Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

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Color Runs Through Him ( for Kent S. on his birthday )

December 21, 2011


He sits
in a milk-tea skin,
spider-fingers pulling
words from his darkest eye.

A blink of black and white
A long, sharp shape
of a man,
he straightens his spine
and fools us all.

Color runs through him.
He calculates the curve of scarlet,
sets his compass due indigo
holds grey in his palm,
spider-fingers untangling
unnamed colors.

Once,
He breathed on green,
made it purr
like a girl,
sugared.

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Scribble: Lunar

December 11, 2011

I stood on a roof
nose pressed through clouds
to see the lunar eclipse.

“I don’t get it,” I said.
“Isn’t there more?”
The moon a limp bride
in a dishwater veil.

I had wanted a monster.

Later, on the street,
the moon, she caught me.
She pressed me tight
to the neighbor’s wall
and whispered:

“Hide the drunken light of your eyes behind me.
Glow halo-like behind the softer shadow.”

I lifted my veil.

Later, I stood on tiles
nose pressed to the bathroom mirror
to see my lunar eclipse.

I had wanted a monster.

I saw swirls of steam
softening glass
and a smoky lip print
behind which I hid
and glowed,
halo-like.

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Scribble: Carina

November 20, 2011

A Star-veined rope,
his Sagittarius arm
curves near
the still sparking bottoms
of extinguished matters,

Spirals through
undressed eyes
and a night sky opened
even as I sweep up
the starbirth.

Unspooling further
from the almost,
he hushes,
his pocket full
of collapsed secrets.

I go wondering,
pressing my ear to
burned out star carcasses
listening for the rush
of his voice.

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Scribble: Walking in Corner Brook

August 15, 2011

I could walk her wrinkles blindfolded,
So sure my feet were of her one-way ways.
She curved around me like a bowl
protective as the swans
swimming in her center.

I rolled up and down her hills
Feet faster than my heart,
Too full of her summer green
To feel anything else
But beautiful.

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She..

July 12, 2011


I am taking a poetry-writing course online, so I’m afraid I have to punish you with what is produced. The first assignment was to write an autobiographical poem, and I did so in between classes today.

Slipping through angled, golden-skinned streets,
She is pink-hipped, wide-haired,
foreign.
Her heart spins stories of
salted shorelines and bearded men
even as she holds silver chopsticks
in her surprising,
small hands.

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Anybody Home?

July 4, 2011

My dog ate my blog posts. Except it was my cat – and he more or less shredded them, rather than ate them. That’s my official excuse for neglecting my scribbles.

The truth is that this unusually busy semester of teaching has kicked my butt, and left me blocked and blah , with no energy to go searching for inspiration.

Now that the semester is done, I have no excuse. With that in mind, I am committing to a 30-day blogging challenge in August, where I will post every day for 30 days, in the hopes of getting unblocked.

I will need topics, people – lots of ’em. Please email or comment with anything under the sun that you would like to see me attempt to write about.

In the meantime, here’s an old poem I wrote for an old friend who has always been a source of inspiration, even in the dry times.

Under the skin,
between shy veins,
I know a story you have never told.

I am barely
a story you know
though I am written into your palm,
hidden between the the bones you show.
I am the softer beat underneath your hum,
a tiny-fingered thing
full of a foreign rhythm
that will not be held.

Still,
I am such a false-bottomed friend.
Were you in my hands,
I would give you the truth
to hold between your teeth
even as your long fingers
tell my story
to another.

Topics please? Send in your requests, and I’ll try to put it on for you.

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Dark

December 5, 2010

The fight continues
so many die
you know it’s not the answer
yet you continue to try

My cold blooded brother
why can’t you see
despite your offense
we try to concede

I’ve lost so many children
and yet refrain from attack
because I value brotherhood
and know there’s more than that
-Y. Keren. K – International Studies major

Yet the government threatens the North
Which never threatens them really
Only provoking them more
While lost people in the country
Wander, panic and will die eventually
Without a country.
-Anonymous – Business Admin. major

Feel Betrayed yesterday’s happening.
I ask you why you did.
Do just regular military training.
you just find excuse.
No imortant than human’s life.
Think about what you did.
-SC Hong – Human Ecology major

The upper land is Korea
and the lower land also Korea
but all Koreans aim at each other
The names are same
but our minds are different above all

Just 60 years of a long and long period
we just only have lived for 60 years
but the thing that is left to us
is not the same history nor longing for each other
but just hatred holding a rifle
– Anonymous, History major

For whom does this fight arise?
We are all Korean
Hope two become one.
– SJ, History Major

One day it happened without any notice
The bloodstain of 60 years ago hasn’t dried
A longing for unification fades away
beyond an ashen shell smoke
Nobody knows the end of the labyrinth
on this peninsula cut by the frigid sword
two of us built the rigid wall
Now we, who have the same face but different landmarks
aim our rifles at each other’s chest.
-CYW, Social Sciences Major

In Korea, all young men must serve in the military for a period of about two years. Most of them do this in the middle of their university years, leaving school often after the second or third year to serve. I absolutely love having these students in my classes when they return from service. They sit in the front row, their bright, nervous eyes following my every move. Without fail, a shift happens in every one of them while they are away. They return to school grateful and determined to make the most of life, unsure of how to fit back into the world, worried that they’ve lost all their English skill, and still quietly confident in something deeper within them. They come back as men.

My heart is sore from thinking about those of my students in the middle of this transition right now, trying to serve and get back to their families, girlfriends and studies who now have to contemplate the nearness of violence.

My facebook page and email inbox has been full of messages urging me to stay safe, and perhaps, come home. It is hard to explain how complacent one becomes about the North Korean threat after having lived here for so long. I have already been here through five major incidents, starting from 1996. With each incident, my fear lessened, and I started to follow the lead of the Koreans around me, taking it all as just another news story.

I will always remember the first time I heard an air raid siren. As a brand-new teacher, nobody had warned me that there was always a civil defense drill on the 15th of every month. I and my roommate, Didi, were at home for lunch when the siren started. Praying and cursing, I ran downstairs to ask our apartment security what we should do. He was sitting in his cubicle, watching tv, feet up on his desk. Unable to speak any Korean, I pointed to the sky and and shrugged my shoulders in the universal body language of confusion. He laughed, and spread out his arms like an airplane and proceeded to make bombing noises. I went back upstairs and prepared to die what was to be an apparently hilarious death.

In 1996, a North Korean submarine landed on the South Korean coast, with 24 NK commandos being ultimately killed after trying to infliltrate. I registered with my embassy, and carefully studied the Canadian embassy’s evacuation plan, which involved me somehow getting myself to the closest American air base ( kilometers away ) and getting in line behind all the Americans, and then Brits, to wait for a seat on an evacuation flight. In 1999, a naval battle broke out in the Yellow Sea. I would go out clubbing on a Saturday night and see all the other teachers with little backpacks on, containing passport, valuables and 1000 dollars US, ready to run should war break out between tequila shots. I half-heartedly tried to put together a “running” backpack, and even tried to stuff my cat in the main compartment to see if he would fit. ( He refused. )
In 2002, while Korea was hosting the World Cup, a South Korean ship was sunk during yet another naval battle. I sat at an outdoor meat restaurant with my husband and a small group of Korean and expat friends, and watched the Korea/Turkey game in my red t-shirt, talking for a moment about the clash, and then turning back to our soju, Kalbi and cheering. In 2009, there was yet another naval battle. I did the dishes. Then, this year in March, the Cheonan warship sunk, presumably the work of North Korea, taking with it 56 South Korean lives. I held my breath, just for a moment.

Over time, I have learned to take my cue from the Koreans around me. With each skirmish, I have watched them look at tv screens, shake their heads, and then turn back to the routine. Countless times, I have turned to my husband and asked, ” But what would we do?” only to have him say, ” Don’t worry. It’s not going to happen. ” It seems almost impossible to describe the feeling one gets when living here for a long time. I honestly don’t know if it is fatigue or fear that brings about this particular feeling of apathy about the North. I just know that over time, I have become numb to it.

This most recent incident has woken me. The poetry at the beginning of this post was written in my English through Creative Writing class which met the next day. I had expected that my students would be too focused on other things to really care, or that there would be a strong sympathy with the North, which is often seen on University campuses. I was stopped in my tracks as I read over their shoulders. They too, were wide awake to the fact that their lives of exams, and blind dates and job searches could change at any moment. They were angry, and scared.

I can’t offer any kind of political analysis except to say that what makes this time feel different has much to do with the transition of power in the North, and that the South currently has a President who is as far from the previous ” Sunshine Policy” as one can get. This was also an attack on land, with civilians dying and homes destroyed. This also follows the attack on the
Cheonan, much too soon. South Koreans are still grieving the young lives lost on that ship. How much more will they take before they decide to fight back?

That day, I got off a bus on my way home and stopped in front of a tv screen in a convenience store window with about 10 other Korean passers-by and watched the images of gutted homes and black smoke clouds. I looked at the faces around me, and a chill went through my heart.

Still, it is not as simple as getting on a plane and going home. My husband is still of fighting age, and would automatically be drafted were things to escalate. Even if he and I could get out, how could we leave his mother, his brother and extended family behind? I have spent 14 years abroad, and have no work or credit history in Canada, not to mention that all my property, possessions and money is here. My whole life is in this country. I am not willing to leave it unless it will cost me my life.

I am angry that everything I have is held in the hands of a few hard-hearted men. I am angry that South Korea, a country that has managed to grow and prosper at an almost unreal rate, keeps getting kicked by it’s jealous brother to the North. I am angry that my mother-in-law has to contemplate the possibility of a second war in her lifetime. I am angry that one of my Creative Writing students who is graduating this semester, just got a job and had to sit in my class and write a poem about how he is willing to fight.

Yet, once again, a few days have passed, and emotion has started to dull. I don’t think anything will happen in the next month. Possibly – not in the next year. Still, I am closer to believing that something will eventually happen. My husband and I sat down over yet another meal of kalbi and soju, and this time, we made a plan about what we would do if things spun out of control with no warning – because if it is to happen, that will be how it will happen. An overreaction, a miscalculation. A mistake.

** Thank you to my Creative Writing students who allowed me to share some excerpts on this blog. You are all an inspiration to me.