Chen’s poetry reads like “an elegy that has felt light”*. He turns in place like a dancer,
pivots from grief, racism, homophobia & vulnerability – to joy, whimsical humor & a recurrent
motif: love. His subjects are universal: Familial expectations, self-doubt, judgement; the longing
to be seen, to be at ease & love whomever one loves. I’m moved by Chen’s complete lack of guile,
his utter sincerity. And his word-wizardry.  To be fearless as a mango. A mango. I mean….wow.

Self-Portrait as So Much Potential

Dreaming of one day being as fearless as a mango.

As friendly as a tomato. Merciless to chin & shirtfront.

Realizing I hate the word “sip.”

But that’s all I do.

I drink. So slowly.

& say I’m tasting it. When I’m just bad at taking in liquid.

I’m no mango or tomato. I’m a rusty yawn in a rumored year. I’m an arctic attic.

Come amble & ampersand in the slippery polar clutter.

I am not the heterosexual neat freak my mother raised me to be.

I am a gay sipper, & my mother has placed what’s left of her hope on my brothers.

She wants them to gulp up the world, spit out solid degrees, responsible grandchildren
ready to gobble.

They will be better than mangoes, my brothers.

Though I have trouble imagining what that could be.

Flying mangoes, perhaps. Flying mango-tomato hybrids. Beautiful sons.

By Chen Chen, from When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities.
Copyrighted material; strictly for non-profit & pleasure.

* From Elegy to Be Exhaled at Dusk 

Check out a giant archive of poems here: www.clearlenscoaching.com/poetry-archive/

Image: Mango Hanging, watercolor by Norman Silva

Happy National Poetry Month! Vivat Poesis!
This poem asks a question that transforms a conventional idea, then illuminates a tiny detail,
casting it in a sacred light. We can do this, too. For example, take seize the day. But why seize?
Why not loosen the day? You can create kickass list poems this way! Go on! You can do it.
Avec amour, XO

Imaginary Conversation

You tell me to live each day
as if it were my last. This is in the kitchen
where before coffee I complain
of the day ahead—that obstacle race
of minutes and hours,
grocery stores and doctors.

But why the last? I ask. Why not
live each day as if it were the first—
all raw astonishment, Eve rubbing
her eyes awake that first morning,
the sun coming up
like an ingénue in the east?

You grind the coffee
with the small roar of a mind
trying to clear itself. I set
the table, glance out the window
where dew has baptized every
living surface.

By Linda Pastan from Insomnia
Copyrighted material; strictly for the purpose of upliftment; not for profit.

Image: Uncredited; Found on  Balroop Singh’s website, Emotional Shadows

Check out a giant archive of poems here: www.clearlenscoaching.com/poetry-archive/

A hand reaches out through the cold, a voice warmly asks – are you okay?
Definitely, more of this, please. Now, try this: write your own More Of This, Please poem.
Please, may the ground of our connection be kindness and generosity. Avec amour, Krayna

More Of This, Please
In grad school I had a writing teacher who’d completely cream my essays.
Cross-outs and tracked changes. He took me at my word
when I said I wanted to get better. But when he liked something,
he’d point to what was working: More of this, please.
Did I mention he was British? This is important because lately,
whenever something is really working, I tend to think to myself,
in a British accent: More of this, please. A lunch date turned dinner date
with a dreamboat who is slightly embarrassed his eyes water in cold weather.
Him looking like he’s tearing up at Shake Shack. More of this, please.
A toddler turning to me at the park holding her hair tie, asking me
to fix her ponytail. Her grandmother nodding to go right ahead, my hands
collecting wisps of yellow. More of this, please.
Cough-drop wrappers that say, Bet on Yourself. Pop-up concerts in the city.
Stevie Wonder playing Songs in the Key of Life at 10 AM on a Monday,
hundreds of people stopping mid-commute in button-ups and blazers
belting out every word to “Sir Duke” and “Isn’t She Lovely,” saying, “My boss
is just going to have to understand!” …..
An editor saying, “I’ll pass this on,” instead of, “I’ll pass on this.”
A stranger falling asleep on my shoulder for several stops. Staring at dates
in authors’ bios: Ruth Stone, 1915–2011. Larry Levis, 1946–1996.
Recommitting to living as much as I can. Realizing the dash between the year
you’re born and the year you die is smaller than your smallest fingernail.
It’s smaller than a strand of saffron in a bottle the size of a thimble
in the spice shop across the street. 

By Emily Sernaker, excerpt; found in The Sun magazine, April 2022.
Copyrighted material; for non-profit purposes only. 

Image: From the cover of Amy Poehler’s book, 7 Life Lessons from Amy Poehler.