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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

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  Two Poems by Go Myeongjae

  We Close Our Eyes to Kiss Dogs and snow and children are all composed of the same element.I wanted to hold the snow water inside mebecause I wanted that pure power, how wildly it bucks.If only I could massage my cold, stiff armsas I tidy up the snowy bowls of runaway dogs. If I rub the pus of a cow into the areaand kissand hold hands with an immigrantand listen to the horns rise on a potatoas I whisper, I love you, I love you, like a snowflake all collars would grow big into hula hoops.As dead dogs drag out their long tongues, the streams rush,the mountain range tippy toes, my neck bursts open, and root vegetables stretch their legs,I am watching you rise to land in the dark.With a hand to my festering nape,I grate a cold potato and rub it on like snow.I kiss the door of your dim room. And I, I will grow recklessly stranger.I will dip my fingers into a flower, and, pollinated,pick my belly button.I hope lilies erupt from my mouth, my ears!We lock pinkies across the barbed-wire fence, mixing prints.IDs, national borders, whatever, we laugh like flowers. Words with no feet, ears with no words, cows with no horns.The frontier of blossoms brims over to the northand because I fear my brows would fly away like birdsI wear heavy rain boots to kiss your mouth. To become poetry by the clearest area.We close our eyes to kissbecause the future is brilliant.Hearts of dogs grow big at the sound of footsteps on the snowbecause that is the interval at which a stranger is approaching.The front gates are the lips of a house. When you ring the bellthe world approaches, instead of fluttering wings.   I Like That When Mom Sleeps, Grandma Shines Through I like the soft look of giant trees lowering their branches on a rainy day.I like the elasticity of a raindrop’s sudden bounce from the bridge of my nose, too.I like the damp leap of a green frog.I like the open holes in the Chinese characters to the word “exposure.”When the gunshot of a waterdrop rings out, summer races.The tree shakes, summer runs with its front drenched.I like that on the way to the hospital there’s a small flower shop, like hope.I like that rain falls on everyone equally.I like that when I wear rain boots the rhythm of a green frog comes to me.I like a child’s knees inside mine. I like that inside methe future of a new sproutdoes not run, it boldly leaps.I like that the soles of my feet tickle when I see a puddle of water.I like my shins that run towards love without a care for spattering puddles of mud. I like seeing the kumquats strewn about haphazardly on the balcony floor.I like the small build of a kumquat, not a tangerine.I like the handprints of light that cling to a brass instrument.I like a promise better than an agreement,how we lock our most tender fingers with each other.I like the unstoppable intimacy that blossoms from between a peach and a balsam.I like it so much I can’t even breathe.I like that when Mom sleeps, Grandma shines through. I dimly miss the one who passed.When the peach inside a heart is cut in half,I like the sorrow of the fruit’s flesh, the fruit knife, the scent, everything.I can’t stop touching the keepsakes of the dead. When it rains like this and the phone grows quiet,when love is bruised to a pulp and its raw flesh festers,inside me, love rains down like lances, strikes my raw flesh, shakes the summer, and drums on the green of the tall tree.On the streets, on the tents, on my rain boots, on sprouts, on the green frogyour complexion, drawn recklessly, glittered haphazardly like kumquats and I liked it.It was beautiful, the face of someone taking a step back.I ran until my lungs exploded to see the last of that face. It kept the rest of my summer from regrets.     by Go Myeongjae  Translated by Soeun Seo

  by Go Myeongjae

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  Two Poems by Lee Jenny

  Meeting on a Byroad  We agreed to meet on a byroad and parted. Each of us were on a road off of which branched countless byroads, but we parted as if we would surely recognize the one we decided to meet on. On the first byroad there were fallen leaves. The leaves covered the road. The season had arrived there early and in fullness. The leafy road was good to arrange meetings in and good to imagine the shade of out-of-season trees in. The possibility of tree shade led to the possibility of upcoming seasons. And the upcoming seasons called forth the possibility of a love that streams together under the pea-colored leaves. When I passed love’s byroad, the puddle’s byroad appeared. And the puddles, cold and clear, were good for looking at the reflections of things. And for hopping over, unbeknownst to all. And for wetting your two feet, the ones you keep hidden. The puddle was calling forth its watery shadow. And, on the dry soil, drawing today’s sky. Hop over the one and only sky of today. Hop over the one and only cloud in today’s sky. Hop over the leaf drifting between the clouds in the cold, clear sky. Now hop over the lushness of the tree that is no longer there. We kept arriving, arriving somewhere. Covered with things that were not me. Wrapped up in things that were empty of you. When we went forward, forward, the next byroad began to appear. As always, we were standing on the byroad by the byroad, by and by. We met, no longer knowing where we’d agreed to meet. Thinking we’d passed that place long ago. Where there had been yesterday’s restaurant, there was today’s restaurant. Where there had been a mailbox, a bleached wood sign. And red gravel, in place of the green grass. Even as we’re endlessly bisected, by and by. Even as we flow forth, tumbling along. We meet again, here, once more. On this endlessly bifurcating road. When I turned my head, you and I of long ago were meeting by the byroad by the byroad. We’ll meet again, as long as there remains a scene that waits for words. Writing, push through the sentence that knows no end and you arrive at the shade of a forgotten tree. My face, reflected in a single puddle, flowed in layers and layers.    The Night’s Direction and Marble Games The mountain I knew was one that wouldn’t open. The marble I knew was like that too, wouldn’t ever roll. What forces act on things that roll? You asked this with the face of an old hermit, as if scrutinizing the curvature of outer space. On a flat plane rather than a curved surface. There is a mountain that only opens and shows itself when the will to perceive space and time is active. Your face doesn’t resonate at all. It’s like a marble of dust that shows itself only through the scattering of light. Your face was rolled up like an ancient papyrus scroll. No one could read your interior anymore so you began to roll. Rolling in the direction of all those dust marbles. To roll was to be thrown. To be thrown was to be abandoned. And to be abandoned was to love. Because in those days, the only things we were willing to throw were the things we’d loved with all our hearts. The dust marble was rolling endlessly from mountain to mountain. How is it that we keep shaking in these scenes from a long-ago night? You asked this fixing your face into an old one again, so I looked at your mouth. To write down the sentence, verbatim, that the mouth of darkness opened to reveal. To bury in my heart the afterimage of light that unfolds only in the dark. But night is a thing that flows and flows. That layers and layers over itself and then dissipates. And the hermit’s forest was opened a long time ago, said the old mouth. I cradled my face as though I were groping the elderly one. The birds were fleeing, differently. The crowds of night were flying bluely. The world was making invisible holes and throwing in the loved ones, one by one. If you can die well, you can live well too. Like dancing, like dancing. I wrote that down, before I even woke up. In that barely-recalled memory of night. In the delusion of a world I believed I could touch. Rolling, rolling still, from one direction to the next, infinitely. There was a night when I rolled my heart, rounded and still-soft. It used to be that something in my chest would sink if I wrote the name of a living person in red.        by Lee Jenny Translated by Hedgie Choi  

  by Lee Jenny

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  Ten Poems by Yi Won

  Voices Stone, some things thus far emerged and hardenedLight, some things leaking out, spreading their flesh apartWall, some things thus far pushedPath, some things thus far thrownWindow, until no longer touching Outside, until surging upwardIn, until there’s nowhere to fallBlood, something all mixed upEar, something that crawled outBack, something the world missedColor, something dug up, something rooted outMe, only now emerging from the mirror,      so many things to bury in the mireYou, already emerged from the mirror,       and so many things buried in the airEye, something broken, something shatteredStar, something tornDream, something soaked in bloodSeed, the darkest somethingEgg, something shut tight, something fierce, even thereBone, something left alone, even thereHand, something branching out, even thereMouth, something puckering closed, even thereDoor, impatient, belated, overdueBody, unsightly confession of shadowGod, something attached to the fingertipsFlower, vomitWater, brought to a boilKnife, brimming to the throatWhite, fluttering  The History of an Impossible Page(Moonji, 2012) ShadowsThe floors the walls must be the silhouette of death, so can you imagine how much the shadows’ backs must hurt? When dancers prance and float through the air, can you imagine how the sinews of shadows contract with abandoned solitude? When a man or child flings themself from the railing, can you imagine the feelings of the shadow who failed to jump up as well? When the body disappears into thin air and the shadow still remains, can you imagine the shadow’s thoughts in that moment?The History of an Impossible Page(Moonji, 2012) Apple Store The trees become forests intent upon splitting shadow The birds made their sounds where they got their beaks stuck The flowers grown in different directions are all bunched in one vase The old mother crawls into the heart and The chair never stops tempering the air Until sour and sweet blent together in one place The apple grew round Let Love Be Born(Moonji, 2017) You Were All There in My Dream You were all thereSo I was busy All of you and me were busy Me and all of you were busy meeting eyesBusy moving feet, busy stoppingBusy making betweens. Diverging moments shined I heard the sound of an absent button falling and rollingMy and all of your rustling legsBuried to the knee All of you were thereSo I was busy, but it wasn’t a bad dream I wanted to call you over butYou were all thereSo I was handing out empty plates I liked you all holding your platesMe and all of you appearedWearing white shirts and holding white plates The light was uncut butA diagonal stroke ran across the shirt The dream of all of you and me continuedThe garden had grown more spacious at some pointAll of you and I arrived at a hill Below were rows of high-rise buildings with windowsLike gaping holes in their bodies The white plates took you all over thereAll of you crowded there with your white plates You were all there in my dreamSo I was busy. It wasn’t too bad You were all there, but the white plates were still stackedAll of your shadows were much more than thatThey didn’t follow into the linear world, yourShadows. I understood them  You Were All There in My Dream(모:든시 vol. 8, 2019) Small People Community On Saturday, I went to the restaurant. It was just me and the owner. The owner chopped cabbage, and I looked out the window. Our necks turned in two directions, and in the dimly lit restaurant the owner and I were mottled shadow. I set my spoon and chopsticks side by side in front of my right hand. On Friday, I went to the restaurant. The radio was on. I met eyes with the owner. The eyes smiled. When the talking stopped, the music started. There was a rumble in the owner’s throat as they chopped cabbage, and I thought of the curviness of a cross section. On Thursday, I went to the restaurant. The TV was turned on to the news. I was the only person in the restaurant. I looked back and forth between the three items on the menu. Outside the window was all sunlight. The owner never came. I counted the hydrangeas I’d seen on the way over. On Wednesday, I didn’t go to the restaurant. I stood out front for a minute. I couldn’t see inside. Only the feathery cirrus in the distance and me with my nearby solitude. Someone passing by asked if there was still time to eat. I said you could go in if it’s open. It was overcast, then rained for a bit before clearing up when I wanted to stop by another district on Tuesday. I wandered all around an apartment complex. I imagined a convenience store after midnight where birds could go in, and loosening trees lining the street. It was late at night. On Monday, I went into the restaurant where there were only two tables, where both tables were empty, where the sound of chopping cabbage piled up steadily, where the silence was rising. I sent the sands of a fifteen-minute hourglass through two turns, then lifted my fractured heel and left. The light coming in over the chopping cabbage sometimes looked like drops of blood. Spreading and seeping. Once my mind was set on the sound of chopping cabbage, the food was never ready. I took the white napkin spread barely over the top of the silence and folded it in half and then half again while I waited.Small People Community(Literature and Society vol. 134, 2021) Friendly Gathering One person brought four plums  The first person to reach for the plums used their right thumb and forefinger to pick up the least red one, and the second person took the reddest one  They looked at each other and each took a bite  Tart and sweet, said the first person who’d reached for the plums  There was no way of knowing what the second person thought  There were supposed to be four people, but one person showed up late and ate two plums  They ate one quickly, then looked at the plate with a mischievous smile and ate the other  The one who didn’t get a plum wasn’t at the table yet, having said only that they hadn’t written a single email today  The ones who’d eaten only one plum were worried that they were now short one plum  The one who’d eaten two plums was wearing a white shirt and beige shorts  There were no plums on the plate, but the plate was wet, and one person’s plum pit was next to their right arm, and the other person’s plum pit was wrapped up in a tissue next to their right arm, too  Who knows what happened to the plum pits of the person who ate two, and a little bit of silence and a little bit of peace stood in place between the clouds floating inside  The person who’d eaten the less red plum stretched their hands over their head  Whether they’d wear the clouds splitting above them as a hat was a problem for another time  Then there was the scuttering sound of a chair sliding across the floor  Was it the one who ate two plums getting up from their seat?  The one who wrote today’s emails finally arriving?  The one trying to throw off this damp sack?  There was no way of knowing  The angle was set where the sound came from  Friendly Gathering(Siindongne, Aug. 2019) Shared Kitchen Here there’s glass on three sides  Anyone passing by can see in  It’s common to look in and see someone sitting at the end or middle of the long rectangular table, eating alone, looking back like a reflection in a mirror  On the other side of the table is the sink, on the other side of the sink is the induction burner, on the other side of the induction burner is the refrigerator  The shared side-by-side refrigerator is divided into shelves assigned to each person  Label things with your name on a sticky note  The king oyster mushrooms, chargrilled ham, and carton of ten eggs on the second shelf all have the same name on them, so they belong to that name  Anything without a name on it and anything on the Everyone Shelf belongs to everybody  On the Everyone Shelf, there’s cabbage browning where it’s been cut and a carrot or two rolling around  You can’t put your name on anything on the Everyone Shelf, or on anything that belongs to everybody  In the world of Everyone, if someone eats too much, the rest can’t eat  This way, if there’s bread and it’s not getting eaten, you eat it without knowing who gave up their portion  This way, whenever you open the fridge, you strangely find your eyes wandering to the Everyone Shelf before your assigned shelf or your sticky-noted ingredients  This way, no one considers your hesitation, when faced with the ingredients, to be a prayer for everybody  This way, you always pause and wonder if you used ingredients with someone else’s name on them, even though you didn’t  Here, the rule is to wash the dishes you used and clean up like you were never here  Here, chairs are pulled out from the table as if you’ll be right back, and slippers with the same size and design lie flipped over on top of each other, and a few are strewn all over  Until the feet leave those slippers, this is the shared kitchen  Shared Kitchen(Webzin Gongsisa, June. 2020)  All Language The problem is it’s hard to distinguish the sound of footsteps  The one who went near the cat had a funeral to go to and left in a hurry and the one afraid of the cat had to stay  The problem is welcoming footsteps and frightened footsteps both thud-duh-duh  The cat comes running at the sound of footsteps but even if I raise my voice and shout “I’m not ks I’m oo” happy voice and scared voice both swing up up and away  It wasn’t a game of ring toss with foot and neck but if I stomp thump my footneck shakes the cat stops in its tracks  Oh this works thump thump if I stomp around like this  The problem is the signal “come here” and “get away from me” have the same feel  When I rush inside thud-duh-duh and shut the glass door the cat stops its four paws and waits  When I knock on the glass it stares  The problem is it’s hard to distinguish the gesture “go away” from the signal “stay here”  The cat sits outside the sliding glass door and when I knock on the glass and wave it away it whines meooow meooow  The problem is “ooo ooo” drops like marbles but doesn’t roll and if there’s a sudden pitter patter my footsteps get soaked and my ankles don’t get soakedAll Language(파란 vol. 14, 2019)BiosphereIt seems the small class is finally starting  Of the mind things would look a lot better if people shrank a bit, somehow or other  It seems that small, funny feeling is finally coming on  Tend to believe the light is a note the plants the birds never forget to bring back  Never once encountered the start or end of light, but tend to believe light is keeping an eye on humans passing through  That watching is already declaring  That emptying what’s within is already action  What’s superior is what’s vaporized, erased, often wholly obscured  There’s a rustling sound  There’s a pecking sound  Like the shadow of a hatchet dangling by a thread, it seems the small class is finally starting  Can’t interpret the note, can’t estimate its intentions, but tend to think it’s honest to categorize human into arm, leg, torso, head  Biosphere(Webzin View vol. 57, 2022)Rare Earth Equation* There are no humans here   No cars   There are many cats  It might seem like a lie but there isn’t a single tree, so there’s no shade  No matter how far you go, just blistering sun   There are many cuts wrapping round and round, and green grass like a razor’s cutting edge  There are lots of aphasic clouds Lots of sadness stuffed into corners  So the cats must slink through the burning sunlight   They strike a human pose as they doze beneath the crumbling walls, and the grass gradually turns a pale-blue green as it grows to resemble horror   Here where there’s no people, where the sound of swaying grass fills the air, there’s lots of rocks shaped like dried-up hearts   And lots of boulders grown big and fat  It might seem like a lie, but all the cats are yellow  And all the people who used to call them  Aurora are gone  There are lots of lumpy, bumpy holes  There are lots of empty pots  All the birds here say the same thing  The birds strip off their feet, and the feet pile up in the pots  The Auroras slink out from the gray boulders  There’s no end to them   More come to fill their place   And the holes are filled in as well   The cats’ footsteps get slowly further away   The grass grows all around when no one’s looking *rare earth equation: an evolutionary biology termRare Earth Equation (Webzine View vol. 57, 2022)By Yi won All Poems Translated by Seth Chandler Korean Works Mentioned:  • When They Ruled the Earth (Moonji, 1996)『그들이 지구를 지배했을 때』 (문학과지성사, 1996)• A Thousand Moons Rising Over the River of Yahoo! (Moonji, 2001)『야후!의 강물에 천 개의 달이 뜬다』 (문학과지성사, 2001)• The World’s Lightest Motorcycle (tr. E. J. Koh, Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello, Zephyr Press, 2021)『세상에서 가장 가벼운 오토바이』 (문학과지성사, 2007)• “Voices,” “Shadows,” The History of an Impossible Page (Moonji, 2012)「그림자들」, 「목소리들」, 『불가능한 종이의 역사』 (문학과지성사, 2012)• “Apple Store,” Let Love Be Born (Moonji, 2017)「애플 스토어」, 『사랑은 탄생하라』 (문학과지성사, 2017)• “Machine–Mudang (1),” The Smallest Discovery (Minumsa, 2017)「기계-무당 (1)」, 『최소의 발견』 (민음사, 2017)• “Friendly Gathering,” (Siindongne, Aug. 2019)「친목 모임」 (시인동네 2019년 8월호, 2019)• “Shared Kitchen” (Webzine Gongsisa, June. 2020)「공용 키친」 (웹진 공정한시인의사회 2020년 6월호)• “Small People Community,” (Literature and Society vol. 134, 2021)「작은 사람 공동체」, (문학과사회 2021년 여름호, 2021)• “Biosphere,” “Rare Earth Equation,” (Webzine View vol. 57, 2022)「생물권」, 「희귀한 지구 방정식」, (웹진 비유 2022년 9월호, 2022)

  by Yi Won

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  Two Poems by Hwang Inchan

  Seeing What’s Seen  A house where birds can be seen out the windowIf I say look, you can see the birds here You say,Everyone who lives in a house where you can see the birds says that But anyone would say it The window lets in lots of lightLight filters tenderly through the leaves and fills the room Wow, you can see the birds here, If someone comes over and says it one dayThe birds scatter in a flutter of wings   Not Seeing What’s Unseen  A story. An ownerless dog was looking this way and barking.It was looking at something behind me, But when I turned to look, there was nothing there. Really, a ghost story in this day and age?You say with a laugh. But the ownerless dog is still looking this way and barking. Thinking of fingertips at my fingertips, thinking my back itches but is it okay to move? Then, please come up hereAn outstretched hand appears, but I couldn’t know whose hand. by Hwang InchanTranslated by Seth Chandler

  by Hwang Inchan

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  Two Poems by Chang Seung Ri

  After  gaze of a dying pig next to a dead piga rainbow drained of yellow the moment I am filled by the hole that pierces through the mirror I merry-go-roundto the childhood of the end forward, forwardsince tears are round when are you saddest?when I laugh like a child      Gnu Herd  Cross the river with your death as a shield –  Grief asks  why  nothingness fears annihilation  by Chang Seung Ri Translated by Hedgie Choi

  by Chang Seung Ri