Ellipse Productions has worked with the Orange Country Fashion Show, OC Korean Cultural Center, and other communities based in California. I was floored when they approached me about conceptualizing my poem, “Frui.” We sat in Panera and attempted the challenge of turning an 8-lined poem into a short film while making it as emotionally dense and accessible as possible. The adaptation of poetry into film in a cross-media collaboration is still a largely unestablished genre and it was an honor to try and contribute. Finally, I wanted Ellipse to have the reigns to experiment and share their own creative vision as well. Though it’s a first-timer, I hope we can continue to improve and grow from your feedback and support!

Frui

Bret Baldwin Honorable Mention 2009

by Angela EJ Koh

 

My mother always loved the rain.

She loved the sharp edges of the stones washed with it

because she liked things clean.

 

It cleans every alley, she said.

God must like things clean. She was sure of this

 

more than the broken zippers

and the washed take-out boxes she saved in the pantry.

She loved to bleed.

 

I hope she finally found God’s cleaning in it.

Something that stayed with me, unfortunately, was an incident at her funeral. One “family” member, with the backing of many others, accused me of not mourning enough for Grandma. It was a public accusation. I was nineteen. And from it, utter humiliation and ridicule haunted me for years, though the guiltless accuser likely forgot the incident in a minute’s time.

Yesterday, I visited my grandma’s gravesite at Gate of Heaven in Los Gatos. I kneeled in the grass and thought she had the nicest picture on the block. I now have an answer to that accuser (and fellows). I mourned in private because I was afraid. If anyone—even those who knew Grandma—got a glimpse of my pain, they would see into my relationship with Kimiko. They would see our jargon, our stories, and the way we were. I wasn’t ready to share that. At nineteen, bereft and in pieces, I wanted to keep her mine and only mine for a little longer. Even then, you took from me whatever composure I could barely muster.

Résumé by Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp,

Guns aren’t lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.

ph. by me

In bed with three awfully hard cushions propped behind me, I read this poem out loud (from Pinsky and Dietz’ Poems to Read). “Might as well” fit like a backscratcher between “You” and “live” and it got me laughing until I toppled from my spot. I had gone through 193 pages before finding this Dorothy Parker gem. Salty. Sharp. A kind of piece I’d never taken to before.

It reminded me of 2009 when my losing streak was at its prime. I was entrenched in fears. How to learn without talent? How to listen without anger? Living seemed only an option since there was no immediate nuisance (that death would bring). So I lived, or more accurately, just sat and watched things move around me for a little bit. It wasn’t exciting.

I think I’m trying to say that I’ve been lost and breathless, a ghost in clothes. And I will probably go through that again, but I feel now, that I can survive it. It wasn’t so bad. If I’m living, I might as well write, and if I’m writing I might as well grow and be changed to what I can’t imagine. After all, I don’t want to die in an iron mask. The only poetry I leave, being the thoughts I never got to say.

I felt an extreme circumstance involving death might procure an intention in life—a mind frame that certain people have (opposed to the blank, empty faces at the office). The bridge was about putting one’s body in an environment where his priorities cannot matter, where a singular design becomes clear. Wealthy and praised almost made the cut for goals, but even these cannot reflect the value of one’s existence.

I wasn’t on a bridge (the bridges here are above traffic, not water). I imagined it, as psychologically straining as it sounds. But I had found the beginning of an answer. Behind the education and career I work for, there is a responsibility as a human being. With both arms and legs intact, strong back, and a brain that has immeasurable potential, for now I owe my life to use the materials given to me to their fullest extent. And though I don’t have any answers yet, I feel I am going towards its direction. If I had been walking in the dark, I’d found a flicker of a streetlamp in the distance.

Because love could be so difficult to refine, I used fear instead. It was the only way I could communicate a sincerity for God. When everything was terrifying beyond their temporal rationale, there was no family or drink I begged for more than Him. And the darker the corner, the vents, the greater my gravity towards Him. Beyond wanting to feel love, I wanted to stay alive though I couldn’t merit it from the unnatural fear I fed Him. I’d stare at my plaster walls, looking for a flicker, making bets in my head. If You’re here, show me a streak of shine. If You think I’ll get through the day, make a clang from the sill. Show me I still have life beyond this.

I’ve been teaching an 11th grade class at Valley High School in Santa Ana for a few weeks now. I love it very much and I feel a few drops fill my cup. Hopefully, they will be inspired to continue to college after high school. Few of them have an artistic niche; they can sketch things so vividly. I pray they may nurture such talents to turn them into fulfilling occupations. Just a couple drops. And to understand that that is enough.

To Prudence, Fortitude, Temperance, and Justice.