10 poems from Munui (Patterns, 1994) By
Lee Si-Young Translated
by Brother Anthony and Yu Hui-Seok Song
Spirit of a
waterfall frozen hard in a deep mountain
valley, stay there until
next spring comes, until another
breath comes and melts you. Poem
Minus twenty,
the temperature outside, and when I got
up after sleeping a baby squirrel
was pressed against the windowpane staring up at me
with bright eyes. Ah, those two
eyes! Those eyes the
most beautiful person in the world closed at the
very end, on departing! The moment I
opened the window, that little squirrel raised its
silvery tail in a flash and casually
vanished into the morning sunlight that had
just begun to spread. Target
A loud crack
rang out, I went hurrying
down the wintery woodland path and from its end
saw the red tail lights of a car
vanishing while there, on
the snow, lay a few drops of blood of a mother
sparrow, baby sparrow who had just
before caught the morning sunbeams in its
beak, a few drops of
warm blood. Gravity
The trees
standing on the darkening cliffs are not
lonely. For with arms
outstretched the unseen powers of the ridges are holding them
in a tight embrace in the direction
the wind is blowing. Spring Tumult
This morning the
sound of migratory birds busily shaking
water from their plumage echoes from the
moist river. It looks as
though spring is about to leap coldly down treading on
their impatient brows. Mica 16
Although we have
never been back since growing up,
surely we all have
places the heart hurries towards, switching on the
light and waiting? For me, it’s some
tiny stops on the
single-track Jeolla railway: Jusaeng, Ongjeong,
Geumji. Was it in the
early evening? Or in broad daylight? Trains from Osu,
Seodo, Namwon, emerging from the
ravine, finally
encountering open countryside, rocking lightly, whistled
brightly, puffed out pitch black coal smoke, and I
experienced dramatic moments as the overwhelming
stillness was transformed
into liveliness. The fields, that
had been prostrate as if with nothing
to do, came dashing up
with eyes wide open and the steps of the lads that
had gone traipsing off at a snail’s
pace towards
bamboo-shaded villages veiled in evening smoke took on new
speed, straw-hatted farmers’ faces half sunk
between their shoulders lit up with the
most innocent smile in the world, I have never
once gotten off beyond Namwon
station in North Jeolla, at Jusaeng
station, or Ongjeong, or
little Geumji station, just slightly deaf, with their thuja
tree fences, as the train
Mica 16 raises its cheerful head a moment. In Memory of the Poet Kim Nam-Ju
Old friend,
Nam-Ju, and more than my friend, son of the
nation, champion of democracy! ‘Let’s go on; if
the going’s too hard, rest, then go on,” you whispered,
gasping; but now you’ve
gone striding across mountains, crossing
rivers ahead of us, then lightly
entered the world beyond, old friend. As a snowstorm,
unseasonal so far south, blankets the
fields and under mounds
of straw garlic shoots open fresh green
eyes, do we really
have to cover your bright innocent eyes and send you
back to your native village? The village of
young Kim Nam-Ju who long ago used to
laugh innocent ox-like laughs together with the ox,
holding an English dictionary
in one hand; the village of
harsh division in a divided nation, that
drove him out, calling him a spy, that expelled
him, calling him a warrior; village in
Gwangju; the village that
presented him with the first bouquet in
his life; the village of
his mother, a peasant all her life; his
father’s village; the
class-divided village where he risked his life for
liberation— and today in
this village must we lower your coffin and
remain here sobbing? So off you go,
Nam-Ju. Branches broken
and ears scoured by winter winds, off
you go, Nam-Ju, no looking back. And as you go,
when you encounter fields, at the
streamside there have a goats’
butting match with the familiar kids, or when you
encounter high waves, heave-ho, over you go, sending the
world’s message, eyes brimming with tears, to the woman
walking listlessly on the prow of a ship, a
child on her back. The sun is
bright today, it’s a windy day here in this
world, you know for
sure; on that hillside cemetery at Mangweol-dong
you visited first on emerging from nine years in
prison, standing with head
bowed, you saw for sure
the spirits of countless heroes of the
democracy struggle hastening down the slopes waving
little white hands in the
sunshine, did you not? So off you go,
Nam-Ju. The work to be
done in this world will be done by those
who remain; you spent your
whole life fighting with imperialist
oppressors, now it’s time
for you to enter history and be born anew
with a baby’s hands; this world
imposed too many burdens on you, burdens you
never once laid aside; now entrust them
to us and depart in peace. Friend gone
striding across mountains, crossing rivers
lightly ahead of us; come back again
when salvias bloom bright, or come back
when clouds of pine-pollen go drifting over
hills and streams, like scarlet
plum blossom in snow. Your life itself
is our land’s last half-century of
history, born as you were
in the year of Liberation; and the day
will surely come when the barbed-wire tangles of
division and the chains of
imperialism, will all be
removed, the day will
come when capitalism is defeated by capitalism; come back to
this world then, your weak leg straight,
opening closed eyes anew, with that calm,
boyish smile, old friend,
Nam-Ju, and more than my friend, true champion
of democracy! Spring Evening
Dazed by the
scent of camellia blossom and unable to
sleep all night, the frogs in
paddy fields for miles around went swarming in
search of the way to Seonun-sa temple then at dawn
turned into a ghastly sight, lying flat on
the still warm asphalt. Ah, corpses! One Sunset
In a grove of
camellias flocks of sparrows had perched and were
chirping something, something. The camellia
flowers replied okay, okay, okay, and fell in
heaps. Fellowship
It seems one
magpie failed to come back home last
evening. All night long
one old magpie laments, pecking at the
dark void. A few lights
shine out from distant houses. |