American sijo

By Mark Peterson

Whereas many Koreans consider sijo a dead art form, the poetic genre is starting to catch on in America.

In a previous column I wrote that haiku, the Japanese short poem form, has become a part of American culture. Every student in America today has studied haiku and has actually written their own haiku in English. There are books on English haiku, websites on English haiku ― it is a success. Haiku is part of English literature! But now sijo is close on its heels.

Sijo is the next step for many American students. They've learned about, and learned to write haiku ― a short three line poem that features syllable counting as the structural element ― not rhyme, a more-common feature of English poetics. Now comes sijo, also in three lines with a syllabic count that is a little more elaborate than haiku. Sijo has four segments in each line with three or four beats in each segment, with the exception of a longer segment in the third line. It's that longer segment, the second of four, in the third line that often provides the "punch line" or the twist, or the resolution of the issue set up in the first two lines.

When I tell Koreans about writing sijo in English, and the fact that I teach the writing of sijo in English, the often looked puzzled ― they can't picture sijo in any language other than Korean, or they are confused about syllables or words in the structure of the poem. But once I explain it and give an example, sometimes a translation of a Korean poem, or sometimes an original English poem, then they start to "get it" ― to see how a sijo can work in a foreign language.

The most famous sijo, the "Song of Loyalty" by Jeong Mong-ju as translated into English, is a good example (with the syllable count listed for illustration):

Though I die, and die again. Though I die, one hundred deaths = 3, 4, 4, 4
After my bones have turned to dust, whether my soul lives on or not, = 3, 4, 4, 4
My red heart, forever loyal to my Lord, will never disappear. = 3, 8, 3, 3

The Sejong Cultural Society, a private organization based in Chicago and headed by a wonderful Korean-American pediatrician, Lucy Park, has been hosting an online sijo writing contest for American students for the last 11 years. I've been privileged to be one of the judges from time to time. We award a first prize with $500, a second, third, and several honorable mentions. The poems are just wonderful. Some examples (one deadly serious, one whimsical):

Cancer
Childhood memories infest my head with splendid visions.
In my parents' room I was impervious to sorrow.
Now it is smothered in disease and Death peers in the windows.

Grandmaster's immortal
He moved the queen down and smiled; onlookers stopped to watch.
With checkmate in sight, he was just toying with his opponent
Who had wandered off to play with the pigeons, "C'mon grandpa!"

Can you see how sijo works? Can you see how it captures emotions, events, feelings, images? These two are wonderful. And the one called "Emma," about the puppy that represented the recently departed aunt that I quoted two weeks ago in this column, is a beautiful capturing of a young person's understanding of death and loved ones.

Like haiku, many of the poems feature some elements of nature. But sijo go beyond nature and address a wider range of emotions and scenes. Here's one that has a mystical look at a dandelion in seed.

Make a wish
Dandelion puffs rest on the ground, I lean down and pick one up
Wanting to fly, I take a deep breath, making my wish I blow out
In the air, puffs fly in the sky, but me and my wish are left behind

Here is one that captures one of the frustrations of student life, and a frustration we all face from time to time ― the anxiety of writing. It is untitled (some sijo carry titles, some do not ― this one does not):

With glowing white eyes and shining white teeth, the beast sits in silence
Staring, like a hungry caged dog, demanding to be fed
Nothing is worse than the malevolent glare of a blank page

Notice how some conform to the syllable count better than others. But all fit the three-line short poem format. I guess we have to allow some degree of freedom in form and structure, but that is open to debate. I'm a little bit on the liberal side, but when a form goes too far afield, I'm one of the first to say, "That's not a sijo!" Just how much freedom we should allow in the category of structure is up for debate. Where do you stand? For me, the content carries the day, and I am taken away by the beauty of the poem.

Mark Peterson (markpeterson@byu.edu) is professor emeritus of Korean, Asian and Near Eastern languages at Brigham Young University in Utah.

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