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  Ten Poems by Oh Eun

  There “Dad, I’m here!” As I make my way into the charnel house, I greet my father as cheerfully as possible. My father appeared in my dream that night. “Hey Eun, today Dad’s here.” The possible burst, and something slipped out. Toward that far off day, precipitously overflowing cheerfulness.     Those Open, and there they were. For all to see. Like they’d still be there even if I forgot, like I couldn’t forget as long as they were there. But I opened them to forget. Because if they’re there, they come to mind, they show up, they tighten around me. Because I can’t forget.They won’t be there. They might not. How nice would it be if they weren’t? There they were. I can’t forget. Maybe I’ll never forget. How nice would it be if I could only forget? No matter what, there they were.They were outside. Inside, I didn’t know where they were. Inside was at peace, easy going, all alike, so there was no way to know. The inside story isn’t much for going out. It only curls up and congeals.They’ll be there as long as I live. As long as I’ve got a mind to open them and a hand to open them with. Even if they’re gone, I’ll still think of them. They’ll show up in my head. They’ll tighten around my chest. Nothingness will forever knock on former somethingness.Close, and they were gone. Like nothing happened. Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. I felt sorry for closing my eyes. Those things between not seeing and not looking. Those things that thinking of brings up. Opened or closed. Even unopened. Since I couldn’t close. There they are.     That There is somethingIts name escapes me There is somethingWith a nameHere I amNot knowing its name I become engrossedIt is engrossed right alongside me There is someone solving a riddleA riddle no one posed A few days laterThe name comes to meThere I am, feeling the emptiness Something went unnamed then But on the street, in the bus, outside the revolving doorAfter much thought With its nameThere it is     That To talk about it I had to remember it The thing before that thing When it wasn’t that thing yet The thing I thought was that thing The thing that played a decisive role in giving that thing a name The thing closest to that thing The thing forced to exit as soon as that thing entered That thing gets unkempt as it grows and gets further apart from the thing It tries to erase its past up to right then and be remembered as that thing only and fully.         The starlight appeared and the star was gone        The mountain bird sang and the mountain went away        The seawater swelled and the sea dried up         Like a word forgetting its meaning        The moment it’s pronounced     This They said it was just hereRight hereThey were only gone for a minuteAnd it disappearedMaybe the bathroom?Or the utility closet?They only looked away for a secondWhat business did they haveIn the bathroom?What were they utilizingIn the utility closet?It was right hereThisThis very thingThis was right hereHow reassuringHow pleasantThey never even showed this to anyoneBut now this isn’t hereSo this isn’t this anymoreBut they know what this isSo it’s not just some thingCan a lost this still be found?Will that still be this when it gets back?They only looked away for a secondAnd this ceased to be thisThis gave up on being thisThey go back into the bathroomThey search the utility closet up and downBut this never shows back upHow could this do that?What’s to be done about this?Even when it was hereAnd even when it’s gone It was never anything but thisIt could never be anything but this     They Talk like a person Just like a personThat was an insult As beautiful as a person Could almost believe it was a personThat was a mirage Oh, I thought that was a person! Must’ve taken ten years off my lifeThat was sincere Lucky to be a person, andEven luckier not to have been The first bus arrives loaded with yesterday’s exhaustionAnd the last bus departs loaded down with today’s     He Moving day. The first thing he did was count the windows. There were definitely three when he came to see the place, but now that he was moving in, it was down to two. When he confronted the owner, the owner claimed two was all there’d ever been. Was it some sort of illusion? No, more like magic. When he first came to see it, the three windows were what appealed to him. It was an old building, in an inconvenient location, and you had to go up a steep hill to get there, but he’d be happy to sign the contract because it had three windows. He imagined the three windows shining with warm, bountiful sunlight. At that very moment, the sun poured in through all three windows. The thing that appealed to him became the thing that sealed the deal.        On the wall where the third window was, there was now a clock. The owner said the previous renter left it behind. The hands on the clock weren’t moving. They sat unbudging at 11:20. A stopped clock in place of a window! Looking over the contract, the owner said, “It’s a small place, two windows will be plenty.” He’d only wanted such a small place because it had three windows! But if he said it out loud, he might look hung up on the windows. He’d have to put up with a sarcastic comment like, “I’d rather you came in through the door, anyway.” And then there’d be some common-sense retort, “When would I have had the time to get rid of a perfectly good window and put up a wall?” He was this close to becoming the nonsensical tenant hung up on the three windows.        But those three windows were the one good thing about the place. He took a quick look behind the clock in case the window was hiding there. “It’ll work fine if you just change the batteries,” the owner said with a yawn. I’ve got a clock, what I need is a window! There they were, him holding out for a window, the owner insisting he hand over the deposit, both stating their demands without a word. It was still 11:20. He didn’t think he could live in a place with two windows. Just like the hands on the clock, always pointing 11:20, there would only ever be two windows. Putting new batteries in the clock wouldn’t create another window. “It was some guy hung up on the windows. You know how some people are. So temperamental,” the owner would quip to the next renter. There’s homes everywhere, but a home with three windows is only somewhere. Moving day wouldn’t become the day he moved.        But is it even possible for the sun to come in three windows at once? He stood there already unloaded like the moving boxes, looking up at the place. Even outside the window, it was 11:20 over and over.      We Open parenthesisJot down the secretClose parenthesis The secret sealed away potentially And there we wereOutside the parentheses Secretive but not secret Fearing exposureBut wanting recognition The parentheses embrace the insideTurn their backs to the outsideDo anything to meet and form a circle What’s inside the parenthesesStruggles for breath The shadows outside the parenthesesMilling andWriggling andChurning and Seeping into the parentheses in droves WeBecame a secret butWere much too closeTo hide each other     You You were born a proper noun but were often called a pronoun. Those who distanced themselves from y’all, those nice enough to lump you in with we, those who took you under their wing, young friend. They were all proper nouns once too. The more you tried to get rid of the noun within you, the more proper you became.        When you were born, you were almost an adjective. Bright and cute. Handsome and beautiful. Adaptable and outgoing. People said it felt good to see you. People said you gave them energy they didn’t have. Your essence was like water, less placid than rippling.        When you were young, you were close with numerals. You raised your hand to go first. You sprinted down the street at the shout of one, two, three. Whenever you made a new friend, your frequency of pronoun use increased. So many countless yous, and the you that you liked best soon became like your other half.        With your other half, you became a verb. You decided to leave behind being a state or condition and became movement. From here to there, from there to yet another there, which once was yonder. Once you became a verb, there were more imperatives. Sit still. Be careful! Smile more. Don’t cry. Do you love me?        You explored particles, and your other half focused on determiners. You confessed to your other half, “There’s no one else but you.” Your other half took it to mean just one person. It was fine up to that point. But that was it. “Particles don’t attach to determiners,” your other half said, turning away coldly and promptly becoming they.        After that, you started indulging in adverbs. You spent a lot of energy puffing you up and shrinking you down. It was so exhausting and painful, and you were often starving. As your opinion became clearer, you actually grew more faint. Eventually you felt embarrassed.        When you became an exclamation, that’s when you realized.         Oh, this wasn’t the sentence!     Me When I wanted to be aloneI went to the bathroom AloneI felt lonely, thenIn front of othersSomehow embarrassed Fine with being aloneBecameMore comfortable alone The bathroom mirror was wiped cleanIt’s not like it would get smudgedBut it wasn’t easy to look into I looked at the mirror and smiledNo one was watching, but even stillThe corners of my lips wouldn’t rise Like something I shouldn’t have seenLike something hard to watch I burst out laughingLike a story you shouldn’t laugh atLike a smile turning into a silly faceLike the most famous comedianIn a funny world AloneIn the bathroom All by myself, and stillIt was an effort for me to smile    Translated by Seth Chandler       

  by Oh Eun

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  Two Poems by Han Yeojin

  The Pot The adults are gathered in the yard They peek into the pot with worried faces The pot is our family pride My great aunt and grandma and mom were born in the pot My aunt was beaten to death with the pot lid My sister burned under the pot and turned to smoke Those remaining continue to put someone in and take someone out and someone worries about the pot As the ones who will go into the pot become less and less someone tells me that it is clear that I was picked up somewhere When you look into the black pot there is black water that never overflows no matter how much you fill it What is in there that makes the pot endlessly black? I do not write about unfathomable things I write about a day without the pot I write about things that do not originate from the pot I write about things outside the fence that surrounds the yard I write about things that are not my great aunt nor grandma nor mom nor aunt nor sister Does continuing to write change anything  My sister whom I presumed dead peeps into an old crape myrtle A cat is licking its dead offspring My sister is beaming a smile too precious for her to die The living cat already has a dead face Someone says let us now put the pot away for good They will soon be captured and put into the pot About things like these I cannot write Born in the pot I am someone who will return to the pot after hovering around the pot and I am someone who does not know anything but the pot and who cannot write anything if I do not have the pot and who will ignite a blank paper and throw it into the pot When the yard is filled with smoke and the adults run away as the alarm rings I am someone who will observe their backs I will be the pride of the pot     Summer There Slippers in the summer Slippers in the summer Although you can only wear summer slippers in the summer and summer comes even without summer slippers Even still I always wear summer slippers in the summer and off I go to Gangwon-do in the summer I take out the summer slippers Gangwon-do in the summer Gangwon-do in the summer Gangwon-do in the summer to see Gangwon-do filled with summer Gangwon-do is perfect even when it is not summer but still I go to summer-filled Gangwon-do in the summer Trumpet vines in the summer Trumpet vines in the trumpet vines summer Although there are lots more than trumpet vines in the summer because summer trumpet vines are only in the summer the trumpet vines that quietly cling onto the wall in the summer and become like the sunshine Then trumpet vines fall and heavy rain starts in Gangwon-do and summer flees on the day I trip on my slippers and summer is the summer fleeing far away and summer is the summer that cannot catch up to the summer and falls behind and that summer turning around says Stay there and do not follow me and goes far away Translated by Levi Lee

  by Han Yeojin

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  Two Poems by Lee Young-ju

  Forest of Forgetfulness I imagine everything I’ve lost is pushed ashore here. Hello. The fragments of loss pile up in this place and become the vast you. They say there is a forest of dead cedar trees in Taiwan. Trees that died standing, never snapped nor toppled. Once dead, they turned into a tourist spot for the living to wander through. Hello. Now that the river’s flow is dammed, I can see you: mist rolling in through a rusted wire fence. Broken cement. An ashtray. A crumpled medicine pouch. A heavy smell hangs in the air. You, trembling in the cold. Your breath, embracing the living, turning into water. Why did you send that sort of letter back then? Saying you were fine, that you’d baked cookies and would bring them over, then dropping the envelope with my address into the depths. I imagine everything I’ve lost drifts to that place. A vast forest of ghosts. I like writing replies. When your breath slipped through countless trees, I wrote letters no one would ever receive. You’ve already received all the replies I’ve lost. Between cedar stumps, rain-soaked ghost wings still cling, their torsos rolling to the ground, becoming the intimate face of the soil. What, then, is interior? Hello. In the cedar forest where you reside, I’ve caught a new sickness of the soul. What is a dead soul made of? And the great wings of yours that hold me— —The original Korean version of this poem first appeared in the 2024 Summer Issue of Daesan Culture quarterly magazine.     Brunch Time Soo never looks in the mirror. She once said that in a nightmare, she removed her heart—and felt far happier afterward. After eating Indian curry prepared by a Pakistani chef in Daheung-dong, Soo’s face grew more and more transparent. I realized happiness doesn’t stem from the heart. Soo always wore a faint smile. She said this city, where everyone is mixed together, is so beautiful she can’t help but smile. When everyone blends, nothing special remains, she said. Still, having nothing in the place where something used to be. . . I faltered. I was eating spinach curry, exactly like the green food the alien spat out in the scene from that old movie, Rubber Man’s Finale. Come to think of it, healthy food is pretty much alien food. When Soo blew on clumpy rice, a few stray grains fluttered onto my mind. Even though this rice wasn’t sticky, it clung like a leech. I laughed loudly. Soo spilled a bit of the complimentary tomato soup; as a red stain spread around where her heart had been, she smiled quietly. There’s only water in my name, Soo said. She loves her name. Since water never stays fixed, there’s no reason to look in the mirror. Like a wave, she is only beautiful—her misfortunes flowing away and leaving happiness behind. Soo calls herself herself. I summoned the Pakistani chef in my most miserable voice: These grains of rice are burrowing into my heart. How do I get rid of them? If my heart goes necrotic, can I get a refund? In Rubber Man’s Finale, when the main character’s brain started oozing out, he undid his leather belt and wrapped it around his head. The hairy chef, dressed in a tracksuit, laments he’s got nothing to tie up. I’m wearing a dress, my shoulder drooping because one corner of my heart is collapsing. Soo, why did you stick these grains of rice on. . . I can’t finish my sentence; my right side caves in. Soo asked me to be sure her name is written clearly on her tombstone, insisting on using the hanja character for water 漵, which is pronounced Soo. Because water, she said, is the beauty that can even wash nightmares away. I wonder if I can keep that promise. Soo is already dead—yet still eating her curry, happily. Translated by Jack Saebyok Jung

  by Lee Young-ju

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  Two Poems by Yoon Eunseong

  At the Glass Plaza Remember?We learned Music and Earth Science1 on the same day andwent upto the rooftop together. When light shone through the clouds, it felt as ifwe’d suddenly noticed2 something,as though we could finely perceivethat soft, drifting time—like touching the forehead of a cow or a puppy. Even if all we could do was lie face down and cry, wonderingwhat it was all for, right on timewe still sat at our desks, sharing a single pair of earphones. It feels like we already knew this, back then.In the city where I live, people often gather and scatter in the plaza,and though I keep trying to speak, somehowit feels like the prayers we shout from here never quite reach far enough. Even as we watched the drifting clouds and listened to music together,we couldn’t fly, realizingwings aren’t so easily earned.Instead,even on the rooftop, we feltas if we were sinking. And sometimes,there were scenes of children, heads bowed over their crowded desks,knocking on the window in thirst, trying to get outside— If we felt all that back then,what more must we feel here and now?What hopes should we write down as we close out the year and grow older? My voice briefly echoesabove ground and below, then fades. Let’s say that holding on and gathering like thisis a quiet prayer, bound by an invisible thread—a prayer for those who stand with their backs to the futureto turn around. Let’s say we have gathered here for a momentto notice the hands that shatter both glass and fog,bringing outside in. 1  Imagining, through teacher Boran, that a science class could also feel warm.2 A phrase (“알아채다”) learned from conversations with Hyerin, who is active in the animal liberation movement.   From Unknown Things I had a good dream.I don’t know how to say it exactly. Every morning, the shadow I still carry stays bunched up,refusing to emerge from the deep forest beneath my skin.So I go out by finding any shadow I can and fastening it to myself. Kind people lend me their shadows;sometimes they even send me shadows as gifts. Today, I got one from a poetry collection*—it felt like a life jacket, and I was happy, as though I’d returned alive because of it. Water hyacinths, cats, whales, and calves,the moss I tended while growing up—if you watch quietly, you can hear the sounds, and lately, I see sad and strong peoplewho use their own voices to secure safe shores and forests.At times like that, the green light of my own forest briefly shines through.Oh, by the way,there’s a lake where forests overlap.When we can sit together there,let’s cook something we’ve never made before and eat it. I’ll muster the courage, because overlapping dreamssometimes come into clearer focus. When I listen to how you breathe,at least we’re together,at least I’m learning and remembering the shape of your breath,just a bit more deeply.Translated by Jack Saebyok Jung * I got the shadow from the poet Heeum’s poem, “Life.”

  by Yoon Eunseong

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  Two Poems by Oh Eun

  A Growing Story A friend told me their storyA story about going abroadA story about throwing a partyAt a house they built in the middle of nowhere A story of having left and stayed About a person you kind of knowAnd a person you don’t know at allGetting to know each otherAnd becoming one another’s one and only A story about throwing a party once a monthA story about helping people meet peopleAbout one person and another falling in loveAnd love not leaving About loveStaying with people A story about being loved for laughing wellAbout a person crying, while their handwarmersAre heating up in their pocket A story that warms you up before you know it A story about the chandelierShowering the house with rainbowsEach and every dayAbout the fresh feeling just after a rainA big, or small, or justAnything-at-all success story A story growing upWith each imaginingA story of growing up A story of growing up to be myselfA story of being myself despite growing up   Happy Ending         My friend likes dramas. The main character’s dreams come true. The misunderstandings get sorted out and the conflict gets resolved. It feels like tomorrow can only bring better things. Basically, the ending is always happy.        I’m not a big fan of dramas. My friend’s eyes widen. How could I say such a thing? Who doesn’t like dramas? My friend turns the moment into a scene straight out of a drama.         An invisible net stretches between the desks.        I’ve got to hit the ball back over.         Everything comes together so easy in the end. Think about all the things that never get resolved in real life. Like me, right now. I’ve got so much to worry about, and none of it ever gets fixed. I just pile on more things every day.        And in a drama, everything revolves around the main character. I don’t like that either. My life’s main character is me, but a drama’s main character isn’t me. I’ve never been the main character, not even once.         Me too,        My friend says right away.        A volley well returned.         I want to be happy in the middle too. Once in the morning, once at lunchtime, and twice in the evening. Whether thinking about yesterday, or living today, or waiting for tomorrow, I want a tingle of excitement. Even in the spring and fall as they get shorter. Even in the summer and winter as they get longer.         From the other side of the net        My friend leans in to speak.         We don’t need a happy end, we need a happy and.         If only for a moment        As we volley the ball back and forth        We are the main characters. Translated by Seth Chandler

  by Oh Eun

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  Two Poems by Sin Yong-Mok

  Without Knowing When I speak to my son about warmth. About lap blankets, about hats, about grassy fields, about summer forests swaying in the wind, and about the summer, through which, if no one had loved, there wouldn’t have been the arrival of this autumn. If autumn has arrived, then through the summer, someonemust have loved— spreading lap blankets on grassy fields that stretch endlessly, wearing hats, facing each other, searching for one another, like the long loneliness that is thissummer. Seeing the same thing in the eyes of the dead in card games and the eyes of the dead in Gaza, like thissummer. Someone loved in the forest, thereforethere are grassy fields,the wind blows, and autumn comes, like the dead in card games dealing the cards again, and the dead in Gaza dying once more, and soit goes. If no one had missed anyone, it wouldn’t have arrived—this winter. And because it has arrived, we light a fire in the house of love, and when we look, the fire is like an autumn forest burning red, like an autumn leaving behind a white winter. And that is when my son says to me— though I thought he would speak of cold things—placing the lap blanket over his knees, taking off his hat, extending his palm toward the rising grassy field— “I can’t believe that hell is a place that burns.”Because it is so warm, like this— the red flame-like thing from the skin that cuts in the summery grass field at an unknown time. The autumn-like thing that began inside my body at an unknown time. The heart that left my body empty and white at an unknown time. Without knowing when, ashes fly,“Snow falls.” Running to the window. Looking out. Without knowing when, you are born and grown,I don’t even know who you are, whom I parted from, so I miss you.   To One Person He sat in front of the monitor and spokeabout a person who wanted to become a god to someone else. I thought, Perhaps that one person never intends to answer anyone’s prayers. In the windowless room of our appointment, the clock was hung where I couldn’t see it.I triednot to look at my cellphone.On appointed days, I existed briefly within his time. When he saidagain that one personheld a parent’s heart toward someone, I thought,Perhaps that one person intends to leave early,from someoneearnestly calling out for them— from that voice—somewhere, it felt like leaves were falling—leaves that were the windows of autumn,from the tree that was the room of autumn. He said, “It’s all okay,”but somewhere, autumn is probably tryingnot to look at its cellphone. I did not tryto read earnestness on his face, nor did I tryto recall the day’s tasks falling like leaves from the world’s currents leading to this room and from the monitor. Like wiping the window of an appointed day, he said,“It’s all okay,” butas soon as I left the appointed room, I took out my cellphone,looking at the evening sky turning red, like an autumn leaf hanging from the tip of a distant star’s branch,so as not to become that one person. Within our time, instead of a prayer,I made a call:“I’m coming now.”   by Sin Yong-Mok  Translated by Jack Saebyok Jung

  by Sin Yong-Mok

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  Two Poems by Choi Ji Eun

  The Summer You Walk Alone In I tried my best. Will I get to say that some dayI’m still in the summer when I hate, scold, and abuse myself You did try your best. Whenever I thought of the love I’ve had in my heart for ages, I heardthe voice that brought me to a stop I am a surviving relative of a suicide victim In the summer, years ago, Father’s call rang out, then ceasedWhen that sound suddenly starts flooding into my headI, too, want to quit The summer, dazed But for some reasonthe love that stops me in my tracks is also in my summer Last winter, in a dark alleyI cut my hand on a tin canA cat with a lost eye blinked twice at a timefelt touch without touchingtalked on and on without speaking, that night I wanted to say it out loud for the first time You did try your best. Every morning at sevenI wash the apples, grind the coffee beans, boil the water,and check today’s weather I greet today’s weather through today’s windowToday, I decide to write today’s poem for tomorrow’s poemI haven’t shown it to anyone yet, it’s my private poem, my private game I continue my private play love and waves love and sunlight love and owl love and school love and playground love and leaf love and waterdrop love and concert love and pediatrics love and Mangwon love and hide and seek love and rock love and twelve o’clock love and white dog loveand first snow love and Rodin love and plum love and cloud love and nap love andlullaby love and viola love and glass cup love and bouquet love and mint candy love and hibiscus love andulster blue dwarf ulster blue dwarf… if sadness smears the end of the endless playI decide to stop for a while so that another layer flows by I promised How will today’s weather flow by Expect drizzle in the afternoon.   Thirteen Every girl is in the midst of motion sickness The older sistersets afloat on the water tea leaves that are supposed to release hematomaThe younger sister watches the tea water turn yellowThe tea leaves swim like goldfish The older sister keepsasking to watch her backShe says girls with motion sickness need to watch their backsin case their fish are discovered A clear glass cupRed fish pours The girl dreams of laying fish and next to the dozing girlan empty glass cup inside the light of summer sways   by Choi Ji Eun  Translated by Soeun Seo 

  by Choi Ji Eun

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  Ten Poems by Jin Eun-young

  In Houyhnhnmland¹ Books soaked in the wine of his bloodNakba in Arabic—Shoah in Hebrew—The somehow beautiful shape of the lips around such words Through the TV’s Hubble telescope,We can see at the end of space another world’s children dyingIf we don’t cover our eyes, if we don’t turn from the sight We can always watch deathClose by as wellWe can just imagine—it’s so far away Oh, so that’s what happenedFalling like the apple on a crisp autumn day several centuries ago,The heart pierced the apple atop the headWhite phosphorous came soaring like the strapping young archer's silver arrowEverything is like that, from a distance A warm campfire, the burning cityUp in the skyLike the long-vanished stars, the screams twinkle  —from the 2024 Seoul International Book Fair limited edition collection Houyhnhnm  [1] The fictional idealistic society appearing in part four of Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels.     Concentrate On the blue birds momentarily blossoming in the big cherry treeOn the ring finger I let slip away on the first day,Washing between legs of love and fins of hateConcentrate on those marching, snuffing out the fragrant candles of despair set in a long rowThe hair soaked in warm blood flowing down the foreheadOn my bumbling song The faintest light is as fast as the most brilliant  —from Yusim (Summer 2024)     Someday, After You You know what my student said to me in class? We sit in the chair of being,Soon to stand and offer the seat—not to death, no—To the glistening purple bacteria you can see all around youEven without a microscope,To the floating debris pushed aside as yellow canoes slice the water’s flesh, The scientist to the element they discovered on the periodic table,The gardener to the humus and the sprouting green,The poet to the newborn child’s tiny voice box, with its first cryThe starlight to the darkness gasping down the exploding dust,The red lips of existence to the white breast of nothingness,Being to timeOffers up its seat. Like the patientsSitting all afternoon in the waiting room’sFolding chairsHearing the nurse call their nameAnd thinking Finally! My turnAs they pass through the doors, offering nothing Finally, your turnThe soul, like a diligent guardian, goes in after the body.  —from Yusim (Summer 2024)   Open—after The Metamorphoses Ovid spoke to the people in the squareLike a father to a son“The heavens are lain open. There we shall find our way out.” That night he came back and wrote in his diaryLike a person whispering advice in his earDeath is lain open. There we shall find our way out. A waft of olive scent through the window when it opens—The crumbs of infinityWhisk into the poet’s nostrils He whispers to you, lying at his side like a burnt-out flameSadness is lain open. There we—Like our lungs, the universe swelling  —from Yusim (Summer 2024)     The Pianist of Fate It feels like you’re pressing down on the keys of my black and white keyboardLeftover snow on a muddy road, where I can almost hear a faint, drawn-out painInside the spring tree trunk, green hammers bust open the sluggish heartI think my soul has already vanished, like the ice in a whiskey glassMorning came each and every day, black feathers plucked from its bright naked body  —from Yusim (Summer 2024)     There is PaperDo you see nothing watching you from under the water? —Margaret Atwood, “At the Tourist Centre in Boston” Square-finned orange can be keptIn the vast blue tank. From the paper’s perspectiveMark Rothko was a fisher of colors. It is deeper than the sea.All the colors of the depths live there. Reality can best be described on its surfaceBecause paper is thin, Because reality crumples like fantasyIn the massive hand of god, waking with a start from a doze. Thin, so as to realize god’s planFor the universe to burn up like an old bookIn a great conflagration. A most disappointing creation.Always eating and drinking, love burning with abandonWhite ash scattering in the empty mouth of the wind— The weather on the surface is so cold.Take a finger                             to the paperPunch a hole the shape of a flame, punch a hole!What’s there, on the other side?                 A                personWarming their hands on a fresh urnWriting about the heat of the things turned to ash. A vaguely shining distinctnessHanging from a square corner—a long icicleDripping down the ice candlestickTears of wax Thawing and freezingFrom the hesitant, unknowable atmosphereCrumpled paper, the salt of midnightFalls Like a snowy morning                                                on the first sea                   forever blue  —from Littor (Summer 2022)     Mom Going to see my mother is like paying taxes. Was raising me like paying taxes for her? I won’t ask. She’ll say it felt like giving alms, her whole body trembling with devotion. When I look up at the autumn sky, where her beloved god lives, the blueness rings like a bell in my eyes. I searched once for any leftover trace of my mother’s love, a black bee in amber. I gave up quickly. I wasn’t a paleontologist. The bees and flowers must’ve been there somewhere. What I am is a delinquent filer.  —from Littor (Summer 2022)     The Truth It’s true the stillness flows over the unmoving stars on the surface of the waterIt’s true there was a child who fell in the waterIt’s true, this very night, the child still skips safely across the hearts of loved onesLike steppingstones across the waterMy classmate who drowned at the stone bridge by Hanyang University was so nice, in truthShe let me borrow her sky-blue colored pencil the day beforeIs it true there’s always so much we can never give back to the dead?Truthfully, I tend to forget thingsThere must also be so much we never got to sayLike the reason why song wanders here and thereLike the reason why that person had to dieLike why the reason is like a wandering songThough we could also tell the truth They say my classmate was pulled from the water with her mouth shut tightIt can’t be spokenThe truth she meant to tell We each kissed the long arm of darkness and whisperedThe living, the dead, the truth  —from I Love You Like an Old Street (Moonji, 2022)     Feels Right for You The blood-soaked afternoon feels right for youThe trumpet of a dead treeBlares golden noise into the wind This hope feels right for youA hope crumbling like a white egg in vinegar February feels right for youA sadness one or two days short Saturday feels right for youOne spent waiting for someone on a crumbling bench A white face wavering before a flame feels right for youThe face of a mermaid who knows darkness and light Among quiet dogs and sleeping feathersAt the bar late at night, I search for the lost line of poetry that feels right for you I feel right for youHand in hand we swim through darkness and walk through light For your hands, sweet and sticky mangos feel rightFor your soul, a night overflowing with scissors cutting through oblivion For you, childhood secretsFor you, an empty bird cageBirds soaring through the blood-soaked afternoon sky  —from I Love You Like an Old Street (Moonji, 2022)     A Field of Red Four-leaf Clover                                                                 munched on by rabbits                In the sea a ship bigger than the sea               Time barks in the visage of a wrinkled white dog as I pass by               The unknown town’s main artery has been severed again it seems               In the spurting blood, a giant goddess washes her dress clean               Every day it’s like this damn world is trying to kill itself               No matter how much you try to stop it, it won’t listen               Paper is a handkerchief—barely a handsbreadth of peace               Paper is the face of god—a god without a hope of saving the world               A third-rate god, a god who’s always been a screw-up               Grandma stroked my face with her hands rough as toes               Can I be hopeless even though I’m old?               Can I be hopeless till the day I die?               I asked out the train window               Beating on the black box car after car               The train’s wheels screech, letting out a grinding sob               Like most things that come to a stop, it’s sad  —from I Love You Like an Old Street (Moonji, 2022)   Translated by Seth Chandler

  by Jin Eun-young

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  Two Poems by Im Yu Young

   Ichon Hangang Riverside Park  Now Seoul’s a home to me, more or less. You can become a Seoul resident but can you ever become that parsnippity-persnickety Seoul-girlie? Twenty years, I drink this Han River water from the faucet, but my face never gets pale. What I like is a Seoul man. With their pretty faces and friendly way with words. A Seoul man, with their shyness that can turn coy. I head to Mangwon-dong in a taxi with a Seoul Man. The Seoul Man says we should go to Euljiro later and have naengmyeon. The crisp taste of under-seasoned kimchi—sure, I know what’s good, too. The white-haired taxi driver asks, “You guys stepping in?” The Seoul Man doesn’t know what that means and, catching on, I say, “Yeah, we’re going downtown.” And still, the Seoul Man is confused. I tell him that he’s probably asking if we’re going in through the Sadaemun Gates. The taxi driver’s hometown is Ahyeon-dong. Says there’s a good stew place in Euljiro, says he swam in the Han River as a kid. When you drive up the Han River on the north side, you can spot the Ichon Hangang Riverside Park right away from its big trees. The Seoul Man says he likes those tall trees lined up over there, says it every time. What’s the name of those trees, he asks me. Poplars, aren’t they? The Seoul Man chatters sweetly in delight. Sounds quite nice. Looks quite nice. That nose of yours, ignorant of the osmanthus’s scent.   Medicinal Herb Market The smell of dried medicinal herbs all mixed up. What grasses, what trees are these? Are they Chinese imports? Or domestic? Galangal and ginger and lemon grass from Southeast Asia. Guess they sell things like that these days. But you can’t even tell. Everything smells mixed-up. The dried dates piled up on a burlap bag, the herb slicer that was in use just a second ago, the ginseng—all their smells. Grows on you. This gamey, fishy smell. Gamey like blood? Bone and flesh and fur and fin. Once, someone brought Mom a huge, thrashing carp to simmer into a broth for Grandfather. Didn’t Mom cry then? I cried too. The smell of that gray soup in that wide bowl. Did I get any down or no? Either way, I still get nauseous at the thought of carp. When you get sick, Grandma pricks your finger. The thumb, wrapped tight with string, the drop of red-black blood, swelling fast under the nail. Strange, isn’t it? That it actually cures you. Do you know the smell of tulips? Have you had black licorice candy? When you took the KSAT, did you take a wuhwang cheongsimhwan too? Those gold pills with the calming herbs. I heard someone took a whole one and dozed through the first hour, so I just popped a half-pill. I heard they put musk in cheongsimhwan. Couldn’t tell, it’s all mixed up. There’s probably an ant’s teardrop’s worth in there. These days, the pharmacies prescribe herbal stuff too—no thanks. Who knows what’s in that, the stuff they keep giving me. The smell. Like rat shit, the smell of those black, balled up pills. So this is how you become the kind of person who tears up when they pass a pile of dried up leaves and stems. And in spite of yourself, you check if it’s domestic or Chinese. That’s a terrapin, isn’t it, and not a turtle? Didn’t Mom cry then? I cried too. It was probably domestic. I mean, it was alive.  by Im Yu Young  Translated by Hedgie Choi 

  by Im Yu Young

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  Two Poems by Ko Sunkyung

   Poem Does a Body Good  My mom is always wondering about the potency of things—the potency of blueberries,the potency of tomatoes,the potency of gardenias. I obsess over the potency of kindness,or the potency of poetry. Affection and gazes filled with warmth and attention . . .think you want them? My poetry contains no vitamins,nor dietary fibers. Sure, food is medicine for Koreans.Gotta eat welland live long. Doesn’t matter if you write poetry. But Mom, do you see?They see me and laugh. The reason Mom eats blueberriesis because blueberries are good for the eyes—Bullshit. Mom just likes blueberries.      Wouldn’t It Be Nice to Have a Lot of Money?    It’d be nice to quit smokingand buy iced coffee from the café sometimes,showering my friends with gifts of flowers or fragrance. Today, we’ve run out of ingredients, so we’re closing early.People will see those words written on the sign and feel like they missed out.I want to be the owner of a restaurant that can put up such a sign. Every day, things run out and I am getting less and less foot traffic.  Wouldn’t it be nice to make a lot of money?And I want to love too, and love well. The hue and the quality of the ingredients that make me—someone will touch them, I hope. Wet inside the closet without anyone knowing—someone will take me out and shake me off, I hope. Finally taking a sweet nap and never waking up—so many around me say that this is their hope. Yesterday and today are not enough,and tomorrow is too much. But love should be loved, perhaps. How much honesty is possible before money, labor, and love?Are they honest—money, labor, and love? Wanting the untouchable to be touched—I am the type of person who would say that is my hope. At the grocery store, there is a candy named Firelight Ring.A child looks at it for a long time. Sweetly shining on our fingers.We are poor of the promise called tomorrow.  by Ko Sunkyung  Translated by Jack Saebyok Jung 

  by Ko Sunkyung

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  Two Poems by Kim Bok Hui

  People Who Go to Hell Must Plant Flowers In hell, you must plant flowers.  Should you plant them in sand or swamp?No.What about flowers that move? No. Flowers—It doesn’t matter if the flowers are beautiful or have thorns, if they grow in vines, if they are wilting or have dried up. You must plant without knowing your surroundings, without differentiating between day and night.You must plant without feeling tired even though you haven’t lain down, without feeling hungry even though you haven’t eaten. Bring one flower and make sure it stands upright; bringtwo flowers and make sure they both stand upright. Surrounded by all sorts of fragrances without recognizing them as fragrances, within an abundance of colors that one lifetime cannot contain. Even if you ask for flowers, even if you are told that you may leave hell, understandingevery word, hearing every-thing, the flowers remain in your hands. Whether you receive a flower from a devil or an angel, take one flower, and then an-other, making two flowers. A landscape  so silent it dries the bones, endlessly vast even when touched.     Heaven In heaven, the scene of people planting flowers is clearly visible.Occasionally, the tops of flowers sway, ripples on a lake. But there is no one in heaven. Did they go to see the flowers?To see both the flowers and the people?Perhaps they saw someone pass by like a flower. Maybe it was the back of a head they knew well. In heaven, anything worth stealing your heart is brightly visible.Especially, Hell is clearly visible, and so are the people busily moving among the flowers that fill it. The flowers that wilt as soon as they are planted, and those that are planted again over them,vividly seen. Beautiful as if reaching heaven,if there is a soul, it would surely be stirred, “Excuse me. It’s me, can you hear me, please look at me.” Heaven is sometimes noisy because of people speaking to the landscape. No one plants flowers in heaven.Over there, together, they end up going to plant flowers.     by Kim Bok Hui                                                                                                                                                   Translated by Jack Saebyok Jung

  by Kim Bok Hui

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  Two Poems by Park YeonJoon

  Small Person If you speak in a small voice you become a small person A small person is a small boxa personal spacea clay jar, a chamber pot, a blanket tented over knees, to advance darkly insidenot on the asphalt but under itpushing and pushing the revolving door, to returnto turn and turn, to become the silence in the whirlinga home for dusta broom The small person takes the small universe outside Winter walk, shells and peels underfootthings used and discarded by the seasonSmall greens lean greens starved greens drunk greenslifting up their faces A small person disappears when calledA small person’s river, a small person’s bridgeno one crosses If you talk about trivial things you become trivial Open your notebook and therea square for small peopleflattened, not dead nor alivethese namesa trivial list walking aroundwearing little nametags, stepping teeny tiny When spring comes you have to clear out what’s not spring If you eat the heat haze you diesays someoneand the small person, slowly, eats it     Sewing Machine and Oven Growing old is putting on time’s crumpled clothes On the corner, the smell of bread waftsas the time to buy bread disappears It’d be nice if smiles could be baked Go up somewhere highand memory disappearsCome down with your shoes offand your back curls roundyour face thrust into dead time Was it April when Grandma diedthat fourthand mortal month There’s no one to askEveryone who knows you and me are deador more distant than the dead You need strength to love–The person who said that isn’t here, on April Fool’sshe diedIt’d be nice if her back, her face, her smilecould be baked Love and aging and sadness–What’s the strongest of the threeI bring over a scale to find out but strength is not weightstrength can’t be lifted I want to sit in front of the sewing machinesewing nothing  If someone knocks to go get bread with meI’ll hand over the crumpled clothesand shut the door You are an outfit crumpling in front of me Love was just a joke– If you make excuses I’ll draw something like a broken forehead I’ll smileI’ll bake a smile     by Park YeonJoon Translated by Hedgie Choi

  by Park YeonJoon