Read: 라쉘 맥멀렌 Rachel McMullen
어디에서 오셨나요? 그리고 무엇을 창작하시나요? | Where are you from and what do you make?
Mobile, Alabama, Deep South USA. I make windows to observe feelings and emotions through language.
본인 작업물을 5단어로 설명하자면? | Describe your work in 5 words.
Interpretative negotiations between experience & spirituality.
좌우명이 무엇인가요? | What is your motto?
A Whitman quote: "I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars."
완벽한 행복이란 무엇이라고 생각하시나요? | What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Perfect happiness is the moment when everyone else is happy, too.
본인 커뮤니티에서 활동하는 아티스트 중, 주목해야 할 아티스트가 있다면? | Who in your community deserves a shout-out?
The Busan Writing Group. They are an excellent resource for writers in Busan.
WILL AND TESTAMENT: START A FIRE WHEN IT COMES
Strike it high in the distant Sierras,
fill the flames with seasoned pieces
of an age-old, hardwood oak tree
whose elbowed branches have balanced the lives of birds,
whose finger-like leaves have captured arrows of sunlight
and made love to the morning break.
Follow the trail we crawled up and conquered,
sit under the mist-cloud of falls full of friction
and feel the unseen hand of the wind
who wiped sweat from our broken brows,
who pushed us even farther north
until we could finally touch the light of the sky.
Let the night fall on your naked shoulders,
show the stars their tinted kin
in your summer, freckled skin as your palms
face the blue and white blazes
of my burning body, the smoke-filled soul
that once climbed mountains with you
to witness the expanse of God’s summit
from the corner of a rock on the back of our country.
Stack shale in my honor, mark
the moment of my death
with a cairn of stone fragments
piled to the top of the thinning atmosphere,
who embraces the earth with invisible arms,
who steals breath the way I once
pinched pieces of nature to make memories
out of shells and leaves and rocks.
Leave my body to the fire in the mountains
and carry my heart in the memory of a pocketed rock.
I tread the forest floor, walk forward on soft soil blanketed with particles of pine skin, pieces of brown and green hair brushed away by a careful wind. This is a nursery. I absorb the dark heat of the wooden cradle, the humid chest of the earth rocking me back and forth. I am inside. Enveloped in a body pregnant with seasonal lust, with reproduced seeds, with a growing hearth that burns the way human blood does and bleeds the way water oaks do. The warmth is rising.
I see a break ahead, a slight opening in the swaying canopy, the place where trees lace their stick fingers and hold hands like non-violent protesters resisting the fight, like gentle elephants protecting their calves, shielding their children from the fire of the sun. Can you feel the light? I am drawn to the middle, the brightest hole in the line of defense and think, Maybe I can fit in. I step up and stretch my trunk, raise my branches, extend my roots: I am a tree in my own right.
From a distance, I am a misshapen stump, a shadow against radiance, an incandescent star reversed to black on a negative image. My eye is a camera. The contrast is striking, colors pure and sensitive to invisible waves weaving through tossing tendrils. I feel a snap, a release of chemicals in my exposed body and begin to shift alongside pouring light. I am reborn. Brought forth by sheer illumination that shakes shells until they fall open to reveal the sprout of life, until they let growth happen, until their struggle finally unfurls damp leaves looking for beckoning rays. The sun keeps its promises.
GHOSTS AT MIDNIGHT
They burn like quiet death,
blaze blue in the center
where heat is the heaviest.
Spheres mutually connected,
traveling along a partial arc
in harmony, they sing
to the pillars of creation,
wander through the pangs of evolution
in the purple clouds of heaven.
For dust returns to dust
and sweat to bodies
of water and sound,
a column of liquid falling
to the bottom of the earth
where gravity is thick and oppressive.
Even when their light is still
shining, they are erased,
whisked into the night
on intertwined orbits,
spinning a universe away
to die in a black hole.
The sky is full of ghosts.
GOD THE SUN
“The cosmos is all there is, all there ever was, and all there ever will be.” –Carl Sagan
There he is, the solar deity. He tips his hat to the evening, opens his round, hot face to the mourn. He sits in the garden, praising the soil, touching the trees, licking the love of the earth. He moves at mass, pulling his weight with the congregation, calling himself “Day.” He speaks the universal language, tense and progressive when he must bow to his humble satellites. He acts as a main sequence star, a giant to the dwarfs found on the Walk of Fame, strutting and streaking across the celestial dome. He works the inner rim, tucked under the minor arm of Orion, wrapping his neon fingers around the hunter’s belted waist. He serves as an interstellar medium, predicting the rise and fall of humanity in the light-years to come. He stands in his wake, shining and glowing, bursting on the scene unless he is feeling under the weather. He reflects the yellow-green, spanning the spectrum of continuum, burning until the light goes out. There he is, the absolute magnitude, the stellar G2V, the cosmic microwave, the galactic center.
of the mountain
I am climbing.
The mark of separation,
the piecemeal happenings
of human evolution,
the evasive, semi-standard
recognition of natural
The birth of reflection,
the “I am” suggestions
the expanded, new-beginning
satisfaction of spiritual
The peace of deliberation,
the worthwhile homecomings
of total acceptance,
the progressive, free-winged
proclamation of authentic
of the mountain
I am resting.