• NSPP 2016

    Work(s) That Received 2016 Scholastic National Awards Recognition


    Linguistics 
    (for my mother)

    Ma, I haven't spoken Tamil in three years.
    (call it forgetting, or just prenatal Americanization)
    Some god must have known I was a child
    of loose change, of ambiguity, of everything more confused
    than it should be. Of conjoined twins snipped off
    the cord together. Of the love of a language. Of everything
    unbounded and shivering; Mother, maybe I'll
    lose the syllables of my name next, ancient and observing, still,
    like the way rice farmers wade into their crop after the monsoon
    swallowed them whole. This is a lesson on everything sacred.
    Ma, I forgot my name before I learnt how to blink. We
    promised to keep culture like dollars and gum wrappers,
    stashed in inside out pockets, tumbled and dried in the wash,
    bleached and chlorinated by city swimming pools, floating
    pieces of ourselves blanched in cauliflower and contamination;
    this is how letters forget themselves, this is how a
    daughter loses the weight of her tongue in her mouth, replaces
    it with a borrowed accent, a softer l, a rumbling a, a smeared
    r, toothpick consonants, dissonance. Ma, we were Indian until
    we weren't. Meanwhile, I pretend I am cultured, I read Dickinson,
    structure culture around the linebreaks of my own ignorance. Outside,
    the sun melts into itself and I am thinking of all the ways to say that I
    am lost, the crumpled syllables cramping in my mouth, this is not
    poetry anymore, this is what happens when a daughter forgets where
    her lungs are, what they were made of. Ma, I'm losing parts of
    myself every day, leaving bits of human when I walk, buttons, sweater
    strings, rosin dust, crushed bottles of water, words and words and
    worlds, latex gloves and frozen over car lots downtown,
    mustard seed heat thawing immigrant dreams, silence.
    I want to question whether these are the things that make up
    the constellations of my genetics, the silence of my voice, but even I 
    I know nothing is silent about life. I've lost more than I have ever lost in
    sixteen years. I've started shedding ethnicity like hair:
    Mother,
                   I fear I'll go bald.

    Poem for Ayesha 

    I have forgotten what hemispheres taste like,
    Ayesha. The sky folds itself into origami flowers today and I can only
    think of everything I have forgotten. Ayesha tells me about her flat in Bombay,
    her voice gritty like swallowed rubble, her body is an earthquake, rustling
    and rumbling, tells me a story. In June, the only things she knows to be
    true are wet socks and daal rice and crows that kill each other for
    handfuls of pulao, claws scratching, hissing, hustling, humming, they
    pull each others' throats out like paper, bleeding, bruised, they are merciless,
    and the sky absorbs their long forgotten lives, releases the pull of their
    heartstrings like chemical dissociation. This is the moral of the story, she tells
    me, and I feel sick every time.
     
    Here is Ayesha: Ayesha, who loves Shakespeare and frozen yogurt on
    Sundays at 3:00, loves the wind like a blanket, the sky like the bronchi of the
    universe, Ayesha, who has a voice like caramel, who cannot remember the last time
    she was called beautiful. Ayesha, who is scared of crickets and nosebleeds,
    who has moved fifteen times and has only one regret. Here is Ayesha,
    who I am secretly jealous of, of her perfect Hindi and flowering mehindi
    hands and her voice, so full of sound and air that it makes me sound stupid when I
    attempt culture, but for Ayesha, the sky melts a little when she speaks.
    Listen: this is a difficult poem to write
     
    This is the truth about me, Ayesha: I do not know about
    life past hours filming over into candlewick days, about a language
    spiny and bent, as if I had attempted contortionism on a culture, I
    understand nothing of a deadened tongue drying up in my mother's
    mouth, about the sanctity of ancestry. But I do know about life:
    how it is now simple science to separate the molecules of blood by
    mass, how this is a form of contamination, how this poem is not about
    me or my mother or Ayesha, it is not about storm windows or bee
    pollen or geranium mouths swollen under the month, how this is not
    about ancestry, how sometimes, I am unending in ways she will never understand.
    Ayesha, this is a story about fuchsia dragonflies hovering over a swimming pool,
    a story about redemption, about a nickname as the green card girl, a story of
    how the sting of imported love over static telephones leaves all of us
    foreigners in our own homes. Ayesha, Ayesha, Ayesha -
    This is the moral of the story: I am a tulip bulb, unflowering,
    immiscible in foreign land, these stems that bind me cannot be content
    in just one land, separate and together, like a bee/a stinger/ and its wings.
    How the earth is immune to a language. How a tablecloth is like the ocean.
    How I do not know what a foreigner is. Ayesha, Ayesha, this is only
    about how I am evergreen in my own earth.

    Jude in November 

    She tried on every dress in the store
    for it to tell her she was pretty. Grabbed their
    price tags like melon bones, scraped the
    honeydew flesh across the rinds of her stomach
    like something revealing.

    Now she is burnt hair and waffle faced
    and distance and aging and youth and she cannot decide on
    what she wants. A rest, she proclaims, a tenuto, fermata,
    a drowning ocean.

    Jude smells like bananas and leather, sucks antibiotics like
    spaghetti from a thin dorsal tube, cracks a gold tipped hello from her mouth
    like a smashed egg. I want to tell her she is not a pause, she is big and
    huge, expansive, that she is a stringendo in the middle of a caesura.
    I want to tell her she is a mountain lifting itself out of the ground,
    pine burr brambles snapping like a dead bird's wings, I want to
    tell her she is alive, she is alive, she is sixteenth notes and
    no air and tree branch melodies, and bluebell jazz and
    springtime condensation on the windows and a sonata swung wide.
    The waiting room feels like a eulogy already fleshed out and I feel
    like screaming for her. Jude, Jude, J u d e-
     
    I tell her what I want, even though it's selfish and I am not proud
    of all these things: I tell her I want to play lavish concerts, how notes
    can breathe, how atoms are like people in love, how a fermata is like a diagnosis.
    How empty pill bottles and antiseptic are grace notes, embellishments,
    allargando, stretching, taut like the skin of her face. How this music only
    gets faster, more intense, bow snapping, breathless until the end. I tell her too
    much about the future, about rosin under my nails each night, rock star
    except without the guitar smashing, liquor eyeballs, hoarse throats.
    I can see us trailing like smoke and it scares me to smile. She grins, sunken,
    her hair a crossword begging to be solved. Her scalp, an atlas, a peninsula,
    a map to find a home and I feel guilty talking about tomorrow, about being
    alive and waiting and not waiting for a death that takes a 200 hours
    and 4 people, about being a remnant of sickness she leaves behind.
     
    I don't tell Jude I burnt my cheek with a hair straightener,
    or that I saw her mother praying near a jar full of quarters
    and her father wailing like a hurricane. I don't tell her about the
    resonance of the moment before something happens, a bow to string,
    a lightning bolt of clarinet and timpani, stage lights, that she is
    still breathing, god, she is still breathing, I don't tell her I know
    nothing about life, let alone death.
     
    Now, it is morning and I am lost.

    Now, it is morning and I only know
    that on the stage, there is
    no way to leave unnoticed.

    Mother Earth has osteoporosis 
     
    (Nurse, I've got a little more than the flu and
    I think I've lost my name somewhere along the way, called it
    Pan-gae-a, slow and slippery like catching fish.
    It's been three thousand years since I've felt this way: the way
    my bones, spherical and corkscrewed, fell apart, a sort of dislocation
    that is only evident among the canopies of my mouth, the crags of
    a desert hidden under my jaws. My nose has been bleeding
    for a decade, I have been coughing magmatic ashes
    from my creased mouth, yawning bits of wind tearing up my skin.
    I have a dreadful stomach ache, Nurse and my throat scratches from
    the sulfur springs boiling under my tongue. I think I am so desperate for life
    I've let it outlive me and I can feel this trembling in my core, Nurse,
    and it feels like a premonition, these creaking blue knuckled trees lining
    my arms, these brow boned eclipses, my glacial tear ducts melting
    down my face, it feels like the 4.5 years of my birth has only
    amounted to life that has let itself die out so fast.  
    Give me a painkiller, antibiotics, I am afraid of curing myself in
    a life where everything is a disease. Nurse, teach me how this
    burning antiseptic is suspense, how a vaccine is an intruder that
    lets himself in quietly, how a cure is teaching your body to decompose
    itself, how an embryo is like a tide, how a woman is like an atlas,
    how I was reborn, recycled, regenerated ten thousand times.
    How it took a third of my life to create the ocean. I fear for
    more than my bones, Nurse, I want to be whole again, to stitch
    the patches in my skin together like a crumbling quilt. Surgical and
    urgent. A needle, some thread, anesthesia, anything-
    The way I've started dying myself: slowly and
                   b r e a t h l e s s l y 
                                 all at once)
    Wilt
     July// Yamuna River, India 

    In the Yamuna, a farmer cleaves through grass like hair, a discourse in beetles.
    His wife gave birth to a baby girl in the spring amid the grease and begonia sweat of a house
    with no windows and no water heater, gave her the land in her palms.
    He worries about his daughter, he worries about his wife and her ocean of a stomach
    drying with each month, the monsoon drowning in itself.
     
    It is impossible to measure the light in a body. He knows this, he knows he will cry
    on the harvest moon when there is no rice for his unborn son. The drought has taken
    its lap of his land, marinates its tongue in dust, feasts on dirt with peanuts.
    A salty kiss. His wife looks too small in her childbearing hips, feels her
    son fluttering inside her like a bird but feels empty nested already,
     
    their son dehydrated from searching for sustenance in a dried waterhole of
    a stomach. His wife bleeds life everywhere but his pink bird heart,
    calls her son blessed. Summer estranged itself with saltines and bug swatters
    and baby shoes, left remains in gutters and fish with flat lungs. 
    Sunflowers stopped sacrificing their petals upward, sun under their scalps,
     
    everywhere all at once, a phantom. Daughters stop burning newspapers and
    start burning stillborn rice instead, stagnant and consuming. Pelicans are
    reported to have shed the sky like grouse, burnt black for reaching upward
    for some cosmic relief, abalone are hollowed and eaten like coconut, the children
    believe this is a way of mourning for the farmer’s stillborn son. Soon, they
    will let the sun burn his body and throw flowers on his blue face as funeral
    rites for a son and prayers for a father sinking his hands in
    earth for a breath into his son’s lungless lips.


     
    Additional Work(s) Submitted as NSPP Portfolio


    Dissonance
    (transposed from treble clef)
     
    It is difficult for me to write about anything but myself.
     
    How can I tell you what I want? How can I tell you I want to
    make music out of the flesh of my body, my body as chopped
    up grace notes, how can I tell you I want to be a stroke of lightning, a work of art,
    a hurricane/a whirlpool/a woman/something powerful and consuming?
    Sometimes, when my fingers shudder and choke, mind a
    glissando in itself, arms jellyfish and fingers tentacles, neck a sink hole,
    throat dry and sweating all at once, all you can hear is a reel of lettered notes,
    not the subtle heartstring pull of rubato, the bruising dissonance that is this poem,
    how can I tell you I want to write a poem that will move mountains, speak like song?
     
    My voice is a melody that has learnt to overpower itself. It is not possible
    to measure the current flowing through a melody, not possible to measure
    the intensity of a single word, I can assure you. I can teach you how the mellow
    vibrato of a sustained note is like sunlight, how a heart weighs five times more
    in regret, how notes are like people dancing with each other, their ribcages
    floundering around their staffed off hearts, this is how you replace a heart
    with a diamond, a heart is not an embellishment, it is not a luxury, it is not any
    of these things, a heart is not a cherry pit or a wax seal, an egg, paper cut capillaries.
    How heartache is a different sort of sickness machines cannot understand,
    how this is the hunger of a soul, the stretching of tonality; you can call this
    poetry, you can call this a eulogy, but my heart is not any of these things-
    The yolk has slipped from its shell, cracked down my rib cage,
    notes flying from my fingers, it is possible for me to write only for myself,
    by myself. And I will swallow the oceans and unearth the mountains with
    my hands, I will pluck every last petal from the garden until even the
    hydrangeas feel naked.
     
    Things I think about on trains
     
    I. I met Gloria by accident on the train ride from Boston to New York, a floundering world peace hippy with temporary tattooed bangles on her wrists, Gloria, who cries for lost puppies and wants to raise money for abused zoo animals, Gloria, and all of her ghosts. She is so knowledgeable about life it scares me. Yesterday, I thought I knew everything. I know the pH of sodium acetate solution, the vapor pressure of water at 52 degrees Celsius, stanzas of fragmented Macbeth at the tip of my tongue, I thought I was destined for greatness,
    for some sort of unimaginable destiny, for earthquakes in my hands, for poems that never end, for pansies that never die. And then somehow, I wasn't. And somehow, there was Gloria.
     
    II. Gloria tells me love is the pinnacle of the human condition, describes it as a journey towards something too great to describe, a plant that grows and grows and grows and never seems to slow down, she seems loveless and incapacitated by living, she seems almost tired, sunken into her own skin. It is scary to see her face dissolve so quickly.  As we get closer to the city, she tells me to LOOK, violently cups the side of my face and makes me see the desolation and deprivation under the arms of the world, Gloria, the revolutionary, the daughter with fire under her tongue, Gloria, mother to the stranded, mother to everything, mother to the earth and a war child caught between two sides of the same city.
     
    III. We talk about lots of things. Child bride politics in Asia, the science of thunder, deforestation in the Amazon, the history of the world, she tells me the earth is 4.5 billion years old as she pinches the baby fat off the knobs of her kneecaps, casually blubbering, tells me she would grow tired of living if she was the Earth. Tells me that the plates of her body would become unbearably jagged and painful after so much life, icebergs peaking out of her sweater, evergreens branching from her arms, eyelids glassy, nebulous, an aurora painted on her face, she talks with so much pain in her voice I half expect her to burst into tears. She acts like she holds the world in her palms.
     
    IV. I step into the city, turn my neck sharply, see Gloria perched on the edge of the threadbare window seat like a seagull waiting for a storm, Gloria, the anatomy of a tsunami, who tells me she is worldly and mystical and mutable, tells me she has been to Morocco and Mauritania and Mumbai, and I am still myself, quiet and wandering, everything Gloria is not. Listen: this is the closest to truth I have ever been. I am not worldly or trustworthy or receptive and all I can think of is Gloria's smile, so quiet, as if it had never known to open its mouth.
     
    Sanju tests the Iceberg Theory
     
    "If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water” - Ernest Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon
                     
                Know that this poem is a halfway confession/ Know that it's almost summer
    and everything smells like pine burrs and engine fuel and hyacinth tears and
                everything good in the world/ Know that I have too many questions the world
    will not answer/Know how I can't even say I'm bilingual anymore/ Know how my brain
                is hurtling at a million miles an hour and I can't keep up with the
    speed of days burning ahead/ how years seem to float in time like feathers before
                brushing the ground/ Know how I'm already seventeen and the only thing I can do is wonder/
    The day feels like a twitch of an eye and I have so many questions the world will not answer/
                Answer me/ Look right through me and read everything I am too scared to write/
    Know how this sort of loneliness cannot be expressed in just one poem/ Know about
                redemption, about how immortality is just a complicated obsession with dying/ Know that
    this is a poem on the beauty of time/Know how I want to be remembered/about shutter
                snapped lizards/ about language/about losing your name in a crowded room, a crowded
    world/ about everything I am not telling you/about marigold afternoons and unending
                days unraveling at the edges like a scarf/about the aching feeling I get every time I realize
    another year has passed, know that this is a poem about finding bits of myself in
                unexpected places, finding house keys and clumps of black hair and red pens and
    pieces of coffee cups and maraschino lipstick/ this is a map I will use to find myself
                someday/ Know why I am so afraid of getting older/ Know why I am so conscious of
    everything but myself/ Know that I am so clueless about life that I write as if I know
                everything/ Know that life feels like a sweater and creases under your kneecaps/
    this is a poem for the future/for days that feel like months/ for thunderstorms/ and earthquakes/
                translucent faces/transparent souls/ Poem for nostalgia that smells like strawberry ice cream
    and honey stains on polished imported veneer/ Poem that tastes like salt, looks like sugar
                and privilege and thank g o d I have a home out here/Poem for how I've never been
    in love with anything but words/ please/ p l e a s e/ Know how I am a question in myself/
                Know how I am just as confused as you are/Answer me/
    Look right through me and read everything I am too scared to write.
     
    Off the Map
     
    For A.
     
    Anjali, I try to speak Tamil sometimes, under the mothball yellow
                light of a bathroom mirror, when the night is so dark I can practically taste
                            it, quietly practicing the cut out feeling of being lost and found
    at the same time. And I can't feel anything but the shapes of my mouth rusting,
                like they were trying to fit into old, worn shoes. I've written
                            so many poems on the loss of a language/on love/on morality/
    on the decomposition of words/all in English, halfway
                therapeutic, halfway giving myself a reason to accept that
                            a language is not just a remnant of home we keep as a souvenir,
    that the way my mouth unravels these words is not betrayal. The way
                I have started convincing myself that my accent is a lie I have finally
                            accepted as my own, the way I was supposed to be Indian my whole life.
    Anjali, loneliness is knowing what to say but forgetting how to say it.
     
    You can call it the mathematics of being human, the probability of
                finding a home without really meaning to, call it the poetry of a light-year,
                            call it the way ignorance feels more like jet lag than hurt, sometimes, I
    think the philosophy of restlessness must have been in my genetics,
                sometimes, I wish I was the type of girl to keep her skeletons in the closet,
                            now they flounder under the kitchen stove, in the maroon tasseled curtains,
    dear Anjali, A n j a l i:
                I am trying to find the alphabet again, what I have lost, I have lost the ingrained lilt
                            of my tongue and the buzzing of z's transposed into r's, in five years,
    I have lost 20 pencils and at least 10 pairs of socks, 140 train pressed pennies and an entire
                vocabulary, I have lost so much of myself it is hard to keep writing, Anjali, I've gotten
                            lost in this poem so many times it is impossible for me to
    understand what I've written.
     
    Listen: it doesn't take an atlas to understand the anatomy of a home.
                And I finally understand that a home is a place for knowing where the
                            spoons belong, for knowing and knowing, knowing that the clock in the
    living room is still on daylight savings time. For knowing that a home is not
                a language but a feeling, for knowing that I will be a foreigner first in my mind
                            but never in my home, I want a home that is a reliable narrator, I
    want a home of margarine sky and wallpaper forgiveness and granulated sugar and
                baby robins and daffodils and cardamom tea and everything, everything
                            the way it is supposed to be: Anjali, my mother used to tell me a home is love.
    And I don't really understand what love is but I've written so many poems on it that
                I must know something. And all I want to do is reclaim these dusty
                            consonants as my own. A home built of poems. Built of the earth underneath
    my shoes. A dictionary with all the pages cut out, like
                unraveling hands: bony fingers: a body made of galaxies: a soul that has
                            an inertia of its own, a window, a canyon, a road that leads to nowhere,
    a map punched with so many holes it becomes more of a
                burden than a help.
     
    Agitation
    After Felix Mendelssohn
     
                (Outside, sun stained, sand bagged pickup trucks
                ruminate in the shallow heat of the day)
     
    Bird lungs, pulsating and heaving,
    the both of us running across the parking lot,
    engine fuel and dinosaur cumulonimbus caulking our footsteps.
     
    Felix, the rumbling resonance of the summer
    brings back the already stale taste of
    things that never happened.
     
    We will be fossils tomorrow. Rotting you would say:
    pointing at the space between us. Jaws colloidal,
    lungs suspended balloons, calcified primordial skulls,
    eye holes a loophole to evolution
     
    Felix, I now realize we were all the same, young, ambitious,
    all kingfisher mouths, bird hearted and rushed deaths, hungry  
    for the moon in our palms, n o w, I understand the science of loneliness.
     
                (Meanwhile, we fly on, the warmth of our youth
                unabashedly staining the sky)
    Maya Eashwaran

    Maya Eashwaran
    Grade: 11

    Educator(s):

    Awards: Poetry
    2016 National Student Poet

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