Lee
Si-Young was born in Kurye, South Cholla Province, in 1949. He graduated
from Sorabul Art College and also studied Korean Literature in the Graduate
School of Korea University, Seoul. He was the award-winner in the Poetry
Division of the Spring Literary Awards of the Chungang Ilbo in 1969. He
has published eight volumes of poetry, including his first volume Manwol
(Full moon) in 1976, Kirun molda chinguyo (It's a long road, my
friend, 1988), Isul maech'in norae (Song moist with dew, 1991),
and Muni (Pattern) in 1994. He has been on the editing board of
Ch'angjak kwa pip'yongreview
since 1980. He teaches in Chungang University.
At
first Lee wrote anecdotal, narratorial poems focussed on the pain of the
poor and marginalized. Recently, his poems have moved towards a more suggestive,
epigrammatic style.From the beginnning,
his poems have combined a strong note of social concern with a refined
verbal art that transforms the suffering experienced by so many in daily
life into a poetic memorial transcending the limits of realism. Little-known,
even in Korea, his work seems particularly attractive to a world readership
in search of specifically Korean treatments of specifically Korean experience.
Tell
me, wind, who is in your land?
Are
there vast shadows
that
come down at sunset and rattle the door latch?
Are
there aged mothers who open the back door and cough?
Is
there a glow of fireflies bobbing all night in bamboo groves
then
fleeing away to the ends of the earth?
Are
there fathers there?
Tell
me, wind, are there no faces in your land?
Are
there not even footprints poised motionless?
Are
there no silent eyes piercing the undergrowth?
Is
there no future land a trembling heart can reach?
Tell
me, wind, is there no one, no one in your land?
Late
evening, in front of Yongsan station.
I
rather think that the girl who tugged at my arm just now,
then
abruptly let go and vanished, was Chong-im,
who
used to come first in the relay race and win a rice-pot
at
every sports festival.
Long
hair covering the scar on her brow, swift feet,
couldn't
attend school but when sports-day came
she
was excited, more excited than I was.
She
used to take the lunch from Manduk the laborer's chige,
put
it on her head, and come running to me with it.
As
she weeded the sorghum field or chased away the birds,
if
she caught sight of me
she
would dash up with muddy hands and firmly tie
the
blue cloth bundle holding my books.
Shelling
peas, she would say: Aren't they good? Aren't they good?
Her
throat shone white as she looked heavenward and laughed.
She
had no father, no mother, but said she wasn't sad,
as
she let the grasshoppers she had caught fly free.
One
year in spring when she climbed high into the hills
to
grub up fresh shoots,
she
got bitten on the thigh by a snake. The neighborhood girls
brought
her down on their backs,
but
she wanted my hand about her pillow, gave me wild berries.
I
wonder why she went away?
She'd
pick cotton, spin it into thread on the wheel,
spin
flax on summer nights to her heart's content,
then
in the long winter evenings hunch over her loom
and
weave fine cotton cloth with a crash and a thud.
I
wonder why she vanished like the wind?
I
used to feel that I had only to open the empty kitchen door
and
she would come hurrying out with her kindly eyes;
I
wonder why she left and never returned?
A
rumor went round she was a housemaid somewhere,
report
went about she had job in a textile factory,
someone
said they'd seen her in a Yongdungpo whorehouse,
but
mother never uttered a word in reply.
That
girl who grabbed my arm in front of Yongsan station
at
eleven thirty last night, as I hurried to avoid the curfew,
then
vanished down a dark alley with rapid steps: that girl. . .
The
eleven thirty night train, Pigeon class, from Yosu to Seoul.
The
name's nice, Pigeon class, the third class train.
Looking
up from the floor of the jam-packed aisle,
a
young woman questioned me: 'Where can I find Myongil-dong?'
She
had a newly-born infant strapped to her back
and
on the blanket spread on the floor a boy aged five or six
was
sitting with a flushed expression.
'I'm
off to find these kids' dad.
He
missed last year's farming season, so he left home;
someone
told me they'd seen him in Myongil-dong.'
I
know that place, Seoul's Myongil-dong;
it
used to be as dark as a mining village even at midday,
with
public address speakers bawling full blast,
drunks
lying sprawled full length,
a
place where, when night came, from beneath each low roof
young
women's short cries of pain used to emerge.
On
that woman's throat too, burned dark by the sun,
where
sweet dew from the fields used to flow,
the
veins will soon stand out from shouting.
The
kid's clean white rubber shoes, washed in the pure stream
in
front of their house, will soon be filthy with coal-dust.
But
I know something more: the Myongil-dong
that
she is pinning all her hopes on finding no longer exists.
The
alleys that used to be full of scrap-merchants, pawn-shops,
day-laborers,
are all demolished and gone,
and
in the grounds of Green Mansions that's replaced the old huts
spotless
children are prattling away
as
they go scampering across green lawns.
The
eleven thirty night train, Pigeon class, from Yosu to Seoul.
The
young woman opens her bundle, offers me a boiled egg,
and
keeps asking me anxiously:
'Where
can I find Myongil-dong?'
Birds
go flying up
in
winter's bitter wind;
red
beaks gleaming,
body
and soul, the birds go flying up
until
there is no great grief left in the village
where
blood-tinged smoke lies sleeping;
spurning
their souls too firmly fixed to the ground,
they
rise above the far-reaching sky,
up
into anger.
There
are moments when I wake and get up in the night,
suddenly
turned into an obedient cow.
Those
are the truest moments of all!
Moments
when I am reborn as a deeper version of myself
with
big dangling ears.
From
the remotest depths of the cosmos
rings
the crash of a rock being smashed.
Now
dawn gently opens over the fragrant land
and
the waves I long for, long for,
tint
the distant shoreline with a sash of green
--That
hill
I
don't know why I cannot forget that spot,
old
Nonsil's paddy across from our field
with
its boundary hedge of small thorny orange trees.
Later,
when I was in middle school, I would pass that spot
wet
to the knees with dew from the soy-bean fields.
Was
it autumn, when the sorghum seeds ripen?
A
bright summer day with sunlight smashing down
pure
and white on sesame flowers?
At
the spot where the stream lower down
had
eroded its banks, exposing the reddish ocher soil,
Nonsil's
stout wife and her lovely daughters,
Yongja,
Yongsuk and Sunim, were bellowing with laughter
as
they stood then squatted between the fields.
I
untied the cow's halter beside the stream, and then what?
Did
I put bait in a bowl for fish? Chase after crawfish?
I
heard a sound as if a voice was calling me,
a
swish-swash as if something was disturbing the stream.
Looking
up, ah, I saw the dazzling blue sky,
seized
with sudden panic, I went rushing up the hillside,
through
the pungent fragrance surrounding the flowers,
Nonsil's
murmuring voice and the bright laughter
of
Yongja, Yongsuk and Sunim
spreading
clear beyond the edges of the field.
I
sat there for a long time with the smell of autumn fields
ripening
bright and right under the blue sky,
listening
to the sound of hoes scraping against stones.
I
don't know why I cannot forget that spot.
After
driving the cow to pasture
or
coming back from somewhere, on my return
I
used to stand at that spot for hours.
Something
seemed to be calling me.