Two Poems by Michael Koh


i saw
a bird
today –

it sat far
beyond the
reach of my

perched high
on the edge
of westbury hall

its song buried
in my ears
singing for
the soul it
would have received

but no
it sang for
the love of
and from the
other side
came its

and i walked
down that path
i walk down
every morning


my mother asked me to clean
the garbage pail today
it is a hot humid sunny summer afternoon
my shirt is sticking to my back
and hiking up my underarms and
i can’t help but feel she is
getting me back for that time
i taped over her wedding video
with wrestling

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“that time we got high and i disappeared for a while” by Michael Koh

I got high and saw a green cartoony squirrel with a headband holding a bomb over its head while it had a evil smile and a cigarette in its mouth on a brick wall on this really tall building that looked over almost the entire city but the building was the only one above 20 stories for about 20 blocks on all sides so it was like the first town in that Zelda game where that tree is the tallest thing and the village is built around it and the entire village is colored in all derivatives of green and the lighting is pseudo-extraterrestrial but the fact that there are ferns reminds you that it is an earth-like setting and you look around you and you are a cartoon character and you have these big-ass eyes and you have this grey, round sword that changes shape, but just a little bit as you move and you’re thinking that it’s pretty cool but you remember the building but it doesn’t really hold your attention because you’re on a white horse that has lightning-blue manes and has this stinky-evil grin and you have a spear in your hand and you’re fighting but you don’t know what you’re fighting because there’s a deck of cards over your right eye and the chariot that the things are on move to the left but now you can see that the person you need to fight is colored green and his hair is darker green and looks like the Grinch but not really because he has dark purple lenses on his glasses and the sky turns purple and there are torpedoes that are colored light-grey and coppery-gold and ivory color or something like the color of the china plates from Beauty and the Beast and the girl had red hair or something and the dance hall has this table cloth that has yellow stripes that make 1/4th a square on each corners of the cloth and remember the teapot that looked like an elephant with green eyes that reminded you of Indian women for some reason and the only reason that people forget that Indian people have green eyes are because when you see a white person with green eyes it’s more attractive or something because their green is more ‘deep’ and ‘vibrant’ and usually the green-eyed people are pale and for some reason you think of milk and whole milk and heavy cream but you are lactose-intolerant and if you drink dairy you end up in the bathroom for a couple of hours and you could be playing video games or talking to people or eating some food but you have no time to do that and you can taste some bile and stomach fluids and you think you have little time to think and you feel bleaker and bleaker but you remember you are with someone who loves you and what you’re doing right now is not doing her any justice because you love her and she loves you and all you want to do is be next to her but you feel like shit and the world treats you like shit and you don’t know what to do because all you can do is sit and watch like everyone else and you feel like no matter what you do you will never win but you know like everything else everyone you know and everything you know is true will die and end and will not matter and you feel okay for some weird reason and know that the end is inevitable and feel this is too cliché and you think of something that makes you feel better but you can’t think of anything but suddenly a hand-drawn pig sitting in a large dish of water made of wood reinforced with iron with some writing on its belly and it has sunglasses on and you feel like you have nothing wrong with life and some fool on TV moans and groans about some food that you know you’ll never ever get to taste but you can almost smell that delicious bark-like leathery barbeque sauce and you salivate and realize that the light is off where you stand and so, I finished peeing.

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“The Country of Arching Elms” by Michael Koh

I too, felt there was something about a town just inland off the shores of Maine, which rendered the rest of the cities in the United States unattractive and obtrusive. It may have been the simple fact that it was merely a vacation, that I was to stay in this town for little less than a week that made it so enchanting, giving way to gripping folklore and a curiousness for the town that seemed never to abate. The creaking Northeast houses, their shutters nailed forever open for the passerby to see, bits of ancient, towering elms wedged in-between shops, the main circle and its exhilarating statue and fountain, instilled a gayety within myself and my companion, who also enjoyed the fresh sea-tamed air circle around us as the nascent Maine sun bared its soul onto the couples here and fro. My companion felt the town to be a single entity; that the people were one with this rural seaside town, and felt at ease, and at home here. I proclaimed my love for this town that I had never set foot on until now, and my companion too proclaimed her love for the town.


Returning for the second time of the year, I noted that the town had not changed. Kennebunk had retained its quiet, unremarkable air, its giant elms with arching branches, the café where I had uttered my first ever New Englandism: “wicked good.” The man-made reservoir in which I had kayaked across with my companion following behind me, had changed little, if any. Ducks nested beside the water, reeds maintained their hold at the western end, and the houses that looked to the water had not yet been given another coat of paint. Trees still reigned over the Kennebunk sky and a car would occasionally pass, shaking shrubs with its shadows.

I met with an antiquarian while on a trip to visit old farmhouses in the neighborhood. Mr. Jewell had been a resident of Kennebunk since the early 1900’s and the farmhouse was given to him by his grandfather who was a veteran of the Spanish-American war. I stood in admiration of the ancient farmhouse and breathed the air that was once taken in by his grandfather. Mr. Jewell motioned to me with his good hand and walked into a room. There, he showed me his prized antiques: a civil war era cast-iron skillet, a toboggan from the late 19th century, a laminated, yellowing New York Times, brittle wicker chairs once used by his grandfather’s family, and a tin box that had held candy from a company that had defaulted on its loans before I was born. Mr. Jewell asked me if I was interested in any of these items. I apologized. He waved his hand, pacifying my apologetic gestures. “It’s antiquing season,” he said. I asked him what he meant. “People come to Kennebunk for one thing. Antiques. Haven’t you seen the antique stores all around the town? They go a couple miles down into Wells too. You’ve been there, haven’t you?” I told him I had not. “Ah,” he said. “Wells, although it’s smaller than Kennebunk, is a popular place. Go to Wells Beach, it’s where everyone goes.” I thanked Mr. Jewell and bought a small painting, which he practically gave to me for free. “It was only worth a nickel when I bought it,” he said.

I stood outside the farmhouse, gazing at the darkness beyond the cottage and the road that leads into the woods and to Wells, and I took a deep breath of the warm summer air that surrounded the enchanting town.


For days after, I made attempts to go to Wells, but my companion had insisted we stay in Kennebunk and make our way out to Sanford, where we would be able to rent a room in a cottage hidden behind a forest of trees and bushes. I resisted the idea, argued that it would cause trouble, that it was too far from stores and the beach, and the ocean, but it was all for naught. The room was rented for three full days.

I watched the sun rise and set while sitting by the window for two days. My companion had gone out to run errands and I had not gone with her for I had wanted to spite her, which now seems peculiar and childish. On the third day, I had enough of the solitude that was so thoroughly enjoyed by many and ventured out beyond the grounds in search of civilization.

Sanford held the amenities of a small town. City Hall was the center of the town like many other old towns and the buildings around it were the most ornate and distinguished out of all the buildings in Sanford. I sat on a bench and watched the clouds pass above me until someone tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was lost. My eyes focused on a floral dress. The woman stood to the left of me, her hand on her straw hat, the air faint with her perfume. She looked at me as one does to a lost child. I politely answered her, revealing that I am a passing vacationer with time to spare. “Oh,” she said. I nodded and observed the infrequency of passing cars. The woman sat down next to me and asked me if I had seen the school. I told her I had not. “Ah,” she said. “It’s one of the oldest buildings in Maine – aside from City Hall.” I inquired as to where the school was located. “Come with me, I can take you there.” I hesitated. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s on the way to where I was headed anyway.” Unconvinced, yet enamored with curiosity, I followed her eastward and away from the fountain, the statue, and the buildings, into a neighborhood once inhabited by Englishmen and Frenchmen, the houses now empty of their old matronly culture, replaced by the American idea of Europe and American identity, all standing one-by-one in neat rows with neatly trimmed grass, and at the end of the road was a small hill, and at the top, a school, recently renovated to look more modern. “There it is,” she said triumphantly and I looked at her face, and saw a guise of moroseness. I asked her to come with me for a tour and she accepted without hesitation. I asked her if she had gone to this school. “I graduated a couple of years ago,” she said. I nodded in engagement. As we came up the hill, a bell rang, and students poured out of the building. Some looked at us as they ran by while others walked and stared. “It’s the last day of school,” she said. To them, it was the beginning of summer. For me, it was the beginning of the end. I stood beneath the awning of the entrance and gazed the treetops below, and beyond, the blinking rays of the sun on the withering waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

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