THREE POEMS

the genre of the sea

the genre of the sea
is determined by the stars

there was a weather vane there were roofs like pastel crayons a ginkgo tree with broken branches and
styrofoam buoy floating alone in the water there was a snow staying up all night with resentment
and there was farewell
sediment of the ocean like the footprints of the stars

the sea played a game
of connecting the broken traces of the stars
the sea placed fire, ice, and arrows of desire in the stars’ field of view
the deepening, shredded remains of the animals burned as small sparks

at night the sea could see the inside of the sky
withered leaves and wingless birds
at the bottom of the sky
bones of stars piled up in the shape of water

when the stars touch the sea
silver green
when the body feels it first as a desire
touch sinks and innocence rolls over
the border of water like the first of language

the stars drew a clear line toward the short sunset
the short sunset fell at the bottom of the sea

when the sun drank the stars
the sea grew marks of grief
wilt and mold
became the waves
the sea gave birth to the salt in the wind
everyday
the sea waits for the stars to open the sky.

the sea recalls for the stars.
the sea stays.

忙中閑

let’s call everything we love a quince
every quince has a staircase to underground
the beneath

at the end of the staircase there is a darkroom
the door is never locked
but no one can open the door

are you there?
no answer but
someone rolls over
in this world that nothing is clear
except the existence itself
like the day we forget the face of a cat that died ten years ago

the quince in a palm
cuts its tail and runs to the outside of a quince

and talks in front of a door that never opens
as time passes the quince ripens

the rushing heart stops
and finally the quince sees its own feet

the quince will inevitably rot with its will to get closer
the quince is no longer a quince when you start looking beyond the quince.

忙中閑有り

let’s call everything we love a quince
there were a few things I wanted to bury under the quince tree

like piles and piles of language wet faces and stolen tears
summer passed like a feather outside of time is soft
the quince will inevitably rot with its will to get closer
to you as if the time matches the speed

there’s a beach at the end of my sleeves
the border of water like the first of language
there’s a pocket it is the color of your tongue

I now confess to you I do not know
that there was something that refused to melt
and I desire all that has been kept away from me

you so distant and warm blended with my sheepish faith so fervent
my hands fold doing nothing becoming prayer of your name
a pit I cannot crack.

AUTHOR: Sehee Oh
ARTIST: Maia Lourdes