Sunday, February 13, 2011

what the poet needs

People are hypnotized.
They think where we are is extremely important.
Dare I say, no, it is not!
Where we are is not the matter,
It is kind of simulacrum.
The only matter is what we are.
Then let me ask myself a question.
What am I?
Oh, I am scavenger!
The things people dumped are the matters to me.
Desperation, Grief, Absolute Loneliness, and what not.
I need them to be what I am.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

The sorrow had the name

The sorrow I've shed,
that once was my skin,
had its own name.
It was your name, my dear.
Do you know? It was your name.
The same sorrow has dropped
into the frozen crystal pot.
Then it has turned into the compassion.
And I drank up a cup of that bitter liquid.