i want to
go back to a beginning that ive forgotten
to swim the chasm of the sea
to walk on water
fly on air
float through breezes
to grow my life from dust formed trees
to watch night dreams
i want to live
that space between
let go all the edges
watch words shoot forth free flight
from the center of my chest
we were all born of
the connection of spaces
born of an act
born of a desire
born of a grief
born of a mystery
i want to go back to that beginning
that i can no longer recall
go back to those first breaths
born of this very air
over by hongdae
next to hapjeong
i retrace the steps of my own carried feet
i want to return
to the place of their act
to whisper to self
the truth of the future
for those days when all would feel so
what i have always known
i want to take the sea water
that swells in my chest
that drips down my cheeks
to the tips of my fingers
transforming to the smoke clouds of words
take all these words
all these half finished sentences
all these fragmented starts
and build bridges within my
i want to
live in the middle
right in the center
of everything now
and then fling it all
to watch it all be transformed
i want to pick up the past
sling it over my shoulder
and release it dead weighted to
the bottom of some kind of
deep azure blue
so that the day you call
i can tell you
"ive let it all go
and found my center of being
way back in my beginning."
- kim thompson seoul. s. korea. sat. 24 sept @ 19.11
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Hello Thursdays! I am new to writing poetry and eager to learn and grow from being in community with each of you. I want to thank you for sharing your art and inviting me to be part of this project. I am sharing the piece that I started while living in MN, and continued to write as I begin learning Korean language while living in Korea. Thank you for giving me a space to share it. Peace and love~
What good is half the story?
Told in tortured tongue, twisted and tamed.
Recoded Korean complete with English Talk function.
Even she daydreams of songs I sung and sounds undone.
My first language once removed.
Another non-native English speaker numbered and claimed.
In two-world paradigm of white-normative worthiness.
Let’s call her Lori Jane.
I wanna blow up this “East meets West” bullshit--
That never let me beg the question:
How do I claim the class privilege that cost me my mother?
How do I hug her when she hid her white guilt in my humanity?
Can any of us consent in this time of capitalism?
Each person made product, produced by imperialist consumer culture.
“Get your…bootless mail-order baby."
Easy addition to your four-person family equation.
I’m gonna pass on the long-winded rant about global white supremacy, dominant narratives of heteropatriarchy, and constructions of hegemonic masculinity...
But for now, let’s consider my desire:
To talk to her, my birthmother once removed.
I came all this way just to say “I love you,” to first mother once removed.
Is it anything but injustice that when I hold her hand,
I can’t tell her about my day.
The friends I made at school today.
The stories we shared over kimchi and rice, mystery meat, and baby fish soup.
To third mother now removed:
Even “I love you” fails us when my brown skin betrays your good intentions.
“I love you.” Three words held hostage by the histories of violence that I carry with me, each day, on this bruise called my back.
“I love you.” English language on lease as long as I don’t call you racist.
This is my orphan love story.
Crafted in American-made, Midwest English.
I am your bootless mail-order baby gone bad.
Raging against the capitalist machine.
Waking up the rebel sleeper force of overseas Korean adoptees.
Calling all Yellow Devils!
To reject our constricted status: language-less Korean learners when living in our motherland.
I want to learn at school today--
The other half of my story.
Reclaiming Kee, Wha Yung!
Self-determined Asian American and deconstructed transnational adoption symptom.
Monday, September 19, 2011
in this morning light bright,
the weather cock is silent.
not an atom moves or rubs its back
against this sea of matter black
and velvet air
one pearl in cosmic ellipse.
i doubt that angels exist.
what colour would be their eyes
could i catch a silver trout,
pretend that i am Hugo?
those pearls, they are her eyes
and i fear not death by water.