Flowers of a Moment (Lannan Translation Selection Series)WorldCat•LibraryThing•Google Books•BookFinder
Tonight, I don’t feel like pretending to be a book reviewer. (Does it really matter what I have to say about a guy who’s been nominated so many times for the Nobel Prize?) Tonight I would rather respond to a few of Ko Un’s brief poems as if he were right here, sharing drinks and conversation.
I have spent the whole day talking about other people again
and the trees are watching me
as I go home
Sometimes I confuse the road with the map and everything on either side with terra incognita.
Exhausted
the mother has fallen asleep
so her baby is listening all alone
to the sound of the night train
The spider spends 99 percent of her lifetime waiting, suspended among her knitting, yet will perish before the first of her children hatch.
Outside the cave the howling wind and rain
Inside
the silent speech of bats filling the ceiling
Today, I read about a study that found that plants emit and respond to sonic vibrations. With their large ears attuned to ultrasonic sounds, I wonder if bats can hear the questing rootlets of the oaks over their heads?
We went to Auschwitz
saw the mounds of glasses
saw the piles of shoes
On the way back
we each stared out of a different window
Every window has its own fragile truth. Once, in a basement dangerous with broken bottles, a thug threw me against a wall and my glasses flew off. I became half-blind and sober at the same time.
Beneath the heavens with their scattered clouds
here and there are fools
Some of us are expanding, some shrinking, some taking a leak with a beer in one hand.
Crayfish, why are you so complicated?
with your feelers
your jaw legs
your hairy legs
your chest legs
your belly legs
and all the rest
My god! How is it that I missed my calling to be an egg?
In the old days a poet once said
our nation is destroyed
yet the mountains and rivers surviveToday’s poet says
the mountains and rivers are destroyed
yet our nation survivesTomorrow’s poet will say
the mountains and rivers are destroyed
our nation is destroyed and Alas!
you and I are completely destroyed
Isn’t there some way we can destroy all these pesky poets?
Look at the nose of a baby rabbit
look at the tail of a dog—
that’s the kind of world I’m living in
Look at those three bs in “baby rabbit,” then look at the small g in “dog” — the alert way a prey animal sits, the alert way a predator lies in wait.
A thousand drops
hanging from a dead branchThe rain did not fall for nothing
Today I watched a crowd of mayapple parasols down by the streambank thrown into disarray by one simple snowfall. Some turned completely over, their flower buds like thumbs pointed at the sky.
One spring night, the sound of a child weeping
One autumn night, the sound of laundry being pounded
This
was a place where people were really aliveAs I passed the field fertilized with their shit
involuntarily I bowed my head
I was going to say that I have never grown anything with compost made from my own excrement, but then I remembered I’m a writer.
From across the river
the sound of a bell reached the two of us
for us to listen to together
The sound of a bell reached usWe had decided to part
but then we decided not to part
I remember the big bronze temple bells in Japan, how they boomed rather than clanged, the sound going on and on: the bells of Mt. Hiei that I listened to with a lover as we gazed into each other’s eyes, and the bell at Ikkyu’s old temple in the country where I trespassed one night so I could stand inside it, whispering hello to the spiders and the thousand-year-old bronze.
No need to know its whereabouts
A small spring in a mountain ravine
is like a sister
a younger sister
like a long lost younger sister
now found again
The whole point of drinking, it seems to me, is that moment of recognition. I’ve had brotherly feelings toward mosquitos sinking their drilling rigs into my arm.
The top is spinning
Yesterday the poet Midang departed
today old Oh from next door departed
How can death concern only one or two?
The child’s top is surrounded by every kind of death
The rubber ball, the spinning jacks — how many can you keep in play? Between one bounce and the next they can all fall down.
A warship moves through the sea
near Paekryong Island in the Yellow Sea
Not one seagull’s in sight
The sea
looks as if someone has disappeared in it
I’m carrying an empty soju bottle
When war becomes permanent, who but a poet or a crackpot remembers the kind of peace that doesn’t involve desolation? The deafening howl of A-10 fighter jets can linger for half a minute after they’ve passed from view, the air like a fresh wound that hasn’t yet learned how to bleed. Then, slowly, the whine of cicadas, and this old wrinkle of earth goes back to being a mountain.