k-pop fever II

the candy crush
i order pumpkin latte
while oppa gathers
enigmatic treasures
from an ice cream land,
a timid neighbor asks
if outfits matter-
of course they do,
if they’re Jonghyun-inspired
floral pants!

to fangirl
in the poplit street
you need mirotic posters
and singing fluently
the most obscure
f (x) stuff!
(also a Disney Chanyeol
never fails to function
if you kidnap
an octopus on sunday
and catapult yourselves
to Mars)

build fairy tanks,
adorn them
with the quotes
from woozy fanfics,
invent a personal choreo
with a hint at joining hands,
be ready to include
a whirl of quirky panthers-
there are no limits
to your bubble trance
if you are bold and brave!

k-pop fever

to practice ninja moves
i jump and roll,
defeat a bunch of orcs
and hide in
shadowed curtains,
i stroll in lizard costumes
turning limy green
like martian spies,
until i spot
a lovely firefly!

a chase begins,
i can’t restrain myself!
the lampyrid is magick
and it’s beaming wild,
seducing me with sungaze
and an awesome dance
in lustrous lights,
so i forget where’s day
and where is night!

the graffiti on squares
remind hello kitty trucks,
the lutes are luting
and the stars are starring!
colleagues don’t know
what to do
with this absurd of mine
when suddenly i’m helicopter
to you flying!




you, yes you, i’m gonna catch you :))

islander 섬의 주민

i meet her in the shade of ginkgo
where thatched roof buildings slumber
amid the forest of lush afternoons.

she tells how the pulse of zephyr
draws bonsai wreaths of isle’s plum season.
how the wetlands of Gotjawal soar
when a firefly twinkles with laburnum
in the source of lagoon spring.
how the basalt of dol hareubang
reflects a gentian of cloud caves
on the way to her tiny village
lost beyond a cadence
of ripe whitecaps in half-light,
weightlessly clear
after the whirl of mountain rain.

she sparkles like a legend of Jeju.
her grandma was a local haenyeo,
woman of the sea
searching for the abalone meadow
sustained by divinity
of pale aquatic mandolins.

and my ballet shoes are tinged
with penumbral shapes
of wondrous algae;

and the air is deep with scent
of distant mandarin farms.

she says she doesn’t write poetry,
only wanders the antique streets
and listens to wise orient sunbeams.

may be because the poetry
is she






(for my friend K)

sound of the heart


i knew your song
before the angel wind lit universal air-
nightly your haven streams delivered radiance
until a cyan ocean gave birth to moon and sun

we dance to reverie in each other’s eyes
and i hold your hand on pulse of sky
where you hold my breath

(along the golden bridge
a stir of train arpeggios
and all around
a slow c-minor shift
towards october’s cradling realm)

i weave soft timbre of your smile
through raindrops
and the call of early birds

the mild of dew on jacaranda blossoms
plays templed essence
of andante clouds

and on your canvas
elven waves are dawning
with chants to peace
and quiet solace









When I die, your name will fall from my lips like the last petal of a flower.

(Yu Guangzhong)

in your arms

you, adored

by softest eclipses
beneath piano moon

dewings on eyelashes

rosewater poured
into sweet amber soju

a cypress riverboat
sways to bamboo flutes
of lunar valley
shaped by the welkin breeze

on midnight peaks
the spheres are shifting

the taste of glowdrops
slips slow with
empurpled subtlety

blue petals
are strewn
across the corridor

aquiver is enchanting sky

an islet’s melting
on supple skin
by your sungate

as lotus lanterns
gaze bloomingly
at the pastel crane dance

oh love

how gentle is
your foliage infinite
lighter than
golden light


teach me the language
of autumnal roses,
dreamy-eyed and subtle
like willow tears in mystic rain-
a gaussian blur
kindling the pilgrim’s fireheart
when nightingales
sing lullabies to mountains
and solar symphonies
wash space with tidal rhythm
of humming waves

touch me to chants
of Gyerim forest,
legendary and hypnotic
like mantras for the miracle
of bodhi’s pure flame-
the magic of a starfall
or the rise of lotus borealis
adorning hemispheres
of spirit’s realm
with an ariosa sea
of valley’s thriving rays

teach me to deserve
your gentle touch,
feathered, light and heaving
like nothing i have ever sensed before-
a spell of musing sun
in fervent chambers
of the sweetest night,
a sigh of cherry garden
in the drift of ancient air
winding a fragile boat of moon
to blessed shores


he’s planting violets
on the dark side of the moon
and emerging soft
above the fog of city rain
buds map serenity in cosmos
of the orient sapphire

she’s gathering a harvest
of verbena lights
in the wake of season’s wonder
cascading pale yet ripe
from a beautiful exile
of deep acoustic autumn

and from afar
the melody
of late suburban trains
into the clouded body
of september night

the hermit’s breath
scatters a mellow wind
on glow and incense of the lanterns
almost without a sound

the garden door is open

tea house, radiant and quiet

soft power of surrender
is nestled
in the blue star fabric