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  A Short Story Reading by Novelist Kim Ae-ran: "They Said Annyeong"

  They Said Annyeong This is what I wanted to say to Robert. But I couldn’t, not just because I didn’t have the skills to do it, but also because I was afraid that the inevitable omissions and losses of trivial details and nuances caused by the awkward translations of my feelings would turn out to be the most important and precious parts of my emotions. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter if it was joy that I wanted to express. But sadness was another matter. If nothing else, my pain needed to be expressed in my mother tongue, the language of my sadness, the source of my emotions. But let’s say I did use Korean. Would all of it be conveyed, even then? Without certainty, I resigned myself to saying only a few words: [...]

  byKorean Literature Now

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  A Poetry Reading by Poet Jin Eun-young "In Houyhnhnmland"

  In Houyhnhnmland Books soaked in the wine of his blood Nakba 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 dying If we don’t cover our eyes, if we don’t turn from the sight  We can always watch death Close by as well We can just imagine—it’s so far away [...] Everything is like that, from a distance  A warm campfire, the burning cityUp in the skyLike the long-vanished stars, the screams twinkle Translated by Seth Chandler

  byKorean Literature Now

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  A Novel Reading by Son Bo-mi "The Substitute Teacher"

  The Substitute Teacher      She had been happy once, too. There had been times when she had loved and been loved. Times she thought would never end. In the end, there was no one by her side, but that wasn’t a life she chose—just as anyone wouldn’t. Yet she believed that someday, a small event would resolve all the wrongs.     The young couple told her that they were moving abroad and wouldn’t need her anymore. Ms. P knew it was a lie. But what did it matter if it was a lie? For them, nothing bad would ever happen. [...] Translated by Janet Hong

  byKorean Literature Now

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  A Poetry Reading by Poet Kim So Yeon "Second Floor Guest Lounge"

  Second Floor Guest Lounge Today I found a flowerpot had chippedthe chip nowhere to be seenThe sprouts spreading their rolled-up leavesThe whitely spreading breathWhat if . . .I mean what if . . .I thought this about 50,000 timesI’m becoming a what ifThinking too muchturns me into thoughtI open the doorput my thoughts floating like dust on my palmand blow it away like freeing a spiderPutting my hand into the darkI offer a handshakeA scientist’s “I don’t know”is because they lack an explanatory theoryThe piled-up packets of pills on the table of a long-term patientTo begin untangling the mess of chords behind the machinesYou don’t have to answer any questionsYou can say something else that’s true insteadAbout how it seemshow it isn’tand how it can only be soEveryone shouts back they’re listeningThe shouter keeps shouting the listeners start shoutingNo one just listens anymore translated by Anton Hur

  byKorean Literature Now

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  A Novel Reading by Lim Chulwoo

  Whispering into a Stone Wall by Lim Chulwoo  

  byKorean Literature Now

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  A Short Story Reading by Chung Serang

  "The Adventure of Missing Finger and Jumping Girl" by Chung Serang

  byKorean Literature Now

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  A Poetry Reading by Poet Ahn Sanghak "When That Person Came Back I Was Not There"

  When that person came back I was not there.   When That Person Came BackI Was Not ThereI should have waited for that person then.Just as a roe deer glances back briefly as it passes a ridge,I should have stood waiting there for at least that long.If it was night, I should have waited for dawn.If the season was winter, I should have waited for spring.Like a bear waiting for salmon,like a magpie waiting for dead leaves to fall before building a nest.I should have waited for that person to come.I should not have gone racing across the western plains as the sun was setting.I should not have crossed the eastward river while the dawn was far off.Like a lotus flower retaining its fragrance, waiting for night.like a dandelion preparing its bed, waiting for spring.I should have waited there then, as if putting down roots.I should not have gone roaming in the dark.I should not have gone wandering over the meadowsin falling snow in search of that person.When that person came like morning, I was not there.When that person returned like spring, I was not there.No matter how urgent, I cannot go on to tomorrow,No matter how reluctant, I cannot go back to yesterday.The way time comes and goes was not something possible for me.The way seasons come and go was not possible for me.I should have stayed standing there, waiting for that person.   ASIA Publishers, 2018, 121 pages Excerpts from pp. 40~45.  

  byKorean Literature Now

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  A Poetry Reading by Poet Ahn Sanghak "A Volcanic Island"

  A Volcanic Island April 3, 70th spring day   The source of all the world’s sorrow is love. To the degree that love loses its form, sorrow arises. Once love has completely vanished, sorrow arises fully. That can be seen like an ID photograph anywhere on the volcanic island’s spring day.   Rape flowers that have lost love blossom red then drop. Some love was buried in a pit with no time for leave-taking. Camellia flowers that have lost love bloom on leafless branches then drop. Some love took its leave by death in bosoms holding children hoping to save them.   The volcanic island where land and sea blossomed with love just once is still dropping petals. On this island where petals long drop, human love, too, once it drops becomes a present progressive of flowers dropping, long ill.   Some flowers, though they have plowed through seventy springs, are still dropping as petals that have lost love. Island that cannot be divided, island that cannot be scattered, pledging never to be divided, never to be scattered. Souls that have lost love thus, after risking their lives, are now dropping as petals.   The source of all sorrow is love, souls eager to drop petals on a land where their sorrows wholly turn into united love, still wander, dropping plentiful petals. Yet still, they are not just dropping blindly, seen closely, rejecting this impure world, yellow flowers blooming yellow, red flowers blooming red, petals fluttering onto that day’s land, as yet, are still dropping.   Soon, settling gently, petals that must cover the whole island, petals are now dropping onto love, origin of all the sorrows in the world. Truly the day when they will touch clear ground is near.   translated by Brother Anthony of Taize  

  byKorean Literature Now

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  A Poetry Reading by Poet Shin Yong-mok "Community"

  Community   May I use the dead person’s name? Since he’s dead, may I take his name? Since I gained one more name today the number of my names keeps increasing, soon I’ll have all death’s register.   Might I be called Heaven and Hell?   Over there where the man’s name is being erased from the lips of the woman being soaked in rain, prayers also have lost their way and like the petals being washed away on the floor, now they are being carried a few steps stuck to your shoes . . .   I will reply to every falling petal.   If at last, the collector of death, sorrow, even after searching all through the sodden village, is unable to find a welcome so comes to me requesting sleep, a kettle of cold water and one dry towel, I can ask, with a voice climbing up the body’s creaking stairs: What more do you need?   But probably I will ask nothing, fearing it might want something like a chorus of flowers resonating then stopping in a garden, in the vestibule’s black umbrella above shoulders . . . like raindrops drip, drip,   Low eaves, window panes, stretched out hands   Above them   As it takes oblivion’s pulse then says: I want to see him . . . want to see him . . . it might cry. Then I’ll indicate far off extinguished time and hand over his name like a lamp in a completely empty register.   I fear I’ll probably remain alone. Floating like the sound of a flushing cistern in an empty room lent without the owner knowing   Soul of water known as cloud, bringing into reality the thunder and lightning growing inside my body In order to steal your name.   Come to think of it, death seems to have planted eyes in me, the stone that took away your name is being rained on. Ears have been added, like rain reading your name above a stone. Blending Heaven and Hell, am I allowed to be soaked? Over there, all the petals tapping on death, like the red lips of that woman leaving the garden, are praying for me . . . and here too   If life is possible, just as rain stops and rainbows emerge only when summoned, if love is possible, may I give my name to the dead person? May I call a person by my name, once he’s dead?   translated by Brother Anthony of Taize

  byKorean Literature Now

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  A Poetry Reading by Poet Kim Haengsook " The Future 1984"

  The Future 1984 Even with nothing written in it, the book was a compromising possession. George Orwell, 1984   Orwell’s river still runs . . . Arthur Blair’s shadow was thrown over and over into the river named George Orwell until Arthur Blair became the writer George Orwell. Arthur Blair’s shadow did not follow the river current. Staring at his shadow that was not swept with the current, the writer was seized by a strange feeling. Whether it goes east or west, it is said life flows like water in a river, and yet the dregs of life pool like puddles.   The First, Second, Third, and Fourth Industrial Revolutions swept through the world . . . swapping out landscapes like broken windows. If you can number the river water, if you can cut it up like you cut up fabric to sell, negotiate the price per unit, if you can divide it into North and South, if you can divide it like people, then people that dull as they look at dusk fall on the purple river are not really people. They are cliffs.   George Orwell wrote 1984 in 1948 . . . And he died in 1950. Every night my friend George Orwell coughed, his phlegm and blood boiled, and his bent shadow stretched into the future 1984 . . . Comrade Orwell, in 1984, 1994, 2004, and 2014, in my 20s, my 30s, and my 40s, I lived in Korea. People are like broken records, saying every ten years even the rivers and mountains change, but things not taken by the flow of the river, things not taken by the passage of time, they stiffen up and stand in the future fog like canes that belong to stubborn old men. They are harder than ghosts, so you can touch them. And the year 1984 is opened up like a new book someone stopped reading.   So you’re on your way home, carrying a book you just bought. In the future . . . This book will put you in danger. Orwell whispers, “If a book is a compromising possession, then we will be compromised, and if we are compromised then the book is even more compromising. This suspicion will continue, become continuous, it will deepen, deepening, and your life will get shaken to its roots. No, no, you deny it. If the future is not present, how do you accept it? How can you fight the future and say you have already lost or won?”     translated by Jake Levin and Soo-hyun Yang  

  byKorean Literature Now

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  A Poetry Reading by Poet Kim Haengsook "Underground Traveler 2084"

  Underground Traveler 2084   1. Night light and day light pour out of the same place.   I’ve almost become the underground. The underground is a worn-out world. As I wander around for a hundred years watching the new world wear down, my body turns into mold spores that aspirate into the air. My body becomes humidity and chill . . . becomes like ambience, a feeling, or a mood: something hard to express in words. People walk around like machines. Arrows float before their eyes like bright baby goldfish. I become the rails, a flame, darkness, a train, stairways, a station attendant, lockers, Mozart, Vivaldi. I’m retro. Some things past are bound to return. “I’m looking for a missing child. A six-year-old girl. She was wearing a baby blue dress and white tights. Her clothes and face must be dirty like some beggar. And since ninety years have passed . . .” I’m the clipped shadow of that six-year-old girl. If her shadow remains, she can come back. “This is a bad dream!” you scream as you rub the white face you found inside black hair.   2. And day darkness and night darkness are homogenous.   We took shelter in the subway from storms and blizzards. We went down into the deepest darkness and imagined life after Earth’s destruction. What we imagined became reality. The reality of an underground traveler. Traveling happens between reality and dreams, between life and death. If nine people are alive then one is dead, and if nine people are visible, one can’t be seen. That’s how it goes. “This must be a bad dream,” you mumble as you rub the black face you found inside white hair. But don’t you think that sometimes one person is alive and nine are dead, and one person is visible and nine can’t be seen? Are you an alive person? I’m not sure. For every one thing I know there are nine things I don’t. That’s how it goes. Making an immortal itinerary, I wander every metro in the world in this infinite accommodation. As soon as I think I know who those countless organisms lined up on the underground platforms are, I realize I don’t. But then again, I can see through them. After a bomb strapped to the chest of a man exploded, my world collapsed. Every person became everybody’s night.   translated by Jake Levin and Soo-hyun Yang  

  byKorean Literature Now

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  A Poetry Reading by Poet Jin Eun-young "Long Fingers' Poem"

  Long Fingers’ Poem   Writing a poem is because the work of using my fingers is more important than that of using my head. My fingers, are stretched farthest from my body, Look at the tree, Like a branch farthest from the trunk, I touch, night’s quiet breathing, sounds of flowing water, heat of other burning trees.   Everything points at other things. A thing that makes a turn and touches its own body is not a branch. The farthest branch is the most tender. It’s easily broken. The branch can’t absorb water, doesn’t bear up a tree. Raindrops start to fall. Still I write. I’m getting out of myself, farthest away. At the end of my fingers, time’s leaves come out of buds.   translated by Eun-Gwi Chung

  byKorean Literature Now