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| Author Jin Eun-young |
Grand Prize in poetry
Jin Eun-young's poems translated by Sophie Bowman
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| Sophie Bowman is a translator and masters student of Korean literature at Ewha Womans University. She has attended the regular course, special course and translation atelier at the translation academy of the Literature Translation Institute of Korea. Bowman translated an anthology of poetry by poets with disabilities titled "Let Me Linger as a Flower in Your Heart" last year. She is a recipient of the International Communication Foundation Korean literature translation fellowship and is currently translating a collection of three novellas by Jon Kyong-nin including "The Goat Herding Woman." |
You liked the imprisoned maiden and small windows and spinning tops.
False names of various colours, apple vinegar
and rafts that fell apart at songs with even just a tinge of sadness.
Running down wooden stairs with your eyes closed
the sheer beauty of that creaking sound.
You hated the baddies, the oil wars and explaining yourself.
The ice star trembled above your yellow lambswool blanket.
Old coins rang out like drops of water
as they tumbled on a broken fountain.
When you were a boy
back then when you wanted to eat plums you'd picked yourself
when there were no breasts, heavy as stone, beneath your black drip pattern dress.
When girls loved girls
when boys loved boys
between thumb and forefinger
when you were grasping a strange firecracker,
when you burned all the huge parentheses of yellowing exam papers,
when you wanted to become the painter of a red house,
when you layered up burning underclothes
on the cold skin of war and passing summer.
All of This
It's as if a soap bubble will expand boundlessly with transparent joy.
As if I'll be able to take you away to a city with a rose-hued palace.
In the space between winter and evening,
it seems I'll never be able to forget that dizzying kiss fringed in chestnut-brown.
Like I'll be able to conceal everything with the vast velvet of love.
As though all of this is just a lie.
While a hungry seagull sucks violently on the dry teat of the sky,
it's as if a white bite mark is soaring above the water.
This city is like a child writing out the same sentence over and over eternally.
A shack falls out like a first tooth and is tossed above the red moon.
A liquor bottle blotched with blood and soot rolls this way down a white slope.
It seems I'll have to put the one abiding line of my first anthology into my last as well.
My youth? Well… it seems to have upped and left already.
It's as though a soft yellow wing, with thousands of grey bells hung from it
is slowly ascending.
As though gold is sticking its hand down the throat of a poor child and making them throw up everything.
Stars roll in the watery green-tinged vomit,
God seems like a car crash victim feigning injury.
It seems that he hasn't taken the medicine prescribed him by the angels even once.
It's as if the green capsules have split and the grains within are spilling out.
Annyeong, annyeong, snow falls above the shattered grey of a slate roof.
It seems that everything I ever saw must have been a lie.
As if shreds of the torn wings of silver bats hanging from the moon are cascading.
Beautiful
If today you are beautiful
it is like the glittering hairpin in the still-growing tresses of a dead girl,
like a picture that captivates the gaze of someone who cannot see,
like the children in muslin pyjamas
wandering past in the mist intoxicated by the scent of cherries,
like the salty taste of the long necked giraffe living in the rainy season savannah,
melting in increments seeping across red cloth
to desiccated white grains
scattered over sandy gills.
Today
if you are beautiful
it's like the empty chimney of seaweed stench rising up
from the green fog draped above a landfill site.
That Day
The day I first brushed the lips of poetry,
the day I rained down like a star,
the day I walked in the dazzling yet dark light
sweeping up strands of hair.
The day I first saw a lizard
I toddled hurriedly to catch hold of its green tail,
the day my first white tooth came through and I smiled,
the day I stretched out my arms and spun round and round
in a whirlwind of warm sand.
The day I ran into the road,
the day I scattered hundreds of sheets of paper high into the sky,
you gazed at me from behind the blue stripes
of the vertically tumbling curtain.
The day you disappeared, leaving only a green tail in my hands.
Who was striking an empty can in the summer yard?
Who had bright white elbows sticking out from beneath their short sleeves?
Who was it that called out it's me, it's me from behind the thick wall?
The day you left,
I turned over the run-through hourglass.
The Love of a Poet
If by some chance you were my lover
how lucky you would be.
If you were my lover
I would write you poetry.
You would arrive home
and wash your feet, and then
when you'd fall asleep with head and toes touching the cold parallel walls,
when you'd fall asleep covered with a damp blanket,
I would send a vast fortress ablaze with love into your dreams.
I'd give you the tender breeze that sways the armpits of branches in the May apple-blossom orchard,
the soft hammer of chocolate and peppermint, post boxes and trains
and a country road you've never seen before.
A freshly opened wine bottle and fluttering white wings
and the eternal picnic of a body,
I'd write you a line of poetry filled with all those moments, all those things.
I would give you a poem that makes the flow of life feel just like drinking a cup of tea.
If you were my lover, ah!
How lucky you would be.
Because of her, that your heart became the biggest empty house in the world,
nights when black candlewax drips onto your tongue,
poems like night-time dandelion seeds flying off to unknowable places,
there would be no need for you to write like that.
My Beautiful Launderette
To grandma,
who would climb up to the second floor banister and lean out, yelling about having been abandoned
having bought her a bottle of clear alcohol and delivered it
whilst I fled dodging her curses she would call out to me with a caged crow's cry.
To my grandma,
who would pelt down swearwords that fluttered
like the blue nappies on a windy day hung out to dry on the close rooftops of the alleyways,
while I ran hand in hand with the kid next door, escaping through the backstreets.
Even if I ran as far as I could without looking back
she would shriek like a cracked golden horn,
"Look here! Is that girl your secret lover or what?"
To my grandma,
like a maestro of nostalgic French literature, who brought out such Proustian words and the awakening of my inner man,
"I really might be in love with her"
remembering the soft hand I held on that street corner.
To me,
when you cried in front of me, saying that you were going to marry a young, penniless, inane, would-be songwriter
and I yelled even more than mum or dad in opposition,
To my little sister,
who treasured the tattered pages
of the American book of short stories I handed down to her once I was done reading it,
"You're the world's biggest snob, if you were going to be like this why did you give me your copy of The Gift of the Meji?"
"It might be OK for me, but not for you"
the words I couldn't say prick my forefinger like a large safety pin left unhooked a long time ago in the pocket of my orange baseball jacket.
Having completed a PhD thesis on the precise logic of emptiness with great maturity
the thing that I remember now
is the stain on cotton cloth that the Ven. Yongsoo spoke of
that stain like some sort of… splotch
seeing as the poet Kim Yi Deum said,
Is that stain shaped like a star, or what?,
To all of those who are simply curious about its shape and colour,
allow me to show you my beautiful launderette.
To my first boyfriend,
who smiled with ridicule or perhaps jealousy, when I took him back to mine for the first time in a decade and he said, Wow, you're still living like a student,
Even if you've no spite you're a nasty man, living in a new-city apartment with a woman who has docile-looking lips
then again, that foolishness of yours was what I loved. The cloud-like dreams of Bachelard that flowed in my room summoned from your mouth,
That mountainside neighborhood office in Haengdang-dong, where I worked for six months as a level-9 civil servant after graduating from the girls' high school,
now transformed into a huge apartment complex, I can never return to that winding maze,
but the emaciated alleyways, the spiders, will have died alone calling the names of all the gods in the world,
To my father,
counting hypothetically, "If you hadn't quit that job you would have been way up the payscale by now," as though, after all this time, working out the age of a baby that died in the womb,
nagging me unfalteringly like a child, How great can it really be? Quit this clowning around as a poet and earn some money, then we can all move to Bundang,
Allow me to show you this launderette.
If you bury your face in between the mass of hanging clothes and enter, where not a single expression of mystery is visible
neither your clothes nor mine
these confessions cannot be put on and taken out, they are hung from up high in this place alone, let me show you.
My innate filth which you
the masters of sanitary science love with arms outstretched,
The searing ironing where the neater you press the more often your skin gets scorched and stuck
in a shabby ledger, In Search of Lost Time, that American book of short stories, Fundamental Verses on the Middle Way, old citations
water and dreams and the like are all that is written.
Hello there, all you clothes,
hurry off and find the people who left you here. In the midsummer of my lifetime when poultry farm hens kindle their deep yellow eggs,
all of them, reeking of bleach took only the secretly white flowers like dried-up riverside forsythias
and moved out with merely their bodies in tow.
Born in the 70s
We say we write with our lives on the line
but for us
there is no one aiming a gun.
It's a tragedy.
As the world turns like a pink hoola-hoop at our waists
we eat meals
and get drunk
always waiting.
In the end
we shot each other.
Stealing Away Song
Give me everything in your pockets now, then
I will love you, you poor girl.
Heave out your sinking legs
from the mire of the heart's quicksand.
Good grief! Such tiny legs
place them atop the translucent shoes of silent waters.
The things in your pockets, that purple-tinged green pouch, give it to me
then I will love you.
We're like the white body of a plum tree, shaking
in the dexterous fingers of spring.
Erase the small space
that we two stayed up all night making,
turn the machine of love as if to wear it out
and like a housemaid paid only two handfuls of sadness,
give me everything in your pockets now, then
I will love you, my poor woman.
Despair, like river water that sweeps up rubbish along its way,
you and I, will take with us a few of the fallen,
and disappear like the meagre sums of a gambling den.
Give me everything in your pockets, then
falling on the napes of the piously long necks of women
heads bowed following the first funeral procession of the new year,
like those white lips of snow,
then, we were alive.
Useless Stories
Paper
pen
questions
useless divinity
useless shame
green cherries
the white sail of a big ship in a framed picture
when the wind blows
feelings for you
sunshine warming the windows of an empty house
benevolent machines
the thorns in a tunnel of insanely fragrant roses
by a grave that no one comes to visit
a parchment book
that no one ever opens
newspaper articles on the factory girls' strike
night and day
two different nights
kisses when you're fast asleep
green cherries
Das Kapital
rain falling on a forest of dead juniper trees
your ears
Aeroplane Bound for the Moon
What kind of propeller will I have to fix to this song?
Am I twenty years old, or ten?
The moon is calling,
baby, baby my baby.
What kind of propeller will I have to fix to my aeroplane?
The plane flying up to the moon
that shines like the glint in mother's eyes
I want big, sturdy wings
I want a propeller so noisy it could burst your eardrums.
The clamorous aeroplane I drew
flies up towards the shining moon I drew.
The world in the picture is beautiful
I peek inside.
The moon in the picture is like a jaundiced man's pupils.
Fixed to the plane in the picture are white petals just like a propeller.
At my deep sigh the wind blows inside the picture.
The propeller headed to the moon flies away one petal at a time.
I raise my head having been crying, that aeroplane bound for the moon,
the moon with its long shadow hand
pats it lightly.
Draw again tomorrow
