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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 697 |
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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  2016/08/24  | ||||
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