Saturday, 29 October 2016

A Conversation with President Hennessy

A Tribute to Stanford's Last President
I met with President Hennessy last quarter, 
in his office,
and we had the most fruitful, open conversation. 

Entrance to the Office of the President, at the Main Quad.
How exciting!

Monday, 17 October 2016

The Knife

A gentle sword
(If there ever was one)
Held with the surest of hands.

Ever the gentleman
Accompanying the fork
Onto the hopeless chap it lands.

Thursday, 13 October 2016

The Great Unsettling of Sophomore Year

    My second year at Stanford is in full swing, and I’m feeling more unsettled than ever. In fact, I’m outright struggling to feel at peace here.
It comes as a shock to me more than anything, because I thought that surely, after weathering the ups and downs of freshman year, I’d be well-adjusted and ready to tackle sophomore year like a boss, without a hitch. I’d hit the ground running and stay running for the entire year because I had so much energy and excitement building up in me after three months of rejuvenation and spirit-restoration back in sweet T&T.
So, so wrong.
Nothing is as picture-perfect as it seems

Wednesday, 12 October 2016

The Weaver

Most days I sit in silence.
Words? I exhausted my share 
years ago. When I was young,
blissfully unaware,
took for granted the sheer
power I held in my palms.

Monday, 10 October 2016

Lost and Found

Excitement courses through my veins
Like liquid energy that I cannot contain

Anticipation I cannot satiate
A reminder of what awaits

Soon I’ll fly through the air and cross oceans
like a bird returning home after migration;

And after what seems like forever
The countdown is finally over.

On my way to sunny smiles and sunnier skies
The mountains peek through the clouds up high;

The Poem I wrote Backwards

The Poem I wrote Backwards

It’s now all on the page
Starting from the top
I’m filling the lines
One by one
As if by magic
My fingers are speeding
Running across the page
The words have come
The laptop is open
But the deadline approaches
I lay my head down
Seeking inspiration
What memories come to mind?
Nothing that I can write backwards
I can think of nothing, yet
Here it is

The poem I wrote Backwards

Wednesday, 5 October 2016

The Poet at Fourteen

       Is not even a poet
But she writes
Because somehow it helps
The bumps and spikes of

       Uncertainty abounds:
What’s life about
Who has answers
These questions and doubts

       What to say
How to act
Do I do this
Or do I do that

       So many of them
Just one of her
Although she writes
There’s but one answer:

         You’ll get there.

Tuesday, 4 October 2016


Eight years old
Near the swings
Standing and waiting

She’s my age
I can tell
But she keeps on swinging

Does she see me?
I don’t know
Or is she just pretending?

I look around - 
no other swings - 
So I keep on hoping

Dear God, I think
I just want a turn
I hope you’re listening

In that moment - 
Not a beat later - 
I see her jumping

Off the swing
She goes her way
Now I’m ascending.