​​FOR NIRVANA 
108 ZEN SIJO POEMS    

CHO OH-HYUN
  

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ntroductory by KWON YOUNGMIN

translated by HEINZ INSU FENKLE 

Associate professor of English and Asian studies at SUNY New Paltz.

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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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