Li-Young Lee


Li-Young Lee Poems

1. Immigrant Blues 6/8/2015
2. Little Father 10/20/2015
3. Arise, Go Down 3/11/2015
4. One Heart 2/19/2015
5. The Hammock 1/24/2015
6. Pillow 7/21/2006
7. The Father's House 1/13/2003
8. With Ruins 1/13/2003
9. For A New Citizen Of These United States 1/13/2003
10. The Sacrifice 1/13/2003
11. Nativity 1/13/2003
12. Out Of Hiding 1/13/2003
13. My Indigo 1/13/2003
14. This Hour And What Is Dead 1/13/2003
15. Dreaming Of Hair 1/13/2003
16. Braiding 1/13/2003
17. Visions And Interpretations 1/13/2003
18. This Room And Everything In It 1/13/2003
19. Eating Together 1/13/2003
20. Eating Alone 1/13/2003
21. Early In The Morning 1/13/2003
22. The City In Which I Loved You 1/13/2003
23. A Story 1/13/2003
24. From Blossoms 1/13/2003
25. The Gift 1/13/2003
26. I Ask My Mother To Sing 1/13/2003

Comments about Li-Young Lee

  • sdvsvds (1/27/2020 6:44:00 AM)

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    1 person liked.
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  • logan (10/29/2019 1:43:00 PM)

    not much about him? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

    3 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
  • David (5/11/2018 7:36:00 PM)

    What are your poems about.

    2 person liked.
    4 person did not like.
  • Walterrean Salley (11/23/2016 5:52:00 PM)

    Great poems! This poet is a true gift to poetry. I've enjoyed those read; would love to stay and read all of them, but gotta move on. Hope to visit again soon. Best wishes.

    9 person liked.
    7 person did not like.
  • Siobhan Mc Donnell (5/20/2013 8:26:00 AM)

    Li-Young Lee is a Bodhisattva

    25 person liked.
    21 person did not like.
  • Amberlee Carter (8/15/2005 10:55:00 AM)

    Night. Mother wren, soldier heron, and pastor crow
    were all three waiting for the citizen seed to wake, to rise
    from his dark bed walking, to speak. The seed lay in a
    dead swoon. Somewhere, snow fell past a clock, and the
    seed slept. Somewhere, a man grew a beard and died in
    his cell, and the seed slept. A woman waited for her
    lover a lifetime, then swept her kitchen of leaves blown
    in from seasons upon seasons of trees the man left unpruned,
    the shears hung to rust in a lower branch, and
    the seed slept. A city closed its gates. The seed slept.
    What to do? Fretted mother wren. Stand fast, counseled
    the heron. The pastor, wise crow, spoke: only a hand can
    help us, and only a thief. For only a thief will know the way
    into a fortified seed. But where, asked the soldier, will we
    find such a hand?

    The wren looked here and there, in a hayloft, inside
    an old coat sleeve. The pastor ventured throughout the
    countryside. The heron guarded the sleeper. One night
    the crow found the hand lying under a thigh. The hand
    smelled of oranges and fish, and lay dreaming of oranges
    bobbing in the ocean, among the wreckage of crates, the
    fruit nudged now and then from below, nibbled by unseen mouths.

    The crow scratched a message on the windowsill,
    tapped on the pane, then fled. The hand, a
    blind thief, read the pecked sill with its fingers, then lit
    out after the bird.
    After many years the bird and the hand arrived where
    the tattered wren, in a cap of snow, stood by the heron,
    who wore a shawl of snow across his powerful shoulders.
    There, said the crow to the thief, and the hand approached
    the tiny sleeper.

    Children, I know you wonder how a hand may enter a
    place so narrow as a seed. The answer is the hand must
    die. So the hand lay down next to the seed, opened, and
    the three ravenous birds ripped up its flesh and gobbled
    up the blood, and put the bones in a sack.

    Once inside the seed, the thief, who had been blind,
    could see. He moved toward the heart of the seed, but
    found his path blocked by a book. Leafing through
    the book, he noticed many pages missing. Yet, even with
    missing pages, the book was too large to move, too high
    to vault, and too wide to go around. So he sat down and
    began to read the book with the missing pages. Reading
    first the odd-numbered pages, and then the even, he
    read out loud, while all one hundred rooms of the house
    of the seed echoed with the sound of a hand reading.

    Taken fron the book: The Winged Seed: A Remembrance

    By Li-Young Lee

    42 person liked.
    38 person did not like.
  • Mark Robertson (3/28/2005 7:44:00 PM)

    Li-Young Lee is remarkable for his ability to put pain and love in the palm of hand. Many of his works are in major text books for U.SA. high school students. His 'The Gift' is one of the best positive father-son relationship poems that exists in the English language.

    52 person liked.
    23 person did not like.
Best Poem of Li-Young Lee

The Gift

To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he'd removed
the iron sliver I thought I'd die from.

I can't remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face,
the flames of discipline
he raised above my head.

Had you entered that afternoon
you would have thought you saw a man
planting something in a boy's palm,
a silver tear, a tiny ...

Read the full of The Gift

I Ask My Mother To Sing

She begins, and my grandmother joins her.
Mother and daughter sing like young girls.
If my father were alive, he would play
his accordion and sway like a boat.

I've never been in Peking, or the Summer Palace,
nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch
the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picnickers
running away in the grass.

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