Contrast

This is an old poem I wrote for a poetry slam. 

shimmering auroras, a dancing curtain of

violet hues. that once glinted off a pristine sheet

of ice, that now glint off waves of water. that once

brought warmth to a glacial landscape, that now

pirouette in a melting backdrop, shards of ice rolling

like butter under feet. heat rising to the heavens, 

sheets of ice becoming fragments, water rising.

twinkling stars, pure, celestial light. that once

brought rays, symbols of hope to lone wanderers,

lost among verdant trees and fronds that waltzed

on sparkling ponds. dots of glitter that now hide

behind smoke coiling from a million houses, behind

strata of suffocation, behind decades of negligence. that

shine to fallen trees, illnesses, an endless torrent of noise.

meteor showers, flickering orbs of fire that provided rare,

ephemeral beauty to gazing animals. shooting

across the dusky sky, a crepuscular show. spheres that now

perform before acres of cement, before humans that never

come out, the animals having departed. departed to

the chasm of death, to the endless expanse of seclusion,

to the boundaries of unforgiving hamlets, cities, nations.

galaxies once shone, an astral orchestra. rising upwards,

ending at infinity. that now watch the earth melt, its greenery

fading, falling prey to the noose of urban civilization. that

watch oil corrupt the earth’s oceans, fish become

motionless grains of rice. animals beseeching the

immaculate heavens for help, begging to be taken to

a place where mankind doesn’t exist. to a place where

trees are not razed, where their moans of agony can

be heard, where the grieving of a mother whose cub was

killed to smoke stirs emotion. where the skies and oceans retain

their original hue, where seas are not murky due to

foul liquids sloshing in. where blazing fires are conjured

to provide heat to shivering creatures on a frosty day,

and not to burn mountains of litter, debris on a

sweltering winter noon. where illumination arises

from the heavens, and not from the winking lights of

urbanization; where the melodies from the stars can be

discerned in all their purity. no hope in humanity. for

ever since the animals’ conception, ever since their

birth—they’ve been crying to the galaxies, to the universe,
to save their only earth. 

Astrophe

Astrophe (n). the feeling of being stuck on earth (Source: The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows)

We learn about the planets of our Solar System when we’re five or six, and about other galaxies a few years later. We learn that Jupiter has a great red spot, that Neptune is sapphire blue, that Venus has clouds made of deadly sulfuric acid. And then we realize that, as endless as our Solar System may seem, it’s just a tiny dot in an infinite expanse of silence and dust. We’re overwhelmed with excitement when we catch one of the planets in the night skies; within minutes, onlookers have whipped out telescopes and powerful binoculars, all in the hope of laying eyes on an entity we can only dream about. Gravity holds us down, as if playing a petty game with our spirits and imagination. And so, we only know what sunrise looks like on Earth—we can never know what the rising sun looks like on Jupiter, or Mercury, or Pluto. We don’t know what our planet looks like from miles afar. Our perspective of the universe is constant and unchanging, all become of the limitations that prevent us from escaping the shackles of gravity.

We are trapped. The best we can do is send pieces of metal and dreams beyond the earth’s pull, and hope that it gets us somewhere. But… there is just so much out there! The world held its breath when Juno reached Jupiter—since it meant that a piece of humanity was reaching a realm we long to see with our own eyes. And that isn’t even the most intriguing planet in our universe! There’s the planet made of diamonds, the planet darker than coal or black acrylic paint, the planet of burning ice, rogue planets that roam about the universe—estranged and parentless. There are hypervelocity stars, quasars, the universe’s largest water reservoir, and a multitude of others… The incredible objects that encircle us seem as infinite and mysterious as the universe itself. When I first heard about these bodies, I was entranced. Until I realized that their “discovery” could be anything—a scientific glitch, an astronomical mistake, imaginations that ran a bit too wild. Even worse? The realization that we can’t know if they’re real or not with our own senses. The only thing we can control ourselves is the extent of our innovation and our ability to keep dreaming.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would feel like to view the Solar System from another galaxy. Is the sun a part of a constellation we don’t know exists? Is it a part of a system we haven’t come across yet? Are we being viewed by other perceptive eyes? Are we the aliens with strange features, enmeshed in curious surroundings—the subject of mindful speculations? I wonder how long it would take humanity to unravel these difficult questions.

But somehow, doesn’t the beauty of space revolve around its mysterious nature? Yes, we’re prevented from hiking up the skies and escaping the walls of our galaxy. Yes, we’re only around for a limited amount of time, while the universe embraces travelers who can immortalize themselves. If we think about it, we are completely imprisoned by forces beyond our control—regardless of how open and inviting those skies may seem. Or, in the words of John Koenig, we are grounded: stuck on earth, unable to leave it.

But that doesn’t mean we’re deprived of the treasures embedded in the universe. They’re alive in our imagination. In reality, a rogue planet is probably an ugly, dangerous chunk of rock roaming around the universe. But in our mind’s eye, it is so much more than that—a manifestation of rebellion, an object that refuses to conform to a standard orbit, a body with an acute case of wanderlust. Canis Majoris, one of the largest stars known to humankind, is a massive ball of fire that would incinerate all objects in its vicinity. To our imaginations, it is a glowing orb too powerful to envision.  

Maybe it’s a good thing that we’re imprisoned by gravity… When it comes to it, I think our mind more than compensates for what we can’t perceive with our own senses.

Pareidolia

the shapes we see in clouds, 

the familiarity we find in

otherwise meaningless patterns. 

     that moment when the clouds 

          were shaped like a wispy feather, 

when the stitches on her skin 

seemed to spell out her name, 

when the roseate petals resembled his face. 

     when alone in nature, among the trees and 

          soil, meaning seems to sprout from

undiscovered crannies—letting us know that we’re 

never truly alone, and that our essence

 is infused in the nooks of nature.

it looks unspectacular at first. 

but when examined from a different

     perspective, in a divergent lighting, 

          we see sense and awareness 

bloom forth—in the motifs of a human face,

an instrument, a pair of glasses, a pearly wing… 

in space, there have been sightings

of faces and creatures embedded

      among the celestial dust. although the observation

            can be a bit perturbing, it’s comforting 

nonetheless—for it reminds us that humanity,

isolated as it is, is watched over
by a benign presence.  

Haunted

Kenopsia (n). the eeriness of places left behind

A haunted house is reminiscent of malicious ghosts, hidden shadows, and strange noises at night. It makes us think of a dark mansion surrounded by skeletal trees, ready to be inhabited by a joyful, unsuspecting family. It reminds us of lightning, howls of fear, and an attic choked with darkness. From what we’ve read and watched, a haunted house is infused with a chilling backstory—one of sacrifices, betrayal, flames, unexplained deaths. It’s been so recycled in popular culture and media that people seem to forget the true meaning of a “haunted house”.

Every old house that is moved into is haunted. It is haunted by the memories and experiences of the previous owners, by the footsteps that had etched themselves into dust. And those memories can be beautiful—they can be memories of happiness, of pleasure, of childish excitement. Memories of a little girl taking her first step, a teenager preparing her first meal, a senior getting into the college of her choice. These old laughs and cries hover

 in the air, even though their owners may have moved out. Old voices permeate throughout, even though the house may be inhabited by entirely new, different people.

Every house is haunted—

—even if it was built from scratch and lived in for the first time. What about the people who lived on that dirt, and the memories that were created on that particular patch of earth? What about the children who ran around and fell in the mud, the adults who sat and gravely spoke about issues that are now outdated and uninteresting—and who are probably far away, maybe in another country, living another life? Now, we are just building upon those memories, without realizing that its grounds are haunted by the specter of old memories and bygone experiences.

Old classrooms. One time, my mother took me to her old school in her village, which is now stark and empty. My little sister had whispered to me: “this place feels haunted”. I had brushed her suggestion aside, although she did have a reason to say that: the breeze seemed to be eerily whispering through the creaking windows, and our surroundings were silent enough for a tap to seem loud. But now I know that it is haunted. It is haunted by the reminders of old school students, by the classes that were taught, by the usual drama that seems to pervade every school’s atmosphere. It is a haunted school, but not in the customary sense. Ghosts don’t jump out and malignant spirits don’t linger. We leave not with terror, but with nostalgia.

Kenopsia: the eeriness of places left behind.

Every house moved into is a haunted house. The floorboards may creak with impressions of a beaming baby learning how to walk, the wind may rustle the bedspread—and make it whisper with old conversations. Most of the time, these impressions are mistaken for imagination. But the next time our imagination makes us perceive something puzzling or inexplicable… don’t think about the phantom that floats in the corridors. Think about the experiences that were borne, the smiles that were conjured, the beautiful memories that were summoned.

Because we’re not alone. Every house is a haunted house.

(Image Credit: http://www.holidayscalendar.com/halloween/hauntedhouses.html)