Light shining through a stem glass of beer.
Monthly Archives: March 2015
Just One Number
Many memories,
difficult to pick,
will still be written.
Three best friends
A souvenir photo
To take such a picture
in blue, not only in an
elegant style.
Two weeks later,
we cried, laughing
at the same time.
Picture is symbol.
You will still laugh.
I never forget
that one day
living.
———-
Sometimes, a poem unintentionally emerges through preparing for the writing portion of the TOPIK Exam.
The Chase
The other night I took a stroll
and came across a little hole
that looked as if it might be deep
enough to hold the hearty heap
of sharp unease which weighed me down
and caused my freckled face to frown.
I tried to shove it down that chink
and for a flash my woe did shrink,
but in the end, that mouth could not
receive the cumbrous, dreadful rot
which sent my lean and stooping shape
to seek sweet twilight’s soothing drape
and so my heart resigned to keep
these pricking fears which shake my sleep.
침묵을 지키다/Keeping Mum
A dancer stands upstage at a traditional Korean percussion concert/Daegu, South Korea
The Memory of Silver
The memory of silver is long. It
remembers fat, leathery hands
casting ingots at dawn. And the
screaming crucible that served life
plucked from death.
Sterling arcs of recollection whisper
in morning’s meekness, dangling from
emerald shadows, hanging on for a
cue, regarding us warily with one eye
open and one eye closed.
The memory of silver is long. It
remembers both she who bestowed
and she who received on that distant
Christmas afternoon, before bread
was broken under jaundiced
light.
Violet glass despondently rolls off a
negligent palm, falling upon moist
linoleum, making no sound in daybreak’s
din…shaking off all visions of times
gone by on the way down.
Cinquain/LXIV
“Soon, lunch
for the children,”
Ma squawked with cheerful punch,
while beheading a husky hen
for ten.
강창역/Gangchang Station
Light streams into an open sitting area at Gangchang Station in Daegu/South Korea
In the Swale
A conspiratorial, oily thumb and
forefinger crush yellowed, coarse
paper–page four hundred thirty
seven–fluttering in anticipation,
perceiving imminent movement
within its constricted fibers. Protein
gives tastes differently enough,
collapsing into sapped midnight
mouths, red long gone.
And so it was deciphered as that
hovering and absolute monarch,
harnessed in a gauzy gray doublet,
leered down at us…we, who only
shine half as brightly.
No Thank You
Tart scarlet thunderbolts, anchored to
onion perfumed lace, weigh down a
lonely table, already burdened
by glass shards and dirt.
Two for tea
One for coffee
None for breakfast
Going For A Swim
Looking into a small temple pond in Kyoto, Japan
sundry folly 