"Poems for October"

"Poems for October"

At the Table of Silence 

In the heart of Sanchon, 

Where the temple bell hums softly, 

I entered not as a stranger, 

But as one seeking the unseen. 

The dishes came, not mere food, 

But whispers from the earth, 

Leaves and grains, touched by light, 

Carried by winds of devotion. 

Each taste, a verse from the Beloved,

Spoken through roots and stems, 

A silence between flavors, 

Inviting me to listen, to pause. 

No word of excess, no hunger of greed, 

Only the nourishment of the soul, 

For in the temple’s stillness,

Even the smallest offering is divine. 

As the incense rose, a prayer unwritten, 

I too rose, no longer bound by the body, 

But filled with the sweetness of knowing, 

That the sacred can be found in every bite. 

 Yearning for the Imaret 

 In the quiet embrace of Sanchon, 

I sat at a table rich with colors, 

The taste of nature filled my senses,

Yet a longing stirred within, deep as the sea. 

 Each dish, a whisper of the earth, 

Crafted with love, an offering shared, 

But in the warmth of this feast, 

I yearned for more than sustenance. 

 I longed for the imaret, 

Where the hungry gather, 

Where bowls overflow with compassion, 

And the soul finds nourishment, not just the body. 

 For what is a meal without sharing? 

What is the joy of flavors, 

If not deepened by the smiles of strangers, 

Gathered in the spirit of togetherness? 

 As I savored each bite, 

I could almost hear the laughter,

 Of those who find solace in the simple, 

Where every morsel becomes a prayer.

 In the heart of Sanchon,

 I tasted abundance, 

Yet in my heart, I carried the weight, 

Of those still searching for a place at the table. 

 And so I offered my gratitude, 

Not just for the food before me, 

But for the vision of an imaret, 

A sanctuary where all are fed, 

Where every hungry heart is embraced, 

In the eternal banquet of Love. 

 Whispers of Forgotten Hands 

 In the hidden streets of Seoul, 

Where time slows beneath the dust, 

I wandered into a shop of echoes, 

Where objects spoke in forgotten tongues.

 Each piece, a relic of longing, 

A fragment from hands unseen, 

Once cherished, now waiting, 

For a gaze that understands its tale. 

 An old brass mirror held my face, 

Yet I saw the faces of many before me, 

As if the glass could capture, 

The passing of souls through centuries. 

 Scrolls and books unfurled like ancient prayers, 

Boxes creaked open like guarded hearts, 

In each, a memory locked away, 

Yearning to be known, to be held again.

 What is this place, 

But a garden of old loves and forgotten grief? 

Where the past bends and sways, 

Offering itself to the one who listens.

 I did not leave empty-handed, 

For the treasures I took were not of this world—

 But of the heart, that learns to see, 

In every crack and tarnish, a trace of the Divine. 

 The Carver’s Prayer 

 In the stone’s silence, I watched him, 

The carver bent low in his craft, 

Each stroke a whisper, a prayer unspoken, 

As if he were not shaping stone, 

But awakening the soul within. 

 The chisel met the surface, 

Not with force, but with grace, 

For in each line etched,

 A secret was revealed, 

Of what it means to be formed and to form. 

 The seal, small as it seemed, 

Held the weight of worlds untold, 

An emblem of lives yet to be marked, 

Of hands that would press it, 

Into this stone of existence. 

 He carved not for beauty, 

But for truth, 

As if he knew that the stone had always carried, 

The name it now bore, 

And he, a mere servant, was called to set it free. 

 In that moment, I understood, 

We are all stones waiting for the carver, 

To reveal in us the mark of the Eternal,

 Cutting away the excess, 

Until only the pure design of Love remains. 

At the End of the Path

The temple’s solace still clung to me,
As I walked the long road,
Each step a slow return,
From silence to the world of sounds.

The wind carried the temple’s breath,
In the rustle of leaves, in the sigh of stones, 

Yet the further I went, 

The more distant that sacred whisper became. 

I stopped at the side of the road, 

Waiting, like so many before, 

For the next passing moment, 

For the ride to take me onward. 

But in the stillness of waiting, 

I found the journey did not end. 

For the path is always before us,
Whether on foot or in pause. 

The sky above stretched wide, 

Like the endless reach of the soul, 

And I, a wanderer in its shadow, 

Understood that even here, 

On the edge of the mundane, 

The sacred remains.

For in the waiting, too, there is grace, 

A reminder that we do not rush the Beloved, 

But learn to see, in every breath, 

The gift of simply being. 

At the Threshold of Stillness 

I sat, waiting for the coolness to come, 

The iced coffee that would quench, 

But in my waiting, I gazed beyond, 

To the quiet stone of Myeongdong’s spire. 

The church stood tall, unmoved by time, 

Its arches reaching like hands in prayer, 

As if it knew the secret I sought, 

In the space between sips and stillness. 

The world moved around me— 

Footsteps, voices, the clatter of cups— 

Yet in that sacred gaze, 

All was hushed, all was One. 

The drink I waited for became nothing, 

Compared to the sweetness of the moment, 

Where the heart sipped from deeper wells, 

And thirsted no more for what was fleeting. 

In the shadow of the church, 

I found a silence that spoke, 

Reminding me that the Divine is not only found, 

In grand cathedrals or distant heights, 

But in the waiting, in the watching, 

In the simple act of being still. 

And when the coffee came, 

It was more than a drink, 

But a reminder that every longing, 

Is a path back to the Beloved. 

At Home, Remembering Myeongdong 

Here, in the stillness of home, 

I sit with quiet walls, 

But my heart has wandered back, 

To the streets of Myeongdong, 

Where the air was crisp, 

And the lights flickered like distant stars. 

I remember the cold noodles— 

Their coolness like a winter breeze, 

A simple dish, yet rich with longing, 

Each bite a taste of something fleeting, 

Something that stirred the soul, 

And left me wanting more than just a meal. 

The city thrummed with life, 

Footsteps hurried past, 

Yet in that bowl, there was stillness— 

A pause from the rush, 

A moment where the world slowed, 

And I could feel the weight of my own yearning. 

Now, at home, the memory stirs, 

Not just for the taste of noodles, 

But for the place they left me in— 

A space between the warmth of the past 

And the chill of what has yet to come. 

For in those cold strands, 

I tasted more than broth and spice— 

I tasted the hunger of my soul, 

For all that is distant, all that is far, 

Yet somehow, always near. 

Myeongdong calls me still, 

Not with the clamor of the streets, 

But with the soft whisper of memory, 

Where the cold noodles once invited, 

And the heart, as it always does, Answered.