The Seven-Min Dramaepic Poem With The Idol In My Id Poem by Desmond Kon

[by desmond kon délong-wangshu]

a cartesian don’t-think remove
heraclitean follow-through
to the seven-twenty ml just downed like life
a resplendent bottle, iridescent in the rain
the good sake midnight rain in cupped palms
pollock’s newest drip, newest unsteady line
what fugue in another bach, reprised

*******

pollock hunched over like that edward hopper
lighthouse picture, cafe, drawing room
was there a drawing room and behind it
another blueprint of long island
that expanse of green now winter, white
clean as freshly wiped chin over coffee
good night to the conscious sublime

*******

two-twelve in the morning and awake
love the two yohji yamamoto black tees
tipping point of a rubber-stamp peony
in an arch to big-perfumed bouquet
out back, my arm tries to reach out
yo-yo ma’s appalachia waltz
like that faraway lover’s do-able dance

*******

look, three women doing taichi in a line
synchronic-diatonic like pepe sitra
that phoenix mix, cocktail percussions
bells in a collective pealing, distilling
you in bed, another pure denuded sinew
the towel blanket dropped off the ledge
a thud, beside the storm drain, again

*******

chopin’s nocturne in f sharp, then e flat
flattening out to the square-dance hall
and the poem that moved over its own face
watery, one word after another, afloat
but a rich spin, sudden pirouette
flash of paint like truth, the tremor
of it and what the middles of us take away

*******

like marvin laird, like jan kaczmarek
like perlman and his black orpheus
like hans zimmer, like gabriel yared
like harry gregson-williams
like michel camillo
like andrew powell in a walk with keats
like masakazu yoshizawa in that zen garden

*******

like bebel gilberto, her samba da bencau
now languid in my head, one language
to forestall another, to dwarf a softening other
to tame another, to love another, to swim
like pollock, his can gripped, tight fists
and you turn onto your back, falling
left arm dangling, open bottle and its contents





Author’s Note:

I woke up early one morning and decided to engage with oneword.com, an ingenious concept where each day, a new word is posted as a primer, with viewers having sixty seconds to write about it, against it, around it, alongside it, always with it in mind. My word was “idle” and I undecided it, to pun on “idol” – before I knew it, I had penned seven poems of seven lines in seven minutes in this dramaepic poetic series.

The following day, oneword.com astonishingly posted “idol” as its word-of-the-day, to which I responded: “the idol in my id is sad and has gone to sleep... ta ta... and thanks...” Tracy Koretsky, resident poetry reviewer for Winning Writers, subsequently selected it for her column, but I had to decline and withdraw the poem for good reason. Koretsky, who has won numerous awards for her fiction and poetry, has availed her poetry collection, Even Before My Own Name, on her homepage at no cost to readers.