Poems by Lee Ga-Rim
ÀÌ°¡¸²
Translated by Brother Anthony of Taizé
My Heart¡¯s Narrow-Gauge Train
One Fishing for his Own Shadow
Returning home, my longest journey 2
Memories of Catching Kingfishers
Going Home, My Longest Journey 1
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Like
a toy,
my
thoughtless narrow-gauge train
is
moving off
from
the station
with
its thuja-tree hedge.
Though
your little station
lies
beyond a broken iron bridge
on
the distant shores of the Milky Way
my
heart speeding along in the wind
desperately
whistles
excitedly
whistles
on and on.
I
speed onward madly
into
the eternity
at
the world¡¯s end where
the
sea swallowed the twilight
the
twilight swallowed the sea.
No
sooner has it set off
than
my thoughtless narrow-gauge train
rams
into the marshlands
from
which there is no returning.
Again
today
my
thoughtless narrow-gauge train
with
a full load of longing
is
moving off
from
the station
with
its thuja-tree hedge.
¹Ù¸£ºñÁ¾ ¸¶À»ÀÇ ¸¸Á¾ °°Àº
Àú³á Á¾¼Ò¸®°¡
õµµº¹¼þ¾Æ ºû±ò·Î
Æ÷±¸¸¦ ¹°µéÀÏ ¶§
ÇÏ·çÄ¡ÀÇ ÀÌ»èÀ» ÁÖ½Å
¸ð¸£´Â ºÐÀ» À§ÇØ
¹«¸ ²Ý¾î °³ÆÞ¿¡ ÀÔ¸ÂÃß´Â
°£ÀýÇÔÀÌ¿©
°Å·èÇÏ¿©¶ó
È£¹Ì µç ¾Æ³«³×µéÀÇ ¿·¸ð½À
How
sincere,
kneeling
to kiss the mudflats
in
thanks to the Unknown
who
gave their day¡¯s gleanings
as
an evening bell
recalling
the Angelus at Barbizon
dyes
the inlet
a
heavenly nectarine hue
Sacred,
indeed,
the
profiles of these women with their hoes
µ¿Ç³ÀÌ ¸ñ³õ¾Æ ¼Ò¸®Ä¡´Â ³¯
ºó âÀÚ¸¦ ¾²¸®°Ô ÇÏ´Â ¼ÒÁÖ ¸¶½Ã¸ç
È£³²¼±¿¡ ¸Å´Þ·Á °£´Ù Â÷â ¹Û ¹Ù¶óº¸¸é
´Þ·Á¿Í ¸¶ÁßÇÏ´Â ´©¿ì·± ¾È°³
È£·ÕºÒÀÇ ¾ó±¼µéÀº ¿Ö ¶°³ªÁö ¾Ê´Â°¡
¾ðÁ¦³ª ¹ö·ÁÁ® ÀÖ´Â °íÇⶥ
´Ü Çѹø ¹«¼è³´ÀÌ ºû³µÀ» ¶§¿¡µµ
¸ðµç ¸ñ¼ûµéÀº ¾ð¹®(åìÙþ)À¸·Î ¿ï¾úÀ» »ÓÀÌ´Ù
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Àå»ïÀÌ»ç(íåß²×ÝÞÌ)ÀÇ ¾Æ¿ì¼ºÃ³·³ ³»¸®´Â ºñ
įįÇÑ µé³è ¾îµð¼±°¡
³ìµÎÀ屺ÀÇ ¹ßÀÚ±¹ ¼Ò¸® µé·Á¿Â´Ù
Çϴÿ¡°Ô Á÷¼Ò(òÁáÍ)Çϵí Ä¡Äѵç
¸»¾øÀÌ Á¥¾î ÀÖ´Â Ç®µéÀÇ ¸Ó¸®
On a
day when the east wind is howling,
I¡¯m
carried along by a train heading south-west,
downing
soju that makes my empty stomach burn.
Beyond
the window, a yellowish fog speeds near in greeting :
why
have those lamplight faces not left?
The
home village farmland was always abandoned;
even
when once iron scythes shone,
every
living being merely wept in simple language.
Along
the edges of paddies and fields
rain
falls like the clamor of the common folk.
Somewhere
in the pitch-dark plains can be heard
the
footsteps of the Green-pea General, Chŏn Pong-jun
from
the Donghak Uprising.
The
heads of the weeds, raised aloft
as
if pleading with heaven, are soaked and silent.
-»óÀÀ
³»°¡ ¹®µæ
º¸Á¶°³ ÀÌ»Û ´©À̸¦ ¹Ù¶óº¸µí
²É ÇÑ ¼ÛÀÌ ¹Ù¶óº¸´Ï
»õÇÏ¾á ºû±ò·Î
¿ô´Â´Ù
°¡´Ã°Ô ¶°´Â
±× ¿ôÀ½¼Ò¸®¿¡ ³î¶ó
Àá ±ü À̽½µéÀÌ
³»°Ô ¸»À» °É¾î
À̸§À» ¹¯´Â´Ù
³ ´«±æ ¾ø´Â ´«±æ·Î
¹Ù¶óº¸´Â µ¹,
±×´ëµéÀÌ ¹Ù¶óº¸¸é
¼Ò¸® ¾ø´Â ¼Ò¸®·Î
¿ô´Â µ¹
-- Correspondance
As if suddenly
seeing my sister with her
pretty dimples,
I see a flower
that¡¯s laughing
with a pure white hue.
Surprised
by the laughter
drifting
faintly
the
drops of dew wake,
address
me,
ask
my name.
I am
a stone that sees
with
sightless sight,
a
stone that laughs
with
a voiceless voice
when
you see
°¡¹°°Å¸®´Â
»ó³äÀÇ È£¼ý°¡¿¡
³¬½Ã¹Ù´Ã ¾ø´Â ³¬½Ë´ë¸¦ µå¸®¿ö ³õ°í
¾ø´Â ¹°°í±âÀÎ ¡®³ª¡¯¸¦
±â¾îÀÌ Àâ¾Æº¸°Ú´Ù°í
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¹Ù¶÷ ºÎ´Â °¥´ë¹ç¿¡ ¾É¾Æ ÀÖ´Â
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Â Èçµå´Â °ÍÀÌ
Á¦ ±×¸²ÀÚÀÎ ÁÙµµ ¸ð¸£°í
¸Å¹ø ÇêµÇÀÌ ³¬½Ë´ë¸¦ ²ø¾î´ç±â°í ÀÖ´Â
¹ø½ ºû³ª´Â Âû³ªÀÇ ºñ´Ã¿¡ Ȧ¸°
Àú ¸ÛÅÖ±¸¸® Á» º¸¼Ò
Just
look at that fool
sitting
all day long
in a
wind-blown bed of reeds
beside
the glittering lake
of
distractions
dangling
a fishing rod without a hook,
saying
he¡¯s determined to catch
a
non-existant fish called ¡®I.¡¯
Just
look at that jolly fool
all
the time pulling up his rod in vain
dazzled
by the moment¡¯s brightly shining scales :
he
doesn¡¯t realize
that
what¡¯s making the float
quiver,
jerk and shake like that
is
his own shadow.
´ëÁöÀÇ ´«ÀÌ
ÇÏ´ÃÀÇ °Å¿ïÀ» ¹Ù¶óº¸°í ÀÖ´Ù
´« °¡ÀåÀÚ¸®¿¡
¹è ÇÑ Ã´ÀÌ
°¡´À´Ù¶õ ÆĹ®À» ³»ÀÌ¸ç ¹Ì²ô·¯Á® °£´Ù
¸î ¸¶¸® ³î¶õ ±¸¸§Á¶°¢µéÀÌ
¹°°í±âó·³ Áö´À·¯¹Ì¸¦ Èçµé¸ç
Àì½Î°Ô Èð¾îÁø´Ù
The Earth¡¯s eye is gazing
into the sky¡¯s mirror.
Along one edge of the eye
a boat
is sliding along, leaving light
ripples.
A few astonished little clouds
nimbly scatter,
shaking fins like fish.
-¸¶À½ÀÇ ±Í
¹Ù¶÷±¸µÎ¸¦ ½Å°í
±¼··¼è¸¦ ±¼¸®´Â »ç³ªÀÌ
´Ã ¸¶À½ÀÇ ±Í ½ò¸®´Â °÷
±× ¿ìü±¹ ¾Õ ÇöóŸ³Ê½º ¾Æ·¡·Î
´Þ·Á°¡³ë¶ó¸é,
¹«½ÉÄÚ ¼º³É ÇÑ °³ÇÇ
ºÒºÙÀÌ°í ÀÖ³ë¶ó¸é
´«À¸·Î ¾à¼ÓÇÑ ½Ã°£¿¡ ¸¶Áß ³ª¿Àµí
±×·¸°Ô ¸¶Áß ³ª¿À´Â
±×´ëÀÇ ½Å¹ß ²ô´Â ¼Ò¸®¡¦
Àú Æ÷»ê(øÐߣ) ³²ÂÊ¿¡ »ç´Â °ü±â(κѦ)°¡
ºÒÇöµí µµ¼º(Ô³à÷)À» º¸°í ½Í¾îÇϸé
±× °£ÀýÇÔ
¹Ù¶÷À¸·Î ºÒ¾î°¡
»êµî¼ºÀÌ ¶±°¥³ª¹«µéÀÌ ºÏÂÊÀ¸·Î ÈÖÀÌ°í
µµ¼º ¶ÇÇÑ °ü±â¸¦ º¸°í ½Í¾îÇϸé
±× ±â´Ù¸²
¹Ù¶÷À¸·Î ºÒ¾î°¡
»êµî¼ºÀÌ »ó¼ö¸®³ª¹«µéÀÌ ³²ÂÊÀ¸·Î ÈÖÀÌ´Â °Í
¿¾Àû¿¡ ¹ú½á
¿ì¸® ¼·Î º¸¾Ò´Â°¡
³»°¡ º¸³»´Â ¼¼Âù ±âº°¿¡
±×´ë »ç´Â ÁýÀÇ Ã³¸¶ ³¡À̳ª
±× ¿©¸° â¹®ÀÌ ¸¶±¸ Èçµé¸®´Â
¶ß°Å¿î ¿¬Åë°ü(ææ÷×η)ÀÌ ºÐ¸í ¶Õ·Á ÀÖ¾î
´«À¸·Î ¾à¼ÓÇÑ ½Ã°£¿¡ ´Þ·Á°¡´Â
³» ´«¸Õ ±¼··¼è¿©!
--The
heart¡¯s ear
If a
fellow wearing windshoes
and
rolling a hoop
goes
rushing
toward
the plane tree before that post office
toward
which he always inclines his ear,
if
he happens to strike
a
match
as
you emerge to meet him
at a
vaguely agreed time,
the
cracking sound of your shoes . . .
If
Gwangi, the monk living on the southern side of Mount Po
suddenly
wants to see Doseong
and
blown with the wind
of
that sincerity
the
oaks on the mountain ridges incline northward
then
if Gwangi again wants to see Doseong
and
blown with the wind
of
that expectation
the
oaks on the mountain ridges incline southward—
did
we already see one another
in
days of old?
The
hot communicating vessels are clearly pierced
the
tips of the eaves of the house where you live
or
the fragile windows shaking
at
the ardent letter I send;
ah,
my blind hoop
rushing
off at a vaguely agreed time!
ÀÌ·¸°Ô Àú·¸°Ô
Àú·¸°Ô ÀÌ·¸°Ô
À°½Ê³âµµ ´õ ³Ñ°Ô ²ø°í ¿Â
²ç¸Å°í ±â¿î Çë°Ò Åõ¼ºÀÌÀÇ
³» ½½Ç ºÎ´ëÀڷ縦
ÇØÁö´Â °í°¹¸¶·ç¿¡ Àá½Ã ºÎ·Á³õ°í
Çϴÿ¡ ¹ØÁ٠ģ µí ±×¾îÁø ¿îÆò¼±(ê£øÁàÊ)¿¡
¸Á¿¬È÷ ÇÑ´«ÆÈ°í ÀÖ³ë¶ó´Ï
¿¹Àü¿¡ ¾îµð¼±°¡ º» µíÇÑ
Ç㿬 ¼ö¿¬ ÈÖ³¯¸®´Â Á¶°¢±¸¸§ Çϳª°¡
ºÒÇöµí ´Ù°¡¿Í
Ãà óÁø ³» ¾î±ú¸¦ µÎµå¸®¸ç ŸÀ̸£³×
¡°±× µ¿¾È ¸¹À̵µ ¼ö°íÇ߳׸¸
³× ºÎ´ëÀÚ·ç°¡ ³Õ¸¶°¡ µÉ ¶§±îÁö
Á¶±Ý¸¸ ´õ ²ø°í °¡º¸°Ô
´õ´Â ³ª¾Æ°¥ ¼ö ¾ø´Â
õ±æ ³¶¶°·¯Áö
±× ¹Ì¿Ï¼ºÀÇ Á¤Á¡(ð¢ïÃ) ³¡¿¡ ´Ù´Ù¸¦ °ÍÀÌ´Ï
±× ¶§ Ǫ¸¥ ½É¿¬ÀÇ ¹Ù´Ù ÇÑ °¡¿îµ¥
¼½¿¾øÀÌ ¶Ù¾î³»¸®°Ô¡±
ÀÌ·¸°Ô Àú·¸°Ô
Àú·¸°Ô ÀÌ·¸°Ô
À°½Ê³âµµ ´õ ³Ñ°Ô ²ø°í ¿Â
²ç¸Å°í ±â¿î Çë°Ò Åõ¼ºÀÌÀÇ
³» ½½Ç ºÎ´ëÀÚ·ç,
´Ù ´â¾ÆÁø ÇÑ Á¶°¢ °É·¹°¡ µÇ±â±îÁö
ÇØ ¶³¾îÁö±â Àü
»ýÀÇ ¸¶·ç¹Ù´ÚÀ»
¹«¸ ²Ý°í ´õ ´Û¾Æ¾ß Çϳ×
This
way, that way,
that
way, this way,
as I
briefly put down at sunset on top of a hill
the
sad knapsack I have carried for over sixty years past,
darned,
stitched, a mass of patches,
and
am distracted
by a
layer of clouds like a line drawn in the sky,
one
little cloud with a fluttering white beard
I
seem to have seen once a long time ago
stealthily
approaches,
kneads
my drooping shoulders and encourages me:
¡°You¡¯ve
worked hard all this while
but
until your knapsack is all in tatters,
go
on carrying it just a little while longer.
You
will finally arrive at the lofty heights of imperfection,
a
towering cliff with nowhere left to go;
from
there dive unhesitatingly
into
the midst of the sea¡¯s blue abyss.¡±
This
way, that way,
that
way, this way,
as I
briefly put down at sunset on top of a hill
the
sad knapsack I have carried for over sixty years past,
darned,
stitched, a mass of patches,
until
it becomes a fully worn-out rag
I
shall have kneel down and
polish
life¡¯s wooden floor some more
before
the sun sets.
¹«°Ô ¾ø´Â »ç¶ûÀ»
´Þ¾Æº¸°í ¶Ç ´Þ¾Æº¸´À¶ó
´Ã ÀÔ ¼Ó¿¡ ¸»À» ¿ì¹°°Å¸®°í¸¸ ÀÖ´Â
³ª °°Àº
¹Ýº¡¾î¸® º¸¶ó´Â µí
¿µÁ¾µµ ¸·¹è·Î ¿Â Áß³âÀÇ »ç³» Çϳª
²¢ÀÙ ÃÊ°íÃßÀå¿¡
ºñ¸´ÇÑ ÇÑ ¿õÅÀÇ »ç¶ûÀ» ½Î¼
¾ÖÀÎÀÇ ÀÔ¿¡ µë»Ò ¾¥¼Å ³Ö¾îÁØ´Ù
ÇÏÀÎõ ¿ª ¾Õ
¿¾ û°üÀ¸·Î ¿À¸£´Â ºÏ¼ºµ¿ ¾ð´ö±æ
¼ö¿øÁý¿¡¼
¹ê´óÀ̸¦ ¸ÔÀ¸¸ç
³ª´Â ¹«½ÉÈ÷ Áß¾ó°Å¸°´Ù
±×·¸Áö ±×·¡
»ç¶ûÀº
ºñ¸´ÇÑ ÇÑ ¿õÅÀÇ ºÎ²ô·¯¿òÀ»
³²¸ô·¡
¼·Î ÀÔ¿¡ ³Ö¾îÁÖ´Â ÀÏÀÌÁö¡¦
As if mocking a mumbler
like me,
all the time muttering,
mumbling
as I weigh and reweigh
weightless love,
a middle-aged fellow, arriving
from Yŏngjong Island by the last ferry,
having wrapped a fishy handful
of love
in a sesame leaf with some
pepper-paste
is stuffing it into his
sweetheart¡¯s mouth.
At the Suwon restaurant
on the hill leading from Lower
Inch¡¯ŏn station
up to the oldtime Chinatown in
Buksŏng-dong,
I eat herring
and mutter absently:
Yes, right,
love
is really just a matter of
stuffing
a fishy handful of shyness
furtively
into each other¡¯s mouth
¾îµð¼±°¡
Ȳ»ö ºÎ¸® Çϴûö Ç㸮ÀÇ
¹°ÃÑ»õ°¡ ³¯¾Æ¿Í
½Ã³Á¹°¿¡ ´êÀ»¶ô ¸»¶ô
ÃѾ˰°ÀÌ ºü¸£°Ô ¹°»ì ƨ±â¸ç
¹ø¶àÀÌ´Â Âù¶õÇÑ ¹è¶§±âÀÇ
ÇÑ ¸¶¸® ÇǶó¹Ì¸¦ ¹°°í
Ä¿´Ù¶õ ¹«Áö°³ÀÇ È°(Ïá)º¸´Ù ³ôÀÌ
°¡¹µ¾øÀÌ »ç¶óÁø µÚ
¹¶°Ô±¸¸§ ¼Ó¿¡
ºÐ¸í µÕÁö¸¦ Ʋ°í ÀÖÀ»
±× ¹°ÃÑ»õÀÇ Çª¸¥ ¿ïÀ½¼Ò¸® ±Ó°¡¿¡ ¸Éµ¹¾Æ
Çϸ¹Àº ¿©¸§³¯
°í¹«ÁÙ »õÃÑÀ¸·Î
»õÇÏ¾á ½Å±âÇÑ ±¸¸§ °É·Á ÀÖ´Â
õ±æ Æ÷Ç÷¯ÀÇ ¿ìµëÁö¸¦
¾ó¸¶³ª ¼ö¾øÀÌ ½î¾Ò´ø°¡
Somewhere,
once
a
kingfisher came flying,
yellow
beak, sky-blue back,
skimmed
the surface of the stream
bounced
quick as a bullet across the ripples,
then
with a flapping, bright-bellied minnow in its beak
vanished
without a trace
higher
aloft than the rainbow¡¯s vast bow
and
afterwards, with the kingfisher¡¯s blue cry spinning at my ear—
it
clearly seemed to have built its nest
in a
cumulus cloud—
during
many a summer¡¯s day
I
fired countless shots
with
my elastic-band gun
at
the topmost branches
of
towering poplars
tangled
in white, wonderful clouds.
³ª´Â ¶È¶ÈÈ÷ º¸¾Ò´Ù
´ëÁöÀÇ Á¶±×¸¸ °Å¿ï
´õ·¯¿î °ËÀº ¿õµ¢ÀÌ ¼Ó¿¡
¿µ·ÕÇÑ ¹«Áö°³°¡ ÇÇ´Â °ÍÀ»
¾Æ¾Æ,
³ª´Â ¶È¶ÈÈ÷ º¸¾Ò´Ù
´ëÁöÀÇ Á¶±×¸¸ °Å¿ï
´õ·¯¿î °ËÀº ¿õµ¢ÀÌ ¼Ó¿¡
¿µ·ÕÇÑ ¹«Áö°³°¡ ÇÇ´Â °ÍÀ»
ȲÅä±æ,
ÀÚ°¥±æ,
¾Æ½ºÆÈÆ® ±æ,
¶Õ¾îÁø ¼¼»óÀÇ ±æÀ̶õ ±æ ¸ðµÎ
Çæ·¹¹ú¶± ´©ºñ°í ´©ºñ´Ù°¡
¾Ó»óÇÑ ½Ãü µÇ¾î ³»ÆØ°³ÃÄÁø
ÀÚµ¿Â÷ ¹«´ý °¡±îÀÌ
¿Â°® ½â¾î°¡´Â ¹°°ú ±â¸§µé ¸ð¿© ÀÖ´Â
¾Æ·Õ¾Æ·Õ ºû³ª´Â ȾöÀÇ ´Ë
±× ¿õµ¢ÀÌ °Å¿ï ¼Ó¿¡
¾î´À ³¯¿£ ±¸¸§ÀÌ ½¬¾î°¡±âµµ ÇÏ°í
¾î´À ³¯¿£ ´ÞÀÌ ¸¶½Ç ¿À±âµµ ÇÏ°í
¾î´À ³¯¿£ ¹è°íÇ °³µéÀÌ
ÄÈÄÈ Â¢¾î´ë´Ù »ç¶óÁö±âµµ ÇÏ°í
¾î´À ³¯¿£ ÁÖÈ«ºû À¯°ûÀÇ ºÒºûµé
¹«¸ªÀÇ º¹»ç²ÉÀ¸·Î ÇǾú´Ù Áö±âµµ ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ»
¶§¶§·Î ³ª´Â º¸¾Ò´Ù
I
plainly saw:
in
the Earth¡¯s tiny mirror,
in
one dirty, black puddle
a
bright rainbow was blossoming.
Near
the graveyard of cars
that
had woven their way in and out along
dirt
tracks
gravel
roads
asphalted
roads
every
kind of rutted road in the world
until
they were abandoned, gaunt corpses,
the
shining multi-colored swamp
where
every kind of rotting water and oil combine
in
that puddle-mirror, I sometimes saw
some
days a cloud rest a while
some
days the moon stoop to drink
some
days hungry dogs
bark
then vanish
some
days bright pink and red lights
blossom
like peach-blossom then fall.
Ah,
I
plainly saw:
in
the Earth¡¯s tiny mirror,
in
one dirty, black puddle
a
bright rainbow was blossoming.
³ª¸¦ Áþ¹â¾Æ ´Ù¿À Á¦¹ß
¼ö¼¼½Ä º¯¼Ò¿¡ ÆÈ·Á ¿Â ÀÌ ºñõÇÑ ¸ö
¾ï¿ïÇÏ°Ô ¸ð°¡Áö°¡ ºÎ·¯Áø ä
À¯¸®ÄÅ¿¡³ª ²ÈÇô ½â¾î°¡´Â ¿Ü·Î¿òÀ»
ÀÌ ´«¹°°Ü¿î ¸ñ¼ûÀ», ´©°¡ ¾Ë·ª.
¸»¶ó ºñƲ¾îÁø °íÇâÀÇ ¾ó±¼À» ¸¸³ª¸é
Á×°í ½Í´Ù ´Ù½Ã´Â µ¹¾Æ°¥ ¼ö ¾ø´Â
½½ÇÁ Àü¶óµµ °èÁý¾ÖÀÇ ÁË,
Ç®²Éµé¸¸ Èå´À³¢´Â ³¸ÀÍÀº ÇÍÁÙÀÇ ¹úÆÇÀº
ÀÌ¹Ì ´â¾ÆÁø ÀÚ¸¦ ¹Þ¾ÆÁÖÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù.
¾¦À» ¶â°í ÀÖ´Â ÁÖ¸§»ìÀÇ ¾î¸Ó´Ï¿¡°Ô
¸¶Áö¸·À¸·Î °¥ ¼ö ÀÖÀ»±î.
ÀÌ °ò¾Æ ÅÍÁöÁöµµ ¸øÇÏ´Â ¾ÆÇÄ
¸ÆÁÖÀÜ¿¡ ³ÑÄ¡´Â ºñ¾ÖÀÇ °ÅÇ°À» ¸¶½Ã°í
´õ·´°Ô ´õ·´°Ô ¿ô´Â ¹ãÀÌ¿©.
³ª¸¦ Áþ¹â¾Æ ´Ù¿À Á¦¹ß.
Stamp
on me, please.
Humble
being bought and brought to this toilet,
who recognizes
my solitude,
my
tear-wrenching life,
as I rot,
arranged in a glass
with an unjustly
broken neck?
Encountering
a hometown face, all parched, twisted,
I
want to die. Unable to go back home,
sorrowful
girl from Chŏlla, my sin,
the
meadows of familiar families where only the wild flowers weep
refuse
to accept someone already worn out.
Could
I go back one last time
to
my wrinkled mother gathering mugwort?
Vilely, vilely
laughing night
drinking the
froth of sorrow brimming in a beer-glass
this festering
pain that cannot burst.
Stamp
on me, please.
±×´ë°¡ ¹ã¸¶´Ù
ÀÌ°÷ ¹®Àü±îÁö ¿Ô´Ù°¡ °¡´Â
±× ¿¯Àº ¹ßÀÚ±¹ ¼Ò¸®¸¦
³» ¾îÂî ¸ð¸¦ ¼ö ÀÖÀ¸¸®
¼ú ÃëÇÏ¿©
±×´ë ¹«¸ º£°³ »ï¾Æ
Àáµé°í ½ÍÀº ³¯
²Þ±æ
¾îµð¸ÞÂë
¸¶ÁÖÄ¥ ¼öµµ ÀÖÀ¸·Ã¸¸
³Ê¹« ´«ºÎ½Å ´Þºû ¸¸¸®¿¡ ³»·Á ½×¿©
´«¸Õ ±×¸®¿ò
Àú È¥ÀÚ¼ ¶°µ¹´Ù°¡
µ¹¾Æ¿Ã »Ó
±×µ¿¾È
µ¹±æÀº ¹ÝÂëÀ̳ª ¸ð·¡°¡ µÇ°í
¶Ç ÀÛÀº ¸ð·¡°¡ µÇ¾î
ÈçÀûÁ¶Â÷ »ç¶óÁ®
ÀÌÁ¨ ³» °£ÀýÇÑ ¸ñ¸¶¸§ ¶¥¿¡ ¹¯°í
´Ù½Ã ¸ñ¸¶¸§¿¡ ½Ï µ¸¾Æ
²ÉÇÊ ³¯ ±â´Ù·Á¾ß Çϸ®
How could I be unaware
of the faint sound of
footsteps
as you approach my gate then
depart again,
night after night.
Days when I longed
to fall asleep with your lap
for my pillow,
drunk with wine.
We might chance to meet
somewhere
in a dream, I think,
but with such dazzling
moonlight pouring down everywhere
blind yearning goes roaming
alone
and then returns.
Meanwhile
the
stone-paved road has half turned to sand,
to
yet finer sand
until
no trace remains
Now
I must bury my ardent thirst in the ground
and
wait for the day when thirst buds anew,
its
flowers blossom.
¾î¶»°Ô ÇؼµçÁö
¹«´ý ÀÚ¸® Çϳª ¸¶·ÃÇÏ·Á°í
°íÇⶥÀ¸·Î µ¹¾Æ°¡·Á´Â °Ô ¾Æ´Ï¶ó³×
Çѹø ¶°³ ¹Ù·Î ±× ÀÚ¸®·Î
»ç¶÷Àº
°áÄÚ ´Ù½Ã´Â µ¹¾Æ°¥ ¼ö ¾ø´Ù´Â °É
³» ¾îÂî ¸ð¸£°Ú´Â°¡
±×Àú ÅÈÁÙ ¹¯Àº ±×°÷ °¡±îÀÌ
Á¶±Ý ´õ °¡±îÀÌ ´Ù°¡°¡ º¸·Á´Â °ÍÀ̶ó³×
Áö³ÇØ ¿©¸§
¹Ù¶û Çϳª ´Þ¶û ¸à °Ç´ÞÀÌ µÇ¾î
Àººû °ïµé¸Å±â »õ³¢µé ¼¼»ó¸ð¸£°í Æ¢¾î ¿À¸£´ø
ÇÁ·Î¹æ½ºÀÇ ¼Ò¸£±× °°¡¸¦ Áö³¯ ¶§
¼è°ø³îÀÌ ÇÏ´Â ¸¶À» »ç¶÷µéÀ» º¸¾Ò³×
ÈëÀÌ ÀÖ´Â °÷À̶ó¸é ¾îµðµç
´©±¸µçÁö ¸ð¿©¼
ÀÓÀÇ·Î Á¤ÇÑ ¸ñÇ¥Á¡¿¡ ¾ó¸¶³ª °¡±îÀÌ
¼è°øÀ» ±â¸·È÷°Ô ºÙ¿©³ª°¡´À³Ä¿¡ µû¶ó
½ÂºÎ¸¦ °áÁ¤Áþ´Â
Âü ÇÑ°¡·Î¿î ÆäÅÁÅ© ³îÀÌ
³»°¡ ÇѹøÂë ¸¸³ª°í ½Í¾î Çß´ø ½ÃÀÎ
¸£³× »þ¸£ ¾¾µµ
ÇÑÃà ³¢¾î
¹ç°í¶ûó·³ ÁÖ¸§Áø À̸¶¿¡ ¶¡À» È긮¸ç
»§Áý ¾ÆÀú¾¾º¸´Ù
ÇÑÄ¡¶óµµ ¼è°øÀ» ´õ Àß ´øÁö·Á°í
Ç㸮 ±¸ºÎ·Á
ÀÜ¶à °í´©°í ÀÖ´õ±º
ÁýÀ¸·Î µ¹¾Æ°¡´Â ±æ
³» °¡Àå ¸Õ ¿©ÇàÀº
¹«´ý ÀÚ¸® Çϳª Àâ±â À§Çؼ°¡ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó³×
Àú ÆäÅÁÅ© ³îÀÌÀÇ ¼è°øó·³
¿ìÁÖÀÇ ¹è²Å¿¡ ÃÖ´ëÇÑ °¡±îÀÌ
³ª¸¦ ºÙ¿©º¸·Á´Â ¾ÈŸ±î¿òÀ̶ó³×
¾î¸Ó´ÏÀÇ ¾Æ´ÁÇÑ ¾îµÎ¿î Àڱà ¼ÓÀ¸·Î
ÇÑ»çÄÚ µÇµ¹¾Æ°¡·Á´Â
¿À·¡µÈ ¸Í¼¼¶ó³×
Returning
home
is
not something done to choose a site for my grave
at
all costs.
I
am fully aware
that
once we depart,
nobody
can
ever return to just that spot again.
It¡¯s
just that I would like to draw a little closer
to
the place where my umbilical cord was buried.
Last
summer
I
became a vagabond, a pack on my back,
and
as I was walking in Provence beside the Sorgue River
where
silvery baby char were skimming innocently upstream
I
saw villagers playing at bowls with metal balls.
All
kinds of folk gathered
wherever
there was a sandy space,
the
winner being the one
who
had skillfully thrown their metal ball
closest
to some randomly fixed goal,
a
leisurely game of pétanque.
The
poet René Char
whom
I so wanted to meet
is
caught among them,
his
furrowed brow dripping sweat,
intent
on making a slightly better throw
than
the baker
as
he bends
and
takes careful aim.
Returning
home,
my
longest journey,
is
not something done to choose a site for my grave.
It¡¯s
regret as I strive to place myself
like
that pétanque ball
as
close as possible to the cosmic navel.
It¡¯s
the ancient vow
to
return resolutely
into
my mother¡¯s snug, dark womb.
¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡
ÃкÒÀº
È¥ÀÚ ÀÖ¾î¾ß
ÃкÒÀÌ´Ù
Æз¯µ¥ÀÌ°¡ ½ÇÇè »ï¾Æ
µÎ °³ÀÇ ÃкÒÀ»
ÇϳªÀÇ
ºÒ²ÉÀ¸·Î
ÇÕÃ帷Á ÇßÀ¸³ª
ÇÑ»çÄÚ
Ȧ·Î °í°íÈ÷ Ÿ¿À¸£´Â °É
¾ïÁö·Î ¸·À» ¼ö ¾ø¾ú´Ù
³Ê¿Í ³ª¸¦
ÇÑ Ä¡ÀÇ °£°Ýµµ ¾øÀÌ
¹¾î¹ö¸°´Ù¸é
±×°Ç
¼·Î¿¡°Ô Æ÷·Î°¡ µÇ´Â °Í
³×°¡
Àú¸¸Ä¡ ¶³¾îÁ®¼
ÀºÀºÈ÷ ³ª¸¦ ºñÃâ ¶§
¹Ù¶÷ ºÎ´Â ¼¼»ó¿¡¼
¾È¾²·´°Ô Èçµé¸®´Â °ñǮó·³
¿ì¸®°¡
¼·ÎÀÇ ¾ó±¼À» ¹Ù¶óº¸¸ç
½Ã¸° ¿Ü·Î¿òÀ»
Àú È¥ÀÚ¸¸ÀÇ ÈûÀ¸·Î
°ßµô ¼ö ÀÖ´Â °Í
ÃкÒÀº
È¥ÀÚ Å¸¾ß
ÃкÒÀÌ´Ù
A candle flame
has to be alone
to be a candle flame.
In an experiment, Faraday
tried to combine
two candle flames
into one
flame
but
he could not prevent them
each
burning separately, aloof,
stubborn.
If
you and I
are
bound tightly together
without
an inch of space between us,
that
makes
us one another¡¯s prisoner.
Once
you
are
far away
shining
gently on me
we
can
gaze
at one another¡¯s face,
like
rushes pitifully rocking
in a
windy world,
able
to endure
icy
solitude
with
our own solitary strength
A candle flame
has to be alone
to be a candle flame.
³Ê´Â
¼¼»ó¿¡ ž¼
Çѹøµµ
¶¥¹Ù´Ú¿¡ ÁÖÀú¾É°Å³ª
µå·¯´©¿î ÀûÀÌ ¾ø´Ù
¾ðÁ¦³ª
¶¥¿¡ ¹ßÀ» µðµð°í ¼¼
Ǫ¸¥ ÇÏ´ÃÀ» ÇâÇØ
¼ÕÀ» Èçµå´Â ³ª¹«Ã³·³
¾îµÎ¿î ½É¿¬ÀÇ ±íÀÌ¿¡¼
»ù¹°À» ±æ¾î ¿Ã¸®´Â
¼ö¾×ÀÇ ÈÇüÁÖ(ûýúýñº)
Á¦ ÀÚ¸®¿¡¼
»Ñ¸® ±íÀº °íµ¶ÀÇ ½ÉÁö¸¦ µ¸¿ì¾î
°ñ¶ÊÈ÷, °ñ¶ÊÈ÷
½º½º·ÎÀÇ »ý°¢¿¡ Àá±æ »Ó
³ÊÀýÇÑ¡¡µ¶¹éÀ»
´Ã¾î³õÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù
³Ê´Â
ž ¶§ºÎÅÍ
ÀÌ¹Ì ÈÇü¿¡ óÇØÁø
ÁË ¾ø´Â ¼öÀÎ(áöìÑ)
ÇÑ Æò»ý
¾îµÒÀ» ¹þÀ¸·Î »ï¾Æ »ì´Ù°¡
¸ñ¼ûÀÇ ¸¶Áö¸·À»
¸¶°¨ÇÒ ¶§¿¡µµ
¼±¡¡Ã¤·Î ²Æ²ÆÀÌ
¼öÁ÷(á÷òÁ)ÀÇ Á×À½À»
ºÒÅ¿î´Ù
Since your birth
in this world
you have never once
sat down
or sprawled on the ground.
Ever
standing with your feet on the ground
waving at the blue sky
like a tree
drawing
fresh water
from
the depths of the abyss,
you¡¯re
a sap-filled stake.
Standing
there
raising
aloft a wick of deep-rooted solitude
intently,
intently
absorbed
in your own thoughts
you
never indulge
in
paltry monologues.
Innocent
convict
condemned
to be burned at the stake
since
the day
of
your birth,
you
spend your whole life
with
darkness your friend
and
even as you reach the end
of
your life
your
remain upright,
setting
vertical death
alight.
¿Àµ¿²É Àú È¥ÀÚ ÇǾú´Ù°¡
¿Àµ¿²É Àú È¥ÀÚ Áö´Â ¸¶À»
±âħ¼Ò¸® Çϳª µé¸®Áö ¾Ê´Â
¹ö·ÁÁø ¿¾Áý ¸¶´ç¿¡ ¼¼
»õ»ï½º·¹ ¹Ù¶óº¸´Â
¾ÆµæÇÑ Á¶»óµéÀÇ µÞµ¿»ê
¾î¸± Àû ¾î¸Ó´ÏÀÇ Á¥¹«´ý °°Àº
ºÀºÐ µÎ °³
ºØ±ßÀÌ ¼Ú¾ÆÀÖ´Ù
Àú ¾Æ´ÁÇÑ °ñÂ¥±â¿¡ ÆĹ¯Çô
ÇѳªÀý µß±¼´Ù°¡
¿¬ÇÑ »ÍÀÙ ¹èºÒ¸® ¸ÔÀº ´©¿¡Ã³·³
µÕ±×·¸°Ô ¸ö ±¸ºÎ·Á
»ç¸£¸£ Àáµé°í ½Í´Ù
Standing in the yard of an
old, abandoned house
where not so much as a cough
can be heard
in a village where paulownia
flowers bloom alone,
then fall alone,
I look up once again
at the distant hill with its
ancestral graves.
There two grave-mounds
rise rounded
like mother¡¯s breasts in
childhood days.
I
long to loiter half a day
deep
in that cozy valley
then
curl up round
as
a silk-worm that has eaten its fill
of
tender mulberry leaves
and gently fall asleep.
´©±¸¶óµµ
¹Ð¹°µå´Â Àú³á °¹¹ú¿¡ ¼¼
³ª¹®Àç ¹çÀ» º¸°Åµç
±×Àú ºÓ°Ô ±ò¸° ¹Ù´å°¡ ²É¹ç ÂëÀ¸·Î
¹Ù¶óº¸Áö ¸» ÀÏÀÌ´Ù
°¡»Ó ¼û ¸ô¾Æ½¬¸ç
ÀÍ»çÇϴ žçÀÌ
°¢Ç÷ÇÏµí °ËÀº ÇÇ ½ñ¾Æ³õ¾Æ
°¹¹úÀÌ ÆÏÁ׺ûÀ¸·Î ¾îµÎ¿öÁø µÚ¿¡µµ
³ª¹®Àç ¶âÀ¸·¯ °£ ¾î¸Þ
¿µ µ¹¾Æ¿ÀÁö ¾Ê¾Æ
´Ü¹ß¸Ó¸®
±ø¸¶¸¥ ¸·³» °í¸ðÀÇ µî¿¡ ¾÷Çô
¿È¸¶ ÇÑÅ× ¾ó¸ª °¡¾Æ,
¿È¸¶ ÇÑÅ× ¾ó¸ª °¡¾Æ,
º¸Ã¤°í ¶Ç º¸Ã¤´Â
»õ±î¸¸ ÄÚÈ긮°³ Çϳª ÀÖ¾ú´À´Ï
¹è°íÆļ
ºÎ¾ûÀÌ »õ³¢°°ÀÌ ´« ²¹÷ÀÌ´Â
ÇѹãÁß
¼é ³ª¹®Àç ¸î ÁÙ±â
¾Ã¾î »ïÅ°°í¼¾ß
°¡±î½º·Î Àáµé¾ú´À´Ï
²Þ ¼Ó¿¡ ¹«½Ã·Î ¶³¾îÁö´Â º°¶Ëº°µé
ÇϾá Æ¢¹ä µÇ¾î
¸Ó¸®¸Ã¿¡ ¼öºÏÀÌ ½×¿©°¬´À´Ï
´©±¸¶óµµ
¹Ð¹°µå´Â Àú³á °¹¹ú¿¡ ¼¼
³ª¹®Àç ¹çÀ» º¸°Åµç
±×Àú ºÓ°Ô ±ò¸° ¹Ù´å°¡ ²É¹ç ÂëÀ¸·Î
¹Ù¶óº¸Áö ¸» ÀÏÀÌ´Ù
No-one
standing
by mudflats at evening low tide
seeing
stretches of sea blight
should
think they are merely
red-hued
seashore flowerbeds.
The
sun gasping
as
it drowns
seems
to be coughing black blood
and
even after the mudflats have darkened to red-bean crimson
mother,
out gathering sea blight,
has
still not returned.
Strapped
to his scrawny, bobbed-haired,
youngest
aunt¡¯s back
there
was a little kid, still just a babe,
who
kept whimpering, whimpering:
Quickly,
let¡¯s go back to Ma,
quickly,
let¡¯s go back to Ma.
He¡¯s
so hungry,
blinking
like a baby owl,
he
only finally fell asleep
late
at night
after
chewing
a
few tough sea blight stems.
In
his dreams, shooting stars sometimes fell
and
turned into popped rice
piled
up around his pillow.
No-one
standing
by mudflats at evening low tide
seeing
stretches of sea blight
should
think they are merely
red-hued
seashore flowerbeds.