Two Poems

Poetry / Hannah Sanghee Park

:: Wall ::

You must believe me it means I made this to tell you
I will keep you out I will keep you out of sheer will
I will it to stand. Deci­sion of division. The wid­ow couldn’t
stand the schol­ar, his need to pos­sess his pos­sess­ing need.
There is no thing that will keep you out I will lift up stone will
join it fast with mud I will build of you what is wished, and when
it stands my Lord will it stand? It will stand and when I cannot
bear it further then it will be known you will nev­er ask
of me my hand you will leave you will nev­er come back.
Out of mer­cy the king killed his son, who was mad. Who was made
to rule who could not love his father more who could not love his
sub­jects. This is the need of desire: nothing more than to consume.
And when noth­ing more is left to consume the king was at his wit’s
end the prince at his end Out of mer­cy the king killed his son, who was
dragged, strug­gling out into the courtyard no will to forgive.
It was July. Sun messy over the ground put into a rice chest
to be buried alive or boiled alive. In eight days he at last died
his body lat­er moved in the stone to soon be a fortress.
I have built of you a wall I will keep you out of mer­cy. The king
is left to consume of me my hand you who could not love his
need of desire: nothing, there is no thing that I will build of you.
It stands, my Lord no will to forgive. It means I made
need to pos­sess his life in my hands and when I cannot
bear it further mud on a skirt marrying me to the rock
and when noth­ing more will lift up stone will nev­er come back
into the sea I will go messy over the ground I will keep you out
Father of stone and stone you will nev­er ask what is wished, and when
and when I cannot bear it further Father I will
nev­er come back but you must believe me in: I did this for you.

:: Excerpt from Elegy ::

How horribly human
how insensate divine

The life left
when the body bided its time

Summer of savagery
Your god was divine

Sun god above
The word was divine

Torturous men
made torturous rooms

Man is a monster
His heart was divine

You couldn't decode it.
The coda's defined

So go and
divine me
divide id
from mind

Whittle at
what little


Now speak to me of rot.
Now tell me what ruptured in 

someone who was loved
and anything divine.

From the writer

:: Account ::

These poems deal with loss—where the loss for words even­tu­al­ly becomes words, and per­haps from there it lessens. 

Han­nah Sanghee Park is the author of The Same-Dif­fer­ent (LSU Press).