his face
comes a calling
at this warm woeful place,
to give me a gruff and galling
mauling
——————
Cinquain/IX was inspired by this photograph of Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier taken by John Shearer for LIFE magazine in 1971 before “The Fight of the Century”, in which Ali lost the heavyweight title to Frazier. I have plans to write an essay about this image and its relation to self-inflicted psychological warfare when time permits.
마음은 창호지처럼…
빛은 그것을 통해 자유롭게 흐르지만 – 속을 들여다 볼 수 없다
우리 문들뒤에 비밀이 많다
the heart is like shoji paper…
light flows freely through it – but you cannot see inside
behind our doors there are many secrets
image credit: www.ufokim.com
You said:
Say something
Talk of your language
Speak
I said:
How can I?
My language has no sound
Listen
soft light
licks my backbone
then darts into the night
on the copse edge I stand alone
unknown
salt eyebrows rise with thoughts of brothers
long lost to fortune’s muggy hand,
which severed north and south till
plain passageways perished
in time’s covenant;
how wonderful
it would be
to see
you
——————-
Today marks the 64th Anniversary of the beginning of the Korean War.
dainty green shells shine
under a brilliant white star
red summer nights sing
Summer rain
Arrives like a gentle evening kiss.
Wrapping salty arms around you,
She nestles into your bones,
Dances carelessly with the wind
Then waltzes off into the dawn.
You can’t speak high Korean with me,
I can’t speak high English with you,
and clearly I can’t speak German,
neither hoch nor nieder.
And so, with a lump in my throat I sulk,
bitterly sipping on this sweet potato
latte while Your Excellencies engage
in dieses Gespräch.
this dust
is an offense
which manifestly must
be uprooted with an intense
defense
——————————-
My maternal grandmother was a skilled miniaturist who painstakingly created a beautiful collection of small fascinating rooms. This short poem was inspired by her “Victorian Parlour.”
An indolent orange spirit drifts across
the mountainside as the day draws to a close.
Pulling a leaden cloak over the forested canvas,
she offers no quarter to my flagging frame.
I stretch a cautious limb in front of me,
searching for a secure footing while sap soaked
leaves protest under an inquisitive tread.
A half a dozen steps ahead, your raven
tresses swing to and fro, occasionally
meeting the soft light that sinks in the west.
I stop my ascent for a crack to watch your
slender span navigate the shadows.
You will soon round the binding bend and
then I shall never see you again.
TIME – please be merciful with my memories.
Absolve them of their debts.
I beg of you.
sundry folly 