Excerpts from Borderland Roads

 

Writing What I See

An old wife sits at dusk, grieving
in her charred village.

Her unkempt hair, like frost—
both eyes, muted.

Her husband imprisoned
by creditors.

Her son, drafted, follows the King’s son,
bound for Ch’ŏngju.

In a house assaulted by war,
pillars and beams burn.

The daily work can’t be done—
her will to live has ceased.

I hide in a mountain forest
without my hemp dress shirt.

What business remains for an officer,
calling at the gates?

 

 

The Longing of Hwang County Women

     I

Before me lies Perfect Direction Mountain,
below, Full-Silk Valley.
It’s better to live in a brothel
than marry a peddler.

     II

My peddler sails on a river. He promised to return by August.
The ninth of September has already passed
the wine has ripened—
why is he late?

     III

Women, lovely as flowers, indulge in afternoon naps—
others, graceful as cranes, rendezvous through the night.
The women of day and night seize every moment—
competing with these beauties, how will I find my love?

     IV

I love my lotus-layered petals,
but my husband desires another flower.
Rather than visit a park for lovers,
I walk a simple stream for passersby.

     V

At night I climb to Great Emptiness Pavilion
to secretly meet a handsome man,
but a clerk official appears,
demanding, “Who is it you are meeting?”

     VI

Chengdu has luxuriously smooth silk
with butterflies shimmering among flowers.
For a fee, I slept with a prize—
now I can sew a dress for dancing.

 

 

Sending Away a Visitor, Sitting Alone

Piles of sutras, the warm stove, and unbroken silence—
my solitude, as an Immortal’s house.
The warm day brightens plum blossoms, and my steps—
a light wind seeps through the gate, fells willow flowers.

I’ve given up writing. The roof-tile ink-stone slabs,
long dry. I should heat Dragon Tea over the strong fire.
Don’t say I have no guests in this isolated place—
it’s quite natural for bees of the mountain to visit.