Archaic Torso of Apollo
After Rilke
He has no head. He has no eyes
to pin us with his godhead. But his torso
is itself a gaze in which there grows
from inside, like a covered lamp, a fire.
Without that rising surge, divinity
would not ravish you, nor would a lip
trace the gentle curve of thigh and hip
to the shadowed center of fertility.
Without it, the stone would seem a broken thing,
chipped, cracked, dead, a stone,
and would not glisten like a wolf’s dark mane,
and would not from its remnants blaze and singe
you like a god. Of all its parts, there is not one
that does not see you. Your life must change.
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Falling faster
than skies can
Just to find ground.
The stable beginning
where particles meet
to find a rhythm
As Love rests my
Heart safely
Told a thousand truths
each different without
source until I touch
Harmonious Light with
direction.
Myself I AM
Best upon
needless to
say.
.............................................
A morning script
by John Edward Culp
April 6, 2026
All Rights Reserved
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I sleep beside an old film where long-forgotten names come and go. Sleep folds away the faces I miss, soaked through with the tears of flowers.
In the place where past words were set loose, unshed cries are tangled, unable to be locked away.
When I dip an old brush, droplets open a path. A breath touches that distant landscape — in the place where hidden flowers bloom alone, there is the heart of the sea. Flowers blooming underwater sway yellow with a trembling grief.
Some springs must gather courage just to be used —
they must be wept through. Hands that had sunk heave up what they could not hold; eyes whose depths cannot be known even after sorrow has drained away. Days we once embraced lie arranged in quiet rows.
Spring returns carrying the word I’m sorry. On the anniversary we meet again, rolled up inside our unfinished speech. I’m sorry for leaving you behind.
봄을 어떻게 사용하느냐고 물었다
연명지
머리맡에 오래된 이름이 드나드는 낡은 필름을 두고 잔다 그리운 얼굴이 접혀 있는 잠은 꽃들의 눈물로 흥건하고
지나간 말을 부려놓은 곳에 잠그지 못한 울음들이 엉켜 있다
오래된 붓을 담그면 물방울들이 길을 연다 그 아득한 풍경에 닿아 있는 숨 혼자 숨어 핀 꽃들의 자리에 바다의 심장이 있다 물속에 핀 꽃들이 노랗게 울렁거린다
어떤 봄은 용기를 내서 울어야 사용 할 수 있다
가라앉은 손들이 울컥 게워놓은 슬픔마저 빠져나간 깊이를 알 수 없는 눈빛들 껴안았던 날들이 가지런히 놓여 있다
미안하다라는 말이 돌아오는 봄 기일에 만난 우리들 말 속으로 말아 올려지는 두고 와서 미안해
Mother’s Empty Room
By Yeon Myung Ji
When blood bloomed from her children’s fingers, Mother would grind cuttlefish bone to dust And cover our wounds.
In her final years, she was a map of tender pressure points; She placed a heavy boulder atop the eyelids of life. Leaving us—who once played beneath the shelter of her bones— She let go of the hands she held until the end, Taking not a single one with her as she went alone.
A certain someone, who wrote that we should rejoice In having something left to leave behind, Shed the tears of a bird. And her children, sinners before their mother, Stifled their tears, pressing them deep down. They hid them in haste So no one could ever find them.
Those who have buried a loved one in their hearts Know how to unlock and bolt the gates of grief. Though there is no scripture on how to mourn well, Lips that met for the first time wailed out loud. In three days, every trace of Mother Was summoned away by the wind. The woman who, in life, stayed only in her room, Now hides within the fringe tree branches, within the breeze.
If blood should ever seep from her children’s fingers, She seems ready to appear, clutching a piece of cuttlefish bone. Even in death, she is Mother; With that very word, “Mother,” she still cradles us.
엄마의 빈 방
Yeon Myung Ji
엄마는 새끼들 손가락에서 피가 나면 갑오징어 뼈를 갈아 상처를 덮어주었다.
늘그막의 엄마는 온통 압통점이어서 생의 눈꺼풀 위 묵직한 바위 하나 올려놓았다. 당신의 뼈 아래에서 놀던 우리를 남겨두고 마지막으로 잡았던 손들 하나도 데려가지 않고 혼자 갔다.
무언가 두고 갈 것이 있다는 걸 기뻐하라는 글을 남긴 어떤 이는 새의 눈물을 흘렸고 어미 앞에 죄인인 새끼들은 눈물을 꾹꾹 숨겼다. 누구도 눈물을 찾지 못하도록 바삐 숨겼다 누군가를 가슴에 묻어본 사람들은 눈물을 열고 잠그는 방법을 안다.
잘 울어야 한다는 교리가 있는 것도 아닌데 처음 본 입술은 깔깔 울었다. 엄마의 흔적은 사흘 만에 바람으로 불려갔고 살아서는 방에만 있던 엄마는 이팝나무 가지에, 바람 속에 숨어 있다.
새끼들 손가락에 피가 나면 얼른 오징어 뼈를 들고 나타날 것만 같은 엄마는, 죽어서도 엄마 그 엄마라는 말로 여전히 우리를 다독인다
Profile
Poet Yeon Myeong-ji began her literary career in 2013 with the poetry collection 『Gashibi』, published in the Minerva Poetry Series.
Her published works include the poetry collections 『Sitting Like an Apple』 and 『Where would the House of the Sorry’ be? 』 the e-poetry collection 『Seventeen Marco Polos,』 and the travel essay 『Step by Step, Walking the Camino.』
She has received the Tolstoy Literary Award, the Homi Literary Award, the Cheongsong Gaekju Literary Award, and the Aviation Literary Award. In 2025, she was awarded the Bronze Prize in Poetry at the Literature Asia Awards.
Her poems have been translated and published in local languages in India, Pakistan, Kosovo, Italy, Egypt, the United States, and Belgium.
Stan sat before the old television set, unmoving. He was just dimly aware that his torso and limbs were arranged in the same posture as Rodin’s “The Thinker,” only in flesh tones instead of the bronze of the sculpture. While Le Penseur had for more than a century captivated observers with its monumental reflection of profound introspection, Stan knew only that he was stoned on peach-flavored vodka and ersatz Nyquil. Like the statue, Stan was totally nude.
It had been a long night. Leaving his sleeping wife alone in the middle of the night to grab a beer and catch some professional wrestling on the tube, he had gotten wildly drunk and stayed that way into the morning. He worked hard as a bricklayer and only cut loose one night a week. He didn’t frequent the bars anymore, and usually held himself together enough to accompany Bree to church on Sunday morning.
He gazed bleakly at the TV, saw on the fuzzy screen only the pointless Sunday morning discussion programs. Stan moved his right elbow from his left knee and bent to retrieve his flask of generic vodka. He then snatched from the TV table the large, trapezoid-shaped bottle of generic cold meds. Decanting the green, gloppy liquid into a small plastic cup, he tossed it back like a shot of tequila. Next he unscrewed the vodka and took a bracing hit. The hair on his arms stood on end.
“I’m ready,” he said aloud, “for a Sunday without football.”
Keys rattled in the locket and through the front door walked Bree. She dropped her purse and a grocery bag on the parson’s table beside the entrance. She stared at her husband and offered up, “Shit-faced again, lover?”
“Is that what you learned at Sunday school today?” asked Stan, promptly falling off the sofa and bonking his head on the edge of the TV.
As he lay there, dazed, Bree sashayed through the living room, took up a vase, removed the fresh-cut flowers and poured the water on her husband’s head. Stan sprang to life at once.
Stan shook himself like a dog. “What’s for lunch?” he slurred.
“Hash. Don’t get up; I’ll serve you where you are.”
“Thanks, ‘hon.”
Bree brings him something ugly in a bowl.”
“Hey Bree, that’s the dog’s food dish.”
“Of course it is, I gave you dog food.”
“Bree, I can only take so much. You know I can leave you at any time.”
“Promises, promises. The checkout guy at the grocery lets me know, every time I shop, that he’s available. Good hair, nice teeth and a body that looks like a Greek statue. You really want to make threats?”
“You think you are so hot! Want to know what the secretaries for the union say about me?”
“Sure, I could use a good laugh.”
“They say I have great penmanship.”
They blink at the other for a moment, and then Bree hides her mouth with her hand and starts to giggle. Stan joins her. Soon they are laughing uproariously.
“Hey Bree, help your drunk old man up so we can watch something on TV.”
“OK, but after that I’ve got to put away groceries.”
Later they leave the TV on but ignore it while making out like a couple of teenagers. The ice cream melts in the bag on the table.
