Contents
The Riddle of the
¡®Can-¡¯ in Cancer
Translator:
Brother Anthony of Taizé
In
times when the earth and the moon were much closer together than now
and
the moon looked bigger
in
times when one year lasted eight hundred days and one day was eleven hours
long,
you
went dragging the animals you¡¯d caught in your snares,
there
was a day when snow fell intent on obliterating the path you had made
and
all things under heaven froze.
As
the ice melted again, the world briefly grew sad,
then
that nameless night froze again, just like the river,
and
once the people on the far side of that frozen night, seeming anxious,
gathering by the riverside, lit fires,
the
people on this side of the night lit fires too, anxious for those on the other
side.
Taking
thought for one another that dark night
you
finally cut off a finger.
In
times when the earth and the moon were much closer and the moon looked bigger,
in
times when one year lasted five hundred days and one day was sixteen hours long
you
came to take me away.
Seeming
disinclined to reveal the promise you made to God, you said:
no
one survives such seasons now,
so
let¡¯s return to wrinkled faces aged 120, 90, 82 years old.
However,
the promise I have to keep
means
advancing toward that dark, silent vanishing point.
Until
the earth and the moon have moved far apart and the moon looks small.
Until
one year lasts three hundred and sixty five days and one day is twenty-four
hours long.
A
road curves to the left; the wall beside it is deeply scored with numerous
gashes.
A
couple of places, gashed deeply many times, are really dark.
They¡¯re
signs of insignificant efforts, striking weakly then returning with hearts
vexed.
I
lived behind that wall.
I
lived believing it would be brief and I lived believing it would last long.
When
I finally realized that I can do nothing about things happening behind my back,
pinched then hardening, then pinched again before hardening enough,
My
mind¡¯s bone cracked and even the ceiling was tattered but suddenly my heart
went racing as at first and abruptly the nape of my neck gave off a summer
smell.
Autumn
is cold, water too is cold.
The
moment my shadow, that had been wandering here and there in a circular cruel
room
slowly
nibbling leaves, sighed
At
that moment might the word man have arisen?
That
remote long-ago today
At
the place where that word man went soaring aloft
might
a sorrowful blunt icicle been attached?
It¡¯s
a breast kneaded with sorrow, like the wind, like a bow,
otherwise,
surely, it could never be so out-of breath.
Saying
it¡¯s the sound of a far-away train won¡¯t do,
and
saying it¡¯s the smell of rain will do even less.
I
can grasp the inner and outer aspects of the word woman
but
the word man, that nothing seems capable of replacing,
is
sorrowful and cold, so as I try to grasp my wife who struggles to escape,
it
seems hot blood will well from my hands.
At
first sunlight appeared but then eyes¡¯ light would also appear,
the
breast would appear, feelings would appear.
The
wind¡¯s habit, turning one man into two,
ten
men into twenty, a hundred, a thousand,
then
commits them to the flames,
devouring
that wind as I look back,
making
the blood circulate in my tree and branches,
is
what has made the millennia flow heedlessly past before you.
That
wind has not yet, not yet ended splendidly.
Translator:
Brother Anthony of Taizé
In
gusting wind
short-stemmed
plants shudder and tremble
yet
no one pays attention.
Because
of the solitary trembling
of
one moment in the life of those slender things,
one
evening of the universe finally fades into night.
Between
this side and the other side of that trembling, in the gap
between
the start and end of that moment, a stillness of
infinitely
ancient former times, or maybe an infant stillness
destined
to belong to a time that has not yet come,
is
shallowly buried, visible yet not visible,
while
within the spring sunlight of that listless stillness
I
wearily long to fall asleep for a century or two,
or
three months and ten days at least.
Then
beside my infinity, bearing the name of three months or ten days,
butterflies
or bees, insects with nothing much to brag of,
may
heedlessly go brushing past;
at
that, as if in a dream,
I
think I shall recognize a familiar smell borne on those tiny creatures¡¯ feelers
or wings or infant legs
as
your gaze that grew so deep in some other lifetime.
Removing
your clothes like old newsprint
I
lay you down raw on a damp mattress and look down on you.
Your
gnarled hands and feet have lost their vigor
How
weary the skinny limbs and ribs look.
I¡¯m
sorry.
Using
you, I earned a living,
got
a woman and set up house but
the
only things left are stale sweat and a nightmare road.
Again
I laid the pure thing you are
in
a secluded corner of unfamiliar ground.
Alas!
I¡¯m
not saying there were no good days, yet
the
way to paying even a meager wage for your labors is far away.
Now
I¡¯m wondering if I would like to go away quietly,
simply
leaving you sleeping here.
What
about it, body?
An
approaching butterfly—
what
can that be on its back?
I
don¡¯t know; a scrap of declining midday¡¯s lonely shadows
in
one corner of an empty house¡¯s yard?
Could
it be the weeping of a child left alone
dribbling
out
the
rice and kimchi soup it¡¯s eaten?
Could
it be a weeping like layers of dirt emerging,
accumulating
on jaw and front?
Bearing
on its back a midday no one takes care of, a blinding solitude,
as
it goes. How far
are
you going, butterfly?
Before
it, there were days
when
I felt like silently kneeling down.
Translator:
Brother Anthony of Taizé
I
walk across a frozen pond.
Here
is where the water-lilies were.
Under
here was the black rock where the catfish would hide.
Occasionally
a cracking sound as if it is splitting
as
love grows deeper.
All
the irises are bent over.
My
shoulders, knees, feet, that all summer long I saw reflected, sitting on this
rock, have frozen like the irises.
They
too show no sign of having watched the reflection of something before this.
Although
the fourteenth-day moon comes in its course, icily
all
remain silent.
Suppose
someone comes along,
loud
steps treading on the pond,
and
addresses me anxiously, saying:
¡°This
is where I used to be.¡±
¡°This
is where that star used to come.¡±
After
examining the stump of the plum-tree outside the gate buried years ago,
there
being as yet no sign,
back
in my room after adjusting my icy shadow,
I
unrolled and hung up on the eastward wall a painting of pink plum-blossom
by
Master Ko-San.
Plum-blossom
painting was a favorite pastime of people long ago, so suppose I
wash
my face, at least, sit down and greet the old days?
On
branches extending hesitantly to the left, five fully blooming flowers,
three
buds;
after
bending it again, on the branches appearing on that part four buds now spread,
uh
uh, five,
so
on which of them do I wish I was now?
The
love in retrospect
and
the void in anticipation are crystal clear.
After
full consideration, going out with icy shoulders
I
once again squat before the plum-tree stump.
As
the sound of evening bells comes close at dusk,
darkness
comes, rocks come,
and
someone¡¯s eyes come too,
come
. . .
When
I turned off the light everything revived with open eyes; I was really afraid.
I
shut my eyes.
As
I grew up, when I turned off the light
nothing
could be seen; that¡¯s good.
Smiles
may rise,
tears
may suddenly emerge,
that¡¯s
good.
And
then, after that,
finally
turning on the light again,
all
at once I¡¯m already thirty, forty or fifty.
When
I turn off the light
everything
seems just like a pond;
embracing
in my arms the air as it slips away,
like
wild rose petals falling
I
feel my pulse.
Translator: Min
Eun Kyung
A girls' commercial high
school graduate, I lived in the hills of Ahyeon-dong with insects and their
long long feelers, an orphan though not an orphan, worked as a clerk for
monthly rent, monthly supplies of rice, for that I sold my youth, my
flower-like youth, who says I was sad? I would meet my friends in college
and stutter but it was not poverty keeping me from school, an orphan though not
an orphan, I would stutter too when the insects with their long feelers crawled
out from the bikini-thin closet, ooh-oh-oh, on Sundays I would eat a bowl of
sausage in the Ahyeon market, no one asked why I always came alone, and I ate
in grateful silence, an orphan though not an orphan.
A girls' commercial high
school graduate, I worked in a tall tall building, spent my flower-like youth
realizing it was not I who was tall, but who says I was bitter? In the
unlit room the insects with their long long feelers prospered, scurrying away
into sightless spaces, not unlike myself, my family though not my family, my
eyes blinking as I lit the coal and thought of dying seventies-style in the
invisible haze of coal fumes rising, but the insects' feelers kept tap, tap,
tapping my brow, ooh-oh-oh, my family though not my family, my flower-like
youth tasted of insects, in an old Ahyeon bookstore I met the man who woke up
one day as an insect, stroke of luck that comes once in a lifetime, and now I
am true family with the insects with the long long feelers, ooh-oh-oh, see how
I tap out my telegraph lies, tap, tap, my lies of a poem!
In the shadow
of the man she stands, her grief lonely as papyrus scrolls with their secret
epistles, do they cry do they confess are they lonely, are they lonely like the
music of Piazzola, are they sad like the shadow of the flowering hawthorn tree,
or perhaps not, or is that all? In the man's shadow that has no eyes,
nose, or mouth she stands muttering, as if she were slicing an apple, let us
say that love is just love, she slices off the man's eyes, nose, and mouth, she
feasts, and laughingly spits out the man like a black apple seed.
Translator: Min
Eun Kyung
The
dragonflies have disappeared from the sky
My
hands are empty
Hands
that held on to the days
Once
more, I slowly open my eyes
My
hands are empty
I
walked by a stern tombstone
How
can I, a weakling, fathom the diamond in
the Diamond Sutra
The
day will come
Just
as the dragonflies have disappeared from the sky
The
day I will be gently released from this place
Where
did they go
Did
they follow the summer thunder
Did
they follow the summer thunder
They
landed in noisy droplets on the leaves of grass
The
snow that fell in bells all night has stopped
I
stand alone
my thoughts are far
Small
bird, red-breasted bird on the vine
You
came and wept Suddenly you are gone
Why
did you leave so suddenly leaving me no time to call your name
Your
cry is tender, tender like winter light passing through
the papered door
Who
is it that draws up that cry from my ear
Someone
once came to visit left tears
Dyed
red in my
heart
No
one can now
remove
In
Room 302, Gamcheon Hospital, a room for six,
she
lies wearing an oxygen mask, battling cancer.
Like
a flatfish resting on the ocean floor, she lies flat and low.
I
lay myself by her side, parallel and flat as a flatfish.
As
one flatfish glances at the other, her eyes swell with tears.
In
her thinness one eye has skimmed over to the other side,
she
only looks at death while I gaze at the sea of her life.
I
recall her ocean life, swaying left and right, in the watery seas,
her
wooded trail, its noontime cuckoo song,
thin
noodle dinners, a family that owned barely a mud wall.
Her
two legs are being slowly broken apart,
her
spine bent like a tree branch crushed by the sudden snow.
I
think of that winter day.
Her
breath grows rough like the bark of an elm.
I
know now she cannot see the world outside of death,
her
eyes are swept into each other¡¯s darkness.
Left,
right, I rock toward her to lie next to her in the sea
as
she blankets me softly with water inhaled through the oxygen mask.
Translator: Wayne de Fremery
Go
to the tangle of wild rose bushes, you said, when you left home before the
wedding that spring morning.
Shaving
an eyebrow in the mirror, I was sure I¡¯d forget you before a crescent moon rose
in its place.
In
town, the wedding hall would have been noisy; the bride would have cried tears
of joy. I hurried toward the thicket to read the letter you left under a white
bowl turned upside down. I read some of it, but couldn¡¯t finish.
Time
passed. While I wandered, twenty years went by in unfamiliar cities. A gong
sounds and we jump on stage, startled. In the bushes on the hill near home, there
is the faint white light of that soup bowl;
Then,
as now, the flowers were white, white like the dumb. Without eyebrows, without
even eyebrows, a May snake sobs in the thicket.
I
keep alive the memory
of
my visit to the paulownia. I needed a rest;
we
embraced, and my arms just reached around his waist.
Had the black goat in charge of the strawberries
lost
his bronze bridle?
He
was ripping up the entire patch.
The
paulownia said it. The turtledoves near my crown use a scrap of sky
for
a blackboard at their school and the shade on the cultivated soil underfoot
covers ten pyeong,* extending as far as my roots. It was his whole life,
he said.
Maybe
that¡¯s what made the yellow paulownia noodles, served with mossy shade,
that
I ate sitting beneath the tree, so delicious.
Perhaps that¡¯s why the cold tea his
daughter served was so refreshing.
In
those days, the seasons were really intense.
The
crimson berries and the goat¡¯s two horns were a mess.
At
the creekside the stones and the carp bellies got so hard.
I
still remember the paulownia on the hill.
The
paulownia mailbox at the entrance to town across the bridge, the old paulownia
grandfather clock in the entryway running five minutes slow, the paulownia
clogs to which yellow clods of earth still stubbornly clung, the clack of the
paulownia cutting board coming from the kitchen . . .
On
top of the giraffe¡¯s long, lofty head there are vestiges of an ancient hilltop
lake. I wonder who put the thirsty gourds up there? And in those missionary
days how did the clams climb into those waters?
Counting
stars one night, we used the giraffe¡¯s neck as a net handle and landed some.
Those grazed by his head crooned and time flew like stars falling.
I
fell more than once when I was young, climbing the sunflowers to remove the
stones adults had weighed the heads down with to stunt their growth. Now I know
the sorrow of the yellow-billed oxpecker in Africa hanging from the giraffe¡¯s
steep neck and back eating ticks.
Ah,
to buy one day a ticket for the orbiting train that scales his nape to cross
the plateau, to collect the homerun ball knocked out of a distant park to give
to children, to wander and pick icy red lilies that resemble his horns.
Hey,
he said, coming close, wearing a pointy hat and balloons strung in clusters around
his neck. I¡¯m tied up today because it¡¯s Children¡¯s Day, but when the zoo
closes sometime soon, let¡¯s go for a bite in the reeds. Look at that ridiculous
creature lumbering back to the kids who call after him. Look at the last
chieftain of the poetry tribe.
Translator: Wayne de Fremery
Opium
poppies swayed in the turtle's eyes,
Nakhwa
Crag*
commanded three thousand palace women at its side.
The cat
beneath the car tire,
the
cancer cell beneath the rib,
live
mewing, mewing.
When,
across from the hospital, far away,
trains
cross the Han River bridge,
when they
creep, creep across
like
green cabbage caterpillars,
the
snowstorm in the mustard seed,
the
distant hills in the cuckoos' cries,
intent on
forgetting the body,
intent on
forgetting the smell of the world,
drift,
drift,
under the
eyelids, into the daydream,
under the
cliff and the cherry blossom.
The
peacock outside the art gallery is dressed in feathers
the color
of an emerald I once saw in a ring.
Giving
away his crest that wobbles as he totters
to be the
trademark of Prince brand crayons,
he drags
his fanned tail over wet ground.
Was there
ever a duchess who no longer wished to be beautiful,
having
once been found beautiful?
Where
should all those jewelled rings be put down?
Old
ladies dragging their skirts on muddy ground,
forgetting
they are birds,
grope for
a corner, fearing the footsteps of young pranksters.
What will
the old ladies do with the spark in the blue eyes
Set in
their feathers?
In the
hometown left behind it seems there is a subway stop called
Crimson
Star. It seems it's been left too
far behind,
and there is no return.
Vacations
aren¡¯t for photos,
and
strawberries aren¡¯t for plates.
So
what then?
Strawberries
in winter.
Winter
strawberries. What is this?
It¡¯s
cold now, but there are strawberries at the market.
¡°Two
baskets, 7,000 won!¡± he shouts.
Berries
used to come from the Suwon patches
where
young lovers went each May to gaze at each other
and
touch for the first time.
But
this isn¡¯t what I wanted to say.
These
stories about sweet-nothings, about winter strawberries,
so
many empty words.
Hearing
that a visitor was coming,
I
washed the curtains and windows, swept and buffed the floor,
and
bought winter strawberries at the market.
I
bought them because he kept shouting, ¡°7,000 won!¡±
The
short-lived December sun sank
and
the visitor came.
We
were noisy with high laughter
and
the winter night passed
as
strawberries were plucked from the plate.
I
put the leftover berries in the refrigerator
where
they shrivelled.
But
this is not really what I wanted to say,
this
talk of eating strawberries,
loveless
and vacant;
these
threats and withered phrases
served
with the reality that winter strawberries must rot.
That¡¯s
still not it.
Now
there are winter strawberries unwrapped in my fridge.
Winter
strawberries have come and winter too.
It¡¯s
so cold. I¡¯m so cold.
I
put them in my grocery bag
and
in my refrigerator.
But
what¡¯s this? What?
It¡¯s
winter, and the strawberries are red, beautiful, adorable.
They
are charming,
Irresistible.
No,
in the end, it¡¯s not
this
either.
Translator: Kevin O¡¯Rourke
Obliterate me!
I opened the window onto the street
and called thick fog into my rooms.
Fog that obliterated the traffic lights.
The fog evaporated after crossing the window sill.
Even fog loses its way here.
Obliterate me!
Material things gulp down the thick fog.
Still they rub dry, sandy eyes.
Fill me up!
Thick fog crept like the tide
through the window that opens to the sea.
Fog that obliterated the horizon.
The fog flowed into me after crossing the window sill.
Even fog reels here.
Fill me up!
Fog wet the chair; fog wet the mirror.
Material things suddenly were one with the fog.
The heart has two contiguous rooms,
each careful in its movements
not to waken the other.
All that moved between the rooms
was the silent, restless, undulant fog.
Nothing exists except the ladybird and
me;
we both stole into this room to avoid
the cold.
The ladybird crawls laboriously along
the floor,
flails the air in upside-down
collapse,
sits abstractedly on the open page of
a book,
and - as if suddenly remembered -
unfolds its tail wings for a zing
dusting.
The zing of the wings cuts the heart
like a tiny electric saw.
Through the window winter sunlight
illuminates the ladybird¡¯s dappled back.
And when it also illuminates
the eyes that are watching the
ladybird¡¯s back,
the inch worm within me
addresses the ladybird within you.
We¡¯re both a bit insect like;
what colloquy can we share?
An odour given off;
a buzz as we circle each other;
A joint flailing of the air
as we get turned upside down;
an idle stirring of pollen
as we slither between pistil and
stamen?
What warmth can we – part insect as we are –
share before we desiccate
in a window nook?
A handful of winter sunlight
short as the stumpy tail of a roe.
I gave myself to the music;
my feet slid away and I began to cast off time.
Thread unraveling within me
slid sul-sul-sul-sul
across the threshold.
Feet danced past the bakery, past the laundry,
past the park, past the local tong office,
past your table and bed, past the graves and the grassy
fields.
They did not return. What now?
¡®Keep dancing!¡¯ the world cried.
Though my legs be threatened with amputation,
I can still give myself completely to the music.
Remember I¡¯m wearing my snug
pink shoes.
Do you hear the melody in my blood?
Do you hear the water crossing the embankment?
I¡¯m at liberty to
go where I please, but I go nowhere.
The sun does not set here no matter how I dance.
The bobbin within unravels, endlessly,
like water flowing over the embankment.
Threads tangle, roads tangle.
Axe raised, the city rushes at me,
trying to capture me,
but I cannot stop dancing
because
of pink shoes I put on so long ago,
somnolent
for far too long.
Translator: Kevin O¡¯Rourke
Hawk
impaled in air;
vertical dive;
300 km an hour.
Sky drops hawk.
Wings folded
to utmost;
bones hollowed
to utmost.
Two eyes and beak
form a keen triangle,
gravity defiant.
Shocked air particles
badly abrade;
lumps hacked out
in places.
At the yard entrance
where the hen disappeared,
two or three
tail feathers
fluttered and fell.
Paektu Range
is like a reclining Buddha,
chin cupped to the right.
First village under heaven.
A bull,
belly distended,
slaps his tail across his back.
Mountain and valley
seem fuller now.
May midday:
a mendicant monk
crosses the ridge,
his body in his rucksack.
The function of a hand
is to seek another hand.
Heart accedes to heart.
When me being me
is unbearably strident,
and me not being you
is unbearably strident;
and I spend the day in bed
exhausted by the effort,
look!
And when the here and now
seems like life¡¯s endgame
and it seems like I am about to leave
me,
look for the hands.
Left always seeks right;
two hands seek a third.
Hands are always alone;
an empty hand is heaviest.
I could barely raise myself
to drink a drop of water.
That¡¯s when I knew
there¡¯s a tiny measure
of poisonous indebtedness
in thankfulness.
¡®Thank you¡¯ cannot exist on its own;
thank you always implies
indebtedness.
Yesterday evening you were thankful;
this morning I am indebted.
The role of the hand ultimately
is to seek another hand.
The right hand seeks the left.
Hands join before the breast
because empty hands are so heavy,
because indebtedness is so heavy.
On the persimmon tree growing on a hillock in front
of our house, a pumpkin grew.
One shoot from the pumpkins we had planted on the
bank of the field at the foot of the hillock
had been climbing higher all summer long until it was
hanging from a bough.
It had not been visible while the foliage was thick,
but once the leaves had fallen, the trail of the vine
clinging tightly to the trunk as it climbed stood out clearly, like a vein.
It must have had a hard time climbing up the trunk
bearing its heavy burden. Seeing how the vine
still hangs in the air even after the late fall
frost,
it must have carried sand and gravel and built a
scaffold all summer long. If that pumpkin vine
had crawled over the ground, it could have grown a
pumpkin comfortably,
could have laid it on the soft grass of the hillock,
so why did it hang the pumpkin dangerously high on
the bough on the steep hillock? Looking at that pumpkin vine,
some may laugh, saying: It must have really wanted to
build a sky garden . . .
Looking at that house of cards hanging in the air,
some may click their tongues,
but the vine must have
continued on its
way since there was a road there.
Whether it led to a precipice or pit, the vine must have continued on
since there was a road.
Just as footsteps crossing the desert where standstorms blew, where sand
tombs rose and scattered,
scattered and arose again, opened up the Silk Road and built Loulan,
the vine must have gone stretching on, since there was a road, to hang
its fruit in the open air.
Though weakened like a dried straw rope by the coming fall weather,
it must have crawled tenaciously to hang its round pumpkin, like the
moon, on the height of
impossibility.
Today,
cautiously climbing up a ladder, I will harvest that pumpkin,
and place it in a clay dish in my room to gaze on for a long time, oh
the power of such climbing things.
A
slug is crawling
Over
a streamside stone.
With
no house on its back
wrapped
in protective colors, without any shell,
its
whole body shielded in a slippery secretion like saliva,
naked,
it is idly crawling along.
With
its tender, soft skin open, defenseless
-
a little finger of sunlight would reduce it to powder -
the
slug seems to be enjoying a stroll
or
perhaps it hopes to enjoy a nap on a streamside stone bed,
crawling
along at so idle a pace, it seems to be walking in its sleep.
Just
like Diogenes emerging from a wine barrel,
following
the movement of water and clouds like a wandering monk,
abandoning
to the world the house on its back,
roaming
in robes that it seems barely to wear,
It
goes walking slowly, so slowly, with footsteps following cosmic laws.
Feeling
sorry at the sight of it, my wife covers its naked body with a cabbage leaf she
has just washed in the brook.
But
the slug, after wavering for a moment, soon emerges from beneath the leaf as if
finding it bothersome.
Clear
off, shade!
I intend to be smaller until I start to
grow small. I am a small person, a smaller person, a dog, a cat, a finger, a
matchstick,
I
obstinately stared in one direction. A frowning look lingers in my every wrinkle.
Something impressive, light, pain,
Since
my first breath, I¡¯ve gone on breathing. Ah, the beginning is like that. The
beginning forgets the beginning and the last does not know it¡¯s the last. Ma, I
shouted as my first word but in vain. If it were Dad, oh, my God!
When
I start to grow small, it¡¯s the start. I am a smaller person, a smaller dog, a
smaller lizard, a smaller voice, an interference of waves, the untouchable sky,
And
a refraction of waves, a touchable raindrop, a raindrop, a larger raindrop, I
was a shower passing with a gust of wind. Small people with umbrellas turned
inside out like the world, stuck to the window for a while I am smaller
circles,
Inside
the window three children are playing the game of scissors rock and paper to
decide the rules and roles. One child stretches out his palm and rattles off
mysterious lies about a vanished coin but
I
couldn¡¯t hear the whole story through to the . . .
A
party, exceeding climax, to wonderland. At climax. Chicken¡¯s combs we. Thin.
Soft. Passing climax chicken¡¯s combs we. As a token of love we peck at each
other.
At
climax. Once past climax we stop. Can love be stopped?
Already
chickens, our stomachs and vowels like violins. Like the white and black keys
of a piano. Like a drum. Like dishes in a sink. Began to play. Breast and frail
wings. Chicken¡¯s feet are crushed. Like egg bombs exploding above our heads.
From
wonderland to no-wonderland. Like infiltrating moisture we. Like winds crossing
seas. A little bit warm and a little bit filthy. Like music we. Like pink
spring.
Like
a summer day. Strong smells. We want softer skin and clothes like feathers. Singing
about the things we want, back to the days before our birth. We recalled
something like the smiles of old age. Our song echoes a long time. Till the
end. Perfectly. Does not disappear.
People
who do not come to the party take off their clothes in the early evening. Lying
down in a more distant place like smaller babies. Like little girls turning
their faces to one another. Fall asleep. Clap Clap Clap. Ha Ha Ha.
The party moves farther away. As it flows away, it¡¯s full of the people who did
not come. Angry chickens stretch
their necks and flap.
Tottering
off to Wonderland.
At
the moment the horses separated from the carriage
the
carriage didn¡¯t say Stop!
The
carriage
didn¡¯t
stand and think
I
do not think
I
write, like the horse¡¯s hooves moving away from me
Like
the characters of the finale dramatically collapsing
like
an actress rising again and taking a bow with a dazzling smile and saying
goodbye on the stage
Like
other people
Like
a whip curved in the air
I
touched and
loved
I
write, never erasing after writing, I write
passing
a murder scene, a fallen knife, a hand fallen again, a rake, my poverty
Like
a pursuer¡¯s hand
I
become bright
and
tenacious
Once
the king¡¯s fist is made
bang,
my wings
beat
down on a round table center and then soar
dices
falling onto the world
Born
without arms he was a painter drawing wind
Holding
a brush in his mouth he drew
winds
no one knew on the canvas
people
couldn¡¯t discern the shape of his drawings
but
his brush would flow far away and back
voicing
the soft breath of a child
If
drawing did not come
he
climbed up a cliff and opened his mouth for months
searching
for a color no one had found yet
He
would dump a dark volcano deep into his eyes
He
was drawing
his
two hands he had left in the womb
I no longer foster quietude.
I take turmoil as my servant.
Dim-sighted, in the midst of turmoil
I write poems with my ears wide open.
Though the ear looks like a devil¡¯s ear,
once the turmoil is erased, I am an empty shell
like the 2,500 golden pagodas of Pagan
opposite to where silence follows autumn¡¯s track.
In this city I hear turmoil.
Not today but from yesterday I
write poems in the midst of turmoil. Thus
to me only turmoil is proof of reality.
Where there is no turmoil is a dead place.
I invoke turmoil and write turmoil.
Without turmoil, language becomes disquiet
and my poem does not progress.
Taking silence with me, I search for turmoil
to be near turmoil, to live together with turmoil in
turmoil,
I rely on the rim of the devil¡¯s ear.
Unable to let go of that light,
I intend to return turmoil to language.
Quietude is a form hiding turmoil.
In the midst of darkness nothing can be written.
In turmoil words work without a break.
In the midst of dazzling turmoils,
a single breath that binds language tightly,
my poems become intricate in turmoil.
Once the snow melts, a multitude of waterdrops in a
red pine¡¯s xylem
start responding.
Inside there is one single flower that refuses to
rise.
Aware of the flower¡¯s resolve not to rise, the owner
presses down on the calf-shaped bulbil to prevent it
rising from the navel.
Only one single unknown flower that yields to all the
other flowers
does not open its soul at the dizzying tip of a
branch.
It cries like a frost flower on a cycad. Language of ice that never blossoms,
though all flowers standing with one single flower
inside their breasts eventually blossom, it changes its body in the xylem,
rising then going back down again.
At the very moment when numerous flowers are being
hurt outside,
One tooth-like rhodiola flower that neither perishes
nor vanishes after blooming,
placing that unutterable name which exists inside the
red pine
in the xylem during the midnight snowfall,
one single flower freezes white like ice-porcelain.
Ah, inside the ice a flower is running like time.
—At a Hospital in Seoul
Today is the 100th day she has been lying
sick.
The fishing lines tugging at the neural networks
inside her flesh,
she transforms slowly into a bed.
It¡¯s hot, a flower of massive pain blossoms.
Only her small tongue is alive, as if her whole body
has been slashed.
Her body is as tiny as the tip of a cat¡¯s tongue.
She spits out the pain of her death throes like
contempt.
Death is fighting to make her oblivious to fear.
In a room painted by the deadly struggle that
wrenches bone and flesh
on the bed bullets explode and spears fly.
The woman becomes a slave. A four-sided bone-bed
supporting the pain that presses on bones
like a piano keyboard that sounds when touched,
she shouts her sticky pain.
Battered body torn to shreds,
spit out your cursed body as you die.
On the 101st day, loathsome as a
nightmare,
with each bone-splitting word
a high-rise crane lifts up the woman¡¯s bones,
lightly lifts the iron rods into the air.
When I suddenly woke up feeling hungry
I felt sorry for the people I had left in my dream.
Because of me,
their journey in search of the rainbow hill must have
been troublesome.
Butterfly! Butterfly! Outside the window someone is
anxiously calling a cat named Butterfly.
I said, meow, meow, here I am, and there I was,
crying for no reason hiding under the quilt.
Then I felt sorry for myself. Butterfly is Butterfly,
what butterfly is a cat, and I closed the window with a bang.
Would I be feeling bad if I¡¯d been pricked by a
thumbtack, a small, rusted thumbtack, been infected with tetanus, and forced to
have my arm cut off?
Days spent being stained by slow music,
a hair comb, a single button, an old postcard,
for no reason I began to dislike the things that
await my touch,
and buried them deep in the backyard. When snow falls
and winds blow
may grudges like spears grow someday out of the small
graves here and there, and poke out my eyes.
Around sunset, disliking those clouds sitting plump
everywhere,
today I bought a sweet, delicious walnut pie
a sweet, delicious walnut pie that would slide in and
melt in my mouth.
When it dropped to the deep bottom of my stomach
someone in a dark corner of the kitchen, unwillingly,
said . . . love you.
Crows that
resemble their mother . . .
Pumpkin-yellow
car and sweet cookies . . . rainbow . . . night street . . .
This is the world that I met at the end of beauty and
sorrow.
We were five all together.
Crows that are happy because they¡¯ve become crows
would occasionally talk to me
but I could not hear what they said. They seemed to
say:
Shall we eat cookies together?
Shall we eat cookies together?
That¡¯s what I understood and I nodded in agreement.
From the car muffler rainbow-hued smoke was
rising, spraying like paint.
None of us looked back,
but we all knew, and became all the closer and more
intimate,
like sisters reconciled after a bitter quarrel,
so that our hearts grew warmer with feelings of love.
We held each other¡¯s hands, and I smiled like the
crows¡¯ younger sister.
The crows worried about my future and encouraged me,
like kind and caring sisters . . . dream-like time,
tears ran timidly down my cheeks, this is
what they call the scent of the rainbow,
this, a story of the sisterly love of sisters who
ride a car together,
a black-hued street with nothing more to wish for,
this is
the family, the warm food, the time of affection,
and the future that we have longed for so dearly.
I hated and felt afraid to open my eyes.
This is the world we meet at the far end of beauty
and sorrow,
while I eat cookies together with my four sisters,
sweet words that keep ringing in my ears:
We ate cookies together today,
We ate cookies together today.
Cars whispering as they speed along,
sisters, I felt bitter that I was born with eyes,
and I hated and felt afraid of drooping shoulders, arms,
and trunk,
of these two hands and legs that will rot and
decompose.
At the far end of the beauty and sorrow of sharing
cookies together,
there is another dirty and stinking world of flesh,
blood, excrement, semen,
that I hated.
While eating cookies together,
munching on cookies together,
as I was no longer able to call the crows my sisters,
I eventually jumped out of the speeding car.
Blood, blood, blood, my knee was bleeding. Get away,
sisters . . .
Those sisters who really went away, this is
the sound of the ring of a pledge that slipped off
and fled.
This is the smell of a family irrevocably cracked,
a blood-red street that could not be more
conspicuous,
this is the war, the stale cold food, the time of
hatred,
the present time that we hated so much,
I no longer hated or feared to close my eyes.
The car carrying the crows vanished into the
distance,
the rainbow disappeared,
a world where things like cookies to share cannot be
found.
At the time when heartless sisters,
crumbled cookies,
rolled and fell down from the pumpkin-hued roof,
like the armpit odor of the crows sticking to the tip
of the nose,
We ate cookies together,
We ate cookies together,
a fleeing voice,
a rainbow, a night street, a time that will never
come again.
Into that stomach I go, beginning with the fierce
jaws and leading down to the sacred asshole, he drags me in whole and in this
long round tube, there are no coarse twinkling scales, only soft flesh, a flabbily
fluctuating bottom and walls, with doors hanging dark and damp, so many doors
each with several slimy knobs, whose addresses I don't know and, well, no
telling if the doors open inwards or outwards, no telling if here is inside his
stomach or inside mine, if I am feed, or he, his feed, if either I or he and I
are someone else¡¯s bone with little pieces of meat sparsely clinging to it, I
mean my flesh that hasn't yet been digested and smells fetidly rotten and from
the fierce jaws, outside of his and my time, he gulps down a bowlful of saliva
dribbling from a horse drooping like the tongue of a dog in midsummer and
though we have reached this place we can go neither in nor out so we just have
to stay here as through the sacred asshole wind exits hissing and he drags me
deep into his stomach, ever deeper while the wind smells like a widower who has
stayed faithful to his dead wife his whole life long, holding brusquely onto my
thin hand, he turns the sleek doorknob and in a flash his face changes into something
neither completely like him nor unlike him before his face becomes blurry
again. I thought there were too many damn doors and knobs on the doors but
perhaps there were none at all. Ultimately, here, inside this languid stomach
ceaselessly writhing neither fully inside nor outside uncertain even of my own
whereabouts, I . . .
Up on the roof the horses have unfastened their
bridles. They are neighing with laughter. The old men are having a party, a
party, their faces crimson, or pallid, all those who starved, drowned, or were
shot to death, as sons, daughters, daughters-in-law, grandsons and
granddaughters crowd together. Out of the blue, clip-clop, clip-clop, a sound
of horses¡¯ hooves up on the roof. Old women lie down on the table. Their
wrinkles go gliding off their bodies. The party table is heaped high with
discarded wrinkles and the old women are gobbled away. Skins, bowels, tendons,
and even brains, all are scooped up and devoured, then the white bones are
sucked clean and meanwhile the roof is silent and the unbridled horses scatter
skyward, crimson, crimson, neighing with laughter. Old men with no teeth reveal
their black gums, the lively hopping roads peep at the party table. Sons,
daughters, granddaughters, have all vanished, unable either to come or go while
the weeds at the roadside outside in the dusk sway to and fro, having a party,
a party.
The yellowish heart, its blood completely drained,
disappears toward the back of an alley, swinging alone its parched veins. Pain
follows quickly. At a black bus stop, the man turns his belly over like a
red-bellied frog. His belly is red. Redly the man stays still. There have been
too many protrusions on his way here. Redly he dries. He will soon be brittle,
become invisible. Even though the heart that lost its color comes back, there
will be no way for it to find him. There¡¯s no knowing, no way of knowing
whether a batch of baby reds will be hopping or crawling, or turning around the
black bus stop.