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Two Poems by Hwang Yuwon
Spectacle Trapped inside an empty wine glass, struggling leggily in all directionsslipping this way and that, the centipedehaving realized finally that there’s nowhere to run todoesn’t become violent but instead turns off its engine for a momentand enters total stillness. At this unexpected attitude, I was a little surprisedand, paying no attention to my little surprise,the centipede bent its body slightlyand, starting with the legs on the right side, one by onelicked them, then started on the left legs, one by onefrom beginning to endlike a woman taking a freshly wrung mop to the church floorwith great careexalted, you could even sayas if each one of its too-long too-many legs were some ancient manuscriptand its mandibles, made, apparently, to chew and swallow tiny bits of thingswere licking themone by one, as if to turn their pages.Solemnly moved, you let the centipede go.Its legs flowing far away againis surely a flow you’re seeing for the first timeand how shoddy is a body if it didn’t even have such a flow— Like a riverside with no riverLike a café on the riverside with no flow of people. Therefore, there is a flow.There is a flow andthere is the riverside scenery accompanied by the flow.And sitting at a café, after enduring the day’s ups and downs,there I am, fiddling with the leggy stem of a wine glass.Near dawn, at the riversideat that place that could be the Seine or the Hongjecheonremembering the centipede and its leisure— which seemed to say that it is not captive now and no one is watching orso what ifsomeone is watching— there I am, lifting the wine glass once more.At night, when the red wine with its thousands of legscrawls into my throat and goes totally silentI, thinking hard about how I too have nowhere to runempty the glass and get up andtry flowing wherever— imitating the ripple of the centipedeflowing into the wine glassflowing out of the wine glasswith the feeling of the centipede. But here’s my flow, not even as good as the centipede’s. Oh you beyond the glass—you’re not so different from me, all humans are a spectacle—stare away, take it all in. Blank In my dream my hair went whiteIn my head the white Snow was coming downBy the time I realized I was almost all the way across the riverThere was already so much snow on my headIt must be because my mind’s whited outThat it’s still snowing inside my headIt must be the snowstorm ragingThat makes it impossible to see an inch aheadIt’s nice not to seeBecause it doesn’t matter where you go, if you can’t seeAll the footsteps will disappearNow I am standing on some other landFrom there it seems it’s still snowing on the river behind meNow I don’t have to go back thereI can’t go back there—that single factHardens in the coldHeavy snow is like a blank sheetAnd sometimes brilliantWhich is so dear to me that I look once againAt that blank sheetLook at this blank sheetThat I’ve writtenThis blank sheet I wroteHas become so bright by Hwang Yuwon Translated by Hedgie Choi
by Hwang Yuwon
Two Poems by Lee Min-ha
Hole I suppose just outside the desire to touch lies the desire to stay away. A mind and a mind were stuck together. White and white wouldn’t come apart. What is empty is filled to the brim. If I make a fist and give it a push, it will sink right in. It will sink right in and I will never get it back. The cold, stiff lumps of muscle. The monitor was cold late at night. It was paused. Time and time were stuck together. Sentence and sentence wouldn’t come apart. The ones who clenched their eyes too hard—they are dead. Their insides were caves. Their eyes had been closed for so long, the water was over a hundred meters deep. Water was stuck to water. Darkness and darkness wouldn’t come apart. Someone went in with a candle. Their webbed feet, so elegant, swiftly glided over to a faraway moment. Was the last thing they heard their own first cry? Is a moment just outside eternity? The dead eye flinched. From its waxy face, an eyelash fell. Downstream God is lying in the dark one-person room at the far end of the hallway.It’s like God hung us outside the window and forgot about it. The birds that have cut the cords dripdown the glass. We wipe and wipe and drop our palms. God has collected a dozen doll’s arms. In the drawer,there’s even an old Korean textbook. A white mouth, a black mouth. I parted my hairand learned to ventriloquizeand earned this beautiful body. On nights like this, I could count eyelashes. If this night is God’s nightmare,let’s wash the rags for us to wear and lie down a little while longer.I dreamt that we turned our itchy backs and took turns winding our springs, our breaths clouding the air,and I grew so unbelievably close to belief that I returned to the arms of a human. by Lee Min-ha Translated by Soeun Seo
by Lee Min-ha
Two Poems by Go Myeongjae
We Close Our Eyes to Kiss
by Go Myeongjae
Two Poems by Lee Jenny
Meeting on a Byroad
by Lee Jenny
Ten Poems by Yi Won
Voices
by Yi Won
Two Poems by Hwang Inchan
Seeing What’s Seen
by Hwang Inchan
Two Poems by Chang Seung Ri
After
by Chang Seung Ri
Ten Poems by Ra Heeduk
Easter Sunday
by Ra Heeduk
Two Poems by Kim Un
I Don't Know Where the Leak Has Sprung
I opened the bathroom door and you were crying inside. Bent double as you cried sitting on the toilet. Why are you crying,
I almost asked. You wouldn’t have answered, anyway. Still, why are you crying,
I almost asked and didn’t, again. Because it was useless. Whatever the reason, and whomever the tears were for,
a crying person is a crying person. An overflowing person. To ask a question to stop the flow is already too late.
Until the crying ceases or the tears are stopped
or waiting for the tears to dry, I stare into the bathroom.
I stare at you. Thankfully, the bathroom lacks the tiniest window.
Nowhere for cries to leak to the outside.
No outer wall for tear tracks to stain.
A cloud that would’ve been visible had there been a bathroom window passes outside the living room window.
Watching it stopped me in my tracks and made me forget you’re crying.
How to console you? How to stop the cloud?
I am an other. A loving other. A hating other. A stranger other.
A cloud flowing whichever way and an other of this morning stopped in his tracks.
The single other who would’ve been enough has now stopped the other
who would’ve overwhelmed even two. In front of the bathroom, I hold in the cloud.
I feel something flowing down like water. I don’t know where the leak has sprung.
by Kim Un
Two Poems by Lee Young Ju
Literary Composition
by Lee Young Ju
Two Poems by Eins Hwang
My Friend’s Ex-Wife Sometimes I miss my friend’s ex-wife a whole lot. Whose friend are you?! my friend would pout. Friend, I can see you any time at all. Your ex-wife, though, I rarely get to see her now and it’s all your fault! Her signature cutesy hehe still rings in my ears. Her constant, wistful smile is still vivid in my eyes. But I can’t even mention her name or I might become an ex-friend. My friend’s ex-wife, who my friend had loved. She’s been the wife of another for a while now, my friend’s ex-wife. Life and Dog Is that person even allowed to have such a beautiful dog? That person, with their rough, unfortunate face. I doubt they can even feed themself. Oh, what a beautiful dog. Its coat gleams and its gaze is deep. It must be well-bred and well-loved. The Quasimodo-like owner dotes on it, worships it, and it seems to love the owner, the dog, much too beautiful for these tenement streets. So, what, is that person only allowed to have dogs that aren’t beautiful? What, they shouldn’t have any dogs at all? by Eins Hwang Translated by Soeun Seo
by Eins Hwang
Two Poems by An Taewoon
Certain Human Emotions and Instances Thinking back over various days, Over certain human emotions and instances, For Some, these instances and emotions begin to seem strange That day Those two days By chance it’s excitement it’s resolve it’s chance discomfort it’s contradiction it’s seeping in by chance For Some, when your surroundings seem suddenly familiar while going about daily life You might stop to buy blueberries and socks and sundubu on the way home, gazing at the shapes and colors with fresh eyes And then thinking, hm, been using money for so long Money persists, appearing and disappearing, for a long time. A medium, finance. And then thinking, am I like money, given and taken, passing momentarily through some hands, not passing through others but somehow persisting? For Some, which days might come to mind? Reflect Saturate It’s surprise by chance it’s a juncture it’s sorrow by chance it’s exuberance it’s solemnity by chance Some might think of days to come Feel some ambivalence about People whose place of work is the zoo but do their best to take care of everything they can as the humans in that place Take responsibility and contemplate close to nature and send back to nature or remain and spend their time stopping other humans Realizing that wild animals don’t pity themselves That day Those two days Some, how are you? As I walk on the overpass, past the shop, along the floodbank, in the park, through the spaces we’ve made, I realize, hm, so this is the living area of humanity And if I go somewhere else on a day off, in that space there are flowers and grass and leaves and animals walking It seems some animals don’t avoid humans. That feels strange, and there are some animals with jobs And the animals with jobs stare back at the many human lives, then move on through still other humans. In that way, time passes. Amid the many days, Some, are you living well? I mean, I wonder what area you’re wandering What series of emotions and instances your life consists of I am here Saying let us cast a coarse net as flowing pieces, let us be caught in it here, Becoming a distant person and remembering the past, about wind music and spring wind, Rewinding the video of a dead person in the future, I am here Suddenly frightened by human ways of thinking, that eating an animal could give you its power For Some, some things seem to pass by all at once in a flash I sometimes momentarily enact my will, and sometimes step back And become a person who kindles memories Wondering what it means to live a good life as a human To Some, I ask how are you? I am here But what is the feeling of being here? Suddenly it felt strange And I looked around. Goose Bojagi Practice 1. He’s walking. He puts his hand in his pocket and feels the touch of cloth. He realizes it’s a goose bojagi. But that’s for wedding ceremonies—and where’s the goose and gander? Why does he only have the piece of cloth that wraps them? He doubts himself for thinking it’s a goose bojagi. He decides to find the geese. Maybe he’ll get to see some ducks at least. He walks to the streamside. 2. He’s at a traditional wedding. The bride and groom are his friends. He watches the ceremony happily. The geese bearer passes the wooden goose and gander wrapped in the goose bojagi to the groom, and the groom places them on the goose altar. But just as the groom bends to bow before the bride’s parents, he’s suddenly jumped between them and snatched up the wooden geese. He’s thrown off the goose bojagi, and he’s running way with the wood carvings. The bride and groom and all the wedding guests stare after him. That’s when I picked up the goose bojagi. I tie the bojagi around my wrist. 3. You take regular walks at the pond. After observing the limping goose over several days, you decide you’ve got to check on it. You take the goose to the wildlife hospital. It looks like it’s been bit by a turtle. After examining it, you risk surgery. Luckily, the goose’s condition improves. You tuck it in under a blanket. “You’ll be able to fly again tomorrow after a good night’s rest,” you think as you drift off to sleep. 4. As he walks down the street, he discovers a red piece of cloth. He looks it over this way and that. It’s a curious shape. Strange. Something like a stingray kite. Maybe a rhombus. It has two tails attached to one corner. He folds it like a paper airplane. He tries to throw it. It doesn’t fly well. He sits down on a bench and keeps trying. I’m watching him do it, “Stop trying to make it fly. It’s for wrapping things. It’s a goose bojagi. You wrap it around like this.” I hold up my left hand like a beak. I tie the bojagi around my left wrist. He touches my wrist. He tries to send it flying far away. Again. Does it fly? 5. He’d received the goose bojagi as a gift. But what about the geese? The wooden goose and gander? There aren’t any. Just the goose bojagi. He pondered what to do with it. He put it on the desk. He’d have to find something to wrap. What would it go well with? His phone? A mirror? His wallet? A pencil? He tried tying it to various things. He placed them on the windowsill. Interesting. That made it feel like the wind was blowing. 6. I crumpled the goose bojagi, then opened it again. I crumple it and toss it in the air and catch it. I unfold it and toss it. It wraps my face. 7. You roll around in your sleep a lot. 8. You’re walking in the park. You watch as a red cloth comes flying your way. It falls at your feet. Just as you bend to pick it up, someone rushes over. It must be the cloth’s owner. You stop. You wait for his reaction. But a few moments pass without any sign from him. You look away and pick up the cloth. You gaze intently at it. While you observe the goose bojagi’s shape, he snaps a picture of you. Then he leaves. 9. He coddles the goose bojagi. Who knows where he got it, but he’s holding it in his hands. He and the goose bojagi are in the tub. They relax together and soak in the warm water. He dunks the goose bojagi in the water and floats it on the surface. Hahaha—he’s putting the goose bojagi around his neck and smiling. by An Taewoon Translated by Seth Chandler
by An Taewoon