A Confession

BY JULIE CHEN

Emotions of mine
Boil over
Trickling down the 
Side of my mouth.
Latching onto my chin—
They hang there.
Swinging back and forth
Wavering.
Vacillating
Hesitating like a kamikaze pilot
Diving into doom and
Thickening
Like the pride of a vain man.
Congealing into sludge that
Tumbles down my 
Chest, leaving
Burns and bruises 
Bile coats my teeth and clings
To my tongue and
I am suffocating.
I fight for air and
No
My teeth are not bared
But inside I am 
Screaming
Scheming 
Waiting for the day I will
Take my revenge and 
replenish my pride like
A sponge 
dropped 
into 
the
Ocean.

Midnight

A haiku

BY JULIE CHEN

A beam of moonlight
seeps through the clouds. A cricket
chirps in the distance.

Let Your Mind Take the Lead

Why it's okay NOT to have a plan.

BY JULIE CHEN

You would not define me as a rebel, but if there's one thing I've defied my whole life, it's planning.
Now let me explain why planning is a concept worth ditching.

1. Nothing ever turns out like you think it will. 
Think of a train driving along a railroad - one little kink in the track and the whole train reels off the mountainside. All the effort spent laying down tracks beyond that kink will have gone to waste. 

In essence, plans are like train tracks. One little slip and everything you planned for could be sent staggering in a whole different direction. You would be better off spending the time used on planning to improve the present moment. Concentrate on the now, strive to make every second wholesome, and eventually you will arrive at the best destination achievable, not a destination you planned for with meager foresight.

2. Planning limits imagination and spontaneity.
Life is all about balance. Plan too little and you risk regret, plan too much and, well, you risk regret. When we abandon efforts to brainstorm perpetually in exchange for an idle reliance on pre-prepared plans, we miss out on a variety of potential innovative ideas. By not restricting our actions to a schedule, we are not hindering chances of over-achievement.

3. You become averse to unplanned opportunities and adventures.
When we plan, we are also passively sorting out our priorities. However, sometimes our priorities get in the way of unplanned events, which we too often mistakenly dismiss as obstacles instead of opportunities. We become so preoccupied with doing things according to plan and accomplishing things on time that we become single-minded and mechanical. 

There's a reason why you haven't been replaced with a robot yet. 

4. Real life is never like paperwork. 
When you hack your way through life and cross the bridge when you come to it, you learn to adapt. Avert problems by spontaneous ingenuity and you gain experience exponentially. In the long run it is always the flexible who succeed. If you haven't realized by now, misfortune is as creative as Picasso on drugs. The only way you're going to avoid muddling your plan is to not have one. You will be surprised how events seem to naturally unravel!

Never stop

wondering about
all the questions that cannot
be answered. Don't ask


-Why.


BY JULIE CHEN

Tear

A drop of rain drips

into my cup. "Somebody's

crying," she tells me.

BY JULIE CHEN

The Geometry of Life

BY JULIE CHEN

They contended we were parallel lines
We'd "never cross," they said.
But I knew we weren't, and sweared
By haloes on angelic heads:
That we were anything but parallel,
But angled very much indeed;
One day we'd cross each other's paths!
(Then in opposite directions, proceed.)

It

BY JULIE CHEN

Today I met it.

He touched me with his purple fingers as
drops of the universe rolled down his hair.
When he opened his mouth
chunks of moonlight tumbled out, entwined
with strings of glitter that
splashed onto the
sidewalk, slithering like
balls of mercury into the nearest gutter.
His eyes pulsed with
the rings of saturn, shadowed
by pools of eternal silence.
I smelled the crisp
edge of freshly cut grass as
he unfurled his coiled arm and pressed
a leathery pinkie to my forehead.
I saw a zebra running in his heart, behind
the throbbing veil of his
translucent chest.
He leaned in to press his
dewy marble lips to my ear and I felt
a string of ancient uttering thread the layers
of my consciousness.

The soles of my shoes wobbled and
the paved ground below me
dissolved into my skin.

Regret

BY JULIE CHEN

My tongue is tied.

Somewhere on Earth, someone

Is smiling but

Not I.

My bed’s been empty.

I stare at a spot on the

Wall until I’m mesmerized by

green and pink flowers blooming

in my vision.

I sit.

Repulsive tsunamis of coffee rolling

In my stomach and

Crashing onto my chest, but

Supporting my leaden eyelids as I struggle to

Stay awake.

Let me suffer in peace as I

Dive into flashing oceans of memory

And replay them over

And over

And over

Imagining I could rein in words that

Are now escaping stray in

The wind.

An eruption from my

Mouth spewed articulate ashes that

have scarred you.

Acrid lava coated my throat as I choked on

scalding words, mistakes of my

tectonic plates of intention.

I wish

to inhale back smoke that

Suffocates your sky—

Even if it stains my galaxy.

Time is going by.

Somewhere on Earth, somebody’s

Moving on but

Not I.

Eclipses of Reason

BY JULIE CHEN

One morning a thousand years ago, pale clouds

Bowed to sapphire sky. Trees held their hairs

In place. The birds choked their song in their throats.

The moon emerged in broad daylight, humbly

Cloaked in black in the sun’s bejeweled vision.

Despite difference in their realms of ruling,

The celestial couple solemnly shares a slow

Embrace. But heaven forbids such outrageous

Meetings. The lights go out in the cosmos.

The sun chokes in its haloed ring of fire.

People arched their necks. Fingers clutched fur pelts

That rested upon shoulders. The sun has gone out,

They whisper. We have wronged the gods. And men

Mend their shortcomings and pray for the future.

One morning yesterday, smog deluged charcoal sky.

Buildings sat stiffly—Backs against the horizon.

Cameras brace. Streetlights illuminate.

The moon emerges once again, draped in

The same inky veil that adorned her figure

Since the beginning of time—But the old sun

Is blindfolded amidst the overcast smog.

And the stellar pair brush past, shoulder to

Shoulder, friction bruising the fading sky.

For a second, the universe stained black.

People arched their necks, fingers clutching black

Sunglasses. They’ve met in their ecliptic

Orbits, they marvel, Finely calculated

Syzygy of two astronomical objects.

The sun’s corona emits eerie glows as

People stand under the moon’s umbra.

And science becomes man’s remedy, for there

Are no heavenly omens when one peers through

A telescope with a heart full of reason.

The Box

BY JULIE CHEN

Gotta love this box from which music pours

down your face and into this empty space,

Seeping into your soul and onto the dance floor.

Rhythm and beats are magnetic at the core,

Arms up in the air, their pattern you trace.

Gotta love this box from which music pours.

Cascading harmonies you try to absorb.

Marionette of melody. Now feel that bass

Seep into your soul and onto the dance floor.

Meanings of lyrics you no longer deplore,

To this lullaby, sun and moon replace.

Gotta love this box from which music pours.

Unleash that desire for music, encore!

Hear that falsetto and wish for such grace, to

Seep into your soul and onto the dance floor.

As this symphony ends, please don’t leave before

The clock strikes twelve. The next song I embrace.

Gotta love this box from which music pours;

It seeps into your soul and onto the dance floor.

Tea and Poetry #5

This week's favorite. Young is making me rethink the concept of poetry altogether. Enjoy!

Tell Me and I Will Know

BY MIKE YOUNG

Most of my time is spent displacing want.

In some of it, the water heater's bugged.

When I turn my face under the cold kind,
what I'm trying to do is divorce my head.

I am most proud of my existential friends
and secretly embarrassed by sweet weather.

We follow the road back to the missed exit.
That is the worst mood I can think of.

My moments of inward congratulation are
offset by meals alone in pants I really like.

There is a harmonica under the river.
There is the time we kiss our own wrist.

Now I have talked my way through dawn
and then some, hot up with promises.

No longer do I pack my own face towel.
Trust lives by its own impossibility.

One girl sat in the shopping cart, almost
asleep. Her friend didn't know what to say.

There are things you keep dust off.
There is no way to explain this.

What they don't tell you about God
is that it waits for one kind of laughter

to appear in two people at once.
This has never happened. Wait.

Downstream stood another set of bathers.
We felt like someone was writing a song.

Give me something to give into.
It will be weird. It will be so weird.

The Disguise

BY JULIE CHEN

The sun prances across the wooden floor,

Patterns of gold are cast upon the door.

Blankets are rustling. Hear the alarm clock go off.

There’s a thump on the table; the ringing stops.

Arms extend to reach for a mirror nearby,

Fingers trace the bags under hazel eyes.

Leftover eyeliner stains pillowcase. There’re sheets

Crumpled and piled where her two feet meet.

Lope to the bathroom, water washes away

Debris—stale remains of make-up from yesterday.

But no, how in this world could she tolerate

This natural, naked, unfamiliar face?

With this worn-out brush and greasy foundation,

Free this girl from worries; pure salvation.

Rub glitter and shadow over tired eyes;

No one gets to see the tears that she cries.

Take lipstick and gloss. Proceed to thickly smear

It across upturned lips: her heart’s frontier.

Bronzer carves cheeks and fancy exterior disguise—

On the inside, she searches for corners to hide.

Done. She’s finished painting the ideal facemask

To protect her from truth, reality and facts.

What facts? You ask, but her lips are tightly sealed

For life’s unfair treatment makes courage keel.

How much more concealer can her soul take?

Wait. Stop, stop, stop. This is all a mistake.

Tomorrow morning, just after she wakes up,

Tell her she’s beautiful. She doesn’t need make-up.

The Unknown

From within my heart comes rush of wind so fierce,

Sweep me off my feet as my back grows cold.

And through my body that raw wind doth pierce,

I, too, am sure t’will haunt me till I’m old.

As I stand solo and shoulders brush by,

My place in this world held by feet alone,

Those monsters do try to smother my sky,

Through desolate fields and forests I am blown.

Fingers on my neck, remind me of my bounds.

Dread, it does bind me with chains to the floor.

This fear of the unknown swirls me round and round,

Till the flame within me dwindles forevermore.

Alas, as I live my days in despair,

What is it? What is this thing that I fear? 

BY JULIE CHEN

Written Words

BY JULIE CHEN

Opened oak door sends whiff of wind against

Cool walls. Breeze kisses blank pieces of paper,

drifting like slabs of flimsy white marble that

Flutter to the ground. Man walks into dark, dark

Room. Legs curl, knees bend. Reach down and pick them up,

Gently, gently. Such like sympathetic

Elder to tender child. Pick them up, smooth them

Out. Rustle and crinkle as stack lands on table, come

Silence as envelope—empty, damp and cold.

Ears that listen ring in moment’s silence.

Eyes that adjust see halo in blank darkness.

Solitude, so leads to thought. The chill within

The dark room so settles. Sedate, creeping

So deep into his mind; the nooks and alleys of

A human mind. Those thoughts they leak, rushing

Out of his pen, entwining with dark, moist ink

Into loops and lines, gliding into stone.

Man at the desk, sharing secrets to empty

Surface, marring purity of paper so

Fine. Pen gushes trails of hope, morphed into

Symbols of a heart’s desire. A lone, cryptic

Human heart’s desire, drenched in a veil all soaked

With vision behind a door on worn hinges

In a dark, dark room. Cabin amongst swaying

Reeds. Language blurring the edge of wild notion

With a man’s down-to-Earth articulations.

Bottomless human mind spilling infinite

Substance through barricades of pencil and paper.

Lonely human hearts selling their souls to

Pieces of flimsy, flimsy white marble.

Tea and Poetry #4

This week's favorite is a short story. It's intriguingly beautiful and thoughtful.

Here is an excerpt:

"I took the Metro to Cité. I walked past Notre-Dame and thought of the hunchback Quasimodo swinging his misshapen body across the bell-ropes of love for Esmeralda. Quasimodo was a deaf mute. Cupid is blind. Freud called love an ‘overestimation of the object’. But I would swing through the ringing world for you."

- Jeanette Winterson, "All I Know About Gertrude Stein."

Read the rest here.

The Coal Miner's Daughter

BY JULIE CHEN

When I was at the age of pirates and sandcastles,

My Pa used to tell me

He was a coal miner.

Coal, he would say,

You find in the ground.

Buried deep.

But those little black chunks, they’re magical.

They burst into golden rays when the time is right.

Now I’m at the age of calculus and physics.

Turns out, 

my dad is not a coal miner.

But although he does not work with shovels,

Dirty fingertips,

And dark, sooty bundles that burst into flame,

I understand what he means when he says

You could be just a spark away

From being brilliant.

Hold Your Own

I am my own woman

Though love breaks my bones

And curdles the breath in my bosom

I hold my ground.

I am my own woman

Though my words lose their edge

And my walls crumble to kiss the earth

I keep my guard.

I am my own woman

Though you send me roses

And place your pulsing heart in my hands

My scalpel stands ready.

I am my own woman

When sleep renders you senseless

My hands slice you open

And return the bloody thing to its rightful place

Between your lungs.

I am my own woman

Two hearts
Would rupture my veins.

 JULIE CHEN

Tea and Poetry #3

I've been loving poems with a more unique vibe lately. This one is one of my favorites. Enjoy.

HAPPINESS SEVERITY INDEX

BY REBEKAH REMINGTON

Though in the lower standard deviation, I fall, the statistician says,
within the normal range of happiness. Therefore, no drugs today.

What about tomorrow? What if doodling stars isn’t enough?
Will I be asked to color the rainbow one more time?

Name three wishes that might come true?
List everything I’ve been given within a minute?

Though within the normal range of happiness, I score poor
on bird appreciation, poor on oboe joy. My responses, in fact,

seem to indicate an overall confusion concerning joy itself.
What did I mean that during parties I choose the sofa

like a sick cat? That when tattoos are dispensed I’m first
in line? That books full of other people’s misery

make the beach infinitely more pleasant? Stargazing is another weakness.
Too much I examine the patch of dirt where nothing grows

where buried curiosa aren’t deep enough, though in Short Answer
I’m all for dancing alone in a silken robe. Friends call.

Mostly the machine answers. Mozart makes me cry.
I kill spiders without guilt. To make up for this

I take the kids to the golden arches play area.
A positive indicator. Also, interest in the existential

is minimal. I approve of make-up and ice cream.
When I wake early, I get out of bed. When I wallow

in planetary counterpoint, it never lasts. And here’s what really saves me:
if I were a ghost I’d be Casper. If I were a tradition

I’d be a dreidel. I like the rain. When the boat drifts off
I wave. When the dog runs off I follow.

Tea & Poetry #2

As promised! Enjoy.

May You Always be the Darling of Fortune

BY jane miller

March 10th and the snow flees like eloping brides

into rain. The imperceptible change begins

out of an old rage and glistens, chaste, with its new

craving, spring. May your desire always overcome

your need; your story that you have to tell,

enchanting, mutable, may it fill the world

you believe: a sunny view, flowers lunging

from the sill, the quilt, the chair, all things

fill with you and empty and fill. And hurry, because

now as I tire of my studied abandon, counting

the days, I’m sad. Yet I trust your absence, in everything

wholly evident: the rain in the white basin, and I

vigilant.