CHONG CHI-YONG
Chong Chi-yong was born in Ch'ungchong Province in 1902,
the oldest son of a dealer in Chinese medicine. Chi-yong was raised in
the Catholic faith and according to the custom of the time was married
when he was only twelve years old. He knew poverty as a child, but through
the graces of a benefactor was able to attend Hwimun Secondary School in
Seoul. With his school comrades, he there began his poetic activities.
He also took part in a protest movement within the school, for which he
was temporarily suspended. Upon graduation in 1922, he went to Japan to
do university studies in English Literature, writing a thesis on William
Blake.
Chong may have published a couple of poems in 1922 or
1923, but he began publishing in earnest in 1926 at the age of twenty-five.
Upon returning to Korea after graduation in 1929, he began teaching English
at his high-school alma mater. He continued in this position until the
end of the Japanese occupation and World Was 弗 in 1945, all the while
continuing to publish poetry. During various periods between 1945 and 1950,
he taught Korean Language, English Poetry, and Latin at Ewha Women's University,
lectured on the Chinese Book of Poetry at Seoul National University, and
worked for a Catholic publication, the Kyongyang Newspaper. In 1950, Chong
disappeared. It seems he was kidnapped and taken to the Communist north;
so the publication of his poems in the southern part of Korea was banned
until the end of 1987.
Chong Chi-yong's poems breathe the air of the village,
sea, and mountains of the Korean peninsula. They express attitudes which
Koreans have long treasured as their own; a loving closeness to nature
and other human beings, an appreciation of truths implicit in the heart's
endless longing; a fondness for playful humor and childlike wonder; a tendency
toward indirectness and ambiguity; and a predilection for drawing beauty
out of the commonplace. Typically Korean but not at all exotic, Chong's
countryside has a more authentic rural feel than the masked paternalism
of the American poet Robert Frost; but like Frost, Chong draws the reader
into a particular locale whose horizons are universal. Not exclusively
Korean or rural, the affection, longing, humor, and wonder that characterize
Chong's work are rooted in commonplaces of the human heart.
A POMEGRANATE
Brazier coals blooming to a
lovely rose-like blaze式
Dry grass kindled on the First Day of Spring
scents the night.
When I split a pomegranate
that got past the dead of winter
And taste, one by one, the ruby-like beads,
Diaphanous thoughts of old,
rainbows of new cares,
Goldfish-like, tender, childlike sensations!
The fruit must have ripened last lunar October,
When the little story of the two of us began.
Little Miss slender comrade,
A pair of jade rabbits3 secretly nestling,
drowsing at your breast.
Fingers, white-fish fingers
swimming in an ancient pond,
Threads, silver threads,
fluttering freely, lonely, and light-
Holding to the light
bead after bead of pomegranate seed,
Dreaming of Shilla's4 thousand years of blue sky.
RED HANDS
Shoulders round,
Lush hair-braid trailing,
Bred in the mountains,
Forehead white as an egg.
In black padded socks
patched white at heel and toe,
Hands frozen red like mountain berries,
She plows through a path of snow
To draw water tapped from stone crannies.
As a strand of blue smoke rises,
The roof glows warm in the sunshine;
And again, in the snow,
The virgin gives off the fresh green scent
of midway up a parasol tree
Sitting bashfully turned,
an out-of season wayfarer,
She casts the image of her face
in the gathering steam
And takes a peek at spring water
that in between the stones
is strangely
like the sky.
A DREAM OF
WINDBLOWN WAVES 1
You say you are coming式
Just how will you come?
Like the grape-dark night surging in
To the sound of an endless cry
that embraces the sea式
Is that how you'll come?
You say you are coming式
Just how will you come?
Like an ashen silver giant from
a forlorn isle across the sea,
Swooping down on a day fierce with wind式
Is that how you'll come?
You say you are coming式
Just how will you come?
When outside the window
sparrows' eyes droop
And inside, chin in hands,
I'm crushed with care......
Like the dawn moon, round like
a silver door pull,
Doffing a veil tinged with shame式
Is that how you'll come?
THE SEA 3
A lonely soul
All day long
Calls to the sea式
Over the sea
Night
Comes walking.
THE SEA 8
White clouds
Blossom;
The scented winds
Are full.
Seaweed abounds;
shellfish get plump;
And ah! the tangy sea式
Like essence of ginger.
Spying now a
Blade-like shark,
We rush to the bow.
In tatters, the red sail flutters.
The arm's full thrust!
Spear-tip right on!
A REED FLUTE
Can you catch a mermaid
And make her your wife?
On a night like this,
the moon so wan,
Roaming the sea's warm depths....
Can you become a grasslike ghost
And appear just bare bones?
On a night like this,
the moon so wan,
Riding a balloon
And floating, floating
toward a pollen-strewn sky...
In a tree's empty shade,
I converse with my flute,
just we two together.
WINDOW
A day
Without a redwing
Wanes.
Frozen boughs hung with icicles
Are pierced by the sagging sky.
On the old pond式
not even a sunken star式
Withered lotus stems
moan in the wind.
In far-off fields,
No grass fires rise.
After the landscape,
Lavishly,
Has gone all away,
At my window
Again comes the dark,
Lovely like vapor.
PIRO PEAK 2
The ivy
Turns color;
The chipmunk's tail,
A lush dark.
Autumn path
High in the mountains....
Right above the brow,
The sun itself is fragrant.
Staff
Tap-tapping,
White fields
Laugh
Birch slip off
Their outward show;
And billowing clouds
Asleep by the flowers
Feel empty
In the breeze.
PAENGNOK LAKE
1
The closer you get to the top, the more worn away are
the cornflowers. Climb one ridge, and the waists disappear; up another
ridge, the necks are gone; and after that, just faces peep out, like a
flowered print. Where the wind's cold vies with the tip of Hamgyong Province,2
cornflowers have no height at all. Yet they abound for a while in August
like scattered stars. When mountain shadows darken, stars light up as well
in the cornflower fields, moving with their constellations. I'm here, exhausted.
2
I moisten my throat with the pretty pill-like fruit of
the crowberry and get up, refreshed.
3
White birch live beside white birch till they's skeletons.
Like birch, my whiteness when dead will not be unscarred.
4
On a mountain spur too desolate even for ghosts, lone
flowering beggar-ticks blanch with fear even in broad day.
5
At almost 6,000 feet, horses and cattle live without
a thought of humans. Horses with horses, cows with cows, colts after mother
cows, calves after mother horses-all follow one another, promptly to part.
6
The cow had an awfully hard time giving birth to its
first calf. In a moment of bewilderment, she turned down a mountain path
for a hundred ri3 and ran off for Sogwip'o.4 Still not dry and its mother
gone, the calf cried "ma-a, ma-a." Horses, mountaineers-it clung to them
at random. I cried to think that our brood, too, might be left to a mother
whose coat has a different hue.
7
The scent of wind orchids, the sound of orioles calling
back and forth, whistling Cheju warblers, water tumbling off rocks, the
swish of eddying winds as the sea crumples in the distance.... I go astray
among ash, camellia, and oak, only to find myself once again on a winding
path packed with white stones and crawling with arrowroot vines. A dappled
horse, all at once right before me, doesn't budge!
8
Fern, todok5 sprouts, bellflowers, asters, rain-hat shoots,
bamboo grass, mushrooms, high mountain plants that dangle starlike bells-etching
them in my heart, drunk with them, I sleep. The procession that forms above
the mountain range in yearning for the plain water of Paengnok Lake is
more stately than the clouds. Caught in a mat of rain, dried out in a rainbow,6
and flower juice worked into the rump, my flesh swells.
9
In the blue water of Paengnok Lake, where not even crayfish
crawl, the sky revolves. Past my legs nearly crippled with fatigue, acow
makes a detour and goes its way. With the mere hint of thread-like clouds
chased this way, Paengnok Lake blurs. Folded towards my face the whole
day long, Paengnok Lake is desolate. Waking and drowsing, I've forgot even
to pray.
1939.4
CHANGSU MOUNTAIN 2
A mountain of stone without a quiver of grass, winding
as a mass through twelve ravines! A cold sky covers each ravine; and, ice
frozen firm, stepping stones seem safe. I set my feet in tracks trod by
scrambling pheasants and tramping bears. The water chirps like crickets!
In the flickering sunlight, snow settles on snow. White fringes draw breath,
crushed beneath white fringes. Settling throughout the mountain, won't
the profusion of fringes get hurt? I fling myself down upon a hazy cliff
site once shadowed red with azaleas!
Translated by Daniel Kister. He is Professor of English
and Comparative Literature at Sogang University, Seoul, Korea. |