Biography of Kamiel Choi
Born 1979 in the Netherlands, studied philosophy, now juggling interests in poetry, philosophy, resistance, writing novels, sustainable living, and traveling.
Kamiel Choi Poems
`light Of Love
I stand next to the ocean the light of our hotel room is still reflected on the waves
How much peace is in an evening walk of two near strangers at the bay when they hold hands and gently talk even if their peace - has gone away
I Will Be Ninety-Five
I will be ninety-five and I will play my violin in the shade of a tree
Message To The Future
I risk an early death by sitting down for this so listen: my clavicles move like daggers to write cut-throat poetry for you no jokes. no mirrors.
Poetry is always celebration or its opposite. Making blackness the word for everything: A symbol, a sound,
A smartphone is a Viennese Kaffeehaus in your pocket: Card games, endless newspapers, a place where you can receive your post
Behold My Trickery Today
Behold my trickery today: I mistake your gaze
She Draws Triangles.
She draws triangles. Can you draw a round triangle I ask? No! She says. That is an oxymoron.
When I was born, my parents planted a birch tree in our back garden. I could not see it from my room at the front of the house.
last night, ancient starlight fell onto your arm it was billions of years old and had traveled the entire time only to smash into your barren wrinkled skin.
In my mind I have created a garden populated with insects who don't bite and birds who don't shit on my paper when I write there is a lily pond, with frogs who know Bach
I sing of happiness in little things a daughter who puts lipstick on my face the smile of a stranger when she sees my hat the dream of reading a poem to you one day
After the boil you wait. Then you pour. Then you wait again. Three minutes. And then you press down. Slowly.
in my country, everybody can eat icecream with wholeness in it world leaders rub nuclear shoulders for it, spiders
Message To The Future
I risk an early death by sitting down for this
so listen: my clavicles move like daggers
to write cut-throat poetry for you
no jokes. no mirrors.
This here is a message you cannot unread. Also, it ages
less quickly than we do. When you and I have turned
into dust, this thing will be around.