Road to becoming Red


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Road to becoming Red

When you say you are succumbed the failure
Of your craft, it hurts me
For how many Red novels are there out there?

The country of yourself still stands
Tall, liberty and justice and poetry
We cannot be faithful to tradition
You know this, hard at it is to accept

Their not literate, your 318.9 million
We’ve lost our inheritance
We’re no longer from India or Korea
Spending a lifetime in a melting pot

Our identity splinters like time-travel
Maybe indebted from previous lives
What does it mean to be a commercial success?
If your name isn’t Rumi, Oliver, Plath, Angelou

Maybe I can imagine you as a cult figure
A Neruda of the post-modern condition
A beat poet of social-media
But I never whole hearted believed

In the art of imitation or the craft of self-presentation
Neither can we pay our ancestors back
For their investment in us, we diverge
I’ve become a writer in my own time

But don’t say you are an orphan misunderstood
Or that you must interview old wounds
Simply to write, your tag cloud isn’t so different
From mine, maybe just more well-rounded
Feminine, appreciate of where you come from.

Postscript:

https://www.facebook.com/thisisEJKoh

Prince of Fools


40

In the warm sunshine, of a beautiful mind –
I rest my head, I do weep
I of all people know, what it signifies
Brief mortality, organic vulnerability

I could die of shame/
For knowing, how a writer
Is circumcised, like love without a clitoris
Who can pounce upon that

Dream, there is no rule/
Who wins in literature
I won’t get an MFA
Or become a publication whore

But in the countryside of /
Amber singing alphabets
I’ll die of humility
As if I lived in unemployed Spain

In some little villages, where the flock is thin/
In the warm sunshine
Of a fellow artist, I’ll cross my heart
And shed a tear, and tell them

‘Nobody mourns the giver’
Because the beauty
Is in the message, I see a sadness in this
There is no salvation here

Back to the king’s court/
Where everything is political
And everything is ugly
I strive towards your mandalas

That you hide in the courtyard/
There is no such thing, as the death of the muse
Beauty lives too brightly in us
I’ll be destroyed like a prince of fools.