[ASMR] Counting the Stars at Night-Yun Dong Ju (별 헤는 밤-윤동주)
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Wishing not to have
so much as a speck of shame
toward heaven until the day I die,
I suffered, even when the wind stirred the leaves.
With my heart singing to the stars, 5
I shall love all things that are dying.
And I must walk the road
that has been given to me.
Tonight, again, the stars are
brushed by the wind 10
November 20, 1941
Life and Poetry of the Eternal Young Poet, Yoon Dongju
Reflections on June 21, 2025 ... by jeanne rene
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| Julien Bryan/WWII Photographer/invasion of Poland |
A Dead Drop to Hell
Lest we forget.
The sum
of our conceit,
encased in fear, suckled on greed
delivered by decree.
A dead drop to hell.
For the name
of each man, woman, child,
flesh to a cinder
from one flicker
of the flame.
For the beast
who dines
on the maggots.
A dead drop to hell.
For the land left
with no seed.
For the city
erased.
For the sons
and the daughters
left living,
bound by the sins of the fathers
I beg we shamefully bow.
Let us be humbled.
For we have harnessed,
understood
but a blink
of the truth …
And within our arrogance,
in our failure
to embrace a brother,
we package our gifts
for destruction,
attempting to reinvent
His law with a dead drop to hell.
I beseech thee,
Lest we forget,
the price paid
for our vanity.
******** ********
... to see what comes
A child
squats in the ash
listlessly fingering circles
Watching
Balancing on toes
dug into the dust
Circle over circle
Circle over circle
Circle
Over … Over …
Watching
his fathers falter
among the ruins
Beseeching the deaf stones for hope
Balancing on toes …
Circle over circle
She sees
her brothers
drowning in manhood
to devour the fathers’ rage.
Brothers vomiting stones heavenward.
Circle over circle
she watches.
Silence watches.
Watching
the mothers’ shadow
unflinching
cast over her shoulders
dumb to its woe
Balancing on toes
lost in the dust …
And the wind exhales
casting the earth into eyes of the child
blinded by shields of furious locks
… and he stays, she stays
Unflinching
Toes digging into the unforgiving
They stay.
Circling in the rain.
They stay.
The children stay to see what comes.
by jeanne rené
Dad in the middle of both photos ...
when i was seventeen my boy friends went off to war
i wrote letters and sent rosary beads from the holy land
they sent me stiff, thin-lipped boot camp pictures
and later colored photos of ageless young men
grinning in front of a camera, arms over shoulders, tugging each other
posing for a group shot
while somewhere in country …
still, war was far from my reality
the children of war far, far from my comprehension
except for words scribbled and deposited
into the mail box with the red flag
from boy friends who continued to write
at home
i went to university but i did not march
and i did not wear black arm bands
perhaps because rudy asked me to keep
his track medals and 45’s
until
he came back
but, maybe i did not march
because my father had written letters to
girlfriends and his mother twenty-seven years earlier
while somewhere in country …
and, he shared with his daughter albums of ageless young men
smiling at the camera, arms over shoulders
pulling each other into a group shot
my boy friends all came home
i asked rudy for a boonie hat
which he never gave me
and he told me to keep his medals and 45’s
it was a yellow box
where the letters kept for many years
never re-read
until
i threw each one away
seventeen was a long, long time ago
these men were far, far from my reality
until
my husband hugs our son
who left
for somewhere in country …
i looked
at this ageless old man
as he sat down and reclined the lazy boy
staring at an awkward boot camp picture on our living room wall
i understood somewhere ever present in his reality
he stands in front of the camera, some buddy’s arm over his shoulder
dragging him into a group shot
and i …
i took out a pencil and some paper
Copyright jeanne rené 3.2014
Marty saying goodbye to Johnny ... joking ... making the best of the moment ...
by jeanne rené
... some memories on this Mother's Day
I miss
fabulous frogs
held up under my nose
to my cross-eyed astonishment,
. . . the snail parade on the patio steps,
and my disappearing pots and pans,
to brew the scrumptious dirt stew.
I miss
looking out the kitchen window,
watching the wind flapping the corners
of the old bedspread tent,
. . . the sound
of the bat hitting the cement ,
and new jeans with holes in the knees
from sliding into first base.
I miss
action figures with one arm,
shoe boxes of matchstick cars,
kissing puppy giggles,
chasing extraordinary pigeons,
and cries “I can’t get down from the tree!”
If I turn my hourglass over
can each grain of sand be etched
with the past . . .
I miss
two sleepy heads
bobbing in the back seat,
pulling up in the driveway late at night,
and gently disturbing their dreams,
. . . giving a kiss on each sticky forehead,
and turning off the lights with a prayer on my lips.
jeanne rené 10/04
by jeanne rene
I remember
when you looked like Gina Lollobrigida
although perhaps the housewife version
your slender waist accented with a hand-stitched apron
and low-heeled pumps even in the kitchen
singing
a favorite Sinatra hit at the sink
washing dishes as if it were a duty
but every once in a while ... slipping
into a far away glance over the green formica table
It's all so long ago and I wonder
how many of us
remember Gina Lollabrigida
Mario Lanza
or Topo Gigio singing "Funiculi-Funicula"
How many of us remember you with red lipstick
and bright clip-on ruby earings
I remember
your lazy eye
and how it drooped
and how beautiful you were
jeannerené 2.28.2014
Always a major blessing in my life ... students ... individuals ... treasures I will never forget. The students I worked with, both on the Elementary and High School levels, taught me more about life than I could ever claim to have taught them.
On Teaching Michael the
Finer Points of Woodshop and Skipping Rocks
~Michael walks the corridor
Side to side stride
Eyes fixed to the asphalt
Split second glance
To stay his course
Most days
A solitary walk
No "Hey, dude. What's up?"
No slap or slide of the hand
No testosterone bump
But for those
Who will share the time
"Hi, Michael."
And if you give your eyes
He offers his exquisite smile
Sawdust flying
Hand over hand
Hammer and its nails
Paint and its brush
Wrapping a cord
Pushing a saw
I guide his hand
Michael guides my heart
~Michael walks the path
Side to side stride
With joy
A creek side class
On the hunt
For the perfect flat rock
Simple delight
The feel of the stone
The sound of the clunk
No skip
No matter
I sit
Watching reverently
The fullness of their smiles
The cheer in their always perfect eyes
Michael
taps gently on my head
Mischievous wink
"Hello, is anybody home in there?"
And when Michael came to us
With curtness
"You won't be able to get him to do much."
It's obvious
They knew nothing
About woodshop and skipping rocks
Copyright jr 2004
**********************************************************************
Swoops a hand
interrupting
rainbow’s somnolence
in a tin bed of crayola
Scrutinize
a gathering of brights and pastels
One by one
laying his palette
in a chromatic dress parade
Attention!
Ian’s colors
embellishments upon humanity
crayoned by eyes
seeing from outside the line
A moment of clarity
refines the teacher
My thoughts ramble
follow the waves
of Ian’s design . . .
We are all God’s masterpiece
. . . and I
I am the student
. . . Ian?
our mentor
revealed
among the words
perfectly balanced on the tip of his tongue
…………………………..for Ian and his colors
From Mrs. Watson …………………………….
Copyright jr 2005
