다 못 알고
아는 것을 잘 못 사용하지만
한국어 도 아름다운 언어를 찾을 수 있냐?

다 못 알고
아는 것을 잘 못 이야기하지만
영어 이나 한국말로 행복하고 슬픈 것도 진리로 아름답게 말하고 싶다

다 못 알고
아는 것을 잘 못 느낄 수도 있지만
누가와 함께 내 마음을 영원하고 아름답게 나누고 싶다


I don’t know everything
And even though what I do know I can’t use well,
Can I find a more beautiful language than Korean?

I don’t know everything
And even though what I do know I can’t say well,
Whether with English or Korean, I want to tell happy and sad truths beautifully

I don’t know everything
And even though it may also be what I do know I can’t feel well,
Somewhere with someone, I want to beautifully share my heart eternally.


처음 한국어로 썼고 그 다음 영어로 번역했어요.

I wrote it first in Korean and then translated it into English.

Sijo 2

싸늘한 높은 산이 움직이지 않구나
만약에 아침 해는 움직이지 않으면
너 산이 결국에 가야죠 빛 얻까지 온 가야해

Oh mountain, tall and icy, you never move from your place.
Look, the sun! What if it stopped to move no more? A still star.
Oh mountain, then you must move at last, until in whole, you reach the light.

Sijo I

이꽃의 아름다운 냄새는 희미해요.
나는 왜 뿌리 없는 이꽃을 보관하냐
나에게 준 날 오래 전 넌 줄기를 자렸어.

This flower’s still beautiful fragrance is faded away.
Why do I keep this flower that doesn’t have any roots?
Long before the day you gave it to me you had cut the stem.

Mirkwood

 

In an English class we’ve been learning about lyrical poetry and ballad stanzas and our professor said over the weekend, just for fun, we should try to write a stanza based on The Hobbit. Come today and I’d completely forgotten but I whipped up something in class. My professor liked it. 🙂 I haven’t read or watched the Hobbit in a while so if these events aren’t in order, forgive me. I also added the last stanza just now so that it didn’t end so abruptly and feels a little more complete.

My hand now gripped the short sword Sting
I crept, breath short, ahead,
And then let forth a mighty swing
And felled a spider dead.

I cut away the silken string
Which trapped my friends in floss.
The webs, they hung from trees, there clinged;
A sickly hanging moss.

We fled the dark nightmarish scene
That cavern of a wood
But while we were yet on our way
The elves before us stood

Not as our friends, they seized us fast
Oh what despair had we!
For we were weary in our hearts,
Still. Courage entered me

As it had entered in the wood.
I snuck and got the key.
As fast as we were able fled,
and so at last were free.

 

Seperation

Sister, sister, where will you go?
Our blood is so much thicker
Than the smoke blown on the wind
Yet we cannot help being separated.

How deeply I have loved you,
But nothing stops our separation
I have no chains or ropes or bonds
And I would not want to trap you.

Still I cannot help but wishing
I could tie your soul to the Earth
With something physical.
I do not even know if it will be you who leaves first

How can we leave so easily
And place so heavy a weight
On the others’ heart
When it is so against our wishes?

There should be more weight
To our souls than this,
To keep us from flying away
When it is so against our wishes.

What do you Say?

What do you say when your life is cut short
By the malice of man?
If you could stand up and say anything?
If you could reach us?
Or would there be no more words
Just a sweet long last hug.

We love you.

©2016
Ruth Sexton

The attack at Nice, France is not the first attack on France nor, I fear, the last, but for some reason this one made me feel “Today, we are all French. We should all be French.” Just as the world stood with the US after the Sept 11 attacks. My heart goes out to those who have lost someone, those with injuries, those with mental, emotional, and physical hurt in France right now.

If any of my readers can speak French and translate this poem into French, I’d be grateful if you could translate and share it.

Ancestor’s Poem

It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? I have a couple passions; writing poetry, drawing, and writing fiction, and for the past while I’ve been focusing on improving my drawing skills. I don’t want to make it seem as though I’ve abandoned this site though.

Writing poetry is in my blood on both sides of my family. Recently my mother found a poem written by the younger brother of my great-grandmother. I’d like to share it. A transcript is below the image.

1924 Frank Talbot poem

Goethe and Beethoven

Upon a winter night, by chance,
The village inn had for its guests two men
Whose names the gods were to enhance—
The poet Goethe, youthful Beethoven.

When they had supped, around the fire
They sat. The poet was the first to speak:
“The pen’s more potent than the lyre;
A higher art you waste your time to seek.”

The young musician raised his head;
Retorted he: “ ‘Tis true by all the men
Of Germany your works are read;
We know the strength of your famed pen.

Are you admired in Rome or Greece
Or by the Danes? Oh, music is the art
That will always felicity increase
And cause joy to fill every heart.

Your poems ever will be sung
By Germans; for yourself a name you’ve made.
But I write in the world wide tongue;
My works all over earth will e’er be played.”

Frank Talbot
1924

 

On the Wire

The birds are getting soaked up on the wire
Shall I take my coat and join you, or shall I stay?
I think we are meant for something higher

Than the squabbles and the heartaches, daily fire
That we must outrun. Is it joyous? To be that jay.
The birds are getting soaked up on the wire.

The tightrope walker is no ordinary flyer
How beautiful the sky must be to them, for they,
I think, are reaching for something higher.

But is it worth it? It’s raining and I tire
Of unsure grips, narrow paths, the way
The birds are getting soaked up on the wire.

I want to be a doer, not a trier
But help me up at first, (To myself) I say:
I think I am meant for something higher

Than staying indoors, where it is drier
Though I’m afraid of falling, I’ll be okay
With the birds, getting soaked up on the wire.
I knew that I was meant for something higher.

© 2016
Ruth

Procrastination

I should have wrote this poem sometime last week
When I had more time to pick, choose, and seek
Out the perfect rhyme, and the perfect tale
Alas such wishing is to no avail,
Procrastination is the bane of great
Work that awes, the power to create.
It backs one up against a barrier
Of time that can’t be scaled. That carrier
Of good and ill that breaks upon us all.
Fresh winds and foul waves upon us fall.
There is no sword to parry, shield to break,
No spectre of time, or monster in the lake.
The only foe is the dragon of myself
That I must conquer daily for myself.
That like a phoenix when I die, I rise
No longer weary, new brightness in my eyes
Freshly rested, taking steady and slow,
The work I’d elsewise do all in one go.
Each day, instead of being in a rush
I can enjoy the quiet and the hush.
Satisfaction of a job I have done well,
And grateful that I lived to tell the tale.

© 2016
Ruth

It’s supposed to be in heroic couplets, but my meter isn’t great.