poe-et-try

youre this longing
in the center
of my
breath

youre the in and out
of every
hale.

winging out
wider than any
flutter
by.

where are you?
where did you go?
when will you emerge
from your
dormancy
of cocooning?

when will i see your brilliance?
when will i see your see through
flimsy paper
stained glass window
wings?

i used to live in a field of
moths
with rare monarchs
and blue bottomed things...

today this field
seems so
barren
cut off from language
(by my own doing)
(only 입양 and 시인
can understand the
emotional trauma of
language lost/sold out from
under them)

im standing here
arms wide spread open
like im about to take flight
just waiting
for some wind
to lift me

waiting for the volume of words
that rush across the tops of
field grasses
out of the seeming nowhere
all the way into the being of me
lifting me
even when not moving

i am waiting for that whisper
for your wings to brush against my cheek
waiting for you to tell me
in the cacophony that only you can create
that you are here
and we have symphonies to create.

my heart has been broken and duct taped
back together
more times than i can count
i am a walking cathedral window like
notre dame's divinity...
waiting for your light
to shine
through all my colors.

a person
i can live without

but you words
you poems
you well cadenced sentences

without you
i learn what "longing"
truly means

you are the reason that i came here
you are the reason i will leave
you are the reason why i now stay
waiting each and every day
for the if and when of your
appearance at my door

(you have always been
"the reason.")

lovers... they have been many
coming and going at any momentary whim
each one sacred for
the words left behind
to be reshaped into
stories
poems...

this urban concrete jungle
a field
in which words sneak up and out
from between the narrow alley ways...
from in between the steam pouring out
from the windows of 만두 sellers
from in between the heels clicking on the streets
from in between the shouts and spits of
아저씨's and 아줌마's
there is poetry and beauty in
each
and
every
thing...

but some days
this urban concrete jungle
can seem just purely
urban
and concrete
and
windless...

and
when other poets write
of love and desire for another's flesh
i am always certain what they really mean is
"i long for
poetry."



-- kim thompson. 12.40 9 feb 2012. seoul. s. korea