I’ve ridden the rails
spooked by horn wails,
yet still rode.
I’ve hiked hills and dales
caught in rains and gales,
but still strode.
I’ve watched wind fill sails,
holding pail to bail —
will still flowed.
The morning sun has broken through the trees.
Its yellow light is dancing on the tent.
The fly is flapping gently in the breeze.
Some droplets rolling down — oh, did it freeze?
The night is gone; I know not where it went,
but morning sun has broken through the trees.
My sleeping bag stayed ninety-eight degrees.
The earth and trees are still, and stand content,
only the fly flaps gently in the breeze.
I must get up; I have a day to seize,
but sleeping bag and chill have got me pent,
though morning sun has broken through the trees.
I force myself up onto hands and knees.
some birds are chirping, but the beasts seem spent —
hush, but the flapping gently on the breeze.
That stillness and sunshine put me at ease —
no time to mourn or sing the night’s lament.
The morning sun has broken through the trees;
my tent is flapping gently in the breeze.
The temple bell clangs long and loud.
It calls them all from far and near.
How’ll they come remains so unclear.
Could be in ones — could be in crowds.
They’d straggle in with their heads bowed —
feigning piety to hide their fear.
That temple bell clangs long and loud
to call them all from far and near.
Some seem so proud, but most are cowed,
their darting eyes first peek, then peer.
They hope to find the one that’s dear
before the Scout picks what he’s allowed.
That temple bell clanged long and loud.
Some Are Always Hungry by Jihyun Yun
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
This brief collection includes poems about food, folk knowledge, nostalgia, women’s issues, and expatriation / immigration. The title’s reference to hunger is most directly seen in poems that take the recipe format as a model for form and style. The recipe poems are prominent expressions of the collection’s central theme – which is an immigrant’s nostalgia for home and tradition. The author is ethnically Korean, but moved to America – a place which has historically accepted those of many cultures but which also can be said to dissolve cultures, in a way. America also spends more time than most peering toward the future, rather than toward the past — in contrast to many of the countries from which it receives migrants. The collection is peppered with folk wisdom that represents that past-centric orientation.
I found this collection to be clever and evocative. I’d highly recommend it for poetry readers.
I stare into a rushing stream.
For me, time flows as in a dream.
But the stream knows only one flow —
its tune an endless allegro.
Lord willing -n- the creek don’t run dry.
A flare, like a blinding flashlight, shines at the fore
Puddles of deep crimson crawl laterally — as if that bright dot was the wound
At the periphery, all the hues of bruising — indigo to a shade of purple indistinguishable from black
The colors tuned up by the heat of inflammation felt — but not seen — in the cold view of one beaten to the edge of life
As well as, by the harsh lighting — blues and reds dancing from lightbars and wig-wags of police cars and fire trucks — shining over the carnage.
A vein of graphite gray clouds glide — low and fast — under a static white ceiling. No patches of blue peek through, today. Oh, where are those fast blackened clouds sailing at such a clip? And are the high white clouds truly still, or does the contrast with these fast clouds hide some sluggish drift. Maybe the higher clouds are too uniform — stretching out to all horizons — for motion to be seen.
Is this low layer of rushing clouds some kind of smoke monster or a drunkard’s dragon? Seems too motivated to just be water vapor.
A flower by a creek,
swaying like a metronome.
Its bright and bulbous head
sits atop a skinny stalk
Oh, are you counting time?
Or is time foreign for you?
Your scent rides on the air.
Your petals flame bright yellow.
Your every aspect
is a call for attention,
and yet you bow your head
like a dog caught in the act.
Humans are believing machines.
If one can imagine a thing,
one can make it one’s reality.
Under an infinite night sky,
with nothing to grasp in one’s hands,
the mind still seizes its fair share.
But the test of whether one can
grab onto something new is whether
you can let go of the old.
In wild and wicked woods, I walk.
Convinced the winds carry strange talk.
In grumbles heard — no meaning grasped —
faux whispers won’t tell — only squawk.
The voiceless voices make it wicked.
I’m surrounded by a dense thicket.
I hear what’s not there — seeing naught.
I catch, I think, just one snippet…
“get-gone”
Oh why would woods say such a thing?
I feel it like a toxic sting.
Be still, that beating in my chest.
The bile, in throat, is now rising.
I only sought a forest bath,
but incurred this old forest’s wrath.
Oh, what have I interrupted,
while trodding down this ill-worn path?
