Translated by Brother Anthony of
Taizé
From: Well-Temptered Clavier (1968)
From: Korea in the Caribbean Sea (1972)
From: Invisible Land of Love (1980)
The site of the Confucian school
From: How should living together be only for reeds? (1986)
From: The Color of That Country¡¯s Sky
(1991)
Once dried anchovies have flavored the soup is that the end?
Hoping for what can be seen is no hope
From: In the Birds¡¯ Dreams Trees are Fragrant (2002)
Kaeshim-sa : Open-heart temple
Chonggi Mah was born in Tokyo, Japan, on January 17,
1939. His father, Mah Haesong, worked as a literary
journalist in Japan and served as the first editor of a highly reputed Japanese literary
magazine, Bugeishunju. He is still revered in Korea as a
major writer of children¡¯s literature. His mother, Park Oesŏn, was famed as one of the first Korean
ballet dancers, touring extensively in Japan and Korea. Later
she became the head of the first dance department in Korea, at Ewha Womens
University. In 1944, before the end of the war, the family returned to Korea
and the future poet began his schooling there. He witnessed
scenes of horror when the North Korean army occupied Seoul at the start of the
Korean War in June 1950; his family later fled further south and returned to
Seoul at the end of the war in 1953. He began to write while only a child and
thought at first of studying humanities at university, but finally he chose
instead to study medicine at Seoul¡¯s Yonsei University, on his parents¡¯ advice.
During his pre-med studies at Yonsei, he joined a literary circle
under the guidance of the poet Park Tu-jin and published poems in the
university newspaper. Park Tu-jin recommended his poems to the major literary
review Hyŏndae munhak, where they were published in 1959 and 1960,
establishing him as a recognized poet. He immediately published a collection of
his youthful poems, Quiet Triumph (Choyonghan kaesŏn) that
received the first annual Yonsei Literary Award in 1961. After graduating in 1963, he did his
military service in the Air Force as a doctor. In 1965 he signed a petition in which
writers living in Seoul protested against the upcoming Korean-Japanese summit.
This was against military law; he was arrested, detained for ten days and
tortured during questioning. Released, he continued his studies and military service
until 1966.
As
soon as he received his honorable discharge from the air force, he left for the
United States. Once he had completed his medical training,
including an internship and radiology residency at the Ohio State University
hospital, he
was certified by the American Board of Radiology. He moved to Toledo, Ohio, in
1971 and there Chonggi Mah was appointed Assistant Professor in the
department of radiology
and pediatrics.
From that moment on, he set out on a double career. His work in the medical
field was situated almost entirely in the United States, while his poetry was
all written in Korean and published in Korea. He soon became a well-known poet
in his native country, but although English translations of some of his poems have
been published
in anthologies in the United States, he remains virtually unknown there as a
poet.
In
1968 and 1972, two collections of poems were published with works by Hwang
Tong-Kyu, Kim Yŏng-T¡¯ae, and Chonggi Mah, Well-Tempered
Clavier (P¡¯yŏnggyunyul)
and Well-Tempered Clavier 2 (P¡¯yŏnggyunyul 2). In 1976 he published a
collection of poems, Frontier Flowers (Pyŏnkyŏng ŭi kkot) which
received the 3rd
Korean Literary Writers¡¯ Award. In the meantime, living in the
United States, he came
to play a leading role in the local Korean community and also in the medical society of the State of Ohio. In
1980 his collection Invisible Land of Love (An poinŭn sarang ŭi nara)
was published in Seoul and 1982 he published a selection of already published
poems, And an Age of Peace (Kŭrigo p¡¯yŏnghwahan sidaega). In 1986
appeared How should living together be only for reeds? (Moyŏsŏ sanŭn
kŏsi ŏdi kaltaedulppunirya), which was awarded the first Korean-American Literary
Award. He
was instrumental at that time in setting up a Catholic study group for Koreans
and came to play
a leading role in the local Korean Catholic community. In 1991 he published The
Color of That Country¡¯s Sky (Kŭ nara hanŭlpit). In
1994, his younger brother was killed in a shooting incident, a tragic loss
mentioned in a number of his poems.
In
1997 he published Eyes of Dew (Isŭl ŭi nun), which earned him
both the P¡¯yŏnun Literary Award and the Isan Literary Award, two of Korea¡¯s
most important literary prizes. In 1999, to mark his sixtieth birthday a volume
of his collected poems Collected Poems of Chonggi Mah (Ma Chonggi sijŏnchip),
over 500 pages in length,
and a collection of critical essays inspired by his work Reading Chonggi Mah
in Depth (Ma Chonggi kip¡¯iilki) were published. In the same year, he
received the honor of being inducted as a fellow of the American College of
Radiology, the most respected title it is possible for a
diagnostic radiologist to receive. He moved to Florida on retiring from teaching and
medical practice in 2002. In that year he published In the Birds¡¯ Dreams
Trees are Fragrant (Saedul ŭi kkum esŏnŭn namu naemsaega nanda)
which received the East-West Literary Award. Since his
retirement from teaching and medical practice, he has divided his time between
Florida and Korea. In Korea, he regularly lectures on ¡®literature and medicine¡¯
as a visiting professor in the medical school of Yonsei University, his Alma
Mater.
From this biography, it is
clear that Chonggi Mah¡¯s life has followed a double course, medicine and
poetry. The influence of his parents was very important in the early stages.
His father loved reading, and as a dancer his mother embodied the notion of
artistic beauty. Even in the days of intense poverty during and after the
Korean War, his parents encouraged him to learn about music and the visual
arts. Some of his earliest poems and essays were inspired by paintings and
music by famous artists. Yet it took something more to turn him into the poet
he has become. That proved to be the experiences he underwent as a medical
student then as a doctor. As he has written:
¡®I had to cut into, dissect
and touch dead bodies, feel every part of the human body with my eyes, hands
and heart. That made me aware of life and death and reflect how I should live.
I came to realize that writing and reading poems had become almost my sole
consolation, an indispensable condition for my real life. Poetry offered the
sole means to identify myself as I went through hard times as an intern in a
foreign land.
¡®I arrived in the United
States penniless, on a ticket sent by a hospital in a quiet Mid-West city. The
first year I spent there, speaking poor English, working as an inexperienced
doctor unfamiliar with the culture of this new land, was the longest year of my
life, and the hardest. It proved to be critical as a new beginning in my career
as a writer.
¡®My apartment was only a ten
minutes¡¯ walk away, yet for one whole month I never had the time to go there. A
hundred and fifty patients died before my eyes; I watched as they lay poised
between life and death, groaning in pain, longing to live. I had to watch so
many of them breathe their last, and invariably tears would run down their
cheeks. I sometimes made friends with a patient to whom I could open myself
freely. But when such friends died, there almost always had to be an autopsy.
In those days, the autopsy rate was nearly eighty percent, incomparably higher
than in Korea, and watching those autopsies was a great torment. The
pathologists used power saws to cut through the skulls, then removed the brains
of friends who had, only a few days before, been talking about politics or
love. Day after day, they cut open the corpses of my friends, removed heart,
lungs, liver, kidneys, identified the cause of death, washed away the blood,
and all the time I strove to remain calm as if I was a fearless doctor. In
order to cope with my sense of pain, sorrow and emptiness, whenever I had time
I would try to write a poem that would function as a sedative, plunging into
the nostalgic world of my mother tongue.
¡®Even after that internship,
it was as if I was fated to observe autopsies. For as a resident in the
radiology department, I had to attend autopsies for another two years,
comparing the results of the autopsies with the radiological diagnoses. In
contrast, there were times when I was able to restore a child to health who had
been at death¡¯s door, and the child threw himself into my arms in gratitude. I
helped deliver some two hundred babies, cutting their umbilical cords, hearing
their newborn cries of life. My whole body thrilled with a sense of the beauty,
the miracle of life. I strove hard to transcribe in my poems that kind of
excitement.
¡®Practicing medicine, I
wavered between peaks of joy and the depths of fear and despair. I know now
that I could never have become a true poet in my own country if I had not lived
for many years elsewhere, with a deep sense of loneliness, constantly
witnessing the death of friends and obliged to see their internal organs, their
blood. Why did I go on writing? Because when I was mentally and physically in
deepest darkness in a foreign country, it proved to be my only consolation.
Because poetry served as a consolation, it expressed my true feelings, my true
heart. If a heart is not true, how can it offer comfort to others? I have
always tried to be honest and truthful in my poetry.
¡®All who write poetry know
what a blessing it is when someone listens in full accord to the song of our
heart and sings together with us. But at the outset, no one can write poetry to
obtain that happiness. Poetry, I believe, is a matter of individual experience,
it is a kind of private muttering. If poetry is merely a highbrow game, no
matter how expensive a perfume it wears it will never be able to compete with
computer games, and it will be doomed to a slow extinction. If poetry becomes a
kind of propaganda and focuses only on issues of social justice, it cannot
compete with conventional shouted slogans, having only the power of angry
manifestoes. Probably because I have lived for so long in the stink of real
blood, I feel instinctively suspicious of the ¡®sweat and blood¡¯ so often
mentioned that kind of poetry.
¡®Since I have always believed
that literature is a matter of sharing, I hope that it will continue to be
loved by many in this world so full of constant wars and slaughter. Having
spent much of my life as a doctor, I have always been in close touch with life.
Naturally, then, the main topic of my poetry has been life. Human life is
always searching for hope and love; I have written poems and accepted the
trivial pains I suffered as I did so.
¡®I agree with those who say
that every life, despite outward appearances, bears a similarly heavy burden.
But while agreeing that we all have to bear heavy burdens, I also recall that
the pain caused by a slightly crooked back is almost a hallmark of love. Accepting
that, I continue my pilgrimage through this world in search of love.¡¯
There
is little to be added to that. Certainly, the early poems in which Chonggi Mah
writes directly about his experiences as a medical student and a young doctor
are almost unique in modern world literature, powerful and shattering reminders
of what most doctors are never able to mention, either to family or friends,
and certainly not to their patients. Yet without passing through that dark
valley, no practice of medicine would be possible, and unless the darkness is
recognized and faced up to, the quality of compassion would be unable to
develop. Such poems have a very special power.
Yet most of Chonggi Mah¡¯s
verse is not about being a doctor. Many poems are celebrations of love, or
intimations of the difficulty and pain of loving. He does not burden us with
details about who the significant persons might be in his poems and life;
instead, he opens doors to the many kinds of memory locked within each reader.
Love is, after all, often more marked by loneliness than fulfillment. The
solitude he evokes is not only that of the foreigner and the doctor, it is the
fundamental human condition that we so often wish to avoid. Many poems express
aspects of the natural world, landscapes, moments of remembered experience that
hold suggestions of hidden meaning. Only rarely does he make explicit mention
of themes related to Christian faith, yet we never forget that he was baptized
with the name Lawrence in 1959, when he was 20 and in freshman year in medical
school, studying anatomy. Lawrence was a Roman martyr, reputed to have been
burned to death very slowly. He is synonymous with pain endured heroically.
I am grateful to the poet Kim
Kwang-Kyu for introducing me to Chonggi Mah and suggesting that I translate
some of his poems, that I might otherwise never have discovered. I am deeply
grateful to Dr. Mah for the hours he has spent going through my draft
translations, checking them, and for his patience as we sat together reflecting
on what changes and improvements should be made. This is the first time that I
have translated a Korean poet whose English is good enough to make it possible
for us to work together on the final versions; it has been a pleasure and a
great privilege. I hope that these translations may enable Dr. Mah to be
recognized at last as a poet in the country where most of his poems were
written, but where he is almost only known for his medical work. He refers with
special depth of feeling to William Carlos Williams because he, too, was a
doctor-poet; this combination clearly yields very special fruit, as I hope this
volume shows.
Brother Anthony
Notes
In this volume, the poet¡¯s
name is rendered in western style as Chonggi Mah, since that is how he is
always known in the United States, where he has lived for so long, but all the
other Korean names are printed in conventional Korean style, with the family
name first.
The poems in this volume were
mostly first published in the volume Eyes of Dew (Buffalo : White Pine
Press. 2006). They are reprinted here with the kind permission of the
publisher. Ten poems are included in this volume that were not published there.
Five of these were first published in Azalea Vol 1 (Harvard University
Korea Institute, 2007), the other five were first published in Damn the
Caesars Vol 3 (Buffalo, 2007).
A victory
song brims over,
jubilation at
life renewed.
Here is a fragile
flower garden,
still
unable to release our elated emotions, that began long long ago, dozens of
blind generations of grandfathers back.
Here, at this quiet crossroads, let us each choose a turning at
right angles to the other,
casting away any sneaking
reluctance that might be inclined to look back.
Are
you suddenly shedding tears of regret about something? You must go back to the
body of the
mother who bore us,
to that mother¡¯s breast,
invested
with an everlasting nostalgia,
that our gaze long avoided for shame.
Then,
whenever we sense our own breathing
with its beautiful, complex rhythms, we¡¯ll sing a victory song
overflowing with a flooding sense of how worthwhile it is to be alive.
Here
is a lyrical flower-garden full of thanksgiving for the warmth of life, that
began long
long years ago.
Why, just look at that
child,
that little
girl, eyes
tightly shut,
smiling, her breast wrapped in flowery white.
Here
we cannot cry,
even silently
for this is not a grave.
After setting out on a
lifetime
you finally wearied of
everything.
Now, you gaze up at the white
ceiling,
your flesh bleached pale.
The lads who teased you
have
scattered one after
another,
seeming lonely;
speak, little girl, too shy
to open your eyes.
Once you used to roam the
hills
nibbling flowers, spitting
colored
saliva,
used simply to laugh
at that smell, the smell of
falling sunshine.
We hold our breath,
extend
our two hands.
Why, just look at that
child.
Listen to her breathing fragrantly,
still smiling with dimpled cheeks,
teaching us with our cold palms
the warm art of parting.
1.
Rapture and warmth are
displayed when
at last
we bare our faces¡¯
naked
expressions.
Taking up a skull with one hand
I sniff the faint fragrance
of my own face.
Yesterday laughing, gloom all
forgotten,
my laughing face, friends¡¯ faces,
such very delicate, porcelain sculptures.
Every time I slice muscle
from muscle
comes
the sound of
the sea one summer¡¯s evening,
a beautiful voice I still recall.
How relieved this girl must
feel now
as I
labor to tear
away
her dirty clothing, scattered around her.
2.
May the clothes I am now so
fondly wearing
slowly, without my
realizing, turn into old rags.
When the time comes, may I
gladly prepare new clothes
then go flying off, lightly
flapping my arms.
May I enjoy the mysterious happiness of flying
rising, flying away on a lengthy
journey.
Like this girl with her
eyes closed on the dissecting table,
let
me be used, let
me begin.
One rainy autumn afternoon
the psychiatric ward
stands there.
It¡¯s spring now, after
spring comes winter and after winter, burglars come.
How old am I? Five hundred
and two. I have
twenty-one wives.
One strongly built youth
stands there;
he broke down while studying
for the bar exam.
One dying tree laughs.
Well, with
Wagner¡¯s style
the question,
I can only laugh.
Don¡¯t you think?
In every corner of the
psychiatric ward
primeval moss grows.
Narcissus¡¯ watery mirror
gleams,
drenched by the rain.
All have come back now.
Abstracted fully,
an art student
who
produced
abstraction after
abstraction,
now
remains unwearied
after a whole day spent
staring at a white page –
and
this clown in a gown
only grows sad at rain
falling.
Now they are all awake.
One day,
while you
suddenly
turn into a young flower of
the fields
and stand here in front of this ocean,
I will set out on a
journey,
seized with the dizziness that comes
at the end of a
long-lasting high fever.
My
blissful
sister,
lying
stretched flat
on the shores of oblivion.
The
crowds ebbing away
take
no note of you.
After
all, love was
such a trifling thing!
When the light goes out in the westward
sickroom,
the dark shadow of winter
passes beyond the low hills
and the chill bricks of the
autopsy room
ring to the sound of a
skull being sawed,
it¡¯s no finale.
I first learned about
natural life in anatomy
class.
That¡¯s when the cold came.
On my lonely, youthful bed
I often found myself
sentenced to death.
The dazzling vertigo of the
remaining hours.
Don¡¯t
you see? The solitary
deathbed
of the tall guy who
gave up.
Don¡¯t
you see? This is no finale.
Und
doch is Einer, welcher dieses Fallen unendlich sanft in seinen Händen
hält. –R. M. Rilke.
(And yet there is One who holds this falling infinitely gently in his hands)
1.
The exhumation takes place
one dull winter¡¯s day.
He¡¯s been dead ten years,
lying on one side, short
of breath
and
insensitive
history
is growing
downward with
positive geotropism.
His heart was big,
his skull
is light.
We
learn why his tears are cold.
Fine tree roots doze
in eye-sockets,
between toe-bones,
while sunsets left behind
in deep sleep
and unfamiliar winds
striking bare flesh
all grow
downward with
positive geotropism.
You, once
a wanderer,
now
are
changed into a loam that cherishes
flower-seeds.
2.
On my way home after
treating a 19-year-old driver for syphilis, winter had arrived downtown and was
undressing. That driver giggled as he undressed. Where shall I get off?
Somewhere near Gwanghwa-mun,
or Anguk-dong,
or Donhwa-mun? A dead friend suddenly hails me, waving a hand.
On my way home after giving
advice to a senior officer who claimed he could not sleep from a sense of
inferiority, scratching my head then prescribing more medicine, winter has
settled in and snow settles on my empty palm. Petals melting on my empty
palm—tell me, where shall
I get off?
1.
In
the third year of medical school, one bright, sunny autumn afternoon,
sitting at an ancient desk some twenty or thirty years old, I was listening to
an obstetrics lecture in lecture room number 3, on the second floor. The baby
was just emerging from the mother¡¯s pelvis, its head bent, while the mother was
enduring with her whole being the pain of expanding to a ten-centimeter
diameter. But with the birth of a living being more precious than pain, finally
wrapping itself in its mother¡¯s pain the baby burst out crying. That lecture
room, in which I attended classes, was a place where a thousand students had preceded me over
many years.
After concentrating on the lecture for a while, I leaned my head against the
wall. The wall took away all my anxieties, it delayed all kinds of difficult
challenges for me. Suddenly I realized that behind the wall was the dissection
lab, with its corpses laid out side by side. There the friends of my future
lay, who had taught me to drink, then to go back to poetry-writing and to
faith.
2.
Plaster
had peeled from the ceiling, suggesting a kind of sculpture, and there swarms
of flies were disgorging the anxieties filling the human flesh they had
ingested. But look – one, two, and there another – golden flashes of sunlight
dancing! That must be those girls again.
Behind
the classroom, outside the window was an alley as complex as
our nervous system,
running between hovels with roofs made of old army tents. Looking down, it
was those girls again. Few customers come in the daytime, so when they wake up
from their morning doze, they always do the same, without bothering to wash. A broken mirror in
the hand of
some woman whose marriage broke down reflects sunlight into the classroom. Come on down! Come
on down! I¡¯ll do it for free! They
were promising to teach us the songs in praise of youth they learned from their
frequent night-time customers. Come on down! Come on down!
Watching
those magic sunlight parties, our eyes gleamed and we began to feel refreshed,
like when listening to Mozart¡¯s Clarinet Concerto. Come on down! Come on
down! For free! We were still
incapable of listening to music with quiet minds, like listening to people
talking.
3.
The
obstetrics class ended after we had learned how best to sleep in foetal
position while observing a mother in a difficult labor with the baby in the
wrong position. As the class ended, it began to rain. At the dismal sound of
rain, the ¡®come
on down¡¯ girls
who had been so cheerful withdrew into their dream palaces, while from below
the window on that side a heart-rending song could be heard. It was coming from
the single-storied pathology department¡¯s autopsy room. An oldish country-woman, both hands against
the red brick wall, was calling: ¡®Sun-a, Sun-a,¡¯ and beating at the wall.
But
we in lecture room number 3 had been hearing that kind of song once or twice a
day for weeks past. At first, it had constricted my throat, then later provided
food for thought; once past that, I had slowly grown deaf and lost interest,
but now I had reached a point where my ears had opened and it sounded
like music – the kind of music you might hear for example in the Steppes of Central Asia. With rain
falling, autumn advancing, and raindrop beads hanging from every leaf, I
suddenly thought of the Sun-a
of my childhood days. ¡®Sun-a, Sun-a, let¡¯s you and I live together; we¡¯ll spend
every day laughing.¡¯ As I groped for words, there was only one pretty Sun-a in all the world as far as
I was concerned. ¡®Aigu, aigu, poor little Sun-a,¡¯ the mother¡¯s hoarse
voice was feeble but the weeping emerged shaking from somewhere between her
long, rain-soaked hair and her white cotton skirt.
Her
innocent child had died ahead of her, and on the slab in the autopsy room a
senior doctor
was sawing
open Sun-a¡¯s
chest and taking out her lungs and heart. Watery blood seeping out reminded me
of the time when
she was still alive.
4.
Once
the lecture was over, I was going to have to leave lecture room number 3,
carrying my book-bag. First, I would have to give an SM injection to a
tubercular friend confined to his tiny room, then meet a girl who had been a
friend since childhood, but was setting off for a new continent she had
discovered. That girl friend, who had been extremely pretty and attractive as a
child, had now, a few years later, gone way ahead of me and
become quite dazzling.
I
was thinking I would have to empty my pockets and buy a plastic umbrella, but
could not help hesitating at the thought that a plastic umbrella would not suit
her. But since I had recently got into the habit of wavering where she was
concerned, I reflected that a plastic umbrella suited me better.
A
sudden transmigration! In lecture room number 3, a baby had just been born, and
the ¡®come on down¡¯ girls,
having eaten their fill,
burst into a pop-song about the height of youth, while the corpses pray toward the
ceiling as
if mocking the world – and the woman against the wall of the autopsy room is
arriving at the finale of her version of ¡®Death and the Maiden.¡¯ Just then, sudden transmigration!
After
hesitating again for a while, first I felt an aching hunger rather than
transmigration. For that was the time of the scientific age developing
artificial satellites.
Carrying my book-bag, I seized a plastic umbrella, reluctant as I was, then
turned off the
street into a makkolli den. It was like my own lecture room . . .
5.
The
friend waiting in his tiny room will soon be setting out on a renewed fresh
youth, while the prayer of the girl devoted to a new continent is to wake up
from the dream she once shared with me and set out on her journey. Still, she
seems to regret something, and is delaying a little before leaving.
¡®Sorry, you¡¯ve been waiting
a long time.¡¯
The students were roasting
sizzling tripe
in lecture room number 3. Now outside it¡¯s raining hard enough to wash the road
away. For my own tranquility too the road needs to be blocked briefly. I can¡¯t walk
any further. I¡¯ll try again once this rain is past. ¡®Sorry, you¡¯ve been waiting
a long time.¡¯
How did winter come?
Night falls early across
empty gardens and
the river that was so
bright falls silent,
a layer of frost covering its cheeks.
I was on my way to
Ŭijŏngbu,
with snow falling
unexpectedly
and in the late-night bus
the Revelation of Saint
John shaking,
then, under the
night¡¯s falling snow,
look—
an
inscription on a passing tombstone.
Quiet tears course down
each of the wrinkles
on the face of an old man
dying
and winter remains alone
at the speed of those same
tears.
Ah,
after you had buried your blood—your
child—in
frozen ground, you wrapped clay from beneath the fields in a cloth that by day
you caressed and by night hugged and fed with your milk. That earth lay
sprinkled each
day on your white breasts, in the
iron-doored sickroom, maternal love here labelled disease.
Once
I fall into nightmare-filled sleep at the end of prolonged sleeplessness, in my
dreams I meet dead friends and we rejoice,
gulp cold liquor together in back-alley bars, then when I awake, the
excruciating hangover that lingers on, the dreary high-heaped snowdrifts, and
even when I went back to Inch¡¯ŏn several years after, the ocean
approached me and said: Friend, arrive at a silent hour and quietly melt.
Now
a state of emergency covers the frozen land, and when I enter my boarding house
in tall military boots, the sound of a night train rattles against the cold
floor;
one by one many of the dead I have watched over begin to gather. Body
temperature dropping all night long. When morning dawns, earth suddenly remains on my breast, ample peace
on my hands.
1.
I spend my life
saying farewell.
Dead friends come quietly
by,
in a spring day¡¯s rain
whispering in my ear,
for dying and living is
like a sound of water.
Is it so? The spring day is
already dark
and from
those friends I¡¯m
learning in
secret
the end of hollow laughter.
2.
Early one dark morning in May during my medical school
days, after I had spent the night in the anatomy lab with its lined-up corpses,
I found myself confessing my innocent love, under dim light-bulbs amidst
whispering corpses;
we were wearing gowns stained with human flesh.
Before
one year was over, the corpses had crumbled away and our love had broken up,
but as I grew older without growing up, I advanced, improving my skills of
indoor wandering, indoor stillness. There was something I had to think about as
I stood far off, a young patient
who had said she
wanted to drink a cup of tea,
and by the
next day had turned
into a nicely softened sound.
3.
If I saw a friend,
I asked
about
the idly
walking figure seen from behind,
the meaning of the evening exhausted
at the end of one whole day.
In the night, awakened by chance,
I asked
about
the empty list
I own,
the desolate night¡¯s
calling voice,
that long awaited encounter
when our inner wishes
are
sunk deep
under water.
1.
One
evening boarding in such an awkward-feeling town, I decided to watch a
Walt Disney cartoon. The boarding house was so run-down I was being thoroughly robbed, so the
cinema with its stove burning was just the thing. While I too became a
grasshopper in that technicolor world, my feet froze outside as I went then returned
alone under endlessly falling snow.
2.
Wandering
round the library, I idly selected a book on respiratory diseases; on the front page was the
signature of R. K. Alexandria and in ink: -- Boston, Massachusetts, August 2,
1879. The weather on August 2, 1879, must have been hazy. I study the hazy writing, the marks left by
a physician now in his grave, Dr. Alexandria. I write 1966 inside my book; I
too will become a fine physician.
3.
Once
I had a fine
house with a
porch, I was going to install a classy doorbell and prepare to welcome
lonely friends. Writing letters on blue airmail forms, I would
love the
winter;
after donning rimless glasses and growing a little beard, I¡¯d prepare to read Hesse¡¯s Augustus
in a gentle, quiet voice. Now
you have come to know me, to know at most only six
months of conversation left,
six months of love, six months of this world, six months of evenings, and
remaining for me six months of heartbreak, six months of tears.
I looked and saw—
standing before my first
original Rouault—
adolescence remaining in a
corner of Seoul,
classical retinal cells.
I looked and saw—
dust on the painting,
silence on the dust,
love of no use to my
homeland.
If dying and living are so
close,
I would ascribe my sorrow to
vainglory,
even if that voice rang
clearly in my ear.
I looked and saw—
all my domains accumulated
since childhood,
all my belongings had gone
without trace.
My
statistics for 1966
come
to some fifty people murdered,
two
hundred dead.
If
you wait to see them dying,
people
are all the same;
they
look really lonesome.
People
depart with tears flowing.
In
my foreign land for 1966,
with
even the hands of self-awakening paralyzed
and
now even the sigma sign hidden inside me
I
stand on the road of corroboration
For
Hans Carossa
I
confess:
though
I¡¯m thirty now, my frequent dream
is
of anxious exams and writing answers.
No
sign of me ever dying for others,
stirring
up the crowds of history
and
firing the gun of revolution,
nor
even the solitude of an ascetic
practicing
my exalted religion.
I
confess:
sitting
at my study desk engrossed
in
a novel,
regretting
a night spent drinking.
In
my study days
life
becomes more difficult day by day
despite
making pulses beat with a battery
despite
people having nuclear physics embedded in their abdomens.
I
confess:
a
western-style grave at the back of a park,
the
flowers wilting before that grave,
your
wilting world.
For Pouline Koner
I
too once experienced a love
like
your dancing.
Once
when one gesture
remained
deep in my heart
so
that I bowed my head beneath its weight—
was
it spring? Was it autumn?
With
the strained expression of
the
artist you revered
I
too climbed the steps
to
visit you.
I
loved without words of greeting,
like
your motionless dance,
silent
music
yet
as fulfilling as your dance.
Born
in Louisville, Kentucky, age 29,
white,
male, unmarried,
death
confirmed: November 3, 1966.
While
you were alive,
while
you were talking and laughing
I
was dressed in a large gown
dreaming
of kimchi.
While
you were alive,
while
you were showing off the photo of your blonde sweetheart,
I
was dreaming of my mother.
When
you died,
dawn
was standing outside the sixth-floor window bidding farewell
while
I signed your death certificate
after
a single minute¡¯s examination.
Life
passed unknown
and
was simply rendered up, and now
in
the hospital garden where the nightlong rain has stopped
stands
one lustrous tree,
and
turning suddenly, there you are.
Old Mrs. Brashire from the house next door used to sit
in her rattan chair telling stories of emigrating to America. That lonely tone
of voice, despite the way the wisdom gained from a New York City education
shone in her glasses. No successful progeny beside her, picture frames from the
past shining in her second-floor room.
Still the same when the hospital warned she was dying.
While colorful cards and arrangements of mail-order flowers shone bright in the
setting sun, no visitors came for her. You were my patient, this foreign
doctor. I see the solitude of a vast country. On the iron table of the autopsy
room, though I cut through the skull, peel the skin from the face, extract the
viscera, I see for myself your solitude with its quietly closed mouth.
I know all my patients very well. I hear the dark
confessions in the wards, hear the sound of last wishes and death approaching.
So when death comes, slowly or abruptly, I break apart the flesh, diagnose the
disease, then laying my long silence in the blank space of the completely empty
abdominal cavity, I shut the door.
My dear! Attractive, loveable dear! I cannot remember
your eyes by the blood that once gave strength to the limbs of the dead. One day
from our abdominal cavities, too, nameless wild flowers will grow, life will
spring up again transformed, and then gaining control over this present world¡¯s
gales we shall see again. We shall meet in the mountain valley stream, my dear.
Wind,
you really give up so easily.
One
evening a little while back you roared
knocking,
knocking at the windows and the next day
the
whole world was piled with fallen leaves
as
the wind waved an elderly hand
from
that lofty sky above.
Your
voice is a chill in the spine,
the
monotonous dream of a winter tree sleeping.
Really,
you endure so easily.
Breathing
in unseen places,
light
snow falling quite without warning
your
skin the back surface of deepest winter,
something
that cannot be real,
wind,
that I sometimes feel happened in the past.
1.
You died; it was not only because of my misdiagnosis,
but when you left ward 12 on your way to the funeral parlor I had neither the
energy nor the courage to go back home. Forgive me.
Really, the misdiagnosis was me becoming a doctor, the
proof being the plentiful errors I made at all those exams in high school,
while for your death there will only be a headstone.
In the alley where you were born, or in some dream, if
you come across someone living remorsefully, forgive them. Unforgiven remorse
scorches the heart. But night comes more quickly than contrition.
2.
When
I pass the cemetery at dawn
there
is always a smell of mint.
The
rectangular window emitting that minty smell
and
the dawn outside that window
need
practice looking in.
The
reality of one individual¡¯s ionization
without
ceiling or floor or corners.
Raising
that fresh lively body
when
evening falls, you will witness
me
washing my hands
and
coming in quest of your fingerprints.
For
little Anne Sanders
Until I became the father of a child, a patient was
just a patient, old or child alike; until I became a father, I treated them
like a machine, responding with unseen fury to their tears; until I became the
father of a pretty child growing day by day, a flower of empathy never once
came budding in my eyes.
After a thick needle had been inserted into your
breastbone and you had been diagnosed with a disease that left you not long to
live, I avoided your sickroom; when you waved your hand with feverish cheeks I
once again became a bewildered wanderer. Then on the day when you were dying in
my arms, I gazed at you, so pretty in life. Ah, now I¡¯m budding with pain; your
pain has become a sound of water that whispers night and day.
Don¡¯t resent, child. Don¡¯t resent that mob of
philosophers who claim that once someone dies anywhere in the world, that¡¯s the
end of it. You are kinder than they are. The older someone grows, the greater
the amnesia, it seems, and eyes that see only what is visible grow dim. They
are laughing, child, but after you died you showed me clearly—alive or dead,
there is no parting.
All my childhood toys
were reduced to trash
by the end of the Second
World War,
and all through the Korean
War
I survived on pumpkin
gruel,
messing about in the mud
with the clouds in the
summer sky
that I gazed up at
hungrily.
My child!
Little child greeting his
father
as he comes back home with
shoulders drooping:
Nowadays your bright smile
is my only toy and
I¡¯m the empty field,
with your toy rolling around.
An empty field
that finds it hard to get
to sleep
even after you have fallen
asleep.
At
the end of an evening in unfamiliar surroundings
I
fill a coffee cup
with
music by Bach and drink.
Having
been several years here in the West,
an
immense distance
senses
the true taste of things.
Overcoming
that distance,
paddy
fields parched by drought, their skin peeling
in
some remote corner of Cholla province
leap
from the page of an old newspaper, come alive
and
suddenly turn into my brother.
Brother,
dead or alive,
your
shadow is long and thin.
Hastily
stuffing that unchanging shadow
into
a pocket
I
attend a party beneath high ceilings.
At
night
I
draw out the crumpled shadow
and
wave it
like
a forgotten flag.
At
present I am uncomfortably aware
of
that bulky, voluminous pocket
and
my shadow¡¯s music.
Water washes water clean.
Gentle water
scrubs at hardened water.
I am scrubbing
at your soft body.
Our love too was water
once,
the indentations of flesh
seen in the mirror,
the not so clearly seen
solitudes.
Emerging into an alley in
Myŏngryun-dong
when bathing was over
on a Sunday afternoon at
the end of a shower
like a rainbow,
like a five-colored
rainbow,
like a light, clean
giddiness.
Water washes water clean.
Transparent water
scrubs
at less than transparent
water.
Time past and now,
the gurgling of bath water,
my entire body,
all turn back into water,
cold and transparent,
early winter rain falling
somewhere in Myŏngryun-dong.
Our love too was water
once,
the warmth still lingering
in the solid flesh.
--To
my father
Your smile
is an inorganic substance—
not consumed when burned
completely unchanged
though buried deep,
changing into eternity¡¯s
music
deeply, intensely performed
still.
Your smile
is what lies beyond my
window.
Changing when I look out
into grass or a tree,
a breeze, fog, the sky,
your smile
is the landscape enclosing
me
wherever I go.
And
an age of peace comes.
A
drumbeat from an earlier age booms out,
the
sound of a gong fills the universe,
brothers
stand shoulder to shoulder and weep.
Ancestors
who used the same language for many millennia
arise,
brushing off the clinging earth.
In
sea and on dry land, on hills in all directions
the
spirits of those who lost their lives, blind and deaf
shout
in triumph, mad once again.
A
huge premonition overwhelms the land
and
to the vibrations of an unaccustomed mass of flowers
the
center of the peninsula collapses swooning.
Born
and brought up abroad, I
spent
my adolescence in the old country
and
have now come back to a foreign land.
The
memories that remain of my adolescence¡¯s high summer
are
corpses killed by guns and spears,
a
thousand, ten thousand, a million corpses
dead,
rotting, dragged from wells,
piled
up like firewood, burned, charred.
Now
even twenty years later, at dawn and in dreams
my
adolescence falls into a well
where
all its flesh creeps
at
the low-pitched chorus of the evil doers.
Study
a globe for just one night;
if
you sound it out, compute again,
you
will see how shameful is the eye of greed
in
this beautiful land small as a baby¡¯s fingernail.
Look
again, ask again.
Count
on your fingers the nations
more
wretched than ours,
more
pitiful than ours.
Though
I beat my breast, the fault is mine.
The
wretchedness is all our fault.
Waking
from some early morning nightmare
I
suddenly feel traces of tears.
Who
can block the fall of every snowflake?
Dead
bodies lie strewn all across the realm;
gathering
yellow and red phosphorus from their bones and eyes
I
will kindle the millions of candles
that
keep going out then being lit anew—
and
times of peace will come.
The
lands of Koguryŏ and the
plains of Parhae
given
away out of kindness of heart,
and
the DMZ made into a national park—
I
can see the rabbits running across that park.
At
a Giacometti exhibition
You
are dead
but
your love remains.
Your
solitude alone remains,
the
most enduring aspect of love.
Exploring
the back-alleys of that solitude
The
blind man thinks
with
unseen eyes
and
you weep
with
an unseen body.
Then
all we who once collapsed
raise
our heads again,
help
one another up
in
another direction. We walk out.
We
meet
walking
down the path of an oesophagus
constricted
after drinking caustic soda
to cleanse
the body¡¯s inner parts.
We
meet
beginning
with the early morning baptism
of
the fractures caused by jumping into a river
to
cleanse hands inclined to become mannerists,
a
body that cannot be confessed.
There
is the smoke of civilization
that
grows up taller than we are,
and
scatters first.
We
meet
inside
a dead history
where
past ages are laughing.
In the heart of remote mountain ranges I wander
shouting as I seek, turned into a wild animal destroying the whole season with
its rain falling, snow falling, wind blowing. My eyes grow dim, eyelids stick,
my feet are bruised. Before the year changes and I grow too old, I kindle a
bonfire on top of this autumn. The wind blows. The flames spread wide. The
lonely, weary souls all over the mountains burn, the mountain burns; I burn
too, then once the universe is pure, at last you come into view and as I leap
over the lotus blossom¡¯s night and day, we meet, caress, renounce. But with
everything ultimately burned and turned to charcoal, if we stay holding hands,
in about a thousand years young lovers setting fire to that charcoal will see
us still burning bright and warm and feel afraid.
Because
I know you are not in
I
phone you.
The
ringing tone.
The ringing of the telephone now making the bookcase
in your room vibrate slightly. I wait, holding the receiver to my ear for a
long time, until your room is completely full of the sound of the telephone. So
that when you open the door on returning home, all the telephone sounds that I
have sent from this little corner will come rushing out at you, rubbing against
your lips, your breast, and will watch over you all night long with the eyes of
that hushed sound.
I
phone again.
The
ringing tone.
Our
secret is a bed of reeds,
a
reed bed lighter than the wind,
chipped,
empty air with no remains,
that
does not ring no matter how much you shake it.
So
it cannot be seen,
it¡¯s
merely a shadow following us,
the
nonexistent trace of a shadow following us.
Why,
winter is going past again.
Where
has that deep winter of repose gone?
Now
is shivering wordlessly at the yearly cold
but
we know, believe dazzlingly, for sure.
At
last, that secret¡¯s bright awakening.
Your
gesture awakens me
when
I again become a free man with a thirsty soul,
pushing
my way through your unending reed bed.
Even
though the thick flesh of broken secrets flows,
that
is our foolishness, refusing to shut our eyes
This cloud is sure to turn
into rain.
Raindrops falling in
mountain valleys
start to make watery sounds
in early summer.
Those initial sounds may be
small, awkward ones but,
ah, bird sipping the stream
as you grow,
the blood you shed before
you are fully grown
will soak into the ground
and turn into a crimson wild flower,
the
wild flower will rot and swoon.
But we utter formalists
will fade into falling
night.
Let¡¯s be off, before night
falls.
For all stationary things
are death,
and love is mere
astonishment.
Thus I give you a cloud,
give you the cloud of a
wild flower.
It
may have been in 1962, it was autumn for sure,
sunlight
filling my hands in Koyang county, Kyŏnggi Province,
there
was a promise I made that year
to
the cosmos flowers blooming in front of that government shack—
after
I graduate, I will come out somewhere in this direction,
grinding
petals, I¡¯ll produce potions by the skills I have acquired,
take
care of sick children, and sing.
There¡¯s
a promise I made that year,
as
I stood with a newly bought stethoscope round my neck,
one
day when the whole world¡¯s silence was asleep.
Now
all that is smashed and gone
but
the same blood flows on hidden in my body;
it¡¯s
autumn in this other land too and
I
can still see my hands touching a petal.
I
began to draw.
I
decided to become as simple as winter.
The
tree outside the window¡¯s asleep.
A
snowdrift of forms
piles
up in the wanderer¡¯s bones.
I
began to draw a jar.
I
decided to live like an empty field.
All
the rest should rot
and
turn into wine for a thirsty man;
for
the sake of the grass of ungrown love
I
began to lick a dark, long inner road.
Whisper,
¡®The End.¡¯
The
bare trees scattered, unclean, across the plains
know,
they know
the
sound—clutching at one another from early evening,
clashing
together, hurting, weeping.
If
you risk your life, everything will be
fearful,
beautiful.
I
too long to caress the delicate skin
of
a love that risks its life.
Furling
the wings of adulthood—
endless
though flying on and on—
I
shut the window. I shut out
all
the sorrows of light.
After
we have all departed this life,
should
my soul brush past your face
do
not for one moment think
it¡¯s
just the wind that shakes the springtime branches.
I
intend to plant a flowering tree today
in
a scrap of shade on that land
where
I encountered you,
then
once that tree has grown and blossoms,
all
the torments that we have known
will
turn into petals and drift away.
Turning
into petals, they drift away.
It
may be too remote and pointless a task
but,
after all, aren¡¯t all the things we do down here
measured
with so brief a yardstick?
As
you sometimes pay heed to the blowing wind,
my
gentle dear, never forget, no matter how weary,
the
words of the wind from far, far away.
1.
When I was a pre-med student, we used to take a frog,
fix its legs to a board, cut open its belly while it was still alive, fumble
with its innards and memorize: this is a kidney, this the heart, so I knew the
structures of a frog¡¯s innards but what had that to do with the frog? I reckon
all the frog wanted was to die quickly.
In those days, Bulgwang-dong in northern Seoul was
open country and one day there I caught a frog, boiled it, picked out the
bones, bleached them and stuck them together with white nail varnish; but there
again, that white, beautiful, fragrant skeleton had nothing to do with the frog.
Farewell, you few flowers that suddenly strike my eye,
you few flowers that in that season bled and went your ways. Goodbye to you
all, our beauty and courage, still unrefined even after we admit that we have
nothing at all to do with each other!
2.
I
live like a frog.
Eat
when hungry, sleep when night comes,
at
weekends take
a
hot bath.
In
suitably low-lying water,
on
a suitably lofty hill,
counting
gray hairs
applying
lotion between wrinkles,
thoughtlessly
practicing adaptation to circumstances.
Rinsing
my hoarse voice, rinsing my ears,
sometimes
roasting barley husks
to
make barley tea to drink,
practicing
living between being and not, like plain water.
The
riddle of turning into a frog.
The
riddle of an aging frog.
The site of the Confucian
school—there they shot an innocent village headman, tied to a pine tree. His
eyes wide open, blood was gushing from his forehead. The first time I saw
someone kill another person was near the start of the War, when I was in sixth
grade of elementary school.
On the evening before Seoul was
recaptured on September 28, fires blazing like towering hills on all sides, the
site of the Confucian school—I¡¯d gone to steal rice from a hidden stock. In the
midst of gaunt ghosts fleeing, rolling and dying, shooting. Filling sacks with
rice, we fled. We were just so famished.
Still there, the site of the Confucian
school, when we returned after years as refugees. Still spread about with gaunt
pines, a bit cold and spooky but I went there alone one snowy evening, intent
on love. In those days I reckoned you could only become a good poet by loving
everything in the world.
The
site of the Confucian school—I went back there sometimes after I¡¯d become a
paltry poet, a paltry doctor. It was parched, naked, covered in dust, but the
sight of my childhood sweat calmed my heart; now I¡¯ve become a traveller in a
distant land, sometimes I come across it in dreams, hear the beloved voice that
used to bid me: Come, come, and waking late at night with pillow wet, gaze once
again at the site of the Confucian school.
I¡¯m
fishing.
Too
sleepy to watch the float at midday,
I
suddenly wonder why the fish
live
day by day like that in the water?
Why
do fish live?
Why
does a worm live?
Why
would a fish spend its whole lifetime
just
swimming?
While
fishing, in daylight
my
body suddenly felt boiling;
I
cannot go on living like this!
Flat
on the earthen floor of middle age,
I
cried like a fish.
1. Hemp from Okchŏ
During
a Korean history lesson in middle school, we learned about a small country
called Okchŏ on the coast of Hamkyŏng Province. That night, in my dreams I was
riding aimlessly along a narrow mountain path on a small pony, surrounded by
people from Okchŏ. I heard someone say that I was on the way to the land of
Koguryŏ, with a small roll of hemp hanging over the horse¡¯s back. I felt rather
resentful at thus becoming a hemp merchant but I told myself it was much too
late to refuse, as we crossed a pass thick with blooming wild chrysanthemums.
At last we arrived at a large settlement in a foreign land and the gold-hued
city gates creaked open. I cannot remember the reason now, but I heard someone
say that henceforth I would have to live here, far away from home. My mother
and father seemed not to belong to Koguryŏ, and seized with fear at the idea of
having to live here alone, I buried my face in the bundle of hemp I was
carrying and held back my tears. Even now I cannot forget the pungent smell
rising from that bundle of hemp. With that hempen smell filling my nostrils
like a form of salvation, I kept bidding people farewell. Unable to see
anything, all the time making false steps, I suddenly found I had turned into a
man from Okchŏ, dressed in hemp. Long ago, during a Korean history lesson, I
learned about a small country called Okchŏ.
2. The river of the year Kihae
--Sorrow
flowing from flesh and blood,
the Blessed Ch¡¯oe
Ch¡¯ang-hŭp, martyred in Kihae year.
This
place¡¯s wind grows beneath a dark river,
this
place¡¯s flesh and blood are the direction the wind is driving.
The
blood spilt outside the Little West gate and at Saenamt¡¯ŏ becomes a river
while
desiccated souls come awake in rivers flowing from ancestors.
Invisible
people believing in an invisible kingdom.
Executioner,
wide-eyed executioner,
crazy
executioner of 19th-century Chosŏn,
shut
your eyes, for your head is falling, your eyes are falling.
Long-living
river, unfragrant river,
the
sound of rain falling on a severed head
is
the long, long-drawn-out sorrow of our land.
3. Dialogue
Dad,
aren¡¯t you afraid?
No,
it¡¯s dark.
Now
where will you go?
I¡¯ll
have to go first, then see.
It¡¯s
not that we¡¯ll never see each other again?
No,
we¡¯ll meet now and then.
Only
in dark places like this?
No.
We¡¯ll see each other in bright places too.
Dad,
will you be going to your country?
In
any case, that¡¯s where my fancy lies.
Didn¡¯t
you enjoy being here?
Of
course I enjoyed it.
Then
why are you intent on going?
It¡¯s
bound to be a dreary thing.
Are
there dreary things even after you die?
It¡¯s
all the same. Dark.
You
like a country where you have no house or car?
It¡¯s
still my country.
There
are lots of countries. What¡¯s so special about a country?
It¡¯s
because your grandfather¡¯s there.
Isn¡¯t
he dead?
He¡¯s
there.
Is
that all?
Because
I have friends there.
Could
there still be friends who remember you?
Even
if not, there are still friends there.
What¡¯s
the good of friends who don¡¯t remember you?
Because
I love them.
Surely
love can flourish anywhere?
Anywhere
does not feel like being alive.
Then
is it in order to remember love that you write poems, Dad?
I
wrote to kindle a flame because it¡¯s dark.
You
mean poetry¡¯s a flame?
Because
it was a lamp for me.
But
didn¡¯t you find it dark all the same?
The
lamp kept going out.
Can
you see the country you love?
Because
there¡¯s a lamp.
Still,
surely it¡¯s too far off to be seen?
Because
there¡¯s a lamp.
Dad,
be sure to come back again. It may be the thing you¡¯ve been seeking is not
there. Still, seek all the same. So don¡¯t wander lost any more, Dad.
The
snow that had fallen all night finally stopped. Now I can set out again. Since
I left my homeland long ago the deeply piled snow makes this a world in which
not one footstep can be discerned, but before I become a snowman and collapse,
I will rise and set out on my journey.
--A
concert by the pianist Pollini
Two
white birds flew upward
against a white background.
The
birds were unseen,
all
I could hear was a sound of wings.
You
shook your head, No,
but
I wanted to live,
even
invisible, following a single path.
In
this deep and difficult season
even
when we do not speak
our
ears hear
and
even not holding hands
our
palms grow moist.
Two
white birds fly up again
against
an empty background.
A
little drop of love comes splashing down,
awake
in a dark place.
1.
Inside
our veins
mountain
fires often rage.
All
about us crashing noises
arouse
themselves from long sleep.
Beautiful,
hot blood,
blood
that ever stands in our way,
blood
that has lost its way expands.
That
expanded blood, the mountain fires
of
long feuding ancestors, burns.
2.
If red corpuscles and white corpuscles go out in
mutual battle, the whole body grows dark. What clamors in us, ¡®Let¡¯s not fight!¡¯
are the lees of blood, the platelets. The lees of blood are tiny. The lees of
blood are many. The shapes of the lees of the circulating blood are multiple.
The ideas of the lees lightly floating in blood are all the same. The lees of
blood heal painful and unfair wounds. Since many lees of blood die and die
again, wounds heal.
I
want to become a poet.
What
are the uses of a poet?
In
Ethiopia, in Somalia,
in
Central Africa,
hundreds,
thousands of children, desiccated, blackened,
their
skin roughened by constant starvation
die
every day like so much trash.
Those
children in Cambodia, Vietnam
who
today play rolling skulls about
and
tomorrow die in the jungle mud.
Learning
to kill at ten years old,
firing
machine guns at twelve.
In
El Salvador, Nicaragua,
Central
and South America,
all
day long from sunrise to sunset
right
chews at left,
left
hacks at right,
head
eats tail,
tail
bludgeons head to death.
Every
day a never-ending sound of guns,
an
unceasing stream of murders.
God,
what use can a poet be?
In
Iran, Iraq, in Israel,
in
Lebanon, the steppes of Siberia,
in
every corner of the world,
God,
what use can a poet be?
If
we hear of others¡¯ sorrows
we
weep, our hearts ache;
if
people finally rise up when pain is done
we
are so moved that we stamp, hiding in the bathroom.
A
poet¡¯s songs of struggle may be heroic,
until
those sufferings happen to me,
and
though a poet¡¯s songs of consolation may feel sad,
still,
God, who told us not to fall into temptation,
what
use can a poet be?
Without
a hot breeze blowing
a
flame
is
nothing more than a moving
shadow.
Melancholy
of a world grown stable,
every
flame complete as a painting.
Most
of my sufferings
are
that melancholy water.
Sometimes
I
think
of that day.
The
trembling sound of approaching feet
bearing
the waters of innocence in both hands.
I
long to wash
in
that full sound of water.
Water
that does not tremble
is
nothing more than a wet
weight.
For
Tong-gyu with his ¡®Wind Burial,¡¯ from abroad
From
the start you studied things unseen
so
a virtually invisible wind will surely be best,
whereas
I studied by cutting up corpses
so
I am going to have to renounce my most hidden parts.
Water,
visible, endlessly visible unsubstantial water—
I
shall have to be cast clearly into that water.
So
let me be given water burial.
Not
abroad, but just this once in Korean seas,
in
the East Sea, or the Yellow Sea or the Southern Sea, anywhere,
but
not too far out, somewhere close to the shore,
such
was my journey throughout my whole life
but
one misty evening with an old wooden boat drifting lost,
when
dusk once again strikes its head against the silent sea and weeps,
like
the death of a brave man who does not hide his shame and ignorance.
Let
me be given water burial.
Shrouded
in the sweaty clothes of my middle-school days¡¯ warfare and poverty,
my
feet bound with the senselessly heavy burden of loneliness,
somewhere
in the middle of a beggar¡¯s song sung in place of a paean
cast
me in without making much of a splash.
It
will suddenly grow cool and silent.
After
rocking gently for several days, dreaming a lengthy dream,
swarms
of all those kinds of fish often seen on Korean supper tables,
hair-tails
and mackerel, will eat up, eat up my flesh,
then
when those plump fish, caught by fishermen, are once brought to harbor
even
the fishwives¡¯ stingy eyes will shine with enthusiasm.
Meanwhile
I shall have become a thoughtful cloud,
or
a seagull finely feathered flying above the sea,
so
let me be given water burial.
My
flesh once become the flesh of all those nephews, nieces,
as
I play, running down this alley and that,
the
time of thick fog I wandered in so long in life will end
and
at last I shall open blazing eyes.
A
dead tree
stays
standing even after death.
Several
years of fallen leaves, eager to turn into earth
knock
at the ground¡¯s heavy doors
amidst
the moans of insects
that
cannot sleep even at night.
Perhaps
it¡¯s weary?
The
thick fog
that embraces shattered stones
and
various landscapes weary from fleeing
lean
weeping against the dead tree.
Winter
snows will soon come.
Days
spent with windows wide open will pass
and
with eyes full of fear, of many doubts,
you
will cold-bloodedly chop up the tree that died standing
to
gain warmth in winter¡¯s chill.
The
dead tree is burning.
As
it burns, the dead tree speaks,
as
it sets out at last, hand in hand with the wind,
the
dead tree¡¯s soul, the dead tree¡¯s soul . . .
1.
Sailors
in the navy stirred up a revolution at sea.
Wearing
black uniforms, carrying weapons,
all
keeping step with the towering waves,
they
stirred up a revolution.
The
moon floating above the sea weeps.
The
revolution that can never land
is
swept away by the whole world¡¯s wind and waves.
The
tomb of all those missing at sea
rises
when night falls, radiant above the waves,
2.
The
Andes grow taller in winter.
Piled
dazzling with millions upon millions of snowflakes,
mountain
paths more clearly visible the darker it gets,
the
Andes serve as the angels¡¯ playground,
friends
of Saint Exupéry gone missing
come
dropping all winter long like flowers on this foreign land
and
descend the hills like songs of my longed-for home.
Between
the Andes and the nation and sea,
robed
in the longest cloak in the world,
wearing
the longest decoration in the world,
pierced
by any number of bullets,
smiling,
shaking hands, making promises
the
dark soul of the high-waved sea
strikes
against the long, wintery peaks and breaks.
When
an earthquake with unending echoes
covers
the nation, gone utterly missing,
you,
cutting off both your frostbitten hands
without
shedding a tear, you.
One
winter evening in a freezing hall
the
snowstorm outside roared even louder
as
suddenly Czeslaw Milosz, the Nobel laureate,
began to recite one of his poems
in Polish.
The trees standing out there in
the snow
became more clearly visible.
One winter¡¯s evening in the
Midwest, a nondescript town,
the audience taken aback,
darkness all around,
and Milosz¡¯s poem, with not a
word we could understand,
filled
the stage, spilled over and turned into a blizzard.
The
dreams of nomads, often reduced to gnawing dry crusts
amidst
the ashen skies, rivers, forests
of
old eastern Europe, beetle-browed,
one
winter night¡¯s unquenchable thirst.
How
should living together be only for reeds?
How
should a life spent rubbing shoulders
on windswept hills, on dark river banks, only be for
reeds?
Though
every night wolves howl in barren mountain gorges,
rising
again together after falling flat, brushing off the dust—
how
should that only be for our nation¡¯s reeds?
From
far away, you look pale and blue;
seen
close up you look sad.
A
few clouds rising from hills toward higher hills,
clouds
that by night turn into pure moisture and make pillows wet,
wander,
grow timid, turn into rain,
falling
on you in the far-off reed-bed
where I once lived,
while
not even deep night¡¯s darkness can hide my foolishness.
Lord
God,
may
I weep for no reason.
Then
may I see you
in
those tears,
meet
others
in
those tears
and
once I am dead
may
I live by their tears.
1.
I
am drawing a single tree. A tree that decided
to
live alone, lonesome though it might be
Last
summer was noisy. A tree that now
stands
listening to the unprofitable sound of rain
with
a few empty birds¡¯ nests hanging like decorations.
In
the dark, birds from all sides still fly away
like
groundless rumors, a temptation.
A
temptation for my whole life weeping ceaselessly.
2.
Nowadays,
I take great interest
in
a tree of about my own age.
Even
when large branches are cut off
it
cannot feel it for long and
it
is only after a mountain breeze, briefly blinking,
has
passed and gone that it feels inwardly chilled.
After
all the leaves of destiny have flown away
what
can it be pointing toward
with
the grayish tip of its lofty branches, calling, calling.
Before,
I never knew
why
flowers bloom.
I
never knew that the whole tree trembles slightly
when
it blooms.
Before,
I never knew
why
flowers fall.
Whenever
blossoms are falling, all around the tree
the
sound of water-drenched wind
awakes
from sleep.
What
am I going to say, if someone asks,
¡®Have
you ever been in love?¡¯
Waking
suddenly in the middle of the night,
I
hear my wife of the last twenty years lying beside me
talking
in her sleep with little weeping sounds.
Moans
too can be heard from time to time.
The
world can be better seen with the lights out.
Perhaps
the sound our lives make, heard from far off,
is
all a moaning sound.
In
any case, we can only be each one alone,
and
coming to know that is of no
importance
but
wife, learning to weep lightly in your sleep—
in
the end, that¡¯s your deepest destiny.
(One
by one my wife picked the anchovies out of the tasty
boiling
soup and threw them away. You have to take them out
of
the soup once it¡¯s done. They are unsightly and have no taste left.)
Once
dried anchovies have flavored the soup is that the end?
And
in those difficult years, fiercely boiling times,
dried
anchovies hurled themselves in, here and there.
(The
fish must have screamed: It¡¯s hot;
I¡¯m
panting; It hurts; It¡¯s dark. Caught in shoals,
dried
raw, their bodies utterly emaciated,
hear
the screams of the writhing fish.)
Now,
as we eat the refreshing, tasty soup,
we
should remember the dried anchovies, swept away.
(We
should remember the shoals of young anchovies, silver scaled,
swimming
fresh in the gentle billows of the Southern Sea.
At
last that long winter is nearly over.)
The
reason why I like reeds
is
because they live as if they were dead.
It
must be the way they sway as if alive
when
in fact they are dead.
Alive
and dead mingled, nicely matched,
dead
reeds sing in harmony with live ones
live
reeds dance holding dead ones in their arms.
Spending
whole lifetimes quite distracted,
readily
accepting separation from their bodies,
they
laugh as they wave goodbye.
Since
they care for each other, they waste no words,
no
touch of a hand, no shoulder embraced.
I
want to embrace you, white reed blossoms drifting!
You
never let anyone see the blood you shed every day.
Why,
our peace has drawn lightly near
and
is blending with its brothers¡¯ flow.
Look!
Curdling, rolling, they¡¯re becoming one.
Turn
into a current, then vanish from sight.
I
am comforting you, whose depths are invisible.
Like
a white wave from days gone by,
if
our bodies meet in such an encounter
you,
unable to avoid it, will become a flower.
That
flower will become a blossoming gesture.
As
the sea, already abruptly darkening,
narrows
in all directions, my eyes quickly grow clear
and
since there is no longer any sound of waves,
my
ears grow much clearer too.
In
this year¡¯s last autumn moment with shoulders hunched,
I¡¯ll
leave you alone close to an evening
where no one is near,
two
shameful hands from trembling Purgatory.
Just
stay there alone. Out in the midst of the empty sea
your
hazy face is moving away.
Inside
each hill is another hill.
Inside
the hill we can see with our eyes
a
hill is living, hidden.
If
we climb the hill, we can hear
very
vividly what the hill is saying.
Inside
the skin of the rough hill
the
fragrance of a deep, soft hill.
If
there is no water inside the water,
we¡¯ll
not be visible in the water.
Even
if you went out alone to the sea
you
would not be able to hear words coming from far away.
So,
inevitably, there is an I inside me,
a
life smaller than I living hidden inside me,
a soul
of words that can be heard when I¡¯m quiet.
When
clouds meet,
loud
thunder emerges.
I
long for a meeting like that with you,
where
I would cry out, unthinkingly.
When
clouds suddenly meet,
bright
lightning flashes all at once.
I
long to rediscover, meeting you,
the
bright flame I have lost.
I
cannot sing along together with
the
highs and lows of the song the rain sings
but
you teach me brightly that
raindrops
can make each other wet only if they meet.
On
the frantic road to work
I
should select a roadside tree
then
one day as night is falling build
a
birds¡¯ nest high in that tree.
At
times when life is dizzying and harsh
I
should turn into a light bird, and go take some rest.
To
avoid frightening the neighboring birds,
I
would have to avoid all sudden gestures, hush my voice,
and
if some drifting soul shows interest
that
cold heart too should go take some rest.
Throwing
open the doors of the nest, what shall I do?
Shall
I wash away the wind smeared over my face?
If
they attach no conditions, they are all so light.
Though
our intolerable tales, too, meeting easily,
make
their way within you and ask to sleep,
they
are laughing now, perhaps no longer hurting.
1
The winter bride
My
brother, much missed,
winter
is truly
hard
to live through.
The
windows of my soul
are
all iced over.
The
landscape I long for is quite invisible
while
the dark, damp streets
are
all motionless.
Maybe
devoted love
is
made perfect
when
people are cold.
Vincent
van Gogh¡¯s decision
to
set up house with a beggar woman
about
to give birth as his newly-wed bride
never
leaves us.
Behind
it snow falls
and
a few anonymous flakes
incapable
of thinking straight
end
up hugging one another.
2
The color of the wind
Do
you see the wind in my paintings?
If
you take away the wind, I¡¯m just a dead flower.
I¡¯m
going to build a house in a flower.
Once
the flower has ripened, just as it¡¯s waking up,
the
departing wind waves a hand.
Theo!
Time is a revelation.
I
must announce it before winter comes.
My
profession, breathlessly lived and unsuitable
will
appear one day as fruits at the tip of branches.
As
you nibble their flesh, brother, I wonder
if
you¡¯ll be able to taste all the bitters and sweets of this world¡¯s winds.
So
I¡¯m rich.
I
have spent my whole life turning into wind.
There¡¯s
no need for you to send any more money.
I
see how my life turns into many winds
and
spreads across the world as a shining joy.
3
Chinese Vincent
Who killed Vincent?
(Vincent,
a young Chinaman in his twenties, died after having his head beaten to pulp by
a white man¡¯s cudgel, who set about him without warning in a bar in Detroit,
city of cars. It seems that after he¡¯d been sacked from the car factory, he was
often heard to proclaim when he was drunk that all the Orientals ought to be
killed. Claiming that it was imported Asian cars produced with cheap labor that
had cost him his job, he struck him in a drunken fury as if he was demolishing
a Japanese car.)
Who
killed Vincent?
(In
court, the white judge handed down a light sentence of two years in jail,
commenting that he was being specially lenient, since he had acted when drunk,
then a little later allowed the white murderer to leave jail, a free man.)
Who
killed Vincent?
(We
demonstrated. ¡®We demand a fair trial!¡¯ No discrimination against Asians!¡¯ we
shouted in the city center, everyone passing by with averted eyes, snow
falling, we shouted, shook our fists at the invisible winter sky, and my face
as I turn homeward, weary, why, it¡¯s still burning hot.)
Who
killed old Vincent?
(Theo,
you think I¡¯m laughable, don¡¯t you, coming empty-handed to this foreign land
then pointlessly pretending to be victimized? You want to ask who told me to
live in the U.S., don¡¯t you? I agree, you¡¯re quite right. But you¡¯d better
reflect too. People are still hitting and killing people, for having a
different political color, something slighter than skin color. And thrusting
their heads into tubs of water, too.
Who
killed our old Vincent?
4. Freedom remembered
Theo,
I longed to become someone completely free.
That¡¯s
why I left home when still young.
I
knew that someone free was bound to be lonely.
When
I called freedom¡¯s name I was alone.
Theo,
freedom was my sole possibility.
Someone
free does not interfere or constrain.
I
never wanted to wear handcuffs again.
I
never called anyone¡¯s name.
I¡¯ll
make no excuses.
Nowadays
ten suns can be seen at once.
A
few of the suns can be heard speaking as they shake.
Ceaselessly,
the wide open plains glimpsed through the bars
are
all fluttering about, day and night.
A
frenzied dance enflames my body.
I
am eager to show you.
The
sky glides down to the plains
where
trees and plants and clouds embrace and weep.
Theo,
listen carefully to what I am saying.
I
may never be able to go back home.
The
collapsing buildings of this asylum have caught hold of me
and
won¡¯t let go.
I
really wanted to live with you back home once more.
I
miss the people back home peeling potatoes.
But
perfect Dutch slogans are foreign to me,
the
whirling beams of justice, resolute battle-cries are not things
I
would exchange for the feverish dances I have developed alone.
Theo,
the path I have to take is still long-drawn-out and hard.
I
often long to mingle with those shouting thickets.
I
long at last to greet my quiet evening in those thickets.
I
long to rest, dreaming endless dreams.
The
strong odor of freedom is summoning me again.
When I think of how, once I am dead, I shall turn into
water, it sometimes makes me melancholy. When I flow down, mingled with the
water of a mountain ditch, I don¡¯t suppose anyone will recognize my voice as
they listen to that little babbling sound. Even when I have mingled with that
stream and turned into water, I won¡¯t be clean at first. As I flow and flow,
gradually the sins committed in my life will be washed away, the lingering
grudges linked to my life will be washed away too, the lonely nights, the
residual sorrows, will all be washed away one after another, until at last I
have turned into pure water, all desires cast off. If I am able to turn into
really pure water, then I will call you. View yourself reflected in that water.
Listen attentively to my voice. Laughing, having rid myself of all extravagant
gestures, I shall confess that I wanted to live long years with you. Then for
the first time at last you will possess me wholly, body and mind. Do you know
what it means to say that someone possesses someone else entirely? Then scoop
up that water, wash your hands, moisten your throat. That will remove the
thirst of your weary times. And inside you I shall become you. Finally I shall
realize that having turned into water after my death was not at all a reason
for melancholy.
Reckless
summer!
Here
and there flowers
have
got themselves into pregnancies
they
will be unable to take responsibility for,
while
grass too, trees too, I too
when
summer comes, climb onto roofs
like
thieves.
How
many skies
were
there up there on the roof?
Vague
oaths went secretly
flowing
away in all directions,
turning
into quick-winged birds,
made
every direction unsteady.
Yes,
really unsteady.
All
those promises made us weep
beautifully,
like fragrance.
Destitute
summer.
The
sky we trusted
was
gray as a cloud
while
a trumpet played high and low
and
danced.
And
we slept.
The
rain falling in our dreams
drenched
the summer
and
until the moisture remaining on our skin
had
turned its face away coldly,
we
were riding on the wind.
Blue
birds and wrens
refused
to show us
the
way back home.
From
that summer on
we
began to grow old.
When
one person finds another and they like each other
a
river opens between them.
If
one grows sad, the friend¡¯s heart aches;
if
one surges with joy, the river shines bright
and
the friend¡¯s laughter can be heard to the river¡¯s very end
Since
the first wave is short and awkward,
they¡¯ll
have to keep sending water toward one another, mingling often,
but
the waves of a life of lengthy devotion cannot be many.
Resplendent
rivers, that neither flood nor dry up, cannot be many.
The
river understands everything by its waves¡¯ lapping, without long talk,
never
sleepless though for several years meeting may be impossible.
How
could any great river ever flow meaningless?
In
this world, how could meeting someone, then for long years cherishing them,
be
easy and light,
like life and death?
Of
course, there can be no knowing the beginning and end of any great river,
but
I long to meet someone who always insists on clear waves.
When
my soul falls asleep, I want you to watch over me;
when
I think of you I see a fresh river
the
person I want to grow closer to, cool and charming.
At last we met in the fog of the North Sea.
Two
hours¡¯ journey by train north from Edinburgh,
then
a damp country bus,
and when I arrived
the
North Sea¡¯s voice was waterlogged.
Wrapped
in a misty breeze, having frittered
its time away,
the
sea below the cliffs was hoarse.
The
sea¡¯s words came cold, soaked into my clothing,
and its waves, full of wrinkles,
bowed
their white heads.
Out
behind a spotless café
a
young woman
in an apron laughed
like a wild breeze.
I
longed to have a daughter, sweet-hearted with easy tears,
a
wild flower living without regrets as it lightly views the world.
At
dusk, when the village flowers change color,
I
longed to sing with muted voice.
Then
my daughter would laugh, not saying a word.
Suddenly,
ah, a great
rainbow embracing the gathering gloom!
On
opening the heavy door, I found
winter had arrived.
Welcome
snowflakes were falling from every side
and
the winds between the snowflakes
were
embracing the bare trees like life.
Our
destined meeting came about like that.
The
snow-covered white trees were
drawing
closer to one another.
Crowded,
tenacious roads had been erased
and
every sea was returning shoreward,
while
the sky that had so lightly risen
slowly
sank down to become the ground.
But
visitors always leave,
With
my two empty hands I receive
the
peace you transmit.
Since
I met you in sin
and
now return into sin,
even
without a single word the flowers
bloom
in deep pain.
Might
there be sinless ground in some universe?
All
the expense of the veins that dead life
shook
off shuddering turns into a forest fire
and
I grow giddy and warm.
How
warm, your eyes that I cannot see.
Who
spread new buds along new branches
saying:
I want to live?
Who
produced endless blossoms to adorn them?
Then,
once the petals had all flown off as if delivered,
who
fostered tiny berries bare-bodied?
Life
driven by some other person
is
our sorrowful private history.
Your
and my hidden future
is
the story of a life borne on those petals.
I
went up into the mountains; autumn was layered deep
and
I stood there holding an empty bowl.
After
I had survived a whole night¡¯s bitter cold,
I
saw clear dew had gathered in the bowl.
But
there was so little dew
it
could not quench my thirst.
If
I collect it for a second night, will there be more?
If
I spend days gazing into the eyes of the dew,
will
I be able to save one pure, chill poem?
Quench
a causeless thirst?
The
next day before dawn, instead of dew
one
dead leaf fell onto my shoulder
and
by dint of shouting: Vanity, all vanity,
it
brought me to my knees, shoulders burdened.
Only
when morning came did the dew open clear eyes
and
give value to the night¡¯s dead leaf.
--Live
with both eyes open.
Look
ahead, look behind, look up.
You
can see everything. You come and you
go,
until
you have gathered all yourselves, and after that too,
live
with both eyes open, like wind or sea.
Living
like wind or hill or sea, I
saw
the two eyes of the dew. And after that too
in
the front of the wind or the back of the sea
I
saw the two open eyes of the dew.
Shattering,
water
becomes
many drops.
Shattering,
water
becomes
many offspring.
Water-drops
are tiny
but
fill many places to overflowing
then
their color spreads everywhere.
The
offspring are brighter,
more
beautiful than their parents.
If
water¡¯s father does not shatter
nothing
bright can come to birth.
Once
water-drops gather in some low place
they
become father. That¡¯s why
our
father is always lowest.
In
that deep interior where water¡¯s body moves
the
words of the water¡¯s aging splendor
draw
near refreshingly one by one.
Yŏŭido was flooded that summer.
In
days before apartments and the National Assembly were built
I
underwent interrogation there in Basement Room 3.
I
have no idea if the Military Personnel Law still exists but
the
guy writing down my deposition had a harsh voice and big hands.
All
that summer I kept thinking of an island.
As
we were dragged in fetters along the streets of Yŏngdŭngp¡¯o
where
the asphalt was melting, bound in a line like so many dried fish,
I
was thinking of one carefree little island.
I
longed to turn into a weed and live on a sunny hillside there.
My
iron-barred cell with its musty stench was small and stuffy.
With
meals composed of a lump of barley-mixed rice, my stomach ached
Once
the noisy bedtime roll-call by an armed soldier was done,
late
at night I dreamed of escaping from my cell.
An
island without noisy birdsong and with no flowers in bloom.
The
waves of the sea were gentle green or silver.
My
military doctor¡¯s badge of rank torn off, my beard growing scraggily,
belt
and shoelaces removed ¡®to prevent attempted suicide,¡¯
as
I dragged about my youthful body and feet heavy with insults
I
longed to lie down by that sea, shut my eyes and let time pass.
When
friends who came to visit left in tears, horrified at my appearance,
when
they urged me: Comrade, don¡¯t let them win, be a hero,
I
banished all mention of escape and exile far from my lips,
resolved
that I would definitely go to that island.
An
island without winning or losing, an island devoid of heroes.
Once
I was freed, thoughtless, the first thing I did was set out.
But
when I realized that the place I had reached was not my island
my
father had already died and I had a family to support.
That
wonderful island I saw every day all that summer!
I
still often dream about it. That quiet island¡¯s smile,
that
cozy island, floating somewhere, its tears.
¡®The
great city split into three parts and the cities of the nations collapsed.¡¯
(Rev. 16:19)
1.
The
streets of Paterson, New Jersey
are
so dangerous you cannot walk alone even by day.
Flowers
and squirrels, pigeons and clouds,
parks
and benches and lawns are all rotting
and
what poets called ¡®beautiful things¡¯ have left.
The
city¡¯s little waterfall used to sing a high-pitched chorus,
the
sky above the waterfall where a doctor strolled in the 1940s,
within
that sky the water daily becoming a rainbow, but
now
even the fresh foam is a dumping ground of dry ruins.
City
of poverty, crime, drugs and AIDS,
only
hatred, insomnia, and gunshots of fear remain.
People¡¯s
glares make the smoky city shake.
Bloodstains
die a second time under the wheels of automobiles.
I
cannot stand upright in your city
and
with a horrified heart I hastily tear to shreds poems about heaven.
In
the collapsing city sterile children are dying,
and
meanwhile all the nation¡¯s cities are collapsing.
2.
Los
Angeles by night, late April 1992,
the
City of Angels engulfed in the dark flames of hell,
in
Korea Town, raised by the efforts of immigrant Koreans,
sweat
and tears, hope and promises were all trampled underfoot.
Days,
years of arson, plundering, murder,
and
the city collapsed into an ash-heap of despair and shame.
They had been driven from home by an endless struggle
against poverty;
now, their
homeland too far away, bullets daily grazed their ears.
Shouting
in a mixture of English and Korean,
tears
of frustration welling in their bloodshot eyes,
even
with the shield of machine-guns mounted on the roofs,
it
was still hard to hold back the high waves of lawlessness.
I
long for your new songs
as
you recover
and rebuild the fallen city.
The
rainbow swiftly rising heavenward,
¡®beautiful
things¡¯ as people of every race join hands and dance.
Sweet
sighs of admiration for this new Paterson.
And
look: all the water drops composing the rainbow
come
pouring down, enveloping us in unity.
Note:
¡®Paterson¡¯ is the title of one of the most famous works by William Carlos
Williams, poet and doctor, pioneer of modern American poetry.
1.
My
younger brother, dead, buried in a foreign cemetery
where
the grass has still not grown properly after a year.
I
lean against the headstone with the name carved in Korean.
With
you below the ground, and above it a few scraps of lowering sky,
where
are we in this easy-going life-span?
2.
Even after you were gone, every day the sun would rise
and night would fall. Although you met your end down a road you took by
mistake, thanks! You lived all through these past decades at my side as a kind little brother, though
sometimes you must have been hurt by kicks from my cocksure heart. Until that
day when we meet again and weep leaping for joy, setbacks melting, resentments
melting, heavens melting – keep well! Keep well in deep deep breathing.
3.
All
the air near a cemetery is always plunged deep in thought.
The
air near a cemetery is always gazing into the distance.
A
quiet, full smell is spreading in all directions.
I
murmur to the ground, still brown though a year has passed,
that
it still hurts too much inside me.
A
bird that had been singing afar abruptly closes its beak.
The
air in the cemetery loses its strength and sinks under the ground.
In
the fruitful orchard that I was pondering on,
having
spent a raucous, boiling summer,
one
apple tree addressed me.
It
was long ago, yet that voice still
lingers
in my ears, often comes to mind:
¡®I
have simply received far too much.
The
earth has simply given me a lot.
In
spring, it gave me strength, youthful and fresh,
in
summer, dancing masses of flowers and fragrance.
Day
and night I enjoyed a dreamlike fiesta.
Now
I am offering you the apples that hang on my boughs.
This
happiness I can give you is also a thing I simply received;
from
the ground, from the sky, from everything around me
I
have simply received far too much.
¡®Once
I have given you all the fruit I bear
I
shall once again be poor and light,
my
tales will be clear too, though petty and rare.
High
gratitude will wash me clean and pure.
When
my apples have become your food, and the seeds remaining
fall
to the ground, see in what numbers I return to life.
Why,
giving turns into a way of life.¡¯
Even
after a long, long time, let that voice still
linger
on in my ears and often come to mind.
When
in ancient times I wove my way
through
the world in the shape of the wind,
making
no distinction between high and low,
striking,
hugging, rolling about,
the
hill often averted her eyes from me.
Now
I can hear sounds I used not to hear;
the
evening of my life comes amidst the low hills
where
the sounds live together.
No
words from my kind companion of blue clouds;
only
that empty landscape fills me fully.
Oh,
you light gathered on the autumn hill,
brilliant
color of the dead leaves on the trees
color
of souls!
Even
my wind, that had lived in hiding
turns
into colorful dancing and comes back again.
In Asia Minor, Turkey, making a trip to the New
Testament city of Ephesus, my feet were feeling the early church¡¯s preaching,
persecution, earthquakes, having heard Saint Paul¡¯s heated voice echo in the
completely ruined ancient city, passed the markets where once there were many
jewellers, peeped at the abandoned street where he had once hidden in a
prostitute¡¯s house, after criss-crossing the empty city for half a day, as I
emerged through the city¡¯s back gate, the sadly majestic images from two
thousand years ago abruptly vanished and a poor village market place, cheap
stalls in a line, was offering dust-covered souvenirs for sale. Fleeing from
the clamor of a rushing hoard of touts, confused for a moment I saw myself
drawing close, a young peddler, just as I had been a newspaper boy as a wartime
refugee, ,:
¡®You
Korean? You Japanese?¡¯
¡®Am
I Korean? You bet I¡¯m Korean.¡¯
¡®Come.
My mother Korean! My mother Korean!¡¯
Following
in bewilderment, inside the tent composing the stall
a
poorly-dressed Korean woman in her late thirties bowed her head.
¡®You
Korean?¡¯ -- Yes.
¡®Glad
to meet you.¡¯ -- Yes.
¡®How
long here?¡¯ -- About fifteen years
. . .
¡®Any
other Koreans around here?¡¯ --
Alone . . .
¡®All
alone?¡¯ (in this dust!) -- Yes . .
.
¡®I¡¯ve
been living abroad for over twenty years too.¡¯
¡®Ah,
yes. Twenty years . . .¡¯
In
weary eyes, piled up, another land¡¯s dust.
Glimpsing her Turkish husband prowling around nearby,
I buy a cheap tee-shirt with a bunch of flags decorating the front, and from
the boy, who is gazing up at me in triumph, I buy some horn flutes then,
flustered, prepare to leave. ¡®Good luck.¡¯ ¡®Yes, good-bye.¡¯ Even in Turkey, we
take our leave in Korean style. I get into our bus, carrying my purchases.
Among all the white faces, one yellow spot. The barefooted boy, standing at the
roadside, is waving a hand and smiling. I look out again. The boy has vanished
and raindrops are beginning to strike against the window. All alone, I said?
Idiot! Alone . . . Suddenly, walking alone toward the endless reedbeds
surrounding Ephesus, moistened by the light rain, my beloved, lonesome God.
Some
years ago I went up into the hills of my native land; there flowers,
several
times more beautiful than the country itself, were blooming so moistly
that
they spread their juices as far as my heart as they took me in their arms.
How
could the topic of conversation be the last sign of the downward path?
The
hill lies within water, water lies within the hill
so
the hills of my native land I had not seen for so long
told
me without a gesture to stop listening to people¡¯s many words.
I
went up into another tranquil, gentle hill
and
sent a few birds I had meanwhile reared flying up above the roof
at
which the mother of all shamefastness, the echo of distant thirsts
turned
into mist and veiled the hill, veiled even me.
Why,
even the trees weep early in the morning.
They
are weeping the dew that gathers all night
before
I can lay even a hand on their thin shoulders.
Who
will ever wipe clean away every trace of loneliness?
Still
gently trembling bygone days!
Taking
advantage of a brief rest, I look round.
On
this trip to the mountains, begun without asking directions,
whom will I blame if the summit
cannot be seen?
I
adjust my backpack, prepare to set off again
along
a path soaked as far as sight can see.
1.
Evening
falls early, and as the hill¡¯s shadow comes strolling out
and
begins to cover the broad twilight river
the
ripples on the ancient river shrink conspicuously
while
the river¡¯s name and nationality grow increasingly vague.
If
I station myself at the edge of the river of uncertain nationality
and,
calling together my present state that often goes astray,
spend
the night listening to the lapping water,
your
bodies and mine, with their uncertain nationalities,
will
soak in all the water in this river of unknown depth and
ah,
since people are linked in this way by water
we
should realize we all share the same hometown.
Finally
the heavy night yields and dawn filters through.
The
river¡¯s multitude of eyes, all sparkling,
the
river¡¯s waters mingle, jostling bodies.
Ah,
by the river¡¯s glow, that I saw somewhere in my youth,
as
we advance in a similar direction, as if we are one,
we
realize: together we shall not succumb, though we go astray.
2.
For
several days I stayed alone on the banks of a long river. No radio, no
television, no literature or art or music. Everything I had was alive. Music
was alive between water and rocks, on the lips of dew on grass meeting other
dewdrops art was alive. Poems were living on the antennae of insects feeling
their way along the ground, novels lived in those insects¡¯ long, leisurely
itineraries.
Everything
was moving. Water, leaves, clouds, birds and small animals, all were moving
ceaselessly; raindrops, the chirping of insects by night, sunlight by day,
moonlight by night, the colors of the river, and all their shadows were moving.
That moving world drove me away from my surroundings, made me move. I abandoned
myself completely and began to breathe in imitation of the breathing of the
luxuriant foliage.
At
last I was enabled to acknowledge my very flesh as something alive and
breathing. My breathing body, once it had escaped the complicated commands of
my anxious head, began to grow calm. My shoulders grew light, my eyes clear,
able to see fruit hiding in spiders¡¯ webs, and love songs vibrating insects¡¯
wings. At last I realized that everything in the world had become one and was
moving.
Everything
in the world was one. There could be no other way. So I determined to abandon
distinctions between things big and small, between things visible and
invisible, to abandon distinctions between things living and dead. Those were
difficult decisions for me. A few days later, as I left the river bank, where
there was no trace of human life, I took my leave; at once the river approached
without a word and placed a few long rivers in my heart. So I became a river.
God
who dwells white-robed in heaven,
his
Son¡¯s gentle breath
and
God¡¯s Spirit that
I
am not quite sure I have really felt so far, all mixed together
and
turned to snow, falling endlessly this winter morning.
I
take those snowflakes and moisten my lips.
That
most beautiful form of water
fills
me full, who was empty so long.
The
temperature of God who contains all directions,
that
humble descent down as far as the earth,
a
snowy morning is white and warm.
Why
do all those mindless reeds that live along windy roadsides
or
on distant river banks all grow to exactly the same height?
If
just a few grew taller, they would be snapped off by the wind
and
if just a few grew smaller they would wither for lack of sunlight,
so
perhaps they know how easy it is to catch one¡¯s death
and
therefore the reeds all grow as one, putting their heads together.
The
tall reed often bows its head humbly,
and all dance to the same beat, none rich or poor.
There¡¯s
a bad rumor going around, tucked into their belts;
giggling
at the same height with friends in all directions,
the
reeds make grabs at each other, and sleep together too,
ah,
the reedbed! Such a festive gathering!
I
want to grow old with you.
Back
in Seoul, that war had reduced to ruins, sheltered from the wind by a flapping
tent that served as a makeshift school room, I found myself memorizing the
difference between an Ionian building and a Corinthian building. That winter
was particularly cold and dry, so at some point I began to hunch my shoulders
from midday on and dream fantastic daydreams in which I had built a classy
Ionian style house, sat in a leather armchair heated by a steam-fed system, and
resolved to break the wrists of the dreadful cold. (Yes, an Ionian style
house!)
I
wonder if our childhood hunger also had its origins in Ionia. Every few days,
with the money father got for writing, I would buy two small measures of rice
and as I carried that light bagful on my shoulder through the mud of the
marketplace, I was gazing at the Greek coast, the emerald hues of the Ionian
Sea. The Ionian Sea clamorous with celebrations, tasty bread and grapes, the
Ionian Sea idly tossing dazzling white ships, and I many times resolved I would
not become a hungry writer.
The
Ionian Sea I finally managed to reach when I had already passed my half-century
had gentle waves just like those in my childhood dreams and the water was
clear, but it was a sick sea, an empty nest from which the plentiful shoals of
fish had all vanished. The Ionian style columns were dirty, too; they¡¯d become
gap-toothed old men. Well, of course, a long time had passed. Ionia, old and
feeble, my foolish resolve has vanished away, and I am still roaming the world,
hungry.
For long years I disliked stars. Perhaps because I
lived so far away, their now-you-see-me-now-you-don¡¯t kind of pitiful state out there on the far-away
outer limits of reality was displeasing. Looking lonely was displeasing. But
the stars I met last summer one high midnight in a northern mountain range were
bright and big and graceful. The sound of those bright stars breathing as they
lay sleeping in a Milky Way almost close enough to touch was full of
tenderness.
In the old days, when only human beings could turn
their faces heavenward and see the stars in the sky, it was possible to
converse with the stars anywhere on earth. But nowadays, when time goes so
fast, people live without believing in stars any more, turning their backs on
hope as well. For a while that summer all night long I gazed at the kindly,
mysterious spread of stars, then, glimpsing the faces of my deceased father and
younger brother, I conversed happily with them:
My
dear.
I
call to you across all the contradictions of this world.
Do
not feel anxious or sad.
Where
can we find a human life that is not momentary?
To
me too in recent years living has become difficult.
Relying
on my body, weary, exhausted, I see you now
so,
stars, and painfully lingering attachment, not yet finished,
meet
that joy that lives in a hard-to-reach place.
Your
response is God¡¯s free gift.
Shutting
the door, putting out the light,
I
too caress your star.
Having
smacked my lips for a number of years over a friend¡¯s letter describing
walking
along the river embankment on the way to visit Hahoi Village,
having
a drink in Dasan¡¯s cottage in Kangjin, savoring the lovely river with it,
but
since hoping for what can be seen is no hope,
so
too the little feet of a saint rising from a stony bed and setting forth
erased
from his eyes the scented wild flowers of Italy,
erasing
too the secrets of the wide-stretching highlands with their sunrise and sunset.
Since
hoping for what can be seen is no hope,
after
long sharing the fate of birds seemingly linked to me by blood, and life here
below,
after
tidying away little hills that have abandoned their first name and last name
too,
I
open all my body¡¯s doors frantically, like one possessed.
Above
my head a number of skies have gathered and are holding hands.
Since
hoping for what can be seen is no hope,
advancing
amidst the breathing of an unseen land, words of a voice unheard,
a
comforting moment that has painfully made its way here from afar.
Note:
¡®Since hoping for what can be seen is no hope¡¯ : Romans 8 : 24.
Silly
wave.
You cry
out as day and night you
strike your breast
against the house-sized rocks littering this shore,
but
all you get is
a white blood of foam.
It
would take
three hundred years at least
to
turn them into a sandy beach
where you can roll about with pleasant tickling,
By
that time, who will remember you?
Will
you dance, curving
your back?
Silly
wave. Are you determined to ignore the passage of time
and
just go on dreaming of thirsty storms?
The
wave¡¯s hand, ever restless from far away seas,
writes
a long letter, deletes it, writes it again.
1.
At
the end of one whole year the Apostle John
emerges
from a deep rocky cave
on
Patmos, a stony islet in the Aegean Straits,
the
sunlight warm as every year.
So
old he cannot see too well,
he
drinks a draft of rainwater set ready
then
waves a hand as if to say: Love one another.
Jesus
died a long while back, so
what
do those flying white locks mean
as
he slowly walks down the stony path?
2.
The
letters John sent to the seven churches have arrived,
launched
out in wooden ships across the wind and waves.
The
shadow of words that long flowed down watery paths,
shredded
by penalties, sequence and assumptions,
until
the sincerity of love and pain are largely invisible.
The
high waves¡¯ horizon too is nearly invisible.
3.
In
John¡¯s cave, where he is said to have written the Book of Revelation,
a
young Orthodox priest sat dozing before a stone table
on
which stood one glass of water.
His
clean white face on which a tall black hat was pressed down
frankly
reflected the shadow cast by a complex dream.
As
I emerged from the cave after climbing dozens of stone steps
the
breeze residing on the island washed my face,
the
wild flowers gathered in vestiges came crowding round
and
whispered in muffled voices: Love one another.
Unsure
whose voice it was on account of the waves,
the
design of those words made my legs shake,
for
only the intense, burning flowers were waving.
Ask
those flying leaves over there,
ask
that wind standing there in the air—
there
was no one in sight on the evening shore.
Just
a few seagulls screaming, scavenging, hiding,
clouds
deep in thought changing the color of their flesh,
the
bachelor sea blushing embarrassed.
Once
on the shore I hear Gregorian chant.
Tearful
confessions of an organ fill my ears.
A
salt sea of Amens brings healing to wounds.
The
rising tide was caressing the beach¡¯s flesh.
I
turned into a little wave and approached you.
Time
stopped, the evening sun gently settled down.
The
tight-lipped shore began to dream peaceful dreams.
I
resolved not to resent my traveller¡¯s fate.
The
harmonious prayers of a host of celibates
once
heard in the old dark monasteries of the middle ages
open
high vaults and make the heavens.
In
the heavens a few light flowers bloom.
Beautiful
things have always been remote and featureless.
Guiding
premonitions of previous lives, I start a long journey.
Escaping
from the crowded, noisy city center,
I
take a field path along empty riversides in dazzling sunlight.
Poplars
dance, insects laugh quietly,
a
warm, miraculous day filling the entire world
as
I see the tears of the earth on its glowing face.
Ah,
just look at that amazing
face
of God.
Hundreds
of millions of trembling points, a pointillist painting.
Those
foolish-minded leaves, setting off on long journeys
saying
that being alive is to dream,
dying
is to awaken from dreams –
Just
look at that face of God,
so busy
changing
colors that he gets no sleep at night.
Two straight lines leave,
not able to form a square
There
is no shared destiny that knows no parting.
Leaves
summon their last breath for freedom¡¯s sake
as
they set off in search
of
a lonely winter soldier.
1.
The
sea¡¯s entire being can be seen even at night.
After
returning home from long wandering,
something
once heard, a slender timid phrase:
the
sand along the shore growing softer still and warmer
journeys
on through the invisible dark air.
Ancient
hills are levelled
hands
guilty of sin are pardoned.
2.
Late
morning, plunged deep in thought,
I long
to embrace the sea¡¯s bare body
as
she lies half veiling her nakedness.
A
butterfly bigger than a sailing ship
settles
on a petal vaster than the sea
lightly
like Dufy¡¯s painting ¡®Anemone.¡¯
The
sea¡¯s house ripples under the butterfly¡¯s weight,
a
few fishy smells drift from the sea
that
bequeath a toy-like cloud to the sky.
3.
Today
the horizon is thicker
than
on ordinary days.
It
looks as though it must be raining
in
the sea¡¯s back yard.
Why
do the waves, once so quiet,
only
flinch and embrace as they reach the shore?
The
waves¡¯ slight excuse—
the
sea has such a good memory.
In
an unfamiliar landscape
your
familiar features come into view.
Climbing
a low hill alone on a spring evening
and
gazing up at the widespread sky
is
to see with fear and trembling
the
stars¡¯ scalding tears. On such an evening
stripping
off the tattered clothes of my daily life
full
of good sense, hypocrisy and embellishment
is
to see with fear and trembling
the
star¡¯s delicate smiles.
The
earth has already fastened the dark bolts
so
several worlds can be more lightly seen while
you,
who I thought still far away,
the
body of silence, harkening to the songs of the stars,
blink
your eyes as you slowly dance,
barefoot,
with fear and trembling.
Note:
¡®With fear and trembling¡¯: Philippians 2:12
Sesame
seeds, that lived separate lives as they slept buried in the ground, produce
fragrant sesame leaves, bloom with the lovely little white sesame flowers that
will one day blossom as a milky mist amidst a host of sesame leaves, and you,
soil, produce moist sesame seeds before ever all the sesame flowers have been
seen. What bargain have you made with the sesame seeds that you provide them
with such solid, abundant bodies?
Likewise,
how do all the flower-seeds I cannot see clearly with my weakening eyesight
produce the fragile, delicate skin of the red and purple flowers I can see so
clearly in this back garden? Where are the earth¡¯s dye factories, needlework
factories, perfume factories, that enable this little flower to blossom and
laugh here, its white dress girt thinly about with a pink belt?
Is
it because my common sense is growing more and more vague with age that the
things people incline to think normal seem to me increasingly abnormal? At
least tell me, land of mystery rising on my ever vaguer common sense, if we are
ever able to draw close to you, will we recognize your prudent skill? Or at
least will we be able to watch and enjoy every day your charming magic as earth
becomes flowers, earth becomes sesame seed?
Eye-openings
of knowledge like sesame seeds, as my growing curiosity gradually finds
answers; today once again I sit beside a sesame flower and wait for a
flickering word, and on that day when my flesh becomes a sesame flower will you
be able to recognize that my words and writing have at least been able to emit
fragrance? Will you be able to recognize that the days when I wandered in
search of the song I wished to sing have turned into fresh life at last?
Every
substance in the world, if it freezes, grows heavier. People subside heavily
with a frozen heart. It¡¯s only water that grows lighter as it freezes. As water
turns into solid ice, its volume expands and the ice, lighter than water,
floats on the surface, which is how there came to be living creatures on this
earth. If the water, freezing in winter, had sunk to the depths, that ice would
gradually have blocked the rivers, all the fish would have died, and there
would have been no beginning of humanity. It was ice, being lighter than water,
that made it possible for us to live in this world.
It¡¯s
only by growing light that we live.
By
your water, that fills an empty space,
the
shade expands firmly,
and
we meet easily, lightly.
In
times past, and nowadays too,
in
the deserts of the Middle East,
you
who abandoned your one and only life
and
went wandering with a body so infinitely light,
wiping
away even the moisture left by the evening dew,
you
ask if I am not light.
You
keep pestering me with the question:
buried
deep in the waters and not expiring,
floating
on the surface, standing on the land,
will
you be able to go on breathing for long?
Have
you ever heard
a
little lake singing?
Letting
your weary mind go on sleeping,
listening
like the grass in a forest at dawn,
hiding
yourself in thick mist,
have
you ever heard a river singing?
Rather
like the sound of a long flute,
perhaps
a cello, maybe an accordion;
at
that bright, thin sound arriving from afar
a
dawn mist slowly rises
and
trembles on the water¡¯s surface—wake up now.
Ah,
the rising mist dances.
In
human shape, dancing,
the
mist laughs as it clears the mist away.
The
whole morning rises all together.
The
dazzling river¡¯s echo
embraces
us.
1.
Suddenly
I¡¯ve
reached
the age of an old man
when
loveable things
just
look loveable
and
laughable things
simply
look laughable.
The
person I was in my youthful days!
Youth
wretchedly contemplating
the
lonely old orphan I am now!
Everything
happening in the world
always
settled heavily in my heart.
Emotion¡¯s
pulse was easily set racing
and
could nowhere easily find a place
where
I might take a long rest.
2.
Yes,
indeed, the person I was in my youthful days!
One
single tear of God,
unable
to flee, blocked for a whole lifetime,
and
that lake lying far away
is
likewise pitifully growing ever older.
I
have several times hurled into the lake
time¡¯s
long oppressing insomnia.
The
lake, assuming that insomnia,
churning
its whole being to the top of its head,
opens
its eyes briefly, rocks to and fro.
Its
tenderest flesh once washed in the wind
the
lake¡¯s skin cracks open here and there,
and
even its thin legs tremble.
3.
Where
was I? I have suddenly
reached
the age of an old man where
lake
and wind and legs as well
are
all remembered as nothing but a vague odor,
the
illusion of an occasional clamor sometimes ringing
in
my ears in places where there¡¯s no one around—
the
clamor of old age with its wounds
that
no one can forbid us.
If
ever I were to penetrate inside a flower,
it
would be warm.
Stamens
and pistils live there
taking
the wind or a passing gesture for pretext
secretly
inclining.
Even
withering flowers with heads bowed down
are
warm.
Whether
pregnant or not,
lying
uncovered with a hint of a swoon
in
a tender, soft posture,
a
deeply sleeping flower.
My
journey as I head toward you, too,
will
be warm.
The
eyes and ears of a sleeping flower
wrapped
round with unfulfilled dreams,
ah,
separation, token of festival!
Sad
pollen will fall like confetti
and
drench us both.
I
will go in search of some other sea.
The
pines standing in rows along the shore,
blinded
by the sea¡¯s salty air,
inquire
if the sea is still alive.
A
sea-wall has been laid, you have gone,
the
sound of waves restless with fever has gone,
and
in nights when old age makes me often wake
I
inquire if the sea is still alive.
I
will go in search of some other sea.
That
first waterway I shyly embarked on in youth
has
darkly vanished like a mirage
and
all lies wrapped in a thick sea mist.
Naked
stillness is warm.
The
pines painfully open their arms,
bow
low and whisper—the sea is alive.
As
I stand before my brother¡¯s desolate tomb,
his
lifetime looks so cold and fragile
that
even on a snowy day my heart feels like breaking.
Living
and dying are like falling snow
so
although we join to affirm we are going somewhere,
that
hard calculation all drops into death¡¯s void
and
in today¡¯s heavy snowfall there is no one in sight.
I
open my hands to receive the snow, hoping for news,
but
in a flash that news turns into a tear
and
a silence ripening in the ear soaks into the surrounding labyrinth.
My
eyes scan in vain the freezing ash-gray sky,
snow
falls, drifts cover even the gravestone.
My
moving sorrow encounters his sorrow that cannot move
and look, they comfort each other by their own pure
weight.
So
it is. We cannot possibly part company.
Your
breath is the pure cold air around this tomb
and
as the sky drops lower, we hold hands.
Suddenly
it stops snowing, the wind drops, and we . . .
Have
I built my house here and put out my fronds to spend my whole life like this?
Intent on developing leaves and blossoming, the pumpkin found itself unable to
take a holiday, and once a few baby pumkins appeared, it started to show weary
wrinkles. Its leaves spread out chlorophyll all day long, received sunshine,
manufactured organic nutritives, the roots pumped up water until their
shoulders bent, procured inorganic substances and fed the baby pumpkins. All
for the sake of my babes, to feed my seeds inside them, so that I can be reborn
in them, surely?
The
larger the pumpkins grew, the more food and money and devotion they required.
Intent on feeding its children well and raising them far better than any
others, the roots lost their strength and lay useless in the ground, the leaves
too after slaving away till their backs were bent grew senile, began to rave as
autumn came, then roots and stalks and leaves as they withered and died gazed
at their beautifully swelling offspring, smiled pumpkin smiles and expired. I¡¯ll
be reborn in them, those pumpkins are my life in another form, my glory in the
next world, surely?
I
may resolve that when I raise my children, it will not be for a pumpkin-like
existence, but it¡¯s an illusion, an undeniable illusion. Though the pumpkin
seeds from the dead leaves and roots may become huge pumpkins the following
year, who will be able to identify those pumpkins as being descended from them?
No matter whether yellow or reddish, insipid or sweet, small or big in size,
what difference does it make whether it¡¯s called Mr. Kim or Mr. Lee or Mr.
Park, whether it¡¯s from this or that region, this or that clan? Ah, my life¡¯s
course, rushing out, then tottering back not many days later feeling all
forlorn, just like a pumpkin.
The
children you raise with such effort as a pumpkin are pumpkins, the children
other people raise are pumpkins too. Your friends and relatives too, and the
people you brushed past briefly yesterday, are all pumpkins. Even an only son, a pumpkin
seed of a leading family, can never produce anything more than another pumpkin.
This seed may be eaten up and disappear for no reason while another one¡¯s seed
produces pumpkins for decades, yet, until we realize as pumpkin-like days pass
in pumpkin-like ways that others¡¯ pumpkins and my pumpkins are all pumpkins
alike, until we admit the pumpkin-like truth that pumpkin is pumpkin right to
the core . . .
Walking
round a cloud-close valley
I
find a temple courtyard, not one monk in sight;
a
small statue of Buddha, opening its heart,
bids me come inside if I¡¯m feeling cold.
The
largest, broadest colors in the world,
divided
between sunlight and shade, embrace the temple—
hunchbacked
pillars bearing up heavy roofs,
twisted,
tattered old wooden pillars
tell
me: always keep your body firm.
Around
the temple, tree roots emerge, split the ground,
stretch
out along hill-paths, breath deeply
while
bamboos¡¯ bare hands, frozen pale green,
wave:
learn at least a scrap of widespread compassion.
Was
that lofty, magnificent lighthouse just an illusion?
The
port I long to visit lies soaked in icy rain
and
although I still can¡¯t believe it,
someone
said there¡¯s a path across the boundless ocean.
You,
growing old together with me,
can
you hear?
The
sea breeze was soft as hidden flesh and
when
chill wavelets met, exchanged their greetings,
the
sea-mist-shrouded house turned down its lights
then
the dark blue outdoors grew slowly brighter.
You,
greeting the evening together with me,
can
you hear?
In
the beginning we were all new.
Do
you remember the novelty of those amazing first times?
Bleeding,
the sea at high tide became fresh,
following
a breath so light and gasping it seemed about to stop.
I
did not realize that I was alive.
Someone out there is listening with ears pricked.
As
the door of the sea, come from afar in welcome, opens
crossing
through this life, passing through homeless cold,
you,
walking the path together with me,
can
you hear?
If
you follow a mysterious glow like a searchlight one dark night,
you
will see a late fall cotton field left for its seeds.
Cotton,
bright abstract composition,
multiplying
one new moon to a thousand, ten thousand,
your
soft, tender approach sheds such great light.
I
am a creature busy living, quick on the uptake,
quite
unable to make wadded clothes or underwear.
My
blood groans if a cold wind blows even a little,
my
flesh quails at the least sound of pouring rain,
the
family with their shrewd excuses always kept crying
so
I had no time to spend at your spacious side.
Growing
older, now I reflect that
the
best thing in life was warmth.
You
whom I have always leaned on in life, so tranquil!
Greediness
makes people wilt.
That
soft white glow is a wilting cotton field!
If
I speak your name, I simply blush for shame.
Cotton!
Can I live here by the grace of having met you?
Now,
like a legend, I long to relax,
stretch
my feet downward, wrap my cold shoulders about.
I
want to have again the soft body I had as a child.
You,
warmth of all embracing and compassion,
I
want to become ageless cotton and grow warm.
The
home of fish is water.
The
home of birds is the sky.
My
home¡¯s the earth, or an empty boat.
Fish
sleep in the river¡¯s murmur.
Birds
sleep in the ring round the moon.
I
sleep in a shuddering body chilled by the earth.
In
their dreams, fish that cannot once in a lifetime
close
their eyes sleep deeply with both eyes closed;
the
dreams of sleeping birds fall onto the trees
and
wake the sleeping trees in moonless nights.
In
the birds¡¯ dreams trees are fragrant.
My
house is the ear of the earth,
my
house where every sound gathers in play
is
the sweat of the earth,
receiving
the salt dissolved in the water,
anxiety,
joy and fevers,
returning
from a long stroll
beyond
the hidden flesh of blessed symbolism.
My
house is earth, a terrestrial boat.
My
house, shaking in terrestrial waves of revolt,
is
a shaky fishing boat.
The
little flame inside this empty house
of
one who used to speak of gentleness
is
today both clearer and more delicate.
This
winter morning, as weighty people gather
and
quietly cross the river of gentleness,
the
cold trees around shake off flurries of snow
and
drink in the river¡¯s dazzling breath.
You,
gentleness that visit me in word and breath,
as
I lay here my frozen hand and lower my brow,
beyond
the city of noisy folk,
my
dear, someone is weeping, shoulders shaking.
Those
humble drops of water leave traces on me
and wash the hot flesh of my wandering days.
Twilight
glow in the evening that ends my day—
what
power the boundless river of gentleness has!
I
wished to become strong by that same color.
Why,
the blazing clouds are not lonely at all!
Are we still calling out to
one another?
One blackbird sitting on a
branch
kept calling out with a
desolate song
then after a time a similar
bird came flying along
and, feigning indifference,
settled on a nearby branch.
So close that its wings
stirred up a breeze.
Are they still calling out
to one another?
That second bird stopped
coming, I don¡¯t know when.
No matter how often its
name was called, it failed to show—
talking in its sleep on
still, dry nights
from the same branch, that
bird still seeking its mate.
Indoors, full and heavy,
prejudice sinks down deep
as the sound of a faraway
train whistle, moss-covered, strangely
pierces the void between night and night then vanishes.
Streetlights are going out
one by one.
And broken hearts roam the
sidewalks.
With even their names
concealed, they all find themselves alone.
Are we still calling out to
one another?
1
Until you came
there was nothing but a
sound of waters,
nothing but a pea-green
sound of waters
flowing from melting high
icy slopes.
It was only when you came
onto the scene
that fireweed blossomed in
bright and dark shades of pink,
covering mountains and
valleys.
Then, belatedly, the wind
arrived.
The pink flowers went
dancing with the wind,
while spruce trees stood on
the shady side
rocking as they kept time
to the beat.
The boisterous flowers at
last grew still
as evening fell. That is
the truth.
Until you came here
there was nothing but a
sound of waters.
Nothing in the world was
moving
except for the sound of
waters.
2
You say you simply raised
your head for a moment
and took a look around?
It was only when you came
that the blue sky appeared.
That is the truth. And the
cotton balls of days gone by,
clouds appeared in the sky.
The flowering weeds seemed
to bob their heads just once,
and a pink-hued path was created
on both sides.
A path stretching from that
lofty above all the way down here,
and along that path that no-one
had walked
you approached, offering
reconciliation.
That is the truth. When I
held your hand
it felt warm and
comforting.
I could see the path
remaining for me to follow,
full of tenderness, and
sure as in the old days.
If you examine the summits
of ice-decked mountains,
each is like a plate.
On it sit huge winds
that have as yet been
unable to fly away.
Do not awaken those pallid
seasons lying on the plate,
those small black bugs,
dashed expectations
that only live in the
eternal ice of frozen mountains
as if non-existent, each
one prostrate in the moss.
Do not awaken that
wide-eyed, cold obsession.
Those bugs can never fly
away, even when summer comes,
they cannot set off, though
they grow old as we do.
If their six frozen legs
and frozen necks ever stir
that lonely ice will break
without hesitation.
The wind, hastily preparing
to set off, is donning its clothes.
A sound of melting ice goes
rushing down toward the villages.
The salmon that have
returned, struggling far upstream,
their bodies changing
color, all dark red,
gather in water too shallow
to cover them fully
and mate to the sound of
flapping
then even before they have
finished mating
their bodies flail as they
are devoured by bears.
This is not Purgatory; what
an expression!
Shaking off the stains of
blood, summer is departing in haste.
After the stench of blood
has been carried downstream,
the wild plants beside the
stream stand gray-haired, suddenly aged.
Where is the pervasive fragrance
they had at their peak?
Feigning boredom, they turn
their backs, comb their hair, and die.
It was the artist who used
to make invisible things visible, wasn¡¯t it?
Not realizing they have
died, they keep calling out to other wild plants.
The breeze, familiar to our
ears, now blooms into autumn flowers.
Where do you find what I
cannot fill
and with it fill the empty
space?
How do you fill up the
corners
and overcome the feverish
chill
which I couldn¡¯t possibly
cover?
How far and perilous lies
the place
where you are seeking,
wandering endlessly,
tossing and turning in
sleep?
Someday I would like to
enter
within you, that troubling
place,
and find what is hidden
deep in the marsh..
All night long your
shoulders tremble gently.
How long were those harsh
years of bitterness,
such that you endured
wounds and bruises which
cannot be dressed by simply
covering them with a blanket?
Early in the morning, the
bed is not easily warmed.
No matter how strong the
bonds of destiny, you realize
that we cannot wholly fill
each other.
So you set off for
somewhere far away, hiding an empty heart,
and now you dream,
summoning all those decades of nights.