Moon Dok-soo was born in 1928 in Haman, South Kyongsang Province. He graduated from the Korean Language and Literature Department of Hongik University, Seoul, and holds doctorates in Korean literature from both Korea University, Seoul, and Skuba University, Japan. He initiated his literary career in 1955 with the recommendation and publication of poems including 'Ch'immuk' (Silence) in the review Hyondae Munhak. His published volumes of poetry include Hwanghol (Fascination) (1956), Son.Konggan (Line . Space) (1966), Saebyok pada (Ocean at dawn) (1975), Yongwonhan kkot'pat' (Eternal Flowerbed) (1976), Saranamun uritulmani 6worul tasi maja (Only we survived to see June again) (1980), Tari nohki (Bridge-laying) (1982), Chogumssik churimyonso (Lessening littel by little) (1986), Mannamul wihan allegro (Allegro for encounters) (1990). He has also published a number of collections of critical essays and contributed to many others.

He has received many major awards and prizes over the years and is one of the leading figures in the Korean literary establishment, having served as director and chief editor of the review Simunhak, as president of the poetry section of the Korean Literature Association, as president of the Modern Poets' Association, and until recently as president of the Korean branch of International P.E.N.. He was until recently the president of the Korean Culture and Arts Foundation. He is a member of the Korean Academy of Arts and Letters.

His early poems are quests for the inner meanings inherent in nature, but later his interests grew wider, even extending to the criticism of civilization. Nonetheless, the main characteristic of his work is the way in which he approaches his topic, whatever it may be, from a specifically "animistic" perspective. All the objects figuring in his poems exist in relationship with living beings while at the same time they are in sympathetic harmony with the poet's own spiritual world.

In many ways the main poetic quality of his work comes from the ways in which he deconstructs language, setting words in renewed relationship without the usual grammatical framework. By so doing he offers a paradigm of confusion, symbolic of the state of modern Korea, and a hope of harmony as his poems take the reader through a creative process of reading and interpretation.

The sound of thousands of footsteps:
that indeed is dance.

The wall,
a thousand walls outpacing,
at times soars up, rising abruptly from hiding,
comes in hot pursuit as if waiting in line to flee far away.

The wall at times stands square, obstructs
and at times encloses, an immobile circle;
walls soar above the wall,
above those walls other walls rise up,

and as the walls grow bright like glass
within them other walls go soaring aloft.
The city is one gigantic goldfish bowl
the buildings are fish bowls too, piled floor upon floor.

Where shall I go?
I am a goldfish in one such bowl.

Yellow-green, one infant butterfly feebly
fluttering its way across the road is
a scrap of colored paper torn up by God.
It nearly collides with the side of a trundling bus,
spins in the swirling blast of wind
from a nimbly speeding taxi
and writhes as if about to go soaring aloft,
then narrowly escapes.
Abruptly caught on the windscreen of a black sedan
it zooms away as if falling over a precipice,
before restoring its balance with a sense of relief.
One infant butterfly,
snared, dragged off, colliding, is
a scrap of colored paper torn off by God.

A rock is rolling, falling
over a cliff:
today a rhododendron sees it

then today, a thousand years
after that rhododendron withered and faded
a pine tree on that cliff sees it

then today, a thousand years
after that pine grew parched and died,
a crane visiting its trailing branches sees it

then today, a thousand years
after all trace of that crane was lost
a gull from the far ends of the ocean sees it

then today, another thousand years
after that gull passed on its way

that rock rolling, falling over a cliff,
catching sight of itself...

The empty glass
on the table
simply stands there, looking the same as yesterday.
It is neither asleep
nor open-eyed.

It simply stands until someone comes stepping lightly
carefully fills it full of water,
or until a day later, or a year later,
an empty hand comes
and grasps it.

Beside it an ashtray
with spent matches,
a year later again
beyond it a rusty lighter
lies abandoned like some dead soul.

The empty hand that comes and goes as if crossing
back and forth between this world and the world beyond,
that transparent skull,
those thirsting lips:
while they all lie rotting in the tomb,

the empty glass
simply stands there, looking the same as yesterday.

I sit down on a chair. A chair that the person who sat there before me vacated, leaving it empty, and there is no telling how many people sat and then left it previous to that. I get up from the chair. There is no chair left for me to transfer to. The moment I spent sitting on that chair is the whole of my being, my light and my darkness, my love and my sorrow. The people who are going to sit on the chair I have left are like people queuing up at a bus-stop. I cannot imagine the end of their waiting. I can only feel regretfully my pulse, the moment of its subsiding.

(Text prepared for the Columbia Anthology of Modern Korean Poetry but not included in it)

Mun Doksu

Mun Doksu (1928-  ): Born in Haman, South Kyongsang Province. Graduated from the Korean Language and Literature Department of Hongik University, Seoul. Initiated his literary career in 1955 with the recommendation and publication of poems including "Ch'immuk" in the review "Hyondae Munhak". His published volumes of poetry include "Hwanghol" (1956), "Son Konggan" (1966), "Saebyok pada" (1975), "Yongwonhan kkot'pat" (1976), "Saranamun uritulmani 6worul tasi maja" (1980), "Tari nohki" (1982), "Chogumssik churimyonso" (1986), "Mannamul wihan allegro" (1990). His early poems are quests for the inner meanings inherent in nature, but later his interests grew wider, even extending to the criticism of civilization. Nonetheless, the main characteristic of his work is the way in which he approaches his topic, whatever it may be, from a specifically animistic perspective. All the objects figuring in his poems exist in relationship with living beings, while at the same time they are in sympathetic harmony with the poet's own spiritual world.
 
 

The Sea at Dawn

Many
suns
like tiny balls
come bursting from the far ends of the sea.
A solid hail of bullets shoots up.
Like animals
they speed whirring hither
and away.
The sea, ripe as an apple, boils and seethes.
A volley.
Each of the suns gets stuck
in a densely pierced hole like a hive.
The sea is a jewel-box.
 
 

One Span Apart

Two palms this close,
two leaves this close,
coming close, one span apart;
if one moves a fraction forward
the other withdraws as much
and thus eternally face to face
keeping just one span apart,
they are like absolute life.
A thousand years after leaving the tree,
ten thousand years after leaving a soul,
together at last after wandering wandering,
unable to move farther apart,
unable to come closer together,
absolute life one span apart.
 

Repetition

Hey, you, little dwarf turning about on the seashore.
You're a rock, aren't you? not a child, not a hare,
but a rock breathing once in a thousand years?
Ah, you crazy, crazy fellow.
The wide sea has puckered to the size of a leaf.

Hey, you, totem turning about on the seashore.
You're a bamboo pole, aren't you?
standing upright after ten thousand years?
Ah, you crazy, crazy fellow,
turning as if you were hurling thunder-bolts.
The sea withdraws far off and advances again,
why, close about your groin.

Someone is turning about on the seashore.
Even the deeply stamped seal-like footprints
are buried by sand as they turn about.
White waves advance then withdraw again.
Some day simply collapsing, buried,
swept away, a mere bleached skeleton,
then brought floating back, a moment's silver gleam.
 

Untitled

A rock is rolling, falling
over a cliff:
today a rhododendron sees it

then today, a thousand years
after that rhododendron withered and faded
a pine tree on that cliff sees it

then today, a thousand years
after that pine grew parched and died,
a crane visiting its trailing branches sees it

then today, a thousand years
after all trace of that crane was lost
a gull from the far ends of the ocean sees it

then today, another thousand years
after that gull passed on its way

that rock rolling, falling over a cliff,
catching sight of itself...
 

Practice for Death

After walking for a time, one leg grows stiff like an electric shock. It's a message from the other world. Still I go hobbling on. A shot from somewhere comes rending the darkness, pierces my guts and passes on. Clutching my stomach with both hands, I collapse onto the roadway. It's just like picking up scraps of abandoned rags, or even picking up a few lines of poetry or a few dream jewels after being sick, then closing my eyes.
Once you're dead you lie in the grave with your back on the ground, your face to the sky. There's no possibility of being buried upright or sitting with your back a bit bent. This posture of death--it's the same for trees when they're cut. The ground offers just enough room to this new lump of clay that for a time has been a human body. It offers firm support like a bed, and covering snug like an eiderdown. The ground's embrace is the same for everyone.
Every night I practice being dead. By day I am up working and chattering but when evening comes, I lie with eyes closed. I return to the posture of death. When day breaks, I get up again, stand on my two feet, walk, run, move about. It's training for my return to the posture of death--eternal rest. For a beautiful death...
 
 
 
 

Translated by Brother Anthony of Taize