Tag Archives: Poetry

“October’s Shaman Dance”

The shaman threads the moon on high,A silver knot in midnight sky.She spins beneath its haunted glow,Where truth and shadow come and go. The willow drinks from steel’s sharp tongue,Its roots still hum the songs unsung.A borrowed light, a fleeting … Continue reading

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“Final Diagnosis”

At Auschwitz,when fleeing,one had to leave behindthe present day. “Live in the past,and flee into the futureswifter than light.Once again,I will meet myself—a younger self,to whom at leastI ascend.” This was the directionYi-Sang* revealedin his Notes on the Line:a fierce … Continue reading

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1971 Autumn

Sleep unfinished drifts into sleep again,and before my wandering truly ends,my feet are drawn toward a house of gathering. The cries of Biafra echo in my ears,yet they do not slay the truths that have aged within me.The images of … Continue reading

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The Sound of Cicadas

(Parsonage Letter: Story of the Four O’Clock Flower, Ninth)© Wanhee Yoon, 1995 A few days ago, while eating breakfast, I found myself gazing out the window at the thick summer greenery. Then suddenly, from outside, came the loud chorus of … Continue reading

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Before and After

The spinning top—still,yet burning like the sun. An open fieldwith roots layeredfor a thousand years,silent,as if the earth itselfwere waiting. The sea did not cool—it flared,a mass of fire,an ocean swallowing its own horizon. Faces collapsed,masks shattered,falling into ocher clay.Dust … Continue reading

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“Autumn Prayer, This Praise of Life”

Parsonage Letter (Four O’Clock Flower Story, Part Five) © Wanhee Yoon, 2001 This autumn, my soul becomes a bird,Soaring across mountains and fields.How marvelous are the works of God!Ridges and meadows, rivers and valleysoverflow with the feast of blessings—a festival … Continue reading

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1969.9.9.

Beneath the tall stone embankmentby the elementary school beside my home,the sound of murky water trickling—the black, stagnant waterseeping from every cornerof the city of Present where I live. Deep in the mountain valley,where ancient trees and rocks keep watch,water … Continue reading

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The Day Moon

Winter brushes the fingertipsof the shaman—empty-bodied,visible from all directions—morning and evening. A bird, perched on a dry branch,laughs,its entrails spilling out. Hair, like scattered feathers,drifts towardbuildings stripped bare,unfolding slowly—a voice without accompaniment. The night that had been swept awayreturns to … Continue reading

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