the wind blows through rooms
it chills whoever sits there
shadows on the walls
frozen in time forever
like my heart now that you’re gone
Author: zdunno03
The Buddhist Nun by Baek Seok
another translation from the Korean by Geul on the blog Cardiac Slaves of the Stars
(translated from the Korean by geul)
The nun put her hands together and bowed.
She smelled of wild asters.
Her melancholic face was old, as of old.
Sorrow overcame me like scripture.
Goldmine deep in some mountain in Pyeongando
I bought an ear of corn from a pale woman.
Beating her young daughter, the woman wept coldly like the autumn night.
Ten years passed as she waited for her husband who’d taken off like a wasp.
The husband did not return and
the young daughter went to a stony grave for the love of bell flowers.
There was a day when the mountain pheasant too cried sorrowfully.
There was a day when locks of the woman’s hair fell together with teardrops in a ***corner of a mountain temple.
wonders inside
treasures that we seek
often not what we expect
come unfamilar
in wrapping strange to our eyes
though there are wonders inside
open for discussion
poised on the balls
of his feet
he waits
the first move
yours
the last
open for discussion
another morning another day
the cat curls
in my lap
as I watch the trains
roll by
while the sun peeks
through the clouds
over the hills
to the east
another morning
another day
here
in Aliağa
a revisit as another year passes: this business of mine
the well is deep
and I ponder it often
especially in early morning hours
a specialty of mine
there is a lesson to learn
and I could should learn it
so I am looking sideways
upside down
then backwards
a complicated process
this business of mine
just trying to figure out
all of it
before the ink runs dry
once again: the promise of things to come
in the glint
of your eyes
the hint
of a smile
on those full lips
one hand caressing
your hair
the other firmly placed
on a hip
the tilt of your shoulders
almost a shrug
there
here
the promise
of things to come
“But what is memory if not the language of feeling, a dictionary of faces and days and smells which…”
from Douglas Moore’s blog Art of Quotation one that hits home
“But what is memory if not the language of feeling, a dictionary of faces and days and smells which
repeat themselves like the verbs and adjectives in a speech, sneaking in behind the thing itself, into the pure present, making us sad or teaching us vicariously.”
Julio Cortazar, Agentinian novelist
on listening to Carmen McRae
come on in
from the cold
on that long way home
and Carmen
gives me wings
needed to fly
home
to New York
even if only
in my mind
things I shouldn’t do anymore: a slightly revised list
run to catch the metro
another will be along soon
and there’s no one waiting
at home anyway
drink more than one bottle of wine
the mouth gets numb
and you can’t taste it
or tell if it’s red or white
spend more than 15 minutes
playing solitaire
and try not to cheat
accept losses more than wins
eat hot dogs
for breakfast
that’s why they invented
cornflakes and yogurt
tell stories to people
half the time
they don’t listen
and it just makes me
homesick for my friends
talk to myself
in public
someday someone
will know enough English
to punch me in the mouth
display so many of your pictures
it’s pointless to have them
staring at me
from the bookshelves
love someone unselfishly
because next time
I’m going to be a little selfish
and expect the woman
to love me a little bit, too
Leonard Durso 