01 II 2002 - 23:31 - verba8

Why am I updating twice in a day?

Because I am a feedback whore, that's why. Here's the deal:

My high school has a "literary magazine" called VOX. I believe I've done that in the long-absent Latin section which used to be at the bottom of every page, but in case I haven't, I'll do it at the bottom of the page and relearn how to set up anchors, to boot. Anyway. VOX: I would like to be on the editorial staff next year. A good way to do this is by submitting many things this year. I enjoy writing - the problem is getting it good. That is where you, gentle (or perhaps homicidal - I don't really know) reader, come in.

You see, I can criticize myself up to a certain point. But I get all my references and I understand all my phrasings and everything. And I am the world's worst analyzer of my own tone.

Aside, perhaps, from Michelle T., whose last name will not be put up here but rhymes with "Chandler." Oh! And Alon "rhymes with Quidditch," who those of you reading my diary more or less regularly will have heard of as "a-co." The boy refuses to take a hint. Anyway:

This is one of the things I am considering submitting. It was written today. I have had only a few goes at it, and Alan was kind enough to have a go at it (which means that I am putty in his hands and if he wanted me to go up and do things illegal in Texas with him, I so would. Except, no, because he's straight.) and that helped. But I'd like your help, too.

The four questions I ask you now are:
a) does it suck?
b) does it sound hostile?
c) is it more or less intelligible?
d) should i come up with a better title?

Thank you very much for reading this. If you are Raych or Al, I'm very, very sorry you've got two copies of it.

Oh, and the title should look very familiar indeed. By the way: formatting got screwed up - the indented lines are all part of the same stanza, even though there's suddenly much more space between them. I lack the HTML skills to do that.

Onward:

what sort of a tiger are you?

duty's a tricky thing to grasp
boundaries slippery to fix
in search of the answers
that will make me whole
without benefit of a surveyor:
i try to fit entire into a sphere
and failing that stretch to fill
nothingness
negative space in the culture wars:

my mother asks
what

sort

are you?

Manly

Proud

and it's easy to sit damned
by silence:
passive and weak by
(god damn it)
negative definition

i was born to fight but
this is not my war
and the silent accusations
take root
(we understand too well)
deeper as i become, great,
no Leader

accommodation's the name of the game
unless you're me
destined to be a Man
and do Man things:
Why don't you find a nice Chinese girl?
mother mine, you'll find
i do not want going with those
churchesdatingservices
when in one of my life's branches
i settle with a nice boy
and perhaps raise a godfearing daughter
in podunk, middle america
or not.

and suddenly those adjectives
Soft and Gentle
become
Too Much for her:
and yes there are lamentations
recrimination and
bojemoi what did i go wrong
of it and no, it wasn't that:
and i am encouraged to
Think and Grow

which growing, you know, not likely
on the face of it.

and an injunction comes
to write what i Know
but it none of it feels right
where the only thing mine
is a rijsttafel of facts
which slipslide through memory
and come to rest uncertain

so you put on a mask
and try to blend

the immigrant friend explains it all:
first generation wants to remember
second generation wants to forget
third generation tries to go back
and i guess i'm second generation, then

but nothing will let me, see,
not the hot chinese summer
rising (a vision) in the future
or the speech of my parents
mangled by my idiot tongue:

yellow is good my son
and yellow is the color of
cowardice:

a series of masks are created, yes?
one for Pride, to hide the emptiness
one for Well-Adjusted, to hide the slips
one yellow for the relatives
and two, greater, in which something
is always

Lost:

and using the trappings of one
word thought opinion to prose
to express my blend of both
it must be wondered
if there is one will take me,
as-is basis,
and then i wonder why
it feels a small part of me does die

with every switch i make
and wonder if it has to be this way
(how did the parents leave their land
for this)
and for one i'll hold my tongue
for its sake giving up the stronger hand
and with my right hand frame the question
master calligrapher,
in what stroke in your Book of Names
will you paint me then?
in uncials or seal script,
if both be mine?

what sort

of a tiger

which in turn is for me
not friends home parents god
to live and
die by:

and when trying to be
sweetly aggressive
or sensitively arrogant
a hundred thousand things will trip you
and nothing will offer salvation
until you cry:
how on earth is this possible
and it isn't
when there are too many things to go wrong

(hold your tongue say the parents but
do speak up now, hear -
and if they saw half what i wrote
they'd find i've gained some reins of power)

and so, it's back to the beginning,
the confusion, the loss of place:
eat wonder bread? over rice - you're nuts
and then you make the mistake
who drinks tea
and a parade of pots and samovars
spills forth from the mouths of the foreign:

(but that american coffee and soda
do wreak havoc on my system and palate)

and now the second signal has been given
know thyself
and i'd like to comply
i sit at a desk
to fill the solitude
with words and sketch myself
in the negative space
of the canvas of a paper:

what sort of a tiger are you?
stares before me on the page
and asks me to construct for it an answer
which does not come; will not for
the years' labor which it yet remains -
the empty sky hangs overhead
the canvas silent, mocking me
and every word small victory

//

Other questions: how do I punctuate the last line? is it fine as-is?

That's it for now. Honestly. Send feedback: there's a j-mail link at the left of the page. If you don't see it, I'm sorry; write to [email protected].

Good night, finally.

vox, vocis f. voice