First I saw the white bear, then I saw the black;
Then I saw the camel with a hump upon his back;
Then I saw the grey wolf, with mutton in his maw;
Then I saw the wombat waddle in the straw;
Then I saw the elephant a-waving of his trunk;
Then I saw the monkeys—mercy, how unpleasantly they smelt!

If the pain doesn’t come back, 
what will I write about? Will the poems 
have tendon and teeth? I didn’t get 
right the sonnet of all its colors. 
I did not find the exact dagger of phrase 
about the long loss of my life.

Hope is all I do and am. 
I don’t think I’m poet enough 
to make you taste this mango; 
or see that sutured sunset unless 
from a hospital bed. 
I was good for carving. 

There will be kisses, music, street names. 
Loved ones will go where the gone do. 
What if I don’t want to (write it: can’t) 
write about these things. 
What if I would rather feel 
than create feeling? 
What then? Go ahead. 

^{translated from the Korean by Younghill Kang}

When you go walking through the clear dawn in the shade of trees,
  my dream will become the few little stars
     that are staying on over your head.

When during summer days you are sleeping a daytime sleep
  unable to conquer the heat, my dream will become the clear winds
     that are floating about your vicinage.

When in the still Autumn nights, you sit alone reading books,
  my dream will become the voice of the cricket, crying
     under your table, “chirrup, chirrup.”

나의 꿈

당신이 맑은 새벽에 나무그늘 사이에서 산보할 때에 
나의 꿈은 작은 별이 되어서 
당신의 머리 위를 지키고 있겠습니다.

당신이 여름날에 더위를 못 이기어 낮잠을 자거든 
나의 꿈은 맑은 바람이 되어서 
당신의 주위에 떠돌겠습니다.

당신이 고요한 가을밤에 그윽히 앉아서 글을 볼 때에 
나의 꿈은 귀뚜라미가 되어서 
당신의 책상 밑에서 “귀똘귀똘” 울겠습니다.

Grief shall not be my friend!   She shall not be
Companion of my table, path or bed,
She shall not share my salt nor break my bread,
Nor walk nor weep nor dream nor wake with me:
I will not trust her mournful company,
Nor listen to her whisperings of the dead,
Why should I heed her somber eyelid’s red?
Tears are but chains and I, I would be free!

For grief would make a laggard of my will,
And me, a puny thing of anguished need,
A memory!   And I would die at length,
Close to the thought of you—and loving still:
So will I choose a friend of stouter creed,
The wingless, tearless thing the heart calls strength.

It’s neither red
nor sweet.
It doesn’t melt
or turn over,
break or harden,
so it can’t feel
pain,
yearning,
regret.

It doesn’t have 
a tip to spin on,
it isn’t even
shapely—
just a thick clutch
of muscle,
lopsided,
mute. Still,
I feel it inside
its cage sounding
a dull tattoo:
I want, I want—

but I can’t open it:
there’s no key.
I can’t wear it
on my sleeve,
or tell you from
the bottom of it
how I feel. Here,
it’s all yours, now—
but you’ll have
to take me,
too.

I am yours as the summer air at evening is
Possessed by the scent of linden blossoms,

As the snowcap gleams with light
Lent it by the brimming moon.

Without you I'd be an unleafed tree
Blasted in a bleakness with no Spring.

Your love is the weather of my being.
What is an island without the sea?

We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store   
and the gas station and the green market and   
Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,   
as she runs along two or three steps behind me   
her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.   

Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?   
To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?   

Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,   
Honey I'm sorry I keep saying Hurry—   
you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.   

And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking    
back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says,   
hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.