Choyong (Dance of the Devil
Scarers) ___________________________________
Carved shaman's masks mark the
trail
the sakkat-kama is carried in
procession;
the wind howls loud in the
mountains
under death sheets the women
scream.
Magnolia trees hang heavy with
strings
of Buddha candle paper
lanterns;
husks of corn drape from a wishing
pole
hope for a bountiful
harvest;
pieces of cloth wave to fend off evil
spirits
flutter like ghosts in the
wind
rustle from the clumps of mulberry
bush.
Here is the place of the Dragon's
Tears:
a water wheel slowly
churns
below the bridge and its' painful
arch
ducks flap, scatter and fly
away
the catamaran and its' grass hut stare
silently
half-sinking into the river
mud;
cherry trees droop their
petals
close in the dark.
From sagging tear-drop lotus
leaves
bullfrogs drum from the marsh.
Winter
Solstice
_______________
On Little New Year's
Day
wifts the
smell
the sweet gruel of red
beans,
gifts of orange tangerines
spread
like the bright orb of the
sun
light
to win over encroaching darkness.
This is
tonji
the fortune-teller's beginning
year:
The Return, 24th
hexagram
from the Book of
Changes;
the fish-tailed
goat
initiator
of
better times to come.
Don't Let My Body Die in This Cold
Ground
_________________________________
There is a river in the mountains I
miss-
Oh, my lips blew kisses to
you
on the valley
wind
sweeping up between the
hills
to a home in your
breast.
In this nest I curl, as in mink
fur
the soft
ground
where the sheep
rest
before their
ascent:
This is the place I hear your song.
If I could, I would be the
sarira
the holy man not burned in
creation.
My bones are
old
they need your
touch
to soothe the angry wind.
This land where the bell was
rung
where war was
ravaged,
is my temple once
again.
Now it is
autumn
there is not the
singing
of one bird.
Near
Bang-A-Jin
_______________
In this coffee shop, there
is
beauty
in the
smiles.
On the wall hangs a
mural
the boys sipping
brew
at the Horse Shoe
Tavern
across the
tracks
near the
station
in the time of many trees.
There are songs behind the
mural
which float from
hidden
microphones and
actresses
singing yeh, yeh,
yeh;
stories never
told
by those in grey
suits
the lady is
standing
a single rose in
hand
their names
now
written in crimson.
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