Poetry
Poetry has long served as a quiet counterpart to my technical work — a space to reflect, explore language, and process experience through rhythm and metaphor.
I’m particularly inspired by the formal experimentation of e. e. cummings and the introspective clarity of Sylvia Plath. Their work reminds me that structure and emotion can coexist powerfully.
Below are selected poems from recent years. These pieces reflect themes of identity, memory, place, and the shifting relationships we hold with ourselves and the world.
e. e. cummings
If
If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.
If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.
If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.
Sylvia Plath
Kindness
Kindness glides about my house.
Dame Kindness, she is so nice!
The blue and red jewels of her rings smoke
In the windows, the mirrors
Are filling with smiles.
What is so real as the cry of a child?
A rabbit's cry may be wilder
But it has no soul.
Sugar can cure everything, so Kindness says.
Sugar is a necessary fluid,
Its crystals a little poultice.
O kindness, kindness
Sweetly picking up pieces!
My Japanese silks, desperate butterflies,
May be pinned any minute, anesthetized.
And here you come, with a cup of tea
Wreathed in steam.
The blood jet is poetry,
There is no stopping it.
You hand me two children, two roses.
Weathering With You
An armor since birth.
Cuirass for a mental storm,
Greaves for a harsh spat.
First heartbreak dons a sallet’s weight.
Betrayal tightens the vambrace plate.
Gauntlets sleeved for life’s distrust.
Plackart hardened with self-doubt.
Sabatons –
For the lonely strides.
Then an embrace,
An ear to shoulder the burden.
Honesty unmarred by loyalty.
Every act of your grace, unlaces the pressure of steel,
My unguarded rebrace, beneath the aegis you wield.
My years of sheath,
Now undone –
Like brittle scales
Slipping from my skin in your undying sun.
Roots
A sapling ready to root,
unsure of the sun or the light.
One root here, another there —
one in knowing, one in hope,
two in maybe, three in definite —
four too many,
five entangled,
none of permanence. None of peace.
The mess — entangled. The love — unbound.
Uproot one, unravel a hundred.
Sever the head, prune the edge.
Growth: a promise tied to soil’s demise.
Religious watering —
Only for sodden roots.
Boston
Like a dark chamber
My chest is filled with void.
Even then bliss still flicker,
Like flickering light in a void dark chamber.
Like dried stump
My hands have grown numb,
Even then sensation still gather,
Like gathering moist on a numb dried stump.
Like morning dew
My tears are incessantly beading.
Even then vision still glimmer,
Like glimmering sun through a beading morning dew.
Like autumnal leaves
My lips have gone arid.
Even then gratitude in my voice spring,
Like springing blooms from arid autumnal leaves.
Her Hurt is Our Blood
What’s this pain? Chest full of thorns, heart full of hate, mind…full,
Lips are cold, this pain is not mine, this light is dull.
Help.
Guilt ridden. I am not, but she is calm,
I trace the stain on my palm.
He was not me, but I am him. Men.
All because he could, will and can.
Why would he?
But…would I?
I can’t help, I can’t empathize, what can I?
A wallowing sigh.
Agony is real when it’s a face you know,
I feel sympathy, but it’s not a pity show.
She suffered, is suffering, will suffer, because of him – me.
I give her my shoulder but the burden slips off the blood.
Fix? Is solution only after a lustful brood?
No it’s not okay even if she was actually a dude.
Don’t justify,
All validations nullified.
Rape is not a crime that has a tagged fine,
A butcher’s meat is more dignified than
This oh so prevalent “crime”
Because his cleaver assures a consent!
Stroyteller
Like a rushing wave, you flood me with joy
Quickly receding, all recalled
Like dry beach, a beautiful pain
I trickle the sand with nothing to gain
I long the touch, and yearn the smell
Of your mind and all of mine
Senses fail, so does all
But you persist like bygone dew,
And the drizzle time has eschewed
I beg you to come, I plead you to leave.
Please Lord turn my feet,
My head is willing, my mind is weak,
My heart needs not another need
I’m afraid, but not dismayed,
I am sad, but I am glad,
I’m unsettled, but not troubled,
I am sure you’ve deciphered
I’m nothin’ but a storyteller