healthy/unhealthy

un un un un healthy/unhealthy

julian parikh

healthy/unhealthy Julian Parikh 2015, 2019

Young.........................two Family Trip God’s Messenger On Waking

three four six

Fall.............................twelve Tesselations Waiting Room The Complete Guide to: Overcoming

fourteen fifteen sixteen

Travel.........................twenty Snowed In Father/Daughter Dream Vacation Time, Place Face Healthy/Unhealthy Impending Travels So Much Has Changed Do You Place Significance in Symbolic Objects?

People of the Island

twenty-one twenty-two twenty-four twenty-six twenty-eight twenty-nine thirty thirty-two thirty-four

Summer (America)....thirty-six Stairs Are Deathtraps Bad Habit Summer in America

thirty-eight forty forty-two

New...........................forty-four Seasonal Depression European Sport Sleep Deprivation

forty-six forty-eight fifty

Young

This section of poetry contains poems written before I began writing regularly. I was first discovering how to put together random experiences and thoughts. I experimented most in this phase with writing non narrative poems and adopting fictional perspectives. I tried to mirror some of my favorite lyricists like Laura Marling. I studied her style and tried to incorporate elements into my own poetry in the hopes of discovering my own voice. The section ends with my first narrative poem. It represents my first steps towards finding a voice in my poetry.

The narrative at this point is very vulnerable and exposed. Because of this, at times it feels uncomfortable, but it is a bold first step in sharing my thoughts and experiences.

FAMILY TRIP Penetration Deep into My own eyes Just left the snail On the white plastic chair.

I wonder where it has gone off.

Glossy smiles crowd the room And make it a bit less cozy But the pale faces Are so identically delighted— I think it’s the tomatoes From the Matriarch.

They’re a gift—no, a fruit.

My mother usually knows what to do with them.

I take one last look at the vacant cement lot Until my sister closes the curtains A fade to dull pink.

Repetitious knock of metal on wood.

They’re ready, in thick slices, Little grains of salt make them sparkle.

I taste the sweetness wondering how it will last.

GOD’S MESSENGER Perhaps this is where it started, right on her waist, where she tied the double bow, so the white dress would cling more tightly to her body. Was it possible, all the way back then?

She would stare at the angels With their rosy cheeks A scowl on her own face, “They look like girls.”

There was a simultaneous delight.

The same time she dabbed blush On her brother’s cheeks and took a razor To her brown curls, she removed all their clothes, Saving a white shawl for each of them, “We’re gonna be angels, baby.”

She dreamed of marrying a sailor But now she’s the carpenter’s girl.

He still built her a widow’s walk.

She does not wait, instead she watches, Elevating her perspective on the daily routine.

In the early morning, when the children are asleep, And her husband roams the fields Pretending he’s not welcome in their bed, She retreats to the closet behind the bedroom And finds the still starched fabric Reserved for formal occasions.

Her delicate fingers slide along the silken track Until it fully embraces her neck.

I am, I am. And she follows the sailors One by one, into the sea.

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ON WAKING 1. Jet-Lagged Puke The deep rumbling in my stomach wakes me up.

I grip the edge of the mattress with both hands And let my head fall over the side.

It was the third time that day.

“Now what?”

The maid comes in to wipe up the mes And mum hands me a bucket.

It was either the bed or the floor, I was being considerate.

I awake later, finally hungry And walk through the dark house Out into the sunny caged room My “Good morning” was met with four cheery “Good afternoon’s.”

2. Morning Routine Walk The squeak of my bare feet against the plastic alerts me, So I vigorously soap my body, Intermittent fades to black Mixed with bursts of rainbow color I am wet, warm, comfortable Just now noticing the wet hair that sticks to my back.

I stumble back to my bed, not remembering ever having left it The bright red blur of 4am.

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3. Watch I like to wear watches to sleep.

Waking up is the most confusing state, It helps to have something solid and shiny to stare at for a bit Until the little hands come into focus.

4. Ba There is soft crying and confusion next to me.

The dreamy state does not matter, I am prepared for this.

So I let the consciousness slip into me Until the words jerk out harshly, like a reflex: What’s going on? ‌ She died this morning Go to her bed.

5. The Greatest Time of Your Life The stream across my cheek was weak Until the ding of the phone And the message received started it Short uncontrollable sobs, that did not stop Until she awoke from across the room.

I could only think about How truly pathetic I was, so lonely.

Even if she felt bad for me I made her do it And I ruined something that was good— But no, I find out later, Not even that important 6. Destroyed Restoration I know things have taken a turn for the worse When I wake up and see that bird Still perched, on my windowsill It’s the start of a new day And it hasn’t carried away That crusty worm that it has been scraping at So, it lingers.

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7. Shakespeare in the Park The futon is wide and comfy I can stretch and not reach either end I glance at the clock: 4pm I check every timepiece in the room, Yank open the shades— If there is still time It doesn’t matter, All I can do Is go back to bed.

I dismiss you: Not feeling well I lay there tearless, wide awake Staring at my newly blank wall One by one you appeal to me to get up Not understanding the sadness Of what has been lost.

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Fall

The fall of 2013 is the first time in my life that I began to write poetry consistently. These poems represent moving away from familiar subject matter and broaching topics that I had never written about before. Instead of writing about the sources of my feelings of pain or longing, I began to write about the ways in which I perceived everyday occurrences. For the first time, I worked on refining my craft, from punctuation, to enjambment, to form. These are also the first poems that I shared with anyone, so they have benefited from critiques and revisions. Towards the end of this season of routine writing, I began to incorporate humor into my poems. I realized that it fits best in my poems in a sarcastic manner. Developing this voice was crucial, as humor would show up in some future poems.

TESSELLATIONS

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I accepted the invitation to your gallery.

Artists viewing artists.

How much sin can you fit, On a four by four canvas?

You ask me, what if Jesus was bound only by his hands Still hanging from that cross But just doing chin-ups?

What if our bodies were poorly constructed?

Our legs’ widest point at our feet Getting skinnier and skinnier, Until they connected to our torsos.

A simple design flaw, common Dismemberment.

Yet you were the one who was concerned When viewing my work a month ago, Looking for some kind of explanation: Behind the cover of my lids The quiet blankness Faces an invasion Of shapes, interconnected, moving fast And steadily, northeast.

Why should we, I mean I, Deviate from this Method that creates images pleasing enough To grace the back of a postcard?

Touching the tip of my thumb to each nail I laugh softly with you at this mistake.

WAITING ROOM All I have to occupy my hands Are the two stickers that they’ve given me.

The box-like letters display All of my information And claim 20 years, two times Long past the age to be there on my own.

I tugged at the excess paper Abiding by the perforations.

On the way to battle I Turned the corner, almost too soon, Made a car skid in the rain, And walked by that merry-go-round parking garage.

Wars are always met with cries of No, no, no just like The no, no, no of the mother In soft coos to her mischievous infant.

My obedience was whole When I bit off the cartridge The greasy lard betrayal Disarmed me.

I knew I’d get into trouble For not consulting you in Mexico.

Instead, stained red I am entrenched in the threads Of my distinguished ribbon.

THE COMPLETE GUIDE TO: OVERCOMING Take the time to pamper yourself, Said the self-help book.

It didn’t mention the danger Of simultaneous indulgence.

That succulent sugar Stays on my lips, Or is it the sweet sweat of you As I imagine you are?

And I can remember reveling in it, Scratching at sadness with a safety pin Setting off along the running stream That I would faithfully follow.

Like old friends, we met again.

Anything would have been better Than starting a new year with new outings, Swallowing the dessert that you purchased me, Confronting those lying eyes— Small slivers of an illusion.

Begin with a blank slate, Said the self-help book.

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FULL TIME IN FAST FOOD AND GETTING TATTOOED The stream of fire flies out of the dragon’s mouth And wraps around your arm All colored in blues, yellows, and reds, Like you only had three primary colors In your 10 cent crayon box.

I want you to flex your bicep To see if its wings will Flutter.

It’s from that beloved childhood story But not a main character— You paid attention To the smaller details.

Next up is the Pin Up Girl.

You said you appreciate The curves of a woman’s body, Like mine.

A woman’s body, with all its curves My body is a woman’s body, with all those curves My body is a body with those lumps and bumps That I’d rather not have there but you Appreciate them.

But your compliments, I’ll show you, they’re “A product of a warped society”

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The proof is in all those articles I sent to you.

They’re scholarly and should be Convincing enough.

But I know what made you decide To get Tom and Jerry instead Was seeing me upset.

That, or My sudden delight to point out That a sexy woman on the back of your calf Would be perpetually hairy— A great fucking with gender norms In shaving, or not shaving your leg.

So you decide that a fuzzy little mouse Would be more appropriate.

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Travel

This section of poetry was written while I was studying abroad in London during a semester of University. I’ve always wanted a chance to live in London, but the trip could not have come at a worse time in my life. As a result, these poems are all about coping. I was still writing quite frequently but impulsively and not on a routine basis. Therefore, they focus much less on crafts and serve more as an interpretation of human emotions. The poems push the limits of my subject matter and explore uncomfortable places, representing my physical displacement. The poems towards the end of the section, however, take advantage of the different imagery I was exposed to through traveling throughout Europe.

This new scenery gives an openness to the final poems of this section in contrast to the theme of constriction that is present in the poems that begin the section.

SNOWED IN Italian Espresso Pretzel Crunchy Carrot #2 Organic Soup Lentil x2 Olive Hummus Butter Hot Cocoa Mix Milk Mix Cookie Chochip Banana .38 LB Apple Cin Pita Total $29.51 Employee Discount (20%) Balance $23.61 Debit Change .00 Total Number of Items Sold= 11 Your Cashier Today is: DARLA Open 8AM-10PM Seven Days a Week!

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FATHER/DAUGHTER Before I left my city Under the cover of night A cleverly deceived, Hidden betrayal.

In the hectic mess of packing up Our lives, surprised I find you Sitting, crossLegged on the floor, Suddenly at peace In your concentration.

Retrieved from the back of your closet Sits the polishing kit You gave me once, for Christmas.

Your little shoe shining boy, Lining up the pairs Symmetrically On the welcome mat.

Be careful, you’ll slip On the wet tile and Crack your head On porcelain.

Careful, you’ll take a sledgehammer To the bathroom sink, A crash, a shower Of porcelain.

Even with the time between us We still understand The importance of a pair Of well shined shoes.

DREAM VACATION Imagine me In four months Crying bloody tears.

This is too weary.

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TIME, PLACE, FACE Pictures of you Pixels of your skin.

Changing color, Reacting to movement– Sliding scale.

Yet I still want a photograph.

One where I can let the edges Leave indentations along my fingers.

Although standing still, you are not quite clear but In a different way from a webcam stream.

The blur is the unfocused background Fading into the edges of your body.

A clear face, Depth of field.

I wonder if a Cosmic Symbol Could capture the screen.

After long hours of Challenging the brightness, My eyes feel strained and dry But when you appear there They become engaged with a new lens, Trying to make contact With something as real.

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HEALTHY/UNHEALTHY The clippings of hair didn’t mix Quite as well as I would have hoped.

They seemed so delicate, Falling onto each other in little square tufts.

I didn’t realize my hair was so dark.

I wondered if it looked like that because It was separated from my scalp, Or because of the blondness Of your hair falling next to it.

My allergies imitate your cold, In sympathy.

If you wake up with a sore throat So will I. Each morning a different symptom For the both of us.

I keep expecting to be sick, but After a careful assessment of my snot Seeping through our last tissue, It is completely colorless, While your Kleenex, stained green Flood the waste bin.

And now, I remember. I had just wanted the chance To tell you that scars on your skin get kind of shiny, After a certain amount of time.

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IMPENDING TRAVELS How many more times Can I rub my eye Until my cornea Becomes too thin?

How has it been holding out for this long?

These past two nights My blanket has grown in size.

The bed is trying to swallow me.

Surrounded by towers of paper, Foreign stamps, And unsent postcards.

I composed a grocery list, Excited at its diversity Beyond tomatoes and grains.

You remind me we’ll be gone by Friday.

Blindness: Associated with eye-rubbing.

“SO MUCH HAS CHANGED” I can sleep now, even in the light, No longer in need of darkness.

Not like when The sun shone through your window Intermittently Between snowflakes, bare skin, Exposed to a white bright world Intermingling With sheets, quite rapidly, Because I could not rest. …

Now, I can only brave the window With my body wrapped in a blanket But, at the very least, I’m able to sleep While letting the light pour in.

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DO YOU PLACE SIGNIFICANCE IN SYMBOLIC OBJECTS? Deciding where to throw your rock, Despite the odd timing.

I haven’t touched it for five months Since it fit so perfectly in the crevices Of our hands pressed together.

Now it emits a dull heat, hot enough That I can no longer hold it in my palm, But only grasp at its smooth edges With the tips of my fingers.

My options consist of the following: I could leave it in a graveyard, Let it rest in peace, like a dead human.

Leave it in a church, Let the shadows of the stained glass windows Paint a new story upon it, Some holier significance.

Toss it in the Devil’s Hole, Let the murky algae take over its surface.

Or throw it off a cliff into the ocean So it can take its time to make its way Back to your island.

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PEOPLE OF THE ISLAND Paint brown patios browner, Step back and admire their work.

Hop off the bus, Press their backs against the hedges, Wave goodbye to the driver, Tuck in, and let the enormous vehicle pass.

Contemplate by the devil, Walk through tiny tunnels for food, Enjoying liberation for 69 years.

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Summer (America)

One of my favorite things to write about is nostalgia. With the summer of 2014 being the first summer I spent living on my own, with an office job and no serious commitments, I was able to experience what I later realized was a classic American summer that most youth experience.

Two of the poems in this section focus on recounting memories and recreating the sights and sounds of the scenes. The third poem, placed in the middle, is quite a disruption from that but it represents the very true fact that you cannot always rely on nostalgia. The poem acknowledges the present, even though it causes anxiety. Before the section ends, however, I return to the nostalgia and a collection of memories from the summer.

STAIRS ARE DEATHTRAPS Traumatic experiences Sparking irrational fears Falling down the stairs To the basement in my home Feeling the firm bumps To different parts of my body Banging into the carpeted edges led to a fear of Falling –through each of the spaces between the steps In those types of stairs where Each step is a thin panel Stacked, with these gaps That I am certain I am small enough to fall right through.

So I grasp the sides, depending on that support Like my grandmother did So faithful, to that hand rail on the escalator.

Even though it was broken and unmoving she could not let go.

It had steadied her so many times But now it was holding her back Clinging to her grip But escalators stop for no one.

She didn’t feel the carpeted edges When she was stretched to her limit.

She met the sharp metal teeth Her shin, specifically And when my mother was finally able to help her off She limped over to a curb determinately Pouring blood, and sat down Watched my father run over to her, Saying that she definitely needed stiches Trying to construct a makeshift bandage And then, not having spoken a word, she finally told him To stop making such a fuss.

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BAD HABIT Pressed hard, Between nail edge and nail bed, White flap of skin.

It grows thinner, from its root to its tip, Pulled, relentlessly.

A single, square centimeter point.

Blood seeps out And lines the nail bed.

A red crescent moon.

But the bandage next door Swelled with liquid, Won’t stay in place Sliding from knuckle to finger tip

It tears free, falling a little short.

A tiny bit of skin left Too small to grasp Yet the nail pokes at it, trying to take hold, Darkening the arch.

A tiny fleck of dirt Hiding under that prodding nail Slips free, into the pool At the edge of the bed,

Soap rinses out the dirt And water clears the indentation Dried off and freshly wrapped In padded latex comfort

Its been long enough.

Coming off, it reveals The palest skin, wrinkles Soft and soggy The bright red patch New, growing skin That could not heal under there For lack of oxygen.

Intermixing, intermingling Promising infection.

Pain spread Not as satisfying as

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SUMMER IN AMERICA Sweat turns cold fast in the air conditioning Its electric crackle, Held up by bricks Making icy droplets.

Leathery hands Stroking, cupping, framing For the first time, so close to home So far from my own family Left behind on other continents.

High definition sign for the auto shop The Animated American Flag, It shines in pixels with each furl They-mean-business.

Lying, by the reservoir, on slanted rocks That want to gently coax us in Talking about love, on this edge— Swimming, sweating into the drinking water Someone will soon consume.

It drains a lot faster in the summer Sean used to have to wade up to his chest to reach the island And he was six feet tall This time we could simply walk across the slightly soggy earth.

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He told me they were cutting down trees to stop kids from day drinking. Now there’s an open bank where a dog tries desperately to pull a fallen tree out of the water. His amused owner tells him he’ll never be able to do it. The dog concentrates, tries tugging on a different branch after the previous one hadn’t worked out. There’s that branch he keeps going back to though, the only one in which he can get a good grip. Seeing him return to the same branch,the owner, now exasperated, shouts at him to just-give-up. The dog continues to try, just like before, and suddenly emits a groan, sounds of desperation. The tree remains unmoved.

New

This section contains poems that I have written most recently. After a break of about four months from writing poetry, I began again.

I returned to focusing on grammar, syntax and enjambment and started to pay a lot of attention to how poems looked on the page. In addition to that, I started focusing more on how my poems sounded out loud, and considered how to make the sounds of the poem fit the content.

I also found myself bringing humor back into my poems. This section ultimately represent my growing attention and dedication to all aspects of poetry and the future direction I hope to move in.

SEASONAL DEPRESSION This is how you get better, You check in regularly– well done, All set for this month.

Methodical system Interrupted With a soft voice calling my name Questioningly.

Oh no, must have forgotten To tick all the boxes.

But it’s not the doctor calling me back It’s the lone old lady in the waiting room She’s surrounded by a pile of clipped coupons, Taking up the three chairs around her.

“Do you know who I am?” she asks.

In my mind I search for the answer Old women usually come from my childhood– Daycares, nurses who worked with my father The ones who would sneak me off to see the newborns, Let me peek in the incubator room And watch the machines...

My mind draws a blank

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I say no.

“No I’m sorry I really don’t who you are.”

She tells me she’s the grandmother of a friend And now the memories return From just one month earlier And a summer lover.

Taking time to cut broccoli, an alternate activity While grandma prepares dessert Making her soy free, nut free, egg free, dairy free, gluten free, nonfat cupcakes— And we would enjoy some with her So as not to seem so suspicious When taking the servant’s stairs Up to the lone bedroom on the third floor.

The waiting room is a new game In trying to construct Appropriate small talk.

I hover between the chairs and the exit for a few moments Indulging her before she ends the conversation, By asking me to say hello to her granddaughter Whom I haven’t spoken to since the summer ended.

As I turn the doorknob to leave She corrects herself, “Actually don’t say anything, she doesn’t need to know I’m here.”

I give her a solemn nod And look back to find, on her face, a beaming smile.

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EUROPEAN SPORT The French Countryside is a house in the weeds on the side of a highway, hot summers, –fly infestation– The worst in years.

Papa makes it a game, A flyswatter is your cricket bat.

Go ahead, have at them.

But its not so simple and, like any sport, there is skill involved, a definite technique.

Papa teaches us what he’s learned in the two months before we arrived: If you look very closely you notice, just before a fly starts to take flight and narrowly avoids your swat, they back up ever so slightly to wind up, to prepare with anticipation— That’s when you get them.

A small Window of Opportunity.

The flies never came back to France after that summer.

SLEEP DEPRIVATION Head ache, eyes sore and Gagging as I brush my teeth Nose blood stains tissue.

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Industrial stoves Prepare all my food- but wait!

A fresh lima bean.

Call out sick to work To march, march, march, and then sleep Active, inactive.

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healthy/unhealthy is a collection of poems and photography

by Julian Parikh. This book was originally curated and designed in May, 2015 with a revised version made in January, 2019.