There is poetry in the curved streets in Itaewon and on the Han River that runs through Seoul. There is poetry near Insadong, where last night thousands paraded for the next holiday, Buddha's birthday. The toddlers waved Tibetan flags, their hands sticky with chocolate ice cream. The smoke from the silk worms on the grill rises into the lamps and vanishes. There is poetry in the arc of the soliders' sculpted chins, their necks and shoulders at perfect angles, perfect and still. There is poetry in the red jujube tea and the city's morning protest. There is poetry in the drunk twenty-somethings spilling out of the club and the poet who watches from the curb. The poem, "The Sound of Dadumi" runs through his head today. You feel like home in a city like this, with poets like this, these shining bodies of light.
A friend of mine who teaches at a university in Seoul has invited me to guest lecture in her British and American Culture class next week. Looking forward to that very much.