She is called Sophia.
No matter how thick her lips
is rouged with wisdom just like her name,
even though her whole life is given to God,
and her passion of feminism is being hidden in her breasts,
she wishes to be a woman in her heart?
Then her skin-deep body would follow.
That’s why she said to ordinary women
that sacred and sexual didn’t hate each other.
If she were a virgin, I would be happy but disappointed.
If she weren’t a virgin, I would be bitter but relieved.
Well, how could I pluck a star?
The only thing I could do is to fly
my kite high up in the sky
toward her bosom
that is yearning for being a woman?
Let her be,
if she looks soaked deep in sorrow.
a woman jogging in a park;
smell of sweat mingled with
smell of perfume bought in a dollar store.
(i don’t have a nose for perfume though)
a woman with thick make-up
who’s just given birth to a baby.
(a rumor, but it might be true)
a feminist woman waiting for a man
to open the door for her.
actresses in a TV show
who can’t be told who’s who.
(i don’t have good eyes though)
my wife sleeping by me
is the only woman with bare face?
(only if wife is a woman too)
of woman bondage that brings back
the memories of lust to men
with fake face and the make-up
as thick as pig skin
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
a leaf dangling precariously for 20 years
has been finally plucked out.
my heart was not ripped apart, though.
what remain are only broken pieces of memory
in darkish corners of my mind.
the feel of her earlobes;
regret in not being able to kiss;
a bench by the lake in the middle of the night
where we never sat together on;
threatening call to kill herself;
wedding pictures with the handsome younger man;
sultry and clammy fantasy.
the desperate gesture I ignored,
which has become the final one.
final? I look into her picture.
would I want to be a leaf dangling
desperately from her naked twig?
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.
Lady poet’s well;
I open its light cover and look into it.
I can’t see anything – pitch black well.
I see why nobody opens the cover.
The hamlet nobody visits;
Not sure why I am here.
Its door is open but
I don’t see any footsteps;
How lonely her well is!
However, however, however,
dark wells surrounding her well –
even without covers to lift.
She wouldn’t be lonely.
In the hamlet for poets only,
They give cuddle to each other passionately.
They provide comfort to each other profusely.
They throw praise to each other lavishly.
In the hamlet for poets only,
I will dig my own well – deep and very dark.
A well for me only.