Beneath the tall stone embankment
by the elementary school beside my home,
the sound of murky water trickling—
the black, stagnant water
seeping from every corner
of the city of Present where I live.

Deep in the mountain valley,
where ancient trees and rocks keep watch,
water falls upon small pebbles—
a stream that belongs
to my imprisoned self.

Yes—
the human fate:
the sudden nightfall (within),
forcing Present to turn
far back upon itself,
grows ever deeper.

Television, knitting, magazines,
boiling stew, gossip,
mass-produced cars,
the endless rotation of screws,
air regulated indoors,
machines that serve our convenience—
all make human dwelling
seem vast and expansive.

Yet under the bed
lies the desert’s fire,
its sharp tentacles
waiting for the days to come.

The accelerating rush,
the stilled car,
already—
even the face
etched with the count
of a full moon’s cycles
upon the axe’s blade
has become forgetfulness.

The form beneath a single veil,
the crippled beauty
of an endless aria,
grows larger.

From Karl Marx’s Second Story,
from George Orwell’s 1984,
the brave new world has rolled away;
both Nausea and I
have disappeared.

No trace remains—
so bury your time,
your heavy thoughts,
in the grave!

The only thing needed—
is the wind
filling the heavens and the earth,
the wind everyone knows,
but only the wind
that I can breathe.

(Note: The piece I was honored to present—without title, yet full of memory—earned me the privilege of delivering the very first recitation in our Philosophy class and at the school’s anniversary event, Confession of Poetry and Music, held at Seoul Methodist Theological University.

It spoke of the autumn of 1969, when the sky was high and piercingly blue, casting something deep and unshakable into my heart. Though unnamed, the poem carried the weight of that season’s silence and longing, and it became my voice before a gathering of minds and spirits.)

[Beginning Series – Part 1]

© TaeHun Yoon, 9.9.1969