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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Object, Objet D'Art

I am not frost that forms crystals
in the clearing. It is on trees and twigs
on my toes too from the gaping mouth
of my old boots. I have no more tools

that make things more slippery
the way I like it. The tragedy of falling
of ever falling into the arms of him
is an object of faith. I’ve been stepped

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