Poems by Lee Ga-Rim  ÀÌ°¡¸²

 

Translated by Brother Anthony of Taizé

 

 

³» ¸¶À½ÀÇ Çù±Ë¿­Â÷

My Heart¡¯s Narrow-Gauge Train

¹ÙÁö¶ô ÁÝ´Â »ç¶÷µé

Clam Pickers

ȲÅä¿¡ ³»¸®´Â ºñ

Rain Falling on Yellow Earth

¼ø°£ÀÇ °Å¿ï  7

A Moment¡¯s Mirror

±×¸²ÀÚ¸¦ ³¬´Â »ç¶÷

One Fishing for his Own Shadow

¼ø°£ÀÇ °Å¿ï  1

A Moment¡¯s Mirror  1

¹Ù¶÷°³ºñ º°  4

Pinwheel Star  4

±Í°¡, ³» °¡Àå ¸Õ ¿©Çࡤ2

Returning home, my longest journey  2

¹ê´óÀ̸¦ ¸ÔÀ¸¸ç

Eating a Herring

¹°ÃÑ»õÀâÀÌÀÇ ±â¾ï

Memories of Catching Kingfishers

¿õµ¢ÀÌ ¼ÓÀÇ ¹«Áö°³

Rainbow in a Puddle

¿À¶ûij ²É

Violet

¸ñ¸¶¸§

Thirst

±Í°¡(ÏýÊ«), ³» °¡Àå ¸Õ ¿©Çà 1

Going Home, My Longest Journey 1

ÃкҼҹ¦¡¡¡¤ 1

Drawings of Candlelight  1

ÃкҼҹ¦ ¡¤ 2

Drawings of Candlelight  2

µÕ±×·± Àá

Well-Rounded Sleep

³ª¹®Àç

Sea Blight

 


 

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ó¹ÚÈ÷°í ¸¶´Â

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Á¤°ÅÀå¿¡¼­

ÇÑ ·® °¡µæ ±×¸®¿ò ½Æ°í

¶°³­´Ù


 

My Heart¡¯s Narrow-Gauge Train

 

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.

 


 

¹ÙÁö¶ô ÁÝ´Â »ç¶÷µé

 

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

 


 

Clam Pickers

 

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

 

 

 


 

ȲÅä¿¡ ³»¸®´Â ºñ

 

µ¿Ç³ÀÌ ¸ñ³õ¾Æ ¼Ò¸®Ä¡´Â ³¯

ºó âÀÚ¸¦ ¾²¸®°Ô ÇÏ´Â ¼ÒÁÖ ¸¶½Ã¸ç

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Çϴÿ¡°Ô Á÷¼Ò(òÁáÍ)Çϵí Ä¡Äѵç

¸»¾øÀÌ Á¥¾î ÀÖ´Â Ç®µéÀÇ ¸Ó¸®

 


 

Rain Falling on Yellow Earth

 

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.

 

 

 


 

¼ø°£ÀÇ °Å¿ï  7

                -»óÀÀ

 

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º¸Á¶°³ ÀÌ»Û ´©À̸¦ ¹Ù¶óº¸µí

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»õÇÏ¾á ºû±ò·Î

¿ô´Â´Ù

 

°¡´Ã°Ô ¶°´Â

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Àá ±ü À̽½µéÀÌ

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À̸§À» ¹¯´Â´Ù

 

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¹Ù¶óº¸´Â µ¹,

±×´ëµéÀÌ ¹Ù¶óº¸¸é

¼Ò¸® ¾ø´Â ¼Ò¸®·Î

¿ô´Â µ¹

 


 

A Moment¡¯s Mirror

-- 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

 

 

 


 

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¹ø½ ºû³ª´Â Âû³ªÀÇ ºñ´Ã¿¡ Ȧ¸°

Àú ¸ÛÅÖ±¸¸® Á» º¸¼Ò

 

 


 

One Fishing for his Own Shadow

 

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.

 

 


 

¼ø°£ÀÇ °Å¿ï  1

 

´ëÁöÀÇ ´«ÀÌ

ÇÏ´ÃÀÇ °Å¿ïÀ» ¹Ù¶óº¸°í ÀÖ´Ù

 

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¹°°í±âó·³ Áö´À·¯¹Ì¸¦ Èçµé¸ç

Àì½Î°Ô Èð¾îÁø´Ù

 


 

A Moment¡¯s Mirror  1  

 

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.

 


 

¹Ù¶÷°³ºñ º°  4

-¸¶À½ÀÇ ±Í

 

¹Ù¶÷±¸µÎ¸¦ ½Å°í

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Pinwheel Star  4

             --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!

 

 


 

±Í°¡, ³» °¡Àå ¸Õ ¿©Çࡤ2

 

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Returning home, my longest journey  2

 

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.


 

¹ê´óÀ̸¦ ¸ÔÀ¸¸ç

 

¹«°Ô ¾ø´Â »ç¶ûÀ»

´Þ¾Æº¸°í ¶Ç ´Þ¾Æº¸´À¶ó

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Eating a Herring

 

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

 


 

¹°ÃÑ»õÀâÀÌÀÇ ±â¾ï

 

¾îµð¼±°¡

Ȳ»ö ºÎ¸® Çϴûö Ç㸮ÀÇ

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õ±æ Æ÷Ç÷¯ÀÇ ¿ìµëÁö¸¦

¾ó¸¶³ª ¼ö¾øÀÌ ½î¾Ò´ø°¡

 


 

Memories of Catching Kingfishers

 

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.

 


 

¿õµ¢ÀÌ ¼ÓÀÇ ¹«Áö°³

 

³ª´Â ¶È¶ÈÈ÷ º¸¾Ò´Ù

´ëÁöÀÇ Á¶±×¸¸ °Å¿ï

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ȲÅä±æ,

ÀÚ°¥±æ,

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Çæ·¹¹ú¶± ´©ºñ°í ´©ºñ´Ù°¡

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¶§¶§·Î ³ª´Â º¸¾Ò´Ù


 

Rainbow in a Puddle

 

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.

 

 


 

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Violet

 

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.

 


 

 

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Thirst

 

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.

 

 


 

±Í°¡(ÏýÊ«), ³» °¡Àå ¸Õ ¿©Çà 1

 

 

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Going Home, My Longest Journey 1

 

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.

 

 


 

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¾ïÁö·Î ¸·À» ¼ö ¾ø¾ú´Ù

 

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°ßµô ¼ö ÀÖ´Â °Í

 

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ÃкÒÀÌ´Ù

 


 

 

Drawings of Candlelight  1

 

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.

 

 


 

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¶¥¿¡ ¹ßÀ» µðµð°í ¼­¼­

Ǫ¸¥ ÇÏ´ÃÀ» ÇâÇØ

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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

 

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ž ¶§ºÎÅÍ

ÀÌ¹Ì È­Çü¿¡ óÇØÁø

ÁË ¾ø´Â ¼öÀÎ(áöìÑ)

 

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¾îµÒÀ» ¹þÀ¸·Î »ï¾Æ »ì´Ù°¡

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¸¶°¨ÇÒ ¶§¿¡µµ

¼±¡¡Ã¤·Î ²Æ²ÆÀÌ

¼öÁ÷(á÷òÁ)ÀÇ Á×À½À»

ºÒÅ¿î´Ù

 


 

Drawings of Candlelight  2

 

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.

 

 


 

µÕ±×·± Àá

 

                

¿Àµ¿²É Àú È¥ÀÚ ÇǾú´Ù°¡

¿Àµ¿²É Àú È¥ÀÚ Áö´Â ¸¶À»

±âħ¼Ò¸® Çϳª µé¸®Áö ¾Ê´Â

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»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

 


 

Well-Rounded Sleep

 

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.

 

 


 

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ÀÍ»çÇϴ žçÀÌ

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¿µ µ¹¾Æ¿ÀÁö ¾Ê¾Æ

 

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¿È¸¶ ÇÑÅ× ¾ó¸ª °¡¾Æ,

º¸Ã¤°í ¶Ç º¸Ã¤´Â

»õ±î¸¸ ÄÚÈ긮°³ Çϳª ÀÖ¾ú´À´Ï

 

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ÇѹãÁß

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ÇϾá Æ¢¹ä µÇ¾î

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±×Àú ºÓ°Ô ±ò¸° ¹Ù´å°¡ ²É¹ç ÂëÀ¸·Î

¹Ù¶óº¸Áö ¸» ÀÏÀÌ´Ù

 


 

Sea Blight

 

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.