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Subject FOR NIRVANA /Korean Seon(zen) Master Cho Oh-Hyun àääÀ Ùöߣ ðÆçéúè-8 | ||
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Name °ü¸®ÀÚ | Hit 3073 |
FOR NIRVANA CHO OH-HYUN
Associate professor of English and Asian studies at SUNY New Paltz.
65
SUNSET, BAY OF INCHEON
That evening the water appeared unusually
red, red
And the old fisherman, who stayed afloat
come sweet, come bitter waves
On the next day, was seen
no longer
66
THE SEA
Clouds blaze open like peonies
before the bright sun
Waves, time passing, undulate
in the thunderous wind and rain
And my heart swells
a wild goose spreads its wings
67
WORDS OF A BOATMAN
Against the sky, his palm, fingers all mangled,
Shades his face-no ears, neck, mouth, or nose-
Gathering in the spills of his smile.
68
MOMENTS I WISHED WOULD LINGER
Mountain echoing to mountain,
or sea crying out to see;
Loved ones crossing the water,
sail raised to catch the wind;
That carefree bum, sitting,
drowsing in the mountains.
69
YOU AND I: OUR OUTCRY
At my youthful footsteps,
or at my polite cough
The mountain stream where the dance
would leap out of the water
Where did it all flow away to?
a single crab like a burnt ember
70
YOU AND I: OUR LAMENTATION
The stone Buddha on the roadside
where the road splits to my birthplace
and even the holy tree
hung with 50,000 strips of cloth
Did they ascend to some heaven?
Mama! Poppa!
71
SIBLING
young siblings ambling down
the narrow path to the village
like the pink flowers blooming there,
the color of where stem mets leaf
in the early morning,
still wet with dew
72
WHEN THE SAWN COMES SOWN
Here, a grandfather¡¯s love is as familiar
as the taste of bitter orange
And a grandmother¡¯s love
has all the spice of hot pepper paste
I come for a visit, and on the path today
I taste the morning stillness
73
A FISTFUL OF ASHES
Day before yesterday, at Mt. Yeongchuk crematorium,
I scattered my longtime dharma friend-a handful of ashes.
The sobs and sniffles of some crying man-I let fly.
The stone marker lying by the road-was it tossed?
It has some breath yet-see the liver spots blooming?
I watched for a long while, then came back down.
After I¡¯m gone-whenever-what will remain?
A blind cuckoo, at least, crying in some forest?
I turn carefully, look back-only a fistful of ashes I¡¯ve strewn.
74
HOLDING ON TO A FINGER
there¡¯s Master Josil in front of the sangha
beating the dharma drum
and a kid, maybe 7 years old
listening, ears plugged
wants to hold my hand
and hear the sound of thunder
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  2016/08/29  | ||||
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