by Ash Dean
that gleams a halo through the window’s steam.
It used to mean something: A hanging lantern,
like a bell tolling in the night. A single bulb that wavers.
In the distance more blips plot the constellations
of civilization. A strobe floods a frosty field.
Two neon crosses, one illuminated red,
a higher one shining white;
And hanging above a gap, accounting
for a mountain, facing downward
in prostration like the moon, to bathe
a frozen cabbage bed
in an amber hue of light. What has been
fashioned on this peninsula of grief?
Everyone I travel with
bows to tiny screens.
Ash Dean: Inter-city buses in Korea have long been among the most evocative spaces for me to write. This poem is one of those rare pieces that arrived almost fully formed—written in the moment, as it unfolded. Only later did I come to realise how much of Korea was woven into its lines—the weight of history, the ways in which people have borne and grappled with the past. In many ways, this reflects my own internal landscape—the burdens I, too, am called to carry. I regard this poem as a dialogue with han, that elusive, uniquely Korean concept which defies direct translation. Han is often described as a profound, unresolved sorrow—a collective grief born of historical trauma, yet interlaced with resilience and quiet defiance. It lingers in memory, in landscape, in the silences between words. The light in this poem—flickering, searching, illuminating—moves through me, seeking hope in a world steeped in sorrow.
Published: Thursday 5 June 2025
Ash Dean is a father, poet and school principal. He grew up in Ferguson, Missouri, and currently lives in Incheon, South Korea. He is a graduate of the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing programme at the City University of Hong Kong. His work has appeared in Amethyst, Cha, Drunken Boat, Foreign, Gravel, Ma La, Mason’s Road, Red Coyote, Re:locations, Soul-Lit, Speechless, and in the anthology Afterness: Literature from the New Transnational Asia. He is the author of Cardiography (Finishing Line Press).