fishsona

[fishsona]

Soft lips that fade into the glowing warmth of your flesh have done more than deliver temptation into those flooded chambers of my chest; utterances expelled have fallen short and where they meander overwhelming happiness is sown and harvested.

That beauty held about you and that of which you exude is unparalleled in all of creation thus and so on; all which you are is an ever-flowing, boundless, sacred gift.

24.02.18

[fishsona]

Lychee

Fingers raw.

Tender skin,

Repeatedly rubbed

Against

Rough shells.

The sweet juice

Stings,

The flesh bitter,

Horrid seeds.

Mother enjoys this

Strange suffering.

And hopes

That you do, too.

Written in the Summer of 2016

[fishsona]

He bares his torso,

Soft like the memories of childhood.

In one hand he holds the disc, the other the

heart- tender as the last.

Sauntering into the cage, he captivates;

The energy

Of the universe, his ancestors

Focused into a single being.

A single moment.

One,

Two,

Three turns.

Our anticipation builds.

A final swing releases him

To the farthest reaches

Of the meadow.

The rich soil splashes

Upon my unholy veil.

Written in Early 2017

[fishsona]

I caught the old yearning, burning.

If I have an unknowable hunger for you

I will starve it, starve it, starve it.

[fishsona]

Feet red from

The soil of my home

And burning on

The asphalt.

Ladybugs crawl from

The blisters of my feet;

Flowers blossom following

Drops of blood,

As I begin to feel

Again.

- - -

Summer is here.

I am a child

Once more,

But much pain has

Been endured

Since then.

Written in the Summer of 2016

[fishsona]

“Never again, will I be a woman’s woman. For I no longer am, at all.”

     On an overcast morning, I looked out of my window over the garden. There’s a bus stop at the edge of the wall there. I’ve lived in this house all my life, slept in this room, gazed out this window. But that morning, I saw a woman… New, never having seen her before. She wasn’t all that eye-catching, with a short bob of oak brown… of average height… merely unremarkable. However, she was garbed in a lovely pink coat; a fabric so pleasing to the eye, filling me with such contentment. The foundation of love of a sort.

     I watched this woman. I do so little these days, and the ability to observe someone new was akin to a gift. She sat there, in the chill, waiting for her bus. The 14, as I later saw. But as I watched her, I took note of her mannerisms. She was quite jittery, seemingly beyond the effects of the cold. Her hands knew no home. Hair, face, neck, side pocket, beneath her seat… But these rotations, unnoticeable to all but a loyal and intent observer, grew more complex in certain conditions. The presence of women, particularly. She would quicken her pace as they came closer, stiffening as they passed- I saw her smile honestly to each of them- with her hands resuming their schedule as the women walked on. She stared at their backs as they journeyed beyond her, in what imagine was an affectionate longing. I recognized her immediately, and she was to be mine.

     The week afterwards, I had been planning how to approach her in the right manner such as to make a good impression and quickly get closer to her. She sat at the stop each day, and each day I watched her with a heart full. She did very little besides look at the women and fidget. On a few occasions, she took notice of my garden, leaning her nose into the petals of blossoms growing along the fence: an English assortment. It was the lavender she seemed to be particularly fond of. 

     Catching her presence in the mornings fed my exponentially growing fascination with her, and my daily thoughts magnified her into my sole obsession and reason for living. Life had grown so cumbersome and worthless, so dreadfully lonely I was. But her… I could roll her about in my mind all day: how her hair must feel through my fingers, the ways in which our hands would fit together, how beautiful she would look as the first sight in morning’s light… Oh, how I toiled at what my first words to her should have been. I am a fool for words.

     Then, the anxiety she gave me grew far too much to bear. I began losing sleep, and hours of wakefulness to fancies of her. All I could think of was her and when my chance would be to know her. I yearned. I yearned.

     As it would be, I spent the night hours at the window. I would see myself on the bus stop’s bench, next to her; laughing, close, warm, happy… myself. I did not want to hide within this house any longer, I wanted not to hide my heart in the walls, I did not wish to starve my desire out of my soul. She is what I need, so I told myself. How selfish of me. Better for her that I would have starved myself.

---

     I rose early one morning, if one could even call it morning. It was not by my own will that I awoke, perhaps some greater being planned this day for my blessing. The sun had not yet arrived, so I went out to the garden in search of peace of mind. The vegetables had all began to bolt, what with me confined to the innards of the house. The flowers were all doing well, withstanding the harsh night chills. My hardy girls. I sat on the wall, at the very edge of the flower bed. There was a moment that I cannot recall, as it sometimes happens that my memory misplaces slivers of events. I cannot guess what I had been thinking of before I was interrupted. She startled me. But, it was nothing compared to the stab of emotion I forced my heart to endure. Her eyes were on me, taking in however it was I looked. I forgot myself as I took in her face: those full brown eyes, their upturned almond shape, the soft pink of her lips, the way her face crinkled… in that smile! Right in front of me! That same smile those women were given? “Am I a woman to her?”, I thought.

     I will not walk myself through the exchanges we shared. I obsessed over them while I had her and long after she left. But, I did have her; and she had me. In every way she had me. I was hers; and it was me, alive and living. There was no longer a need to rush to the windowsill first thing in the morning. With her beside me, I fell into the bliss of sleep and lay with her in that state ‘til late in the afternoon. I will never forget the countless joys she gave me. My woman: to harvest flowers for, to hold tight and warm, to feed meals of love, to caress to sleep, and to touch. I touched her. I touched her hair, face, neck, side, legs. And she touched me in return. Our touch was sacrament. Her fingertips blessed me where I always thought I was defiled. Her hands found their home in mine.

     My euphoria should have been endless! But my existence forever begs misfortune. And as it would be, I fell apart. Onto my knees. I prayed, for the visions that came at night to leave me be: glimpses of the gleam of a sharp knife; her breasts, soiled by my weapon; wounds twisted by my hands, (over and over again). And her blood; staining me, running into our sheets, our bed, our room, our home. I feared sleep; these terrors came nightly. 

     Like that first day with her, I awoke in the would-be mornings. Our sheets wet, but with my sweat and tears. I tried not to disturb her with my perturbations, but she knew. She would come close, each night, and hold me dear. I knew I loved her, and she loved me. So she said it was, and so it was; “I love you, come back to bed, it will all be okay.” I loved her… I loved her.

     The nightmares plagued me for months. She was helpless to help me. I could never have told her what they were. She loved me, so she did not press. How did I ever deserve an angel such as she? But I loved her also, and I knew I was hurting her. I hurt her. I’m sorry. I love her. I hurt her. The monster of myself maimed my guardian angel.

---

     I made myself disappear; for her. Gone from life, into spirithood. She was what I needed, even if without me; I required that her existence carry on. I cannot know the pain she felt afterwards. I did not wish to haunt her with a ghostly remembrance of the love she found in me. I hope I did not pain her more than the knife would have, no more than death would have brought. But I know it is a foolish thought. I love her. I hurt her. I will never dare to be near to her again. To her heart or her flesh.

     Never again, will I be a woman’s woman. For I no longer am, at all.

Original draft: 09.02.19; Revised: 29.11.19

[fishsona]

too often does one make himself

the metaphor of an angry husk:

a shell that hates all,

that wishes for his own 

death and the deaths 

of all he knows.

one must become a full basket,

overflowing with the bounty

of a harvest of his short lifetime.

he must find the sun,

and warm his insides, and

coerce eternal smiles upon his face.

find the boy 

whose words are soft

and whose hands 

tenderly grasp    you.

find him, and drink him in;

he is always overflowing.

drink him and return your

newfound strength to him. take him 

and cherish           him forever;

love him as he would you.

do not empty yourself,

and do not pray for death.

pray for a life 

(to love your boy).

he is 

(part of) 

what will save you.

and he is what you may (will) come to 

no longer need.

but, always remember.

(you won’t be able to forget.)

21.01.18

[fishsona]

And my Father walked above me,

and i saw that He was holy.

And He laid His strong hands upon me;

giving gifts in His grip.

And He said that i was special-

that i was His chosen child...

But then He went away from me

and my mother watched me grow wild.

And those pale blue eyes, they’re daggers!

Like the one my mother knew.

Blades i’ll never speak to,

blades never speaking to me.

my Father made another...

and i saw He was not holy.

How flippant could such creation be?

Why ever trust His blue eyes?

Why ever believe lips,

that with each movement,

speak lies?

09.03.19

[fishsona]

There is no way to write out

the beautiful cuts of misuse.

The suffering I had tried to ride out

left an everlasting gash.

From the early morning’s rise

to these anxiously driven hours,

I have only lost.

What scruples I held next to you

seek their endless descent into decay.

Each moment of failure and second of obsession

lends its desire to death.

She, who I once escaped with you, is all that remains.

07.03.19

[fishsona]

Death is not my friend- ‘tis you who are!

But if you would make your side with death,

Then my enemy you shall become... dearest love.

08.05.18

[fishsona]

in the dark,

waters flow

in contempt

of golden light.

in the light,

pink gleams

and yet wishes

for velvet night.

21.04.18

[fishsona]

Kalo for a Heart Transplant (or: Opihi Wahine)

I fall into sleep off the edge of exhaustion. Drowning in the blackness, with a dizziness in my limbs.

My mind opens to eyes restless in a blaring red light. 

Then, my eyes really open to the brightest star of them all. Spearing his rays straight through my pupils. The afternoon sun has impatiently waited for my arrival.

There is my mother. Across the canoe. Spotted hands twirling above a row of lines. Hair as black and thick as she has always yearned for, gliding and flowing across her body to make her seem an age I’ve long forgotten. Topless, I can see her breasts have not been ruined by the lying man of medicine. Her face and body are full of an unfamiliar plumpness, but it fills me with a great wash of joy. She’s beautiful. She finally sees that I am here.

“Aloha awakea, ku’uipo.” 

This feels like the first thing she has ever said to me; her voice is not the voice I have heard for 18 years. There is something new in this greeting…

“Are you going to help me? Or just sit there for the next half of the day, Hana’ia?”

The words come out in her strange voice. There’s nothing atypical in her phrasing but something feels out of place. Of course, I’m never ku’uipo. I’m Smoochie…

Just as soon as the wave pours over me, I realize that my mother hasn’t said a word of English! How did I understand her displeased rhetoric? How have we both learned ‘Ōlelo Hawai’i overnight?

“Momma, where are we...?”

“Fishing.”

“But where?”

“Here.”

She was turned away from me to examine her lines. So many… When did she braid these? And carve the hooks? Or the weights?

Well, she seems pleased, I thought. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her so upbeat. Such a long, long while. 

Ready to contribute to my mother’s precious happiness, I put aside my confusion to see if there’s room for me to help. 

Once I roll up and start to move towards her, I feel something brush all around me. Startled, I let out an unorchestrated sound of surprise.

Unwavered from her task, my mother simply asks, “What’s wrong?”

“My hair!”

“And?”

“It’s long!”

“So, it is. 

“You are so silly, my opihi…”

She turns to me and presses her forehead against mine. Nose against nose. We breathe in together. Oh, how I can love my mother.

We part and I see her nose is broader than I remember. But, remember from where? Where else have I had a mother?

I sit back and examine my hands for a moment; thinking of all the times I have touched her. I remember a time of repulsion. But when? And… these hands don’t look right for some reason. I look at my mother’s- I see the white splotches always across her fingers. Quick, I see her feet are the same as they were, too. The same? I sense a wrongness… that maybe my hands are the ones to be pale. This knowledge must mean something. We can think about it later. Now-

“Do you need anything, momma?”

“A’ole, opihi.”

“Are you sure, momma..?”

“You could get ready to take the fish. Remember to thank the ocean.”

“‘Ae.”

I sat in the middle of her canoe and asked the ocean permission to take from her the fish we were after and offered her plentiful thanks for allowing us to catch them and eat the flesh from their bones. I expressed my love within our connection and my promise that we would return life to moana where she has given us life in sustenance.

Time passes and the sun makes his way closer to rest.

- - -

We have just as much fish as we need. Nothing more should be taken and what we have been given is our blessing.

I can’t recall the names of these fish- I guess I should know them- but it’s no worry. My mother lovingly handles them. I watch her hands lovingly caress each one’s scales as she rinses them and repeats her prayers over their bodies.

Suddenly, I notice her chanting has come to an abrupt end.

I look up to her face to see it has taken on a scowl. One that gets worse by the second. 

Her eyes bear directly into mine- her stare the sister of the sun’s shine.

“Momma? What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer me. I look back to her hands- never being good at handling eye contact.

A minute of silence goes by. I have since closed my eyes. These moments always instill fear within me. What will she do to me? 

I open up to the world to see a woman.

This woman is not my mother. Or how is she here? Is she my mother? 

But, my mother does not have skin the color of sand. Nor are her eyes blue like the sky. And never would she desecrate her hair to have it so pale as kapa.

“Momma?”

My not-mother returns to her stabbing gaze.

Her mouth leads headstrong into its assault.

“I’m disappointed in you, Hana.”

I say nothing. The lump in my throat is here to kill me. My tears are ready to fill my lungs. They fill my eyes even as I hold them shut.

“You’re not good enough. You’re not fast enough. You’re not obedient, or pretty, or likable. You’re so lazy and useless, I don’t know why you’re here!”

The words from my not-mother’s thin lips slice through me like razors.

A lifetime of pain returns to me. The razors come back. The memories come back, flooding me with anguish. The undeserving killers... I’m half-dead, already. All I need is to stop living.

“I won’t help you anymore. I don’t want you. I never wanted you.”

She takes no pauses, but in silence my heart burns for one.

“I wish you died when you should have. You’re not even good enough to do that.

“I hate you. And you’re worthless.”

Pain sears through my limbs. I remember the cuts all over.

I fall into not-sleep in exhaustion. Blackness drowns me. Suffocates me. My mother’s hair steals my breath. 

My mother steals the breath we shared.

- - -

I open up to water. My sun across the Earth. I’m sticky wet beneath my blue blanket. 

The softness was supposed to keep the nightmares away… Or something.

Keep my heart soft.

My small little fan is doing its best to keep me cool. It can’t compete with how hot it is in the room, though. Or the weather downtown, in any case.

And the terror that fills me at night has no match here.

My roommate lies across from me. Still sound asleep. Hopefully I didn’t say anything aloud, tonight…

I nestle myself back into bed, limbs wrapped around the blanket now to comfort my troubles. To release my heat, to release my heart.

I know I said I was tired of Jacob dreams, but this is not what I meant.

29.08.18

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I wrote this last year as a warm-up paper for my Composition I course. It’s meant to deal with the aspects of my trauma I was facing at the time. But, it is still stunningly relevant, up to just this morning. It is also a first attempt for me to breach the exterior membrane of cultural reconnection; the use of language in this piece very clearly lacks proper nuance of a supposedly ““real”” Hawaiian. My familiarity has since slightly improved, but I have elected to leave all of my errors and idiosyncrasies of last year in. All in all, it’s not a very remarkable piece but it is one of my very first tries at writing something that isn’t a “poem”.

[fishsona]

spiteful recovery

i don’t feel

              enough

but i must

apologize for my           inadequacy

(a lie)

spit defiles

   his face so beautiful

losing sanctity

                upon its return to clay

i feel too

much    of enough

forcedshovedcoerced into ME

i am not him

i am not (less than) Him

25.04.19

[fishsona]

By the gods he will be made,

a friend to be mine:

to match my heart,

to have and hold tenderly,

and to be had and held lovingly by...

Strong will he be,

warm in body, mind, and spirit;

I shall love him like a wife.

From earthen clay will he spring,

and to it I shall see him go...

From that day onward,

to death,

I will mourn him like a wife.

15.03.19

[fishsona]

Untitled

I’m not a professional writer so I don’t have to wait for pieces to be finished before I “publish” them. It might be a good idea to, but I think it might be good to just share whatever this is and see if I should take it anywhere else. I wrote it on a night I was having a difficult time coping, can’t remember which night or else I would put a date on this post. Alas. I was thinking I might make this out to be a short story, but for now it’s a segment of fluff.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

     It is damn near agonizing to fidget up in the bleachers, counting down the minutes like departing relatives at the end of a long wedding. Even the beauty of his physique and his form as he runs fails to relieve me of anticipation’s pressure. I finish my homework early on Friday afternoons so that I never miss his games. And so I can spend more time with him over the weekend, usually helping him with his own assignments. But, before we get to the fun I must sit through the hours of incomprehensible pigskin banter. What I can understand is this: he looks so gorgeous on the field, in his uniform. I’m not sure of any aspect of the math that goes into the points on the scoreboard, but I do know that once they cease to rise... euphoria is well on her way.

     Tonight’s game stops at 63. It’s nearly midnight, so he and I won’t be able to go out for cherry sodas this time. Sometimes we do, whenever the game ends early. The diner down the road often saves a booth for us in expectation; the owner’s a good friend of my dad. I think a slumber party is on tonight’s agenda.

     Heading down to the locker rooms is always quite a treat for me. All the boys know Daniel and I have been going steady for sometime. Lots of them are casual friends and acquaintances of mine, always cracking jokes after the game or asking me about homework before they hit the showers and hustle off to home and bed. It goes without saying that the best part of this jock cocktail party is when he emerges from the bustle. Always still in that sweaty uniform, hair tousled in wet curls, bag over his shoulder, that upturned grin on his face. Suddenly, the discomfort of sitting atop my concrete dais for four hours leaves my muscles, I don’t know how he does it, but he always manages to perfectly catch me as I pounce onto him; his strength acts like it’s ever-lasting.

     Now, I’m also grinning. The big smile I wear whenever I’m with him. My forehead against his as we share our first breath of the day. In his arms I am safe, immersed in his familiar scent and warmth. He runs his long fingers through my hair- I’ve been trying to grow it out again. He takes my chin and gently tilts my face to see into his beautiful, full brown eyes.

     “There’s my boy”, he says. “I missed you.” And he gives me the first kiss of our many weekend kisses.

- - - 

     “So, I was thinking that we could do these face masks and maybe watch some of Dune tonight? I know it’s kind of late already, so maybe we’ll only get to do the masks after we shower.”

     “Well, how about this? We shower, do our face masks, then we can get into bed and tell each other stories. I want to hear all about what you’ve been up to, yeah?”, he says locking eyes with me. “I’ve missed you, Kamu.”

     The moon rests upon his cheek as we walk back to his house. I start talking to our hands; it’s difficult to look straight at him when he looks so ethereal and says the sweetest things. I tell our hands that I missed them, too. And he graces my temple with a light kiss.

     It usually takes us about twenty minutes to walk home. His parents don’t mind him being out late as long as he’s with me, and all my dad asks for are check-in texts when we leave the school and arrive at Daniel’s house. Simply for his peace of mind, else he stays up half the night worried.

     When we get home, Daniel quietly opens the door so everyone else continue enjoying their sleep. We tiptoe our way across the living room’s hardwood floors into the kitchen where our reserved dinner plates await us. His dad’s saved us plenty of kebabs and a generous half-pan of his famous macaroni and cheese. Like kings would we dine!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That’s all I have, so far. Thank you for reading, if you do. Let me know how the writing itself is and if you’d like more of this story, perhaps. I don’t know where I would take it as it is right now, but if anyone was interested I might be able to conjure up some ideas.

[fishsona]

The Holy Grail

The Holy Grail

Is quite obviously golden;

Gilt with the finest flecks,

Purely a substance of the Sun.

He lies among many others...

Others who seem to be of the same value-

Often even more...

You drink from every chalice

And you grow sick.

The pain worsens at every sip...

But, you soon come across him:

He who is filled to the brim

With the Elixir of Life.

He is humbly formed,

He does not believe in his holiness,

Only that he has been blessed.

But, it is his liquor that revives your corpse

Of years of persistent rot.

He is that which he is called;

He is rightly named:

The Holy Grail.

I had not intended to start off this blog with a writing piece like this one, but this short sort-of poem turns out to be a semi-adequate introduction. It glosses over my experiences with mental illness/trauma and is also something of a representation of my relationship with my then-best-friend. I also used this poem as my first post on my writing Instagram which is under the same handle as this blog (fishsona). However, if you do check it out you will notice that the version of there uses she/her pronouns. I will broach this subject here: I shared this poem a week after I had left my friend because of personal reasons, and changing the pronouns was a weak attempt for me to separate this poem (my favorite at the time) from him. And it was also a subtle attempt to rebuke him, by changing this poem about him to one about a woman.

[fishsona]

enter: catfish

hello, i am harley hana and this is going to be a writing blog of sorts. i’ve been antsy for days to get this thing started but i’m too much of a perfectionist to post my first writing because i don’t have time to look over it and edit it. so, i will settle for an introductory post to an audience i don’t quite have yet.

i’m harley, 19 years of age. i am currently in my second year of undergrad schooling at the university of hawaiʻi at manoa where i am a psychology major. i am from the island of oʻahu, born into my family from wahiawa. ethnically, i identify with my mother’s filipino and hawaiian heritage; my father is white but his cultural contributions are negligible. 

(by no means am i even an expert on my own culture, i have had to learn the bulk of my knowledge from sources outside my family. that being said, my heritage is important to me and i do try to incorporate it into my art when i feel it is a part of the piece. if i am ever found to make errors of ignorance, i encourage others to let me know so that i can learn from experience and avoid future mistakes. this policy also applies to any other time in which a reader may feel i have said something out of place. please, let me know. i highly value being a respectful and pleasant companion.)

i’m sure i will think of more things to add to this introduction. this definitely is not a concrete or comprehensive opening, just what i can summon up on this school night and deem appropriate for strangers to know.

good night.