The Poetry Marathon

Human bodies are forever bound

to stardust. It is said that ashes

turn to ashes, but really, 

flesh turns to dust

turns to stars

turns to black holes 

turns to the digestion of light.

And here I am, walking around

with stomach cramps.

Yet how trite our daily lives

may seem in the grand sight of it all,

each and every single one of us

can carry the meaning 

of a thousand stars. 

And that’s half of what we see at night,

most poets would say there are millions 

and millions of them visible in the sky.

But honestly, there are just about

two thousand for the human eye to discover.

And that’s what we are, human.

I find myself in a ballroom,
baroque ornaments decorate the ceiling.
Twirl like royalty and spin until the room
turns into a maze
turns into a forest
turns into an open field.

Here the ocean spreads,
as mountainous waves sprout from a single seedling,
so do I, in passing swells, near the desert.

I am the trees that grow into each other,
we embrace ourselves.

And as the music crescendos,
so do our tender heartbeats.
They do not stop beating
despite the countering actions,
the voices that tell us to stop trying.

See the leaves whirl, autumn-red,
kindle a fire, it reaches to the heavens.
Now it is time to rest,
quietly.

We wandered through the fields,
stumbled upon the most cottage-core scene
ever. A mattress in a field of flowers,
but imagine the dampness
in the morning.
Even worse, imagine all the ticks
that would comatose my system.
My parents took me for a blood test
immediately after my first tick bite,
I remember taking the little pills
every day for three months.
Now I practise gratitude every single day
and go to the doctor every time
after I see ticks crowning around my body.

Response poem to Irisa Kwok’s Hong Kong Triptych

When spring never came, my friend left forever.
She said, fuck the neon metropolis and instead moved
to countries of fog instead of mist, brick
instead of cement.
She bowed not once, not twice but thrice.
Swam laps around the public pool.
Am I not people, is there no place for me
in this bauhinia, this town of orchids?
I want to come Home Kong,
Am I expat, foreigner forever? Or am I
a tree re-rooting itself, finding its ancestors
up the family trunk.
I take the ferry more than once a month,
I run across the dragonback hills
and fly up the 120 floors.
The city has changed beyond our sight
but I will uncover the hidden pearl,
chocolate strawberry candy,
that lies at the mouth of the river delta.

The first time I said yes
to go to a club
I regretted my answer immediately afterwards.
I did not like the beats,
the closeness of the people.
I did not like the expectations,
the dancing to feel noticed.
I wanted anything but to be seen.

So it took me by surprise
that when I tried again,
this time in a country far away,
I felt the joy of movement.
My throat raw from the singalong music,
they were playing golden oldies.

We sneaked in a couple of beers
and people smoked inside,
the ceiling was low so my tall friend couldn’t do
too much up and down jumping.

And all I remember is that China
is the country where I learned how to dance.

I arrive and no one moves,
sweat drips down their necks.
I am the heat, hitting people
like a wall
and they are frozen,
The room is a loud orange,
uncomfortable chairs lounge around
and on the glass table stands a cold beverage
slippery because of the condensed glass.
I try to make myself small,
still as a mouse teeming on the edge of death.
If only I could move through bodies of water,
maybe then I could find the quiet
I so utterly long for.
Exhaustion faces me like a stern sphinx,
tired of fighting and eating
she gives me the answers I have been looking for.
You have turned day and night into night and day.
Even at her best, her tongue twists riddles.
The dried-out red sand on the floor
lies dormant but I know
that the moment I leave,
it will come to life, swarm around
like an ant-nest about to be stamped upon.
I fear the ground.
Maybe if I let the day birth night,
instead of the night birth death,
my temperatures will lower
and maybe, I will be able to rest.

A lifetime of love

For my child that will never be born,
for my heart that I have never known.
I would give up a lifetime of love for myself,
if that meant for the children of tomorrow
to live life freely.
Without fearing an attack where they should be learning,
without fearing cyberespionage when they should be growing.
I would give up all the luxuries I see myself hunkering,
for a world where bodies are no longer controlled.
Gone with that extrapolar gaze,
no more oppressive laws,
I will with all my joy wave goodbye to wartimes
of hunger, thirst and fighting.
How much would you give up
for your child to grow up
in a world that was really pro-life?

I crave
a children’s sized pizza.
Guacamole, give me an avocado
so ripe the top will fall off
in my fingers.
Smoosh that green puree
onto my toast.
Lustful mouth, ready to taste
the blossom that is a mandarin
off-season.
These treacherous feelings
will hunger for anything
whenever they can.

Sedoka

Do you love me still?
A question filled with fear.
You his behind your sadness.

I could not answer.
But my heart was elated.
I’m guessing I never did.