E.J’s Trip rope


 

 

Screen Shot 02-09-16 at 10.02 PM

 

 

Eun Ji, how does a poem grow

From your shoulders as the years shine

Like a woman’s sadness that shuffles as it aches

Or elongated moves from man to man

 

In the cold months of identity in elegant death

I’ve watched you across books, speeches,

Highs and lows with hair hung in confession

And I’ve seen the fun house of your erections and

 

Encompassing many kinds of awareness

I’ve seen you cry in a poem

And I haven’t a clue what the end-game is

Nor how far we can push language at its brink

 

Or what gamification allows us to sing

When all the trees have been downed

And all the books have gone unread

Drowned in a sea of screens, lives churning

 

From reality, waiting impatiently at the

Digital timelines, tunnels into simulation

Eun Ji, will you even remember the syllables

That stretched your heart to your cheek

 

You were mad with the ocean once

And hearing you speak Korean, I felt landlocked

A permanently strange indentation in your psyche

You would never feel, you suspected it was

 

A native part of your own psyche, and I was just

The circus-gear of your imagination

An opened mouthed and clumsy sport gone unwhispered

No, I was the whisper of hypnosis that dilated

Your hardy gone funky work ethic of verse.

Pleasure in Poetry I


3

Art by AF-studios (http://www.deviantart.com/art/Fire-Within-Me-155600530)

What is poetry?
Poetry is the silence
Burning with all-time
History echoing in the

Shadows asking them to dance
Poetry is the first memory
Of language, when women and men
First began to distil symbols

Using words to fill emotions
With light, but we forget about the light
A poem begins as a spark
In the brain, a neurotransmitter

Of homesickness for something divine
For a present with beauty
Poetry is the least imposition
On silence in a world of chatter

Where information is censored
And the truth is not to be found
What is poetry?
It’s that which drives my soul

In a precise thing like mathematics
To reach beyond language for the stars
With audiences that were literate
Asking words to become butterflies

From the usual caterpillars
Anyone could be a poet
Poetry are thoughts that breathe
And burn in our minds until

They hit the page softly
Uniting pleasure with truth.