Halloween Open Mic & Literary Party was hosted by Professor Lonsinger at Hoffman House November 1st. The event was to celebrate writing by reading it out loud. The readings ranged from popular prose such as an excerpt of Frankenstein to original poetry such as my very own reading of my poem Self Portrait as Language.
Although my only motive was to get extra credit for my Introduction to Poetry class, I ended up thoroughly enjoying the event. A few people were dressed in costumes to add to the halloween atmosphere and to participate in the costume competition. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do the same but I was thrilled to see others dressed up. The winner, if anyone was curious, was a guy dressed as the Ghost of Christmas Past.
I also ended up winning a mug as a prize for Most Dynamic Reading. The poem I read out is written below. Overall, I had a lot of fun at the Halloween Literary Night and would love to attend more!
Self Portrait as Language I eat cereal with warm milk. I drink haldi milk when I'm sick and flinch when someone says ‘golden latte’. I am a student and a person, and forever curious what made me so I say student first and person after. The first word that comes to my mind when someone says “describe yourself” is ‘bulbous nose’. I am a child on a playground, hit in the face with a metal swing, destined to be asked about my scar. I am a wailing child carried back home and given haldi milk as medicine because we’re Indian and “your mausi is a doctor and she said it's okay.” I am a defeated poet in a constant war- to not italicize language I know for people who don’t, A non-resident alien with no permanent address. A temporary citizen trying to make my home appetizing to a foreign tongue. I am a captured poet in a constant war- Bound by garbled syllables of a foreign tongue. Tortured fast speaker sounding out my every word so I don’t sound too native to any land. Everyone I know tells me I have an accent now. I bask in the shelter of distance from family while I long for their embrace. I cry when I’m with them and I cry when I’m without I don’t know who I am without. I broke my arm when I was one and a half, jumping off the exciting side of a slide and papa carried me to the doctor. I still talk about how papa tried to drown me when I was one but he still doesn't find it funny. Time heals all wounds but my thigh still hurts when I strain it- I told you, dad, I needed that surgery. I am a crocodile- my tears spell “wolf”. My wounds will heal but my scars stay. When I see an old picture I look at my left wrist, and swings make me reach up for my forehead. My thighs will always remain uneven no matter how much I try and I will always cry “wolf”.
