tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68898476902984727962024-03-05T12:12:31.704-05:00Equal to the EarthA new book of poems by Jee Leong KohJee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-34272294214801920832013-08-07T07:51:00.006-04:002013-08-07T07:52:28.746-04:00Now Available from Amazon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8QDtyPswQqTx4O149_nt2TbNiPc-IQb73z5BhapSBNFRVEfVPck6SHwyJ6gvLrkcjHH_aQbXw1yQrP1z5qGNjUoBVaW8XMlRyB3iGLHWfWC2gPRfjlzCs5WluU9m-lUVnxOVjrXGHWbU/s1600/EQUAL+TO+THE+EARTH+COVER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8QDtyPswQqTx4O149_nt2TbNiPc-IQb73z5BhapSBNFRVEfVPck6SHwyJ6gvLrkcjHH_aQbXw1yQrP1z5qGNjUoBVaW8XMlRyB3iGLHWfWC2gPRfjlzCs5WluU9m-lUVnxOVjrXGHWbU/s320/EQUAL+TO+THE+EARTH+COVER.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
EQUAL TO THE EARTH by Jee Leong Koh is now <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Equal-Earth-Jee-Leong-Koh/dp/1482739704/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1375875448&sr=8-1&keywords=equal+to+the+earth+jee">available from Amazon</a>. Free shipping for purchases above $25.<br />
<br />
<br />
In his first full-length collection of poems, EQUAL TO THE EARTH, Jee Leong Koh speaks with a range of voices--ancestral, recent and contemporary--and travels a span of ground to investigate the imaginary claims of community and self. At the center of this investigation, as of the book, lies the great question of love.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Koh is a vigorous, physical poet very much captured by the expressive power of rhythm, rhetoric, and the lexicon. He is also, paradoxically, a poet in pursuit of the most elusive and delicate of human emotions. The contradiction is wonderful and compelling, and so are his poems."<br />
—Vijay Seshadri, author of <i>The Long Meadow</i> (Graywolf Press).<br />
<br />
<br />
"His poems are like the sexy nerd you meet at a bar, the one you really want to get to know better—with his glasses and ties on and nothing else."<br />
—Christopher Hennessy, <i>Outside the Lines: Talking with Contemporary Gay Poets</i> (University of Michigan Press).<br />
<br />
<br />Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-48025184248119532132009-08-14T09:56:00.001-04:002009-08-14T09:59:02.557-04:00My Interview on The Joe Milford Poetry Show<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;font-size:medium;"><div><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:13px;">I was interviewed on the <a href="http://joemilfordpoetryshow.com/" target="_blank" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 204); ">Joe Milford Poetry Show</a> last night: one-and-a-half hour unedited reading and conversation about my new book of poems <i>Equal to the Earth</i>. We talked about my Singaporean background, art and autobiography, the mythic sea, use of meter and form, sense of humor (!), the objective correlative, children's playfulness, Chinese homosexuals, and love. </span></span></div><div><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><div><span style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-size:13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-size:13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-size:13px;">From the show website:<br /></span></span><div><span style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-size:13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;font-size:medium;"><blockquote>The Joe Milford Poetry Show archives readings and interviews from acclaimed and established poets as well as up-and-coming poets from America and Canada. The Joe Milford Poetry Show prides itself on its candid and organic nature infused with a lively discussion of poetics, genre, the writing process, and myriad theories and movements of poetry. Join us once a week for regularly scheduled shows on Saturdays at 5pm Eastern Time, and watch for special edition shows by announcement. Add The Joe Milford Poetry Show to your MySpace Friends by going to the links page.</blockquote><div><br /></div></span></div></div></span></div></span>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-77540664393756763392009-07-01T10:22:00.004-04:002009-07-01T10:26:31.847-04:00Will Be Published by Bench Press<div>Bench Press: poetry that exerts pressure at every point, and so achieves a momentary rest</div><div><br /></div><div>Bench Press, an independent publisher of poetry, will be launched on July 4, 2009. On that day its <a href="http://benchpresspoetry.com/">website</a> will go "live," and unveil its logo.</div><div><br /></div><div>The press is pleased to announce its first title: Jee Leong Koh's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Equal to the Earth.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQSNEzvRdtDJJQyEuyt-oUouQSrhY2k00AyrdmOw3e_K_d_yRGIFYa2d5LfYlFYw9sdFpKV5ePqzwvWww40lZ1wEJ0QxsvDr53uRAtVkvnAkJ14YSQF9YxhrfVAYpSaF2wAX7wKL9-Mxo/s1600-h/EqualtoEarthCoveroutlined.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 219px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQSNEzvRdtDJJQyEuyt-oUouQSrhY2k00AyrdmOw3e_K_d_yRGIFYa2d5LfYlFYw9sdFpKV5ePqzwvWww40lZ1wEJ0QxsvDr53uRAtVkvnAkJ14YSQF9YxhrfVAYpSaF2wAX7wKL9-Mxo/s320/EqualtoEarthCoveroutlined.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353495923605475586" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>Of Koh's book, Vijay Seshadri writes: "Jee Leong Koh is a vigorous, physical poet very much captured by the expressive power of rhythm, rhetoric, and the lexicon. He is also, paradoxically, a poet in pursuit of the most elusive and delicate human emotions. The contradiction is wonderful and compelling, and so are the poems."</div><div><br /></div><div>You can read and hear a poem from the book on the press <a href="http://benchpresspoetry.com/">website</a>, and purchase a copy of the book. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you.</div><div><br /></div></div>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-83240726057182560852009-03-19T12:59:00.000-04:002009-03-20T19:58:08.687-04:00Party @ 8.00 PM (EST)<embed src="http://www.box.net/static/flash/box_explorer.swf?widget_hash=djyh8g0g94&v=1&cl=0" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" height="150" width="460"></embed><br /><br /><br />Well, this boy has been partying since 8 PM (SST), but is still not partied out. March 20 is a gloriously long day this year. Welcome to my Book and Birthday Bash! If you want to hear the book from the beginning, you should go to the two earlier posts first. If not, you can dive in here. I will be reading for about 20 minutes from the last two sections of the book.<br /><br />After the party is finally over, I will leave the readings up on the blog. Do direct your friends here if you think they'd enjoy my work.<br /><br />The blog sidebar tells you how you can get hold of a copy of the book. The first print run is 500 copies. Wouldn't it be fun to send for a reprint before the first copies roll off the press in April? All my love, Jee<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbeUz3tpAMtasdK9_fgzoAGF-i0o-8LwyueS11vLCEvF69a_i7PESWOmQoUHHQK86MT-xzWMBpjL0tLsIUt78EzGztv4mid6tTX99as3WpB4LLHTCxJAJCBjwn076BJD_kndHnw9LkXtM/s1600-h/Party+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbeUz3tpAMtasdK9_fgzoAGF-i0o-8LwyueS11vLCEvF69a_i7PESWOmQoUHHQK86MT-xzWMBpjL0tLsIUt78EzGztv4mid6tTX99as3WpB4LLHTCxJAJCBjwn076BJD_kndHnw9LkXtM/s320/Party+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314948305510147970" border="0" /></a>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-91847974848611343372009-03-19T12:43:00.000-04:002009-03-20T15:59:05.788-04:00Party @ 8.00 PM (GMT)<embed src="http://www.box.net/static/flash/box_explorer.swf?widget_hash=rtngg9ctmk&v=1&cl=0" width="460" height="150" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed><br /><br />Welcome to the Party, or welcome back if you were here earlier. At this time, I will be reading from Section III of the book. If you are the kind of reader who likes to begin at the beginning, you may want to hear the reading on the previous post first. Do sign in by writing a comment. I am online, and so will be able to respond immediately.<br /><br />After this fifteen-minute reading, please feel free to hang out here or come back at 8 PM (Eastern Standard Time) when I will read from Sections IV and V of the book. Some of your favorites are in this final segment.<br /><br />Since this is a virtual party, no one will hustle you to buy the book. If you like the reading, however, you may find out on the blog sidebar how you could get a copy. Thanks for celebrating my birthday with me. All my love, Jee<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovM4X_4Nsjzk1dDlfLU-57YYTLCqClrDOayr0GobhVeUtBAoWc8Um0TCy7DEgbW4fBXM0hax9UJJ_1Fn9Xm8FLb2vzckxuYUFa-YmSSdrqj4P1kvq-cgAEfcKnssPnkJSNsrgg3uDnf8/s1600-h/Party+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovM4X_4Nsjzk1dDlfLU-57YYTLCqClrDOayr0GobhVeUtBAoWc8Um0TCy7DEgbW4fBXM0hax9UJJ_1Fn9Xm8FLb2vzckxuYUFa-YmSSdrqj4P1kvq-cgAEfcKnssPnkJSNsrgg3uDnf8/s320/Party+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314943383764126898" border="0" /></a>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-30057716985255190362009-03-19T11:16:00.000-04:002009-03-20T08:00:03.049-04:00Party @ 8.00 PM (SST)<embed src="http://www.box.net/static/flash/box_explorer.swf?widget_hash=7k9fem93q6&v=1&cl=0" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" height="150" width="460"></embed><br /><br /><br />Welcome to the Party! I'm very happy to see you here. The time now is 8 PM (Singapore Standard Time). Click on the box to hear me read from Sections I and II of the book. I am online from 8-9 PM, and would love to respond to any comments you may have.<br /><br />After the 25-minute reading, stick around or come back later to hear me read from Section III at 8 PM (Greenwich Mean Time). The final bash will take place at 8 PM (Eastern Standard Time) when I will read from the last two sections of the book.<br /><br />If you like what you hear, you can buy my book. Details are in the blog sidebar. Thanks for celebrating my birthday with me. All my love, Jee<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIxInFZn8CXXZeN5Z02-_u1mX5oZrZm5ivyGr7NVH9SvM64NtLJVhnsk5Lkhumc1QhiiR9XUeLaCPYcNVuEy1xn7ZzOeNZo1guylYJceHQyRdZbPo_xwtaUFmKoakOhLYou6XRLf301f4/s1600-h/Party+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIxInFZn8CXXZeN5Z02-_u1mX5oZrZm5ivyGr7NVH9SvM64NtLJVhnsk5Lkhumc1QhiiR9XUeLaCPYcNVuEy1xn7ZzOeNZo1guylYJceHQyRdZbPo_xwtaUFmKoakOhLYou6XRLf301f4/s320/Party+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314931547482599042" border="0" /></a>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-37624970449164644462009-02-28T07:54:00.000-05:002009-03-04T20:38:46.715-05:00Virtual Book and Birthday Party on March 20I'm throwing a Virtual Book Party to launch <span style="font-style: italic;">Equal to the Earth</span> on my birthday, March 20. Everyone is invited, and you don't even have to leave the comfort of your home, or wherever you find yourself that evening, at 8 pm (Eastern Standard Time). All you have to do is to visit this blog or my <a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=563752781&ref=name">Facebook page</a>. Invite your friends. Invite your family. Invite your dog.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Latest: I hear your feedback, and I am adding two more parties to the day: 8 pm (Greenwich Mean Time) and 8 pm (Singapore Standard Time/Australian Western Standard Time).</span><br /><br />I'm thinking of reading, in my sexiest voice, a selection of poems from each of the five sections of the book. If you have other suggestions for the party, do write them in comments. Virtual cheese and crackers will be provided. Bring your own bottle.<br /><br />If you like, you may order the book by using Paypal (blog sidebar) or by mailing me a check for US$14.99 (3963 58th Street, Apt. 2, Woodside, NY 11377).<br /><br />You may also buy the book at the party, so don't forget your credit card or check book. I hope to see you there, when you write in the guest book. I promise mindblowing acts and memorable speech.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-92082401620688626502009-02-28T07:50:00.000-05:002009-02-28T08:18:31.936-05:00Poem: Approaching Thirtyseven<span style="font-weight: bold;">Approaching Thirtyseven</span><br /><br />After leaving my exboyfriend sleeping in his bed,<br />I think about turning thirtyseven in ten days,<br />and about being alone the next thirtyseven years.<br /><br />There are some advantages. Give myself to poetry<br />wholeheartedly, undistracted by love’s demands.<br />Give myself to the unchanging arms of casual sex.<br /><br />Back home, watching my favorite porn video,<br />the blond college freshman begging for the fist,<br />I take all of ten minutes. What to do with the other<br /><br />fifty minutes to the hour, and the hours after that?<br />My books turn their backs on me. I clean<br />the common bathroom not cleaned for weeks,<br /><br />but the grinning toilet bowl is a loser’s trophy.<br />I’m craving dully for the next hit, the bang of sex<br />or the wham of sounds transposing into an image.<br /><br />In the interval between sex and poetry lies death.<br />The freshman intuits that. Which is why he begs<br />for the gloved fist to enter him again and again.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-84600505188547040172009-02-22T22:20:00.000-05:002009-02-22T22:28:12.478-05:00Poem: Thank You, Thank YouA day late, but here's another poem from the book:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thank You, Thank You</span><br /><br />I leave your house with a shoebox of rejection slips<br />editors enclosed in my selfaddressed envelopes.<br />Good stationery. Polite form letters. Different types<br />of no to poems posted with thirtynine cent hopes.<br /><br />A few took the trouble to scribble their subjectivities.<br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">These poems don’t meet our present needs.</span>) Four<br />softened the blow by mildly singling out for praise<br />the flirt, the grovel, the hurt valve, or the hardcore.<br /><br />There's one, burgundy halflettersized, kept<br />face up, raised by the others sleeping face down.<br />This one, generous in its plural pronoun, abrupt<br />in its brevity, added an afterthought, <span style="font-style: italic;">Try us again.</span><br /><br />Submission seasons come and go. Every Sept<br />ember burns in a shoebox, because of this one.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-32409086201505299582009-02-14T04:28:00.000-05:002009-02-14T04:31:01.598-05:00Poem: If the Fire Is in Your Apartment<span style="font-weight: bold;">If the Fire Is in Your Apartment</span><br /><br />You live in a combustible building, love,<br />so warns the fire notice on your door.<br />Sure, the apartment is controlled for rent,<br />above a laundromat and liquor store,<br /><br />but have you not observed the plaster tear<br />and the hardwood floor curl its long nailed toes<br />when flames, for regulated gas, consent<br />and sear cod fillet and asparagus?<br /><br />Or when you plugged in the a.c. with hand<br />damp from an afternoon of sex, were shocked<br />by the hideous circuit hidden in cement,<br />unplanned combustion in what’s built and blocked<br /><br />from us who slum in this construction sham.<br />So read this notice. Plan your escape route.<br />Run if things ignite without intent<br />and hammer every door on your way out.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>--First published in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Shit Creek Review</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-33194321336580364712009-02-07T08:34:00.001-05:002009-02-07T08:35:22.634-05:00Robert Urban previews "Equal to the Earth"Jee Leong Koh's new book of poetry EQUAL TO THE EARTH contains thoughtful meditations on the poet's social, sexual, ethnic and cultural impressions, relationships and alienations – presented in a unique style of wistful desire mixed with muted resignation. The book's title appears as a phrase in two poems – "Blowjob" and "<i>Razminovenie</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, or Nonmeeting." By way of explaining EQUAL TO THE EARTH's overall theme, the title may be interpreted as meaning that the great longing one feels for that which one cannot have is equal, in magnitude, to the greatness of that which one cannot have.<br /><br />Such has been the nature of The Muse for many a poet, and Koh is an inheritor of that venerable artistic sensibility.<br /><br />Technically, many of Koh's poems read as non-rhyming prose poetically arranged into short lines and stanzas. Yet quite a few of the poems make use of clever, complex and well thought-out rhyme schemes. These include "Chapter Six: Anal Sex," "For Lonely," "Pickup Lines" and "The Far Ships."<br /><br />The book's five chapters of poems are loosely grouped thematically:<br /><br />Chapter One harkens back to classic Asian Imperial Court accounts. It imparts, if the term "orientalism" may be used, that atmosphere of labyrinthine bureaucracy, court intrigue and officiated virtue. On the surface all is modes of conduct, mannered observances, moral correctness. Yet underneath a more modern sense of romantic and sexual desire simmers.<br /><br />As if mindful of the cultural heritage that permeates the writer's thinking in his life – Koh begins his book with his ethnic and literary roots. His choice of style here is not so cosmic or typically "poetical" as Zen Bhuddism or Taoism – but perhaps more Confucian in feel.<br /><br />Heading towards Chapter Two, the subject matter of Koh's poetry fast-forwards to modern daily life. Yet they often keep the same formal, remote, almost polite style. The poetry is now more descriptive of his own life – revealing the alienation of the author as tourist, foreigner, immigrant, world traveler.<br /><br />Chapters Three and Four contain quite a few poems on sexual relations and social communications – alienated, dense with meanings, and somewhat voyeuristic. Some appear coded in Koh's personal experiences. Many chronicle his travels and encounters as an Asian gay man in the modern world, especially in the West and especially in the U.S. Chapter Five takes the reader to Koh's socially estranged experiences on stereotypically (and for Koh, somewhat superficially) gay Fire Island.<br /><br />Koh is skilled at poetically deconstructing gay sex roles, gay-straight relationships, coming out, and even gay sex toys. He also manages to infuse poetic craft into such mundane, municipal topics as immigration, tourism and citizenship. No small task.<br /><br />Ultimately, Koh remains somewhat of a stranger-in-a-strange-land in many of the book's poems – gently alienated from his topics, his own sexuality and other people. I was several times reminded of Joni Mitchell's conversational, outsider-styled song lyrics while reading this book.<br /><br />Koh as a poet understands art & sex as forces that both come from the same dark, inner, hard-to-grasp place. He is that kind of artist that struggles within the eternal, pulsar-like oscillation between the Dionysian temptations of creating sex and the studied, Apollonian thoughtfulness of creating poetry about sex. Koh lives and writes in that space created by the tug between the two. EQUAL TO THE EARTH is one of his results.<br /><br />--Robert Urban, Urban Productions, NYC<br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-36024918561755370002009-01-31T09:04:00.000-05:002009-01-31T09:06:30.476-05:00Poem: For Lonely<span style="font-weight: bold;">For Lonely</span><br /><br />Lying on top of you, my arms and knees<br />support my body even as I grope<br />for how much of me your frame will carry.<br /><br />You hold me closer, <span style="font-style: italic;">you’re not heavy.</span> So<br />I lean a ladder into you, step hard<br />up, and clamber to the top window<br /><br />to hear you play Chopin’s Etude in C<br />Minor. I enter through the window, drop<br />into your room. I sit down quietly.<br /><br />You come to a passage hazardous and slow<br />like footsteps on decaying floorboards<br />of an old house. The pedal mutes the piano.<br /><br />Then I become afraid you will not be<br />playing, beside me, with such quiet hope<br />forever, for nightfall, for lonely,<br /><br />and what that will do to me. I tiptoe<br />to the window while stroking your forehead,<br />lean back into myself, walk away below.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-28423617068454578602009-01-27T05:30:00.001-05:002009-01-31T09:11:07.833-05:00Vijay Seshadri previews "Equal to the Earth"<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinPVTDTALRzkNhjqpsfxHJwZydtsOlyiNoqkUHAWPtNMw_hAobs0sItIQ-99QXl3YIHEjVXwokqomecY8eq6l_R0SrBFGvFCgASWe9vuqrZsw7PPkzQqKEoh-FghLLjqE4plR4-7tWylY/s1600-h/ETTECoverTitleVersion2.PNG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 207px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinPVTDTALRzkNhjqpsfxHJwZydtsOlyiNoqkUHAWPtNMw_hAobs0sItIQ-99QXl3YIHEjVXwokqomecY8eq6l_R0SrBFGvFCgASWe9vuqrZsw7PPkzQqKEoh-FghLLjqE4plR4-7tWylY/s320/ETTECoverTitleVersion2.PNG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296153369343121490" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Jee Leong Koh is a vigorous, physical poet very much captured by the expressive power of rhythm, rhetoric, and the lexicon. He is also, paradoxically, a poet in pursuit of the most elusive and delicate of human emotions. The contradiction is wonderful and compelling, and so are his poems.<div><br /></div><div>--Vijay Seshadri, Author of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Long Meadow</span> (Graywolf Press)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-90497337801460065062009-01-24T09:33:00.000-05:002009-01-24T09:36:43.481-05:00Poem: Pedestrian<span style="font-weight: bold;">Pedestrian</span><br /><br />In Bryant Park, a woman walked past me—déjà vu—<br />her bare left foot a bruise as big as her right shoe,<br />traveled with slow, small steps measured by habit, round<br />the Starbucks stand and stepped towards my bench again.<br />This time I was ready for her—to imitate<br />her walk in a stumbling meter, interpret her pain.<br />She did not stumble. Her eyes threw me off—black dabs<br />in ovals whiter than the inside of an eggshell.<br />Her face was a patch. She did not make a sound.<br />She was neither Death nor Love and, like that mademoiselle<br />finishing her espresso, meant nothing to me too.<br /><br />But when I stroke the bolt that locks the metal plate<br />to your shinbone, imagine how the sudden rain<br />blinds the bike, the thundering traffic blunts the stabs<br />of laughter tearing the night air on the Brooklyn Bridge<br />and how the last possible moment thrusts the yell,<br />“Watch out!”—she pedals, singing, on the hanging ridge<br />of my back, ringing and ringing her tiny bell.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-28842142397317537292009-01-23T04:49:00.000-05:002009-01-31T09:10:34.467-05:00Christopher Hennessy previews "Equal to the Earth"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 1px; height: 1px;" src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQFQAhGrPHaegUq1g4ywFnfrfnPjXBc7pLDxOhCeXygtECo7GlGnGylna7F3hr5LtD2_QVwfNZrtIOwYCJc02Izb_9KkoEW1AAuFUd48NDmN22-oql-f19xNhdGRVjSrt38sFm5lC6piE/s1600-h/ETTECoverTitleVersion2.PNG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 207px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQFQAhGrPHaegUq1g4ywFnfrfnPjXBc7pLDxOhCeXygtECo7GlGnGylna7F3hr5LtD2_QVwfNZrtIOwYCJc02Izb_9KkoEW1AAuFUd48NDmN22-oql-f19xNhdGRVjSrt38sFm5lC6piE/s320/ETTECoverTitleVersion2.PNG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294424639678367266" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In his second book of poems <span style="font-style: italic;">Equal to the Earth</span> Jee Leong Koh digs deep into the rich soils of ancestry and history, of sexuality and identity, of (exterior) place and (interior) voice.<br /><br /> Koh's capacious mind and rapacious imagination draw on sources and inspiration as varied as Chinese history, the plum blossom, Spinoza, a book on anal sex, E.M. Forster's notebooks, a poet's rejection slips, the epistolary relationship between Boris Pasternak and Marina Tsvetaeva, a straight man's tale of a great blow job he enjoyed, Keat's abandonment of Hyperion, and more. His poems are like the sexy nerd you meet at a bar, the one you really want to get to know better-- with his glasses and tie on and nothing else.<br /><br /> In several poems on gay themes, Koh sets himself apart from other gay writers, grappling with how to construct his own sense of sexuality but also playfully celebrating what it means to be different, even among the queers! Koh also is keenly aware of his gay father figures. In the stand-out poem "Pickup Lines" he imagines come-ons from Hart Crane, Auden, and Cavafy.<br /> His poems contain what poems must, the paradox of both the personal and universal. Whether recalling his father's stories about Karma or passionate sex with a lover in a bathroom at work, Koh's writing brings the reader's emotions and memories to the surface. His poems are in turns sexy and sensual, poignant and pointed, somehow emanating from a singular voice that shows confident formal control as they conjure moments of magic out of the thin air of human history and personal drama.<br /><br />-- Christopher Hennessy, <span style="font-style: italic;">Outside the Lines: Talking with Contemporary Gay Poets</span>, Univ. of Michigan Press<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-63598174330827996782009-01-17T06:36:00.000-05:002009-01-17T06:39:25.031-05:00Poem: Ten Poems on the Plum Blossom<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ten Poems on the Plum Blossom</span><br /> <br />This happened in Jiangnan Province in 1658—on Mao Xiang’s country estate, Chen Weisong met and flirted with a servant Xu Ziyun beneath the plum trees. Chen was thirtytwo years old and Xu was fifteen and famous for his flute playing. When Mao wanted to punish Xu for aspiring above his status, Chen pleaded on the servant’s behalf. Mao demanded from Chen one hundred poems on the subject of the plum blossom the next morning in exchange for not punishing Xu. After Mao had received the poems, he released Xu to Chen. Being only one tenth the poet Chen Weisong was, I wrote “Ten Poems on the Plum Blossom” for my Xu who is also my Mao.<br /><br /><br />1.<br /><br />The old branch blossoms in the snow,<br />pink lips on a low brown bough.<br />I see your face in the whitewashed hall<br />and remember home in Singapore.<br /><br /><br />2.<br /><br />Back home in Velvet Underground last year,<br />you stuttered your coming out in a poetry slam.<br />I did not hear your pink confession then.<br />Now in New York, I hear you loud and queer.<br /><br /><br />3.<br /><br />Walking down Broadway, you digress to decree<br />which man scorches or not. Sharp noses, those<br />Jews’, are extremely hot. Alternately<br />hot and cold, I try not to think of my nose.<br /><br /><br />4.<br /><br />You do not see the tea list right before<br />your nose; the waitress and I laugh at you.<br />I muss up your hair—no white streak—<br />almost kiss the petal of your cheek.<br /><br /><br />5.<br /><br />Plum blossoms keep me up all night,<br />keep flowering slowly from my lesion,<br />flowering for no one, no reason.<br />Then daylight swabs the window white.<br /><br /><br />6.<br /><br />Why am I not your type? Both <span style="font-style: italic;">Prunus mume,</span><br />both poets, Singaporeans, shy, unsavvy<br />men clambering up, hoping to get some...<br />fruit from a different tree? A chokecherry?<br /><br /><br />7.<br /><br />Your Puerto Rican cherry’s sweet: he runs<br />his mother’s errands and, though home by nine,<br />tumbles more men than you and I combined.<br />How can I compete, souring in the sun?<br /><br /><br />8.<br /><br />In your “The Astronaut and the Samurai,”<br />their culture clashes bar them from the sky.<br />Not now. Age is the newer prejudice—<br />old shoguns order flowers, not harakiris.<br /><br /><br />9.<br /><br />In a short decade, you’ll turn thirtyfour<br />and long for a man a decade younger. Breech<br />bluelashed to the gnarled stake, you’ll reach<br />for pink buds and they will dance away, draw closer, dance away once more.<br /><br /><br />10.<br /><br />Chinese plums do not ripen to rich blue,<br />delicious, cold and sweet. They do not bruise.<br />You know as well as I, they turn yellow and hard<br />stored in your golden vase, turn small and tart.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-32173694277889505292009-01-10T07:35:00.000-05:002009-01-10T07:40:08.808-05:00Poem: Wildwood, Nebraska City<span style="font-weight: bold;">Wildwood, Nebraska City</span><br /><br />The sky opened like a Chinese hand fan glued<br />to ebony guards, the road that ran due east and west.<br />I wasn’t surveying the fan but was reviewed <br />on its silk like the clouds a painter’s hand expressed<br />so well the rags of white evoked the idea, <span style="font-style: italic;">cloud</span>,<br />or like the trees whose jaunt downslope looked so unplanned,<br />they tricked the eye to assign depth to a flat land. <br /> <br />I’d planned a walk and so I left behind the sky,<br />its opened fan, and followed the short carriageway<br />to Wildwood. The Victorian house was no Versailles,<br />owning two stories and on each white flank two bays.<br />The door was locked. A guided tour cost three bucks.<br />Through the glass—papered walls, gilt mirror, carpeted stair,<br />a small town banker’s idea of comfort deluxe.<br /><br />I strolled around the house to find the arts and crafts.<br />A man was digging in the ragged garden, tree<br />shaded in violet. The barn door tinkled a welcome.<br />Inside, a whitehaired woman, with a ring of keys<br />stringed to her right hip, smiled and asked where I was from.<br />I said <span style="font-style: italic;">New York</span>, instead of Singapore, a draft<br />answer, and so arrived at I’d come to see.<br /><br />A modern exhibit—photographs of the stars<br />and stripes seen through a cunning local eye. A rag<br />evoked a phantom limb or else a jagged scar.<br />Sky and trees were filtered through translucent flags.<br />Behind the flags the works of regional artists—<br />watercolors of robins and colonials, gags<br />of silk scarves, fruits etched into blackwood clumps of fists.<br /><br />Back of the barn, decorous as a buttoned blouse,<br />hung a series of pastel “Architecture” prints—<br />Outhouse in Blue. A Winter Outhouse. Outhouse<br />with Goose. Outhouse with House Depicted Through A Squint.<br />I noticed, with a thrill, the artist’s name and crest:<br />Laurine Kimmel, who, together with her spouse,<br />bequeathed to artists her town home where I’m a guest.<br /><br />I turned to go, thinking of Kimmel’s sense of humor<br />when painting shit. A man wanting a watering can<br />searched in the barn for one that would do well in summer.<br />I stepped outside and almost stepped on his black mutt.<br />The dog rose quickly, trained by nature and the man,<br />and sniffed my shin. It knew I don’t live in these parts.<br />I hurried down the eastern guardstick of the fan.<br /><br />*Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-2751287090252228162009-01-03T08:58:00.000-05:002009-01-03T09:00:05.281-05:00Poem: Florida<span style="font-weight: bold;">Florida</span><br /><br />This evening walk around Lettuce Lake<br />begins on the planks of good intentions.<br />Palm fronds droop, like fingers over railing, over land<br />sliding below wetland, and weeds<br />yielding along an indeterminable wave to duckweed,<br />a false green carpet to the door of the lake.<br />Bald cypresses, wearing beards of moss, sit<br />surprised in water, their grayish knees<br />breathing above the rootless bladderworts.<br />Here, the wading bird is king, the Great Egret<br />picking its way between land and lake,<br />spearing the temporary frog to an unexpected hump of ground.<br />Here, the roseate spoonbill swirls the mud.<br />Even the osprey, which nests in feathertips of trees,<br />must bury itself in the lake, wings held up<br />like an archaic angel landing on a gravestone,<br />before rising with silver in its beak.<br />And here, reads the sign in stainless steel raised by park authorities,<br />is Alzheimer’s Walk<br />that travels two feet above the bog, two feet<br />from the leafy stink, but does not sink.<br /><br />*Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-56138070591740879212009-01-01T20:20:00.001-05:002009-01-01T20:26:46.216-05:00Book CoverMy publisher and I have finalized the cover for <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Equal to the Earth</span>. I sent her the design mock-up, and she re-did it, with the proper fonts and format. I hope the Rothko-inspired design will convey something of the book's themes and method, while staying away from the usual poetry covers based on photographs and paintings. Is there an art term called abstract figurative? There should be. If the cover suggests something of the sensual serenity of Matisse's paintings, I would be very happy.<br /><div><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgarM04zLTguDvPe-043Q1eEKGewUe8HUks2pbBhpVPRPTnhRTfbxlH0IcpbqIcPx5TMeX8-WfgUpqy03Gg65YZyjiLcdr_IXZjMJzIycBuIQTuj23I9Tfe6NcY8zziPesx4-0STUgYUxs/s1600-h/ETTECoverTitleVersion2.PNG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 207px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgarM04zLTguDvPe-043Q1eEKGewUe8HUks2pbBhpVPRPTnhRTfbxlH0IcpbqIcPx5TMeX8-WfgUpqy03Gg65YZyjiLcdr_IXZjMJzIycBuIQTuj23I9Tfe6NcY8zziPesx4-0STUgYUxs/s320/ETTECoverTitleVersion2.PNG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286500917807942514" /></a>Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-20756626165520857432008-12-27T13:08:00.000-05:002008-12-27T13:10:42.010-05:00Poem: Lachine Canal, Montreal<span style="font-weight: bold;">Lachine Canal, Montreal</span><br /><br />To China through the northwest corridor,<br />through blasted passages, ice crusted tides,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxx</span>to reach the dragon guarded shore,<br />the argosy of afternoon light rides<br /><br />and disappears. Upriver, the fur trade<br />boomed, and busted land agreements reached<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxx</span>by bog trappers and royal maids<br />whose children pedal down in boats and, beached,<br /><br />sleep singly or in twos. In my head, grass,<br />green toothpicks, pricks the back of my eyelids<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxx</span>to picture this carnal bypass<br />aslant the clenched black rocks spitting rapids.<br /><br />Bright Admiral, my expeditious force,<br />command this rented tandem kayak, share<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxx</span>an hour of my eunuch course,<br />unscroll us through white arches of the air.<br /><br />*Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-35938425069114797592008-12-20T07:18:00.000-05:002008-12-20T07:25:23.934-05:00Poem: Taproot<span style="font-weight: bold;">Taproot</span><br /><br />His words desert him this morning for downtown Manhattan,<br />carrying briefcases, newspapers and coffee. They do not speak<br />to each other. They’re thinking of memos, faxes and phonecalls.<br />They do not look at him, a Chinese wetback waiting to be picked<br />for a day’s work. Tiny jaws gnaw at him and he wants Matt.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">The spotted knapweed migrates fast,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">decimating the bluebunch wheat grass.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You can identify it by its pink blooms</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">in black mottled bracts on stem tips.</span></blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>He hurries past fat black women prodding snappers which gape<br />on beds of ice, past the row of crones blistering next to their red<br />talismans and Iching hexagrams, their faces cracked<br />like parched ground, past the old men hunched over their paper<br />chessboards, rolling a cannon across the river or retreating an elephant.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">Small populations can be uprooted</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">by digging and pulling. If they’re established,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">spray Picloram at point five pounds</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">per acre when the plant is a bud.</span></blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>He passes a boy practicing a Yao Ming hookshot seen on TV,<br />two young men outside Kowloon Trading stacking empty crates<br />into a van, the New Land Arcade that squats a quarterblock<br />and catches the eye with its tall, electrified gold letterings,<br />and clones of knickknack shops that claim Little Italy.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">The weed is not just hungrier. Its taproot</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">secretes catechin which triggers natives</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">to kill their own cells. It is not just lean,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">as one scientist puts it, but mean.</span></blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>He plunges, two steps at a time, into Canal Street Station.<br />In the car’s electric lighting, he looks for Matt<br />in the young white men and lurches into them. The train shrieks.<br />Fulton Street. The grid has crazed into a maze deadended<br />by tower blocks, to be traced with the red thread of a previous visit.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">Trials are being carried out</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">to determine if bioagents work.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The weevil is a candidate. A species</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">of seedhead gallflies looks promising.</span></blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>He pulls Matt, word made flesh, out of his standard chair, out<br />of the office and its mite dusted carpet into the men’s and locks<br />their mouths. He works his man’s belt loose and turns him<br />round. Matt pulls his tan shirt over his head and arms. The tenant bends<br />over his white boy’s blue veined torso. This is also his farm.<br /><br /><br />*<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Putting Down <span style="font-style: italic;">Taproot</span></span><br /><br />For some reason I thought I should imbibe some science while feasting on graduate writing workshops. At informal weekly seminars, in the spirit of continuous learning, the science faculty was giving brief talks on a subject out of their field of specialization. The talks were open to all. They attracted a modest but devoted audience, not a bad showing for a small liberal arts college. The free pizza might have helped too.<br /><br />Was it a physicist or a chemist who spoke about the spotted knapweed? I don’t remember. It was a woman who found a new weed while gardening, and went online to find out more. I followed her lead.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhID_QDIIO_iEXmUV_JxWjBxEwzPPKkmPKUKFsbKZ4J51-B-sKguHRCwQMRqSZC7wRAbIGJzlOAB9mYnVlwq70TxhIp5gRAnH74BvsjzlkHovvlyikm0fsRdl4-mYcdXGurSzMqo_M0nwo/s1600-h/Spotted_Knapweed_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhID_QDIIO_iEXmUV_JxWjBxEwzPPKkmPKUKFsbKZ4J51-B-sKguHRCwQMRqSZC7wRAbIGJzlOAB9mYnVlwq70TxhIp5gRAnH74BvsjzlkHovvlyikm0fsRdl4-mYcdXGurSzMqo_M0nwo/s320/Spotted_Knapweed_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5081588266720430770" border="0" /></a><br /><br />My research turned up university and state department websites aimed at American farmers. The websites, with titles like Idaho’s Noxious Weeds or Invasive Plants of Wisconsin, were similarly organized: Description, Prevention, Management. Having just arrived in the States, and hoping to find love and work here, I was sensitive to the characterization of the spotted knapweed as an alien threat to native plants. The language of the description, so eerily similar on the sites, started me thinking about what makes a plant a weed, and what makes it a crop. Human needs, yes, food, clothing, shelter. But also cultivation, which necessarily implies human culture. The difference between weed and crop is, in a significant sense, a cultural distinction.<br /><br />As I was writing at that time a series of historical persona poems, I tried to stuff the knapweed into the mouth of a straw man, the first three stanzas of which went like this:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">An Immigration Official Speaks on Pest Control</span><br /><br />The spotted knapweed has dispersed from ten<br />counties to three hundred and twenty-six,<br />reducing the bluebunch wheat<br />grass and re-routing the elks.<br />Thirty-five states index it an invader.<br /><br />You can identify it by its pink<br />to purple flowers, at times white, settling in stiff,<br />black-mottled bracts<br />on tips of terminal stems.<br />It winters in a rosette of deeply lobed leaves.<br /><br />From central Europe, Russia and western Siberia,<br />this Eurasian weed arrived in discarded soil<br />used as ship ballast.<br />Riding on undercarriages,<br />it migrates along highways, railway tracks, utility lines.<br /><br /><br />Overrun by the weed of excitement, I took the draft to my writing class, as well as submit it for critique @ Poetry-Free-For-All, an online poetry workshop. The draft was justly torn apart. Neither dramatic nor a monologue, it was, as Ted from PFFA nailed it, “a book report.” Its polemic was self-righteous and unimaginative; it does not question itself.<br /><br />A PFFA exercise stimulated an overhaul. Challenged to write a poem with a mixture of different styles, I thought of weaving a personal narrative through the knapweed rhetoric, in alternate stanzas. I did not merely want to put a face to the debate, as immigration advocates would say, I wanted to speak of my desires—to write, to love, to take root—fierce desires that seemed to justify anti-immigration fears.<br /><br />A narrative would also give a shape, a momentum to the poem, in this instance, the shape and momentum of a journey through lower Manhattan that climaxes in a reversal of stereotypes, in an Asian penetrating a white man. I was only vaguely aware of what I know now: the men I want to fuck are men I really like, and so, the apparent act of possession is, for me, also one of surrender. The clues to this lay in the last three stanzas of my next big draft:<br /><br /><br />In the train’s electric lighting, he searches for Matt<br />in the young white men and loves each one. The train sings.<br />33rd Street. He comes up for air, and wades<br />to the tower block. Stopped by a dark-suit,<br />he scribbles his name, number and address at the front desk.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Small populations can be uprooted. If not, spray Picloram<br />but not near streams. Experiments are on-going to determine if<br />bio-agents work. A species of seed-head attack flies seems promising.</span><br /><br />He sees Matt hunkered down in his trench. He pulls<br />the fighter out of his chair, out of the white office, out of<br />sight, into the bathroom, and closes his sphincter-<br />mouth on his mouth. He works Matt’s belt loose and turns him<br />round. Matt puts a leg up on the china bowl. He grips<br />the shaft of Matt’s torso and plants his rice. This is also his farm.<br /><br /><br />The writing was still rough, but the two different styles, underlined by different stanza sizes, played off each other nicely, as Harry, Searcher and Autumn @ PFFA helpfully confirmed. Harry also suggested replacing “seed-head attack flies” with “seed-head gallflies” to lower the noise volume, a suggestion I accepted immediately.<br /><br />Having banged down the slats of the narrative, I examined the selection of details in the poem. The knapweed stanzas still felt too prosaic and choked. I did not think of writing them in prose; the next thing that overran my field of attention was Auden’s “The Shield of Achilles.” Also a poem that deploys two different styles, it accentuates the distinction through different line lengths.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxxxx</span>She looked over his shoulder<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxxxxxxx</span>For vines and olive trees,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxxxx</span>Marble well-governed cities,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxxxxxxx</span>And shapes upon untamed seas,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxxxx</span>But there on the shining metal<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxxxxxxx</span>His hands had put instead<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxxxx</span>An artificial wilderness<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxxxxxxx</span>And a sky like lead.<br /><br />A plain without a feature, bare and brown,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxx</span>No blade of grass, no sign of neighborhood,<br />Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down,<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxx</span>Yet, congregated on its blankness, stood<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">xxx</span>An unintelligible multitude,<br />A million eyes, a million boots in line,<br />Without expression, waiting for a sign.<br /><br />(from the opening of “The Shield of Achilles”)<br /><br /><br />The song measure orchestrates phrase and line, giving the story of Thetis and Hephaestos the appropriate classical grace and gravity. Though my poem was non-metrical, I thought I could <span style="font-style: italic;">lighten</span> the knapweed stanzas by using shorter lines. Shortening the lines required weeding the stanzas, a very good thing as it turned out. I reworked the 3-line stanzas into quatrains, with one phrase to each line, and with a shift in the middle of the quatrain, like that of Auden’s octet. For instance, the first two knapweed stanzas:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The spotted knapweed has migrated to three hundred<br />and twenty-six counties, reducing the bluebunch wheat<br />grass and re-routing the elks. Forty states index it an invader.<br /><br />The weed winters in a rosette of deeply lobed leaves.<br />You can identify it in summer by its pink to purple<br />blooms in stiff, black mottled bracts on stem tips.</span><br /><br /><br />became in the revision:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The spotted knapweed migrates fast,<br />decimating the bluebunch wheat grass.<br />You can identify it by its pink blooms<br />in black-mottled bracts on stem tips.</span><br /><br /><br />The stanza moves more quickly, at a speed more suggestive of the weed’s dispersal, and of the speaker’s panic. When I posted the revised poem @ PFFA, romac agreed with Lola Two’s assessment that “the italicized conceit is carefully phrased (it could easily have lapsed into textbook prose) and effective. An excellent example of ironic illustration.”<br /><br />And yet. And yet. What if prose is the right form for the knapweed material which, after all, is written that way on all those university and state department websites? What if my revision of the knapweed stanzas was based on the wrong diagnosis of the problem? What if my creative writing teacher was right, the knapweed stanzas are overly intellectualized and emotionally manipulative, and should be removed? The field of possibilities. To turn once more to the conceit, how does one distinguish between crop and weed? The published poem once fed, clothed and sheltered me. It will not do now, but perhaps it may for someone else. Pizza, anyone?Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-32750736909098258992008-12-14T06:37:00.000-05:002008-12-14T06:41:18.531-05:00Poem: What's LeftA day late, but here's the next installment from the book. The poem ends the first section, somewhat ceremonially.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">What’s Left</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">to my father</span><br /><br />Some things leave us like a sigh. Your father,<br />puffing out his chest, with no fanfare,<br />walked out on your family for another.<br /><br />When he returned to live off you and mother,<br />he filled our two room flat with his sour air.<br />Some things should leave us: a sigh like your father.<br /><br />No one among your seven sisters and brothers<br />would take him in. For ten years, you took care<br />to leave him alone polishing, one after another,<br /><br />his walking trophies—applying wax to smother<br />the golden tokens while listening in his chair<br />for something. Leaving us sighing, your father<br /><br />tuned his battered radio to a voice farther<br />than yours, not once asking his son to repair<br />what’s left or trade the set in for another.<br /><br />His funeral rounded up your sisters and brothers.<br />The women wailed. You were the only heir<br />of something leaving, like a sigh. Your father.<br /><br /><br />-First published in Crab Orchard Review.Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-64230606582404038242008-12-06T13:27:00.000-05:002008-12-06T13:29:05.679-05:00Poem: Floor Tiling<span style="font-weight: bold;">Floor Tiling</span><br /><br />We needed something to cover the naked floor,<br />delighted though we were with the concrete space,<br />having moved from a box shared by four families.<br /><br />When Eighth Aunt was throwing out her linoleum<br />tiles, Father rushed us to her house. I carted<br />stacks of light and dark brown squares to the taxi.<br /><br />With no plan in mind, Father tore the paper off<br />and stuck a tile in a corner of the floor. Stripes<br />lined up with horizontal stripes he improvised<br /><br />before Mother suggested an alternating pattern,<br />a prettier line. By then, too many tiles were stuck<br />down. As a compromise, two designs coexisted.<br /><br />We covered their room with light brown which ran<br />out, so the last four squares were the darker shade.<br />Tiles crawled out of line because of earlier mistakes.<br /><br />Afterwards, faults in the floor, laughed over in<br />the fit of work, widened into permanent fissures.<br />That came later. When I pressed the last tile down,<br /><br />Father walked out to the corridor to smoke and stared<br />through the doorway at the work. Then he went off<br />for a drink. I did not sleep until I heard him come in.<br /><br />*Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-2103942077630316462008-11-29T10:29:00.000-05:002008-11-29T10:30:33.696-05:00Poem: Swimming Lesson<span style="font-weight: bold;">Swimming Lesson</span><br /><br />Like shiny well fed seals, two squealing boys<br />fought, over nothing, arm thrashing against<br />gold arm, spending their health extravagantly.<br />One dunked the other, held him down, arms tensed.<br /><br />Their swimming coach, a man in his late fifties,<br />rose up beside them, water sluicing down<br />his sedimental torso. When he yelled<br />for them to stop and rapped one on the crown,<br /><br />the rebel stuck out his tongue like a finger,<br />the other dived and slapped his own backside.<br />The coach threatened to tell their dads—they laughed—<br />and not continue teaching them, he lied.<br /><br />They’d not have mocked him in those sunstreaked days<br />spent crawling long, interminable laps<br />under the watchful eye of champion trainers;<br />those breathless mornings when the colored caps<br /><br />are stretched so taut they seemed ready to leap<br />off the block; the gunshots. He shook his head.<br />Squinting into the sun, he saw the glare<br />of light, the air, and something, somewhere, dead.<br /><br />*Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6889847690298472796.post-39134007989121321662008-11-22T07:49:00.000-05:002008-11-22T07:59:15.627-05:00Poem: Hungry Ghosts 7<a href="http://equaltotheearth.blogspot.com/2008/10/poem-grand-historian-makes-virtue-of.html">1. The Grand Historian Makes a Virtue of Necessity</a><br /><a href="http://equaltotheearth.blogspot.com/2008/10/poem-hungry-ghosts-2.html">2. The Scholar Minister Gives Career Advice</a><br /><a href="http://equaltotheearth.blogspot.com/2008/10/poem-hungry-ghosts-3.html">3. The Emperor's Male Favorite Waits Up for Him</a><br /><a href="http://equaltotheearth.blogspot.com/2008/11/poem-hungry-ghosts-4.html">4. The Taoist Magician's Last Address</a><br /><a href="http://equaltotheearth.blogspot.com/2008/11/poem-hungry-ghosts-5.html">5. He Bids His Brotherly Lover Farewell</a><br /><a href="http://equaltotheearth.blogspot.com/2008/11/httpwwwbloggercomimgblankgif.html">6. The Connoisseur Inspects the Boys</a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">7. Hungry Ghosts</span><br /><br />My father took me picnicking in Hell<br />in Tiger Balm Gardens when I turned five.<br />Horseface and Oxhead flanked the door to quell<br /><br />tourists, returning ghosts, recaptured live.<br />Small spectator of retribution’s drama,<br />I shuffled through the dark; I’d rather dive<br /><br />in and out but the crowd before King Yama<br />passed as if shackled by the chains of crime.<br />Father explained to me the law of Karma<br /><br />while a mirror screened a whole lifetime<br />in a flash. Jostled into Court One, I balked<br />at heads and arms and legs, in bloody mime,<br /><br />stuck out from under giant slabs of rock,<br />impossible to tell which limb belonged<br />to which gory head on the granite block<br /><br />(Father said, <span style="font-style: italic;">Unfilial boys, they wronged</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">their parents who gave them everything</span>);<br />into Court Two where sinners had their tongues<br /><br />pierced by long knives for lifelong gossiping;<br />in Three, the greedy were handcuffed and whipped;<br />the tax evaders, in Court Four, drowning;<br /><br />one body blurred into another, stripped<br />of eyes or bowel, heart torn out with a hook,<br />and on a hill of swords a traitor was flipped.<br /><br />It wasn’t me. It wouldn’t be. I shook<br />as if my bones, and not that man’s, were scraped<br />by sharpeners, for writing a dirty book,<br /><br />my butt, and not his, by a spear tip raped.<br />Expecting the worst horror in Court Ten,<br />I imagined punishments nightmare shaped.<br /><br />A blue wheel, painted on the back of the den,<br />displayed the paths for the purged souls’ rebirth<br />as insects, fish, birds, animals or men<br /><br />depending on each individual’s worth.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The worst are born as hungry ghosts,</span> Father said<br />and strode ahead of me out from the earth.<br /><br />Under a raintree’s shade, he laid out bread,<br />ham, apple juice. I still didn’t feel well.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Eat. Don’t waste food,</span> Father said. We fed.<br /><br />*<br /><br />I’m turning thirtyfive today at Soul<br />Mountain, Connecticut, USA,<br />a Writing Resident on foreign dole.<br /><br />Winston is coming up for my birthday.<br />I’m walking with a black dyke poet called<br />Venus, along the river’s snowpacked way.<br /><br />I tell her, smiling, I must have been installed<br />as an emperor’s favorite boy in a past life<br />after I schemed to pleasure those blue balled.<br /><br />I was a Taoist priest who left his wife<br />for Mount Tai to achieve immortal fire.<br />Such hunger turns fruit to flame, nuts to knives.<br /><br />I tell her my book rises on dammed desire,<br />a book my father would have called dirty.<br />Last summer, tired of being damned a liar,<br /><br />I stopped Father from switching on the TV<br />and announced to my parents I am gay.<br />I talked too much. He didn’t look at me.<br /><br />When I wound down, he mumbled, It’s okay,<br />and flicked the TV switch. In bed, that night,<br />he consoled Mother that every family prays<br /><br />a secret sutra that is hard to recite—<br />a crippled son, retard or murderer.<br />Mother repeated to me his insight.<br /><br />He treated Winston to a satay dinner<br />at Lau Pa Sat and tried to make small talk.<br />He has not asked me about him ever.<br /><br />The air nips us. Venus cuts short her walk<br />and retreats indoors to make a late breakfast. <br />I’m left standing beside the golden stalks<br /><br />of cattails tall as I am, gazing across<br />the river to trees branching spears and barbs.<br />A deer noses the brown scrub. Then a burst<br /><br />of knocking, from the thicket, the smart stabs<br />of a woodpecker tapping in a bowl<br />of bark. I should go. Winston’s coming up.<br /><br /><br />*First published in <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.boxcarpoetry.com/">Boxcar Poetry Review</a>.Jee Leonghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979179110231643931noreply@blogger.com0