Kim Ju-Tae (1966 - )
An activist from his
university days, Kim Ju-Tae published his first book of poems in 1990.
Shall we spread the tarpaulin?
Rice had run out and I was
hungry.
I brought out mother's
handcart
to sell little melons sweet
as dreams.
Polishing the handles
that mother's dirty hands
had stained
I decided to do without
lunch this first day.
If Mother gets out of
hospital quickly
I can go back to school
again.
The sky keeps clouding
over, mother,
it looks as though it'll rain
today.
Pulling the cart
mother's wrinkled face
soundlessly fell
in each drop of sweat
pouring down like rain.
How hard it must have been
for her!
My wishes for her speedy
recovery
urged me to push the heavy
cart on,
escaping from the traffic
cop's whistle
stuck at a crossroads
unable to budge.
I followed the road that
mother took.
Stationing the cart
at a corner that seemed to
smell of mother's sweat
I began to cry out: Honey
melons. Sugar melons.
Our teacher stopped by to
warn me:
The last year of middle
school's an important time.
But how can I leave this
spot
abandoning our cart?
Mother
it's starting to rain
but it's too soon to
spread the tarpaulin, isn't it?
Taehung Chemicals Plastic Factory
They call it a factory, but
it's just a big shed.
A stench of molten
polyethelene, intense heat.
"Taehung
Chemicals" sounds good.
A place where they turn
people into plastic.
When I go in with my
newspapers
expressionless faces, no
thought of taking them,
stay glued to the plastic
machines.
I toss in the bundle,
listen to the noise,
then creep out and away.
A place like a sauna but
without even a fan.
Breathing in the stinking
chemicals
producing pure plastic
like silkworms
in Taehung Chemicals
factory,
people from Muan in Cholla
from Tanyang in Chungchon
who've shouldered their
dreams and come up to Seoul
all melt and turn into
plastic.
Their dreams and loves
melt and turn into plastic.
If you enter Taehung
Chemicals
you find no people, just a
plastic universe.
There is only the boss,
who drops by once a week
and carts off the plastic,
who has not turned into
plastic himself.
He looks imposing, an
owner of slaves,
but he always seems rather
nervous.
One day the workers,
expert at producing plastic,
are going to turn him into
plastic too.
They'll make plastic out
of his fat paunch
and his shiny imported
car.
Work hard, Taehung
Chemicals factory!
Ah,
Kwangju! Korea¡¯s Cross!
Ah,
Kwangju! Mudung Mountain!
City
of our eternal youth,
making
us shed bitter tears between death and death.
Where
has our father gone?
Where
did our mother fall?
Where
did our son
die?
where was he buried?
And
our lovely daughter—
where
does she lie, her mouth gaping wide?
And
our spirits—where have they been scattered,
smashed
into tiniest fragments?
Kwangju,
abandoned
by
God and by birds,
where
only people of true humanity
remain
alive—
falling,
prostrate, rising again—
our
bloodstained city.
Ah,
southern phoenix, phoenix, phoenix, nothing but keening,
intent
on defeating death through death,
on
seeking life through death.
Now
sun and moon come toppling down
and
all the mountains of this present age
soar
feebly aloft
yet,
ah, flag of freedom
that
no one can rend
or
deprive us of,
flag
of humanity
flag
composed of flesh and bone!
Ah,
our city!
Even
though our songs and dreams and love
are
sometimes tossed like waves,
sometimes
simply covered with a tomb.
Ah,
Kwangju, Kwangju,
bearing
this nation¡¯s cross
passing
over Mount Mudung
over
Golgotha¡¯s hill
ah,
son of God, nothing but wounds,
nothing
but death.
Did
we really die?
Unable
to love this nation any more
unable
to love our children any more
did
we we die?
Did
we really die once and for all?
In
the streets Ch¡¯ungjang-no, Kumnam-no
in
the neighborhoods Hwajong-dong, Sansu-dong, Yongbong-dong,
in
Chisan-dong, Yangdong and Kyerim-dong
and
more, and more, and more . . .
ah,
wind that engulfs and blows over
our
blood and broken flesh,
inevitable
flow of time!
Is
falling, falling, and weeping
all
we have to do now?
Should
fear and life
have
to do nothing but breathe?
Ah,
you survivors--
why,
you all have heads bowed, like sinners.
All
you survivors,
how
hard it is, how fearful it is
to
confont even a bowl of rice in your confused state,
so
fearful as to be quite impossible.
¡°Dear,
I was waiting for you,
waiting
for you in front of the gate
when
I died . . .
Why
did they rob me of my life?
Our
lot was only a single rented room
but
how happy we were.
I
wanted to take good care of you.
Ah,
my dear.
And
I died with your child
enclosed
in my womb, dear!
I
am so sorry, my dear!
They
robbed me of my life
and
so in the end
I
killed you
killed
you completely,
your
youth, your love,
your
son, your¡¦
ah
my dear!¡±
Ah
Kwangju! Mount Mudung!
Piercing
your way through death after death,
city
of our eternal youth
quick
with the flicker of white clothes!
Phoenix.
Phoenix. Phoenix.
Bearing
this nation¡¯s cross
returning
again over Golgotha¡¯s hill
ah,
our country¡¯s son of God!
Jesus
died once
rose
again once
and
is said to be alive today and evermore
but
our true loves, you died several hundred times
will
rise several hundred times.
Our
light! Our glory! Our pain!
Why,
now we are more alive.
Now
we are stronger still.
Now
we are more.
Ah,
now we are bringing together
shoulder
with shoulder, bone with bone,
and
climbing up this nation¡¯s Mount Mudung.
Rising
into the sky so blue it maddens the mind,
we
kiss the sun and moon.
Kwangju!
Mount Mudung!
Ah,
our eternal banner!
Dream!
Cross!
City
of youth growing ever younger
as
time goes rolling on.
Now
we are surely united,
firmly.
Surely,
firmly,
we rise up hand in hand.