Her daughter Sarang (Love) appears in a dream

Finally pulled my thumb out & turned my computer on. So many books to read. Here we have Yoon Yong, mothering doubtfully, exposing her flaws through the flesh she has produced, as the image she produces in her dream. The biological aspect through the child image, becoming psychological to tell the identity where it falls into error. Something like that. I may have got mothering, feminism, love, dream, psychology, all of it wrong, but I could only persevere with the direction I felt, in essence, the most interesting for Yoon Yong as a fiction. Where I fall into error I have my intuitions, but I’d be more than pleased to be pointed out where else.

Her daughter Sarang (Love) appears in a dream
 
…“How many died of preventable ailments
because of a belief in transcendentalism?”
 
Her daughter with an adult’s voice
exposing flaws explaining where I steered myself wrong
 
what I could have done better | differently
—euphemisms | apothegms she couldn’t possibly know
 
at her young age—I scribbled notes but…
the pen contained only UV ink.
 
Motherhood is impossible | I worry continually
: I don’t want my Love to grow up to be someone I hate.
 
Everyone says “it just comes to you | it’s natural.”
I kept telling myself to love
 
this jaundiced looking ball of wool
& rolls of skin that cackled like a pocket radio.
 
The primitivism of it suckling hungrily at my swollen nipple
—I wanted to perform the ritual so badly
 
but it made clear to me how tainted | how cosmopolitan I was
: breast feeding repulsed me | it felt so animal.
 
Gravid | I pictured my belly’s contents
lift me out my life like a blimp filled with helium & confetti |
 
rousing me from my apathy like smelling salts |
out my very self—climbing | climbing out | skyward.
 
I couldn’t stomach Korean food during my pregnancy |
not even the postpartum seaweed soup rich in iron |
 
the olfactory idiom & lilting made me nauseous
—I craved quiche or omelet | anything yellow… 
 
 

Last images

During my last few weeks in Korea, I made one final push to photograph the environment I called home for so long. Despite my tone of voice of late, I am making valiant efforts to reorient myself, this mostly involves going to the pub, as well as quaffing a few foaming ales, my reorientation includes finding work, making friends, reestablishing friendships, taking very long walks in the nearby forests, filling in obscene amounts of online forms, going to the bank, the Job Center, calling receptionists with pretty voices, talking to a bank customer services adviser about D.H. Lawrence’s free verse poetry & the difficulties of studying this & banging my head against the wall until I suffer semi-concussion. Such are the joys of no longer living in the 4th dimension.

God’s Barber
Inasmuch Chiasmus
Complacencies of the Peignoir
Confront the Broccoli
Convex Faith
Eyelashes
Grip of the Vine
Hallim 5 Day Market

A good deal of confusion…

Still trying to get my head on straight, I have the neck thread into the shoulders, but maybe the thread has worn on the fixture or on the head. Toggling, wiggling to get the thread in place, the satisfying couple of the track of the thread so that the light bulb blinks on into full, hard light. The wagging struggle is on going.

Thought I’d compensate with a poem from the Yoon Yong series, not as daring as the previous one, but more formally different & in its form, akin to my current state of mind. In addition, & a bit late, but better late than never, thanks & congratulations to Linda Wolff for including my poem Moonlit Migrations in issue#1 (The Ache of the Pen) of her Wolff Literary Press & the best of luck in a long run into the future.

A good deal of confusion
 
…Ov-er-a-ffect-ed-praise-for-a-lav-ish-ly-poin-tless
-la-vish-ly-pre-sent-ed-meal-that-they-have-eat-en
 
-be-fore-pres-ented-in-a-nothe-r-way-but-not-this-way
-&-so-gasp-like-a-can-of-coke-pho-to-their-caf-é-lat-tes
 
-g-reen-teas-pre-tending-to-read-a-book-while-looking-at-In-stagram
-&-post-ing-the-27th-self-ie-of-the-day-with-e-moji-the-lot
 
-be-cause-it-makes-them-think-they-look-in-tell-i-gent-or-deep-&-pro-found
-with-a-book-at-least-o-pen-at-tent-ion-span-of-30-secs-top-un-til-they-see
 
-a-dress-they-want-or-a-pair-of-shoes-they-wish-they-had
-&-know-they’d-look-bett-er-in exa-gger-a-ted-wat-er-ing-of-eyes
 
-the-wit-her-ing-of-in-tell-ect--that-hyp-er-bol-ic-show-of-fear-at-a-dog-bark-ing
-tied-to-a-wall-no-less-to-show-e-ver-y-one-near-them-they-are-cute-O-so-cute
 
-&-the-irony-is-they-are-so-much-happier-than-me
&-al-ways-will-be-‘cause-they-don’t-have-to-think-for-them-selves
 
—ugh…
 

Wasting time in a café (until evening time thereabout)

…“THE DEATH OF LOVE OF ANYTHING…”
written on the front of a cute girl's t-shirt.

I hate people who wear sloganed t-shirts
as if it speaks volumes about their “life philosophy.”

The kind of people who might say
“I went to the University of Life” but work in an office.

You cannot experience the death of anything
you live beyond | you cannot experience your own death

& to experience another’s death | well…
we are more often than not horrified by the statistic of it

—the likelihood of it happening to us
or of the proximity of the person in the hierarchy of our relationships.

We don’t expect death to enter so close into our inner circles
—it’s absurd.

Greatness | something (someone) remarkable
a person | thing or idea

may right now be | in just the right juxtapose
—deaf | dumb & blind to themselves

& our superficial predicament—or most likely
a restaurant by the sea.

They’re involved in putting off the day by day
death of themselves for a few more days.

I’m nauseous I must sit down.
What should I do?

Why ask yourself as if another is within you
readying an answer? “We can’t look

in our own eyes | so why
do we think we can look into our own hearts?”

You can with a mirror.
Yoon Yong watches a table of girls

in silence texting | tapping | sharing | making
their presence known to the world

screaming their lungs hoarse to "notice me!"—
…“There are 16 million text messages sent

every minute | 23 billion a day | 8.3 trillion
a year” | according to Google…

April in Seoul

The title is a dead give away for this post.
Been sitting on this set quite awhile & finally got round to having a dabble with them.

I was visiting my pal Omar, a musician from Morocco. I happened to, at this time, meet a very interesting man called Saad, also from Morocco. We met outside Omar’s lodgings around 7 a.m. & proceeded to continue talking until around 4 a.m. while we flaneuered Seoul, taking in the sunshine & putting the world to rights. It was very interesting to watch Omar & Saad converse, as they would oscillate between perfect French, Arabic & English. One would ask something in one language & the other would respond in a different language. This was not done boastfully but in a almost absentminded, organic manner, which was joyful to watch. Saad was very pleased with my curiosity.

Saad
Alley 골목
Waiting for God
Tabby Tradition
Sparktooth
Should the cat be trusted with the fish
Family
Convalescence

Lunch notes on the Selfie (noon-ish)

Lunch notes on the Selfie (noon-ish)

…A Selfie with Biyang island behind her |
a sea “glittery as jewels—ㅋㅋㅋ.”

She shudders at the squeaky cute voices
: this habitual conformity to “Selfie…ㅋㅋㅋ” |

people queueing to take photos in designated
“PHOTO OPPORTUNITY” areas.

She deletes the photo & vows to take no more.
The Selfie is an odd fad | habitually required of

like a document of proof | a notarization of the done
—a passive showcase of life for others to glance at & nod |

to flick past…pause…with a prod…a moment’s recognition
—it say’s more about them than where they are

—could I get rid of myself as easy as their passivity?
Technology designed for passivity.

To touch the screen is to scroll through time.
“Do you understand what one lonely hand can do?”

I’d use that “lonely hand” to slap the world
& him | even though I know better: I should guide

the world with it— I should know better: (—ctrl + alt + del
ctrl + alt + del ctrl + alt + del ctrl + alt + del—)…

Homesickness in Birmingham (late morning)

Homesickness in Birmingham (late morning)

…The smell of rice I missed the most.
I walked round Birmingham | my nose

aching for the familiar scent of it
—just 1 bowl of rice to ease the cramps of homesickness.

I cried in public for a bowl of rice.
For the sound of steam ejecting from a rice cooker |

the fresh whiff of it smeared through the house.
The next thing I know | some tubby white guy

is spraying a Gutai on my stomach
too soon & offering to make me a Pot Noodle as if

that might be compensation for Jin Ramen.
I told him it was fine—“I’ll do better

next time.” He never did.
He worked hard all the way to wedding bells

& I too lonely & concerned that if
I don’t take him I’ll end up a spinster…

The light of a place (dawn)

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 light is audible | like
the tintinnabulation of church bells—it never ends

& with it comes dead lawns
& fruitless trees through long sub-zero winters.

“Does the sea alter the sky |
or the sky the sea” I remember asking my father

when we came to Jeju
on holiday when I was a kid.

I wish I could remember his reply
—something precise | photo-synthetic.

The turbid smog that smothers Seoul
or even Jeju makes your nose itch.

The world shrinks when the eye
cannot push past its density

—just like I cannot see my future
for the polluted air of my marriage…

Bright & early she goes to Hyeopjae Beach (before dawn)

Bright & early she goes to Hyeopjae Beach (before dawn)

…The deplorable amount of rubbish
—balled up paper cups with mushy fag butts

& phlegm | a gondae ajeossi in expensive pastel golf clothes
stood outside the 7/11 smoking 1 fag after

another | never finishing a whole one
before dropping it in front of him to smolder & stink |

or dropping it into the dregs of his sweet mix-coffee
—gobs fat globes of spit beside the fags

which pools | enough to wash a bird.
“Welcome to Hyeopjae beach”

dawn on a Saturday in mid-August.
It hasn’t rained enough already

& the humidity makes vegetation look narcoleptic
—small tee-pees of sesame drying on pavements |

which usually starts about the beginning of September
—you know what this means | don’t you?

Regardless…The air salty as fish n’ chips.
I’ll swim in the ocean | just float

like a plastic bag resembling a jelly fish |
think myself granular like shoals of anchovy bursting apart

—I am a singing bowl’s hum | an ornate paper fan
with herons landing in cool water painted on one side

—a parasol released into the wind |
a school boy infatuation | erasing equations |

close as can be to weightless
—I think nothing for a while…

Until…The eschatological battery of Pansori
—a dramatic finale of worlds in the purse of an old lady.

“It’s easier to remember pain
than it is to remember a scent…”