(translated from the Korean by geul)
Where could she have gone, the woman from Chungnamdangjin?
She who left me after violating me
snatching the virginity defended for twenty-three years and gifting me with syphilis
Chungnamdangjin woman, I think I’m going to have to hate you
Turning me into a man with her ardor like a power plant
I don’t think I can hate her
Chungnamdangjin woman, my wish was to marry the woman I first slept with
My life’s wish was to live all my life with the woman I first held in my arms
living together without breaking up
having a child with the woman whom I first locked lips with
Naming my first daughter that the woman I first kissed lays in my arms was my my life’s wish
But you got away – “I’m a very bad woman”
Taking a taxi you got away – “Don’t look for me”
Taking a yellow taxi you vanished with your eyes all red
I should’ve memorized the number on the back of the taxi
Where did you hide, Chungnamdangjin woman, with a drop of my saliva
on your small lips, how can you smile with pleasure?
You who said a man and a woman didn’t need a place to lie down
Chungnamdangjin woman, you who laughed haha saying you lived
near a power plant as a child, giggling, Chungnamdangjin woman
Maybe that’s why at the Dangjin thermoelectric power plant in my dream
A woman’s face as black as coal shooting up terrifyingly inside the furnace
Chungnamdangjin woman’s face
under a street light, round like her face, I am standing, I stand tall with regret
Actually what I wanted, what I secretly wanted was that she would go away
Chungnamdangjin woman, she stands under the dim lamp
of the standing-only bar under the lamp that’s freckled with fly droppings
Does that mean I abandoned you rather than you abandoning me?
Or did we secretly abandon each other? and why?
And why is the fate of our 1960 generation such as it is?
The love I made with the Chungnamdangjin woman making the beast with two backs
will become a sordid poem bruited about by idle people
spread around between heaven and earth until one day the rumor reaches the velvety
ears of that Dangjin woman who’ll giggle
And the rumor will reach the ears of my future fiancee
and when she asks in a soft voice “Was she pretty? How was she?”
Love, I shall fall into the abyss of memory, Chungnamdangjin woman
she whose name I’ve forgotten
poem in Korean
(translated from the Korean by geul)
A city I seemed to have visited before at some point. Korea’s north central region surrounded by a wall-like mountain forest, a harlequin wind passes between low buildings, and ice cream wrappers fly around mixing with dust and dirt.
***North central region –
it’d be worthwhile for those coming to a small city like this to think about what a
***big deal America is.
Here too are parched gullets glugging down Coca Colas. There’s keen interest in watching controversial foreign films. As well as pop songs clang clang clanging
A small city in the north central region. Wherever
you go, in Korea’s tea shops there are middle-aged men. There are middle-aged gentlemen who enjoy playing the political soothsayer; they relay their diagnosis, suspicions, and predictions regarding the reformist powers, successors, and the
***preposterous fall of a chaebol.
Wherever you go in Korea you’ll find the irresponsible debater.
There exist middle-aged men, who, laughing broadly, claim that if everyone in
***the world becomes a bourgeois they would be happy.
Whichever city you go to in Korea you’ll find in the place with problems, middle-aged men with problems and scandal. Old trash
Already the little girls in this place cover the top of their hands with the end of a trendy long sleeve. The latest cultural waves trying to get closer to the infantile are rolling over the tops of little girls’ hands in this place.
Not only the tops of the hands of little girls. All cities are being Seoulfied.
All cities being the latest Seoulfied city. The small city that must forever chew the
***cud of the Seoul lifestyle
Over the vacant small city, in which those set on success have left, clenching their teeth, the night, left over after Seoul has swooped in, falls without climax.
Then like new recruits who’re in for guerilla training, they call out the name of their wife once. They call out the name of their first daughter. The cunning peddlers, who’ve laid out their extrordinary commerical know-how in this unfamiliar city, look for low cost motels. Book salesmen, salesmen of men’s colognes. Calendar salesmen. One. Two. They look for cheap motels. Those failed drifters from Seoul, the Seoul of those who’d found success rising from the third-rate motels of small cities. They will lay down a
***day’s fatigue like grass.
A city I seemed to have visited before. Surrounded by a wall-like mountain forest. In Korea’s north central region sleep falls like snowy sleet.
However, there is remorse that doesn’t succumb to sleep.
Why did I come to this place? Where
is this place? The end? The end?
Yes, you’re finished. Salesman
is your end. It’s the end of your life!
The man in his prime buries his face in the pillow
and bursts into tears. The small remote city in the north central region. In a shabby motel in a cold city. The damp blanket causes the full grown man. The man in his prime from Seoul, to burst into tears.
poem in Korean