Li-Young Lee Poems
|3.||Arise, Go Down||3/11/2015|
|7.||The Father's House||1/13/2003|
|9.||For A New Citizen Of These United States||1/13/2003|
|12.||Out Of Hiding||1/13/2003|
|14.||This Hour And What Is Dead||1/13/2003|
|15.||Dreaming Of Hair||1/13/2003|
|17.||Visions And Interpretations||1/13/2003|
|18.||This Room And Everything In It||1/13/2003|
|21.||Early In The Morning||1/13/2003|
|22.||The City In Which I Loved You||1/13/2003|
|26.||I Ask My Mother To Sing||1/13/2003|
Comments about Li-Young Lee
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 ...
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.