Thy Name Is Religion

Evil has a name.

Deep, deep in the bosom
Of a burning cauldron
Laughs the lizard.

Ultra Catholic sunblock
Can’t save you from abduction,
Child trafficking by pope mobile.

Rage has flooded the nation.
Men in ties calmly sit
In fascist condescension,

While doctors, in freezers,
Babies keep.

Penguins can be evil.
Human theft part of prayer.
Money exchanging hands.

Franco isn’t dead.
The stolen generation lives.

Unbelievable

Whenever I hear
예수님 믿으세요

I think: Fuck Off!
Verbal selfdefense justified

When I hear the question
교회 다니세요?

I want to reply: In Your Arse
You Fookin’ Cow!

When the word repent
Scratches my ear

I put on my shitkickers
And kick some shit

angels/demons

im an angel full of dark
a demon full of light
one on my left
the other on my right
a bastard in the middle

angel's name is c.s. after lewis
demon's name is charles after bukowski
bastard's middle is named
kim.

theres an outer and an inner
a shade between the grey

the kindest sort of naughty
the raunchiest sort of reverent
the dreamiest cynic
the most jaded kind of resilient hoper

and every reason
(my grafted)
family tree
thinks me
damned to hell
is every reason why im
heaven bound
but every reason why you think me paradise headed
is every thing im trying to
reckon with my
night.

yes.
i AM a poet who weeps at falling leaves
and stares slack-jawed at the sky
but im also
the jackass who takes irreverence one/two/three step(s) too far
and the pervert who is tied to
devilish delights.

i don't worship any name-ed god
(even humanism smacks of some kind of
pre-prescribed practice)
(and anyways
im tainted from being gagged on
jesus and his goddamned fuckin' cross)
but still each day i take the time
to sit
and
breathe
the here
and
now
because it's balance that i seek
between my
outer
inner
in betweens
of
c.s.
charles
and
kim.

keep my lust in check -
let it dance dirty in the cage ive built for it
to keep it well behaved -
but sometimes
the demon charles whispers through the fermentation of a night
and it flies free
like some kind of
angel in heat
with an impish bastard's grin.

my halo is held intact by horns
my forked tail kept from lashing by my not going to tat em on my back-
wings.

i will weave you the most
lovely gown of
words
all true
all meant --
but in the next
i'll shred them off
to take you then and there

and for so long
there was always some kind of
holy battle waging 'tween these seeming
splits
one side always winning
and always getting / causing
pain

somewhere in the midst of
finding
has been this calming
of the seas

where the dark angel c.s.
and the sentient demon charles
now allow the
full truth bastard kim
to
float a line
of
calm
alarming
swayful
balance
in the breeze of their
windy incantations
of
lust
desire
poetry
inner peace
and all things
seeming
contradictory.

angel
demon
bastard
we are coming one.


(rothko moment from my airplane seat in the sky above the sea -- the sky as it was... the light and dark as it is)

- kim thompson. mon 24 oct @ 13.13 seoul. s. korea

Death to Barthes

the young die hard and violently
to the song of the moose.

time is not what separates us
intellect is. smoke the last thing
seen before the moon opens her eye.

the mending of the chasm is left
to doctors who understand nothing
of the rising tide of misprision.

a heart stops beating because the author dies,
the sound of sirens faded into oblivion.

Lorelei doesn’t dance anymore,
the echo of waves against her breast
is the last trace of an obsolete sun.

further rose bush meditation

do i dare
pluck the last of
two
remaining
red/pink magenta
petals
on the daily baring sticks
of what was once
full blossom
blooming?

do i reach out my hand
to touch the last
colors of a cycled life?

touch with my mind's fingertips
taste them on my tongue
they are velvet perfume bittersweet
they are wings
they are the last two months of this year

and the once vibrant green
is now
a stickman version of
a former fleshed out luscious being

and like always
i dare not to
reach out and grasp
the last signs of life
like always
i stand
stare
let the understood felt into taste of these last petal shaped drops roll around in my mouth
crush their svelteness between mind over matter fingertips
like always
i want to tell them
"please just stay"
"dont leave
i love you"
but like always
i just gaze
take them in
turn them into words
and let the memory of desire
fall upon the page.

trusting in the spring
they will return
brilliant
brand new
remade
after winter's
slumber.



-- kim thompson. tues. 18 oct. 12.36 seoul. s. korea

My Mind Is No Steel Trap so I'll Put This Here, For Safe-Keeping

I pretend it’s for my benefit that Dad is repeating the story about how he and our neighbor, Sam, spent Labor Day weekend splitting logs in the backyard--

Like it’s his way of etching a simple, important moment into my memory. Something for me to find meaning in and pass on to my own son.

I pretend Dad is telling me again about how his older sister, Dot, suddenly remembered last month that their brother, Ray, had died--that she had been the first sibling his wife had called.

This has to be his way of underlining emotion--both for Ray’s death and Dot’s steady decline. He clenches his jaw.

“I already told you that, didn’t I?”

I pretend it will be for my benefit if I forget this some day.

Charlton Heston is alone again

the streets are silent this afternoon,
almost deserted,
the city’s bosom laid bare.

today, madness is on hold,
men at work not rushing
into inevitable decay.

the day is red like a face
talking too much shit
the night before.

the hour is hung over,
a nation deep asleep
behind motel doors.

lazily the apes will rise
one by one, wondering where
the hero has gone.

The Shindorim Crowd

a mixed bag of nuts
phalanxes of sheep
waiting for the cowboys
to bring 'm home alive

I don't believe in Djins and Daemons

i wish i were a better poet
then i could write a golden sonnet,
prevent poor Romeo from dying.

but could i blame this withered flower
on empty air, when golden boughs
drop manna everywhere?

i can't keep count of all the notes aborted.

where is the palm that holds the tree,
the black feathered bird that speaks?
why are they silent, those ghostly walls?
there is no other ggod but me.

rose bush - an object of meditation

in the silent throes of autumn
what seemed
dead
from spring
a violent burst of petaled red
- as if to remind
from the midst of naked thorns
and limbs -
that life
nor death
are never things
to be
assumed.

no start
no finish
always
unexpected.

what came to life in spring
then faded
only to appear today
as full formed
new found
cycle defying
blossoming -
against the
seeming
odds.

and i
i
am reminded
- as oft i am -
of words by another
of how life just carries on
no matter the
passing of one hope
to the next

beginnings
and
passings
anticipated.

but then there is always
that one
that one almost as if
"death defying"
act of nature
of living
to remind
that
nothing

no
thing

is ever truly gone

even when all dreams of
spring
seem seasons far gone

you walk up the stairs
out the door
doing as you always do

and then

and then

there
she
is

waiting silently
without announcement
face
arms
open
to the day
bowing only
to the
breezes.





kim thompson. wed 28 sept @ 13.29. seoul. s.korea

and in.

and in the quiet

of the in between

of night

and dawn

when lights go dim

and only monitors illuminate

when the world is full of

original silencio

and thoughts rest

to leave space for the core of constant

(i) map a mental choreography

of invisible long stretched arching limbs

that extend past the realm of now

moved by a song

moved by the pauses in the song

- rhythm

drum beat

(my)

fingers hit keys in time with

the piano

weaving a dance of their own

a blank screen

(my) stage

a dim and glow

(my) stage light

... raise

arch

float in thought

(i) circle with

this song

like all others

directed by some kind of

inner

sense of

of-otherness

everything but me

is fleeting

and even i

am passing

with each tap down

on these lettered squares

one day

all that will be left (of me)

are these traces of thoughts

traces of moments

translated into a form of

typed out

language

its words that brought us here

it is words that will lead us out

i

we

each

the spoken reclamation

of a single act

of

another's

exhale

i

we

each

solitary

in communion

joined by inner

strings and strands

of

phosphor-essence

tonight

i yearn for nothing

wanting everything

in the

eternal

silencio

of

a temporary

now

though my body does not

my words

they dance

through space and time

weaving you into my

hear and jigum.


kim thompson. written on monday 2am or so 26 sept 2011 seoul. s. korea

beginnings (cont.)

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

and

to watch night dreams

grow into

day life.

i want to live

that space between

the words

the thoughts

want to

let go all the edges

watch words shoot forth free flight

from the center of my chest

we were all born of

silent explosions

born of

the connection of spaces

born of an act

born of a desire

born of a grief

born of a mystery

a void

a realm

born

of other.

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

lost

to remember

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

galaxial self

i want to

live in the middle

right in the center

of everything now

and then fling it all

upwards

sky high

to watch it all be transformed

into

the art

the act

of

letting go

and rebirth.

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

Once Removed

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~

기 화영
******

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.

Case K85-160. 

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.

Three decades. 

Two continents. 

One ocean. 

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. 

Gone evil.

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.

Blue Eyes

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

i wonder

could i catch a silver trout,
pretend that i am Hugo?

those pearls, they are her eyes
and i fear not death by water.

Thursdays Blog Update!

Hey y'all,

I'm glad to see us all writing and reading some, even if it's not every Thursday.  I think it's a blessing for us to have a forum to share our work with each other, and props to those who keep up.

I wanted to do some quick announcements -

We have two new contributors! Mads Them Nielsen Lee and Laura Klunder - both adoptees currently living in Korea! I'm excited to read both of their work.  Welcome Mads and Laura, thanks for joining us.

Reminder to contributors to add your name as a Label!  This came as a suggestion so that folks can easily sort by name if people come to the blog looking for a particular poem, by a particular poet. 

Peace. namee

PROFILE

I gotta get back on top of posting on Thursdays.  I apologize.

In the meantime, here's the poem I did at the APIA Spoken Word Summit, and at the Woosh K August Slam. I feel like I've been working on this poem for a year, in different drafts, but it was never clear to me what I wanted to say, so it was never clear to anyone what it said.  I think I've finally got it, or come close, for this poem at least.  Love to my adoptees, and love to my birthmother.

PROFILE
8/4/11

I wish my birth mother
had Facebook.

If she had Facebook,
my newsfeed would repeat her name
and I could know how many carrots she cut for dinner.
How the sun kisses her and skins her and calls it summer.
Whether work is slow,
     or alive and steaming,
     when it’s not just a dark square on the street and we are in a taxi pointing,
     when she is counting the till at night
     and mixing sugar into the kimchi.

She could poke me. I could poke her back.

If my birth mother had Facebook
I could know her favorite quotations.
Is she a live life to the fullest, don’t look back kind of lady?
Is she stuck in song lyrics?
     Home
     Let me come home
     Home is wherever I’m with you.
Or is she obsessed with love like it’s a blessing worth repeating?
Maybe she left it blank, like I do, because there are too many words that lift us in this world and it’s hard to nail them down.

I would stalk her mobile uploads:
samgyetang on the first dog day of summer,
her son, stooped by a street vendor, buying onions and tea.
Cabbage and radishes stretching into her corner garden,
a couple, squished together on the subway,
her new shoes.
An entire album of little moments,
her moments,
the ones she has to save.
And the glow of my screen would catch my smile
as I got to know her.

Would we both
have a photo of the fog
soaking up the sun,
like the bright haze could lift our own shadows.
Is there only one sky,
showing up on both our profiles
over and over across the ocean?

If we were Facebook friends
she wouldn’t have to call me at 4am to tell me that she’s sorry.
We wouldn’t have to blubber in broken Korean about how wholesome we’re eating.
She wouldn’t have to let her tears out, I wouldn’t have to receive them,
she could just post on my wall that she loves me, and I could “like” it.

We could invite each other to events we can’t attend and Facebook could send us birthday reminders

would my mother curse the screen every august 13th like an annual birth pain?
would Facebook remind her to breathe?

If there was Facebook on the night I was born, my mother could have asked for more courage.
Her friends commenting that they hoped everything was okay,
sending light and love
and my naked mother holding me on her blood stained floor,
skin to skin,
my fist clenched around her finger,
us, weeping together
and still a secret.

Someone, somewhere, would say a prayer for her.

Maybe she would have 811 friends.
Maybe she would have ten.
Maybe she would have closed her account,
closed her doors,
closed her heart, her laughter, her words.

Maybe there isn’t really anything to say
when you’re dressing your baby for the last time.

But I want to know.
I want to be a mobile upload, too precious to forget.
I want to hear her quaint descriptions:
how long is the train ride to the city?
what is the woman next to her reading?
does she get lost in seoul?

I want to follow her check-ins:
to the payphone,
to the social worker’s apartment.
to the alley outside, where she threw up a piece of her.

I want more than an apology.
I want to know what I was wearing.
I want to know what I was doing, what my mother’s eyes looked like as she said goodbye.
What song was playing on the radio?
How many other mothers were in that black book,
sat on that sinking couch,
handed their children away
in return for their hope?

for how long did she sleep that night?
Has she woken up
yet.

Mother,
time-drenched broken mother,
let’s not wait another 21 years for a birthday party.
for you to teach me what it means to prepare your skin at night,
to scrub our bodies before bed,
to measure a red hanbok around my waist,
and feed me a lifetime of meals in one sitting.

Forgivable mother,
this is a friend request
from a stranger,

this is a friend request
from your daughter.

nostalgia.

"zvegsdute
as nore namo"
she taught me...

our backs resting against weary rucksacks
somewhere in the middle of
poland's nowheres
of mafija crawling train stations
stars to guide us home
i was the size of a speck of light
our desires the size of galaxies
(ive always had this thing about
space
in all forms)

we slept
heads buried in our arms
so as not to be spotted by
invisible kidnappers
on the other side of that fence
my toque full of the stench of
"stinky cheese"
chanting
"ah zvegsdute...
as nore
namo"

so many years have passed
since that night

so many mornings have passed
since that sun
when laughing school children
appeared from beyond a fence
laughing
signaling
how close to home we were

so much of life in those days spent
catching one train to the next
empty
crowded
platforms...
steel girders...
i have clickity clacked across the world and back
outflown birds
and outdrunk the most seemingly decrepit

everything back then
was steamed
by desire
everything right now
is guided by
the taming of
once raging inner waters

when i think back to the spring
and the late winter just before
the heartache
that was like a violent jolt of
tectonic earth plate shiftings
and the smell of late blossoming lilacs
i think now
how
"that was then"
and
yes,
"now is
now"

and i am all the better for
all the lives ive lived in such a short span of
time

i still look to the skies
solitary murmuring
"ah zvegsdute
as nore namo"

i am still the young
20 something
looking down the tracks
head out the window
of the carriage
laughing into the wind
that swallows up my exhales
giving me my
ins...

i am still that
london twilight
somewhere off of brick lane
wandering
too broke to buy even a full pint

all of those things from then
are still with me

but i am not those things anymore
and yet
and yet
i am

every place of searching
is inked
every place of longing
is easily recalled

i have whispered to the skies
since before the desolation of
polish mafija train stations
and they
- the skies
- the oceans travailed
have answered
to my
longings of
"zvegsdute
as nore namo"

little star
i want to go home.

today,
i kiss
the sky
my face
aflame
with the holiness
of
now.


kim thompson. 13.21 seoul. s. korea. tuesday. 6 sept. '11

want in particle form

*inspired by imagery etc from "nostalgia for the light."

i want to
gather my bones from this
eastern desert
fragments of stars
strewn in
black tarred pavement

i want to
"bring my sons from afar"
my collective self
dna
bones
marrow
flesh
hair
all of it
back to one place
- me.

i want to reclaim
the ocean floor
dig it up -- all cracked into
salt and broken clay
put it in my heart's pocket
sprinkle it with
tears
and the dust of my own
movement

i want to
call out to the bones
lying parched beneath the heat of time
and command them
to
"awaken"

i want the return to self
that one goes into the desert for
beneath some sky
of which i am born
to be fed by ravens
and brought back to health from
temptations

i want to write poems
from words that have been
collected from scattered sentences
strewn across this universe
i want to know this world
not from a book
but from my own
eyes
heart
flesh
being
bones
marrow
sinews
all of it
swallow it whole
until i am a canyon
of my own excavations

i want to unbury
the past that is strewn beneath my feet
in this galaxy of urban dust
i want to find the worlds
that sounds created
light years
before
all this.

i want
to want
what wanting wants

i want
to stare into space
and find the earth
my past
my ancestors
my star particled bones
put it all back together
and say
"yes, this
is why ive committed
to this
seeming desert
because only from here
can i see
the constellations
of the present just
seconds passed."

so today
like most
i take my words
carefully from my paint tattered pockets
and fling them sky high
like oracles
seeing where on heaven's abyss
and earth's unknowns
they land
forming
constellation maps
leading me
back

home.


kim thompson. friday 2 sept. seoul. s. korea in the morning and the afternoon

is.

you take your soju soaked heart
and tell me
weepingly
"SEE."

but ive got salt in my eyes
and so i only see mine

i have no
control
over songs written
or hours passed...
(god id give anything to go back
to something
that i never really could
stop)
(and if i could
would i have?
knowing all that i know now?)

(but YOU could have) (or maybe not)
(but...
YOU
really
could/should
have)

and maybe
its not that "maybe not"
that so maybe
makes all this
oh so very
maybe not
ok

...

but you
you just
you...
lay that heart of yours
right down on the grill
and i just stare at the ignite switch
(off)
or
(on)
i cant
decide.

you didnt rob me
of my life
i see that
tonight...

what you robbed me of
was

you.


kim thompson. seoul. s.korea written 1 or 2am sun. 28 aug 11.

retrospective

i stand
no...
sit
here
half submerged beneath the city streets
watching summer pass
watching the year flash by
like buses at the rotary
- writing drafts
not completed
but words down anyhow
wondering
what will be
but knowing just exactly
what is

and i think of leaves that have come and gone
like loves.
summers in the park
that i usually chose to ignore
due to heat
scowling at the algae filled lake
retreating to my artificial but
cooled
air
and wooden floors.
(ah how i miss
those wooden floors)

i rise from beneath these streets
to amble down the way
to purchase coffee
to smoke a cigarette
to buy juice
to go out and grill some fatted calf
(there was no father waiting with outstretched arms
so i cook my own beef
and cheers myself
for coming back to here)

summer
spring
last year's winter
soon to be autumn
soon to be winter
soon to be
another year

almost 8 months of a practice
and how things have slid into
new
grooves
(still i seek a teacher)
youd never think it
guess it
from how i carry on when in public
but there are things i practice
that are keeping me sane
this could all be much worse
if not for
breathing.

it is not
that i do not want
or
need you
it is that
i cannot see you
but you are not
out of (my) mind
i just see no need to want
what is not in front of me
and yet so badly do i want my life
that is not fully realized...
one day
one day
one day
yes
to all of this

so much happens in a year
so much happens in a day
even when not looking

dying is the struggle to stay above the surface
im resting at the bottom of the pool
watching the sun above the waters
watching the world from beneath the streets

and one day soon
with words anew
i shall fly above these streets
and part the waves
with one word

but for now
here below
is exactly where
i am.
the struggles been drowned out
and lungs are
free
to
carry on.


kim thompson seoul s.korea thursday 11 aug 11 @ 13.27

korea summer shorts

I. 3-4 months

june was spent
repeating
"lets take advantage of tonight
before monsoons
and
august humid heat
hit."

july is spent
repeating
"i am sitting here
listening to
the
rain
fall down"

august will be spent
repeating
"i fuckin' hate this humidity
will it EVER
end?
where did winter go?"

september and how its spent
is anybody's guess.


II. on writing

this week
the sentences translated
trickle in
at leaky faucet pace
leaving me the time
to do my real
work


III. this morning

awaking to evidence of
lines criss-crossed
(perhaps tis my own fault
for allowing them to be so open
blurred)
but
we each have our own pen
with which to draw.
i ink mine in words


IV. the past

out of a need
not birthed
but resulted from
birthing --
of cords cut
(literal
and
real)
any line thrown
i have
bound to my
indent
grasping for
a knot
to remain
tied.
resulting in
damaged
webs
of spider's
silk.

-- and like a bug
i would get so
stuck. --

V. today

through the wires
that run overhead
satellite connected
we speak
in a technology
i thought for my
children's
children
never in (my)
lifetime.

it is the invisible which
connects us
the flutterings of
interwebs.

VI. friends

i am suspicious
of any --
no matter how good --
who do not surround
their lives
with
ones who
live
accountable
and whole
hearted
admitting
self insecurities
and
changing.
who know the value of
a
step
and the need for
love
lines.


VII. 일곱

as a child
i learned these numbers
at summer camp
and
tae kwon do
yelling each one out
happy to be 9
and looking forward to the age of
10
punching our fists straight out into the air
i broke a board with one
yalp
i cried like rain
when i failed in front of
family.
and in counting
found no
consolation.

VIII. nostalgia

20s waking in the alps
always brought me
back to earth
no matter where my lines
would spin
i long for odysseys like
that again
days gone past
what now to do with this
golden
fleece?

IX. present

like glasses that keep needing
to be topped off
i sense the shot
turned pint
turned
pitcher
turned
keg
i keep
refilling

one day i'll be a tanker

X. no longer

how i once did
i can no longer
do
punish you
for not being
what you could
never be
punish me
for not being
what i should not
never
be.

i cannot
go back
to past.
(nostalgic though i am)

i pull out my pen
in the repeating phrase
of july
draw my lines
upon this fleece thats golden
yell out sino count
while ink bleeds humid

and laugh with friends
whilst they down
martinis
and i smoke
cigarettes

all connected by the
spider's
interwebs
in which im no longer

stuck.


kim thompson seoul. s. korea thurs. afternoon. 7 july '11

push-n-pull

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

july's sky
and streets
weep out
my soul

all the lives i could have been
all the pavement i have lost
all the language stripped

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

is it crying up
or is it sobbing down?
how then is it
my eyes remain so
dry?

how then is it
that i then still find small delight(s)?

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

the childhood i will never have
the family i will never know

if i date you
if i sleep with you
if our bodies become so enjoined with fluids
will i then be
returned to
this place
as yours?

or is this
just
one big
final
farewell
fuck
to the life
that
i cannot put back together?
for the life that
fell from the wall
and
that the king's horses
and king's men
have long gone away from?

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

words please wait
words please stay
until i make it to my home
until i finish walking up and down these streets
words rush in backwards
from all sides

this school boy that i could have been
this beautiful woman confident in heels that i might have been
this married ahjuma with children
this child tugging on its umma's hand

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

the rain hits
humid
doors are sliding
the river han
keeps calling
conjoined with
the mighty
mississippi
stream

i am water bound.
i am pulled
and
pushed
by your silence
by your stares
by your speech that runs garbled in my brain

i am yi sang's wild hair
i am some other poet's dream
i am my own dna
come back to haunt me
in my dreams
of bicycle aeroplanes
and a father that i cannot
scream at
for his
leaving

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

the closer i come to
some enlightened form
the greater i feel this
bursting from within
of pulling pushing
anger
of pushing pulling
seethe
of pulled pushed
fists that i never raise
to the sky that falls down
through my
9 dollar umbrella
of pushed pulled
strings and strands of filamental
loss

push-n-pull
push-n-pull
and then theres all the tugging

am i just making peace
with a thing that will never
can never
be?
i speak (of) the practice of forgiveness...
but for her
i have so little
and yet for her i am
without a limit

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

is this really going to make me
better off?
is this really going to be the road to
my own inner paradise?

if i capture as many
in my cage like heart
will i become by capturing
the thing that i can never
go back to
being?

if i master poetry in my mother's tongue
as im mastering in my other mother's tongue
will i finally have all the words i lack
for the immensity of this
push
pull repetitive
stress injury
heartline
fracture
that i dont know how to mend?

if i lean in far enough
will i walk on water
part the seas
or drown in heavy monsoon droughts of dry?

if i return to my ancestors' practices
will i ever look jaw dropping in a hanbok?
will i ever know how to tie that tie
and walk with such utter grace
in place of daily
swagger?

can the hanguk hetae
the horangi
this tiger shaped peninsula
ever give birth to any kind of
strawberries?
will the magpie return the song
that ive forgotten
but hear playing out
each day
in the push-n-pull of
city melodies
of my people
my
people
MY people
chattering in cafes
oblivious to
the 200,000 sent away?

she does not want to see me
she does not want to lose me
thunder rumbles loudly as i write these lines
and yet she does not speak

i am lost with and without
i am found without and with

i am the only one who looks as her
and yet for her i am the one most
foreign
my birthright traded
for a pot of western stew
my place as eldest
sold
for
for
for...

for what?

sold so that i could grow up the youngest?
sold so that this land of magpies and the hetae
could turn blind eye to how "oori"/"we" is only lived out
in grammar
sold so that i could be more exotic than my tattered self is truly?
(i am not good
i just contain)
(i am not bad
i just explain)
i am not pushed
i am just pulled
i am not pulled
i am just
pushed

i have taken beautiful and made her ugly
i have taken ugly and made her female deity
i have squandered and well spent my youth
i am paying off my sins of negligence for others
i am reveling in the reward for my love for others
i am still this kind of player whose benched myself from playing
i am still this johnny and june carter cash lifelong love analogizer...
i will make you the most beloved
i will make you the most despised
i am evil good
i am good evil
i am wild raging thats been calmed by time...
i stopped punching my knuckles through glass and walls
years ago
but i still carry all that raging molten lava
cooled by inner springs...
it bubbles to the surface when i let loose my
fettered feathers.

push-n-pull
push-n-pull

with here there is no peace
with here there is some land of morning calm
my own name speaks of this
my own names
are more than one
and when she calls me by my truest first
my heart returns to birth

with here there is no perfect resolution
with here there is only the unearthing
of a past that cannot be found
only tasted in the food
only recalled in all the most minute of moments
that my body knows but my mind cannot name.

the longer i am here
the more deeply i feel into knowing
the life it is i lost...
- the child (that) i never got to be
- the awkward adolescent (that) i never was
- the art student the kiosk worker the lady on the street
- the mother
- the lover
that was set to full erase
the day she sent my heart away from hers

there is no happy ending to this story
there can only ever be the middle

its all just
push-n-pull
pull-n-push

there are no words
for pain like this
pain that leaves me scrambling for words
and breath
and somehow still sensing life more lovely
but somewhere now
in all this sense of push-n-pull
i finally can untighten...
shower you
with my sponge squeezed self
with what this
summer storm torrential pour
is like.

push-n-pull
push-n-pull.

there is a certain sound in between the time
the water falls from sky to earth.
i am suspended somewhere in that
middle
of the push
and
pull
of
my mothers'
tears.



-- k. thompson. 15.35 seoul. s. korea. sunday. 3 july.

skipping stones

i want to

take you like a pebble round smooth stone

from the shorelines of duluth

and skip you across lake

superior

watching you sink

my blessing

to some bottom

of a disappearing point

-- to stand where the jagged point of land

juts out into the water

(one single solitary tree)

say your name

and fling you

sky

high

water

deep

screaming silently

of burned out fire pits

and wood turned

blackened coal

like tar soaked

egrets wings --

(i took your photograph in fields

beside some bursting orange

of your flamed out

hair

making green look more

green

and the white border of the photograph

more

white)



i want you

jangling in my pockets

loose change

that i place on railroad track

an image only i recall

"i hear the train a-coming"



i want to

drain you bottomless

to the rounded curve of my finnish iitalla blue wine goblet

liver soaked

brain



i am not

love hurried

not love weighted

i dont believe in first sight

unless its in a movie

(and i dont believe in hollywood

but i wish their stories

were sometimes true)



i want

full release of

stone flinging

in the vio-lent lines of poetry

that occur between each word

like i did back then

off the edge of

where midwest

water

meets the

sentence

uttering what i needed to mutter

to god invisible

naming stone with yours

and freeing you

to be polished by

freshwater

lake like sea



i want to write your name

in whiteboard marker

on my hand

watch it washed off

running

in this late june

rain

call you

"stone lake skipper"

flinging my hands

sky high

rain puddle deep

in city without

egrets

only

tar paved streets.



i want for

past earth

to break off

clumping

jagged granite

smoothed by great lakes

and a only half decade of history

i stand here

solitary stoic solid tree

jutting looks across watery abyss

releasing rounded flats of rock

that my roots reveal

into

that disappearing point

of

skipped stone

meets

oceanic lake...



-- all blue roads still lead to

water swallowed by

the light of

letting go

pure hearts

release

somewhere up off the edges of

duluth

somewhere on the quiet paragraphs of

some lake

that we call

"superior"


kim thompson. this was written 26 june 2011 sunday. seoul. s. korea

chick-a-dees or maybe they are something else

my friend
likes to say the word
"chicks"
A LOT


i dunno why
it makes me laugh
probably cuz when she says it
i think about
how probably some
white liberal in the tit cities
would find this
offensive
and it makes me laugh
because then i think of how
these same people
are really into
"eastern religions"
and
hang chinese prints around their house
never wondering if
my friend who says
"chicks" A LOT
and i
and others
find this to be so
reducing in its
blatant
objectification
of everything we've spent our lives
running from...
and are now falling apart at the seams
from trying to
reclaim


(how does one express in writing
GENUINE
amusement?)


and i think about all these things
this morning
as
chickadees
or whatever they are called
all swoop down
in a gang of
five
hopping about
looking for something i guess
cuz they look back at me
with this look of
"whatever you are
we dont really care
we're doing quite fine"
and hop up to the top of
an iron fence


reminding me of how
insignificant
MY
existence is for
them
they just like to
skip
jump
hop
and dont care if i call em
by the wrong name
cuz unlike ariel
i couldnt name a bird if i had to
unless its red
or blue
or speaks
or looks like it belongs on a silver dollar
then i know its name

and im watching how
they just
dont seem to care
about the traffic
the sun
the heat
the bongo trucks
the sun-brellas
the stench
the things i worry about
the things i think about
the things i label "good" or "bad" or
blah blah blah


chicks
chickadees
they remind me a lot of just how much
"blah blah blah blah
BLAH"
goes on in my head
how i doubt theyre very concerned about their own
"evolution of becoming"
making me wonder if im not just
adding to my own bullshit
maybe if i had a brain the size of
a chick
a chickadee
id be better at
hopping
flitting
jumping
hanging out on fences


but then i feel the cold
of the ice coffee in my hand
and how much im enjoying the taste
and i doubt that it registers with a
chick
chickadee how pleasant
enjoying
is
cuz... its not like they get to listen to
adele
or
even the pop music that i never admit to liking
and
they dont get to
read poetry
and have their hearts flipped inside out
and yes
though they dont know just how much a break up hurts
they also dont know just how beautiful
love
is
i doubt when they do what
birds and bees
are
want to do
that it leads to any form
of
deep rooted connection
i doubt they write songs
or long winded poems
as odes
to such moments
im guessing they just hop off
and though i
sometimes
envy
such ways
every time ive ever just
flown away
my amount of care
seeps through and tells me
"you know
there is
a
better way"


so...
today
watching them
come and go
thinking back on who and
what
and all
that is
over
across that great body
of water
that even the things
that at times sicken me
(like my recent
- legitimate -
rants on
the objectification
of my people
by those who claim to be so
equality for all)


think to myself how
im really quite fond of
"chicks"
and
chickadees


even if
im using the wrong
words
for
both.


kim thompson seoul, s. korea tues 21 june '11 11.49

Balancing Act (I'll come up with a better title later)

I’m the cause that caught up with James Dean--

ended entitled white boy rebellion in twisted metal and legend that

regurgitates itself every few years in the suburbs

I’m where the parents were when their kids brought shooting games

to the schoolyard,

when boys are boys and girls get bought off, mouths shut, thighs wide--

I spread the panic when little white girls disappear

I am the Angel that taught Christians to paint targets on themselves

and the Westboro Baptists are like my side project.

I ghost-wrote the first argument for “reverse-racism” just

to see if anyone would buy it

I made Ed Hardy cool,

took away taste buds to make Miller High Life tasty

took away sight to make Sandra Oh pretty--

invented the word “exotic”

popped collars, bleached hair

that makes you a laughing stock,

created the guilt that makes you condone me.

My name is Balance and I’m here to fuck your shit up.

You can’t set dogs, fire hoses, smallpox blankets, or language tests on me

You can’t napalm, nuke, or legislate me away.

I’m here for your kids’ kids

to show them while they bleed that Justice is a diversion

arrived at only after a short period of Balance.

tomorrow this will be a poem and now it is "tomorrow" and now this time has passed...

note to self: when you wake up in the morning do something with the following words "tonight's moon sliver" "the things" and "give-her"



-- and now it is tomorrow --



------



i love you

whole or

slivered

moon shape

imprinted in the never black

but deep ocean blue of evening sky



(you could be a white hotel fraction of a bed sheet

in the background of her beauty

you could be a fraction of her beauty

in the foreground of an entire mirror)



when you are giving light

or resting like the imprint of

a finger's very edge

up behind

the night

it is as if

everything thats happening on the streets

both here

and

over there

have zoomed up

and

back

from space

and galaxies collide on

tumbling city pavements

as patrons pour out from

sunday night revelries

and late night

fryings up of meat



the things

that you give

the things

that you take

-- the tides you create

-- the desire that you command...



... i cannot help but stare

and wonder on

this brevity

feeling fully how we are witnessing one another

in our waxing turned to

waning

i let go

to know this moment is a gift

i let go

to know everything of this is just a sliver be it whole

or splintered...



sliver of white light matter

comprised of particles

just as we...

nothing lasts near even somewhat close to

what we like to call

"forever"

and yet

words

matter

as they are comprised of such invisibilities of

the very universe

(that)

i carry on the inside of me

which holds me in this present



so that in the morning

when i wake

i remember you as fresh

and am reminded

of how

even moon

and sky

like love

in shining

are merely signs

of

mere short lived

mortality



and i inhale my world

and exhale my departing

with reverence for the sliver

of that moment

in between

which plants me here

on planet earth

inside

my spinning satellites

of

words become flesh

and

how nothing

even moon

can be found

outside

of



me.



*photo of another moon now passed from spring... back when it was almost full and not in last nights slivered state

last night i...

i remember you

dark haired and lovely

as if through a window

and not a pixelated screen



i know the beauty of what i have been given

so much that this morning sun is blinding me

in my seeming cavern dwelling

i have filled myself with sustenance

and memories

love of you

is a love of

me



i know your transgressions

that you tried to hide in secret

but they do not erase

what once was good

because i also know

all the things youre pushing down

so even in a poem i can forgive

because of how even in life

so much i have been

forgiven

in (my) own days of

suppression



i know what this place does to the soul

yes,

it does rebuild

but,

it also does tear down

and you cannot look without being changed

han river is both contaminated and so seoul cleansing



i am here

so fully here

but i feel how my heart

it is

expanding

to outside of here

(this day is not the day for decisions

but one day will be)



but last night i loved this city

as if it were my own

as if we were friends separated by time

only to return to life as lovers

i loved it as i nursed my beer

and sat beneath some city planted trees

i loved it as i squelched my dunhill lights

into orange glass and tin shaped

ashtray 재떨이

i loved it as i



remembered you

dark long haired beautiful

as if vibrant

through time's window

pre sleep

pre our waking

and held

everything over there

and here

inside my ever waking

ever mounting

ever rising

ever growing



heart of truly ever green



kim thompson seoul. s.korea 28 may sat 10.23

dare...

“I awoke and at times birds fled and migrated /that had been sleeping in your soul.” -- Neruda



i watched

as wind flew out from your center

a crash of wings

a crash of claw and beaks

(i have seen crows mourn their brethren)

(what this thing is now

i do not dare to

name it

i cast my eyes down to the earth

where my hand rests trembling)



half of my self

is still over on the other side

of all the unknown waves that sing out from the depths

where mermaids swoon

and the leviathan still roam



my body sits here planted

before a metal rectangle with plastic

and wires

for guts

my feet one footed on a metal bar

and the other resting 'hind it

legs crossed

i do not dare to call out into

what should not yet be

uncrossed



a black fly stealths its way in

taunting

"i know

i know

do you?"

and these birds are

gossiping about what it is

im

thinking



there is sunlight in the alley

and invisible utterances of

flutters through the

"interweb(s)"



"yes you must"

i mouth to j.alfred prufrock

but he just rolls his trousers

eats a peach

picks up his coffee spoons

and



flies



out the

room


kim thompson 23 may 2011 seoul s.korea 14.19

random thoughts on reunion

* this is not a "poem" this is... words thoughts on life since finding her 2.5 years ago



"some things

cannot be

are not meant to be

reconciled"



those were her words

and i took them as mine

to sum up everything with

her and her and also with her



adoption and its disorders

which lead to relationships with disorders

adoptees are a form of oh so most "disorderly"

cannot attach

but always prone to cling

cannot let in

but always looking out

and those who can

i pray to meet

because some days being the ones to create the model

is too exhausting



she makes my heart a whirl

she makes my brain collapse

she takes the breath from my lungs

and slams it on the city pavements

and leaves me gasping

there is nothing simple about our love



she took my language

she took my understanding

she took my trust

she took the beat from my heart

and drowned it in the pacific

our love was birthed complex



everyone wants to know

how things are with her

these days all i can say is

"its so damn complicated"



you have this moment

where all the light shines in

when the moon is magical

and time stands still

and it moves

and youre back in real time

and the light begins to burn

and the moon looks bored

and time is poking you in the arm

our finding was beauty turned upheaving



and so then theres the drinking

and the over sexing

others find their other ways of coping

and youve just been spun in circles

and life's saying "hey walk straight"

and the ground waves up and down

and people say "whats wrong with you?"

as youre reeling from the booze and the goddamn so drunk sex

and you cant even pull the line back in

because how do you unravel and repiece a ball of yarn like this?



and some days you hate her

and other days you love her

and then at times you just choose to forget

and sometimes its the whole damn country

and sometimes its every woman whose ever done like her

and then theres this quiet calm

and other days theres grief deeper than any child who has a mother could ever know

and inbetween it all theres the knowing

and theres the guilt

cuz youre 2% of 200,000 who are without all you have

so the 1% that you know of the 2%

sit together huddled over dinner

saying things that only the two of you can understand

and what this new lonely feels like



there is no happy ending

you knew that

and yet you didnt



shes got a world of guilt to pay

shes got a lifetime of trying to forget her own flesh and blood

thats out there somewhere wandering...



so you drink

and you fuck

and you dont sleep

and you say crazy shit

because youre drunk

and screwing anything that shows up

and then sleep deprived from not being able to walk in a straight line



and then one day

youre with your friends

youre with a lover

youre with 1% of that 2%

and you realize

how youre no longer drinking to forget

how sex has regained its status and youve said no 9 out of 10 times

and youre sleeping

and even though youre not walking a straight line

at least its a slow "s" shape that youre treading and the floor's stopped moving everytime you lift your foot.

and everything that was beating up your heart and brain

is punching so much softer

and the 15,000 emotions that you were living with all at once

are now down to maybe 150 all at once and those 150 have been stabilized by

realizing you are living in her words



that

some things

cannot

are not

meant to be

reconciled.



kim thompson. seoul. s.korea sunday 22 may 2011 11.00

mpls

and in that just before the dawn

when lilacs breathe through open windows

i finally know the song in full



when i mistake the moon for a street lamp

and utter a sound of awe...



all the shattered pieces meld together

and the broken becomes whole

to form a perfect window door that swings wide

open

(its always been how the light gets in...)



and the laughter inbetween our teary tasting drinks

revives each part that was

forgotten

put in boxes

put away on shelves

not for shame but for

... wishing for a better day

that never gets

any better...

and in the wishing

forgetting spilled over



and when we sat repeatedly

in front of the red and yellow bricks

staring into the park

through sweaty owled glasses

dogs digging earth

your son looking 15 frantic childhood times before crossing the street

the forgotten crossed back over and into

the again of "now"



and when you popped the flower between your fingers

i was for the first time

awakened by the memory of a scent

that we'd inhaled moments before

the opening of flowers



and when you slapped me on the back with a guffaw

and high fiving cuz that's just what we do when we're saying

"i love you"

breath re-entered to my desperate lungs



when i saw each face

heard each voice

consumed each bite of tenderloin

and breakfasts in the afternoon

all so present in the moment

every bit that i didnt know id lost

came back full fledged

in a newer brighter

yet

familiar way



leaning in

has allowed for

all the joys of

leaning out into open hearted ways of

light

and

of

love

and

of

ee cummings wings



and all (of) that returned me

back to



here



the place that being "i" first

began.


kim thompson seoul. s.korea friday 20 may 2011 14.03

for (my) 엄마

the past cannot be undone...

it is not a string that can be

unknotted ...

nor unwound



and yet (i) have stood before you

unraveling since the moment that

you let me

(halfway) in



and the half of me thats still outside

and the half of me thats been let inside

are divided into broken splinters

my heart a human form of flowering



but i love you

and have done so

since you carried me sight unseen

back when your flesh was my shield

back when we stirred each other into waking

i have loved you always

even in the midst of every righteous tantrum fit of anger/pain for all you did

and did not

do



and our past is the world's largest ball of seemingly unworkable yarn

but the train keeps speeding forward

and the solitary street lamps

are shining down on this

slowly knitted path



so today

just like back in the beginning

and all throughout the middle...

i love you with the heart

that you and he

made for me.



-- kim thompson. mpls, mn the states. sunday 8 may 2011. 13.15

about being here...

shes outside sprinkling seeds on the corner of her block

and while shes crouching scattering life into

a corner patch of seeming dirt

i see the visual of whats been going on inside of me

and the purple blossoms reaching up from mossy greens

and suddenly i have something to write about

(cuz how do you write a poem 'bout eating

and drinking

and

eating more?)



but then she goes and sprinkles seeds into the ground

with the green hose resting obediently

like a long green dog

and i wish to "god" that id been born

"a dancer"

cuz they have these gestures for

seeds

and

joy

and

home

and planting things

and everything else it is

that ive been feeling these days

inbetween the

gorging



and there were rocket trails in the sky

and i dreamt with aerial zoom vision

only,

the world zooms out from me into the expansiveness of space

and i loved a dancer once

(i have loved too many for the count)

(i am guided by their choreography)

but my mouth could not move

(even though it knows the gestures for

desire)

and i awoke

my hands rotating to last night's

music

and

twisting feet



and i sat this afternoon

consuming food and buttered lemon sauce

my heart still gesturing long lines

with the seeds that

have been

sown

from these days and weeks of

being

here



knowing that

in (my) seoul

these things

will

blossom

beautifully

with

grace



-- kim thompson. mpls, mn, the states 13.36 friday 6 may

done

so you want to provoke me

then i will choke thee

pipe to your broke knee

don't call it murder, call it mercy

i'm not at the edge i'm in the chasm

make you see phantasms

while i make your spine go into spasm

we at the point of no return

you should be concerned

you i will adjourn

you know this won't just burn

more painful than tax returns

no more option of peace

i will not cease until you're deceased

whittled down to the littlest piece

need to call a priest to release

from the beast of the far east

i feast on your fear

your lease on life's end is near

chug down your blood with a chaser of beer [gombae]

you thought the queer couldn't commandeer

let's get this clear

so you know i'm sincere

i won't stop until your lifeforce disappear

i make you bloody like a pap smear

flesh so disgusting even worms won't go near

no more birthdays this calendar year

blow out all the candles in your chandelier

your lights go dark

no question mark

i am a great white shark

my massacre about to embark

i'm a carnivore, a predator

i embrace you with c4

leave your body busted on the floor

add your head to my decor

you trying to start the third world war

go ahead, i got an arsenal for days

hand on the matches ready to set you ablaze

i'm not here to coddle + amaze

i'm here to make your brains go all kind of ways

here come the extinction

dinosaurs won't just have the distinction

you'll be wiped out like a giant wave

even if you change your behave

you waive the opportunity to be forgave

i'm razor sharp, no close shaves

time to dig you a shallow grave

you messin' with a goblin

this ain't no petty squablin'

your legs ain't the only thing that'll be wobblin'

a nose job is the least of your problems

thought your ugly face couldn't get worse

your plastic surgeon won't get reimbursed

shoved off the building headfirst

insides all dispersed

you'll wish you were cursed

and i'm not even at worst

shouldn't have stepped to me in the first

medical institutions goin' mental

tooth fairy can't identify your dental

your pain is not accidental or coincidental

i'm a force like elemental

the build up is incremental

until the payoff is monumental

brains stewed like lentils

how's that for oriental?

your weak shit is obsolete

it's alt control delete

i flip you to downbeat

wearing boots made of concrete

no parachute in your ejection seat

call an agent you about to be cast

slash your throat with glass

make you want the tear gas

i'll mummify your insignificant ass

fuck you with embalming fluid

draw + quarter you like a druid

splay your carcass on my shield

make you run track on my mine field

fingernails back + peeled

my lips aren't sealed

my words is rough

but my fists is tough

even when you've had enough

i still beat you into a bloody cream puff

see your blood run

anger hotter than the center of the sun

i got the formula to f1

regrets are none

torture is for fun

this is my entertainment with no refunds

the noose has already been spun

you're a stun gun, i'm a machine gun

i lay you out, done

WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID

One time I was sort of seeing this guy.  After one kiss, he blessed me with a long speech about how he needed to know what I wanted because he didn't want to be a father.  This totally pissed me off, which you should never do to a poet, because then they'll just write about you (a line I learned from Bao Phi).  I dedicate this poem to all men who date single moms, because NEWSFLASH, we don't need you like you think we need you.

WHAT I SHOULD’VE SAID
for men that date single moms

Do you
think
I am the kind of woman
who lets love storm her judgment?
The kind of woman
who saves spaces in her sky for any
bird who kisses her?

Do you
think
I’m the kind of lover
who doesn’t respect men enough
to have favorites?
The kind of lover
who is so lonely
she’s forgetful?

What kind of mother do you think I am
that I would think
my son needs the kind of father
you think you are,
who considers this family a charity,
like we accept any donation?

A NaPoWriMo poem: I Believe In Harry Holt Too

Unrevised with a visual aid (revision 11/27/12)

Somewhere across the ocean, 

a woman looks through my eyes at her ruined body

and remembers me,

wonders what might have been

now that the world is a different place than 1986. 

Maybe her heart rips in half again

as she goes to work in a textile factory.

Somewhere across the ocean, 

a man clenches my jawline at his monthly wage 

(less than I spend in a week) 

and remembers me, 

wonders what the woman with my eyes is doing now

before swallowing his failure like drunken sick

and clocking out of his factory.

Yesterday, I bought a teddy bear for my friend’s kid

because the tag said “made in Korea”

and somehow, that made me feel like it could have

some connection to whoever was sewing it together

in a factory across the ocean. 

I doubt he’ll remember who gave it to him. 

response to frank o'hara

자전

프랭크 오 하라

한역 김 연복



어렸을 때에 난

학교 운동장 구석에서

혼자서만

놀았다.



인형도

게임도 시들했다

동물들은 나를 피했고

새들은 날아가 버렸다



누군가가 나를 찾으면

난 나무 뒤에 숨어서

" 난 고아다" 하고

소리쳤다



그러다, 보라, 오늘 !

난 모든 아름다움의 중심에 있다

이런 시들을 쓰면서...

상상이나 해보라.



Autobiographia Literaria

Frank O, Hara

When I was a child

I played by myself in a

corner of the schoolyard

all alone.



I hated dolls and I

hated games, animals were

not friendly and birds

flew away



If anyone was looking

for me I hid behind a

tree and cried out " I am

an orphan."



And here I am, the

center of all beauty !

writing these poems !

Imagine !



-------------

response to frank o'hara:



a little dude ranch

all alone

eating lunch

and for the first and only time

feeling peace

cuz the two boys whod mock were inside

(two boys whom i later learned to tame

through self deprecation ...

which became both my salvation and my jail cell)



i couldnt say the "r" in mark

i was (so) afraid to speak words like

"world"

"art"

"write"

"word"

and my very brother's name or who he was...

and yet all i wanted was to be

an "aw-tist" and a "ww-iter"



childhood was threatening

from an early age i mourned

how id never have sun bleached blonde hair

or eyes of blue

* such shortcomings were sure signs of ugliness

id never be...

maria von trapp in any school production



jesus and his dad were these nice but mean guys

who lived upstairs

always loving

but always threatening

with their thug named

"angel of death"

who usually liked to pass-over

just before easter

i had no choice but to

swear allegiance

if i wanted to make it to the 1st grade all intact



i'd lie on the wall to wall

carpeting

playing with words

drawing up blueprints for

a future house

and life



id tell her all the things id wonder about

HER

and she'd tell me

id see HER in heaven so not to worry

* this only made me worry more... as from what i knew of heaven... by the time i saw her there i wouldnt care id just be strolling streets of gold whilst stuck in a church service that was scheduled to run for an eternity...



id dream of london

and the world

id dream of women

and songs played out on the piano

id dream of tattoos and cigarettes

and sitting up in trees drawing it all out

id wake up thinking

how i never dreamed of HER

and yet... and yet...



when i was 9 and met poetry

thats when i suddenly knew that

all of it could come true...



so here i am

artist writer of words who has seen the world and who found HER (bringing my kind of heaven down to earth)

and so...

here i am...

this orphan turned woman

with jet black hair that gets more attention than a gangnam pampered poodle

here i am

this child who in hiding found respite

this tattood smoking kim hae kim

who has lived where maria von trapp once sang

this dreaming kid afraid of most but drawing up blueprints for the future

this who i was

and

who i am

this me

who no longer has to eat alone

no more afraid of things that involve the letter

"r"



... yes, frank o'hara this life i did

imagine!



-- kim thompson. tuesday 11.35 12 april 11. seoul. s. korea

my heart

my heart is the flower that blossoms

pink and bright

outside the dry cleaners

i live downwind from their scent


my heart is

the smell of bread baking

from the bakers round the corner

i live upwind from its scent


my heart is

the sentences i write you

when time whispers "wait"

and the words say "soon"


my heart is

the rain that wakes me in the morning

collecting in my alley

in the space between two walls


my heart is

the joy of knowing trans oceanic flight

and the hearts that wait

for mine


my heart is

awake to knowing that

i will know when to

send

when to go

when to stay

and when to

meet.


my heart is

the painting above my door

arms up in the akimbo of

surrender


my heart is

that silver coin

oblong shape indented

piece of memento


my heart is

wings tucked in

wings unfurled

always ready for the soaring


my heart is

the morning coffee in my cup

and cigarette smoke in the air

and music from small laptop speakers


my heart is

yours for always


my heart is

mine from the beginning


my heart is

living upwind of baked bread

downwind of cherry blossoms

in between two walls swollen with rain

silver smoke wings singing

akimbo'd ready for flight

and well

caffeinated


my heart

it just

is.


-- kim thompson. thursday 7 april 2011. seoul. s.korea 14.00