tck poetry

The Airplane Pillow – TCK poetry

The Airplane Pillow

I’ve been sleeping on an airplane pillow all this while
drowned in a white pillowcase
folded over and set at the top of my mat
and the impermanency has etched itself
over top of every memory I have here
I always knew I wasn’t meant to stay

But somehow that airplane pillow
folded over and over itself until it was
small enough to fit in my pocket, to go back
the same way it arrived; and all my hopes
got tiny too, squished and soft and transportable
like maybe that could make up for the rest

But it didn’t
and I left
everything
hopes and pillows
and all the rest
small behind me

~ Elizabeth Hemp

Click to see another poem by Elizabeth Hemp

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Just A House To Me – a poem about transition

Just A House To Me

  You had spent your entire life in one home:

                   your mom’s run-down condo in sleepy Antrim, New Hampshire where you
                   grew up eating inauthentic General Tso’s chicken at Ginger House and 
                   picking up sesame bagels with cream cheese at Audrey’s 
                   on Wednesdays,

  knowing 
  everything 
  about your town, 
  your home, which step 
  in your staircase creaked, 
  the exact shape of the burn 
  mark on the left side of your fridge. 
 
                   The mahogany closet in your basement where you used to curl up at age 
                   4 to play hide-and-seek with your three sisters, the bookshelf you broke 
                   then repaired at age 10, the army green quilt you received from your 
                   grandma at age 13 that covers the twinbed in your room, in your home, in 
                   your town. 

  By the time I met you I had lived in over 25 places in 

       Korea                           England 
                      Tanzania
                      South Africa 
                      Kenya
                                       Lithuania
              Chile          U.S.A.

Some homes, some houses,

     never
     knowing 

     the houses
                 I lived 
     I was packing     unpacking,
              readjusting   new places.

                      thrill of leaving           Cockroach House,  
         bittersweet       goodbye     Mango Tree House,  
                   Jacaranda House, the comings           goings 
        formings          memories, never          feeling 
              rootedness.

     And maybe that’s why we had to end our relationship:
     I was a home to you, but you were just a house to me.

By Melanie Han, an avid traveler and a poet who was born in Korea, grew up in East Africa, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing in Boston. She has won awards from Boston in 100 Words and Lyric, and her poetry has appeared in several magazines and online publications, such as Fathom, Ruminate, and Among Worlds. During her free time, she can be found eating different ethnic foods or visiting new countries.

Other poems by Melanie Han
Can I Roll, Slice, Stack Memories?
Dar es Salaam Delicacies

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Language Miracle – a third culture kid poem

Language Miracle

I came home
from school one day
and you were gone.
Mom said it was because
you missed Grandpa and
you missed Korea and
you didn’t wait for me
because you were bad
at saying goodbyes,
but I knew better.
You left because
you were fed up
with me, fed up
with trying
to teach Korean
to a granddaughter
who kept refusing.
So you went
back to your homeland,
a land I didn’t feel
was my home,
with nothing but
6,381 miles, 12 hours
on the plane, and
hurt between us.

“My Dear Yeast,
You know I grow up in Korea while Japan abuse
forbid speak our language as child force learn
Japanese language of oppress and change
my name to other country. Yoshiko, they call me.
Many word gone when release from Japan.
Japan burn thousand and thousand book
force study Japan forbid our language
prison for people who wrote our words.
Release from Japan regain our language miracle.
I proud of my people my movement regain
history country culture. Yeast, grow up
in foregin country no use our language.
And what do you know about war for our country?
Last wish for Yeast. Learn language.
Love,
Halmoni”

By Melanie Han, an avid traveler and a poet who was born in Korea, grew up in East Africa, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing in Boston. She has won awards from Boston in 100 Words and Lyric, and her poetry has appeared in several magazines and online publications, such as Fathom, Ruminate, and Among Worlds. During her free time, she can be found eating different ethnic foods or visiting new countries.

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Kimbap – To Die Or To Be White

Can I Roll, Slice, Stack Memories?


Hustle and bustle of lunchtime at Myeongdong Market. Fried chicken feet splayed out and curled at the ends, rows of hanging chilis in different shades of summer sunset, dried whole squids piled flat on top of one another, every tentacle preserved and intact. My eyes come to rest on a little pyramid of kimbap.


The predictable pattern of roll, slice, stack. Roll, slice, stack. The kimbap lady is about my mom’s age, same short, dark hair turning silver, apron wrapped around her once-slim waist, and suddenly, I’m staring at my mom standing at the kitchen counter of the house that we lived in when I was eight and insecure.


4 AM she packs my lunch for a school picnic. I get up not too long after, unable to contain my excitement. Will they be impressed? Maybe even a little jealous of my mom’s Korean cooking? Probably both.


But when lunchtime finally rolled around and the kimbap container was opened, all I heard were the quiet “Eww”s as I felt the slight shift of people moving away from me. My shaking hands found themselves tossing the kimbap into the open and hungry mouth of the trash can.


Their perfectly triangled white sandwiches, perfect pale skin, perfect light eyes (they looked easy enough to gouge out). Sunshine rested in their golden hair while night and fury nested in mine. Did I want to die or be white?


At home, that afternoon, I shut myself in the bathroom scrubbing my skin raw and crying my eyes dry until exhaustion called my name. The front door clicked and I threw angry words at my mom. She never made kimbap again. And I avoided Korean food.


But, I find myself in a trance, walking over to the lady and handing her a 1,000 won bill, receiving a roll of kimbap in return. My tongue is momentarily stunned as it remembers long forgotten flavors. All I taste is salt as I pull out my phone and dial for my mom.

By Melanie Han, an avid traveler and a poet who was born in Korea, grew up in East Africa, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing in Boston. She has won awards from Boston in 100 Words and Lyric, and her poetry has appeared in several magazines and online publications, such as Fathom, Ruminate, and Among Worlds. During her free time, she can be found eating different ethnic foods or visiting new countries.

Other poems by Melanie Han

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Tanzanian Rainy Seasons – TCK Poem

Dar es Salaam Delicacies

Nose pressed up against the window, I wait
for pitter-patters to turn to pelting poundings
as hundreds of flying ants rise upward,
dizzying my eyes and swarming my head.

So predictable: Tanzanian rainy seasons.

“Dad! Come on!” and he brings them as always:
bright yellow boots and clashing pink raincoat
with words on them I can’t yet read, words that
Mom says I’ll learn in school next year.

Tupperware in hand, I rush out,
dancing to a chorus of wings: a flapping frenzy.
Within minutes, I have plenty of the squirming creatures,
my prized possessions, enough to make Mom proud.

Back at home, the three of us busy ourselves.
Dad hangs up my dripping raincoat while
I tug away at endless wings while
Mom heats up the stove and readies

a drizzle of oil, a handful of flying ants, a pinch of salt;
sizzling in the pan, they fry quickly.
Then, around the table, Mom, Dad, and I sit,
munching and crunching our seasonal snack.

So predictable: Tanzanian rainy seasons.

And even though I lived through many of them,
I can no longer recall whether the flying ants
tasted more like bacon bits or burnt popcorn.
So I wait, nose pressed up against the window.

By Melanie Han, an avid traveler and a poet who was born in Korea, grew up in East Africa, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing in Boston. She has won awards from Boston in 100 Words and Lyric, and her poetry has appeared in several magazines and online publications, such as Fathom, Ruminate, and Among Worlds. During her free time, she can be found eating different ethnic foods or visiting new countries.

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Story of a Little Girl

This is how it starts
A little girl, too young to understand,
Told she is leaving behind an apartment
For an adventure, and she is glad.
Too glad to ask questions.

This is the middle, the
Whole entire story really
Dust and heat and foreign languages,
Friends who look different and
The little girl learns so many things
But it all comes down to this
Nothing ever stays the same, nothing
Ever lasts forever.

This is how it ends
A little girl, too old to forget
Is told she is leaving behind her world
For a new one and she is shattered.
Too shattered to protest.

I guess this is the real
Ending though
When the little girl walks
Onto the plane and flies away
Back to the world of
Apartments and becomes
Someone new, someone different,
Someone called
Me.

By Ghanaperu

Other poems by Ghanaperu:
You’re Invited, You Know
TCK Syndrome

Follow Ghanaperu on AllPoetry

By CulTuremiKs, ago

I Don’t Recognise Myself Anymore

The purity of the air after rainfall –
The sacred smell of sandalwood
Wafting down from the hilltop shrines
Reminds me of something.
My deadweight soul, flapping with airline tags,
Lies gasping, dusted with the residue of long years
Lettered ‘Fragile’ and ‘This Way Up’
Entreating those that handle it to be careful:
To see it safely on its way to wherever it’s going.
Coat-hangers strewn on the unmade bed,
The unwashed floor, the weary bags,
The cluttered tabletops
Which will perhaps retain traces of my having been here
When I am gone:
A few fingerprints maybe,
Scattered fibres from my clothes
Or crumbs of what I’ve eaten.
Otherwise I’ll be on my way
Like the breath in my lungs
And the black blood rushing from my hidden heart
And the voice of Winter groaning in the pipes
And the hissing gas of the stove
And all the unsaid words and murdered thoughts
Bleeding in the sink of my mind
Incognito down the street, keys clinking in my pocket
With the tumbling leaves and the frantic ghost of the city
To a new address.
And maybe I’ll see you again,
But we both know it won’t be the same.
I’ll twiddle my new keys and feel my chains
As though I’m my own jailer.
Because I don’t recognise myself anymore.

Author Unknown (if you have any information regarding the author please contact us using the form)

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Airport Poems – Elizabeth Hemp

at the bottom of the escalator in terminal 3

I’m sorry
He says
And I hear
Don’t go.

I carefully study the dust
The shadows
The darkness
The hope in the future
Anything except
His eyes.

He takes my hands
Warms my fingers
Kisses me with the gift of release
Brushes my soul with a last
Moment of sunshine
And lets me go.

I’m sorry
I say
But I mean
Goodbye.

Traveler’s Deja Vu

My shoes have walked these carpets before,
On a different continent but
It was the same.
It is always the same.

Quiet sunset, orange glare reflecting
Off the windows but the
Chaos never ends and
It is an odd contrast, calm and frantic
Side by side here.

We are sprawled out, headphone cords
Held in cool palms, hands that know this routine.
The man next to us is tired, army green and brown.
The woman across the walkway is saying goodbye,
Teary eyes and too many hugs…
Maybe it is her first time – she is young.
I can’t remember my first time.

The little ants in neon vests outside are scurrying
And inside every type of shoe imaginable walks past
But it all feels familiar, deja vu from a thousand
Past experiences – my passport might not agree
But I am an International; airports will always
Feel like home.

Read more TCK poems – this one includes a response from Elizabeth Hemp

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Do Not Pity – TCK Poem

Do Not Pity
by Katrina P. Zemke

Do not pity me
And moan over how far away I am.
I already know.
I’m already aware.
And your sympathy sounds like nothing
But words.

Do not claim to understand
That you know what I’m going through
Because you left your child
At a camp five hundred miles away
For a whole summer.

Do not tell me how you cried
The day you left your child
At college in another state.
My parents left me
And flew away
A thousand
Five thousand
Ten thousand
Miles.

I thank you for your prayers.
I thank you for your concern.
But understand:
You cannot know;
You do not know;
Until you have truly lived
This life.

I don’t cry tears.
I don’t mourn all day.
I came to terms
With the reality of my life
Many years ago;
And I am not heartless
Because of that.

Don’t ask me when I will see
My parents again.
If I asked you that question,
Would you really be able to answer?
Maybe I can answer,
But even if I can’t,
Do not respond,
“Oh, that must be so hard.”

This is my life.
This is all I know.
So next time you see me
And ask about my family:
Do not think I am heartless.
Do not claim to understand.
Do not pity.

By CulTuremiKs, ago