The Little Dew


 

dew

Hae.mi, with the mood for loving kindness

I fall upon thee, as the last violin concerto

From some former life, which I cannot name

I copy the Korean scripture, as if it was known to me

Hae.mi, there is no life worth living, but the one

Not thine, not mine, but something else

Reminded from a child’s face, I linger there for long

Unable to remember the rapture then, of living

Of knowing with any certainty, anything

I am trapped between seasons aware of my own mortality

With a holy assembly of symbols, copied by time imperfectly

There’s no original art to this loneliness, only a kind of death

No God but a scattered Universe of galaxies, points of light

That tremble faster than I can move, Hae.mi, that’s it

You have surrounded me like water, like air, like perfume

And I am left with nothing but the memory of own imagination

That softly whispers without reply, in darkness, in the night

Where we cannot sleep and cannot name that thing between

The hours that are not tame, so sleek and pearly like the rain

Hae.mi, I’m lost to oracles and harmonics of melodic Korean

Without choice fruit, but the power to love in my own way.

Love Songs to Aussies


I love you but it’s not enough
Compassion, gratitude, surrender
I paraphrase lunar moments in your tide
And wait for your abyss to swallow me whole

I love you, but it’s across the world
Across time, and through space
I feel you but you are not there
I know you exist but your intimacy

The muse of everyone’s lost self
The scene of flowers at Florence
And it’s not something I can explain
It’s the music of the inner sense

Gratitude, empathy, identity
I welcome the sunlit mansions of your face
Where in the hammock we talk about our lives
About what really mattered to us

In those years we were given
Like a caress of cherishing
I love you like a quiet dream
And I know you feel it
In the early morning when I whisper your name.

The Butterfly Card


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The Butterfly Card

Eun Ji, I got the butterfly card

The Korean swimming in my mind

From watching too many romantic-comedies

Made in Korean, it makes me weary

Of how uncivilized and hungry I have become

How strange to be a poet

That I marvel most at happiness

At my most bitter hour

Like the divine sense with an appetite

For the most human hours

Pale stones of savage harvests

South American aromas and Taiwanese fragrances

The dancing burden of the dream of time

And how we lose a skin each summer

Only to climb into words once more.