used to witnessing the exodus.
What’s harder: sustaining my hope
in forever. Like that old tale of renewal—
The Sunday roast, over and over again,
the belief there will still be more tomorrow.
Rock comes from quarries,
from pounding drums and explosives,
resonating guitars and drills,
causing vibrations in your soul.
The blues come from quandaries,
from sleepless nights and heartbreaks,
tossing and turning and jiving
to the rhythm in your toes.
Pop comes from effervescent bubbles—
easy to burst, like smiles and sunshine.
It is splotches of color splashed on a sidewalk,
colors that glitter like your eyes.
Classical comes from stately columns
and tall windows framed in velvety curtains.
It is the piano melody you can’t flee
that itches in your fingertips.
Hip hop comes from rough roads,
crisscrossing rhymes, and emotion.
It is the beat that drives your feet,
the verse that slips off your tongue.
Country comes from wide-open fields,
a mother’s quiet whisper to her child,
Sunday dinners and the lights on Friday nights,
the chorus forever in your heart.