poems collection

 

 

Flute

If only I had a flute.

The moon is unmoving

the moonlight bright alone with the wind . . .

tonight with all insect sounds stilled

where, alas, can that flute be

that goes so well with my heart's sad melody?

In times past

great parties were held in towers to view the moon

where the court musician would play his flute

while pretty court ladies would dance;

I wish I had that flute.

If it can't be seen, still

tonight

I long at least to touch that flute.

Where can it be?

Tree

Everyone said that tree was rotten. But I told them that the tree was no rotten tree. That night I dreamed a dream.

In that dream I saw the tree flourishing, putting out branches as if it meant to touch the blue sky.

I called the people back again and told them that the tree was no rotten tree.

That tree is not rotten.

Seagull

Sheer yearning

transformed the seagull

into a cloud.

In the blue sea's name

it dyed its white wings in the sky,

evidently joyful;

then the sea,

with its so bright breast

flowed after the cloud to distant lands.

Many times

many times

it was splendor flying high.

It was a beautiful heart.

Rendez-vous

I wonder why I'm standing

on this dreary road

where there's not a single tree?

A long road

not a new road

mile after mile of road, of red dirt road

like dusk

like tomorrow

I must be waiting for something.

A Reed

Under the bright moonlight

a reed and I

stood side by side in silence.

Anxiously we gazed at one other

calming our distress

in the gusting wind.

In the bright moonlight

the reed and I

were both drenched with tears.

Obscurity

No words

could express

the fading of the dusk.

As I watched that evening and that hour

I thought

about tomorrow.

Spring's gone

the twilight burns red then, ah, fades

yesterday and now today as well.

I want to know

I want to know

why, very soon,

once having hewn that sky

I'll have to inscribe there my obscurity.

Next

Soon the wind will blow from the northern hills

snow will fly; winter's coming.

Then on snowy days

I'll walk Seoul's snow-covered streets,

longing for spring.

Even when I had nothing at all

I always had

this "next"

this dawn, this "next."

I reckon this absolute irresistible urge

is all my own.

Soon, tomorrow,

my dragging steps transformed

into something hotter than fire

my hope

will impose on the world a heavier burden

than the surf, than all the oceans.

So this "next"

like Seoul's streets on snowy days

is the road to my world's ocean

Rivers

The way rivers all flow into the sea

is not the only reason I've been weeping

all day long

up on the hill.

It's not the only reason I've been blooming

in longing like a sunflower

all night long

up on the hill.

The reason I'm weeping for sorrow like an animal

up on the hill

is not only because of the way

rivers all just flow into the sea.

Afternoon

No sound

for the day's sake

this afternoon. . .

Yet

if I listen hard

I'm calling for mother

I'm crying.

Up in the sky

drifting far and near

like a seagull

grief flies on, flies on.

That

happened one such day.

happened one such day.

Then

this quiet afternoon

it came to me like water

and made me cry.

If I listen hard

I can hear a voice

calling for mother.