1.
Permitted
one day:
collect things
be beyond border
or else.
2.
A broken circle
closes behind me.
I spin-off
indefinitely,
absent gravity.
3.
My memories
disserve me—I must leave that life
behind
again and again;
again and again.
4.
I see familiar forms.
I think I am home—
I slip
into an abysmal zone—
I gaze into a labyrinth of memory,
sink into a haze
of yesterday’s today.
5.
I did not abandon
your memory.
It might return.
GAZING AT THE CREEK
from above
the trees spiral—
the surface,
daguerreotypic
reflection.
Stratospheric strands
falling on the water;
a breeze blows
past the sphinxlike supports
of a low-water bridge.
I wrote these for my wife's aunts in South Korea. There is some competition between their doggies and so they each got their own poem.
1.
MU’S RAINY-DAY BLUES
Mu looks
outside…
baths of water,
too wet for walks,
no ice cream,
and smells muddled together.
O Mu, just rest.
The sun
will be back;
you will be walking past the bushes and the guard who says hello, then over the bumpy walkways to the park!
2.
SOL’S SEOUL STRIDE
Everyone smiles
when they see those long legs
striding around Seoul.
Ajuma, look at those
long-stemmed
yellow rose legs,
says the baker
to the street vendor.
Yes, they all agree! Sol
is so sociable and popular!
Rushing to his playdate,
he drags his poor master behind him
like a plow,
block after block. Sol,
bad boy! Those rope burns
and bruises on your mommy…
All the girls like you,
Golden Boy,
Prince of Cheongdam-dong.
1.
뮤의 비오는 날
뮤가 봅니다
창문 밖을
목욕도 가능할 수 있을것 같은 양의 물
걷기에 너무 젖어
아이스크림도 없잖아
밖에서 온 냄새가 함께 진흙향과 같이 납니다
오 뮤, 오늘은 그냥 쉬어
곧 태양이
나올 것이야
그리고 너는 덤불들 그리고 인사하는 경비원 아저씨를 지나 울퉁불퉁 한 산책로를 지나갈 것이야
공원으로 향하면서
2.
[솔이와 걷는길]
모두 미소 짓어요
긴 다리를 보면
서울을 돌아 다니시다가 강남 아줌마들은 봅니다
하얗고 노란 긴 장미 줄기 같은 다리들
경비원 아저씨는 말하십니다
노점상 아저씨한테
"예, 모두 동의합니다! 설리는 무척
사교적이고 인기가 있습니다!"
그의 플레이 데이트로 돌진하며
그는 종종 불쌍한 엄마를 그 뒤로 끌고갑니다
쟁기처럼
동네 한 바퀴. 솔이
이런 힘센 인싸 소년! 이 목줄로 인한 아야
엄마한테 멍이 ...
놀이방 친구들은 다
골든 소년, 하이!
솔이는 청담동 왕자님
All of the posts from this blog have been exported to the new MindOfMoog blog.
It has a better name...
To live well for me would be to wander in a garden. An earthly one.
I wonder at the bitter roots of my mind’s fruits—why am I so
faithless?
I have learned by turning on myself, yet all the while my
soul abides.
I shed myself and find new skin, moving from vesicle to
vesicle.
Long is the day and short the night,
but darkness shrouds my inner light.
When the sun rises, my cat rushes to the light.
It warms her, she bathes in it. I admire her
ability to enjoy these daily pleasures.
We are not so far apart. I can see
her intentions but I cannot reach
that inner peace in her eyes.
Beauty lies all around us, I suppose it’s in the eyes.
Too often, I sat waiting for another to kindle this light.
How deep seem my shallows, how shallow my deep;
for that which the eye cannot touch lingers beyond reach
taunting the proud. I approach my shadow.
Who approaches? I AM, speaks my soul.
Let us not linger too long in the depths. Brevity is the
soul
of wit. Sometimes, I am troubled by long nights. My eyes
burn as I squint in the dark. I should be sleeping
but a question is stuck in my throat, longing
to be announced. Am I that, which I am?
As soon as I posit myself entire, I enter a labyrinth.
This wandering life can grow weary. Where is the center of
the labyrinth?
One tires of the spirit’s walls. I long for an audience with
my soul.
Invocation is less than worthless. I seek and it recedes.
My mind knows not what it asks.
I seek Ithaca, but I am at sea.
Must I make these waves, my home?
I see some distant mass and long to find my home.
I think I am found. I move through a labyrinth
of familiar shapes, yet they seem empty.
Perhaps, I am wrong. Maybe home is in the apse of the eye?
My wondering is self-reflexive, I am at odds with myself.
Once again, I ask: where is the heart of the labyrinth?
Night is forever. Silence waits at the end of delight. Doubt
is a labyrinth.
Innocence loses its way. The spirit rooms in the soul,
passing another day.
My heart is like meaning. It works thanklessly for me day
and night.
One wanders around
in labyrinthine
search of oneself.
Born at the center,
we drift outwards
until the end.
This mortal coil,
is my labyrinth.
I wander in doubt,
but with faith
in this wandering
life, which is mine.
Its walls are only as narrow
as my eyes; my perspective
is as deep as my gaze.
The more I wander,
the more I wonder
at the intricacy of
my labyrinth,
my world.
As far as I can see,
it keeps going—
it is growing,
it seems.
Once, it was maddening
not to be able to see
a means to the end.
All our ends,
are means—
we are not lost—
now I
see that
I am circulating.
We move like blood
from the heart
to the brain
and back.
-James B. Moog
I want to will,
I will to want,
I remain still.
Is this wanting
willed, or is it
my will that is
wanting?
-James B. Moog
O, stay not thy visits diva in fur!
You move like jazz and weave
to me. Wordlessly, I infer
your desires. Do not leave.
I hear you slinking, undeterred,
in spite of our spat, I cannot cleave
myself from you. Though you injure
me with your claws, I believe
it is only your temperament—
there, your greening eyes repent!
My fury dissipating like a dream;
I forgive you and recline serene.
You pounce upon me in no time—
how could I blame you, my feline?
-James B. Moog
