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New blog documents my travels abroad! Currently studying abroad in England. Check it out!

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One Stroke At A Time

By Lillian Wu

Grandfather stopped in front of the picnic table, his feet barely touching the ground. The table seemed to bow down in his presence. He lifted his bag off his shoulder and onto the seat before unpacking. He took out a silk cloth to cover the face of the table. With a craftsman's mastery, he removed his calligraphy set and began to arrange them. He placed brushes of assorted sizes gently onto the brush rest. His hands moved dexterously but the focus was never on them; it was as if his hands ceased to exist and the ink stone levitated on its own accord onto the cloth. Following it came a stack of Xuan paper of the highest quality, a stick of ink to be ground, a porcelain water dish, and a meticulously carved paper weight. There was no stone seal because Grandfather did not believe in claiming art. To him, everything he created belonged to his mentors.

He motioned for me to start grinding the ink. My hands started obeying even before the command from my brain. Pouring just enough water, my palm caressed the stick of ink and ground it against the ink stone in a circular motion. I forgot to breathe as the water became a thicker bold shade of sesame. When I was young, Grandfather made me practice with chalk because I would snap the ink in half with movements too grand. Becoming frustrated, I threw the chalk onto the ground. Grandfather said nothing but retrieved the stick. He placed it in the heart of my palm and covered my hand with his. He ground the chalk as if my hand was no longer there. As one, we ground it into a translucent powder. I never broke another slab of ink again. He stood erect now, not a muscle twitched – no longer human; his wrist suspended in the air. He studied the milky white of the paper before him, imagining the stark contrast of ink on it, counting each stroke of the character that was to be made alive. The dappled moonlight illuminated Grandfather's face into a youthful serenity. The aquiline slope of his nose belonged to a commander. Something alerted the brown of his eyes to glow into a dark amber. He swiftly reached for the largest brush and dipped the goat hair in ink.

Each brilliant stroke of the Kai style was branded with the utmost precision. There was an order to each stroke: from left to right and from top to bottom. His wrist was fluid in the angles it bent to give shape to the character. No motion was wasted, each deliberate and inevitable. The ink seemed to flow from his fingers, almost as if it had fused with his blood. No longer present, he had become the heartbeat of his art. He did not take one glance at me, but I knew he would not have remembered my face. Standing beside him, I felt as if we were maintaining the yin and yang of the world. We could not have been greater opposites.

With a final angular swipe, he released a breath of suppressed air and collapsed onto the seat. His eyes eagerly fed on the finished character that glistened in the moonlight: the word for wisdom. The character was made of many folds, each a layer dedicated to the depths of Grandfather's thoughts. Grandfather never explained why he chose the characters he did; he believed silence was the highest form of interaction. When I was young, not yet capable of comprehending the unspoken language, he told me why he practiced calligraphy. There was not a mirror more honest. The written symbols displayed one's every flaw and virtue, telling one's story more articulately than one ever could. It was the same reason why I avoided calligraphy in his presence, pretending to be content as his ink grinder. The sense of being naked, so easily read and analyzed was frightening. I wondered if Grandfather knew of my uneasiness, but I knew he must have; for he never asked to teach me.

Only when I was alone in the refuge of my house did I practice calligraphy. I borrowed Grandfather's calligraphy set but could not manipulate the equipment as he did. I mimicked the manner in which Grandfather held the brush, knuckles bulging from the skin, but the characters I drew hung limply on the page. It was not that I lacked inspiration. There was always a story playing in my mind, a mood I tried desperately to convey through the movement of the brush. With each finished stroke, I savored the ecstasy of blood simmering in my veins. What I saw in the character reflected the opposite: a mocking indifference.

Before my lips parted in the form of a plea, Grandfather handed me a brush. “Show me what you have been practicing.”

“But how did you know?” I felt as if my skin had been bared.

Grandfather smiled calmly but did not respond. “Think about why the art of calligraphy is sacred, what the characters mean to you personally. Each character tells a story. Try exploring the past for an image that strikes you. When you start creating, hold on to that feeling.”

“I've tried that. It doesn't work for me.”

“But have you? There is a dichotomy between thought and action. Which have you attempted to achieve?” There was no mockery in his tone, only genuine curiosity.

I searched his face for an answer, but found nothing. I surrendered to the weight of my eyelids and felt the earth move from under my feet. I thought of the roaring ocean, the tide lusting after the sibilance of the wind. I did not think about why I had chosen the ocean, it was instinctive. It occurred to me that I had been born from its waves. I was standing on the cliff, my hair salt licked and braided by the wind. The dimensions of sky, ocean and granite created a sense of harmony. The desire to jump in, to fling my heated body against the strength of the current, only to get swallowed up, consumed me. I threw myself at the wind and the impact of the fall crushed my face. I gasped for breath as my eyes jutted open.

Jai Ho (Based on Slumdog Millionaire)

By Lillian Wu

In the beginning, the Juhu slums brought us together

so our hands could find their way,

fingers interlocked for a melting moment.

We did not know this then,

but fate had made you my Mumbai bride.

Imagine, the sharp angles of your body softened

by gold threaded saris,

and the night in your skin complemented by

eloquent mehndi designs that told stories

we never could.

Perhaps if we had stayed strangers,

I could forget your cry that pierced my dreams

and your lyrical face illuminated by death,

as our fingers merely grazed

when your legs failed to keep up with a train on tracks.

I heard my heart stop,

like the friction seconds declaring a thunderstorm,

when your legs gave way and

I was certain the earth had consumed you.

Since I have left,

your face must have remained angelic,

the onion folds of your forgiving eyes

shielding you from devastation.

I wait unremitting until destiny

brings us back together, to make my world full

with the presence of your mango scented hair.

The Last Sunset

By Lillian Wu

The indigo patches in the bloody sea above

mask the fears of the future,

as the setting globe of fire

dissolves memories past into a sweet serenity.

With the earth anchored at their feet,

their eyes transfixed at the miracle before them,

the couple vowed an eternal love,

their avoidant eyes indicating otherwise.

She steals a glance in his direction,

studying his rigid lips,

his perfectly symmetrical smile.

Too blatant was his masquerade to be genuine,

his speech never fluid as his movements.

She chuckled silently to herself,

the words never spoken lingered in the thick summer air;

but mimes never tell.

She recalled their first encounter,

then seemingly the proof of serendipity,

now, twisted fate.

The sun set behind the mountains,

the end becoming ever so clear

as night settled in and

the orchestra of crickets prepared for its debut.

As the couple got up to leave

with the promise of tomorrow's sunset,

she followed the faint light in the distance,

leaving him to choose his path.

I Do

By Lillian Wu

Gulls in the air cry their blessings
as the roaring sea subsides gently to wash
their naked feet of the hot sand.
Everlasting is the promise embedded
in the blossom of his eyes,
with a scintillating personality of their own.
Within her jewels is an ancient history,
the remedy for love and lust.
The couples' faces are puzzle pieces
that fit together as their interlocked fingers do,
seeking comfort in the symphony of their pulses.

The scythe of sun strikes from the gap
between their nearly molded bodies,
so he pulls her closer until their curves collide.
Her veil is weaved by patches of memories,
casting a purity that belies wrongs of the past;
she is waiting for a voice in the wind.
As he leaves lemon drop kisses on her forehead,
she closes her eyes to find truth in the alignment of stars.
The moment they pledge their eternal love
with two simple words,
and seal it with the meeting of their lips,
(he is oblivious to the taste of tongue
that is not her's)
the couple cease to be separate beings,
but become a single entity of one bonded soul.

A Mother's Goodbye

By Lillian Wu

It starts with an eclipse.

When light is consumed by agony,

gradually,

agony dissolves into sheer oblivion.

The transformation from sane to

hovering helicopter requires little,

a mother being no different with her child

than a hypochondriac with health.

Her child's existence becomes her soul,

his breath her heartbeat

the moment she holds him,

their pulses in perfect synchrony,

the eloquence of his movements a mystery to all

but to his proud mother,

who wipes tears from her welling eyes.

A moment meant to be eternal

inhibits the shadow of her memory,

like the moon fades into the night,

waiting for the passing presence of the red sun.

Once, looking up at the night sky,

she thought she saw her ghost.

She looks at him now, her eyes translucent,

and he stares back at her,

with the brilliant globes she gave him.

With delight dancing on his pupils,

he is going to embark on a new chapter of his life.

She turns to the side,

silently craving the cigarette

she put down for him nineteen years ago.

As she watches his back

disappear over the horizon,

a part of her leaves with him.

Poseidon's Tears (A Sestina)

By Lillian Wu

No wonder you lust after the whisper of the wind,
its sibilance like song from the golden lyre. Your soul,
an anomaly in a sea of the hopeless, wipes at the tears
that Poseidon has shed, and you listen
attentively to the tales of the ghost
of centuries past, but hear instead, your death.

Never have you been afraid of the abyss of death,
for secretly you need to be one with the wind,
to caress the tide with the ghost
of your fleeting soul,
but you plead for the maiden who hovers on the cliff to listen,
as you never did, to the rumble of Poseidon's tears.

The last grain of doubt dissolves like tears
evaporating after staining your face; death
is calling, and you listen,
answering the invitation carried by the wind.
Making the jump, first to go is your soul.
But you no longer need it, for in its place is your ghost.

Dappled sunlight breathes life into your ghost,
and fleetingly, you recall the days as human. Crystalline tears
form to mourn your soul,
its allusion of death
epitomizes the wrath of the wind,
calm only to those who never listen.

Beneath the realm of the living and the dead, you listen
to the eerie euphony of the trident striking the ghost
of the sky. Resentment builds in the wind,
commanding the high tides of Poseidon's tears.
The awakened waves are ravenous for death,
for the gem of mortal souls

to add to its collection of lost souls.
The waves collide with the rocks, listening
but failing to imitate the eloquence of the wind. The waves smell death
in the salt licked ghosts'
tears,
but wait for the wind.

The deity of death appears as an illusion and takes hold of the ghost,
thrusting the soul you used to listen
to the secrets of Poseidon's tears, to the wind.