10 poems from A Black Kite Selected poems of Kim Jong-Gil Translated by Brother Anthony of Taizé and Kim Jong-Gil Rapids
I
cross the rapids, following
the uphill road on
the first day of school having
spent the summer without
even once having the
water in the rapids touch me, leaving
the street, hot
as a sandbank, as
I cross September air currents the hue of balloon
flowers shoals
of silvery minnows sparkling
like shoals of silvery minnows the
songs of morning insects in the grass . . . Christmas
Beside
a glowing charcoal fire in
a dark room, all alone, my
elderly grandmother was
keeping watch over a pitifully fading young life. At
last Father returned home through the snow bringing
medicine; Ah,
those red cornelian cherries Father
had picked after plowing through the snow . . . I
was a baby animal, my
fever-flushed cheeks being silently rubbed with
the cool hem of young Father’s coat. From
time to time snow beat at the back door. I
have a feeling that that evening was Christmas Eve. And
suddenly I have reached the age my
father was then. That
being something irrecoverable from long ago, in a town with
Christmas drawing near those
welcome memories from the past come dropping down. If
I suddenly feel Father’s cool coat hem on
my sorrowful thirty-year-old brow is
that because the red cornelian cherries picked in the
snow are
still flowing, melted, in my blood? On New
Year’s Morning
The
sun comes and goes in
the constant cold, but
the new year has somehow to be greeted warmly. Below
the ice, fish are still breathing and
green water parsley buds are
dreaming of spring days. The
new year has to be greeted with endurance and
with a little dreaming. I
spent yhis morning before
a glass of warm liquor and
a bowl of soup, so
I should think that is plenty and
feel grateful. The
world is
rough and cruel but
still it’s worth living in; we
should think about being better and wiser since
today we are one year older. Though
one year goes in
the bitter cold and
another comes, just
as we see pretty teeth emerging through
the gums of babies, so
we should welcome the new year. Spring
Mud
The
womens’ university had cream-colored buildings. The
mud stuck to the soles of shoes did not fall off
readily. The
end of the suitably gasping hill path was
a greenish barley field . . . . There
was a sound of a white tennis ball bouncing somewhere. It
was too early for cuckoos to be singing but
up on the hill newly
entering students were chattering like skylarks. Middle
Age
The
seasons are always guests ushered in by rain . . . . it
may be a ruddy-cheeked boy, a sunburned youth, someone
middle-aged mined by melancholy, or
a grizzle-browed old man, but
it is always the same guest, not a different one, Beyond
the bead curtain of raindrops hanging from the eaves how
many time have I welcomed that guest? This
middle-aged traveler mined by melancholy— what
ushered him in previously, as
a ruddy-cheeked boy, a sunburned youth lingering
beneath some house’s eaves? If
chill autumn rain drizzles down hastily, one
day white snow flurries will sprinkle the brow! Now,
just like that ruddy-cheeked boy lingering beyond
the bead-curtain of rain-drops, will
this traveler never again flush with childlike cheeks and
linger one day outside some window? Lonely Height
For
Mount Pukhan to
recover its full height, we
have to wait till winter comes. We
have to wait till
a winter morning dawns after a night of snow when
only such high peaks as Paegundae or Insubong stand covered
with light snow as if with thin makeup, while
the rest of the mountain remains the colour of
cold Indian ink. For
Mount Pukhan to recover its
lonely height which does not reveal itself in
the fresh green or the turning of leaves, or
in the fog rising along the valleys, not
even when deep snow covers the whole mountain, but
is diminished even at the touch of a rosy sunbeam, we
have to wait till a winter morning dawns when
only Paegundae and Insubong stand covered
with light snow. Near a
Mountaintop
Mist
is flowing irregularly over
the afternoon’s Ant-Back Ridge. If
we choose a patch of grass and sit down, it
is bound to hold prickly thistles; in the mist a few
cows are
looking at us with docile faces like the Holy Family. In
Jeju City oleaders were blooming heatedly near
the mountaintop a late autumn wind is rising. Burying
the setting sun on the stone walls of toothbrush-like
Crown Peak, darkness
buries Yongjingak Valley. On
Mount Halla in July the
streams and the chirping of insects are merely chill. Baekrok
Lake where it seems a lost calf fell in and drowned the
morning of fearfully blue waves, walking
on round the crater, as we turn toward Seoguipo, a
suddenly rushing sea breeze comes
twisting white round the gaunt stone pillars of the
south face. Not
mist, now, but clouds. Blooming
in those clouds, beds of mountain flowers, and
over them a flock of yellow butterflies is turning. Grading
You
were on the tall side, weren’t you? Your
posture was always bolt upright, wasn’t it? I
set about grading the end-of-term exam papers after
having seen your name and photo in
a newspaper article about a bus accident. On
the report card you would never see I
copied, writing clearly, a
grade just short of 90 points. As
I looked round the memorial exhibition prepared by
your comrades I
realized how much you had also grown up in poetry. “In
an August garden” where you said “roses are lighting
lamps” you
stand, tall and upright. One
woman among those graduating, you
said, “I often read my palm,” and
now you stand there alone as ever. At Hahoi
Village
The
name means a stream flows round the village and
today still that stream is flowing. Has
time too just gone on flowing away like the stream? No.
No, it’s piled on the mossy tiles of the old houses and
today after the summer rain is drying in the hot
sunlight. And
it is growing in the shiny leaves of a mulberry tree on
the site of a demolished house, reviving
in the coughing of the elderly grandson at
Yangjindang. In
the green quinces on the few trees in
the back garden of Chunghyodang, the former home of
Master Seoae, and
on the site where an exhibition hall is being built at
the expense of the Office of Cultural Properties, it
is being reconstituted. Autumn Chill
Today
in this inland city, famed
for its heat, under
the influence of a typhoon cool
breezes have been blowing all day. It
has been a week since I heard of a friend’s death and
as I walk along this street again, the
chaos of Chuseok having passed, that
friend is walking with me. I
feel that occasionally his fearfully broad shoulders strike
against mine. His
lifetime, just forty-seven years, was
like this city’s sultry heat. Still,
what can be the reason why his life, which was not
long, but
was particularly full of hardships and pain, feels
to those of us who were close to him like
today’s weather, with cool breezes blowing? The
main street of this city with its million and more
inhabitants today
seems quite empty, while
we who are walking along are somehow feckless like the
breeze. Yet,
as we talk about him, we
sometimes laugh. He
grew increasingly gaunt then
as the heat he had to endure at the end was decreasing his
life, too, ended. This
inland city which he has left for ever, the
familiar northern hills veiled in clouds . . . . this
year the autumn chill seems to have arrived
particularly early. |