From Hawaiʻi And Beyond

Sheena Lopes Sunday, May 13, 2012 3:57:29 PM HST 58:b0:35:a6:5a:4c

Table of Contents

o Table of contents

o Book Dedication

o Introduction

o Indigenous Oceania

o Haunani-Kay Trask biography

o Five poems from poet

o Analysis of one poem

o Beyond Oceania

o Yevengy Yevtushenko biography

o Five poems from poet

o Analysis of one poem

o Original poems

o Bestfri[ENDS]

o Original poem commentary

o LOL (Concrete poem)

o Concrete poem commentary

o Bibliography


This booklet is dedicated to my GMA.

I just want to say thank you for all those times you helped me with

any English work, without you I think I would be struggling.

This booklet is to show you how much I’ve progressed over the years

and did things on my own.

Thank you for always being there when I needed it, even if I would

fool around. You are the best, I love you grandma and I hope you like this

booklet.

Love, Sheena


This book of poems consists of five poems from Haunani-Kay Trask, five

poems from Yevengy Yevtushenko, and two original poems constructed by me,

Sheena Lopes.

Haunani-Kay Trask is a Hawaiian activist and most of her poems are

about Hawaiian sovereignty. The five poems that are in this booklet are from two

different books. The first two poems are from the book “Night is a Sharkskin

Drum.” The two poems are titled “The Broken Gourd” and “The Mist of My

Heart.” The remaining three poems come from the book “Light in the Crevice

Never Seen.” The three poems are titled “Pax Americana: Hawaiʻi, 1848,”

“Hawaiʻi,” and “Racist White Woman.” I choose these poems because they stood

out to me, whether is was the name or simply the literary devices that were used.

What was good about Trask’s poems is that behind the poem itself is a little

explanation of the poem and what it means. This helped me a great deal to choose

the poems that I would like best. I choose Haunani-Kay because I love my

Hawaiian side. I heard of Haunani before and I never knew who or what she was,

so I decided to research her life. I came to find out that I can relate to some of her

poems, and I love the fact that she keeps trying to fight for her land.

Yevengy Yevtushenko is a Russian writer, actor, and editor. Most of his

poems reflect on his life and the Soviet Union. The five poems in this booklet are

all from one book. The book that consists of the five poems is titled “The Face

Behind the Face.” The five poems from this book are titled “Hope,” “For Your

Attention.” “A Father’s Ear,” “For Those in Pain,” and “Memory’s Revenge.”

These poems stood out to me because I can relate to them. The poems, to me are


about the emotions people go through and all the things that run through their

minds as they go through life. I choose Yevengy because I am not as connected

with my Russian culture, and because of this I decided to search for a Russian

poet. The librarian helped me pick this poet, and then I came to like his poems.

Finally, the last two poems in this booklet are made from myself. One is a

concrete poem and one is an original poem. My concrete poem just came to me

when I couldn’t think of anything else. My original poem is about an internal

conflict I created myself, it’s a real issue that I’m going through but I feel that I

made things worse because I completely ignored my friend out of my life, and

only talk to her when she would talk to me.

This assignment showed me how much time and effort I need to put in a

project to get a good grade. I know that when I go to college there will be more of

these research projects that I have coming my way, and honestly this project

helped me to manage my time wisely and how to formally format things. Such as

bibliographies, parenthetical citations, and whether to put a comma inside the

quotation marks or to place them outside. This project I think benefits my peers as

well. With this project my class can get the feel of what to expect when they

attend college, when they get jobs, and life in general.

This booklet also contains a table of contents, two biographies about both

of my poets, an analysis of one poem from each poet, two commentaries (one for

my concrete poem and one for my original poems), and a bibliography.


Life of Haunani-Kay Trask

“I am not and American! I am not an American! I am not an American!”(Haunani-Kay Trask:1993 protest rally.)

Haunani-Kay Trask is a Hawaiian activist, writer and retired professor

and director of Hawaiian studies, who was born on October 3, 1949. She walks in

the same footsteps as her father and grandfather as a supporter of native Hawaiian

rights. Trask attended Kamehameha Schools and the University of Wisconsin-

Madison and graduated with a master’s degree and a PhD in political science

(Haunani: Wikipedia). She was a full time director of the Center of Hawaiian

Studies at the University of Hawaiʻi located in Mānoa. Some of her works include

two poetry books and an award winning film. The titles of her two poetry books

are Light in the Crevice Never Seen and Night is a Sharkskin Drum. She co-

produced and wrote the script to the award winning film Act of War: The

Overthrow of the Hawaiian Nation that came out in 1993. These works all have

one thing that connects them, and that is the sovereignty in Hawaiʻi (Haunani :

Native).

Most of the poems in her books express her feelings towards the

overthrow of the Hawaiian Monarchy and the view she has on Americans. From

the quote at the top readers can see that she clearly does not recognize herself as

an American. What is ironic though, is that she was born in California. This

shows that Hawaiians that aren’t born in the islands don’t just push their culture

aside. She has proven herself a dedicated Native Hawaiian. In return she has

recieved several awards, two of which that are the most recent was in 1997 and

1994. In 1997 she was one of the chosen “Ninety Fabulous Faculty” by the


University of Hawaiʻi. This reward was given to the “top-notch” faculty members

that maintained the university’s reputation in celebration of the University’s 90th

anniversary (Ninety: University). In 1994 she got the Gustavus Myers Award for

her “outstanding book” “From a Native Daughter: Colonialism and Sovereignty in

Hawai‘i” (Haunani: Native).

She opposes the Akaka Bill, which establishes a process for Native

Hawaiians to be recognized federally. From what I believe, Trask opposes this bill

because she simply does not want to be recognized in this context. She would like

Hawaiian land to be returned, in toto, [completely] to native Hawaiians, regain a

native Hawaiian monarchy, rebuild a strong, independent Hawaiian culture as

well as regain political sovereignty. If anything, we should have been recognized

from the beginning and not depend on a bill that compromises our status. In a

way, since she is an alumni of Kamehameha Schools, she does own partial native

Hawaiian land. Even though she is an emeritus faculty member at the Hawaiian

Studies department at the University of Hawaiʻi Mānoa, she is still active in her

quest for Hawaiian sovereignty and rights, and she will continue to do so, until

she succeeds (Kamakakuokalani : University) (Akaka: Wikipedia).

As a native Hawaiian advocate, I believe that role has a great influence on

her poems. As readers read her poems they can tell it has something to do with the

sovereignty of Hawaiʻi. Most of her poems are titled with Hawaiʻi in it. Because

poems allow people to express their feelings, Trask is sure to make most about

Hawaiian sovereignty. One of her poems that I think will or did cause much

controversy would have to be “Racist White Woman.” I like this poem because


she said what every Hawaiian would want to say to those who took their land and

culture away; however this will cause controversy because of the white people.

They may think it’s racist but, really, Hawaiians have something to be mad about

towards them. Racism usually doesn’t come with a good reason; to me, racism is

how people treat others of different races cruelly just because they believe their

race is superior and is powerful than any other race. This poem will only have an

impact on the white people that take offence from it. But it’s a free country and

since we are under the United States we have freedom of speech. “Racist White

Woman” is not a racist thought; rather, it reflects the feelings a native Hawaiian

feels because of all the things white people have done to them. Haunani-Kay

Trask, to me, has everything a Hawaiian should be. Just because the white people

control Hawaiians, they should never forget their history and they should never

back away from the truth and what is right.


Night is a Sharskin Drum

The Broken Gourd After the last echo Where fingers of light Soft as lauaʻe Come slowly Toward our aching earth, A cracked ipu Whispers bloody water On its broken lip. Long ago, wise kānaka Hauled hand-twined Nets, whole villages shouting The black flash of fish. Wāhine uʻi Trained to the chant Of roiling surf; Nā keiki sprouted by the sun Of a blazing sky. Even Hina, tinted By love, shone gold Across a lover;s sea. This night I crawl Into the mossy arms Of upland winds, An islandʻs moan Welling grief; Each of us slain By the white claw Of history: lost Genealogies, propertied Missionaires, diseased Haole. Now, a poisoned pae ʻāina Swarming with foreigners


And dying Hawaiians. A common horizon: Smelly shores Under spidery moons, Pockmarked maile vines, Rotting ʻulu groves, The brittle clack Of broken lava stones. Out of the west The din of divine Violence, triumphal Destruction. At home, the bladed Reverberations of empire.


The Mist of My Heart

The mist of my heart Travels to Waimānalo, Embracing there the salt of the sea. Two koaʻe birds Entwine their long tails Secretly.


Light In The Crevice Never Seen

PAX AMERICANA: HAWAIʻI, 1848

I am always falling Toward that dark, swollen River filled with tongues Drunk and baptized New priests waving foregin Flags and parchment Calling in the conquered To hungry bankers Sacred places gone for coin And rotting ships Diseased through By poisoned seas In greenish light Hooks and stripes The lash across my face And pale white stars Nailed to coffins Filled with dying Flesh cast off From a dying land Only my scream in the homeless wind And murdered voices.


HAWAIʻI

I. The smell of the sea at Haleʻiwa, mixed with early smoke, a fire for fish and buttered clams in a rapturous morning. vines of naupaka leafy and stiff over the puckered sand and that ruddy face coming form cold breakers mesmerized by the sun. they take our pleasures thoughtlessly. II. The kōlea stilts its way through drooping ironwoods thickened by the fat of our land. It will eat ravenous, depart rich, return magnificent in blacks and golds. Haole plover plundering the archipelagoes of our world. and we, gorging ourselves on lost shells blowing a tourist conch into the wounds of catastrophe. III.


The dancerʻs hem catches a splintered stair. Descending in a crash of couture she winces over a broken toe, hating the glittering prison of Waikīkī but smiling stiffly into the haze of white faces; in the reef-ringed island world of her people now hawking adverts in their lilting pidgin; flithy asphalt feet unaccustomed to muddy loʻi, kicking Cadillac tires for a living. IV. Green-toothed moʻo of Kauaʻi raises his moʻo tail peaked in fury. A rasping tongue hisses in rivulets to the burning sea. Near the estuary mouth heiau stones lie crushed beneath purple resort Toilets: Civilizationʻs fecal vision in the native heart of darkness. V.


Glint of life in the graveyardʻs ghost one yellowed eye and a swell of heat: two thousand bodies exhumed for Japanese money, developersʻ dreams, and the archaeology of haole knowledge. Māui, our own fierce akua disembowlled by the golden shovel of Empire. VI. E Pele e, fire-eater from Kahiki. Breath of Papaʻs life miraculously becomes Energy, stink with sulfurous sores. Hiʻiaka wilting in her wild home: black lehua, shrivelled pūkiawe, unborn ʻaʻaliʻi. Far down her eastern flank the gourd of Lono dries broken on the temple wall. Cracked lava stones fresh with tears, sprout thorny vines, thick and foriegn. VII. From the frozen heavens a dense vapor colored like the skin


of burnt milk, descending onto our fields, and mountains and waters into the recesses of our poisoned naʻau VIII. And what do we know of them, these foreigners these Americans? Nothing. We know nothing. Except a foul stentch amoung our children and a long hollow of mourning in our maʻi.


RACIST WHITE WOMAN

I could kick your face, puncture both eyes. You deserve this kind of violence. No more vicious tongues, obscene lies. Just a knife slitting your tight little heart for all my people under your feet for all those years lived smug and wealthy off our land parasite arrogant. A fist in your painted mouth, thick with money and piety and a sworn black promise to shadow your footsteps until the hearse of violence comes home to get you.


Analysis for “Pax Americana: Hawaiʻi, 1848”

“Pax Americanan: Hawai’i 1848” is alluding to the Māhele in 1848, the

division of lands that took place. The māhele was created for foreigners to own

and buy land from native Hawaiians. This caused great conflict because the

Hawaiians would have to sign contracts that they could not understand and many

were taken advantage of because of the disadvantage that Hawaiians had (which

was not understanding or getting tricked.) In the last stanza of this poem, Trask

makes an allusion to the native Hawaiians who were taken advantage of and sold

their land which got taken away “...dying flesh...dying land” (Trask: 11).

When I was in the 7th grade, I remember we had to do this project that

involved the students putting themselves in the same position as the Hawaiians

during the māhele. Each student had to measure his or her land accurately and

write a clear convincing letter to say in front of the judge (this was in order to

keep our land.) I remember we had to make clear where our land was and if we

missed any small information like the size of the land, our letter would get void

and we could not keep our land. Trask used personification and foreshadowing in

the second to the last line “only my scream in the homeless wind” (Trask: 11).

Trask personified the wind, making the wind homeless, which people know that is

not possible. This line reveals foreshadowing because the line shows that soon all

the native Hawaiians would become homeless because they were getting robbed

of their land from the foreigners.

The last line “and murdered voices” (Trask: 11), personifies voices being

murdered. When a voice is murdered, that does not literally mean killing someone


for his or her voice to not be heard. Murdering of voices could mean people’s

ideas and beliefs that are “cut” short from those how don’t wish to listen to what

they have to say. This allusion falls towards our kupunas, who could not have a

say in the selling and buying of the lands.


Life of Yevengy Yevtushenko

On July 18, 1933, Soviet and Russian poet Yevengy Yevtushenko was

born in a town called Zima Junction in Siberia. Yevtushenko is the whole

package, writer, actor, director, and editor. Yevtushenko is of Russian, Ukrainian,

and Tatar heritage. He is a descendant of Ukrainians that were exiled to Siberia.

Both of his grandfathers were arrested in 1937 during Stalin’s Purges because

they were known to be “enemies of the people.” While living in Zima, he had

produced his first verses and song “chastushki.” At the age of seven his parents

divorced (kind of like my life) and he was raised by his mother. Three years later

when Yevengy turned ten he had wrote his first poem that got published in a

journal periodical six years later. This is interesting to his readers because who

knew that such a young kid at that time could be so talented (Yevengy :

Wikipedia).

The Prospects of the Future was his first book of poems that he published

when he was 19. He moved to Moscow after World War 2 where he attended the

Gorky Institute of Literature in Moscow, but he later dropped out. Yevengy joined

the Union of Soviet Writers in 1952 after he published his first book. During the

“Khrushchev thaw,” writers were allowed some freedom of expression. This

freedom of expression was usually about politics in which Yevengy was really

active. During this time Yevengy produced his famous poem “Babi Yar” that

caused much controversy and was “politically incorrect” about the Soviet

government’s persecution of the Jewish and of the Nazi persecution of the Jewish.

Although writers were given some freedom of expression, “Babi Yar” was not


released in Russia until 1948. Ironically he was very much respected for his

political stand against the soviet government that made people recite this poem in

Russia even before it was released (Yevengy : Brian) (Yevengy : Wikipedia).

In the 1950s and the 1960s Yevengy was made leader of Soviet Youth

because he demanded artistic freedom and because of his attacks against the

Soviet government. Some of his works include Don’t Die Before Your Death

(1994), The Face Behind the Face (1979), and the movie I Am Cuba (1964).

Along with Enrique Pineda Barnet, Yevengy wrote the movie I Am Cuba, which

captures Cuba before it went through the post-revolutionary society change in

which they analyze “the problems that are produced by political oppression and

discrepancies in wealth and power on the island” (I : IMDB). In 1987 Yevengy

was recognized as honorary member of American Academy of Arts and Sciences.

Yevengy then became a member of the Congress of People’s Deputies in 1989

and has been Vice President of the Russian PEN since 1990. The Russian PEN is

a bunch of writers that defend the freedom of speech. What his readers probably

don’t know is that he was married four times and produced five boys. His fourth

wife, whom he is still with now, teaches the Russian language in the United States

at Edison Preparatory School. At age 78, Yevengy does lectures on poetry and

European cinema at the University of Tulsa right next to the school his wife

teaches at (Yevengy : Brian) (Yevengy : Wikipedia) (Works : UNZ) Pen : World)

(I : IMDB).

One of his poems “Hope” I think connects with his life greatly. He has

been through so much; the only thing people can do is hope for the better. I think


he created this poem to help all of his readers with everything they are going

through in life. Even though it’s not clearly there, I think he wanted his readers to

realize that hope will help them along the way; “Hope is a faithful sister”

(Yevengy: Hope). Like that quote says, hope is like one’s sister that helps readers

get through things. Another poem I think that connects to his life is “For Your

Attention.” In that poem he tries to get the readers to understand that one doesn’t

get a second chance at life and that we must live to its fullest. Obviously, all his

poems will relate to him. Poetry helps people express what they feel, helps them

to help people indirectly, and says things that they wish they could say in life.

Poetry is like a whole other world, just as people wish it to be.


HOPE It is terrible to replace dead feelings With memories of feelings, But still more terrible if even The memories are dead, And like the spittle of black blood You slaver onto a sheet of paper: “Life has no meaning when it consists Of moments made meaningless.” And with its inaudible key Despair will enter the flat, Like a woman, no stronger, But somehow near and familiar. She’ll lie down beside you, And with her cold frame will erase you, And you’ll start to feed her desire, Yourself dwindling into a slave. Despair is more cunning that hope And wears the face of the wise; But her wisdom is depraved, grasping— She’s cold and calculating. Instead of children, warm and alive, She’ll bear you only phantoms, And imprison time Like a drowsy fly in amber. As hope’s wicked stepmother She’ll mock at her, Rearrange everything—thoughts, things, Like your legally wedded wife, And wiping her tears with her tiny fist, Hope will leave the house like an orphan With a dirty bundle— Leave the house where she is needed no longer. She’ll go out into the wide world, She’ll travel through forests and fields, And late at night you’ll wake up


In your icy lover’s embrace, Transfixed by hope’s childish screams As ruffians ravish her In those blind alleys, where despair Drove her into their clutches. Search for hope, the innocent, Like a drop of heaven in a sieve! Search for her on every station platform, By every precipice and bonfire! Kill despair, the old hag! Rescue hope in the end! For, as Pushkin once said: “Hope is a faithful sister”.


FOR YOUR ATTENTION

I wish to bring to your attention, Passengers on this rattling train of years, That on the map there’s no sign of the destination For which you have reserved your tickets. It has been established with precision in the course of enquiry That there’s no station called Second Youth; I wish to bring to your attention That you dribbled away your first youth in vain, Babies to the last, And, regrettably, in you I recognize myself. I wish to bring to your attention The fact that further on are the stations Old Age and Death, But professing an unconfirmed immortality You do not care to think of this in advance. I wish to bring to your attention The fact that if, gentlemen, your luggage contains Perished goods and only the anecdotes are fresh— Why then, you’ve already arrived at Death station. I wish to bring to your attention The fact that the years, without further ado, will swallow you all— Only those pale little chickens, which you’ve gobbled up, Will flutter like phantoms pursuing the trains…


A FATHERʻS EAR To M. & Yu. Kolokolʻtsov

The foot-cloths already dried over the bonfire And two fishermen were listening to the waters of the

Vilyui1; One was, I imagine, over fifty, While the other was still too young to on a passport. The father brushed the breadcrumbs From his stubble into his palm, Then washed them down with fish soup, thick as honey. A tooth— gold, as it happened— Clapped against the blackened aluminum of the spoon. The father was leaden-faced with fatigue. On his forehead, as if in layers, receded War, work, employment without end And apprehension for his son— the father’s secret cross. Rummaging for a tear in the net, The father said, thrusting his hand towards the sun: “Mishka, just you take a look, the mist Is clearing after all… It’s beautiful!” The son went on eating with a show of scorn. A white-gold forelock hid his eyes With such a haughty overhang of hair As if to say why should I raise mu head for such a trifle. Then he flicked a fish-eye from his sailor’s shirt

1 Siberian


And pulled his fishing boots right on, With their billowing turn-downs, proof of the luxury Of this life where people know their way around. The father stamped out the smoking bonfire And muttered as if completely by the by: “I can hear from your boots, Mishka, You’ve left your foot-cloths off again…” The son responded with a youthful blush Betraying his humiliation. Pulling off his fishing boots, he pushed his feet into foot-cloths, Then angrily rammed them back into his boots. But even he will understand— too late, it’s true, The isolation of our spirit and our flesh When there is nobody on earth who hears The things heard by a father’s ear…


FOR THOSE IN PAIN To Dr. T. P. Skvortsova

The sailor’s toast: “For those at sea;” The geologists’: “For those in the field!” Mine, in a hospital corridor, Is a whispered: “For those in pain…” Wander around in any hospital Invisible, in a magic white coat, Take a look at mankind’s faces And humanity’s photographs. Take a look at the cardiograms: Humanity’s dramas are found there, And take a look at the tests: There are the tangled threads of fate. Be healthy to your heart’s content, But let the hospital remind you of pain And let the result of your blood-test Show that you are not cold-blooded As you enter the screaming white gloom, Don’t let your stomach turn over, Hear the pericardial sacs crackle Like overstrained shopping nets. Ghastlier that the ghastliest prose Are tuberculosis and brucellosis. In men’s and women’s live bodies Damnable pincers are grating. Let us forget battle for ever And freely devote all we’ve got To only one kind of armament— Armament against pain! So as to give Russia a shock, You may request from mankind


Not just a temporary anesthetic But permanent salvation.


MEMORY’S REVENGE

It would appear, then, that it’s impossible For me ever to be reconciled with my memory. It and I have long been at daggers drawn. Having jostled me onto a dark track, Knocking me over, then sticking its knee in my chest, It holds a knife to my throat: “So you loved someone, did you? And what did you do To love, stabbing it like that below my heart?”— “I didn’t mean…” Then, to me, out of the dark: “Accidentally? Ha ha… How very kind! I’ll spare you, you won’t die, But I’ll pierce you, pay you a knife for a knife! As a knife in your body I’ll remain living with you All your life— that’s how our memory takes its revenge!” I’ve no need to remember you— For under my shirt, straining at the nylon As it sticks out of my ribs, a knife-handle breathes Bandage with adhesive tape…


Analysis for “For Your Attention”

The poem “For Your Attention” by Yevengy Yevtushenko, to me, pretty

much tells his readers to live life to the fullest because we don’t get a second life.

Yevtushenko uses the literary device repetition in this poem. He repeats “I wish to

bring your attention” multiple times, which put emphasis for him to let the readers

know what exactly he is train to get at or tell them. I’ve never read a poem that

directly asks the readers for their attention, but in this case the poem was to

inform the readers about how fast one’s life can go by. Yevtushenko also alludes

to death being a train station. He tells the readers that they will know they

“arrived” at the station when their “luggage” is perished goods. The way I see it,

these perished goods are kind of like the saying “your life is flashing before your

eyes” before death takes its toll, that luggage of perished goods, holds all the

memories, laughs, smiles, tears, regrets, and mistakes that people made in the

short life that they had. In the third line of the first stanza he writes, “That on the

map there’s no sign of the destination” (Yevtushenko: 16). The map is referring to

the reader’s life spans and the destination referring to the train station of death.

This line is a metaphor saying that death will and can come unexpected; people

won’t find the exact date, time, and where people will leave for the station. In the

third stanza, the last line “And, regrettably, in you I recognize myself”

(Yevtushenko: 16), I interpreted that Yevtushenko saw himself in the readers that

take life for granted and that those readers remind him of himself, for he too did

take life for granted. This poem is pretty straightforward. Yevtushenko is warning

his readers to not take life for granted because death will come when it pleases at


any time and there is no second life station waiting for people to arrive. There is

only one shot at life, and make it worth the while.


Bestfri[ENDS]

Where has this gone? Nowhere to be found? In the back of our heads, ignoring the urge to speak when we know something is wrong.

The feeling of a friendship fading away in the dusk. Feels like you’ve taken my trust and left it in the dust for it to be swished around. What is that?

How could we let this happen? a question almost always asked. The simple answer is, we’ve never let it out and just pushed it to the back.

Every memory and all those hysterical laughs we’ve been through all seem like nothing, like a crashing wave, saying “hi “and “bye” to the sand that stays. It’s nothing new to me, nor should it be to you.

I feel as if I were to say this to you, I’d end up hurting you. Sounds cheesy but it is what it is. I’ve never really felt this way, especially towards a “best friend.”

I wish there was some way for me to say this to you, but I can’t do it without telling the truth. The truth hurts, we both know, and if it has to, then this friendship has taken its toll.

I don’t want this to end; I just want my old friend. Actually, this began with your new friend.

I know I can’t blame you because this happened because of my head; I just don’t want to be taken advantage of then, tossed in the trash like an old paper cup.

This is all on me. But wait, I’ve told you this before. Maybe its just never ran through your head that you’d lose me over something so small.

Well then I guess you were wrong; no one knows the REAL me, only my sisters and close, close friends. Honestly you were one, then you’ve met “Jen.”

This conflict I put upon myself, talking and “venting” when I should have not. It’s normal for friends to feel like this, and that saying, “A best friend is someone that you can not speak to for weeks, and when you do, it’s like nothing ever changed,” is not true.

You see sooner, or later. That best friend will get another best friend and then the old friendship may be through because of this internal conflict.

Look in my eyes, search my soul, are you satisfied with the words not told? Maybe this is just a dream, waiting for me to awake and everything would be all peachy keen. But sadly no, this is reality that chose the wrong direction to go. An internal conflict that I put on myself, how can I change when this is already drilled deeply into my head, just waiting for that small spark to start it up again. I hide this feeling and ignore you when you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s me, not


you; just hold on. But it seems like I’ve irritated you? Did I do something wrong? Maybe you should tell me because you know all I do is joke around. You call me names and at first it was okay, but recently it hasn’t been all fun and games. You seem so serious like you hate what I’ve become. I’ve never changed; maybe it’s you, maybe you’re the one. Get over the small stuff, get over it all. I’m being a true friend, straight up and blunt.

We both know how you are and it would help if you could just stop—tell me what I’ve done, and maybe I wouldn’t have thought wrong.

I thought I got over, and done, with all this kind of “stuff.”

I guess this is just the cycle of high school friendships running on and on until graduation day. Au revoir.


My original poem “Bestfri[ENDS]” repersents my unspoken feelings

towards one of my friendships I’ve made here at Kamehameha. The day I

made this poem occured when my English class and I where doing a free

write. This was all that was in my head that day and I began to write. It was

pretty much like I was writing in my diary. That’s exactly what it was.

Sometimes as I write I have to make things rhyme. I know poetry doesn’t

necessarily have to rhyme, but as I write, I have this tendency to make the

end words of the sentence rhyme. When my teacher told the class to stop and

start making it a poem, it was too late for me to write about something else; I

had already written almost two pages so there was no going back. The first

time I turned in this poem I scored a good grade, I would have never thought

that a poem, which expressed only my feelings could get a good score. From

then I added more lines and cleaned up my errors.

I think a lot of my peers can relate to this situation that a friendship

goes through. Just as no one is perfect, no friendship is perfect either. In the

poem I refer to this situation being something to do with high school, but

honestly I think this “drama” can come at any point in a friendship. People

are always going to have that one friend who is their best friend and when

they see someone else calling that person their best friend is theirs also, it

hurts. It may not take effect the first time, but in some situations when one’s

best friend starts becoming close with someone else, people will feel hurt. At

this point, one starts to question what went wrong. This is the point where I

am at now with this friendship.


When a person has been there for a friend and never walked out of his

or her life when other people did, and for them to “change” it feels like the

person was just thrown on the side. It’s like being used. That person is the

friend’s “doll” that only gets played with when they have nothing else to play

with, and then gets tossed to the side when the friend doesn’t need it

anymore. In other words one friend gets taken advantage of.

Today I came across a tweet on Twitter that said, “I hate it when your

friends change when they meet new people.” After reading that I

automatically thought of my original poem. I know for a fact that everyone

experiences friendship problems like this and I know that I am not the only

person that thinks of these feelings I talked about. This poem is a confession

that I never told my friend, whom this poem is about. At the moment I don’t

want to actually tell this to that friend because I am only going to waste my

breath. Actions speak louder than words.


My concrete poem is titled “LOL” which is an acronym for either “Laugh

out loud” or “Lots of laughs.” In this case my poem could mean both. It’s a pun.

When I think of “lol” I think of those nights where I text my friend and we would

have numerous messages that where only lol’s and haha’s. This friend is really

special to me and even though we would text “lol” to each other I wouldn’t want

to stop texting that person.

The large LOL then connects to “lōlō,” which in Hawaiian means crazy.

So my poem can means “lots of crazy laughs.” The reason behind this is because

sometimes when people laugh a lot, their laughs get really out of hand and

sometimes can make them seem crazy, thus making me add “lōlō” to the mix.

I know this is way out of the safe zone but another way someone could

interpret this poem is if they know a little information on the drug marijuana.

Growing up in HawaiʻI, people either know someone who smoked this drug or

may have even tried marijuana himself or herself. I know that when people do

smoke this, one of the effects is becoming giggly and laughing at anything, and

usually in movies that’s what the smokers of this drug are usually doing. So if

people really see the kaona behind it, my readers can see that it can refer to people

on this drug. For example “lōlō” is crazy and in Hawaiian marijuana is pakalōlō,

thus referring to the “crazy drug.” Another example is that since people on this

drug are so giggly they begin to have “Lots of laughs,” which refers to LOL.

This idea came to me when I was about to go to sleep. I thought my

previous idea for a concrete poem was not so great and I couldn’t explain what it

meant, then I thought of LOL and then I began to think about what it meant and


how I could think of something personal to me. Finally, I remembered the text

messages and then about the people around me and how some smoke pakalōlō. I

knew that if I choose this idea it would be easy for me to explain. Next, I had to

think of how I was going to draw it out. At first I was going to make “lol” a large

“lol” but then I realized that I don’t know how much space to use. Finally, I

thought of how some authors make the first letter of a word a bigger font than the

rest of the text and then that could start the next line of a sentence. It was a

brilliant idea and it took me less than ten minutes to finish it.

Because “lol” and “lōlō” can have many interpretations, this concrete

poem has no limitations as to what it means. But this is my background on

“LOL,” and I hope my readers will get the feel of what I was trying to have them

interpret.


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From Hawaiʻi And Beyond

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