Joseon
destroyed by the Japanese?
Ninety percent of the work was done before they arrived.
Twin Prison Guards
That prison’s white wall was so high
that no matter how good you were at flying leaps
or running leaps
or jumping
with a wet blanket
spread wide,
it was absolutely absurd to hope to vault over it.
Twin guards,
Yi Gi-yeol and Yi Gi-sun,
Gi-sun with a birthmark,
spent long years inside that wall
working three shifts,
sometimes only two.
Inside that wall from their 20s through to their late 40s,
surely they were lifers too.
All those years, the older twin, Gi-yeol, beat convicts,
while the younger, Gi-sun,
snatched noodles the convicts had bought.
On each anniversary of their father’s early death,
one twin would be on night duty,
the rites attended by his wife and kids alone.
Apart from that anniversary,
Gi-sun stayed in prison most of the time,
but somehow he had three daughters and
two sons, one already lost
in a traffic accident.
Idlers
Outside Yongin town, in Yongin county, Gyeonggi province,
runs a powerful range of mountains
and there, in the valley below the tomb of Jeong Mong-ju,
spring had never a thought of coming.
In Seoul,
and along the banks of the Hantan River above Seoul
the forsythia was already in full bloom
Yongin, however, often known as ‘Posthumous Yongin’,
was always ‘Late Yongin’.
The cold spring winds
had an icy edge.
The loudspeakers of the New Village Movement
pestered the village of Mansuteo
from early morning,
while just two people,
Jin Su-mun and his wife Gang Hye-ja,
exhausted
after making love that morning,
slept on,
shhh
shhh
,
stretched out with bare stomachs,
though the sun was high in the sky.
Then Jin Su-Mun was bitten by a centipede.
Damn it!
It bit me in the privates.
Damn it!
Damn it!
Notorious as a couple of idlers,
they had never received a New Village loan,
yet they were carefree and could always be heard shouting,
Damn it!
Walking Sticks
On the grounds of Buseok-sa temple in Yeongju, Sobaek Mountain,
there is a tree that grew
from a walking stick
planted by the great monk Uisang.
In Songgwang-sa temple in Suncheon, South Jeolla,
there is a tree that grew
from a walking stick
planted by the deeply revered monk Bojo, of the Goryeo dynasty.
The trees have lived long lives,
two thousand years,
one thousand years.
Nearer us, there’s a maple tree on Jungdae peak of Odae-san
that grew from a stick the Venerable Hanam
rested on
then planted.
It put out leaves and branches,
the leaves turning red in autumn.
One poet during the Yushin period in the 1970s,
sat beneath such walking stick trees
on Odae-san’s Jungdae
and in Jogye Mountain’s Songgwang-sa temple
while confined there by the intelligence agency.
Before him sat the elderly police detective, his keeper,
who said: ‘Well, thanks to you
I’m enjoying life as a mountain hermit,
the cicadas singing by day,
the Scops owl by night.’
Replied the poet:
‘Hey, since you walk about
with a stick,
you should plant it when you leave.
Who knows?’
The Yu Brothers, Grave Robbers
The world is so full of robbers
that there is no rest
even for graves.
Come to think of it,
surely a poet is a robber of birdsong,
robber of the sound of streams,
of the colour of flowers, of willow leaves.
A robber who dug up graves
was known in days past as a ‘grave-digging thief’,
writ using difficult Chinese characters
by those sporting a nobleman’s hat and gown.
The graves of rich families’ ancestors
were laid out ceremoniously, following ancient rules,
so when they were dug up,
those graves of great-great-grand parents,
of great-grandparents,
of grandfather,
of grandmother –
even if they held no treasures –
when told that a skull or bones had been dug up,
the family had to produce a wad of money,
as much as the robbers asked,
to get back the sacred remains.
Those descended from the nobility, from
destroyed by the Japanese?
Ninety percent of the work was done before they arrived.
Twin Prison Guards
That prison’s white wall was so high
that no matter how good you were at flying leaps
or running leaps
or jumping
with a wet blanket
spread wide,
it was absolutely absurd to hope to vault over it.
Twin guards,
Yi Gi-yeol and Yi Gi-sun,
Gi-sun with a birthmark,
spent long years inside that wall
working three shifts,
sometimes only two.
Inside that wall from their 20s through to their late 40s,
surely they were lifers too.
All those years, the older twin, Gi-yeol, beat convicts,
while the younger, Gi-sun,
snatched noodles the convicts had bought.
On each anniversary of their father’s early death,
one twin would be on night duty,
the rites attended by his wife and kids alone.
Apart from that anniversary,
Gi-sun stayed in prison most of the time,
but somehow he had three daughters and
two sons, one already lost
in a traffic accident.
Idlers
Outside Yongin town, in Yongin county, Gyeonggi province,
runs a powerful range of mountains
and there, in the valley below the tomb of Jeong Mong-ju,
spring had never a thought of coming.
In Seoul,
and along the banks of the Hantan River above Seoul
the forsythia was already in full bloom
Yongin, however, often known as ‘Posthumous Yongin’,
was always ‘Late Yongin’.
The cold spring winds
had an icy edge.
The loudspeakers of the New Village Movement
pestered the village of Mansuteo
from early morning,
while just two people,
Jin Su-mun and his wife Gang Hye-ja,
exhausted
after making love that morning,
slept on,
shhh
shhh
,
stretched out with bare stomachs,
though the sun was high in the sky.
Then Jin Su-Mun was bitten by a centipede.
Damn it!
It bit me in the privates.
Damn it!
Damn it!
Notorious as a couple of idlers,
they had never received a New Village loan,
yet they were carefree and could always be heard shouting,
Damn it!
Walking Sticks
On the grounds of Buseok-sa temple in Yeongju, Sobaek Mountain,
there is a tree that grew
from a walking stick
planted by the great monk Uisang.
In Songgwang-sa temple in Suncheon, South Jeolla,
there is a tree that grew
from a walking stick
planted by the deeply revered monk Bojo, of the Goryeo dynasty.
The trees have lived long lives,
two thousand years,
one thousand years.
Nearer us, there’s a maple tree on Jungdae peak of Odae-san
that grew from a stick the Venerable Hanam
rested on
then planted.
It put out leaves and branches,
the leaves turning red in autumn.
One poet during the Yushin period in the 1970s,
sat beneath such walking stick trees
on Odae-san’s Jungdae
and in Jogye Mountain’s Songgwang-sa temple
while confined there by the intelligence agency.
Before him sat the elderly police detective, his keeper,
who said: ‘Well, thanks to you
I’m enjoying life as a mountain hermit,
the cicadas singing by day,
the Scops owl by night.’
Replied the poet:
‘Hey, since you walk about
with a stick,
you should plant it when you leave.
Who knows?’
The Yu Brothers, Grave Robbers
The world is so full of robbers
that there is no rest
even for graves.
Come to think of it,
surely a poet is a robber of birdsong,
robber of the sound of streams,
of the colour of flowers, of willow leaves.
A robber who dug up graves
was known in days past as a ‘grave-digging thief’,
writ using difficult Chinese characters
by those sporting a nobleman’s hat and gown.
The graves of rich families’ ancestors
were laid out ceremoniously, following ancient rules,
so when they were dug up,
those graves of great-great-grand parents,
of great-grandparents,
of grandfather,
of grandmother –
even if they held no treasures –
when told that a skull or bones had been dug up,
the family had to produce a wad of money,
as much as the robbers asked,
to get back the sacred remains.
Those descended from the nobility, from
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