The Little Dew


 

dew

Hae.mi, with the mood for loving kindness

I fall upon thee, as the last violin concerto

From some former life, which I cannot name

I copy the Korean scripture, as if it was known to me

Hae.mi, there is no life worth living, but the one

Not thine, not mine, but something else

Reminded from a child’s face, I linger there for long

Unable to remember the rapture then, of living

Of knowing with any certainty, anything

I am trapped between seasons aware of my own mortality

With a holy assembly of symbols, copied by time imperfectly

There’s no original art to this loneliness, only a kind of death

No God but a scattered Universe of galaxies, points of light

That tremble faster than I can move, Hae.mi, that’s it

You have surrounded me like water, like air, like perfume

And I am left with nothing but the memory of own imagination

That softly whispers without reply, in darkness, in the night

Where we cannot sleep and cannot name that thing between

The hours that are not tame, so sleek and pearly like the rain

Hae.mi, I’m lost to oracles and harmonics of melodic Korean

Without choice fruit, but the power to love in my own way.

Conspirators in Pajamas


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http://naomipaints.com/gallery/

Conspirators in Pajamas

I love you suddenly like

A plum bursting my pride

Straightforwardly and digitally

On my chest is the gesture of infinity

There is no time my love

So close that your eyes close

I need you because your soul

Teaches me, like the ages, like the sea

When you go through the streets

Where everyone is beautiful but us

Know that youth will die suddenly too

Like heartbreak and the spring of divorce

And your green eyes will shiver

Their pupils delicately attempt to

Embrace the complexity of what

Love has become, something sold and given up

A conspiracy of pyjamas we used

To find so comfortable, no longer so

But I cannot feel the love of people

Whom have loved me, for my love has fed

The people only to set them free.

Black Swan Job Application II


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Shaman – EJ Koh

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Black Swan Job Application II

Job wanted, will consider all applicants
Burning desire to be a pioneer
In new literary forms, poetry and prose
Blogging and philosophy

Real life, relationships, confessionals
Exhibitionistic tendencies required, no fear
Able to work 16-hour a day shifts
Drive to get published, write novels

Enter contests, win scholarships
Self-autonomy in going for broke
Ability to withstand periods of poverty
Enjoys public speaking, going to events

Is humble, responsive to readers
Ability to synthesize past and the future
The job applicant may be required to travel
Inwardly and outwardly, be able to

Form attachments, imaginary and virtual
Burn books, abandon beliefs, start over
Translate from obscure languages
Must be a shaman of the written word

Have prophetic tendencies, know your audience
Market on social media, not be averse to self-public
Create podcasts, teach workshops, give lectures
Endure being followed on twitter by throngs

Please note, applicant must stay in the job
A minimum of five years, long-lasting investment only.

The Message of Poetry


6

What is poetry?
Poetry is the presentation
Of your inner life
The partners of your
Deepest thoughts, they

Are seen there to celebrate
All that you are
Poetry is freedom in literature
A final frontier of knowing
Yourself, like no other art

All the tribes have written it
All the mystics found themselves
Speaking in it, and countless
Others stumble across it
Like a strange fruit on a

Famished day, it has fed
Travelers, monks, mothers
Don’t waste time with explanations
Simply do what you love
Poetry is that gift

That was given to you
When all other avenues
Were taken away, so what
Will you give to her?
Poetry is a language of the soul

And each poem you write
Is one lifetime
So how will you choose to live
Your inner life, what melody
Will you pronounce

What energy will you align to?
Poetry is born like a trance
Like an unexpected visitor
That surprises us into dancing

Poetry is the love
We always wanted to give
And never had a chance to receive.

Bouquet on an old wave of silence


19

I sang into an invisible Country
I called it Home, breathless
For the future and poetry
I sang a canto in stuttered
Hope, that filters through
Years full of sunshine
Pillars of sacrifice and people
People who unknowingly
All contributed to the same aim
In a harmony of music and energy
I sang into a moment, that kept
On being timeless, a transcendent breach
Into the clean air of worlds
I stood and sang with the voice
Of Silence, I wanted the diamond
Pivot bright to bathe me in
Transparency and wonder
So that the luminous pages
And on my knees, I might
Whisper something of a lost divinity
I sang for all the creatures who had died
For principles, ideals, survival.

Autumn’s True Tenderness


15

you have come to me, all tenderness & meekness
to give solace to me, my dear….
this portends perhaps to my forsaken doom
or to some suffering that God wants to quantify?
all things being equal, I am not here forever
no, mortality is a brief window closing
don’t you know? didn’t you?

come now, stay a little longer
won’t you, if you could, for yourself and all
you hold dear, for your health that is
to meet me with a torch, while lunar gleams
unsteadily behind you, your smile never faltered
even as your voice is strangely altered
from former years, your face hangs low now wrinkled

what might have been, had our hiding places
of timing matched, I cannot say
i’ve a certain smile, thanks to you
these years have not been as lonely
as I might have feared, and this
that’s the promise of the greatest hand
who lends their heart to uplift a fate

as low as mine, gold before me are alter and road
the fire has settled deeper now
my soul is full of light and freedom
but the mirror of my body is gathering grey
life, what a letter, what a bouquet
to think that i’ll miss this too
was once almost inconceivable

in servitude you know i languish
at the edge of awkward anguish
my fragrant heartached years weren’t what
i might have expected, i can still hear
the old gate creaking, and remember the
yellow stains of my youth, but that
is not important, we are sometimes so unaware

of our good fortune and spiritual calling
nothing is quite as glowing as
gratitude in our last autumn on the Earth.