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    Apprentice's last touch *

    Published by Visions International magazine

                for Mother, who saw

     

                Master, don't sleep.

    I just touched up

    the red

    on the canvas

    and the portrait blinked.

    It's not the candle flicker,

    I swear.

    You told me not to change the cheeks,

    but the mouth was a desert

    and the eyes lost.

    A daub of carmine woke them up.

     

                Master, come see:

    the painting now breaths, indeed

    no oil mask, but a man - drawn to break free.

    His eyes pierce through my apprentice robe,

    my borrowed mustache,

    my chopped braids,

    my little ruse to learn your craft.

    His thoughts come forth,

    rub cheeks with fire,

    No lad are you, girl,

    so sweet your brush, so clean your call,

    what muse your shadow feathers on my brow ablaze?

     

                Master, please dream,

    forget my prayer.

    My name I'll empty and be gone.

    I'll rinse all brushes,

    press in alms of linseed oil and turpentine,

    air aprons clean tonight

    and part

    before sky blues are haloed blond.

    My haste please do forgive.

    Too little room is here allowed

    near your future glory for my humble thirst

    to thrive.                                                                                   

     

    * At the beginning of the 16th century a mysterious apprentice, believed by some to be a muse in disguise, was rumored  to have brushed by the studios of painters who were later to become masters of the Western Renaissance.

    After visiting Unjusa

    Published by Gwangju News International Magazine –

    March, 2015, page 47

    ​

    After visiting Unjusa

    for me, Korea

    is the sound of a bell: a dragon released

    by people moving, toning, dancing together,

                 full hearted runners

                            toward one human core,

    messengers in rocks dreaming, chisel faced

    past to future

                born of one thousand bows,

    innocence

    of heart and trust,

    rounding the old

    world tortoise back with bones and tears.

     

    Perhaps pain and purpose were both lifted

    when its body was vaulted to house

                            hermit, priest, shaman, offers

    food for the hungry

    of light           

    so listen to the ondol river washing its hollows

    - adjourn fear, converse with death –

    for reborn

    ancient prayers, like roots,

    guide searching souls, young minds flowering

    inner mountains, vision climbs.

     

    The land turns temple when evening furrows ash, silk, flesh and ink:

    melting crown and saber alike.

    This, for me, is Korea: human ore

    flagging the valley

    as lanterns-perpetual,

                showing the way.

                                                                                                               

     

    Note:  The undated Unjusa Temple and sacred site is believed to have been raised prior to a 15th century mention on a geographic record

    ​

    References

    • toning, dancing together : reference to the two Greek words khoros, khoreia – transl. in English: choir, dance

    • full hearted runners: reference to the two Latin words: cor, currere - transl. in English: heart, run 

    • messengers: synonym to courier

    The Trials

    Published by Gwangju News International Magazine

    April, 2015, pg 47

    (Trial by fire and tears)

    Stolen!

    That morning

    cracked in rooster’s beak

    like shards

    by his foe-sacked

    kilns* where he had been…

     

    Stolen: no doubt!

    The fire limp

    and hooves stamped in the clay

    spoke of war’s price:

    with their master potter,

    that night, the village paid.

     

    For he, prized prisoner,

    was taken

    to foreign lands,

    far shores. Now villagers

    -- chins hanging low--

    his fate bemoaned.

     

    Wind shaken stood his cottage, 

    door framed, his pale-eyed

    wife held their son back.

    “He is too little,” cried.

    But, at twelve years old, the lad

    had gleaned enough  to dare and try.

     

    He tugged her apchima for days.

    “Allow me, eomeoni to light the kiln,

    allow. To abeogi in my dream

    last night I promised.”

    She then smiled and wiped her eyes.

    “Just one time, son.”

     

    (Trial by water and earth)

                So digging days long by the river

    he found the soggy best,

    scooped and lumped it back uphill

    with hands like abeogi’s

    --clay gloved by the yeast of earth--

    forming, throwing it until just right.

     

     

     

    ​

    ​

    One half he wheeled and then

    its open twin in sameness joined,

    made vessel whole

    while at the seam, the edge em battled,

    like his village struggled to survive

    the war, close in: before and after. Heal.

     

    In sleep then the boy slipped

    with tired arms

    on grasses spent and bent.

    When dusk awakened ,

    with hungry eyes

    his pot he met:

               

                like pregnant eomeoni’s belly now

    the top had slightly sagged,

    yet mattered not.

    Next eve the wood sparked,

    candeled ready, in the domed uphill,

    then crackled hot.

     

    (Trial by wind and fire)

                Oven ablaze

    the wind approved.

    Its dragon tongue torpedoed

    through the chambered kiln,

    around the pot war waging

    upon war itself.

     

    All night the rumble raged

    like furies at some shore,

    fused, sealing  powers’ trial

    onto the mortal clay

    by cinders bellowed

    and translucent orbed .

     

    As a new day the rooster open laid,

    the villagers circled the son,

    helped hoist his ware

    out from hot smoke,

    in wonder wiped its barrel size

    and sagging --seen as proof--

     

    to gasps gave way,

    to tears of hope.  

    From ashes’ cover,

    the youngest now

    stood up:

    a master potter of their  own.

                                                     

    * At the end of  Korea’s Imjin War (1592~98)

    apchima (Korean):  apron

    eomeoni (Korean): mother

    abeogi  (Korean): father

    To Christoforo Columbus -- before dawn*

    Published by New Millennium Writings - 2016 Anthology --

    with Honorable Mention in the 39th NMW Poetry Contest

    Christoforo, can you hear me if I whisper?

    It is late and clad bones need sleep.

    I know you’re watching though --

    even if they think you’re dream ruled --.

    Can you see me?

    Si, si, la Donna ti visita. (1)

    I commune with the seas now conquered, unconquered,

                                                    conquered, unconquered

                ….wasn’t that what the waves called to you?

     

    Some grow their crest high

    land and never leave. Yet roiling waters do

    christen when voyaged, imprint with another power

    gust giving, restless, fraternal.

    You heard them prattle and pray

    over fish bones, wish bones,

                                        fish bones, wish bones

                ….isn’t that what whitens us?

     

    No wonder that pilgrims seek to root their faith

    if they hold, a forest protects their halo, carries the cargo

    across and if you knew the path of this pregnancy,

    Christoforo, you may have not left

    new world expectant, delivery, delivered

                                        delivery, delivered

                …wasn’t that how the sea curled around you?

     

    When the shots aimed farther,

    and treading, you asked where

    Where are you, God?

    stared at the compass dance,           

    West? then lost again, Where are you… where

    where are you...are you

                …wasn’t that what the tide was also searching?

     

     

    Remember, Christoforo, I have but this candle

    to carry us through the night.

    Can you see flame forward

    years bilge from shipping flesh, gun, gold, history rising

    following smoke masts, enslaving, unslaving,

                                        enslaving, unslaving,

                …..wasn’t that what the foams foretold?

     

    They called freedom, but she was not ready to adorn,

    shores, not your nor mine -- blood cannot be washed --

    only birth righted, heart brushed

    by deeper loss or gain, five hundred spokes or more

    in years wheeling , decoding, encoding,

                                        decoding, encoding

                …did you see their scroll exacting the mist?

     

    And what is left, right?

    Peace, Christoforo, off-springs shall peruse these sands

    cover your ears, fill in your footsteps --wine of pardon--

    while pride on nightmares mounted

    be loosened away, scatter and salt,

                                        scatter and salt           

                …for waves to heave, deepen their sigh.

     

    So rest now by the dawn’s oar

    mio caro figlio (2) ,

    I just needed to touch you,

    christen you afresh

    in ardour married calm, a rdour…marri ed…ca lm…

                                        a…ma(e)ri…ca…

                                                                                                                             

     Notes:

    *  Christoforo Columbus had been bed ridden with high fever for days, on the way back to Spain from his first voyage to the New World. During a stormy night, the young aid providing him with daily food and fresh water heard fragments of conversation and moans from the Captain’s cabin. Soon after, rumors spread on the ship  about this as having been a visitation from his mother, who  -- that very night-- gave her son, Christoforo, the strength to survive.

     

    1. (Italian) The lady visits you.

    2. (Italian) My dear son 

    All work © by Anca Hariton.  Use by permission only

    Anca Hariton Sacristima