I like to write poems. For me it is a form of escapism and a sense of expressing my identity. There is a certain beauty, certain elegance, in being able to effortlessly shape emotions and craft stories with a few words. It is a microcosm of languages’ beauty. 

Crimson Eyes

Crimson eyes, watching me.

Sad and sorrow, but such beauty.

Silenced cries, withheld tears.

Bound by duty, through all these years.

When I look in those eyes,

Reflected back are my disguises.

Heavy burdens wear the crown,

No say in that, which was passed down.

Yours – is it just a role?

Obligations you can’t control?

Is it worth, heart of steel?

To be distanced and not to feel?

Reddened eyes, please don’t cry.

It breaks my heart to hear you sigh.

Cut your ties, and be free.

We’ll leave this place, just you and me.

– Anya             

The poem follows two characters in my table-top board game. It tells a tale of a pair of lovers, separated by the demands of duty. The writer – the heir apparent of a duke – fell in love with the crown princess while running away from home in pursuit of freedom; a princess who has red-coloured eyes. In this last desperate plea, the writer hopes to convince the princess to reject her role and choose love over duty.

Here, I love the semantics present in the language surrounding the descriptions of the eyes. Crimson eyes is a neutral descriptor of colour – perhaps even romantic – evoking a sensation of beauty and love. Yet, by the end, this quite detached descriptive term is replaced with reddened eyes – immediately invoking the imagery of crying and the semantic surrounding such a provocative and emotive event.

The direct contrast between crying and holding back tears, between being bonded and cutting free, are also little asymmetrical details between the first and last stanza which I love. It mirrors the very similar yet, ultimately diametrically opposed fates these two characters have.

What I love the most however, is the structure of the poem. It uses a modified version of the Vietnamese “lục bát” style of poetry. Translated directly, “lục bát” means six and eight – signifying the number of syllables each lines should have. Alternating lines of six and eight syllables are used to craft a poem. These lines of differing lengths are also meant to rhyme with each other which it does here in this poem. This poem, though written in English, has a Vietnamese structure and embodies the two halves of my person.