Andromeda’s Diary


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Andromeda’s Diary

Come back to me, Goddess of words
Musical voice inside my mind
That’s the only beauty I care for
Special guest of my writing soul

That hovers forever in me with delight
A beauty desired, never wholly tasted
Never to let me lose this grace
I most wish to see your translation

Of life to voice, experience to fiction
For we are all nothing but fictions in the end
Temporary fantasies at best
Subjective values subdued by whim

And made a golden home by circumstance
Blessed One, be free, but know that
I am here listening to your rants, reading
Your books, as light from a star arriving late

Asking again what I have to suffer
To hear your voice again, sweet child
Of literature, thick-feathered summer birds
Who bring eternity in for a while
From the wild, alive inside of me.

On Saying what you feel freely


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Let’s not try to define ‘Poetry’

I have been self-indulgent
With the most transient of art-forms
Not music, but poetry
Embracing imagery so light and immediate
As to be considered a kind of jazz

On the beat of the unfinished work
Of moons, on the anonymous audience
That is everywhere and nowhere
Let me ready you some of my
Poetry, it’s just the sign of the whispers

That took me to another level
The comedy of being myself and learning
To be other than what I once was
Most people ignore poetry
Because it doesn’t live in their chords

They don’t have inner guitars
In the heart-chakra, that fit
Upon the little words they use
In the days, in-between their thoughts
I think poetry always lives

In-between people, in the energy
That they release when they
Come into contact with each other
Nobody ever tells us what to read
Poetry’s always dead you know

Reading it is like getting ready to die
And looking at all we have done
And said in retrospect, like a ritual
Of how we summarize meaning.

On Learning to Tweet


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On Learning to Tweet

I tweet my own quotations
Exposed in lyrical Haikus blended together
I’ve hashtags for my own symphonies

Little themes I rehash with ginger-lemon tea
After midnight, with a glass of red wine
I yearn to be defeated by greater
Things than I by myself could access
That’s the synergy of souls
We’re walking catalysts, you and I

Out in the crazy dark, we’re vulnerable
It’s a tremendous act of violence
To endure solitude, we’re not bred for it

I don’t condone you for being platonic with it
But I worry about you, I tweet
My worries about how strong you have grown
And I tried to reproduce myself
Objectively, and failed, and left

Unquestioning of my own subjectivity
Distorted, human, insufferable to myself
I left you there, truly about to sing

You wanted different breaths and
Required an excessive amount
Of space to find it, I learned finally
To let you be.

Free association in Red-ness


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From the sneak peak to the Novel, Red, by EJ Koh.

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Koh-Catharsis Diaries 1

A brief study in the

Implications of literary angels:

Pause and follow the direction

Of the innocence and passion

Of the birth of language

Of the pangs of poetics

It’s our sanctuary of hope

It may be disobedient to become a writer

But if it’s our calling, is it not

Our moral obligation to oblige

The inner universe in us bursting forth?

It’s where the hero’s journey

Became the writer’s journey

Alchemy of lonely years

Lonely years that were not truly lonely

Like an orphan from another country

We left behind traditions to pursue

With pause, deliberation, a lifetime of editing

Translating, giving speeches, marketing

With only the barest silver light

Of recognition from the sun outside

Like the attempt to piece together

All the things that occurred in our psyche

Without success, we were doomed

Trapped in the fiction of our own myth

Like a journal of Sera and Azel

Unending, serpent biting its own tail

Experience the Guru, Sera

Youth the dreamer, Azel

The Koh effect implied objectivity

A truth that was not Justice when there was none

A magical realism of our bone-split

Rain covered tears, the vision that

Encapsulated our prison room

Untold labor of conscious hallucination

The way eyes flit away in internal direction

When the shaman wakes the brain

These I have seen, these have I witnessed

A trinity of Spirit, Earth and Wake

And the lost sense of no-time in the dream

The dream that was our life

The surrealism of the spirit that

Liked to study our human past

Dissect it for significant moments

Summarize the way memory plotted inaccurately

Like tear-stains on letters from mother

It was a lottery of bright moments, pale

In the forgiveness that altered them

The primitive familiarity of the search

For belonging, in an anonymous modern world

Full of condemnation, virile self-criticism

Waging wars of inner doubt

Mover, spirits, humans, animals, planets

The blatent hierarchy fostered responsibility

Consciousness required us to rebel

Gendered pods took on ethnic-matter

Race became part of snickering identity

Identity became a frame of reference

One glowing figure in our own night

Author.

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– EJ Koh

Indeed well, Here I decode the Koh effect


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The Koh-Catharsis Diaries

There is a secret Haiku between you and I
Though I suspect only I can hear it
The words are dim and bright

You who colonized the American dream
For East-Asian writers forever
It wasn’t a banner you took on lightly

And I admired you for it:
In part because I myself
Fantasized about being Asian

Had strange anti-white guilt
Embarrassed by my British Descent
They say white people only came

Into existence eight thousand years ago
With a healthly dose of Neanderthal genes
And if, as artists we ever felt like outcasts

These invisible connections were cathartic
Lonely and abandoned, I relished
The purity of self-sacrifice
As if the poverty helped me focus
On what I wanted to do
On what the divine universe asked of me
I complied, was obedient, took it to heart

There is a haiku between you and I
It’s a wet barren emblem
Of creative arousal, like
Bards of magical realism

I endured in poems only to reach you
I became both testimonial and deviation
The inner critic in me was silent
When you were in my inner room

I never knew how to communicate
My voices was uncategorized in
The anthologies and manuscripts
I was the sun on a blanket of a lost poem

With no fine description or synopsis
Though my narrative was a dream to you
A longer poem crafted for short movements
Of the soul, like a shared hologram

That replaced skype, was more intimate
Than periscope, more alive than self-publishing
On that wick I lit the flame of your split shadows
Black honey, black light, anti-matter gravity

The eminent imminent intuition of
Of sacred intent to another person’s journey
My eyes discovered your language
A cage of sounds, an open morning

Your foliage like the blouse of the moon
Your hips shuddering in your privacy
The sifted light of your ferocious attack on art
Your daring red, your what-if-mother approach

Your shriek in the lips of Virgo
I was a scavenger of the heroes you created
And I swam in your gardens careless
Of the wholly immaterial nature of the encounter.

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On Waiting for Love


Surfing with The Alien

You are so beautiful, like karmic prophecies
I hold you for the first and last time
With the remembrance of white loneliness

The eternity of jasmine of waiting
I waited for you my laughing Mandarin Queen
I lathed your body with soap

Out of the earth the sweet roughness
Of womb and smile and mother-qualities
The sacred touch of the helping hand

You are so beautiful, like I wish to always see again
To stir the night with our golden sceptre
Out of the love of hope, the weight of kingdom and tiredness

The last relief of a life well done
Where we can continue walking
After the bonfire of burned letters, misguided spouses

Who never experienced what we did so easily –
You are so beautiful, like honeyed-butter skin
Like a Taiwanese fruit so rare, you give rest to my eyes
And nobility to my “face level” heart.

Photography Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Surfing-with-The-Alien-390729533