trapdoor literary company

An Online Forum for Literary Stuff. Koon Woon, editor: Chrysanthemum Literary Society http://clsseattle.blogspot.com/

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

John Lesage

Recommended Site by John Lesage Recommended Site: http://www.johnlesage.net/

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Submissions welcome

Open to any kind of writing, any genre, any persuasion

Inquire at trapdoorliterary@aol.com

or at clsseattle@aol.com

We are currently reading full-length poetry manuscripts
Inquire first

This is a forerunner of a poetry website...

Feel free to submit to Trapdoor Literary Company by sending work of any genre to

trapdoorliterary@aol.com

Inquire first if you have any questions or doubts.

Editor: Koon Woon

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koon woon

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dead end street opens to secret world

dead end street opens to secret world

poem

Please Sir, Tell Me Who I Am

Please sir, before you release a bullet against me,

tell me who I am, or if I am who I think I am.

I wear a waiter’s yellow jacket, I bring teapot and tea

and I flick the beads of an abacus in the back of a herbal store.

Yet I sigh at fallen cherry blossoms, pink and white like little girls’ skirts

on the dirt in Kyoto Park, just a few nights ago when the blossoms lit the hills.

Now I am washing dishes in China Gate Café and groan like a lion in a dying fall,

to slink later to a mahjong club and get a big erection when I bang north and south.

I write to my wife in Hong Kong and am I lost into it!

Like one tree going into a forest to hear false poets in my deaf ear.

I hear “sound and fury” but I remain skeptical of their meaning

and the local fortune-teller says the lines on my face read like a poem

And the lines on my open palms and all the veins and arteries

on my naked body are like a road map of China.

Koon Woon

March 28, 2008

A poem

Around Us

I know now the startling animals and their flying droves

in my wooded new neighborhood

that the sadness waits for the return of warm spring rains

The threat of inverse proportional air

and the sped up activities of clouds

as winds blow and roll empty trash cans down the street

The pears and the peaches store-bought, slowly rot

In the fridge, and unattended bills continue to penalize

regardless who is President of the land

Jazz and espresso will be as permanent as the Statue of Liberty

At the tea shop the ladies lament that the waitress will grow old

Rivers will burn in the middle of December

Veterans of unsung daily battles for bread in their meditative moments

think of bovine pastures

and I try to keep an orderly room so that chaos is minimal

because nightly a startling feeling inside my sleep

make me flee across pillows of a Third Avenue hotel

and this time I am fleeing with a ledger,

with the photo of the last girl

and a light rain, hatless, seeing all the cigarette butts

in North Beach, as the Normandy Invasion,

I shrug, shrug and be gone

Koon Woon

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