December 2009
December 31, 2009
Song At Year's End
This year ends thus: northern winds, white snow
shrouding Tung-t'ing Lake and all Hsiao and Hsiang.
Under cold skies, as fishermen tend frozen nets, Mo-yao
tribesmen shot geese. Their mulberry bows go twang.
But Ch'u people like fish, not birds. Let the geese
keep flying south--killing them here is pointless.
Rice was expensive last year. Soldiers starved.
This year, falling prices have ravaged our farmers.
And as officials ride high, stuffed with wine and meat,
the looms in these fleeced straw huts stand empty.
I hear even children are sold now, that it's common
everywhere: love hacked and smothered to pay taxes.
Once, they jailed people for minting coins. But now,
cutting green copper with iron and lead is approved.
Engraved mud would be easier. Good and bad are surely
not the same, but they've long been blended together.
From the walls of ten-thousand kingdoms, painted
horns moan: such sad anthems, will they never stop?
--Du Fu, 768 CE
Release, Part 2
By the time I caught up to freedom I was out of breath
Grandma asked me what I'm running for
I guess I'm out for the same thing the sun is sunning for
What mothers birth their young'ns for
And some say Jesus coming for
For all I know the earth is spinning slow
Suns at half mast 'cause masses ain't aglow
On bended knee, prostrate before an altered tree
I've made the forest suit me
Tables and chairs
Papers and prayers
Matter versus spirit
A metal ladder
A wooden cross
A plastic bottle of water
A mandala encased in glass
A spirit encased in flesh
Sound from shaped hollows
The thickest of mucus released from heightened passion
A man that cries in his sleep
A truth that has gone out of fashion
A mode of expression
A paint splattered wall
A carton of cigarettes
A bouquet of corpses
A dying forest
A nurtured garden
A privatized prison
A candle with a broken wick
A puddle that reflects the sun
A piece of paper with my name on it
I'm surrounded
I surrender
All
All that I am I have been
All I have been has been a long time coming
I am becoming all that I am
The spittle that surrounds the mouth-piece of the flute
Unheard, yet felt
A gathered wetness
A quiet moisture
Sound trapped in a bubble
Released into wind
Wind fellows and land merchants
We are history's detergent
Water soluble, light particles, articles of cleansing breath
Articles amending death
These words are not tools of communication
They are shards of metal
Dropped from eight story windows
They are waterfalls and gas leaks
Aged thoughts rolled in tobacco leaf
The tools of a trade
Barbers barred, barred of barters
Catch phrases and misunderstandings
But they are not what I feel when I am alone
Surrounded by everything and nothing
And there isn't a word or phrase to be caught
A verse to be recited
A man to de-fill my being in those moments
I am blankness, the contained center of an "O"
The pyramidic containment of an "A"
I stand in the middle of all that I have learned
All that I have memorized
All that I've known by heart
Unable to reach any of it
There is no sadness
There is no bliss
It is a forgotten memory
A memorable escape route that only is found by not looking
There, in the spine of the dictionary the words are worthless
They are a mere weight pressing against my thoughtlessness
But then, who else can speak of thoughtlessness with such confidence
Who else has learned to sling these ancient ideas
like dead rats held by their tails
so as not to infect this newly oiled skin
I can think of nothing heavier than an airplane
I can think of no greater conglomerate of steel and metal
I can think of nothing less likely to fly
There are no wings more weighted
I too have felt a heaviness
The stare of man guessing at my being
Yes I am homeless
A homeless man making offerings to the after-future
Sculpting rubber tree forests out of worn tires and shoe soles
A nation unified in exhale
A cloud of smoke
A native pipe ceremony
All the gathered cigarette butts piled in heaps
Snow covered mountains
Lipsticks smeared and shriveled
Offerings to an afterworld
Tattoo guns and plastic wrappers
Broken zippers and dead eyed dolls
It's all overwhelming me, oak and elming me
I have seeded a forest of myself
Little books from tall trees
It matters not what this paper be made of
Give me notebooks made of human flesh
Dried on steel hooks and nooses
Make uses of use, uses of us
It's all overwhelming me, oak and elming me
I have seeded a forest of myself
Little books from tall trees
On bended knee
Prostrate before an altered tree
I've made the forest suit me
Tables and chairs
Papers and prayers
Matter vs. spirit, through meditation
I program my heart to beat breakbeats and hum basslines on exhalation
Play (If you prefer, jump to Part 2)
와사등
차단---한 등불이 하나 비인 하늘에 걸려 있다.
내 호올로 어델 가라는 슬픈 신호냐.
긴- 여름 해 황망히 나래를 접고
늘어선 고층 창백한 묘석같이 황혼에 젖어
찬란한 야경 무성한 잡초인 양 헝클어진 채
사념(思念) 벙어리되어 입을 다물다.
피부의 바깥에 스미는 어둠
낯설은 거리의 아우성 소리
까닭도 없이 눈물겹고나
공허한 군중의 행렬에 섞이어
내 어디서 그리 무거운 비애를 지고 왔기에
길---게 늘인 그림자 이다지 어두워
내 어디로 가라는 슬픈 신호기
차단---한 등불이 하나 비인 하늘에 걸리어 있다.
--김광균
---------------------
Gaslight
Isolated--a gaslight hangs in an empty sky;
Where does this sad signal urge me to go?
The long summer day folds its wings in a flurry.
Lined like tombstones, pale tenements wash out against the dusk.
In this glaring nightscape tangled like weeds,
My thoughts have gone mute.
The gloom soaks into my skin:
Shouting voices in the alley
Bring me to tears for no reason.
Adrift among the city's aimless masses,
Where did I take on this heavy sadness?
--My shadow stretches dark and thick against the street.
A sad guide telling me to go...somewhere...
Isolated--a gaslight hangs in the empty sky.
--Kim, Gwang-Gyun
Translation: WJT
December 30, 2009
Alone One Day
Today it snowed then stopped.
Dogs romped.
Can I ever stop
loving the country?
What I crave isn't
the country but
to be free of this love.
The snow is falling again
I
don't want wine
I don't want books.
--Ko Un.
December 25, 2009
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