A Country to be Misse
- A country to be missed; I will return there in October.
The hometown of my first wife, in my younger days; and where she remains.
Now, strange hills have been raised.
As the sun sets silently, the shadow of a tomb lengthens across the valley stream,
Giving crawfish a place to hide their ugliness.
She has been pregnant these ten years; her figure would have been enticingly beautiful
Even had she been in her ninth month.
In October, I will return there.
A chimney spews forth smoke, streaming from its black inside,
White birds dropping into the dark sky like falling fruits.
One-eyed dogs vomit mercury onto the bright white street at midday
After eating mercury, silver tears fall like lightning; a fall from a cliff.
- A country to be missed; I will return there in October.
The moon sits in the clouds.
In the sky over the wood of beech trees, flying fishes are often seen.
Her fins are still smooth and sleek,
The daughters she would have birthed during those days sleep under the leaves.
She still cuddles bats to sleep in the daytime,
At night, lying on the red and black ground, she will lay her eggs.
This slightly mossy life is all that is left of the change.
From the front of my heart, buttons of burdensome doubts drop away.
- I arrive at night,
In the middle of repairs to the bridge, damaged by heavy summer rains.
A quick-sighted mouse glances at the strange invader.
My insouciant wife concentrates on riding her bicycle.
The white calves of her legs do not recognize me,
As they push strongly down on her pedals; showing beautiful under her skirt.
It’s getting dark fast.
Ah, Ah, my carelessness returned me too late,
Not realizing how serious her morning sickness was.
There is no good fruit left. I was making money,
Prostituting myself in the final market.
She would have flown like a squirrel with wings.
In the open sky over the woods of beech trees,
The procession of the dead passes by
And in the woods of the hill, the wind grazes,
There someone gives birth to a son without fins.
Even before my lips touched my wife’s, beautiful as a painting,
She was broken, feeble from missing me.
After I set free one by one the swarming beetles inside,
My head is like an empty ward.
Tomorrow is unavoidable, but I will someday cross the bridge to sanctuary,
And never again return to the final market.
시인 장석주 by Poet, Chang, SeokJoo
The poet, Seok-Ju Chang, was born in Non-San, Chung-Cheong-Nam-Do, South Korea, in January 8, 1955. His first published
work was “Midnight” that he received new and emerging poet award from Monthly Literature in 1975. In 1979, he awarded his poem, “Fly, Gloomy Dream” inChosun Il-Bo, Spring Literature and Dong-A-Il-Bo, Spring Literature, Critique, “Existence and Unrealism”.
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Translated by Clara Soonhee Kwon-Tatum, Ph.D and Matthew Lewis, MA
