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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A Koan Catalogue

A new catalogue has arrived. It sells everything in even numbers
from hampers to visors to worry stones. Da-Ren moves
his thumb across the face of the angel carved into his jadeite piece.
That was a birthday present from the curator with the cellist.
Da-Ren wrote him a masnavi in return, about a mythic river
that had dried up into a periglacial lake. It’s now retrofitted,
a parking lot, where the maroon and mango-yellow Volvo resides.
“It comes in other colours, ” Da-Ren recalls the ot

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