Even
the Knots on Quince Trees Tell Tales
Poems by Ku Sang Translated by Brother Anthony of Taizé
1.
A bridled,
foaming,
drooling cow.
At
the age of three, my first revelation of really existing
found
in a face like that printed by blood and sweat on a cloth
held
out by a Jerusalem woman to a man on his way to execution,
the face of a cow.
The yellow, twilit path
slid up over a mountainside,
calligraphic in black and
white;
and as I sat there
perched on the leading cart,
in the face of the cow following
behind
with an ancient chest
roped to its back,
my first buds of
knowledge unfolded and I wept.
* Inspired by memories of
how, when I was three, we left Seoul. My father had been given a teaching post
by the German Benedictines who were in charge of missionary activities in the north-eastern
region of Wŏnsan. I grew up there, in the outlying locality called Tokwŏn.
2.
Descending from the gravel-strewn
platform
built on an embankment
amidst the fields,
if you take the road in
front of the station
lined on both sides with
vegetable plots,
intersected by a highway,
as you make your way
between orchards and nurseries
you can see the town¡¯s
old Confucian academy
while, in valley of the
distant Masingryŏng hills,
a temple can be seen
and if you cross the
railway line
fields of millet and
sorghum spread wide
with a newly built road
piercing the hills,
passing among the fields
like a strip of unbleached cloth
then once past the pool
beside the bean field
if you stand on the
bridge over the Jŏkjŏn River
in all directions your
eyes are filled with plains
with to the north, amidst
verdant woodlands,
the tower of the Catholic
monastery
and nearby the lapping
East Sea,
then to the west, beyond
Ogu
from where a hill with a
spirit shrine can be seen,
beneath the hillside site
where offerings are made
lies the village with the
family in charge of the funeral bier;
in a tiny thatched
cottage under the poet Lee T¡¯ae-Baek¡¯s moon
an aged couple just like
mountain sages
raised their one son,
precious
as the rarest ginseng
growing deep in the mountains.
3.
Could
it have been on account of long familiarity
with my cousin's
embroidery frame?
As
I gazed up,
my
little breast tortured with longings,
over
the wimple and creamy face
of the catechism-class
sister,
whistling like a train
leaving for the Manchurian border,
a river seemed to be
spreading wide, flowing.
I
saw
the desolate back of the
sun
that day, too.
4.
In Minor Seminary,
early one New Year's Day,
I cut out from the
newspaper
a picture of Her Imperial
Majesty dressed in white,
then rushed straight to
the toilets.
After doing like the
serpent in Genesis, that squirmed his whole body
to expell like pus a
blasphemous passion,
I turned my back on that
monastery in which I had spent three years.
I
became a follower of isms.
* When I was fourteen, I
entered minor seminary with the idea of becoming a priest, but gave up after
three years.
5.
I
began by running away.
On the night ferry to
Japan,
tossing on a single
tatami space,
the cabin with its owl's
eye
was a miniature tunnel
with no way out,
and the roar of the
engines tortured my heart.
So this young man, fettered
in chains of history,
throwing aside his coat
and sitting up,
turns into a nameless
beast
and grinds his teeth.
Galilee
with no Master!
Riding the waves of darkness,
I hear ¡°Praise of Death¡±
ringing out.
Yun Shim-Dŏk with hair
untressed
gestures to me.
* Aged eighteen, I left
Korea to study in Tokyo. Yun Shim-Dŏk was a hero of the Korean anti-Japanese
resistance movement
6.
In
this enemy town, on a spring day so harmonious
it brings tears to my
eyes,
I wander aimlessly all
day long with a missal
and a book called Poverty
wedged under my arm.
Crossing the Aragawa,
which flows towards its
irreversible history,
I enter a bar in
Kitashenshu
and sit squeezed between
Korean laborers
to swallow down toburoko.
¡°Kwejina chingching naneh!¡±
Who will light, who will
light
this lamp, who will
light?
In the midst of this dark
night
who will light our lamp?
¡°Kwejina chingching naneh!¡±
Aged twenty, after my
first taste of drink
sky and streets and people
all recall Van Gogh's
¡°Night with Stars¡±.
* ¡°Poverty¡± is the title
of a book by the Japanese socialist economist Kawakami Hajimu. The Aragawa
River flows into Tokyo Bay. Kitashenshu was a slum area beside Tokyo Bay. Toburoko
is a cheap rice beer.
7.
At
that time
the encounter with La
Rochefoucauld
aroused a typhoon within
me.
The
early buds of eager desire to do good
vanished brutally, in a
flash,
and, darkness-wrapped
within,
I saw two-headed monsters
come to life,
that tore at each other,
roaring.
Moment
by moment the cords of self-hatred
tightened around my
throat;
the silence of heaven
changed into horror,
all other people became
hell
and human existence a
world of utter evil...
Stretched out on my
boarding-house tatami floor,
I celebrated daily
funerals of God
and sitting beside a pond
in Kitsijoji Park,
I imagined the rapture of
a Zarathustra
climbing up to the
stronghold of the Superman.
* La Rochefoucauld: A
French moral philosopher (1613 – 1680)
¡°The silence of heaven¡±:
an expression from Pascal
¡°Hell is other people¡±: a
phrase from Sartre
Kitsijoji Park is in the
suburbs of Tokyo
8.
In the coffee-shop
Etranger
was Yumi,
a eurasian girl
with White Russian blood.
At
first I pestered her
to become my little
sister,
but with no success.
One evening, near
midnight,
after several glasses of
vodka,
when I suddenly fell on
her cherry lips,
just that once she
exclaimed,
¡°No acting like that,
brother!¡±
The course of my love:
constantly such
falsehoods,
no unity!
And a miserable
conclusion.
Thirty years later, even
now,
in the Shangri-la of
dreams
I always feel anxious
about my encounter with
Yumi.
Impotence
of affection in me!
9.
On
my thickly growing branches
the Duino Elegies
and the Lotus Sutra
brought out buds of
pantheism.
My human life: a morning
dewfall on grass.
All things existing,
that had hitherto been mere
appearance,
were bringing forth light
from within
and, day by day, dying.
One
day, as the tears
of impermanence were
brimming full,
a fountain of song
began to rise within me.
¡°Until
the day when my flesh becomes leaves,
my bones stalks,
and when from my scarlet
blood
a bouquet of flowers
shall rise,
ah, life!¡±
That
was the first phrase of my first poem.
10.
Invoking Golgotha's
Mother and Son,
praying so hard it
parched his tongue,
still invoking, he died.
Such
a death
in which this world and
the world beyond
are linked by chains of
pain!
With candles burning and
prayers for the dead rising,
molded over my life, such
pain
before that corpse.
And born of what seeds?
Not knowing was the worst
torment.
But
the torrent of that destiny
continued to flow in my
veins!
Abruptly thinking to cut
off that inheritance,
as I turned my face away
from my hideously stiff
father,
I broke into a wail.
* My father died in 1940.
The Poet¡¯s Epilogue,
by Ku Sang
¡°Let us live Eternity
from today onward.¡±
First, let me introduce
one of my poems:
Today
Today again I confront a
day that is source of mystery.
In this day the past,
present and future are one,
just as each drop of
water in that river
is linked to a tiny
spring in some mountain valley
and linked to the
distant, azure sea.
In that way, in this
today of mine, being linked to eternity,
at this very moment I am
living that eternity.
That means that it is not
after I have died
but from today on that I
must live eternity,
must live a life worthy
of eternity.
I must live in poverty of
heart.
I must live with an empty
heart.
There is
nothing more to be explained, really, but although we usually reckon that
so-called Eternity only begins once we have entered the other world, that is in
fact a gross error. In a word, even materialistic natural scientists all tell
us that everything, the essential being of all that exists, endures
indestructible for ever. All know that the essential being even of the natural
landscape with its display of a constant process of birth and death is
indestructible.
Therefore
the fact of our living today is one process of being within eternity. We
usually speak of ¡°living in eternity once we¡¯re in the other world¡± but it is
not like that, for to us today is simply one expression, one portion, one
process of being in eternity.
But
speaking frankly, we know nothing of what transformations each human being
undergoes after death. Of course, every religious system has what might be
termed a metaphor or an assumption. Christianity talks of Heaven, Purgatory,
Hell; in Buddhism, there are the six paths by which all sentient beings are
reincarnated until they reach the Western Paradise. That is to say, a state of
perfection transceding space and time. Employing this as a metaphor, as
previously indicated, some one like Jesus of Nazareth, nailed to the cross,
could say in his dying breath: ¡°Father (God), I commend my spirit to you.¡±
Precisely so. And for us, once our bodily life is done, to the question as to
the processes and transformations by which the perfect state of our being, body
and soul, will be attained, and what our perfect state will look like, I will
only say that the answer lies veiled in mystery. Still, there can be no doubt
that it will involve a form of rewards and retribution. Therefore I write this
phrase, ¡°Let us live Eternity from today onward¡± among my family and beyond, in
collections of sayings and in autograph albums, as a kind of dying wish.