5-20-2019 - Golden Harvest Lying brown and shriveled, the banana reflects on its life, such as it was, or it would, had it a complex structure of neurons with which to do so. Green and firm, it hung from its mother tree, clinging to the arching expanse of leaves that shelters it from the burning sun. Dragged from its perch, the banana is hooked with its brethren, to a conveyor chain to be hauled into the depths of a packing station. Truly, there is no safety in numbers as a single banana is chosen from its brood to be hacked in half, as a testament to the quality of the bunch. Having survived the initial purge, the banana suffered verily at the many groping hands of the packing station workers, to end packed tightly with its remaining peers in a corrugated cage to be unceremoniously expatriated, before being laid bare before hordes of foreign fiends. Again, the banana was subjected to the unconscionable onslaught of osculation, the precocious pawing of strange creatures from a distant land, as they attempt to discern its predisposition for palatability. Finally, after the journey of a lifetime, it lies on a counter, uneaten, waiting, for its last hope, to be bread.

9-26-2018 - Man In the Mirror When you look at yourself in the mirror, what do you see? Eyes wandering to mismatched imperfections, crisscrossed scars on the skin, and on the mind, what do you find? What do those eyes not see? We wander through life, flitting from moment to moment, remembering only a few of the many meetings we have with each other, much lost on the wings of change. When you look at each other, what do you see? Ripped jeans and tattered t-shirts, short shorts and tank tops frowned on by those up top, not mention the crop tops, not afraid to show some skin because beauty isn’t just skin deep, and a sense of self assurance that is born not of oppression but freedom to express, not repress the knowledge that you are more than just the skin you are in. It is our actions, not our bodies, or the clothes we put on them, that define who we are as a person. Your choices affect how others perceive you, and effect change all around you, so be careful, be calm, show those around you are more than just your tinted skin, or shaggy hair, more than just a pretty face, or a disgrace, a bitter taste in the mouth of those that count you out before you even step up to the plate. You always have a chance, an opportunity to reflect, to project, a new sense of self born not of desperation to fit in, but to begin again, reaching out to those who might not know how. When words born in jest, cause unrest, it becomes a test, of whether it is better to back down or cause distress. This sanctuary of knowledge is no place for poisoned words, slipped between the cracks of already shaky confidence, slicing at the threadbare cords that are sometimes all that are holding someone together. Instead of cutting them off at the knees, why not set them free, give them a chance to be. When we give those around us the chance to spread their wings, we give ourselves a chance to change, to be a better person, instead of worsening an already delicate situation. Remember that words have power, the ability to wound and to heal, for what we feel, isn’t limited to just ourselves, but extends out around us. “I’m lookin’ at the man in the mirror, I’m askin’ him to change his ways, and no message could have been any clearer, if you want to make the world, a better place, take a look at yourself, and make the change” (Michael Jackson - Man in the Mirror)

6-13-2019 - Identity One of the strongest memories I have of my first elementary school was that of hiding in a corner of the gym, taunted for the unfamiliar syllables that I had unintentionally attempted to cram down my classmates throats. You see, when a pale kid from the south side of Lowell opens his mouth and foreign sounds come out, he becomes somewhat of an enigma, an anomaly, simply - different. He may look no different than George, or Patrick, or James, play ball the same way Steve, or Sam does, but when the teacher stumbles over his name during roll call, eventually he is designated as an object of scorn. It was almost a relief when, my first summer playing baseball, the assistant coach, an old Italian man, decided to nickname me “Rico”. I no longer had to cling to a name that had been dragged through muddy playgrounds and stuffed under dusty bleachers, I was free from the oppression of the soft ‘k’ and unvoiced ‘v’ that had painted a target on my back. I had earned the name Rico, emulating the shortstop heavy hitting legend that came to the coach’s mind when I stepped up to the plate or fielded the ball. I made it my own. It was when I went to college, left my hometown, which, by the way, prides itself on its diversity, that I realised that I had been stripped of my ethnicity. “Rico” was a construct to simplify my existence, optimized for palatability, easily rolling off of undeveloped tongues. My name embodies my heritage, it was chosen, by a priest halfway across the world when I was born. The crisp ‘R,’ delicate ‘k,’ and unvoiced ‘v’ are trademarks of the language of my culture. I am musician, a leader, and a mentor. I am the firstborn son of my family, the eldest, the trailblazer. The two syllables that so many stumble over embody who I am, and have become a link to my heritage, a piece of history that I cherish each time it is spoken. I no longer hide behind a flimsy shield of assimilation. I AM “Rikhav.”

4-07-2020 - Intent When you say you can turn anything into a poem, where does that gift lead you? Is it a dirt road, filled with trees, fields, and memories? Black tar pavement with occasional cracks, through which aspiring greenery gazes longingly towards the sun? Does it lead you down cobblestoned alleys or gravel paths, lined with vines and a floral scent that permeates the air? Where do you go, when words light your way? What does this gift bring you? Sadness? Joy? Hope? Redemption? Do you find solace in weaving images into the fabric of someone else's reality? Who do you write for? Who’s mind do you wish to imprint your words upon? Is it a lover, or a friend? Do you ache to have your words live on in the minds of each person you meet? Or do you wish to let them fall silent upon the page, melted memories, inked soundlessly on paper or a screen? When do you write? When the world turns sideways, and words are all that keep your feet on the ground? Do the blending sounds complement the dawn or the dusk? When is it that the scratching of a pen on paper or the pitter-patter of keys provide for you a sense of fulfillment or peace? What, is your poetic witching hour? Why? Why are you driven to pen your ponderings and expound on your experiences? Why are you keen on consecrating the page with your words? Is the ceaseless cacophony of life’s symphony too much for your overburdened heart to bear? What causes you to drive the images in your mind’s eye into the hearts of others? How is it that, often in the presence of others, we are drawn to share our darkest experiences, as if the light that shines bright within each one of us could combine to chase away the shadows that dwell within our hearts. How we hold together, as poets, as artists, and as members of humanity is a stronger monument to the bond that words forge than any carved stone that wears away in the wind, or forged steel that rusts. When your words take shape, no matter what subject you chose to portray, who you intend the audience to be, or where you let your words take flight, let how you do so and why be what guides you through life.

9-22-2018 - Narcissism in Art What is art? Questions such as this are seductively simple, on their surface, but churn beneath, with all the violent frenzy of a storm at sea. Art is many things to many people, a subjective perspective on the embodiment of thought reflected, on mediums as diverse as the artists who imprint upon them. When art is embodied not just by the product, but by the creator, is it still art, or just a narcissistic representation, that pales in comparison? When the medium, is the mind of the person who hears it, or sees it, is the artist truly necessary, or is it just stroking the delicate ego of it’s creator? Music is art, it’s sweet seductive sounds trickling through ears and into minds, gently plucking at the heartstrings of it’s listeners. Music, is art, imprinting it’s message by way of dulcet tones and beating drums, making feet tap and bodies move with the rhythm, and mouths form sounds to sing along. Dance, is art, embodying thought and sound in a physical form, in a living breathing element, for those visually inclined to internalize and connect. The swaying forms and delicate shapes convey much that sound could not alone, but is equally lost without it. What is narcissistic about an art, an embodiment of thought reflected, when it is interpreted from a subjective perspective, diluted through filters that skew our perception of what is real, that we can feel. The boxes we put things in, define how we view the world, but they CAN be rebuilt. Our experiences color our perceptions, but, occasionally, they CAN set us free.

1-26-2020 - With the Best of Intentions The best poems are not heard. The best poems are told, in the haunted eyes of a refugee child, in the empty wordless cries of a grieving mother, as she searches, for her baby, amongst the rubble of the latest attack. The best poems are snapshots of history, glimpses of storied dictators and tyrants, a past that exists only in textbooks and the minds of its survivors. These poems are the poems that are seen, poems that need no words of explanation, poems that stab an icicle through our hearts and open our minds. You see, even the brightest flame casts a shadow, there can exist no light without the dark, an inky void that resides deep within each human mind. It manifests in the most indiscriminate of moments, from the unlikeliest of sources, because, as you well know, it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. The history teacher may one day rise up to nearly exterminate an entire culture, the artist incite a genocide and a world war. It is easy to point fingers at the dust laden armies of west Africa, but less so to point at the West Bank. The best poems are not heard. The best poems are the videos of the soldiers coming home, of the cities employing the homeless, of the countries banding together to replant the desert, attempting to repair the damage industrialization has wrought on the world. The best poems are snapshots of today, the brighter side of the world we live in, poems of hope, poems of change, and poems of redemption. Sometimes, it can be hard to find the good in humanity, a feat of cognitive dexterity, when asperity seems to permeate each layer of society. In these moments of impending gloom, when a death knell looms, spelling our doom, it is imperative we find something, anything that raises the mood. There is still good in this world, still moments where kindness takes command, where hope and promise blaze like a beacon, to light our way home. The best poems are not heard. No mixed metaphors and stilted similes, pale protracted personifications, that deviate thoughts from the author’s intention. They are untampered and untainted by attempted translation, recoding the message that becomes lost among words. The best poems are not heard. They are felt.