Back
to
Heaven
Translated
from the Korean by
Brother
Anthony of Taizé
Young-Moo
Kim
Contents
When Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng left this world on April
28, 1993, it was a long-rehearsed departure. He had already left the world a
first time in his childhood, when he fell over a cliff but survived after being
caught in the branches of a tree. A second departure came in 1967, when the
agents of the National Security Agency (KCIA) whisked him away to the dreaded
cellars of their building in central Seoul. There he was subjected to torture
by water, and also by electric-shock applied to his genitals. His name had been
found in the address-book of a friend from university days, a friend who was
now accused of being a communist spy after visiting the North Korean embasy in
East Berlin. After six months in detention, he was finally freed, having
nothing to confess except the fact that he had friends. As a result of the
electrical torture, the poet would never be able to have children.
Born in early 1930 in Japan, he returned to
Korea with his family in 1945 and resumed his interrupted schooling at Masan.
The first of his poems to be published was the poem "Rivers" that
appeared in the monthly review Munye in 1949, when the poet was still at
school. By 1952 he was established as a poet, with recognition from already
reputed writers. By this time he was studying at Seoul National University.
After finishing his studies there, he worked for a while in Pusan. In addition
to writing poems, he had also already begun to compose literary essays that
were published in various periodicals. They constitute the other important
aspect of his life's work as a writer.
Not very long after being tortured, Ch'ŏn
Sang-Pyŏng seemed really to have died. Deeply traumatized by the violence he
had undergone, he began to roam about, drinking wildly until at last, in 1971,
he disappeared. Months passed, his friends and relatives searched for him
everywhere to no avail. They could only conclude that he had died and been
buried somewhere anonymously, unknown. In sorrow, they collected the poems they
could find, and published a posthumous memorial volume.
Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng's career may have been marked
by a series of deaths, it is also a story of multiple resurrections. Suddenly
news came that he was alive after all, interned in the Seoul municipal asylum
where he had been taken after he had collapsed in the street. The only things he
could recall at that time were his name, and the fact that he was a poet.
Perhaps the second memory was the thread that kept him alive.
Deeply withdrawn though he was, Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng
showed a clear improvement after being visited by Mok Sun-Ok, the younger
sister of one of his university friends. The doctor told her that she could
help him by her visits and that if all went well he might be ready to return to
life in the outside world after a couple of months. So Mok Sun-Ok came to visit
her brother's friend every day, until he was as ready as he ever would be to
come back to life in society. Only it was clear that he would hardly be able to
fend for himself on his own. He had the heart of a child, and a child's
fragility. Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng and Mok Sun-Ok were married in 1972, a marriage
that endured through twenty years of sometimes terrible hardship and struggle.
The poet's love of company, his simple trust,
and his enjoyment of a drink and a smoke, did not answer the question of how
the newly-weds were to feed and house themselves. Friends helped Mok Sun-Ok
open a café in a small room in the Insadong neighborhood of Seoul, much frequented
by artists, writers, journalists and intellectuals. The name given to the café
was Kwi-ch'ŏn "Back to heaven," the title of one of Ch'ŏn's
early lyrics. The couple lived in tiny rooms in an old house on the outskirts
of Ŭijŏngbu, to the north of Seoul.
By 1988, years of drinking had eroded the poet's
liver until at last a doctor told Mok Sun-Ok that her husband had reached the
end of the trail, that he would never recover and she must prepare for the
inevitable end. Another doctor, a friend of theirs, with a small clinic in the
town of Ch'unch'ŏn, twenty or thirty miles outside of Seoul, decided to try to
help. Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng was admitted there and for the following months Mok
Sun-Ok took the bus every evening to be with him. She has written how,
returning to Seoul from her daily visits, she used to pray silently in the bus:
"God! Not yet. Give him another five years, please. Five more years."
Amazingly, strength returned and the poet was
able to leave the clinic to resume a measure of normal living. For another five
years. In the space of this reprieve he saw the publication of new volumes of
poetry and of essays. Until at last he made his final journey Back to Heaven on
April 28, 1993. People opening the door of the Insadong café no longer hear the
poet's raucous voice call from his customary seat in a corner: "Come on
in, there's room, there's room!" Even when, with fifteen customers, the
room was completely full.
Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng enjoyed the rare privilege of
surviving to see his poems published posthumously; more than that, his first,
"posthumous" volume of poems was followed by several other volumes
published in his lifetime. In 1993 a second, this time truly posthumous, volume
of poems appeared.
*
* *
What kind of poetry did Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng write?
Esssentially lyric verse echoing his private perceptions of the world around
him. Often it is the world of nature, with which he feels a deep harmony. The
world of human society is more complex. There are poems celebrating the people
he feels at ease with, his friends, his wife. There are less obvious references
to the many people who live in ways quite foreign to him: people busy in
pursuit of wealth, for example.
The perception of reality out of which the
poet's works spring is deeply human, sensitive and sometimes almost mystical.
With the passage of time "God" figures more and more explicitly in
his poems, with echoes of the passages in the Gospels where Jesus welcomes the
poor and excludes the rich. Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng's heart was to the end the heart
of a child and his response to life is childlike, his faith too is expressed
with a childlike lightness.
As is usual in modern Korean poetry, the
movement of the lines is very free, grammar is loose, the poems benefit greatly
from being read aloud. They are much closer to the speaking voice than is
sometimes the case with Korean literature, rooted as it is in a scholarly
tradition of the written text. Using mostly a very simple vocabulary, the
experience at the core of each poem is usually conveyed to the sympathetic
reader as a shared emotion. It may be a wry smile, as when the poet is stranded
in Seoul without the train fare to go to visit his parents' tombs and he wonders
what he will do if he has to find the fare to go to heaven. Or it may be an
intense happiness. Or the gloom of a rainy day.
Some poems are so simple, that over-sophisticated critics feel insulted by the apparent childishness. Poetry is supposed to be high art, deeply serious, and they complain; "But this could have been written in a nursery school." Only it wasn't. There are others who agree with the students' and general readers' opinion that Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng was almost the only utterly honest writer of his generation. They are not wrong. Everything he wrote strikes one as deeply authentic. Most of what he wrote could not have been written by anyone else.
His biography suggests a life steeped in poverty
and pain. Yet poem after poem proclaims, sometimes explicitly: "I'm the
happiest man in the world." These are songs of a man who counts his
blessings and knows exactly what they are, who relishes life and refuses any
thought of running after shadows. Shadows there were, of course, death being
the darkest one. Death and human mortality are the realities symbolized in the
flow of the river towards the sea in the poet's first published poem,
"Rivers." Only we're not dead so long as we're alive, and Ch'ŏn
writes as a man alive, so alive that his heart is wide open to the song of
every bird, the fall of every leaf.
The poems illustrate perfectly what Christ meant
when he said that the poor were blessed. The rich complain about all they don't
have; the poor rejoice intensely in the few simple things they have; a bunch of
wild flowers is enough. The rich are blind to what makes poem after poem here
so compelling: the beauty of the world, the beauty of being alive in this
beautiful world. These poems are mostly very beautiful because they do not try
to be. They let the beauty that the poet has perceived shine through their
fabric of finely spun words.
The poet knew well enough how very ugly the
world of human society could be, his poems are a witness to the victory of art
over that. The vagabond poet has been a popular literary figure at least since
François Villon roamed and played in 15th century Paris. 20th century Seoul had
a poet whose games were closer to sorrow and pain than Villon's perhaps, but
whose reserves of innocence were greater too. A happy man, indeed, and the
happier for having had such a wonderful wife to look after him.
Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng would have been delighted, if
amused and a little surprised, at the thought that only a few months after his
death his wife would have published a splendid book of memoirs about their life
together, later translated into English as My Husband the Poet. Then a
writer composed a play portraying the main events of their life, with readings
of some of the poems serving as the Chorus, that drew crowded houses for
several weeks in a Seoul theater. The popular response to the play Kwi-chŏn
is the clearest sign, together with the enduring sales of his books, that Ch'ŏn
Sang-Pyŏng is no "dead poet," despite having a tomb on a hill in
Ŭijŏngbu. He has gone Back to Heaven inside many hearts, and as he promised in
that most beautiful poem, Kwi-ch'ŏn, "Back to Heaven," written
many years ago:
I'll go back to heaven again.
At the end of my outing to this beautiful world
I'll go and say: That was beautiful. . . .
There is the secret of his life's work. He teaches those ready to listen that the world is beautiful, that life is beautiful, and that we ought every day to be glad.
*
* *
The poems selected and translated here are among
those most loved and admired by Korean readers; the selection was made for an
edition published by Mirae-sa Publishing in Seoul in 1991. Most are youthful
works, written in the 1950s and 1960s and included in Sae
"Bird," that first "posthumous" collection published in
five hundred copies by his friends in 1971, which was withdrawn when the poet
was found to be alive.
The first volume supervised by the poet was
published in 1978 under the title Ch'umak-esŏ "In a tavern."
It contained the fifty-nine poems found in Sae, but arranged in a
different order, followed by fifty others, mostly written after Ch'ŏn
Sang-Pyŏng's return to life. The first two sections of the present volume
follow the order of Ch'umak-esŏ, distinguishing between the poems found
in Sae and those added later. Some eighty of the poems included in this
selection thus date from the earlier period of Ch'n's career, thirty of
the poems found in Ch'umak-esŏ having not been translated.
The volumes published after this always offer a
mixture of new poems and old favorites. The collection published in 1984 had
the punning title Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng-ŭn Ch'ŏnsang Siin-ida " Ch'ŏn
Sang-Pyŏng is a real poet." Twenty poems and the "Notes on my poems"
are taken from that collection. Chŏsung ka-nŭn de-to yŏbi-ga tŭnda-myŏn
"If there's a fare to pay when you pass away," was published in 1987,
its title drawn from the poem "À la Tu Fu." Six poems are included
from that volume, and just two from Yonom yonom yo yipp-ŭn nom "You
lovely fellow, you!" published in 1991.
There is a general consensus among Korean literary critics
that the later works do not stand comparison with the early lyrics. They are
often spontaneous echoes of an experience, something thought or heard. The
style tends to be rather prosaic. Yet in terms of human interest, as opposed to
formal beauty, the later poems sometimes appeal more to the general reader. The
limitations of the present selection, heavily biased towards the early works,
should be recognized, out of fairness to the poet's total reputation.
When the title of a poem is followed by an asterisk (*)
readers will find a note on that poem among the notes at the end of the book.
If only I had a flute.
The moon is unmoving
the moonlight bright alone with the wind . . .
tonight with all insect sounds stilled
where, alas, can that flute be
that goes so well with my heart's sad melody?
In times past
great parties were held in towers to view the moon
where the court musician would play his flute
while pretty court ladies would dance;
I wish I had that flute.
If it can't be seen, still
tonight
I long at least to touch that flute.
Where can it be?
Everyone said that tree was rotten. But I told them
that the tree was no rotten tree. That night I dreamed a dream.
In that dream I saw the tree flourishing, putting out
branches as if it meant to touch the blue sky.
I called the people back again and told them that the
tree was no rotten tree.
That tree is not rotten.
Sheer
yearning
transformed
the seagull
into a
cloud.
In the blue
sea's name
it dyed its
white wings in the sky,
evidently
joyful;
then the
sea,
with its so
bright breast
flowed after
the cloud to distant lands.
Many times
many times
it was
splendor flying high.
It was a
beautiful heart.
I wonder
why I'm standing
on this
dreary road
where
there's not a single tree?
A long road
not a new
road
mile after
mile of road, of red dirt road
like dusk
like
tomorrow
I must be
waiting for something.
Under the
bright moonlight
a reed and
I
stood side
by side in silence.
Anxiously
we gazed at one other
calming our
distress
in the gusting
wind.
In the
bright moonlight
the reed
and I
were both
drenched with tears.
No words
could
express
the fading
of the dusk.
As I
watched that evening and that hour
I thought
about
tomorrow.
Spring's
gone
the twilight
burns red then, ah, fades
yesterday
and now today as well.
I want to
know
I want to
know
why, very
soon,
once having
hewn that sky
I'll have
to inscribe there my obscurity.
Soon the wind will blow from the northern hills
snow will
fly; winter's coming.
Then on
snowy days
I'll walk
Seoul's snow-covered streets,
longing for
spring.
Even when I
had nothing at all
I always
had
this
"next"
this dawn,
this "next."
I reckon
this absolute irresistible urge
is all my
own.
Soon, tomorrow,
my dragging
steps transformed
into
something hotter than fire
my hope
will impose
on the world a heavier burden
than the
surf, than all the oceans.
So this
"next"
like
Seoul's streets on snowy days
is the road
to my world's ocean
The way rivers all flow into the sea
is not the only reason I've been weeping
all day long
up on the hill.
It's not the only reason I've been blooming
in longing like a sunflower
all night long
up on the hill.
The reason I'm weeping for sorrow like an animal
up on the hill
is not only because of the way
rivers all
just flow into the sea.
No sound
for the
day's sake
this
afternoon. . .
Yet
if I listen
hard
I'm calling
for mother
I'm crying.
Up in the sky
drifting
far and near
like a
seagull
grief flies
on, flies on.
That
happened
one such day.
happened
one such day.
Then
this quiet
afternoon
it came to
me like water
and made me
cry.
If I listen
hard
I can hear
a voice
calling for
mother.
I keep
gazing, gazing and gazing again
at that sky
so clear and blue up there.
It's not
just blue.
Sometimes
I'm riven with loneliness
as petals
fall unceasingly and
out in the
fields I open my arms
one cloud
drifts past
now seen
now unseen
the fresh
green leaves of March April May
and where's
the moon come rising from?
Do the
stars look down at me each night?
I keep
gazing, gazing and gazing again
at that sky
so clear and blue up there.
It's not
just blue.
There's
someone on fire
inside that
tiny flame,
in pain,
hot, burning.
Legs, trunk,
bones, skin, all turning to ash.
That
person's a stranger to me.
Oh! My face
and nose
and mouth and guts
and lungs
and stones
are all
turning into ash!
*
A leafy
afternoon; over there
a woman in
traditional dress lifts a hand to her ear.
If there's
even a tiny black mole on the lobe,
it turns
into the shadow
of a tiny
petal fallen on stone stairs.
A floating
cloud meets the storm
from
Chunghwa Hall, then vanishes without return.
My
apologetic disease becomes a light
never again
to be seen on these lawns and sandy paths
and on the
dumb pines
greets
passers-by I do not know.
So drunk
with folly I cannot drink wine.
I go to the
pond and toss in a stone;
its sinks
endlessly.
I go and
sit down
on a bench
in the shade of the pines.
There I get
drowsy and close my eyes.
The whole
park is a stone sinking into a pond.
through
many thousands of years
one star
then two then three stars float.
Old men
and
children
have all
passed away but
one young
man is asleep tonight after writing a poem . . .
The day beyond
the day I
die
lonely in
death after lonely living
birds will
sing as new day dawns and petals unfold
on my
soul's empty ground.
I'll be one
bird
alighting
on ditches and branches
when the
song of loving
and living
and beauty
is at its
height.
Season full
of emotion
week of
sorrow and joy
in the gaps
between knowing, not knowing, forgetting
bird
pour out
that antiquated song.
One bird
sings of how
there are
good things
in life
and bad
things too.
After
chattering all day long
saying
things
now I fall
asleep . . .
Sea silent,
I fall asleep
and dream
dreams
like the
letters a son gets from an aged father.
All the
words I said today
seem to be
embracing and making love
to the
screams of those already dead.
In those dreams,
I mean . . . .
I sing for
each day's spoken words.
Ah, my
song, my song!
At night,
instead of sorrow, my song falls asleep.
That bird
can't fly or sing,
it can't
even move.
It must be
deeply wounded.
St Francis
of Assissi preached
of grace
to the
birds
but that
bird seems just as sick as before.
The sunset
and dusk on the fields long centuries ago
are making
snow fall
here today.
It's
snowing . . .
For the happy child that died within me long before the blade fell on my neck (Jean Genet)
From
alleyway to alleyway
and now in
this tiny tavern.
Pour me one
more glass, old dear.
Evening
dusk's a poor poet's reward . . .
Is it
normal, I wonder, for this world to appear
as smooth
as it does to troubled eyes?
Pour me one
more glass, old dear.
Hazy things
are solemn.
At the
entry to the alley
the night
is growing darker with awkward steps
but behind
the old woman's back
looms the
hill beside my home village
and on that
hill
unseasonable
winter snow is falling heavily.
Beyond that
hill,
on the
lonely ridge with the local god's shrine
above that
ridge,
hurling
lumps of soft snow, the kids are playing.
The
children are looking very cheerful.
They look
infinitely cheerful.
Before it
eyes are
quite useless
in the
effort to see the utter stillness imprinted
on the tip
of branches long against the winter sky . . .
What is
meant by seeing?
What form
can the bridge have that spans
the
infinitely subtle difference
between what
is and what is not?
Won't that
thing
that pecks
at blood-tinged sunbeams
gently
spreading feathers over ruined visions
vanish as
suddenly as it came?
So as the
wind blows soundlessly
one bird is
barely maintaining
the perfect
balance
between
this sky and that.
1.
The loneliest man in Seoul came to Seoul's loneliest park. All the time repeating that there's nothing so wrong with being lonely. . . . at more or less the same time the man seemed vaguely to realize what was bringing the cherry trees there into bloom. It's a sobering thing, like seeing all the hills from that one bench under the flowering branches. Ah, loneliness, or solitude, tell me you too sometimes experience this kind of dazzling moment, these times of song.
2.
Within those cherry petals my father, who died ten
years ago, is assuming his most loving expression and pose, while my niece, who
died at the age of six, is laughing in green at the edge of freshly blooming
baby flowers. Mother, mother, where are you?
- in the "Apollo" tearoom
It's been
so long since I heard any music. It's as though a wise shade has followed the
sunlight spreading over my soul's glades. Perhaps the shade is thicker and more
appetizing.
Where has that bird gone, I wonder? Is it crossing beyond the dales? Has it rented my heart out and gone on an overseas cruise?
Come back, bird! Not to sing as you fly! But to ransack
this shade's lonely splendor!
*
On a
cloudless day
the sky
revealed itself
from time
to time in profile.
Its one
clear eye
steadily
gazing down
was fixed
on your tomb.
At the
farthest limit
of the
grassy mound
a flower
grew, boasting of its solitude.
Shin
Dong-yŏp!
That's the
kind of man you were.
No matter
for how short a moment
you left
everything there
and off you
went.
Off away
to the land
of glory!
Above
autumn skies as bright as today's,
one flight
above, a cloud goes drifting.
Here I am
at present waiting
right in
front of the church gate
to have my
shoes shined after the policeman
on traffic
duty at the gate.
It would be
a pity if I were less considerate
than that
policeman.
Above
autumn skies as bright as today's,
one flight
above, a cloud goes drifting.
1.
He went
walking on,
from alley
to street,
from
side-street to main road.
Stores and
buildings
lined up
side by side in rows.
Heedless,
he went walking on.
How far is
he going, you ask?
To the
woods, to the sea.
Heading for
the stars
unresting
he goes walking on.
2.
By day to a
teashop, or a bar,
at night to
an inn.
My paths
always used
to be the same . . .
Yet
today I'm
taking another path.
How
beautiful the rejoinders of youthful love.
Where shall
we go?
Nowhere
special. Why?
How
beautiful the rejoinders of youthful love.
I love you!
I hate you,
no matter what you say!
On snowy
days love drifts.
On rainy
days time flows.
With my
stomach full after eating lunch
I'm writing
this letter to the once hungry me.
It used to
happen sometimes.
You won't
be upset, will you?
There were
times of luxury too, you know.
I hope you
won't forget that.
I was sure
of tomorrow
for twenty
years!
Now that
I'm full
I'm worried
I might forget all that
so I'm
writing
this letter.
In yonder isle of
death is also the tomb of my youth (Nietsche)
A place
where
ancient stillness
walks the
sea.
A place
where mists
flow thick
like oil
ablaze.
A secluded
uninhabited
place.
A fresh
grave
washed by
the waves.
Although
for today there was no night
the moon
came up,
the stars
were twinkling bright.
Although
there's no day with only grief
once again
the sun rose,
the morning
dawned.
I'm not
utter innocence
but thanks
to that one chrysanthemum
standing in
a cup on the table
I'm all
aglow.
If I go
that way again
spring
comes
if I pass
beyond the hill
summer light shines.
On the way
back
autumn
leaves are drifting
and winter
inevitably
scatters
great flakes of snow.
The love
letters
I wrote to
you
the
writings of love
have
likewise turned into great rivers flowing vast.
*
In the early hours before sunrise, taking the wings of
the pale grey dawn, I set off for Sajik Park, gnawing dejection as I went. Down
an almost deserted street a little girl, only three or four, was standing
crying outside one house's front gate, dressed in her nightclothes. She was
sobbing dreadfully, sobbing dreadfully. I wonder why? Why is this little child crying here outside this big house's
front door, complete with its guard-dog, pressing the gate with her glass-like
hand? Perhaps she's being punished
for wetting her bed? All the time looking back, I cannot ignore her.
Little girl, why are you crying? Because you've just
learned something about life? Because something sad has happened, and you've
experienced how very much painful things hurt? Yet this fellow here, aimlessly
wandering up the hill in the dawn, isn't crying. . .
Little girl, you've got a mother whose hand's soon
going to open that gate for sure. This fellow here has no door for any such
love to open. Don't cry, little child! After all, look at me: I'm not crying .
. .
What kind of music is this? A quiet whisper close
beside my pillow in the early hours. I think the composer of this tune, that I
used to listen to with tears, loved one girl his whole life long. It may be
that her name was Clara. Wasn't she his teacher's wife? One century, two
centuries of time have rolled by and yet it looks as though his love is still
not over. Early this morning it's come to the heart of this messed-up wreck
living in a distant land and weeps.
*
I'll go
back to heaven again.
Hand in
hand with the dew
that melts
at a touch of the dawning day,
I'll go
back to heaven again.
With the
dusk, together, just we two,
at a sign
from a cloud after playing on the slopes
I'll go
back to heaven again.
At the end
of my outing to this beautiful world
I'll go
back and say: That was beautiful. . . .
A lonely
spot on a hilltop ridge
with tiny
daisies.
There's no
wind,
yet somehow
they're fluttering.
Autumn
will come
again.
Will this
moment come again?
My lonely
heart and yours
chastely
united
as now . .
.
Do you see
the daytime starlight
sleeping
quietly like a baby
near the
roof
the white
clothes hanging by the window
near the
garden wall . . .
Do you see
the daytime starlight
like that
spinning world
beside
love's gestures
the
wearisome waiting
alongside
of sorrow . . .
Do you see
the daytime starlight
speeding
pole-wards
over
deserts
over rocks
over waves .
. .
A bird
traverses
all the daytime starlight valleys
singing.
1.
Today's
wind is leaving
tomorrow's
wind is beginning to blow.
Bye-bye.
Today's
been far too dull.
Like baby
rats mewling in a backyard cesspit
tomorrow's
wind is beginning to blow.
2.
Hugging the
sky
embracing
the sea
I draw on a
cigarette.
Hugging the
sky
embracing
the sea
I drink a
draught of water.
Someone sat
for a while beside the well
then went
on, leaving a fag-end behind . . .
- Bird
Between the countless branches where you lingered a
while in days gone by, the daylight departs and darkness looms. It's cold. The
wind comes bleakly gusting from the lips of one near death, while the hands of
the clock that has never told the right time are drowsing near midnight.
Seasons are not things that come for those who wait the longest.
And you, little bird. . . .
- Bird
1.
This thin
smile lurking smug on my lips
is a bridge
composed of a single thread
deftly
slung at the brink of life and death.
A bird goes
flying up that bridge.
Fraternity
and resolution, with courage too,
wafting on
just such pinions . . .
Not a
breeze furtively shaking the leaves
but rather
a wind that touches the roots,
the
sunbeams streaming from this breast.
How often
will my lips smile bright at the hills
along the
meadow path
taken
today, and tomorrow too . . .
2.
My friend
come to
this sun-shimmering hill.
Though you
have to cross many oceans
to pass
from hill to hill, still
come to
this sun-shimmering hill
my friend .
. .
I feel
fairly happy this morning,
with a cup
of coffee, enough fags in the pack,
breakfast
eaten and still the bus fare left over.
I feel
fairly gloomy this morning,
though I'm
not short of small change,
because I
have to worry about tomorrow.
Poverty's
my full-time job
but if I
can hold up my head in this sunshine
it's
because the sunshine has no bank account either.
My past and
future
my dear
sons and daughters,
sometimes
come to my grass-grown grave and say:
Here sleeps
a life that took pain in its stride.
Let the fresh
breeze blow . . .
I sat
facing a sixty-year old man.
Don't
worry. Relax.
But still, what must I do?
We'll just
have to wait and see . . .
My
completely unseen liver
has dared
to stage a coup d'état.
There's not
much that little fellow can do,
yet a life
still eager to live comes home to me.
I don't
much like coup d'états.
I ask the
old doctor
how to deal
with it.
Policies
depend on situations!
Asking if I
have a soul
is like asking if I exist or not.
Can you see
a hill and say it's not there?
My soul!
Run wild.
My body's
movements
are my
soul's disguise, that's all.
When I'm
gloomy on rainy days,
it's my
soul that's gloomy.
I want my
soul to be free worldwide,
able to run
all over the place.
*
Silence is
like lightning and
people who
know do not make a fuss
while those
who make a fuss are ignorant:
that is
what Lao Tzu said.
I could not
understand such a saying:
I was
always in too much of a rush
I was
noisy.
Today is
not the first Harvest Celebration
I've spent
alone like this
but the
reason I'm gloomier today
is all to
do with an incurable sickness.
Putting a
bowl of makkŏlli
on the
rickety table
of a poor
neighborhood's lowest grog-shop
I celebrate
rites for my father's soul.
When that's
done
I drink
what remains
then
inevitably
set out
again
as I'm
forty now.
You think
my fairly lucid mind and my spotless soul,
buried
together with my flesh in the ground,
will also
rot and ooze and be devoured?
Jaspers
said
that if you
ask science about its own significance,
it is
utterly unable to reply.
In this half-penny
world of utter obstinacy
I wonder
how I have managed to survive at all.
I've no
particular complaint to make
but though
my shitty mind may rot
it's
altogether another matter when it comes
to the soul
that's making me write this poem.
Years after
I die, maybe my soul
will be
boarding late buses in the streets of Seoul,
gladly
paying the penny it's been clutching so hard.
A seed that
will be this flower next year
has plunged
fleetingly into the breeze
seeking its
way with blood-shot eyes.
After
wandering penniless
from wood
to wood, hill to hill,
it has to
endure agonies of thirst in a sandbank.
At last a
little lamb comes home.
Tenderly meeting
the ground without a word
it is
guided to the house of rest.
Mary!
Grant me a
lifetime like this flower.
- One autumn day, 1970
Father and
mother lie
in the
family burial plot at home
I'm all on
my own
here in
Seoul
brother and
sisters
are down in
Pusan
I don't
have the fare
so I can't
go.
If there's
a fare to pay
when you
pass away
does that
mean
I'll never
be able to go?
When you
think of it, ah,
what a deep
thing life is.
1.
Late at
night
as I lie
vacantly
there's a
noise somewhere.
The room is
dark
but on the
roof
starlight
is piled up white.
Is it the
weight that wakes me up?
I want to
walk in the starlight village on the roof
yet I'm
really loath to get out of bed.
If I listen
hard
there's a
noise.
What can
that noise be?
It sounds
as though someone's having a drink
in the
starlight village pub on the roof.
If I strain
to hear
it sounds
like the voice of drunken angels
it sounds
like Dostoevsky's voice
like the
noise of friends killed young
it's no
such thing.
That
rogue's
a thief
peeping into my room.
But there's
nothing here worth stealing.
I'll have
to think again.
Above the
roof the stars are in full glory.
Perhaps
it's some guy from the Milky Way.
I'm not
afraid, anyway.
That guy
if he's
come all this way
isn't going
to waste his time staring at me.
I could
invite him to come inside
but I don't
expect he'd understand. . . .
Still, he
did say something
clearly in
our language
before he
went away.
"Have
breakfast in my neighborhood."
He must
have been a saucy fellow.
2.
Is it
shining or not?
That star
so faintly
shining
is the
farthest star
in the
Milky Way.
It must be
two billion light years away.
I wonder
how it makes such a long journey?
On foot?
by bus?
or in a
taxi perhaps?
Have a safe
journey, anyway.
- Bird
That day, when
I suffered
like a shirt
beneath the iron,
I can't say
how many years ago . . .
That day
when one summer bug tried to shake hands with me
as I
perspired by a back window in a fearful house,
I can't say
how many years ago . . . .
Your flesh
and bones all know
which is
mightier,
sincerity
or pain . . .
To one side
of the
heaven in my mind
a bird is
stretching its wings in alarm.
What makes flowers bloom like this?
Beautiful
beyond compare, tender and so quiet,
they're
quite preposterously superhuman.
Even our
wisest doing their best can't rival them . . .
Try as she
may, the fairest princess is bound to fail.
There are
sometimes things like this to name.
Not even Mr
University, no matter how rugged.
How could anyone
roughly pluck this flower?
Wasn't he
singing a hymn, foolishly at that . . .
*
Out early at Kwanghwa-mun, I witnessed the funeral
procession of the star they called "The Queen of Tears." The funeral banners were streaming, the
band was tootling, while several buses and a great crowd filled the road. I
mused thoughtfully. About how my late father had been a devoted fan of that
same Queen of Tears? No, not that. How sometimes the funerals of writers have
passed the same way. With no banners, certainly no band, and absolutely no
procession, a totally wretched, incomparably seedy-looking gathering. To earn
that seediness was the sole reason they wrote poetry.
*
1.
Dear Mother and Father, and my lovely niece Yong-jun
who left us in childhood, I do hope you're at peace under the heavenly trees.
Meanwhile, three poets have gone your way, I want you to keep an ear open for
news of them. Their names are Cho Chi-hun, Kim Su-yŏng, Choe Kye-rak. If you
meet them, please give them warm wishes on behalf of your despicable son. While
they were alive they were no end kind and helpful to me. I often spent time
with them. Those three are the only ones who'll speak no ill of me. I hope you
keep well.
2.
Brighter
than the
morning sunlight
more
complicated
than the
whole wide world
more
tormented
than the
dark
those men
have gone
on ahead, leaving us here.
Silently a
leaf comes fluttering down
drops on my
chest and is gone.
The spot
where it falls
is just
beside the wound
deeply
scored
that drove
me out into life
with not a
moment then to utter a cry.
There the
leaf
is now
wholeheartedly
watching
you as it examines your life.
The wind
keeps on blowing
on and on
blowing
the leaf
watching motionless over the wound
that leaf
is an eye, an eye,
clear
heaven's eye, our eye, mother's
angry,
tearful eye as she calls you.
Won't somebody give me a house? I roar to the heavens.
Hear me, someone, to the ends of the earth . . . I got married just a few weeks
ago, so how can I help but shout like this? God in his heaven will hear with a
smile. The French poet Arthur Rimbaud put an ad in a London newspaper.
"Won't someone take me to a southern country?" A ship's captain saw
it, gladly took him on board and shipped him to a southern country. So I'm
shouting like a giant. A house is a treasure. The whole world may crumble and
fall, my house will remain . . .
Our house
is thatched, next door's is thatched too.
Our house
belongs to the people of Seoul
I've never
had dealings with the folk next door.
It's a
matter of crossing the street
but the
house next door's located
somewhere
in Africa.
Three
families live in our house, the owner's too,
our
population density's at international levels.
Fourteen
people in all, no less.
Our house
sold off its only dog:
are we a
developing country like the papers say?
Next door
they've put up a TV antenna
they're
really advanced.
I know our
house's owner's name,
he does his
best to be kind;
could the
house next door be Jesus Christ's?
*
The
monsoons are late in coming.
They were
needed for the crops
but that's all junk for ordinary folks. . .
I suddenly
think of remote Cheju Island. . .
I was never
once able to visit it!
Isn't it
somewhere near London?
There's no
way I'll ever get there.
I must make
a long journey, to the coast at least . . .
Then the
scent of that island may come drifting by.
*
Is rain
really always pouring down
into
Ch'ŏnji Lake on Paektu Mountain?
Old Father
Tangun must have used an umbrella.
The falls
at the head of the Yalu River roar down
and form
such a great whirlpool
that even
the tiger has to tremble for fear.
There may
be a classical poem about white clouds,
there's no
classical poem about this mountain.
So I'm
obliged to write one, I suppose?
Limply the leaves are getting wet in the rain.
The trunk's
getting wet too, the fruit as well.
Every
surface is meeting the same fate.
The
stream's getting wet, too,
like a
grandchild shaking hands with grandad.
The local
folk must be glad to see it . . .
It's like a
fiesta in a forest village.
The
womenfolk are preparing the next day's work
and the
husbands are busy drinking their fill.
*
Rain is
extremely pure and innocent.
Even if it
only rains for a day
the
mountain streams, that were dry before, swell.
The late
poet Kim Kwan-Sik
used to say
that humans live at riversides;
by the
looks of it that's the king of truths.
Why do
trees grow so luxuriantly at riversides?
Not because
they've got enough water there
but because
they love the riverside mood.
1
Like a dark
continent, an uninterrupted mass
of clouds is
covering the sky
in a
strange silence. Luckily, it's raining.
It's the
rainy season now
and on that
dark continent lies the Great Wall.
Perhaps
there may be peals of thunder.
Isn't the
universe a land of mystery?
Where do
the moon and stars go in the daytime?
Maybe
rain's the green light for them?
2
This spring
water
obliged to
rise now with the dawn
was perhaps
rain that fell on such and such a day.
The hill
itself and the nearby rocks may know,
the sky and
clouds must know for sure,
but they
have no mouths, it's frustrating.
There's no
harm in drinking this spring-water,
its taste
can never vary.
You only
need pray for good luck.
3
From a
commonsensical view, rain falls on all of Nature.
But you
think it's just falling on the roof,
not
realizing it's striking the vase inside.
Only think!
Nature's
the whole of the cosmos.
Which is
why it's striking the vase as well.
Physically
the vase is not being struck
but in
actual fact the vase's real soul,
being
raised to the roof, is getting rained on.
4
The
chemical composition of water
is two
hydrogen atoms and one oxygen
I already
knew that in middle school.
But I still
don't know
what on
earth there is
behind that
hydrogen and oxygen . . .
What's in
there is a wild beast fit to be feared.
A hydrogen
bomb behind the hydrogen,
an atom
bomb behind the oxygen . . .
5
When I was
in primary school
if ever it
rained
I didn't
use to go to school.
I would desperately
beg my mother
(she's
already gone to the kingdom of heaven)
to bake me
some beans because I was sick.
I'll go out
now
but seeing
I'm already forty
it's no use
setting the world back to front.
*
Ipch'un's come,
it's much less cold!
Winter's
over, spring's nearly here.
I scan the
calendar up and down.
Steaming
breath again?
Earth's
idea of a joke!
Soon
flowers will be blooming.
Faintly
gleaming sun,
why are you
so gloomy?
Won't the
arctic turn into the tropics?
If you want
to go downtown from here by bus,
this being
the suburbs, it takes about an hour.
Our
neighborhood lies at the foot of Mount Surak.
The water's
good and the hills are good.
The people
here are kind-hearted too.
It's a fine
place to make a home.
Today the
rain is drizzling down.
It's a
gloomy day and cold though it's spring.
I like it
here, I like it here.
What can
that sound be?
The sound of the earth?
The sound
of the sky?
A moment's
thought: the sound of a bell
a sound
heard from far far away.
How far
will that sound go?
Maybe to
the ends of space.
Or perhaps
it will sink beneath the ground
and even be
heard in the kingdom of heaven?
As the
stream poured fiercely down
it even
broke into waves.
Striking
rocks, its billows raged in fury.
It poured
yesterday all day and all night until
the water
falling in the hills, wandering beneath the pines,
united in
the valley in this shape.
Hills and
land being physically higher than the sea,
water is
naturally bound to flow downwards
but today's
the first time I ever saw waves raging so.
What's
normal is "a believing heart"
so why am I
contrary with "a heart believed"?
The
uncommon reason is as follows . . .
I have no
believing heart
I believe
my heart.
Firmly
firmly I believe my heart.
I have
nothing but a heart believed,
no riches
no property
at all.
A proverb
is far more than any truth.
Truth
depends on reasoning
and life's only a smattering of truth.
Experience
of life rebels against that.
Life's
history's composed of rise and fall.
All
positions are the accesories of time.
My friend
was well-versed
in almost
everything, only he looked a fool,
and life
deals generously even with fools.
-Grass
This grass
is one foot high at least.
With its
delicate dangling leaves it looks
like a
lady-in-waiting, an empress, even.
It's green
in hue, but no mere green,
darker and
lighter here and there,
it's a fine
sight with its dangling leaves.
I vaguely
feel it would fly, given wings,
and that if
it's growing in precisely that place
it's thanks
to its roots plunging into the soil.
What are they all doing now, I wonder?
How far
have they got by now, I wonder?
Where are
they walking now, I wonder?
Are they
having lunch, I wonder?
Are they
ranking officials, I wonder?
Are they
walking under streetside trees, I wonder?
I'm walking
now, but
my
stomach's rumbling, I've not eaten;
what are
they all doing now, I wonder?
There's no
one there, though I walk on and on,
this road
is no one's road.
So I walk
on alone.
Look,
flowers in blossom!
Like
friends, like neighbors!
Truly
beautiful flowers' life-forms—
the road
just keeps right on.
I'd like to
snatch a moment's rest
but there's
really no place much for that.
On and on I
go until
bit by bit
I get hungry.
I look for
food but
though I
walk on and on, it's no one's road,
what on
earth shall I do?
After
walking some more, at last
a village
appears in the distance.
It comes
into sight far away.
In
unbridled joy I walk
quickly
quickly along the road.
The bliss
of going along this road!
*
Beside the
spring I visit early every morning
spreads an
expanse of earthly fairyland,
a green
land where Yao and Shun might like to be.
All the
plants you find there are ordinary enough
yet that
lovely harmony's peaceful hue is so pure
everything
is so exactly where it should be
grace,
harmony and color are in such unity
that
together they attain this world's perfection.
If a friend
arrives from far away
and tells
entertaining tales
I giggle
merrily.
Then I'm
joyful.
So what is
joy, you ask.
All I do is
laugh.
The greater
the joy, the greater the laughter.
Don't ask
so many questions.
The heart
is replete with simple laughter.
When
something very good occurs
I feel
gratified, envigorated
and the
heavens seem like a loving sister to me.
Gazing up
at tomorrow's peaks
neck
craned, hands raised,
I follow
today's sunbeams.
Every hour
is rare and precious.
Work may be
piled up
but look,
tommorow's light.
The
window's open on the future.
Before the
window, what a sky!
Nothing but
movement forwards!
Hope, like clouds high up in the sky!
North south
east west every way
my steps
move lightly towards tomorrow.
Why, the
road has no end.
When it
touches a stream
there's a
bridge or a ferry.
And when it
reaches a seaside harbor
there are
ships so we can cross the sea.
Why,
there's nothing blocking the road.
There's no
wall across it
and heaven
alone is blue and a friend
heaven
alone is guiding the road.
That means
the road is
eternal.
That
triangular little cloud
floats on at its leisure across the sky.
It may have
some business to deal with.
That very
slowly flowing thing
has only
the breezes skimming past.
The wind is
the cloud's true love.
So the
cloud invariably goes
wherever
the wind is blowing it.
Snow-white
cloud!
The cloud
is not in the least concerned
about what
season it is.
The cloud
flows on at its leisure
just as
today becomes tomorrow.
I live
below Mount Surak.
In summer
I wake at
five
climb up to
a mountain stream
and wash
there every day.
The really
kind things said by
the faces I
meet each morning
big rocks
middling rocks small rocks
such rocks
are plentiful
and the
trees grow thick
gurgle
gurgle gurgle
the sound
of water dropping from the rocks
as I'm
washing
for there's
sometimes water
splashing as high as my knees. . .
(that's the
kind of place I go)
the
secluded mood of the flowing stream. . .
A flower's a medal.
A medal
awarded us by God.
The beauty
of flowers in bloom on hills and plains.
Sometimes
people pick flowers to wear on their breasts.
It's only
natural, since they're medals.
It's a very
admirable gesture.
It's
natural to bless God for ever and ever
for
bestowing such gracious awards on us.
Such is our
wisdom that keeps advancing.
Oriental
tombs are naturalistic
western
tombs are rationalistic.
Oriental
tombs are a union with earth
western
tombs are convenience.
Grass and
soil
gentle
outline and volume
an armful
of quiet atmosphere
that's our
tombs . . .
Crammed
together in a well-organized space
with a
cross as small as possible
in a spot
almost nobody visits
those are
the white men's tombs . . .
Our family
tombs
are on a
hillside behind Daeti Village
in the
Chinbuk district of Changwŏn county
in South
Kyŏngsang province.
We visit
them once a year on New Year's Day.
Gazing up
at the moon with a heart serene
I'm out in
the fields though it's ten at night,
forgetting
life's cares and soaking in moonlight.
Whether or
not the mysteries of space can be seen
there's a
human footprint up on that moon,
that place
that's become so close to us
that place
so far away far when I was a child
now it's
full moon and more beautiful still
the clouds cling close as if brushing against it.
I want
wings.
I want
wings
that will
carry me wherever I want.
I can't
understand why God
didn't give
humans wings.
Being a
pauper
the only
trip I've ever had was our honeymoon
but I want
to go any and everywhere.
Once I have
wings I'll be satisfied.
God
give me
wings, please . . .
I live in
Ŭijŏngbu.
There's a
mountain in sight in the distance
that seems
to be whispering to me.
All the
time it seems to be calling me.
Lazybones
as I am,
I've not
got that far yet
but I'm
thinking of making a visit
one day
some time soon.
The distant
mountain looks like the good old days,
like an old
old man
or maybe
like those already dead,
like the
site of an ancient castle.
*
My home
town is Chindong in South Kyŏngsang province
a place
some twelve miles from Masan
beside the sea
lovely with
hills and streams.
Home town
is home, despite the fact
that I left
there as soon as I started school.
I wonder
where my real home is?
My home
before I was born, I mean.
Almost all
the time everyone's talking of home,
and I'm
just like anyone else,
home before
birth, I mean.
The older I
get, the more I talk about home.
I really
mean going back into the void, I suppose.
Not back to
Chindong, that's sure.
To home
before birth-home
back into
the void. Middle-aged sensitivity.
Maybe the
clouds that float in the sky
are
armchairs for angels
come down
to inspect the world?
Angel
assistants of God
have a nice
rest, then go
and tell
him everything's fine.
You can't
be seen
so we may
misbehave;
I do hope
you'll excuse us for that.
*
I like a
drink
but
makkŏlli and beer are all I can take.
If I buy
one bottle
of makkŏlli
in the morning
then only
drink a little glass
when the
thought strikes me
it lasts
the whole day, almost.
Beer?
If I happen
to get paid for writing something
I buy just
one glass costing five hundred won,
yet my wife
disapproves
if I drink even once in a month or more.
That's not
how the world is.
At
mealtimes
when that's
the only pleasure
I feel
how on
earth can she pretend to disapprove
of my only
source of pleasure?
That's not
how the cosmos is,
not how the
world is
not how
life is.
The aim is
only pleasure
pleasure's
life's greatest goal.
Makkŏlli 's
no mere drink
it's the
same as food
which is
not simply food
but God's
divine grace
and gives
pleasure too.
I may be
shabbily poor,
I lack
nothing a person needs in life.
My three
brothers are living at ease in Pusan but
I wouldn't
share their lot for anything.
My
publishers look after me,
I get help
from various writers
so I never
experience the least discomfort.
I simply
give thanks to Heaven, that's all.
I may be
poor,
I enjoy the
greatest happiness.
Money and
happiness are unrelated.
The rich
have to pass through a needle's eye.
I share a
room with three little birds.
Those three
birds perch beside the tele
and can't
budge an inch
because in
fact
they're not
real birds at all
they're
only imitation.
The first's
a magpie perched on a savings-box
we got from
a bank
The other
two look a bit like wild geese
my wife
brought them back from Kyŏngju.
So they're
three
and I live with them day after day.
I'm very
fond of birds.
So peaceful
quiet and free
heaven
itself is theirs.
I love and
treasure these
as much as
any real live birds.
We make
offerings for father
on the
third day of the ninth lunar month.
I can't get
down to Pusan this year either
Again! Yet again!
Father's
soul will be angry with me.
Dear
father's soul, please remember
that
poverty is heaven-sent.
Didn't you
tell me
when you
were alive,
"There's
bliss in poverty"?
In his
youth father's wealth
was a
thousand sacks of rice a year
then,
fooled by the Japs, he lost it all.
He went
across to Japan to earn a living.
Father!
Father!
If you were
still alive now
you'd have
just turned eighty; father,
I beg you,
enjoy peace and joy in heaven.
*
Birds are
always bright and cheerful.
This nether
world belongs to them.
Wherever
they go they're unrestrained,
free and happy things.
Birdsong's
a sound they make in joy.
Yet some
poet or other once dared to say
that the
songs birds make
sound like
weeping; what nonsense!
The
twittering of birds
is life's
joy and delight.
Let's all
do our best to be like the birds,
let's all
be bright and cheerful!
Birdsong's
a sound
made in joy.
What an
awful wretch he was
to take
those songs for signs of sorrow!
Perhaps the
birds, being free to fly
through the
sky to their heart's content,
seeing with
compassion us humans below,
are singing
"Arirang Arirang."
I'm fond of
cold water.
We're
"water people" so I keep on drinking.
Energy
comes welling up
there I'm
second to none.
Nature's
energies are far from us
but still
we must imitate all we can
like our
ancestors
calling out
"Water! Water!"
as they
crossed Manchuria's Sungari River
in their
progress southward.
Like birds
that fly on, drenched in sky,
I'm all
drenched in water.
Energy's
essential
if we're
not to let life slip through our fingers.
My song may
be feeble,
at its end
I
invariably find cold water energy
that can
reach places far away.
*
At
Kwanghwa-mun
there's the
office of a paper that bravely fought
against the
former dictator Syngman Rhee.
That
paper's leader writer,
the
novelist Oh Sang-wŏn, is a close friend of mine.
A man who,
if I feel I want to see him
and ring
him up,
unfailingly
comes out to join me
in my
regular coffee-shop Arirang.
One such
day in such and such a month,
once again
he came, paid for what I'd consumed
and offered
me two thousand-won notes--
at which I
said,
"Just
this once I'm afloat too,"
pulled out
two thousand won from my pocket
and showed
them to him plainly
but he just
repeated, "It's alright, it's alright,"
heading for
his regular beer house!
That bar
was not far
away
it was run
by a fellow who'd been section head
in a paper
banned under the Liberal Party
and so the
three of us,
my wife as
well,
had a
chance to celebrate
a
springtime of freedom and happiness
a garden of
flowers.
Dear God!
How could
you let such a moment happen
to a poor
wretch like me?
Sunlight,
moonlight, lamplight,
light's a
really splendid thing.
Without
light
everything
would be dark, you know.
The world
moves by light
human eyes
exist by light.
Tomorrow,
tomorrow,
let there
always be light!
I like a
drink.
Only
makkŏlli though,
and very
little of that.
Getting
drunk's a sin.
It's wrong to sin.
If I'm
drunk I don't know where I am.
Even Jesus
Christ made wine.
It's no sin
to drink
just a little.
Our life's
a vale of tears.
In order to
reduce the pain
there's
nothing like a drink.
Windows are
always made of glass
yet for my
window I have
the green leaves of trees.
The
vigorous lively leaves
with the
sky as their background
grew up indifferent
and thick.
Sometimes
birds fly past
or a cloud
goes by.
Ah, this
sunlit window pane . . .
I think the
wind blows at random
strongly
and sometimes weakly
but it's
not true! It's not at all like that!
The wind
bravely follows
invisible
paths.
Wind paths
lie in all directions.
While I
keep on along my path
the wind
pursues its own wind-paths.
The path is
always everywhere there.
Look at the
sky's own vagabond flower
attracting
every gaze,
as
leisurely as time.
Eternal
wanderer, going where it likes
this
wanderer moving with the wind
without a
goal, without a purpose, slowly
seeming
altogether weightless,
blanker the
longer you look at it,
is
embroidering the sky with tints of white.
My heart's
village
is called
Nine Thousand Village.
I'm Mr.
Thousand, but it's a neighborhood
crowded and
busy enough for nine thousand.
True, it's
only one neighborhood
but it's
vaster than South Kyŏngsang Province
equal to
the City of Seoul yet at the same time
nothing
more than one very small neighborhood.
Yes, it has
high buildings
like the
skyscrapers of New York,
but it has
thatched cottages
and caves
from prehistoric times, too.
In this
village's sky
birds of
every season fly,
and when
that is not the case
white
clouds cover it completely.
This
village's law
is
conscience alone
for its
court-house
there's
nothing but the court of conscience.
If you want
to point out this and that
ten
thousand words will not suffice.
This
heart's complex crowded village.
At five
every morning
I go to the
mountain.
It lies in
northern Seoul
right on
the city outskirts.
I don't
mean a mountain at all.
I ought
really to say a valley.
There I
sing freely.
Bad at
singing as I am
I let rip.
And the
rocks, those very serious rocks,
pretend to
dance
the
mountain ridges pretend to rock
while the
birdsong gives me music
and the
trees seem to whisper.
I'm
singing, I'm singing.
I'm the
happiest man
in the
world.
Since my
wife runs a café
I've no
need to worry about making ends meet
and I went
to university
so there's
nothing lacking in my education
and because
I'm a poet
my desire
for fame is satisfied
I have a
pretty wife too
so I don't
think about women
and we have
no children
no need to
worry about the future
we have a
house as well
I'm really
very comfortable.
I'm fond of
makkŏlli
my wife
always buys it for me
so what
have I got to complain of?
Besides
I firmly
believe in God
and since
the mightiest person
in the
whole wide world
is looking
after my interests
how can
anyone say misfortune's coming?
One day
early in October '84
my wife
brought home a bunch of wild asters.
It made the
room really bright.
There were
white asters
and violet
asters
and pink
asters too.
Autumn's
the season of mellow fruitfulness,
our room's
lightly perfumed
there's a
marvellous feeling about.
Why is it
so good?
Nature's
profundity has come visiting,
I'll have
to study poetry more.
Mornings I
feel happiest.
Today has
begun
the start's
from now on.
Once I've
finished washing my face
I begin my
work
I grope for
my books.
May there
be blessings today.
May kind
heaven send
some joyful
news.
Rain
falling, rain falling.
Ruminating
melancholy
I recall
the dead.
Rain is
waters of sadness
repentance
for my youth
God's
providence.
Friends'
sad plights
spring
suddenly to mind.
Shall I go
to church alone and pray?
That
distant mountain
is like an
old man.
It has
heaven behind it
speaking words of wisdom.
People all
exist separately
there's no
unity and yet
if once
they learn the ways of heaven
it seems
that makes a difference . . .
Distant
mountain
history's
only bigwig
we human
beings
should
learn from your silence . . . .
*
I live on
the outskirts of Ŭijŏngbu
but Seoul
City's only eighty yards away
and that's
no big deal
as far as
transport goes
but with
rice and vegetable fields nearby
I'm a
country bumpkin.
If you live
in Seoul
you're just
one among nine million
but that's
not my case at all.
A country
bumpkin's a happy man.
I must
sing.
How could I
not sing the praises
of such
intense satisfaction?
Heaven! Heaven!
My song's
heaven's own.
*
Look, my
open hand
placed
beneath these growing flowers
is mottled
with flower-hued shade
inspiring
unprompted memories, hues
of flowers
seen in the Secret Garden
when I was
there a few days ago.
That
brightness and shade
passionately
making love!
Right on my
palm . . .
The first
of all the women I like
can only be
my wife
of course.
My wife's
fifty-two
and I'm
sixty now—
there's
almost nothing we can do
but still!
The time as
I write this poem
is five
o'clock in the afternoon
of May the
fourth 1989, but all the same . . .
Only two or
three days ago, at night,
up and
down, up and down,
there was
suddenly such a squirming
that I
called out in a loud voice
to my wife
in the room next to mine;
I called
and called
but she
went on sleeping.
At last my
mother-in-law called out,
"What
a racket . . . let's get some sleep"
and thanks
to those words
I went back
to being a loach again
with no
hope of even beginning.
*
May's the
month for greenery.
Green light
covering
the world, Maytime's
literally
the month for greenery.
Green
light's very good for the eyes.
And not
just for the eyes;
it whispers
of hope.
So the
month of May
seems much
too brief.
Green
Maytime!
All the
world's Maytime!
Let me expose briefly how I write poetry. There is no room
for detailed notes on the composition of each individual poem, but I can
explain how I see poetry-writing in general terms.
I consider poetry to be the king of literature. In
literature there are many different genres: you have novels, essays, childrens'
stories, drama. But poetry is topmost among them.
By that I mean that poetry is the truest of all. A
lying poem is no poem. A poem is the truest of all truths. We cannot live if
once we abandon truth.
Joy is one expression of truth. I love to laugh. The
critic Kim Ju-Yŏn once commented that he could not help laughing when he read
my work; I have never deliberately written poems to make people laugh but there
does seem to be a sense of humour about them.
You and I are all living for the sake of truth. The
truth about human existence lies spread far and wide. What gives it expression
is poetry. If you get angry after reading a poem, it must have been a fake!
I never write poems like that. More and more with the
passage of time I have tried to express the true meaning of human existence.
I tend to write poems quickly. But it is only the
writing down of the poem that is soon done; it takes a long time for me to
compose a poem. Once I have hit on an idea, I spend hours reflecting whether I
should express it in this way or that.
Notes on the composition of a poem touch its very
being. It is very difficult to say, such a poem came in being for this
particular reason. Because then you are expressing its very essence.
As I said, I see poetry as the essence of human existence.
We have to be faithful to one particular task. Only then is it possible for
worthwhile works to be produced.
Perhaps because I have no children, I am rather
lonesome. In order to overcome that loneliness I naturally have to become
stronger. Which naturally means I have to become more firmly resolved.
I am obliged to face existence honestly, with a bold
heart, since in that way I grow more resolved.
Wishing to become more resolved means that I have to
read a lot of books. Not only do I have to read many books, I have to do a lot
of thinking too.
As a result, I have to live in close contact with
poetry. Wishing to live in close contact with it, naturally my links with
poetry multiply. Maybe that is why I became a poet.
What I have to be careful of as a poet is my fear of
being snared by worthless things of no value. Attaching importance to the
realities that give increasing weight to human existence as time goes by, I
have to reflect that in my poems.
It is easy to imagine that since I am obliged to lead a
lonely existence, I must be gloomy all the time but such is not the case. That
is because God is there. I believe in God.
God is the absolute being for me. Whenever I feel
lonely, I think of God and try not to feel lonely.
That is as much as to say that I never feel lonely at
all.
The thought that I am never lonely is one aspect of the
truth in my poetry. Thanks to belief in the constant presence of God, I am
never lonely. God is always there comforting me.
I have got into the habit of constantly looking out for
poetry in my everyday surroundings. Our surroundings are full of poetry. If you
look at your own life's surroundings properly, you're sure to find a poem
rolling around.
Life covers a wide area. Even when you are somewhere
quietly on your own, there is poetry about. You only need open your eyes, there
is a poem rolling around. You just have to seize it for a poem to be born.
I love being alive. Even in the trivial incidents of
daily life there are so many moments when you feel something. I have grown
quite good at seizing poems in the thick of daily living.
I look for poetry in the trivial things and incidents
of everyday life, and as a result I find myself with a plentiful supply of
material for poems. I find so many things to write about in everything around
me.
As far as family goes, there is no one but my wife so
it's a bit deary but I'm never alone since I try to follow God's command to
love everyone.
If you are too much alone you cannot write poetry. I'm
blessed because I consider that there is nothing that does not concern me. That
explains why I am relatively optimistic, although I cannot earn any money and
have nobody in life except my wife.
Life may be complicated, if only you keep your wits
calm and steady, it is really very simple. There may not be many people who
think life is simple, but I am one of them.
Material for poems is not only found in deeply
meaningful events. I have got into the habit of finding deep meaning in quite
insignificant happenings.
I savor intensely everything that happens around me and
try to give it shape. In that way trivial events turn into poems.
I face life with open eyes and that is why I find
poetry in insignificant things. So life is my poetry.
I love music. Classical music. So whenever I am writing
a poem I always listen to the radio. There is a channel that broadcasts
classical music all day long.
Beautiful music not only stimulates poetic ideas, it
furnishes an appropriate approach. I cannot even imagine writing without music.
Beauty is the very life of a poem.
The world is a complex place. This world's mixture of
war and peace complicates our emotions about life but so long as we keep our
minds straight, everything is simple. The effect of all that has an influence
on the world.
Our life is bound to be affected by the things that
happen in the world. Those influences are reflected in our lives. If we face
life squarely, such things are decisive. Or at least, facing life squarely is.
Life needs to be lived. The truth about existence lies in our lives and
characterises them.
There is a poem I wrote a long time ago called
"Not just blue". It is about how there are other colors, not only the
color blue, in the color blue. There are other things, not only one thing, in
each object.
As I have said, my life and my faith are the basis for
my poetry. That is my approach to poetry and its very essence.
It is no good if we think how difficult a poem is, as
we read it. The thought must be simple. A poem we have difficulty with is no
poem.
I consider that a poem we can read like an essay is a
good poem. A poem is something that makes us think about the essence of
existence on the basis of some trifling incident.
I think that faith and life are the essence of poetry.
For me there can be no excuse for the use of difficult words.
Faith is belief in the Absolute Being. How can we live
if we do not know the essence of the world? Since the Absolute exists, how can
we live ignoring it?
Faith is the first principle of my existence. This
fundamental principle once removed, I do not see how it is possible to write
poetry. For myself, without principles I am helpless.
So I go to church and write poems. There are almost no
religious poems in this volume, though.
You will find here poems written recently and others
written earlier, but readers need not worry about that.
This is my third book. At fifty-five, only to have
published three books is not very much but I regret nothing.
I may be a poor wretched poet but I live as well as I
can without any regrets. Love is the greatest happiness in life. I may be poor
and sad, I am happy too.
This book is the outcome of that happiness.
Happiness is nothing other than that. Happiness means
always living with a full heart. Happiness is when you are able to find meaning
in trifles and feel happy.
That is how I am. If you are able to lighten your
hearts even a little by reading these poems, nothing could give me greater joy.
In any case, read as much as time allows and make an
effort, if you have to, to enjoy yourselves. That is my hope and my wish for
you all.
(The above
text by the poet forms the conclusion to the volume Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏngŭn
Chŏnsang Siin-ida "Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng is a real poet" published in
1984.)
One
afternoon in Tŏksu Palace
(page 14)
Tŏksu Palace is in the heart of Seoul. The last king of
Korea mainly lived there. The grounds are now a public park. Chunghwa Hall is
the name of one of the palace's main buildings.
Lament for
Shin Dong-yŏp (page 23)
The poet Shin Dong-yŏp was one of Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng's
contemporaries. Born in 1930 in Puyŏ, he died in 1969. His work is marked by a
strong concern with social questions. His most noted work is the long poetic
cycle Kŭmgang.
Little
Child (page 31)
Sajik Park lies a few hundred yards to the west of the
old royal palace of Kyŏngbok-gung. It is the site of the altar where the kings
of Korea used to celebrate offerings to the Earth spirits. It is now a public
park.
Back to
Heaven (page 33)
The title of this poem, the Chinese characters Kwi
(return) and Ch'ŏn (Heaven), gave its name to the tiny café in Seoul's
Insadong neighborhood run by Mok Sun Ok, the poet's wife. ("The smallest
café in the world," the poet claims in a poem not included in this
selection). This is the poet's best-known poem, it has several times been set
to music.
Harvest
Celebration at forty (page 42)
Harvest Celebration is the feast known as Ch'usŏk
or Han-kawi in Korean, which falls on the full moon (15th day) of the
eighth lunar month, usually towards the end of September. On this day offerings
are made to thank the family's ancestors for the harvest which is being
gathered in. In modern Korea, it is a moment when city-dwellers all try to go
back to their family's home village in the countryside.
At
Kwanghwa-mun (page 50)
Kwanghwa-mun is the name of the main gateway to the
royal palace, Kyŏngbok-gung, in the center of Seoul, and by extension the name
of the road and of the major intersection a few hundred yards in front of it.
Letter (page 51)
Cho Chi-hun, Kim Su-yŏng, Choe Kye-rak are three modern
Korean poets; the first lived 1920 - 1968, the second 1921 - 1968, the third
1930 - 1970.
Rain 7 (page 58)
Cheju Island is a large island off the south-west coast
of Korea.
Rain 8 (page 59)
Mount Paektu is an extinct volcano on the
Korean-Chinese border; in its crater there is a large lake, called Ch'ŏnji
in Korean, fed by almost constant rain. The lake empties through a famous
waterfall to give birth to the great Yalu River that flows westward to form the
main frontier with China.
Old Father Tangun is the mythical founder of the Korean
nation. He is said to have been born in 2223 B.C., the offspring of a heavenly
visitor and a bear transformed into a woman. There are legends associating him
with various mountain peaks, including that of Mount Paektu.
Rain 11 (page 61)
Kim Kwan-sik (1934 - 1970) was a poet, and a friend of
Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng.
News of
spring (page 64)
Ipch'un (onset of spring) is the name given to a day in
early February, the date varying slightly from year to year. It is one of the
twenty-four "seasonal" dates superimposed on the traditional lunar
calendar.
Beside a
spring (page 73)
Yao and Shun are the first Chinese kings mentioned in
the "Book of Documents." Their reigns in the second millenium B.C.
are traditionally seen as a golden age of harmony.
Home (page 87)
Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng was born in Japan, where his father
had gone to work. But for Koreans, the "home town" is not necessarily
the place where the individual was born, but the town or village in which
recent generations of the family lived and were buried. The poet's family came
back to their home village near Masan soon after his birth, then returned to
Japan just when he was starting school. They finally returned home to Masan at
the Liberation when the war ended in 1945.
Kyŏng-sang Province covers the south-eastern portion of
the Korean Peninsula, Taegu and Pusan are the main cities, Masan is a port that
lies to the west of Pusan along the southern coast.
Makkŏlli (page 89)
Makkŏlli is the essential Korean drink. A thick white
ferment of a mush of boiled rice, it used to be made in every home. People
working in the fields drink makkŏlli as a nourishing source of renewed energy.
It is a little stronger than beer.
Birdsong (page 93)
Arirang is title and the first word in the chorus of a
traditional song that exists in a great variety of versions sung in every part
of Korea. It is virtually the national song.
Happiness
near Kwanghwa-mun (page 95)
Syngman Rhee was the first president of the Republic of
Korea, from 1948 until 1960. His authoritarianism earned him increasing
unpopularity until opposition to him culminated in the revolts of April 1960
which he tried to quell by violence. The April 19th Massacre, when the army
fired on a crowd of unarmed students, brought about his downfall.
The Liberal Party was the party supporting the
authoritarian rule of Syngman Rhee in the 1950s.
Country
bumpkin (page 110)
The limits of Seoul City are marked by monumental
markers placed along the main roads, so that travellers are always aware of the
point where they leave the city limits and enter Kyŏnggi Province or another
city, such as Ŭijŏngbu.
Flower hues (page 111)
The Secret Garden is the name given in modern times to
the gardens lying behind Chang-dŏk Palace in Seoul.
Maytime
greenery (page
113)
This is the
last poem Ch'ŏn Sang-Pyŏng wrote. Commissioned by a monthly magazine, it was in
his overcoat pocket at the time of his death.