10 poems from Beating on Iron Poems By Kim Soo-Bok Translated by Brother Anthony of Taizé Autumn
Mountain ·1
Now, on
my
body too, flowers
blossom
then fall, clouds
linger
then pass on. The places where once were green wounds that burned brightly away the sound of late evening streams that once released pink ashes at last seem to be heading seaward after wandering far from their bodies. Trees lighting fires in each other’s breasts, calm their breathing, calm their heavy breathing. Springtime
Body-Flowers
Mother left after a visit. In my heart that cloudy spring day a closed door opened and on spring trees body-flowers began to sprout. An intense lilac fragrance came strolling into my melancholy body. In Mother’s body far away could be heard a bell ringing at dawn birds singing as they flew through groves the sound of a stream’s ever lighter body the sound of a blanket at dawn as stars tossed then fell asleep the sound as the first snap-weed petals kissed the morning dew, the sound of the footsteps of the first
snow falling at a mountain’s foot. Mother was standing behind my back. That evening with wisteria blooming resounded with the smell of soy sauce
being boiled, the grassy smell of children’s bodies. In the sunset glow, nothing but charcoal
remained. There was a bus belatedly winding round
the curving hills, a hill with a low cloud pressed down on
its brow, friendly roads surrendering their narrow
bodies to one another, trees that feel no sorrow even when the
sun sets behind western hills, an evening stream descending after
washing itself. Now flowers began to bloom on my body. Even in the cloudy spring day
evening the flowers did not wither. Days of
Pilgrimage
I fled from Father. Outside was wonderful, wild, snow falling, and outside all the sleeping villages sleepless streamsides A human being is heaven indeed. The market-place with dust blowing, the mountainside no carts returned from, and as the smell of sesame leaves faded
away my heart looked up at the collapsing sky I walked till dawn. Falling, rising again, day-break wounds, pain descending below my knees A human person was not heaven at all. I walked and walked. Clouds went by overhead. Rain fell. People took shelter from the rain. I stood there, caught in the rain. While silver poplars stood in the rain
all day long rain likewise fell on birches’ sorrowing
skins. I fled even farther from Father. In order to efface the birches’ purity, to efface the day-break wounds, I hastened toward the sunset. Far too Long
an Autumn Road
One autumn, some forty years ago, there
was one beautiful person who used to keep looking up
at the sky, leaning against the young back of a plane
tree. There was one autumn fellow who used to smear
his face red with the greasy back of his hand as he
leant against the door of an old bus wielding an oily
rag. The road that went from Chungmu-dong to the
hilltop terminus in Yeongseon-dong, embracing red
leaves, was far too long, as long as next autumn’s
arrival. The Vanished
Waterfall
On the
slopes of the hill behind our village nestled a little
lake. Every time the lake’s heart grew heated, it
would send down the hill a little of its heart in a
low voice. We
children, standing on the path leading up the hill,
used to call those songs flowing down in a low voice
“the little waterfall.” We would set up
a parasol below it and sing as we bathed our feet. One
summer, a few writers spread out a straw mat below
that “waterfall” and drank liquor; they shouted at the
people in power that summer, poured out in strong
voices the heated songs within their hearts. Then
at some point the little waterfall disappeared. The bare rock, its
breasts dried up, lay naked and the low, soft voice
could not be heard. The
lake’s body too grew gaunt, and though its body would
soften as rain fell on summer evenings and it would
sing songs of faint memories, the melodies did not
come flowing down. It
changed into gray garments that did not suit it and, once
it was wrapped about with barbed wire to keep people
out, its
body grew even more gaunt and its heart no longer grew
heated. Once
it could no longer sing songs on moon-lit nights, the
waterfall’s strong voice died and went to heaven, then
at dawn it would rub tears into the rock’s dried-up
breasts in a voice devoid of strength, that voice
dying with the sunrise and going back to heaven. Masan-po
There
is no more sea now in Masan-po. There is no evening
sea, that used to soak ankles in the yard of the
wharfside house, the mist gathering on the road to the
evening sea that lies sprawled, its ample breast
exposed, that used to come pouring eagerly in. The
evening sea at Masan-po that used to shine on distant
islands, sharing with the islands' very heart, and
people, after bathing in the waves' soaking songs
until evening when the tide came in, returned as
inland bodies embracing the sea, but now no-one
returns. The
Masan-po sea that used to soak the ankles of birds
between the reed beds behind the backs of departing
boats rocking in the wind, the Masan-po sea that was
never angry though people returned embracing the sea
then failed to return, the Masan-po sea now has only dry teats, having
lost those breasts that were once so bashful. The
Masan-po sea that cannot now suckle distant waves and
the new moon, the Masan-po sea where between the reed
beds, stroking the dry wind's face, birds used to go
falling into the evening sea's breast and die then
spread as the twilight glow, The sea
lies drained of blood, an empty shell, unable to rise. Autumn
Crosses Mountains
Once
it approaches fifty, the body turns into an autumn
mountain. Hugging its crimson-hued breast, the body
grows heavier, blue bruises remain here and there and
the ridges of old scars stand out strongly, while it
sometimes sends the trees and leaves that toss between
the thick mists surging and winding round its ankles
flowing down to a lower place. After
waving from afar at the peak, weary, fainting,
the bent-backed roads lie flat below the clouds. The
heart grows ever hotter as it crosses the mountains.
Breast strikes breast;
reclining, a pink mist
wraps the roads on the peak as it penetrates the sky's
womb, then riding its body it crosses over. The bodies
of pink clouds soaked in sweat blossom crimson
abundantly. Cheomseongdae
-Handkerchief Painted With
the Heavenly Horse 1 After
making a turn round Cheomseongdae, looking at
Cheomseongdae as it stood waiting for someone, I
bought a handkerchief
painted with the heavenly horse at the entrance to the
Heavenly Horse Tomb. On the
heavenly-horse-painted handkerchief, a single birch
tree with lovely bark had long been standing. Though
it said: Go back, it's time to go back, I did not go but
stood holding the reins of my heart. People
came crowding then vanished, the sun set, evening
came, the
time came for the woods to sleep but the single birch
stood until its body grew dark. Though
old, looking up at the sky, just looking at
Cheomseongdae as it stood there, saying:
It's alright if I die, just being able to look, it's
alright if I die, the
single birch tree had long been standing. Note: Cheomseongdae
is an ancient stone tower in the former Silla capital
of Gyeongju. The Heavenly Horse Tomb is one of the
royal tombs not far from the tower, in it was found a
wooden saddle painted with a flying "heavenly horse"
which gave it its name. A Snapweed
Letter
-Handkerchief Painted With
the Heavenly Horse
3 On the
coast of Siberia, at the navel of an old hill, a
snapweed was blooming on a distant cliff that no hand
could reach. Early one morning before the sea had
opened its eyes I emerged from the dormitory of the
Naval
College and was gazing intensely at the snapweed's
round breast. It
told me that snapweed was also blooming by the
brushwood gate through which I had left my home aged
twenty, when the hot moon had departed from my breast. In its
green and red eyes, that drew me the more I gazed, I
could see dewdrop tears saying: You took such a
round-about way, you have only now arrived, could you
still not receive the letter launched on the waves
escaping from your breast? River
--Handkerchief Painted With
the Heavenly Horse
4 When
the moon was full, Lake Baikal put its heart's rough
waves to sleep within, entered its fully pregnant
body, sent the umbilical cord far away and made a
river. Riding
on moonlight, the
river passed
birch woods, crossed
sleeping villages passed
plains, reached
the distant dawn sea gave
birth to islands one by
one then
came back again. |