Desmond Kon Zhicheng Mingdé

Desmond Kon Zhicheng Mingdé Poems

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Ars Poetica: At Every Turn Today

I am not Proust and his literary machine.

Am I partial as objects, as impulses that make me burst open Stevens?
Am I eros that resonates like an oboe?

The oboe is getting clinical yet pedestrian; it is listening for sounds in my chest
that point to lovers and quiet hope, and forever forgiveness.

Do you hear its waiting like an ear to the wall, like notes slipped into cracks?
How we stonewall the cracks, the poems we first loved to hear.

Can they not see the sadness of forgetfulness?

If not, haven’t their hearts ever braced themselves for loss? ...

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Kite Fight

“The wind is your friend, ” Da-Ren tells his student
as his student struggles with his umbrella. The umbrella’s steel
rods are bending backwards, flapping gadfly legs.
Why does master’s hair always stay perfectly combed?
Why does his robe fly out in all the right directions
like an Issey Miyake confection? The Buddhist nuns from Burma
have run for shelter with their begging bowls, white robes
like wet muslin. They look at small coins in their bowls.
Buskers are quiet like that too

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