The Early Lyrics of Midang, So Chong-Ju
(1915 – 2000)
Nightingale (1948)
A whispered secret
Suni! Yongi! And Nam gone to rest!
Open your firmly closed ash-hued gates and come
out,
see the flower-buds lingering at the fringes of
the sky!
See the unfolding flower-buds cheek to cheek,
at the cozy fringes of the sky, tents woven
with endless silk strands for warp and weft.
Suni! Yongi! And Nam gone to rest!
See
the flower-buds breathing
at the fringes of the springtime sky, warm as a
loving breast.
To a turtle
Turtle, slowly slowly paddling across the
stream,
evenly quietly breathing, go ploughing on.
Go, parting with your claws the springtime
petals
that drop to the furrowed waters like distant
echoes
of secret whispers, then return.
Today my heart has caught fire again,
so that all my face is ablaze.
My speechless limbs are all a-tremble
like those of a new-born grasshopper
as the rays of the setting sun decline.
Turtle,
poke out and flourish your green head under the
clouds
and I'll beat my drum,
I'll beat my booming drum, turtle.
Sunset has come for me and my brethren,
purple twilight glimmers on distant hills;
I beg you, though you may be hoarse,
speak one word with the old, age-old voice
of the blood that flows under your thick shell.
Untitled
Here may be
rock's most solid heart, intolerably green. The green heart of rock that can
never be ploughed by even the sharpest ploughshare blade.
Here may be the
kingdom of heaven. It may be the grieving grieving countryside where
grasshoppers sing in tender meadows.
Ah, here is how
many thousand leagues away? How many thousands of leagues of hill and sea? How
many leagues so dry I cannot cross?
Here may be a
dream. A lovely lovely dream with even a tavern set beside a noble lady's tomb.
A flower
A flower has bloomed, sweetly sweetly bathed
in the gasping breath of people long dead.
Their dishevelled hair as it was in those days,
gestures and voices just as they were then:
here the songs of those long dead still remain.
Alas! Now their sound rings above the sky, the
songs
those long dead used to sing, with their oily
tresses,
each one sweating for heat, then gone for good.
Friend, let's rest before we go, let's rest,
then go.
Here, in the shadow of this vast flower newly
opened
let's rest, my friend, then go on our way.
Quenching our thirst at each spring we pass,
let's lean our chins on moss-covered stones
and gaze at the sky: one slip and we'll not see
it again.
The Herdsman's song
For the good of
our love
there must be
parting, yes, parting.
There must be
waves lapping, up and down,
with winds that
drive them to and fro.
For our
love-longing's good
there must be
the blue waters of the Milky Way.
In this lonely
place of no return
there must be
nothing but one body ablaze!
Dear Lady
Weaver, alone here on the sparkling sands
I'll count the
blades of grass that sprout,
while high
above in the white white clouds
you pass your
shuttle in the loom.
Until the
seventh month's seventh day returns
and the
half-moon hangs, a brow arching in the sky,
I'll pasture my
black cow
and you, Lady
Weaver, will weave your silken cloth.
Revolution
The red and
green pattern mottling the shell
is the sea's
hope, the sea's,
that has
seethed alone for thousands of years.
The flowers
that unfold till the branches crack
are the wind's
hope, the wind's,
that comes and
whispers here day after day.
Ah! The
revolution now spreading like a flood
across our land
with its crimson servitude
is truly
heaven's own long-kept hope.
A Song of the Goddess of Mercy
in the Stone Cavern
Here I have
long stood, yearning
with a yearning
like that of the tide.
Deep in the
cracks between stone and cold stone
under the
tangled arrowroot vines
stirs a fresh
breath of youth: that still is mine.
Until Time
reduces me to useless dust,
for ever
returns me to the void, the void,
the waves
contained in this swelling heart
and this love:
they still are mine.
Days that dawn
in the busy wind!
Marvellous
Silla buried deep underground!
Flowerlike
people buried deep underground!
Oh! If only He
would come to birth, come to birth,
that One who
loves me more than I,
that One who
loves a thousand years, a thousand years,
if only He
would come to birth anew in the sunlight,
if only, once
born anew in the sunlight
he would drive
me away, away into the dark.
I love you. .
. I love you. . .
if only, having
once spoken those words to my Love,
if only I could
return to the sea!
So I have stood
here by Buddha's seated statue,
with a tiny
incense sack in my loin,
breathing in
and out, as day follows day,
inside this
cold rock,
with a fresh
breath of youth, alas, still mine.
An alley
This alley that I frequent day after day.
This alley I step into alone early in the
morning,
to which I return gently humming at sunset.
This alley where poor, lonely, waning people
come and go hunched, their eyes to the ground.
The ungrieving blue sky
covers this alley like a sheet,
on the rooftops white gourd flowers bloom;
as if this alley were soon to be swept away,
in every corner grief seeps like a rising tide;
if the wind blows, the shacks just shake in the
breeze.
This alley where peddlars live, Palman and
Bokdong.
Until I'm old, I'll love this alley,
I'll live in this alley until I die.
Nightingale
The path my love took is speckled with tears.
Playing his flute, he began the long journey
to western realms, where azalea rains fall.
Dressed all in white so neat, so neat,
my love's journey's too long, he'll never
return.
I might have tressed shoes or sandals of straw
woven strand by strand with all our sad story.
Cutting off my poor hair with a silver blade,
I might have used that to weave sandals for him.
In the weary night sky, as silk lanterns glow,
a bird sings laments that it cannot contain,
refreshing its voice in the Milky Way's
meanders;
eyes closed, intoxicated with its own blood.
My dear, gone to heaven's end alone!
Open the door
Your pale breast grows colder and colder,
though I bathe it with tears, to no avail:
will it gain warmth if I rub it with this
flower?
I've prayed and prayed, for nine days and
nights,
but your azure breath still flees away:
will it return if I rub it with this flower?
High up in the sky, in the Milky Way,
where pairs of wild geese plough the frost,
ah! that desolate flower-bed, blue and red!
Open the door! I beg you, open the door!
Dearest lord, my love!
Cotton flowers
Sister!
I cannot help
but weep.
Red and white
cotton flowers soak meekly
in the azure
that pools like well-water,
sister.
I suppose you
grew them, my dear?
The autumn
azure's so taut it would ring at a touch;
there even the
rocks are falling, crumbling. . . .
As you passed
through drug-like spring,
passed on
through senseless summer,
taking tangled
short-cuts full of plantains and weeds,
bending your
back, did you grow those flowers?
Sister's house
Go ten thousand leagues across the sea,
ten thousand leagues beyond the hills,
if there you climb down, a lamp in your hand,
you'll find a
well of water.
If you sink a thousand fathoms down
into the water's inky depths,
there you'll find, like an oyster shell,
a robber's den
concealed.
Open the main gate, open the middle gate,
open the gate of stone;
if you turn into wind and slip through the gap,
there you'll
find my sister so dear.
The robber's away,
my sister's alone,
sitting in white at her mirror there.
Azure day
This azure day
is too bright for our eyes!
How we miss the
lover we long for!
See there,
there, mellow colours looming
among autumn
flowers grown weary of green.
What shall we
do when it snows?
What shall we
do when spring comes back?
Suppose I die,
and you survive!
Suppose you
die, and I survive!
This azure day
is too bright for our eyes!
How we miss the
lover we long for!
Stay at home
Little girl,
ah, little girl,
stay at home.
Stay at home
where the
dandelions bloom.
Picking
plantains,
plaiting
sandals,
and gazing at
far away mountains
pale beyond
yellow bamboo groves.
Despite some
grief and sorrows,
little girl,
ah, little girl,
stay at home.
Returning to Soguipo
Like a weeping
cuckoo that wipes its eyes
in the leaves
sprouting so abundantly
high in the
hills,
like a west
wind, a south wind,
a whirlwind,
like the fish
that glide in the ocean flood,
today I'm going
to Soguipo.
Limbs swinging,
I'm off to Soguipo.
Clouds rise
with every step
I take,
wings sprout
in my panting
breath,
today I'm going
to Soguipo.
I'm off to dear
old Soguipo.
A red sky
The river flows
westwards,
the wind flows
through willow trees,
on a meadow
path with fresh flowers blooming
we stand
brushing tears away, about to part,
and above our
heads the clouds flow by,
your two red
cheeks,
your panting
breath,
your love, and
vows all flow away,
in this autumn
dusk adrift with falling leaves
I must watch
the red glow of the sky alone.
A little song
What's that you
say?
Too near, much
too near?
Ah, sky, blue
sky,
you're driving
me mad!
I, still
myself,
never hungry
for more,
reaching up,
I'm petrified.
A march
The party's over now.
We sit down to a last dish of broth
as the bright fire burns itself out,
leaving ashes behind.
The awning comes down, look, the darkling sky!
Come on, let's stand up and say goodbye.
At last, just a little bit drunk,
we all become people on their way home:
What a life!
What a life!
What a life!
What a life!
As I batter away, the sound of my chimes drops
into the far-off sea.
Dandelion
Ridiculous! A white dandelion's bloomed.
Under a sky that makes you weep,
tee hee! Silly! hee hee! how droll!
People, like a team of acrobats, in pants
with blood-stained belts around their waists,
are panting away: if ever we're caught, oh dear!
Collapsing in a convenient barley field,
they loose eyes and noses, and frustrated love
too,
like liquor, like liquor,
I'll fly up too and become azure in the air.
In Manchuria
My! This is too
much sky. If I were to go rushing away, where would I go? It would be easy to
go mad here, mad as red cloth. Are there really people returning after a
thousand years, ah, a thousand years of pleasure alone?
There is a drum
here, rather than a bell. Is that a kind of inevitable extravagance, that
cannot be heard from far away? There was no last name to be called, really. How
is it that when you see me, when I see you, we cannot help laughing?
Strictly
speaking, there was nothing like Harbin City at all. To you and me, there was
nothing like that. There was nothing at all, no scent of early peach-blossom,
no sound of speaking, no disease.
At nightfall
At nightfall,
dear Sook, I remember you. Tiny and neat
as a rocambole
corm, I recall every inch of you:
the curve of
your brow and eyes, your nose, your waist,
the length of
your body, your hair, your neck,
yes, the length
of your neck, uniquely slender,
and the
sorrowful voice that rang inside it.
Those sorrowful
notes, a cuckoo's call in an ancient tongue.
Inside hard
stone, over yellow clay fields rang the sound
of still
waters, an ancient clock, the hands of that clock.
Day after day
the sun rose, ran, and set
on crumbling
stones, mother's relics, your red eyes,
leaving red
twilight behind and, darker still,
your
inner heart. Your hunger.
And cords of
yellow straw twisted round
the pine-tree
branches high in the grove,
the murky
slowly turning clouds, dark clouds,
with inside
them a voice calling, calling my name,
repeatedly
calling, like the name of a flower:
your death,
perhaps?
Perhaps,
perhaps,
perhaps,
ah, you too,
daughter of those who flee!
Trailing rubber
slippers with their black turtle mark,
trailing
worn-out slippers over mountain roads,
steep mountain
passes where rushes wave, then
you could go
any way you chose.
In places all
are brought together, travelling third-class,
going on foot,
by steamer too,
in Mokpo or
Kunsan. Anywhere
somewhere up the countless alleys there
in the monstrous buildings, mushrooming
homes,
all those houses with lights clicking on
and off,
the Stock Company Limited,
the Public and Private Monetary Fund,
the Evangelical Chapel, a bell ringing
for Mass,
obscene whorehouses, the people there,
people, people,
and finally, by your suicide. . . .
At the lowest levels of ferro-cement,
ferro-cement,
where countless beads, screws, and
cog-wheels hang,
maybe in some grim inner room of an
employment agent's
you were forced to remove even your
underclothes,
those underclothes chaste beneath your
skirt.
You clutched and clutched with your ten
dark nails,
but at last, in the end, you were forced
to go.
Ah, Sook!
The evening breezes sigh in the dark, in
the darkness
here inside the wall I hear a thin voice
like a cricket's
calling, calling me!
In the central provinces, or far to the
south,
in some wretched bar in a rainswept port,
in the depths of my spinal cord, calling
me now,
showing two rows of pure white teeth.
The voice of humanity's every wretched
last inch.
Like a bell's endless drone, or a
telegraph wire.
Like the sea, blue-black, or shouts of
acclaim,
like blood,
like blood,
flowing, moist, at the tip of my knife.
Sook! Now I'm through with remembering
you;
I'm cleaning the blade of my glistening
sword.
Neap tide
Scrabbling
through the tidal slime,
catching things
like tiny crabs to eat,
shall we go mad
at lean yellow neap tide?
The faithful
sea waters that had sworn to meet us
came as far as
our chins, but alas
the reins were
not loosed, we could not go.
As we stand
weeping like pillars of fire,
look, an extra
toe has sprouted.
Ah! We'll
simply choke parched, and sweat,
and set like
the sun on the neap tide's steep climb;
we'll never, ah
never, meet again.
Travellers' rest
Pursued along
side-ways and by-ways,
when I emerge
after flailing through brambles,
my legs are
torn to a raw red hash,
the stones grow
wet with drops of blood. . .
when tears rise
since there is no one near
I go dashing
onwards at random,
devouring all
the tart wild berries my hands can reach.
As I eat wild
scarlet-tinged berries in days of wild birdsong, then gaze at the sun,
my sight grows
clear.
Let's forget.
Let's forget.
Father, mother,
and wife, beneath pale paper lanterns,
their mournful
customs, their sorrowful speech,
all tossed away
like torn white clothes;
now my stomach
must resemble some fierce leopard.
Though iron
bars enclose me here and there for a time,
when I come
out, again the dead, more piercing than ever!
Though they
dress me again in thin red clothing,
my hope is a
blazing sea beyond red hot desert sands!
I'll go, I'll
go on, entrusting to heaven each flower-like age,
every step
passing beyond sand-dunes. . .
sand-dunes. . .
where they say
vipers' eyes lie buried bright like stars
my heart's
desire will ever be lasting joy,
though I lie in
some vast flower's shadow,
a skeleton
scoured in vain by the purple wind.
Why do I so want to live?
-
Hanging her basket on an empty branch,
where,
ah where has my true love gone?
(O
Il-do)
When nothing at
all is possible I think of home.
I recall long-lost
shapes that can never return, the forms of things that have vanished like mist.
Voices brush
past, whispering faintly in my ears, voices echo ringing from some other, far
off world, no single word is clear.
But still I can
sense the sound of your breathing. Little girls! where are you resting? I feel
my youth being restored by the warmth of your breath.
What was it you
once said to me?
In the sky,
that is now as it was in the beginning, a skylark draws a slender brush-stroke
of blood, then flows away engulfed in clouds, while I strive to grasp the
delight of a life I cannot live as I would, standing again before the still
tightly closed stone gates of the journey ahead.
*
I was standing
on a sloping road that ran between the barley fields covered by the afternoon
shadows of the hills, following behind those four young girls: Sopsopy and
Suny, Puchopy and Sunnye. That day, you were wearing bright-coloured blouses,
crimson, azure, and white, like the four seas of legends.
From above came
the distant sound of a boat-whistle. Sunnae said it was the whistle of God. . .
each of the maids bore a basket, bent her back, but they were not really
looking for plants, oh no, they were each one intent on that far far off sound.
And each bowed her head in a kind of regret.
But it was
something that I could not detect. No matter how softly I might tread, it was
something that I could not detect.
Only it spread
a clear long-lasting fragrance as I kicked at the clumps of dandelion flowers;
it hid behind the dog-rose hedge and sped on its way much faster than I. The
louder the voice of my calling became, the further it sped away.
Don't come
here. . . Don't come here. . .
Laughing
softly, it flowed away like a stream, like the four maidens' stream.
One scrap of memory,
my two hands held high, for up there in the sky a single skylark. . . that
alone remained, as everything flowed quietly away, murmuring. Don't come here.
. . Don't come here. . .
*
Little girls!
the day when I must leave, will you come back again? Will you return, when I
must go for ever? Will you pour out happy tears like Mary of Magdala, and wipe
my fingertips with your hair?
*
Why, when I
pricked myself on a thorn, in my pain the four of them used to come and stand
beside me. When I cut myself on a rose thorn or a shard, in my pain they would
come to make it better with mother-like fingers.
When my
childhood blood pearled at fingers' ends, if one of them cared the four cared,
and strange to say, my scratches would always heal, whether they were rubbed
with a yellow flower, with a white flower, or a red!
Lord Chong! my love! Lord Chong!
Your sweetheart has come, so open the door!
If you rub with a red flower
red blood returns,
with an azure flower
azure breath returns.
*
Little girls! why
is the sky so blue when the rain-clouds have gone? Why can I somewhere hear so
clearly a sound of breathing? Why do I so want to live? Has my breast been
rubbed with some flower?
*
Standing in a
meadow at the foot of a cliff where a few sparse dandelions bloom, a mere soul,
I invoke those little girls.
I am sure they
have been protecting me. If only this rain falling inside me would stop, if I
could only go back and stand again on that sloping road, if only this sickness
could quickly be made well: all they were always waiting for, always, on that
long-ago barley-field path.
*
The day when I must leave for ever, will you
come back again?