Poetic Diversities:
Social Dimensions of Korean Poetry
Brother Anthony of Taize
(Sogang University,
Seoul)
When we translate modern Korean poetry, we are attempting to
bring works written within one particular poetic tradition, and in a very specific
linguistic, social, cultural, and historical context, to the attention of
readers who cannot be assumed to be familiar with either tradition or context.
Although obviously many individual Korean poems, well translated, can touch
readers without any need for them to know about such things, a variety of
deeper responses may be evoked by a greater awareness of some of the contexts
and issues that have determined the evolutions of Korean poetry in the present
century.
The basic question which I want to explore in this paper is
the way in which Korea has dealt with the distinction just made between the
internal, "aesthetic" aspects of literary works (form and contents)
and the ways in which those works relate, directly or indirectly, to the context
in which they arose. We should not forget the tensions and conflicts that exist
in contemporary literary theory on account of the relative importance given by
different schools to one or other of these two aspects, the formal and the
contextual.
Regarding
Korean literature, suffice it to say that the tension between the aesthetic and
the social has always been consciously felt. Already in the ancient
Commentaries on the Chinese "Book of Odes", which Korean
scholar-poets of earlier times studied deeply, we find clear indications that
poems which seem to be essentially beautiful verbal artefacts can be and were
read as coded social and political commentary. Not surprisingly, during the
Japanese domination of Korea (1910-1945) Korean poets were concerned to find ways
in which to express, indirectly, the sufferings and aspirations of their
people.
The ideological division that brought about the Korean War
(1950-3) was long present in the literary sphere as an intense debate about the
relationship of art and life and the poet's social responsibility. A number of
writers chose to support the North in the war on account of their social
convictions, some even going to live there. Others echoed the writer Park
Yong-hee in his disillusioned comment: "The left has gained ideology but
lost literature."
Since the war, under successive repressive regimes in the
South, "dissident" writers have often been imprisoned for their
social and political options. Kim
Ji-ha and Ko Un are only the two most well-known names among many others. One
important "worker's poet" whose works were published under the
symbolic name of Park No-hae ("Workers' Liberation") is now in prison
for life, although his poems are freely available in Korean bookstores.
According to one widely-received narrative, the mainstream
tradition of contemporary Korean lyric verse began in 1936, when So Chong-ju
published his "Flower Snake" and launched his search for a poetry
rooted in Korean life:
A
back road pungent with musk and mint.
So
beautiful, that snake. . .
What
huge griefs brought you to birth?
Such
a repulsive body!
You
look like a flowered silk gaiter ribbon!
With
your crimson mouth where that eloquent tongue
by
which you grandsire beguiled poor Eve
now silently flickers
look,
a blue sky. . . Bite! Bite
vengefully!
Run!
Quick! That vile head!
Hurling
stones, hurling, quickly there
headlong
down the musky, grass-sweet road,
pursuing it
not
because Eve was our grandsire's wife
yet
desperate, gasping
as
if after a draft of kerosene. . .
yes, kerosene. . .
If
I could only wrap you round me,
fixed on a needle's point;
far
more gorgeous than any flowered silk. . .
Those
lovely lips, blazing crimson,
as
if from sipping Cleopatra's blood. . .
sink in now, snake!
Our
young Sunnee's all of twenty, with pretty lips, too,
like
those of a cat. . . sink in now,
snake!
Three years later, in 1939, So Chong-ju published
"Self-Portrait" in an even more remarkable new beginning:
Dad
was a menial; never home, even late at night.
My
grandmother stood there,
old
like the shrivelled roots of a leek,
a
jujube tree flowering.
A
whole month long, my mother had cravings
for
one green apricot. . .
under
an oil lamp in earthen walls,
her black-nailed son.
Some
say I look like mother's dad:
the
same mop of hair, his big eyes.
In
the Year of Revolt he went to sea
and never came back, the story goes.
What's
raised me, then, these twenty-three years
is
the power of the wind, for eight parts in ten.
The
world 's course has yielded only shame;
some
have perceived a felon in my eyes,
others
a fool in this mouth of mine,
yet
I'm sure there's nothing I need regret.
Even
on mornings when day dawned in splendour,
the
poetic dew anointing my brow
was
always mingled with drops of blood;
I've
come through life in sunshine and shadows
like
a sick dog panting, its tongue hanging out.
So Chong-ju claims to have written these poems as a
'humanist' and saw his main concern as being with 'the realities of life' but
Symbolism had long been a potent influence in Korea and he soon launched out on
an exploration of Korean mythical dimensions contained in what he termed
"Shilla", which takes the reader far from the situations and concerns
of everyday living.
From that time until today poets and critics have fought
about the proper articulation of poetry and life, art and reality. When So
Chong-ju wrote, Korea had only a handful of poets; today it is said to contain
over two thousand poets who have published at least one volume. It is hard to
keep track of tendencies among so many.
In this paper, I would like to look at poems by a small
group of modern Korean poets, indicating similarities and developments in their
themes and styles, and discussing briefly their relationship with the contexts
in which they have lived and worked, in the hope of communicating something of
the specificity of the modern Korean poetry I translate. I want to focus on
some poets whose work is marked by one particular set of responses to the
question of the poet's place in society: Kim Su-yong (1921-1968), Shin
Kyong-nim (1936- ), Kim Kwang-kyu (1941- ), and Yi Si-yong (1949- ).
Kim Su-yong was born in 1921 and his tragic death in a traffic
accident in 1968 robbed Korea of a major poetic and critical voice. During his
lifetime, he did not enjoy the reputation he deserved, but in the years
following his death critics and writers began to pay much more attention to
him, and his importance in the historical development of contemporary Korean
poetry is now widely recognized.
His early poems, some of which were published in 1949 in the
important anthology Seroun tosiwa simindurui hapch'ang (The New City and
the Chorus of Citizens), were marked by the Modernism so popular at that time.
During the Korean War he was forcibly conscripted into the North Korean Army
and as a result was interned by the South for a time in the prisoner-of-war
camp on Koje Island. These harsh experiences confirmed him in the conviction
that Korean poetry needed to seek a deeper relationship with concrete
realities.
Kim Su-yong had initially followed the Modernist model
enthusiastically. His early work is as difficult as any, and at least on the
surface level far removed from the suffering of ordinary people:
The
waterfall drops without a sign of fear at the lofty cliff.
The
uncontrollable spate drops
with
no sense of falling toward anything,
making
no distinction between night and day,
never
pausing for rest, like some noble mind.
When
nightfall comes, ox-eye and house hid from sight,
the
waterfall drops on with lofty sound.
That
lofty sound is true sound.
Lofty
sound calls out
to
lofty sound.
The
water drops, falling like lightning,
drops
without
height or breadth
as
if confounding sloth and rest,
not
granting the mind a moment's rapture.
("A
Waterfall" (1957))
The events of April 1960, the student-led "April
Revolution" after which Syngman Rhee was driven from power, gave him immense
hopes, coupled with apprehension:
Jealous,
a
poet once said that the skylark was free,
mastering
the blue sky;
but
that must be modified.
Those
people who have soared aloft
for
the sake of freedom
know
what the skylark sees
that
makes it sing,
they
know why the smell of blood
must
mingle with freedom,
why
revolution is a lonely thing
why
revolution
is
bound to be a lonely thing.
("The
Blue Sky" (June 15, 1960))
His hopes were soon dashed when the military took power in
1961, but even before then he had felt betrayed by the way in which society was
evolving away from the ideals of the Student Revolution:
From
somewhere far away
to
somewhere far away
I
am sick again.
From
quiet springtime
to
quiet springtime
I
am sick again.
From
woman
to
woman
from
crab-apple blossom
to
crab-apple blossom...
without
being aware of it
I
am sick.
("From
Somewhere Far Away" (September 30, 1961))
In his poems, the words "love" and
"freedom" are virtually synonymous and both are shown to be hard to
find. In his lifetime, he only published one volume of poetry, Talnaraui
changnan (A Game Played in the Moon), in 1959.
His April 1968 lecture entitled Siyo, ch'imul pet'ora
(Spit, Poetry) and his essay of the same year Panshiron (Theory of
Anti-Poetics) were particularly important manifestos arguing for a renewal of
Korean poetry, that seemed to him to have become far too mannered and
artificial, bogged down in sterile aesthetic conventions.
In an essay published in the Choson Ilbo newspaper in
early 1968, "Shilhomchogin munhakkwa chongch'ichok chayu"
(Experimental literature and political freedom), he takes issue with earlier
articles, "Threats to Today's Korean Culture" and "Culture under
the Domination of the Ogre," by the critic and writer Yi Oryong (later to
become Korea's first Minister of Culture at the time of the 1988 Seoul
Olympics):
... the 'purely inner literary creativity' within the limits
of the established order, that (Yi Oryong) has recently been advocating, seems
to me to involve a fundamental misunderstanding of the relationship between
literature and freedom, provoking serious doubts as to what he actually
means...
... if his censure of the 'weaknesses and the ensuing
crisis' in Korean culture, which he considers 'incapable of transforming
political freedom into true cultural creativity' is really intended to
challenge the incompetence and incapacity of our cultural community, he would
first of all need some kind of initial premise or prescription more deeply
conscious of how close an organic relationship there is between the vanguard of
today's literature and the problem of political freedom.
In other words, if he is not simply ignoring
the eternal rules governing literature and art, which affirm that all authentic
new literature, when it becomes inward-looking (insofar as it demands inner
freedom), becomes a threat to established forms of literature, and when it
becomes outward-looking, becomes an inevitable threat to the order of
established society, he is certainly attempting to apply them one-sidedly. Yet
Michel Butor, the French originator of the anti-roman, who recently
visited Korea, has said that any work of experimental literature is necessarily
bound to stand on the side of progress, which has as its goal the realization
of a perfect world. All avant-garde literature is subversive. All living
culture is essentially subversive. Quite simply because the essence of culture
is the pursuit of dreams, the pursuit of the impossible. Yet according to (Yi
Oryong), if we propose to set out in those directions, experiment limited to
the formal aspects of literature is good, but investigations of political and
social ideology are wrong. (From: Collected works Vol. 2. Seoul:
Minumsa, 1981. pages 158-9)
Those phrases set out the terms of a major debate.
Conservative critics, such as Yi Oryong and the novellist Son Woo-hui
(originally from the North), denounced Kim Su-yong and his like as dangerous
radicals, leftists, while for others these ideas represented a rallying cry.
Out of that arose the tendency that found expression in the pages of the
quarterly review Ch'angjak-kwa pip'yong (Writing and criticism) founded
in late 1966, that in the troubled years ahead continued to promote the
literary and social values Kim Su-yong had advocated.
Long denigrated by the conservative establishment as
"dissidents", the vision of these writers is now largely vindicated.
The vast majority of younger writers active in Korea today follow these
assumptions quite naturally. It is clear to them that literature must
necessarily be subversive, since the ruling classes in society are clearly
corrupt and the dominant ideology not so much discredited as morally bankrupt.
It is however no longer so obvious in what ways literature can in fact be
subversive, but that is another question.
Kim Su-yong remained to the end an intellectual poet, but at
a crucial moment he rejected the idea that certain lofty topics alone are
worthy to be the subjects of a poetry written in a corresponding style, and he
began to focus on the most ordinary events of daily life, often pathetic or
bathetic, domestic and social. He equally rejected the idea of
"decorum" (special poetic language and tone) and introduced ordinary
speech, vulgar terms and slang expressions into his works.
Why
do the littlest things make me livid?
Why
am I not livid with that palace and its debaucheries,
but
livid that I got a lump of fat for a fifty Won beef-rib,
pettily
livid, swearing at the pig-like woman in the sollong-t'ang restaurant,
swearing
pettily?
Why
do I only hate the night-watchmen
who
come calling three or four times to collect their twenty Won,
not
once fairly and squarely
demanding
freedom of expression
for
an imprisoned novelist, incapable of exercising that freedom
in
opposing the despatch of forces to Vietnam?
(From:
"Emerging From an Old Palace One Day")
The tone in his later works is frequently colloquial, satiric
or self-mocking. Yet in poems adressing social realities, sufferings, and
hopes, he can rise to a rhetoric of heroic style.
Open
your lips, Desire, and there within
I
will discover love. At the city limits
the
sound of the fading radio's chatter
sounds
like love while the river flows on,
drowning
it, and on the far shore lies
loving
darkness while dry trees, beholding March,
prepare
love's buds and the whispers
of
those buds rise like mists across yon indigo
mountains
Every
time love's train passes by
the
mountains grow like our sorrow and ignore the lamplight
of
Seoul like the remnants of food in a pigsty.
Now
even brambles, even the long thorny runners
of
rambling roses are love.
Why
does love's grove come pushing so impossibly near?
Until
we realize that loving is the food of love.
(From:
"Variations on the Theme of Love")
His poems are at times prosaic, since he consciously
rejected artifical techniques of rhythm, yet he is capable of great intensity
because his poems are always reflections of his own intense emotion, even at
their most iconoclastic.
He represents a very conscious departure from the path laid down
by So Chong-ju, Pak Mok-wol and their followers, and his support and
recognition was important to younger poets such as Shin Kyong-nim, who were
writing in ways and on topics not likely to be approved by the older
generation. Shin Kyong-nim was born in 1935 in Ch'ongju, North Ch'ungch'ong
Province. He grew up in the midst of Korea's old rural culture and later in
life he went travelling about the country, collecting the traditional songs of
the rural villages.
His literary career officially dates from the publication in
1956 in the review Munhak Yesul of three poems, but for years after that
he published nothing, immersing himself instead in the world of the labouring
classes, often called the "Minjung", and working as a farmer, a
miner, and a merchant. The experience of those years underlies much of his work
as a poet. He only graduated from the English Department of Dongkuk University
in 1967, when he was over thirty, and he is not an academic or intellectual
poet. On the contrary, his poetry is strongly marked by an anti-intellectual
ethos that forms part of its power.
His fame as a poet dates mainly from the publication of the
collection Nong-mu (Farmers' Dance) in 1973, some of the poems from
which were first published in the review Ch'angjak-kwa Pip'yong in 1970,
heralding his return to the literary scene.
Many of the poems in this collection are spoken by an
undefined plural voice, a "we" encompassing the collective identity
of the Minjung, the poor farmers, laborers, miners, among whom the poet
had lived.
The
ching booms out, the curtain falls.
Above
the rough stage, lights dangle from a zelkhova tree,
the
playground's empty, everyone's gone home.
We
rush to the soju bar in front of the school
and
drink, our faces still daubed with powder.
Life's
mortifying when you're oppressed and wretched.
Then
off down the market alleys behind the kkwenggwari
with
only some kids running bellowing behind us
while
girls lean pressed against the oil shop wall
giggling
childish giggles.
The
full moon rises and one of us
begins
to wail like the bandit king Kokjong; another
laughs
himself sly like Sorim the schemer; after all
what's
the use of fretting and struggling,
shut up in these hills
with
farming not paying the fertilizer bills?
Leaving
it all in the hands of the women,
we
pass by the cattle-fair
then dancing in front of the slaughterhouse
we
start to get into the swing of things.
Shall
we dance on one leg, blow the nallari hard?
Shall
we shake our heads, make our shoulders rock?
("Farmers'
Dance" (1971))
He makes himself the spokesman of the working people on the
basis of no mere sympathy; he has truly been one of them, sharing their poverty
and pains, their simple joys and often disappointed hopes. Echoing in Nong-mu
are memories of the terrible violence that occurred all over Korea in the years
following Liberation from Japanese rule in 1945, culminating in the Korean War.
Dad's
cousin's been drunk and rowdy since daybreak.
Cheerless
leaves are falling on the awning.
Women
clustered in the back yard are making a fuss,
the
excited bride's boasting about her new husband.
Have
you forgotten? Dad's cousin's drunk and rowdy.
Have
you forgotten the day your father died?
No
point in listening to his stupid voice.
Finally
a proper party comes alive beneath the marquee,
the
excited bride's boasting about her in-laws.
Even
though the truck's arrived, drawn up in front:
Have
you forgotten? Dad's cousin's drunk and rowdy.
Have
you forgotten how your father died?
("Party
Day" (1972))
In a literary culture accustomed to the individualistic
"I" speaker of the western romantic tradition, or the fairly
unspecified voice of traditional Korean lyrics, the "we" employed in Nong-mu
was felt to be shocking, almost offensive. This became an element in the
critical debate sparked by Kim Su-yong's "All avant-garde literature is
subversive". Shin Kyong-nim has continued to play a leading role in this
movement. He has served as president of the Association of Writers of Peoples'
Literature, and of the Federated Union of Korean Nationalist Artists.
His poems often
express the pain and hurt of Korea's poor, not only those of remote villages
but the urban poor and those marginalized in society. Many poems take on
increased power by the suppression of explanatory background; readers are
invited to supply from their own memories or imaginations an explanation for
the scene recorded in "That Day":
One
young girl all alone
follows
weeping behind the bier.
A
procession with no funeral banners, no hand-bell in front.
Ghost-like
shadows
along
the smoke-veiled evening road,
a
breeze scattering falling leaves
down
alleys with neither doors nor windows,
while
people watch hiding
behind
telegraph posts and roadside trees.
Nobody
knows the dead
man's
name that dark
and
moonless day.
(1970)
He uses easily accessible, rhythmic language to compose
lyrical narratives that are at times close to shamanistic incantation, or
recall the popular songs he had heard sung in rural villages:
The
sky urges me to turn into a cloud,
the
earth urges me to turn into a breeze,
a
little breeze waking weeds on the ferry landing
once
storm clouds have scattered and rain has cleared.
To
turn into a peddler sad even in autumn light,
going
to Mokkye Ferry, three days' boat ride from Seoul,
to
sell patent face-powders, on days four and nine.
The
hills urge me to turn into a flower,
the
stream urges me to turn into a stone.
To
hide my face in the grass when hoarfrost bites,
to
wedge behind rocks when rapids rage cruel.
To
turn into a traveller with pack laid by, resting
on
a clay hovel's wood step, river shrimps boiling up,
changed
into a fool for a week or so, once in thrice three years.
The
sky urges me to turn into a
breeze,
the
hills urge me to turn into a stone.
("Mokkye
Market")
The publication of Nong-mu coincided with the
dreadful years when the dictator Park Chung-hee gave up all pretence at
democracy and installed himself as permanent president, sending out riot police
to batter into silence the protests and demonstrations against his new
consititution. Ever since 1961, while those in command of capital grew rich,
brutal suppression made sure that the factory workers continued to work
submissively for minimal wages.
After
we've lost every trace of laughter all day long
when
we try to smile in front of the alley grogshop
our
faces twist and contort.
When
we clasp each other's hands warmly
our
hands feel cold and rough.
As
we limp through night-covered poverty
freed
from all the people who hate us
we
rage, and repent,
curse
but then part,
and
when we push open our rooms' curbside doors
and
call our wives' names,
our
voices turn into keening laments.
("The
Road Back Home" (1965))
Much of his work composes a loosely framed epic tale of
Korean suffering, as experienced by the farmers living along the shores of the
North Han River, the poet's home region, in the late 19th century, then
throughout the Japanese colonial period, and during the turmoil of the last
fifty years.
Ssitkim
Kut
-- A wandering spirit's song
Go
your way in peace, they say, go your way in peace.
With
your broken neck, hugging severed limbs,
go
a thousand, ten thousand leagues down the road
to the land beyond, without night or day;
go
your way in peace, they say, go your way in peace.
Sleep
now, they say, sleep quietly now.
Though
a myriad million years pass, never open those eyes
blinded
with blood as you fell in barley field, meadow,
or patch of sand;
sleep
now, they say, sleep quietly now.
Seize
hold, with your slashed and slivered hand
seize
warmly hold of these blood-covered hands.
A
new day has come, the sun is shining bright,
birds
are carolling, the breeze is balmy,
so
seize hold with your slivered hand, they say, seize hold.
I
cannot go with my broken neck and severed limbs,
I
cannot quietly close my blood-blinded eyes,
cannot
seize hold, cannot seize with this slivered hand,
I
cannot seize your blood-covered hands.
I
have come back, with blood-blinded eyes glaring,
I have returned
with
my broken neck, hugging severed limbs;
I
grind my teeth and wish bitter frost may drop from heaven.
I
cannot seize hold with this slivered hand,
I
cannot seize your blood-covered hands;
I
have come back, a dense storm-cloud,
to
alleys, markets, factories, quays;
I
have come back, a violent outcry.
No poet has so well expressed, and so humbly, the
characteristic voice of Korea's masses, both rural and urban. Shin never
sentimentalizes his subjects but rather takes the reader beyond the physical
and cultural exterior to reveal them as intensely sensitive, suffering human
beings.
As the translator of such poems, I cannot accurately judge
their likely impact on readers away from the Korean tradition and context,
which have to some extent become my own. I am very conscious that such poems
could never have been written in Britain, yet I sincerely believe that certain
of the tensions and concerns out of which they have been written can be
paralleled here. Indeed, the writings and efforts of Jon Silkin and others in
favour of a poetry rooted in reality would seem to be particularly important
points to which one might refer.
Yet the rather lofty rhetoric favoured by Kim Su-yong and
the often grim evocations of rural pain found in Shin Kyong-nim could hardly
have found favour in the English literary tradition, so deeply marked as it is
by intellectual tough-mindedness, wit, and irony, where the Korean texts are
far simpler in their approach. Their work has the advantage of 'foreignness',
certainly, and this is the quality that some translators stress in presenting
Korean literature abroad. It is so different from anything we are familiar
with, and that difference must remain after translation or we would be guilty
of eliminating a characteristic feature of it.
It may be that the poetry of Kim Kwang-kyu comes closer than
either of the previously discussed poets to the norms of modern western
European poetry. The reasons are partly due to age. Kim Kwang-kyu is younger,
he was born in Seoul in 1941. He is a professor in the German department of
Hanyang University, having studied for several years in Germany. He published
his first volume of poems in 1975, the same year as he published translations
into Korean of poems by Heinrich Heine and Gunter Eich; he has also translated
works by Bertold Brecht. His vision is therefore much more universal.
He too owes much to the principles expressed in Kim
Su-yong's critical essays. More even than Kim, he adopts a plain style. Like
him, he is convinced that poetry must be relevant to the things happening in
society. He is an intellectual, and unlike almost any other Korean poet, he
views human life with a sardonic eye and does not disdain humour as a means of
social action. He has a delicate ear that allows him to develop lyrical
moments, but always in quiet modes. There is none of the loftier rhetoric and
intense emotion that often passes for high poetry in Korea. One of his earliest
poems is a prose poem:
In my childhood village home there was a mysterious mountain
-- Spirit Mountain, it was called -- and no one had ever climbed it.
Spirit Mountain could not be seen in daytime.
With thick mist shrouding its lower half and clouds that
covered what rose above we could only guess dimly where it lay.
By night too Spirit Mountain could not be seen clearly.
In the moonlight and starlight of bright cloudless nights its
dark form might be glimpsed but yet it was impossible to tell its shape or its
height.
One day seized with a sudden longing to see Spirit Mountain
-- it had never left my heart -- I took an express bus back to my home village
but strange to say Spirit Mountain had utterly vanished and the now unfamiliar
village folk I questioned swore there was no such mountain in those parts.
("Spirit
Mountain")
This poem should not be read as expressing an individual's
simple nostalgia for childhood haunts. The mountain of the poem was no private
dream; in childhood it was a vision shared by all in the village, transcending
the ordinary but at the same time transforming the ordinary by its presence.
The loss is not individual, but collective, and it has been brought about by
all the violent changes that Korea has been subjected to.
The speaker has been away, living in the city, while in the
village there has been a break in continuity, a destruction of tradition, so
that the strangers now living there have lost sight of anything transcending
their ordinary material existence, and have no memories of anything else ever
having existed. Urbanization has robbed Korea of so much humanity, and many of
Kim Kwang-kyu's poems are city-poems:
We
gave up any thought of flying long ago
These
days we don't even try to run
we
dislike walking so we try to ride
(We
mostly travel about by bus or subway)
Once
on board we all try to get a seat
Once
seated we lean back dozing
Not
that we are tired
but
every time money-making is over
our
heads become atrophied
scales
sprout all over our bodies
Our
blood has grown cold
But
still with half-open eyes
our
practised feet take us home
We
return every evening to our homes
like
reptiles returning to their swamp
("Going
home in the evening")
Kim Kwang-kyu invites us to recognize the sub-human sides of
modern life; the person speaking in his poems does not moralize from outside or
above, but offers a little vignette of an only too familiar experience. For
many today, the private car has replaced the bus and subway, but perhaps the
reptile is only more numbly headed for the swamp, sitting in the middle of a
traffic-jam.
One of the experiences reflected in his works is that of
finding oneself middle-aged, with youth lying lost in the past. For the Korean
intellectual of his generation, this also implies a shared social experience.
The memory of having been a student in April 1960, as he was, means that the
loss of youth is paralleled by the loss within Korean society of that vision
which drove the students down the streets in April of that year with a burning
hope: a hope that guns extinguished in some, time in many others. Under
dictatorship, there was the challenge of learning to survive as a human being
within the silence, the supression of truth and of divergent opinion which it
demanded:
In
the land of mists
always
shrouded in mist
nothing
ever happens
And
if something happens
nothing
can be seen
because
of the mist
for
if you live in mist
you
get accustomed to mist
so
you do not try to see
Therefore
in the land of mists
you
should not try to see
you
have to hear things
for
if you do not hear you cannot live
so
ears keep growing bigger
People
like rabbits
with
ears of white mist
live
in the land of mists
("The
land of mists")
Those who have no experience of dictatorship may not see at
once why long ears are necessary; but even today, the art of getting to the
truth of things in society is scarcely easier, anywhere; there are so many lies
and false rumours everywhere. Kim Kwang-kyu has faith in the power of the new
generations to redeem the terrible mess caused by the failures of the parents,
failures of courage that led many to become social ostriches with heads in the
sand:
Was
there anyone who didn't know?
What
everyone felt
What
everyone went through
Was
there anyone who didn't know?
In
those days
everybody
knew
but
pretended not to know
What
no one could say
what
no one could write
was
spoken
in
our language
written
in our alphabet
and
communicated
Was
there anyone who didn't know?
Don't
speak too glibly now times have changed
Stop
and think
In
those days
what
did you do?
("In
those days")
The question is a sharp one, very awkward indeed for all of
us who have a past to look back on, in any country. It would be wrong to read
these poems as referring only to Korean situations, they challenge all who know
that they have kept silent when they might and should have spoken and acted for
a better world. For Kim Kwang-kyu, contemporary society offers little hope.
Once people are inside the 'system', they all loose sight of Spirit Mountain,
and concentrate on staying safe, meekly conforming to society's demands:
There's
no audience and yet
everyone's
carrying a pole
and
walking the tightrope up in the air
where
so many ropes are crisscrossed
that
if there's no way ahead on one
they
jump across to the next
and
even when resting keep switching
seats
from one to another and back
but
if you fall
between
the ropes you
vanish
into
the unfathomed dark
With
so many ropes criss-crossing
it
sometimes looks like solid ground
but
if you blink one eye and
make
a false step
you've
had it so
trying
hard not to fall
controlling
their swaying bodies
everyone's
ever so cautiously
toeing
the line
("Tightropes")
At one level, one might say that Kim Kwang-kyu is a poet of
the absurd, refusing to admit that the occupations with which most people are
so busy have any meaning at all in terms of human existence and human dignity.
If we turn to the youngest of this family of poets, we find
ourselves back much closer to Shin Kyong-nim. Another non-intellectual, at
first Yi Si-yong followed his mentor Shin Kyong-nim and wrote poems focussed on
the pain of the poor and marginalized:
"Suppose we chuck them out now?"
"We
can't; let them sleep there tonight. Tomorrow morning..."
"We
can't, how many times has it been 'just for tonight'?
If the boss knew..."
"Still,
we can't..."
The
laborers' murmurs, confused as in a dream, reach the woman
leaning
against the thin wall of the corrugated shack; like fire
she
covers her babies as they lie with their little feet sticking out,
rises
silently and sits there,
staring
into the pitch black night outside.
("At
the Far End of a Building Site" (1983))
That is an extreme example, because Korean poets, even in
this tradition, usually feel a need to be more lyrical in their evocations of
other people's pain:
The
snow is melting.
But
it has not melted yet.
It
lies gleaming, spotted with grey,
like
the dreams we failed to dream last night.
I
glimpse traces of snow
still
covering the foot of a pine tree
as
I walk late at night
down
an alley behind the bus terminal, or pass
Palace
Hotel where a girl killed herself.
Oh,
I want to turn into a fire
and
delve deep to the roots
to
protect everything cold.
I
want to turn into an icy love
sparkling
beside those piles of stones,
refusing
to melt or ooze
even
if something touches it.
("Traces
of Snow")
More recently, his poems have moved towards a suggestive,
epigrammatic style. The following poem was recently chosen for future inclusion
in Jon Silkin's "Stand Magazine", a sign that modern Korean poets can
address an audience much wider than the few who study Korean literature in
universities:
On
a night like this, wolves are leaping in distant hills.
Hares
hunting for food
glance
about with fearful eyes
as
they come down unawares into the village streets.
Aha,
the warm sober tracks of a family of hares,
swept
away in a flash by a dawn gust of wind.
("One
Snowy Evening")
In translating Korean poetry, it is this degree of universal
communication that I hope for. The specific qualities of Korean poetry are
often tightly linked to specific qualities of the Korean language that no
translation can transmit. In this paper I have tried to present a group of
poets whose works may still have power to move when they have been stripped of
their original language and decked out in the borrowed vesture of a foreign
tongue. In very different ways, each of these poets testifies to the power of
Korean poetry to echo experiences of pain, of hope and endurance far beyond the
frontiers of the Peninsula. That, I believe, should be the translator's primary
task.