As promised, more from Yoon Yong. Library by the Sea— Geumneung Village …An outdoor library with little wooden cubes painted in shades of the sea & glass doors that hold 2 or 3 books —sand | pomegranate red & grass | the glass doors with smooth wooden knobs & little bronze hasps [...]
Yoon Yong. Nostalgia …The morning news buzzing in the background... —Her father stopped reading the newspaper when his sight grew dim. She liked to see him read: she felt in good hands | that her father could guide her. She tried to replicate the paper’s cackle with other materials—my own onomatopoeia [...]
Still a bit to go from the Yoon Yong poems. The revolution was televised …The protest to impeach Park Geun-hye on those cold December nights when the people cupped LED candles for “moral warmth” & made Gyeongbokgung resemble a map of the observable universe circumscribed with its own light —it was then I [...]
Before the next poem from Yoon Yong I should mention that Marie Marshall has asked me to be editor for the zen space spring edition. So what I need from people are little poems: haiku, tanka, sijo. Send these poems to my email address: email@example.com if you want to get your tiny poems into zen space [...]
This poem from the Yoon Yong series is probably a personal anxiety of my own showing through the tissue paper of personality. I think all poets (I cannot speak for translators) have some such concern as this in their transmogrification of reality & experience into the poetic. The solution: not apologizing for seeing, trying, relying & [...]
Happy New Year. Going to refrain from repeating my message from last year (something about not celebrating the passage of precious time). I find myself this year, back home after 8 years living in Korea, teething in my own culture & wondering what the future has in store. This period of adjustment is challenging & [...]
The light of a place (dawn) …Whatever place I visit has its own specific light. Jeju’s light | is an aside | a confirmation of the usual mask the weather wears —marginalia of the wind & wet’s intent that makes the grass still grow in cold & vines tighten around the trunks of trees. Seoul’s [...]
I am a huge fan of Barton, which is odd for me as I don’t usually like skinny poems or prose poems, which are Barton’s usual go-to form.
However, Barton is just so damn inventive & consistently surprises me, he is impossible to anticipate. He’s insightful, mysterious, full of humour & humanity.
As he he says above “I keep detailed notes on avoidance” & I believe he does.
He sent me a couple of his books instead of payment for my Isacoustic publication & I read them often & I find myself laughing joyously & his inventiveness & cannot put the book down.
Find him, learn him & become addicted to him.
as some things incorrectly have wings, we stamp a chicken into the hood of a cop car. the groundskeeper on break inside the church wonders aloud how much is left of the lord. a boy not part of our boyhood bikes over to us with his feet he’s named individually show and tell. the cop chuckles but straightens out when he sees what I’ve made of my hand. the boy says careful it might stay that way for good.
beauty is the beginning of beauty. a man and a woman wait together for a stripper. you know the man like an intimate thought. like a toddler covered head-to-toe in blue body paint stepping in front of a blue door. the woman is an unfinished stranger whose son comes home to be with war and whose husband rests until laziness subsides. the man is aware he’s the…
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Pleased to have Pablo Cuzco’s prose poems featured at Underfoot this week. Please show your support for Pablo as this is his first (& deserved) publication.
We are always looking for talented, unpublished writers to feature on Underfoot. Sometimes it takes a little push of encouragement to help a poet emerge & I hope Underfoot can toggle between the emerging & emerged.
Flowers of Dawn
A yellow moon over the rooftops—striking in silence—blue sky, dark and twinkling—stars meld into street light—alleyways cluttered with bottles clink | a cat howls in summer heat— water washes away the smear | bleary-eyed and broken, I stumble among dust bins and sediment of the living—crowned with a halo—spirits | God and Whisky—the One and the Same. Showers of dusty moonbeam create a fedora of night—a cap of dawn—a screw.
The sun rises— wrinkled | bloody sky | the whirr of a circular saw grinds its path on wood—plank | Bang! Bang! nuclear splashes ripple alcohol headache |—air full of harps, angelic choirs—Ave, Maria! | choking, dumb rattle of death wakes me.
A rooster | strangled by the roar of automobiles | a cop drags cars through the crossroads—my mind | the Altiplano—the drifter’s horse and the gunslinger on L-dopa | brought to…
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∞ Crescendo | at wit’s end | crescendo building the dammed hypersensitive | water sensitive instruments | pricked up ears nose eyes | wet-ordinary words. Woke early. Set up the production line : someone to scrub & polish | cut into fence posts & finally someone to clinch back the rubber band & settle the [...]