in an empty
winter morning park,
the autumn is still lingering,
welcoming me with a red-carpet
covered with brown leaves.
Nude trees are seducing me
as if women in red-light street
are doing for stranded men.
The high and blue sky
is woman’s mind
not wanting to say good-bye.
The winter maybe is the owner of the park,
but my heart hugs a piece of autumn sky
and my pocket cherishes a crumbled fallen leaf
and my hand grabs a naked twig.
The autumn driven away by the winter
is building its nest in me.
I meet a woman whose name is Autumn,
a woman who blossoms only in autumn;
a little bird in a winter park,
that is singing farewell,
but won’t leave.
A short poem her poet sent;
A woman, digging up the thick forest,
is trying to touch
the love of the poet.
Finally, catching an unfathomable word
and hugging it just like a puppy,
she mumbles, “this might be his confession of love?”.
Poet’s woman reads and reads and reads again
and chews and chews and chews again the word.
“No woman, no poem”,
the poet never stops singing women.
“Is this woman me?
Rummaging his myriad poems
that are more than his women,
and trying to find her image,
the woman wants to feel his love for her
Watching poet who is dreaming
in the flower garden again today,
the woman who loves the poet,
is waiting for a simple sentence, ‘
I love you’
through his sexy baritone voice,
not through his convoluted poems.
With the door of the cage
open, I am dreaming a dream
In which that little pretty bird
Is singing in this cage.
The rumor that I have a great
cage is still just a rumor.
So, all kinds of so-so birds
fly in and out of my cage.
When the cage is winged
and rises like a full moon,
the pretty bird might see
it and dream a cute dream.
The cage that meets the bird
on a road in its dream. The bird
that won’t come in. The cage
and the bird that are only gazing
at each other. But, they look happy.
While they are watching each other,
the dangling bird that is pecking
the cage once in a blue moon.
The cage that is singing a happy
poem. Just like this, the bird cage
and the bird that have become a legend.
I was in her dream, she said.
Went somewhere with her, she said.
She invited me to a road in her dream, I thought,
‘cause that was the only road for her.
I have no memory of being in her dream, though.
Perhaps she loves me.
Pretending that she thinks this is ridiculous,
Just like a lady who spreads gossips in town,
Just like a puppy that frolics in the snowing backyard,
she’s become Samaritan woman
and advertises her dream wherever she goes.
I doubt she can hide her love for me like that.
Call me if you miss me. Don’t just dream.
Maybe it’s a joke that doesn’t look like a joke,
but what a world in which only a road in dream
is allowed. That a man loves a woman is a problem?
How many women are waiting for me in the road of her dream?
Delusion is a daily bread for men so
I am always wandering in my dream
wondering which way to go.
No matter how you live, life is a dream,
If you dream a dream in your dream,
one of the dreams might become a real dream.
the christmas that visited me last year,
my still being alive make it come back.
while the christmas tree that was not
trashed is glittering again this year,
i don’t hear ‘merry christmas’ from her
and the bridal chamber is still waiting
to be indulged. the dream of honey-
moon that was shattered and scattered
into the universe. the memory of promise
is still piercing my heart with a spear
head, but the picture i draw is a short
kiss and the only thing left is a touch
of her tongue. her christmas is blue-
tainted too or she is being burned red
in a room? my thirty hand motion that
is groping around the glass wall; the
fatigued phantasy of copulation; the
desire and lust that are turned blue.
blue blue blue blue christmas
On a splendid day in October,
Be my bride.
Treading on the fallen leaves
With your bare feet,
Wearing short wedding dress,
Boasting of your beautiful legs
On which moist drizzle is flowing down,
Come to me.
To spend the unforgettable
Last night of October,
Make today a wonderful day.
Before this October passes away,
Be my bride.
To greet ash-colored November
With blue-sky-colored heart,
Be my October bride.
Wondering who this woman would be…
You didn’t send me flowers this time.
I realized you were much more beautiful than flowers.
I am slow, you know.
Would she smell the end from my lame excuse?
She might disappear like a ghost at dawn.
If there is a beginning, then there will be an end.
But the beginning like a volcano eruption
shouldn’t end like an iceberg in the South Pole,
which is melting due to the global warming.
Regardless of Earth’s demise,
we have been holding up against the world
with the memory of just one night?
Who knows what was between us?
Just like a virtual reality with run-out battery,
after being distorted and chopped constantly,
the illusion might pop up to the real reality.
A fantasy in which only the flower is real
can’t have a beginning and an end!
At the end of the world,
What will remain is not
I or she, but
The memory of sending flowers,
The memory of receiving flowers.