Poetry is like a drug
your vision, breath and time
permeate the dust
in the depth of your soul
the tomb inch by inch is
piled up from the feet
reaching the chest
reaching the throat
Sobering times when a writer as brave and as fine as Liu Xiaobo dies terminally ill, imprisoned by an authoritarian regime cavorting with the West.
A man who confronts the truth, discovers it cannot save him.
Poets were silenced during last year’s Gwanghwamun Square protests.
How quickly we burn. Our souls oppressed by the language of terror.
What kind of a nightmare is this? We have ravaged this world.
Our souls cry out in the darkness.
Confused by amnesia, the entrenched silence.
Still, I should rehearse my poems.
They should not be so quickly abandoned.
I should like to perform if I can. Let’s see if I can.
‘Joy’ is my favourite.
Poetry does not lie.
Poetry is like taking a drug at a nightclub.
When the drug wears off, you drive home with your friends back to reality.