Consider reading a one-syllable word as a poem. Out of 창 (window), for example, a skyscraper suddenly rises before my eyes. At dusk, its windows light up one by one until the building glows like an ear of corn made out of light. Behind each window is a person, each living their own life, carrying their own hopes and fears. My head spins thinking of all these lives I’ll never know.

    A one-syllable word can recall more than just images. I am in a place, 곳, where the wind brushes against my skin. The aroma wafting from a bakery sets my stomach rumbling. Why is the smell of baking bread so enticing? I hear a distant hubbub of voices from a backstreet. The scene is bathed in sunshine.

    A single word elicits memories of the past, which contain not only our five senses but also sensations within our bodies. These revive vivid moments that must have been important. You wonder where such a precious accumulation of sensation had been hiding. These moments wait until they are called up, sustaining us in ways beyond our understanding to make life bearable.

    Usually, we read words as their meanings and, therefore, as tools, which is an impoverished way of using language. For an example, try looking up a word in a dictionary. As the poet Kim So Yeon says, dictionary definitions are whittled down to concise outlines from which all nuance is absent. Because understanding depends on sacrificing that which we do not understand, dictionaries lose the warmth, feel, smell, and everything else that should imbue each word.

    Confined to the present moment, this impoverished language takes away the fullness and freshness of our lives until we spend our days as useful machines. We become so focused on completing our tasks that we are no longer moved by what we see and hear. We have money. We have relationships. But we do not have what we need, or understand what we lack. Then a moment comes where you stop short. Why does life feel impalpable like a cloud, even though we produce solid work? Despite that, though, we can still turn to poetry. Kim’s book offers a lesson for reclaiming our sensations and emotions.

    Arrange the petals of a dead flower 꽃 and conduct a funeral alone. Put them in a row, then rearrange them into a star shape. The petals transmit their warmth to your fingertips. Their sweet colors draw your gaze. Such things will fade, but they are here now and offer us comfort. We then realize that our emotions have broken out of their shell and are opening up to the petals, and beyond. It is a transition that transcends the boundaries of self, allowing my heart to connect with yours.

    To find out what is inside a seed 씨, you cannot split it in two. Plant it in soil, water it. Put it somewhere with lots of sunlight. Put it outside, then bring it back inside, look for where it grows well. A few leaves emerge, the stem lengthens. To think that it is possible to care so deeply about the unfurling of a life! 

    Spend time together. The seed ages steadily, and so do we. What was once a tiny seed can show us the meaning of being alive. One realizes that what was inside the seed was the time, the room, the sensations, and everything that connected us and it. The experience even inspires gratitude to the seed, for teaching us this humility.

    A song  곡 may contain within itself the breathing of another person and the beating of their heart. In a fight, fear makes the heart pound quickly. On a quiet walk on the beach with someone you love, your pulse slows. When we immerse ourselves in music, we settle deeply into the rhythm of another’s breathing and the tempo of their heart. In this way, we reach out from inside our bodies to connect with beings other than ourselves.

    Consider opening yourself to the outside. When we do this, poetry—the music of words—connects us with one another. Language has had this function since ancient times, and Kim reminds us of it here.

Translated by Sylvia Gallagher

Koji Toko

Professor of American Literature, Waseda University