Dad

My dad is a great story teller.

One time, he told to me about his ex girlfriends, and how one of them wrote the worst love letters, and that he couldn't stand being with her anymore. I told him that mom isn't a good writer either, and he said, that was okay, because she never attempted to write him letters to begin with.

When I was in middle school, I wrote a poem about my dad. My dad cried over it, which wasn't a big deal, because he is a man who is not afraid of crying, but still, I felt like that was a sign of approval.

I want to write good stories and poems with easy and honest words.

Virginia Woolf and I have something in common. We are addicted to tragedy.

Because I like reading sad stories in the bath tub,

knowing that someone could easily pull three or four yards of rosy red silk out of their wrist.

But she was an observer who writes, I am an observer who reads.

I don't have pocketful of heavy stones pulling me down with ever lasting love,

or a nice scenery -like a bridge where little boys stop by to look at the fish- that I would like to look from below for hours and days and years,

so I keep on reading, my eyes and hands still dry.

When the water gets too hot for me, I do not hesitate,

I drain all the water out,

I watch my own body -once drowned- resurface, clean and safe.

I return to bed and set my alarm because

I must wake up,

from dream of endless kisses or dream of people I admire exposing my fraudulence.

Because she was a dreamer whose eyes forever shut

and I am a dreamer who blinks.

to a daffodil

I had this poem written on my desk my freshman year in highschool. My teacher made me erase it, saying "no wonder you're such a depressing little girl." I tried to translate, but I want to respect the words, it's so strange how languages carry different weight. I've been reading a lot of Korean poems.

정호승-「수선화에게」

울지 마라

외로우니까 사람이다

살아간다는 것은 외로움을 견디는 일이다

공연히 오지 않는 전화를 기다리지 마라

눈이 오면 눈길을 걸어가고

비가 오면 빗길을 걸어가라

갈대숲에서 가슴검은도요새도 너를 보고 있다

가끔은 하느님도 외로워서 눈물을 흘리신다

새들이 나뭇가지에 앉아 있는 것도 외로움 때문이고

네가 물가에 앉아 있는 것도 외로움 때문이다

산 그림자도 외로워서 하루에 한 번씩 마을로 내려온다

종소리도 외로워서 울려퍼진다

first cry

When I was born, you were still hungover,

There was no this and that to me,

there was no seperation between me and the universe,

there was no you and I, so I stomached your hangover myself,

drinking good beer and listening to good music did not mean anything,

temptation is not even a bother, and your clever fingers meticulously reading the surface of a girl's skin

but they are not clever enough to read her nights alone,

when she lies on her stomach and listen to her parents talk and cars rushing by outside

and you writing your will with borrowed words, and you humming the songs of others, thinking that that is enough

I suffer your lightness with the universe's weight,

I was born to save you, I was born to be you, but soon I'll be old enough to be your lover,

and we will still be hungover together.

Ringo

thank you Regina Spektor,

they say depression is the greatest source of inspiration

and I'm getting ready for winter,

and I don't know if I should start packing or throw things away,

sometimes I wonder if I want to be

Boys with dirty socks, who grow their nails to play the guitar, and write songs about

restless radio stations, the endless loop of sound waves, it's sad, so why not?

or

Women,

who can't think of anything else but to cry, and drink to cry some more.

soy

when you miss someone

your sad ears open,

so I listen. and I write and write.