The Lamp on the Rotem Tree
Yeon Myung- Ji
In the beginning, there was a person.
The very first one
felt the cool shade beneath the apple tree.
But the sun went down, and night passed,
and a foul mouth was born.
Every eye, once resting peacefully beneath the apple tree,
startled—whispers burst like seeds.
And every ear echoed with strange sounds.
That was the turning point.
We must remember
the white broom tree.
A tree that can hardly cast a shadow,
offering nothing to those who seek it.
Its fruit, laced with poison—
a useless, lonely white broom.
A desolate square, where lips kissed anxiety,
dust swirling in the wind as the crowd gathered.
Before the cold face of reality,
they beat their tin drums,
spilling out their rage,
shoving neighbors’ backs,
breaking peace with their own hands.
In this square of hatred,
we must remember the venom in our mouth
and sing a song of harmony.
We were, yes, we were friends for a long time.
And now, precariously,
a single lamp hangs on the white broom.
Knowing Nothing at All About a Rat’s Horn
“Knowing next to nothing,” people say—
And I find those words so naturally true.
When I think of a rat, I think of a half-moon
Carved into a wall, and a tail of night
Scurrying in and out of the dark.
Opening that half-moon, hiding within,
Then seeking prey during the hours of loathing—
A rat.
In every building’s dimmest corner, a half-moon hangs.
In fairways, the rat is always busy,
Gnawing through water paths or severing ropes.
Inside that half-moon, shameful cheeks
Press their red “rat-horns” against one another.
A cat, enamored by someone’s secrets,
Is drawn to the deepening rumors,
Its whiskers twitching with a forever-fishy scent.
We know all too well about the rat,
Yet we know nothing of its horns.
Still, hearing that sharp squeak-squeak,
We imagine the sound itself is a pointed horn.
When a rat measures size,
It tenses its whiskers, using them as a ruler or protractor.
The size of the half-moons hidden throughout the house
Is the very span measured by those whiskers.
The moon the rat loves most is November.
Though all beasts go barefoot, the rat alone has red, bare feet.
It is only natural to know next to nothing of a rat’s horn.
So, fold your lips neatly
And set them high upon the storehouse shelf.
