Poetry

My Poetry

Poetry is the medium I use to to explore and understand life’s complexity, and cherish moments large and small as I pass through life. Good poetry cracks my heart open and speaks to my soul. As my poetry evolves, I hope readers can relate to the array of feelings and situations I write about, which I believe are universal. In the humanity we share through poetry, we are all connected.

Published works:

“A Letter to a Friend” published in Sidelines Literary and Art Magazine, Volume 28 (1996)

“Transatlantic” published in Sidelines Literary and Art Magazine, Volume 28 (1996)

“Exploration 1” published in Sidelines Literary and Art Magazine, Volume 28 (1996)

“Love Begins” published in Award-Winning Poems, 25^th Annual Poetry Contest for All Ages (2014)

Published on this site:

Supine in a Hammock, Under Pines

Kristen Paulson-Nguyen / Original Works, Poetry / inspiration, nature, pine trees, poetry /

November 23, 2015

Sough like a cow,
or sough like enough,
I’m in love with you—
whether soughing, sighing with a moue,
or soughing, as cirri made of fluff drift,
dipped in blue.

Even the stiff needles above bend to my sigh of love for this sound,
made by thousands of boughs bared to the wind. Unwind,
and lie beneath the soughing trees,
swinging, sighing,
in love with me.

—
Photo credit: “The Fells” by Basheer Tome is licensed under CC BY 2.0. Unchanged from original.

The Mandarin’s Robe

Kristen Paulson-Nguyen / Original Works, Poetry / daughter, family, history, legacy, passage of time, past meets present /

June 12, 2015

This is the actual Mandarin’s Robe, passed down to and cared for by my father-in-law.

I.
To find grandmother’s
brown-haired treasure,
begin by pulling
this thread.

Feel time gather
on your skin,
raw silk connect
you to
a mandarin
in the Imperial City.

Rough hands
wove the two outstretched arms
of his robe,
clacking the wooden loom
back and forth.

II.
Wading in
as he splashed
the Perfume River
onto his skin,
great uncle carried the robe on his back.

He perfumed the river with his fear,
the pants of his
white suit darkened silk
as he climbed
from the river.
Warp and weft held him as he wept.

The invaders had arrived.

III.
Great uncle carried the robe on his back
to your father,
who kneeled to be married.
Threads of perfumed smoke
spoke to the ancestors.

Listen:
Grandmother has prepared a feast
for the monks.
The mandarin wore the robe
in the king’s court.
Great uncle carried it on his back.
Your father wore it to be married.

IV.
The invaders took what grandmother had built.

Her heart plummeted
to the depths of the Perfume River,
each stone a memory,
each memory a jewel
she sewed into the robe.

Your father wore it to be married.

V.
Cut the right sleeve,
and a jade phoenix will rise
on a golden thread.
Your lifebreath will feed the stone.

Inside the hem,
find the circle,
filled drop by drop
with light.
Your finger will be embraced by it.

Cross the heart.
Cut the left sleeve
and feel the cool orbs inside
click through your fingers,
kissed by oysters,
lustrous as prayer beads
oiled by grace.
Your blood will warm the pearls.

Phased Out

Kristen Paulson-Nguyen / Original Works, Poetry / childhood, circus, elephants, humor, remembrance, Ringling Bros. /

May 5, 2015

Part 1, March 5, 2015
Many fans recalled the press
of a father’s hand,
or remembered
a smaller hand, holding
a rare cumulus
of pink.

Although some
had found it unpleasant,
others, rapt in the dark,
were comforted
by the routine odors,
the sharp edges that
hit the olfactory in stages.

First, the tickle of hay,
and then the vinegar
slap of dung.
The scent of sawdust
that, when pressed,
surrendered a sylvan hint.

One could see,
from the poorest seat,
the relief map of bone,
over which was
stretched a vast grey canvas.

Closer to the ring,
flapping ears blessed
hot cheeks with
warm gusts.

All were
made dizzy
by their circling,
trunk to tail.

Trunk to tail,
they formed a chain
that linked
our earliest pleasures,
now past.

Oh, to see
their old grey bodies,
their young brown eyes.
Even their smiles
were black caverns
into which our attention
fell,
and rested.

The circus.
Without the elephants.
What will we call it now?
Part 2, January 1, 2018
“The elephants will retire to a conservation center in Polk City, Florida.”-NPR

I’m sick of being a symbol,
aren’t you?
Felt like the weight of
the world on my back,
though maybe
that was the showgirls’
high heels.
Stilettos!
My hide may be tough,
but it’s not made of steel.

And I got a cramp in my trunk
from that boxcar.

Well, this place is
nothing to turn up my trunk at,
though I feel like I’m more
of a Miami elephant.

My cousin
in Burma has got it made.
Forests, streams,
plenty of wild girls.
He’s living large.

But Polk City?
It’s kind of a backwater.
At least it seems that way
when you’ve danced
for thousands
in Atlanta,
Denver,
St. Louis.

Ringling calls us “pampered performers.”
Sure, we were pampered,
if the lap of luxury
consists of 18-hour
workdays and subpar alfalfa.

Can an herbivore
get a snack here?

Anyway, hand me that umbrella.
I’m going to stick it
in that trough
and make me a nice,
cool tropical drink:
I’ve earned it.

—
Photo credit: “Elephant Walk” by angela n. is licensed under CC BY 2.0. Unchanged from original.

A Plea

Kristen Paulson-Nguyen / Original Works, Poetry / grief & loss, remembrance /

April 22, 2015

They are as substantial as we are,
the dead,
and far more patient.

Father, great aunt, uncle,
have all gone beyond;
whether it is great
only they know.

Why do we labor so,
the survivors,
to keep them alive?

Sweating in the sun,
we plant perennials
on pauper’s plots,
brush dirt from flat slabs
that tilt and sink with the years
receiving plastic flowers, small flags and tears:
for all we know,
they are dying for us to leave.

Soon a mass will be said for them.
There will be prayers and singing,
and after, we will eat food because we can.

The relationship, you see, is a bit one-sided.

For they are gone,
and would dearly appreciate it if we would
—please—
get a life.

—
Photo credit: “Ghosts route” by Tuncay is licensed under CC BY 2.0. Unchanged from original.

Frog Pond Carousel—Boston, Massachusetts

Kristen Paulson-Nguyen / Original Works, Poetry / Boston, carousels, childhood, fleeting joy, history, passage of time, past meets present, sense of place /

February 25, 2015

The year is 2014:
only a few revolutions earlier,
heretics swung
where cows grazed.

The world turned again,
when each eyeball, hoof
and fetlock was painted,
each neigh carved and preserved,
in 1947.

Built to migrate from city to city
the carousel
followed the outstretched dollar,
with carnies riding herd.

Now children clamor
to choose their steed
then clamber
aboard,
slowly rising,
then falling,
and turning,
always turning,
to face the present:
grass, trees, buildings, pond.

Once around is never enough.
Children are born knowing this.

—

About the Frog Pond Carousel:
The Frog Pond Carousel was built in 1947 by the Allan Herschell Company of North Tonawanda, New York, which specialized in producing portable machines which could be used by traveling carnival operators. A museum exists in the original manufacturing facility in North Tonawanda. For information about riding the Frog Pond Carousel, visit: www.bostonfrogpond.com.

—
Photo credit: “WTB Boston Common Carousel” by Cryptic C62 is licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons. Unchanged from original.

Flower Daughter

Kristen Paulson-Nguyen / Original Works, Poetry / Aquinnah, bee, daughter, delight, family, flowers, Lily, motherhood, sense of wonder, summer /

February 3, 2015

for Lily

Descending the dirt path
in Aquinnah
you spot a
barrel-bodied bee
wearing
a striped fleece
and carrying
yellow saddlebags
on her legs.

The bee,
she
collects each grain
of pollen
carefully,
attentively,
purposefully,
unhurriedly.

Like you,
daughter,
she travels
lightly
from one delight
to another,
eager for
each bright opening.

Drifting

Kristen Paulson-Nguyen / Original Works, Poetry / continental drift, destiny, family, family of origin, history, Native Americans, past meets present, Ploughed Neck Beach, Sandwich, sense of place, the Cape /

January 27, 2015

How did we
come to be
here,
this family,
three
generations staggered
down this Sandwich beach,
aged 4 to 72?

Before us,
there were the authentic ones,
the Native American peoples,
doing more useful things,
such as fishing.

Before the tribes,
the continents drifted
over water, unmoored
as clouds in the sky
and then collided
to produce this rock,
a stripe of quartz
sandwiched by rough slabs of sandstone.

Strung out on the sand,
we gather
the tribe together
after a while,
labor up the dune,
and return to the car.

Navy Pier Carousel—Chicago, Illinois

Kristen Paulson-Nguyen / Original Works, Poetry / carousels, Chicago, childhood, nostalgia, past meets present, sense of place /

January 14, 2015

These horses are skittish
perched on a dock
on the edge of Lake Michigan:
one could easily fall in.

The Golden Age has come
and roared;
nary a customer
climbs aboard.

Still, they wait as if asleep,
three rings
of common creatures,
and one green dragon
pulled from the deep.

“Only some leap,
just so you know—”
explains the ticket lady,
“—the middle row.”

The wheel sings
and then slows.
The paint is cool on
the insides of your knees.
No laughter—
only a lakeshore breeze.

—

About the Navy Pier Carousel:
The 44-foot carousel was designed exclusively for Navy Pier to recreate its golden age. During the 1920s a similar attraction delighted another generation of visitors. The ride’s 36 hand-painted animals represent the different styles found throughout the history of carousels. Horses, chariots and a playful frog are just a few of the featured characters. The hand-painted rounding boards at the top of the carousel depict scenes of Navy Pier’s history. Read more about the Navy Pier carousel.

—
Photo credit: “Childhood” by Dana Voss is licensed under CC BY 2.0. Unchanged from original.