One Hundred Words a Day

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 17:34:00 +0000

Chàng cười cùng cái
chỉ cột chịu chưa
cột chống cầu cao
Cưới cho cô cỡi

Cái cười cùng chàng
chưa chịu cắn câu
Cột cong cu co
chức cao chưa có

Cắm cổ chàng cầu
Cầu chức chóng cao
cầu cu chớ còi
cầu cái cho cưới

Các cậu chừa chưa?
Chớ cười châm chế
Cần câu cậu cụt
chắc chắn cô chê

News Headline

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 04:38:00 +0000

"Casinos in Tunica, Miss.," inundated
Not by people nor money
But water.
God had no better way to keep away
The gamblers.

The pastor kept silent when
the water rose over fields
lifted furniture
swept off the church.
God had better say why
He didn't want pastures
or pastors.

It is better not to proselytize.
Only pray
that you're wise
when disaster would hit.
Your soul fit.
sinless like which of mice.

Poetry Night

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Sat, 06 Aug 2011 00:58:00 +0000

My Son Diya

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Tue, 31 May 2011 19:47:00 +0000

Light of my life--a lamp in darkness.
Size-wise a little man. Soul-wise, an unconquerable spirit.
"Mind over matter. Nothing wrong in smallness."
You see, he's all wit,
He makes me proud, I must confess.

He's the best defender in this football game: soccer,
swift as a rocket from mid-field to keeper,
He's his brother protector,
his sister's tormentor, his mother's helper.

He's a violinist (and also pianist)
"full-cup" optimist,
He's intuitive in science,
not impulsive with fists.

He has the wisdom of a Dalai Lama
His goggling, lazy eyes evoke a llama,
Boy as in "boisterousness"
He is my Diya.

8/30/2010

2011 Literary Orange

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Sun, 08 May 2011 19:51:00 +0000

This close to touching heaven

and all the fun

of being published.

Upon Listening to Joan Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking"

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 04:43:00 +0000

My father's wife
and not my mother
takes him to his grave.

My mother has made sure of that.
that he is long, long dead.
dead the same day she died,
Dead, wrapped in her love for him
in her longing for him,
that no death can part.

My father's wife
and not my mother
takes him to his bed.
his body near her,
his soul long departed.

A Dream Within a Dream - Edgar Allen Poe

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 17:14:00 +0000

Read by Alejandre Abaygar

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Purge

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Sun, 20 Mar 2011 19:46:00 +0000

I've always wanted to know who I was
as a young girl,
and gravitate toward my childhood
in order to discover
what I really am
under the carcass of a woman.

Little scraps of paper
a broken ring tissue-wrapped
black-and-white photographs
and, if I could, a page of diary
in that childish flowery imitation of an adult's scripts.
They are nowhere to be found.

The tsunami of time, and the quake of a revolution
had taken my past with it.

And the life rebuilt, year by year re-edified
Memories: hours by hours accumulated
old notebooks, copies of receipts, movie ticket stubs
They are my scrapbooks
that per chance might hold the essence of my soul,
Now and then heartlessly purged
by one who never experienced a painful loss.

Into the black bin,
the monstrous, smelly bin
caked with food scraps
All that could have been.

The footprints of a youthful dream
for the tired adults
to match
The over-sized feet
and remember
This is who I supposed to be.

Writing Prompt: "It's not marked but my feet know it..."

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 19:35:00 +0000

My home is no longer real--although I know it's there,
more like a corpse--eyes closed, hands folded
more like a couple whose love had been robbed
whose life descends to a merciless routine.

My home is here, beating in my heart--though only I feel it.
My simple bed is there, my white pillow,
window to the sky
sparrows learn to fly.

The tip of the iceberg

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 03:39:00 +0000

Dear Rich,

I found this on the net, one of thousands audio books archived by volunteers and made available on the internet to any listener longing for some meaningful sounds.

You can spend your whole lifetime here. No, Rich, my friend, the underlined words are not the title of a book. In this age, it means it's "clickable," meaning when you click on the words with your mouse (yes, that rectangular area below your laptop keyboard that you've been mistaking as a dried out ink pad; or that flatten football sitting next to your PC keyboard that you thought is your wife's makeup case, and did not dare touch it. No, it's not the poor little creature chased by your cat), a new web page will open for you.

So click on it, my friend, don't fear. You are about to encounter some great literatures, those masterpieces that you thought that cheese-head mouse had chewed all up during your sleep.

Tonight, I am spending my time on "The Wind in the Willows." What are you choosing, Rich? Or are you too stunt to proceed, poor friend? We can share the same book, if you do not think too poorly of my taste. All you need to do is to click--yes, not push-- on that little triangle, like the "play" symbol on your familiar cassette player. There you go. You see, it does not explode, my friend.

Your writing friend, Hong-My

Mountains

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 01:36:00 +0000

This afternoon at 2 o'clock,
its head reaching the clouds, the mountain climbs the sky.
Its cap blastered ,
its poems scattered
in blotchy white into the sea.

Santa, his belly flat
blood stained the emerald lawn,
eyes strained on the mountain
now sky in puffy white.

"Watch downhill speed,"
defyingly, a sweeper spins,
ear muffed, splashing mud
to the jaundiced sign.
rolling,
like a tank
sweeping brown limbs
bone-fragile twigs
out of sight.
Soft petals like flesh pulverized
bulldozed, drained
wine for the storm gut.

Where are the lights?
Gone is Christmas
Poor wire reindeer perched bare and bored
Pines on the curb
foot severed. Still green.

By a low wall crouches
a laborer
Stuccoing the brick with sandy gold
Brown skin under gray jacket.
boots mud-smeared,
buttocks reared up.

Two mountains meet
and climbs into a man
rises on his feet.

Westbound

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 02:35:00 +0000

By mistake I veered right
and took the bifurcation to the west
instead of east
and in front of me was the dead sun
when I went to it.

Heck the Hall!

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 18:23:00 +0000

I am cleaned floor, washed dishes and folded laundry.
I am the busy hands.

Should I continue?
to be just good for cooked meals,
well-warmed and pliable in bed
Is it my lack of courage?

I am a muted spirit, with dwarfed dreams and sabotaged inspirations.
I am useless without a mop, elbow-deep in detergent, folding my life in the grease of expectation.

Heck the hall!
It is my season.

Behind the Red Curtain, a Memoir

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Wed, 08 Dec 2010 20:04:00 +0000

From One Hundred Words a Day

The Clock

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 20:02:00 +0000

I look at the clock and it stares back at me
open faced, empty of expressions,
its mouth and nose missing
It seems to blink
behind the still hands.
I look away and it signals me,
by a tremulous trick,
the devil has stolen a second
of my life.
while I looks on.
Its hands is the mouth that speaks
and the mouth warns me in simple signals
that it--the clock--steals
life. The most precious commodity.
There's no way to get it back.

The State of Publication Address

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Fri, 29 Oct 2010 20:57:00 +0000

It is the end of Oct 2010 and my publication endeavor has brought me to my "high, wide and handsome" goal--one that was set in a flash of inspiration on a summer day.

On that day, I wrote out a list of fifty-things-I-must-do-before-50. (At the time, I was just being fanciful. Being a "list-person," I've been always drawing out plans of things to do). One ambitious line sticks out like a teasing tongue, "Publish a book."

Well, must I say more, that's what a list does to one's head. It constantly questions one's sincerity and commitment concerning what one sets out to conquer. It mocks one's procrastination to the point that, to have inner peace, one must set out to attack that itemized line.

First, an arrow would be drawn out, as to assure the "list monster" that, "Allright O, I'm working on it." Only then, it would relent, backing off for some times. But it would not forget. It would rake in infrequently, give one a "Giddyup," once in a while, to rest only when one deliver to it that wonderful check mark, like an exquisite bird taking flight.

My arrow was released more than a year now. It's flying far, still shooting towards the intended target, not losing its momentum.

On the way, the "list monster" does funny things to it.

It attaches bells and feathers to its plain tail, making it looking more like an Indian warhead.

From the one-book target, the embolden, richly-decorated arrow now aims for two additional side deals:

- A second memoir/fiction. I have the basic structure of this second book but no title. It will be about the beginning of our new life abroad, from 1982-1989. Maybe I can call it, "The Wonderful Seven," referring to the next seven years after "Behind the Red Curtain." I had one chapter down.

- A third memoir/fiction. All I have is the title, "Give me a year and I'll come back to be a housewife again." I plan to write about my writing years and how I become an author. Not yet know how I would approach this.

I just hope that by the time my arrow hits its target, it would not kill too many birds with one quill.

Frustration is a Writer's Thirst for Clarity

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 16:42:00 +0000

It's like meeting a person, a stranger, in the market. And over the high pile of yellow onions, while picking out the wholesome bulbs and remarking out loud, "They are mostly rotten today," to hear her speak in agreement, "Yup! These are not worth buying."

A smile, and the person becomes, in that instant, someone one can relate to.

I open an English textbook, Great Writing, a Reader for Writers, to read: "Aiming for contemporaneity, too many anthologies for writers avoid great writing; they may offer readable, serviceable samples, but they rarely show our language at its best or address the great intellectual issues of our civilization."

Right then and there, my heart swells. I love the author(s) of these compelling lines. I can relate to him. To her. (The book was co-authored by Harvey S. Wiener and Nora Eisenberg)

Strange thing! I am poring over the pages, yet it is the author(s) who reads me instead. "As you write, you too will move from states of frustration and despair to states of exhilaration; that is all part of the roller coaster a writer will ride to a finished draft."

I suck in the air. The feeling is great.

I am understood.

Trick or Treat, a Halloween Horror Story

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Tue, 26 Oct 2010 20:33:00 +0000

Celebrating CA Writers Week--Reading from an excerpt of my memoir "Behind the Red Curtain"

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Sat, 23 Oct 2010 22:32:00 +0000

Who Am I?

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 19:00:00 +0000

A living entity.
A mother of three,
the wife of One.

A sister of eight
a daughter of One.
   Only one parent is left.

My mother has passed
My father is only existing
   seeking his way out.
Out...Where?
There, looking
Looking for the old glory
in money.

Who Am I?

A voice
in this strange language wanting to be sweet honey.
With words as my outlet
   seeking my way out.
Out...where?
out...there,
   looking for the old glory
when a language was part of me
but now dead, unused, forgotten.

Who Am I?
among you
a writer only by virtue of writing
   fumbling with my pen
for thought.

Afraid?
I am not!

An Exercise in Character Development

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 18:38:00 +0000

They sit down that night to talk to each other, trying to be business-like--civil and polite--patiently waiting for their turn to speak.
  Mia's gaze is glued on her husband's face--following the movement of his lips and the flickering sparks of light in his black eyes, skimming the sharp tip of his Aryan nose. She is intent in her listening but the string of words tended to her, well-measured by him, carefully weighted by him, is still miles too far for her to reach, its weight too light to plumb the bottom of her despair. As he speaks, his left hand's thumb touches his opposite fingers alternately as if he is counting out the beads to string.
  Sitting across from him, with the restaurant's table separating them, Mia lets her silence swallow her revolting thoughts. She drinks her unuttered words all down with her hot tea. Inside her head, she carefully selects her beads to string them into coherent sentences, while waiting for her husband to finish his monologue--as he strings his beads, she removes them one by one and lets them roll off from the edge of her mind, or selects one out for her own string.
  He realizes the impasse and stops talking. "You are showing impatience. Go ahead then, it's futile for me to continue," he says to her, shoving his beads away.
  Mia picks up her line carefully, "I've been thinking....For fifteen years we've been raising the children, we've been working toward a common goal to make them into talented, motivated, loving kids. We work so hard----"
  Forgetting their convention, her husband cuts in, "We've done well. They are good kids."
  She looks up reproachingly, "I'm not done. You don't want to listen. Do you? It's too much for you to spend another five minutes with me. Isn't it? My talk is tiring you."
  He sounds tired, disinterested, "You're concerned too much about yourself. If you've been less critical of everyone, you would note how lucky we are. We have everything anyone would ask for: a good home, steady jobs, beautiful children....Yet, you----"
  She raises her voice, "That's parts of being a wife and mother. I tried...I want to have an orderly home, and that's why I always get upset when things are thrown around. I want the kids successful, therefore, I spend my time correcting their mistakes. What do you want from me?"
  He folds his arms, "Why are we driving here for this same trite? Let's forget this conversation. It's useless."

A Parking Sign

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Thu, 23 Sep 2010 22:29:00 +0000

"Bus, bike, pool ONLY," says the placard
and so I read, perplexed.

Either bussing,
or biking,
or pooling,
but doing all three, yet ONLY...
How?

How do one only bus,
while biking, and,
or pooling?

Whoever wrote this sign,
meant to say this
parking spot is:
"For ONLY bus, or bike, or van. Or all three, one at a time."

Now it makes sense.
No offense!

Twitter

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 22:08:00 +0000

140 letters
The essence of a message
A poem
of the new age
Follow me
I'll tweet
by wit
140 characters a day
can change the world?
It may.

Summer Reading

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 00:41:00 +0000

Along the bumpy road, a patch of green

some leafy shade.

A book.

Life is beautiful

when it's most dull

and loneliness,

Bless.

Circle of Life

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Mon, 31 May 2010 20:57:00 +0000

Whose hands are
Whose eyes
Whose present
Even Death relent.

Whose hope
Whose dream
Whose life extended
Now blended
In mine.

Whose blue veins
crisscross my pale, freckled, back of hands
Whose future ran through the line of happiness and life, and other unclear folds.

Whose eyes
Reflecting back,
Looking out from our snapshot,
Nestled in my husband's chest
That unmistaken severity
Wounded gaze