A Little Bit Of Sunshine

"One of my favourite writers, T. De Los Reyes, or just Tee to those who love her, keeps me on the edge of my seat waiting for her next piece. Her words are not elegant or particularly inspiring. They just are, they just be. Honest, brave and free." - by Naledi Biyela Something Small: I've been reading  Read A Little Poetry  for about seven years; an amazing archive of poems collected over the years. Its curator, T. De Los Reyes, painstakingly selects and shares each poem, along with her own delightful and gut-wrenching commentary.  In 2021, when I felt stuck in my own writing and purpose, I leaned on the Read A Little Poetry newsletter that filled my inbox everyday. Then T mysteriously went on hiatus in August. A month went by with no new poems, so naturally, I wrote her a letter.  It was a feverish, fluffy letter I sent around 4am. I never received a response, but I didn't need one. I'd written it for myself as much as for her. Anyway, I forgot all about it.  C...

Growing up, I realised there were two kinds of kids. The kind that filled a room with adult laughter and delight – and then there was me. I was too much, too chatty and I asked too many questions.  I induced heavy sighs and complaints from family and teachers alike. My clever jokes were met with awkward stares. I wasn't sure how I was getting it so wrong, so I stopped trying at all. I wore silence like a safety blanket and hid my face in books. In private, I conversed with myself – the only person who understood me perfectly.  Then the buzzwords 'introvert' and 'extrovert' took over the internet. I consumed hundreds of quizzes, quotes and media content, all confirming the same thing; I was indeed a loner, but that didn't have to be a bad thing. Introverts were cool now, enjoying benefits such as sarcasm and obscure movie references. I'd all but forgotten that my silence wasn't a quirk, but a survival tool. I grew up feeling suppressed by my environment,...

Every time I look at my body It’s as if it’s the first time There are new lines, new spots I don't recognise It’s strange, being a stranger to yourself Alien to your skin Entire parts of me hidden, for others to find  Wanting or wonderful The lines of my back are like a map I can never read,  Reminding me that this is just a vessel Carrying far more precious cargo,  A vehicle I traverse through time with Soft, changing, impermanent

Today I'd like to revisit a poem I wrote a few years ago, titled  Workless .  I wrote it when I was 22 years old. I was lost and confused – I had no idea what to do with my life. I looked all around me and projected my fears onto others... Thinking of how terrified I was to become like them, with broken dreams and diverted plans. I was so afraid of falling short of my aspirations, that I saw failure everywhere I went. Now I understand... that no one who gets up every single day and commits to any job or pursuit (no matter how small) could ever be considered a 'failure'. As you grow older, your dreams change and evolve, just as you do. Not to mention, life has a habit of getting in the way. I've come to understand that success is about trying and learning, and revising what you thought was right for you.  In the poem, I was referring to the sorrow one feels when they're not where they wanted or planned to be – which is a normal and relatable human experience. But I...

If you say 'Toni Morrison' three times in a mirror I'll appear, with a notebook and pen in hand Marigold caught between my teeth...  "It'th a metaphor, you sthee?" 

I spent my life waiting For a miraculous hand to free me Set me apart, declare me worthy I got emotional today, standing by the chilli pepper tree at my front gate...  Thinking of how something so small Of little renown, could blossom so elegantly ... and I was jealous Even though my life is filled with pain, no glamorous possession to my name... Could I ever be as great As the chilli pepper tree by the gate? Could anything so breathtaking  ever come from me? 

I grew up on a diet of fairytales Devouring every bit of magic I could get my hands on When Cinderella, Aladdin and Snow White ran out of steam, all that was left Were kitchen magazines They were sitting in a stack, waiting  for the next visitor to open them a crack  So I traded enchanted forests for Granite countertops and stainless steel sinks Whirlwind romances for state-of-the-art appliances  Lightwash cabinets and hardwood floors Became a new fantasy world to explore  My dream kitchen... green cabinets,  natural light streaming in was a picture Of who I could be, the kind of life I would lead Would I be the mother who baked treats  every afternoon?  A clean freak?  Or would we sit on the counters sipping  Coffee in our morning shoes?  I never stopped believing in fairytales  I just started writing them myself... 

I bought a set of paint the other day You couldn't tell me, with my acrylic set That I wasn't Da Vinci undiscovered yet Of course, I only have a single painting to my name, It was a sunset by the seaside  Pink and red skies  And ocean waves crashing on the shore.  It was probably the best thing I ever made  But I gave it away on Christmas day...  It was worth it for the look of awe  on her face. 

Just seven more washing machine minutes And I'm free to go about my day Run a few errands, see to the hydrangeas growing on the driveway  and the chilli pepper tree by the gate Then I'll see if everybody ate, and set the table And wash the plates Just seven more and I'll have the rest of the day Except – sweeping the dust that accumulates  Every hour on the hour It'll only make sense then, to take a shower  and pore over my wardrobe for suitable attire  Wrangle up a hair tie And the minutes are sure to fly Just seven more and I might feel genuine warmth if I'm lucky Seven minutes and I won't have to worry if anyone could love me Seven minutes and I'll be worthy...  Sometimes seven minutes and eternity  Are the same thing. 

While I've always appreciated the art of filmmaking, I am no longer a cinephile. What started out as a healthy interest, analysing dialogue and characters, quickly turned into a superficial fixation with what was or was cinema.  Watching movies is a social hobby. We watch movies to speak about them, share them with others and maybe write a quirky caption on Instagram. But because it is a social activity, as a cinephile, your opinion on movies (whether you're aware of it or not) is largely influenced by what other people think. I felt like I had to like certain kinds of movies or I wasn't intelligent or interesting enough. My list of favourites was a curated, bald-faced lie. But you don't know this, until you ask yourself... What do I genuinely enjoy? What are the movies that give me joy, that I can watch over and over again?  They don't have to be 'smart', layered or critically acclaimed. They just have to mean something to ME. No one else. Perhaps they remi...

  And pots fit into each other in neat little stacks Each one part of a matching set Doing what they were meant to do Who could conceive of that?  But we struggle to make space  for each other To be a unit, thinking for the other's best If we could be like pots... Empty and selfless  Existing only to serve others

I didn't prepare a speech or anything My life was planned so meticulously Until Brighton Beach ruined everything I signed my name on a form asking for volunteers I needed a change of scenery and found  myself here Helping people through their trauma  and fear And who is this that emerged from the shadows, perfectly at home Among the broken But myself, the shy and un-outspoken?  I always said I wanted to make a difference  in the world  And honestly, the view doesn't hurt

Artists and their funny ways All we do is spend our days In pajama pants thinking up ideas And plans that we never carry out But they're still nice to think about And we take stuffy jobs  just to cover the cost  Of meandering about, lost But at least we can write about it A new entry in our journal or our turn to read in the poetry circle At the café down the street We're grumpy old hats,  barely making eye contact  And we're thankful for that.