I’m supposed to be a poet
Nokyoung Xayasane

I should probably write something.
I’m supposed to be a poet.
What should I use to conjure up
these emotions, these images?
Past betrayals?
Yesterday’s grievances?
No one wants a poem
about sunshine and rainbows.
They want a narrative,
a struggle,
they want to vicariously
live in your pain and in your triumph.
That’s the human condition:
to have your lives mirrored
back to you,
to elevate the mundane and the boring
to a place of dignity,
dignity of the despicable.

But all I have now
are my daily routines.
I go out to brunch
and no woman stands
hidden in the background
just out of view,
ready to throw a drink
in my face.

I go out for coffee
and no one reveals to me
how they’ve been having an affair
with my now former friend.
Were we really friends anyways?
I always disliked her
and now I have a good reason.
Sometimes I get upset
when I hear about
tragedies and wars overseas,
but I know I’m pushing it.

I’ll return back to my book of poems
to a past rife with grief
and drunken nights
running around the city
seeking something I had lost.
I’ll return back to those images
of crying on the kitchen floor
with the ceiling fan turning
in slow motion overhead,
but even I know
as I sit with my tea
in the early morning sunshine,
that material is now rather old.

The things I want
Nokyoung Xayasane

There are sunsets
that I want to see,
the morning light
over the Mekong river.

There are sounds
that I want to hear,
the chanting of
Buddhist monks
kneeling and praying.

There are textures
that I would like to feel,
the giving in of flesh,
the weakening of skin.

Yet what I hear
is the rush of the ocean,
the water entering,
calm and serene.

I know I’m drawn
to weakness
and to defect.
It makes me feel stronger,
like someone I’m not.

And I want to write
these words to you
so that you may turn away
from the brink of sorrow
and make your way
back to me.

But I’ve lost the map
and there are no
visible landmarks
as a guide for
you and me.

There is only the light
from the Mekong river,
and the hushed prayers
of Buddhist monks,

the giving in of flesh
and the weakening of skin
when I lie next to you,
and you lie next to me.

On Sunday
Nokyoung Xayasane

On Sunday, we wake up early.
I’ll make coffee from the beans
from that hipster café
near my apartment.
We’ll make our way
to the closest diner
for brunch.
You walk at a snail’s pace
and I slow down threefold
to keep abreast with you.
Spring seems to be
giving in slowly
letting in the light
without that bitter chill.
It’s no longer playing pretend.
We both order omelettes
and talk about Socrates and Plato
and Aristotle.
Who was it who pointed up
and who was it that pointed down?
Who taught who
and who was the student?
We try and think of a mnemonic
to help us remember.
Strawberry pancake agenda.
That will be the name of our album,
you say.
What will be the name of the band then?
We won’t have a name.
Nameless, I say.
Nameless, you say.
We finish our meal
and I stand to pay
with you behind me.
You kiss the top of my head
near my temple
as if you’ve done this
a million times before,
as if you’ll do this
a million times after,
as if this is not the first time
and perhaps
it won’t be the last.

concrete jungle
Nokyoung Xayasane

Every day the sun
hits the trees
in this concrete jungle.
The birds
fly into the sky
into the blue
stretching out
along panes of glass
and rafters of steel.
Cranes loom
overhead,
their metallic calls,
a flapping of winged
newspapers flutter along
the sidewalk.

The city,
it pulses with
the sound of electric guitar
and voices singing
in the subway.
The fields of gold part,
the long stalks separate
and I am walking through
the subway doors.

I am in the middle
of a stream somewhere,
the sky above me
and two people pressed up
against me in the subway car.
I have made my way
into the middle of the stream
where a flat boulder lies
in defiance of the current.
I lie my body down
on its cool surface
and I lie my head back
against the subway seat.

I watch as
the blur of colour and light
outside the doors
erupt into sky,
bird calls,
waters foaming.
I am in the stream
of my childhood
looking for something
elusive in the sky.
I am waiting,
ever so patiently,
in this concrete jungle.

young and cold
Nokyoung Xayasane

I met a boy once
who traveled across
the states of Virginia and Alabama
to get back to me.
He drank coffee by
morning light
and by the glow of the night.
He drove for hours
on end,
fourteen or fifteen hours nonstop
to get back to me.

I hid my heart in a map
and asked him to find me.
And yet, I had all but forgotten
about him.
That’s what it’s like
to be young and cold.

When he got back to me
he embraced me
like a buoy in the water,
clinging for dear life.
Those actions he performed,
they were outside of me.

I could’ve been anyone,
anything he needed
because he needed me that badly.
These lost boys
all they search for is
their manic pixie dream girl.
I’ll play the character
as long as you give me the material.
Yeah, those days
when I was young and cold.

the rain
Nokyoung Xayasane

there’s this rain
that falls outside my window
a gentle sprinkling
of rain

there was rain
that night
in Kensington Market
long ago

we hid underneath
an awning
for a while
until it let up

you took my hand
and we ran into the sleet
and wind
that night in Kensington Market

the bridge
Nokyoung Xayasane

there’s a bridge
with wires of glowing red
which stretches out
across the water

in the night
it glows
alive
like red filaments

That’s beautiful,
I say
They’re there to prevent people
from jumping, you say

the bridge shines
ever brighter
red glowing filaments
in the night

light
Nokyoung Xayasane

I wake up in your bed
to watch the sun rise
over the water,
at the water’s edge.
You are there
beside me.

In my mind,
I remember
when I rested my head
on his shoulder,
when I laid my hand
in his lap.
I exhaled ever so slowly
I inhaled ever so deeply
and we knew
what it was
to know someone.

In our bodies,
I remember
the love
of a new morning
when a day began
beside him,
his gentle breathing
filling the room
before light
quietly begins its tiptoe.

The sky,
it begins to light up,
a sliver along the edge
of the world emerging
along the plane of time.
I look back at you
from the foot of the bed,
but I can’t see you.
I squint
but I can’t see you.
You are hidden
in my memories
of that love,
that love
that was once lost
to the open sea.

once i was young
Nokyoung Xayasane

once i was young
and didn’t know any better
i stood inside a photo
that looked out
into the world
vibrant with sound and colour

i held my tongue
and i kept quiet
i stood where they told me to stand
i sat where they asked me to sit
i didn’t make a sound
not a single sound

one day i woke up
everyone around me had left
they were busy with their own lives
there was only the sound
of the tap running
and this sound
this incessant sound
this chant

no one will remember your name

i stepped out of the photo
and the sound
it was deafening
the voices
they were calling to me
calling to each other
the colours pierced
pinpoints of light
faces distorted in anguish
hands open bleeding and hopeful

i asked the noises to stop
i wanted to turn back
to the place that was safe
where i was told how to stand
and when to speak

but there was no going back
the photo had been lost
in drawer somewhere
in a dusty attic somewhere

I turned to the colours
their painful sheen
I shielded my eyes
with my upraised hand
I held my ears shut
but that symphony of sound
that torturous beauty
could still be heard

I opened my mouth
and I spoke words quietly
nonsense words
words for the sake of speaking

suddenly, the words became
phrases,
the phrases
sentences
the sentences
paragraphs
the paragraphs
narrative
a narrative of my life
for all lives that have been
and will ever be

I began to shout
I shouted those words
I shouted that narrative
and I’ve been shouting ever since