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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

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  Ten Poems by Kim So Yeon

  Catalyzing Night Your boiling bodyI wipe with wet towelsjust as you’ve taught meand stay up all night Sometimes I outrun timeThe slow on occasion know to abhor the quick Like the wooden floorlying flatstaring into memories scampering like roacheshow to kill them Sometimes I unleash into nowmemories from the futureAbhorrence is especially known in hunger How did you know a sheen of applied moisturewicks heat from the body Recalling againhow you cooled my feverI stay up all night Your gaunt bonescan melt to nothingYou will melt soonevaporate and vanish soonas you so yearnedas you so yearned When a window opensfrantic wind whips the curtainsflips the pages of an open bookrain barges inAn empty bucket dancesin the backyard The next day slides incalm as a liesunlight dewed on every edgewe are new again When the wear is muchbetween yesterday and todaywhen a shadow banned from my dreamlingers by me to pitifully gaze at the morning time shall protect meHow wonderfulthat some things only need time Ourweakness and ignorance and overflowour wasted time of repeated mistakesthis vast sunlightwordlessly endlesslyrestores     Repeat and Review Gazing at an ancient tree to remember someone loving her more that way All her life people asked her why she went through the trouble to do what she does Every time she served up the same answer like a meal carefully prepared Isn’t a mother-of-pearl inlay wardrobe prettiest when put out on the curb, she’d say Wouldn’t it be more ideal, she’d say if a day of the week was designated for sleeping in the snow If there be a tree so ancient that an IV drip hangs from it instead of fruit she would read from it regret and shame and impending death and indignity, and distressingly be reminded of someone she knows Seeing the vines and weeds and torn plastic bags cling and fuse to its body be the first in 2,754,981 passersby to hug it she whom like the one garlic clove pinging off the cutting board unscathed remains firm and sharp and dedicated to her cause for herself and as herself Imagining a person angry that a vase of unwilted flowers couldn’t be emptied glaring at the flowers, I’m watching against my love overgrowing Inadequate no matter how it’s said, like some disease where circulation stops at the clavicles If a community ringed in golden light on the edge of a precipice can be imagined and a member of it stands with their back to this twilight with a noose in hand for suicide and the nooses given up are as numerous as ornaments on a Christmas tree I am gazing at the ancient tree and listening to her laughter     Snare I read a poemwhere someone sat silent from sudden morning newswho sat until night and then got upput on their slippers and opened the front door and left What was the newsWondering what the poem didn’t tell usI decided to wait for themknowing nothing about themall night until the morning comes should be the first stanza of this poemSomeone reading this poem I’m writingshould turn this page easily I hopegoing to the next world with no other questions Then I can continue that poemI must write first where that person wentEven if only they dozed on a busSlippered as they are I must say it was summer for their feet I want to say they went very farbut I can’t write they’re walking by a streetwhere headlit cars speed by They’d gone to find someone   The door was closed firm and no one lived there and they’d gone to find someone  The door was closed firm and they hesitated in the corridor and decided to wait a bit and they’d gone to find someone  To open the door and the two people looked at each other the threshold between them and they’d gone to find someone  They put on their coat and handed over another an extra and they’d gone to find someone   They gave up on knocking and remarked that they’d made it there and that it was a place they could make it to and they went to a convenience store nearby and drank up a bottle of water Their uvula drenched like a marathoner’sthey finished in this poemwhich you’ll forget you ever readWhile I wrote it the person I waited for came to my doorand had to turn backunnoticed because I was writing this poem     Blue Ice The night conceals me   Hides me ever deeper   I could hold my hands in a megaphone and shout there’s someone here to listen  Resolutions sticky like fruit pulp drop from the sides of my mouth on this night   where the world melts   where one nods at someone pointing out obviously that the past is the future  until realizing the future they wish to point out is the past   proving the future is no longer undiscovered   A walkable night   A night for going farther than ever past the point of no return past the imaginable  Switch on an app to see where you are  Wipe your sweat with a handkerchief  Stand for long in the middle of a four-lane street   and by the dead cat   A night the bugs walk right in the middle   An arresting night   Let’s shake the dead bugs out of the fluorescent lights casing   Summer is disgusting isn’t it?   Loud?   Worse at night right?   To say nothing of outside?   This is the kind of thing you call beautiful right?   Good right?   Good job right?   Proud of yourself right?   A night where saying someone is good makes them good   A night when you don’t want to fit a trustworthy impression   A night where you really don’t want to be anything  A night where you reject being a better person   To say “we” but mean “I” is one of the choiciest of all slights*   An overthought night where you write down a line you read earlier and smile   A night where you grin because you used a silly word like overthought   Overthought is a good word   A good word for saying things that exist do not exist   like they’re snow falling over footsteps printed in snow   A night where pressing a master switch makes the world disappear into black   A night to be pushed to the edge   A night for acceleration   A night as uncanny and funny as placing precious things on a precipice   A night richly disguised in a softness like velvet  A night without a moment of calm in the midst of endless chatter   A night that’s falling silent   A night that overflows   Keep eyes wide open to ward off dreams   Withstand it like blue ice   Withstand it with all my passion   Believe in the protection of the dark   Never succumb to the warning-flooded night *Theodore Adorno, “Monogram 122” from Minima Moralia, translated by Dennis Redmond     Cave Keep goingto where I am pointing It’s there,really there,you’ll see it, a heat without sweat   a shop without a cashier   a puppy without a leashsobbing without sadnesssobbing without an ounce of need for sadness Listen closely,until you hear it,dance in that sobbing You’re already there?It’s too quiet?You can’t dance?You’ll try to bring it?It’s dirty?Too dirty to touch? I’ll go   and carry it   and get dirtyJust you wait There you floatedpockets filled with sobs   wearing them like a hat   or a long scarfcarrying them on your back   against your chest Too much sobbingToo too much sobbingEverything is sobbing   everything is silence The criesthe cries without an ounce of need for sadnessI pick up from all over andlook up at you Dirtiedreally dirtied you weregrinning down at me Let’s stay hereYes let’s just stay hereLet’s do that     Our Activism I stared at your scar for a long timeA round mark adequately healed but needing more time Someone had drawn a tattoo on that scarso I talked of themopening our hour of conversation With jeon and pyeonyuk, nengchae and jeolpyun between usI plunge my spoon into my mutguk How is it,Everything is awfulThat’s better than saying everything is fine When asked why my pre-meal prayer was so longI answered I prayed the skies keep you safeNo hostility was meant but afraid it would be takenas such my words trailed off as they do Every time I open my mouth I make an effortto express two three ten times good intent and goodwillin the hopes at least a modicum makes it over I lived to share in the sadness of othersbut didn’t realize our sharing was a blessing all alongeven as we sobbed in between our continuing conversationsThe people sitting behind you disappear in turnThe carapace of past memories crumble in your handling Thinking back such things were only what they wereNow should you have to fight an angelyou could take him Looking down at the dishes on the table thatrepulse farther and farther away from each other I am liking youholding a strong and round snare in my handsyour dark and deep hostage     Second Floor Guest Lounge Today I found a flowerpot had chippedthe chip nowhere to be seen The sprouts spreading their rolled-up leavesThe whitely spreading breath What if . . . I mean what if . . . I thought this about 50,000 timesI’m becoming a what if Thinking too muchturns me into thought I open the doorput my thoughts floating like dust on my palmand blow it away like freeing a spider Putting my hand into the darkI offer a handshake A scientist’s “I don’t know”is because they lack an explanatory theory The piled-up packets of pills on the table of a long-term patientTo begin untangling the mess of chords behind the machines You don’t have to answer any questionsYou can say something else that’s true instead About how it seemshow it isn’tand how it can only be so Everyone shouts back they’re listeningThe shouter keeps shouting the listeners start shoutingNo one just listens anymore     Even the Bones of an Angel’s Wing Is a Formidable Skeleton Up Close Sleep until late in the morning. Yesterday is finally far enough away. First slip feet into soft socks. Then the slippers in the foyer. Go up to the roof. Mug in hand. I look down at the neat rows of semi-detached houses. Blowing on my hot milk before sipping. Watching the people gathered at the bus stop. The man on the bike moving farther and farther. Faint steam still curling up from the mug. And the scent of milk. Good thingI put on socks.So many good things. A friend asksto go to the moviesso I acceptgoing to the movies. You absolute bastard! Crying faces as the credits roll. As the list of backers scroll endlessly. As I hug the bucket with the few hard kernels that failed to become popcorn. Get up and walk to the exit. I would’ve gone with a different ending. Don’t eavesdrop on this other un-bastard ending. Isn’t it weird that human tragedy is impossible to portray without family? Don’t ask that. Don’t try to parse the director’s intent. What happened to the many stuntmen who moved so naturally in the unfocused background. Research that.Sighing about how this life isn’t enough. When on a day I did nothingI gaina pimplea full trashcanand countless periwinkles blooming When on a day I wrote nothingI gaindaylightsunlightan afternoona friendand almost everything I think of the poet who saved his company. Slipping his letter of resignation in a white envelope and smiling. Like for wedding or funeral money except resignation envelopes aren’t sold in convenience stores. Make plansChange them.Cancel them. Say things tailored to a purpose.Just about avoid lying.Sincerely hide all sincerityand for their sake ignore the earnestnessof earnest talkers. On windy days chimneys smoke in right angleslike they were drawn that way. Lots of factories in this place.I see. Finish milk. Lay slippers neatly in foyer. Wash the mug so it doesn’t stink and dry it upside down. Like nothing was eaten. For tomorrow.     Leave These Flowers Behind Arrive at your final destinationOpen luggage and place the last instant rice in boiling waterPlace on the table the last of the lunch gimDry shoes and socks on the radiator Wasn’t thinking of sleep but dozed off   sitting by the windowsill looking out at the neighbors   The neighbor couple fighting all night found peace this morning too   Wanted to see how they made up but the snow fell all night encasing the houses The rental car outside is covered in snowOpening and closing the doormakes some of it crumbleThe wiper makes a fan-shaped portalthat’s all you need to start You have to make it   You have to make itI’m being followed by someone’s cheerGrateful but unwelcome, sweet but revolting, precious but repulsive such mindless words arethat I slow downso they run on ahead Holding an umbrella is too much so last night arriving in a snowstorm I took off my coat and unwound my scarf and washed my gloves and underwear and lowered myself into a hot tub   My hands floated up and when I took off my ring I rose up like steam   Open the bathroom ceiling Fly farjust a little farther nowand leave behindthese flowersleaning against othersSo long to get heremy nose is freezing but even herea tour guide visits every morningThey say people like me cometo this tombstone every day     Hide the Falling Rain He never did tell mewhat he was stroking Crouched all night stroking andfalling asleep like thatevery night for 20, 50 years I’ve only heardthisNever saw it That he never came backis reason enough to believe it If he comes backwill I hear what he stroked and strokedfrom his own mouth Orwould he bring it out of a trunkand show me himselfWill my eyes grow wideand reach outto touch it myself If what he strokedis like falling raina snowmanor fog or smoke I’ve never met him buthe slept crouched over every nightAs long as I don’t forget thatI don’t need to meet him All I need is to go up highto where there’s no oneand shout his name on occasion Buthe never even told me his nameand that makes me believe it a little more  Translated by Anton Hur 

  by Kim So Yeon

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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

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  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