Poems of Hwang Yuwon, Ha Jaeyoun & Seo Dae-kyung

The publisher wishes to thank Australian poet Peter Boyle for
providing funding that supported the publication of this volume.

Poems of HwangYuwon, Ha Jaeyoun and Seo Dae-kyung
Asia Pacific Poetry Series 14
First published 2020 by Vagabond Press
www.vagabondpress.net
HwangYuwon, Ha Jaeyoun and Seo Dae-kyung © 2019
English translations Jake Levine,Hedgie Choi,
Soeun Seo, Seok Hyemi, Soohyun Yang © 2020
Cover image: Fi Jae Lee © 2012
Fi Jae Lee, The Wing Woman
Mixed Media. 230 X 210 X 180cm
Courtesy of the artist. http://fijaelee.com
Designed and typeset by Michael Brennan.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying
or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. The information and views set
out in this book are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the opinion of the
publisher.
ISBN 978-1-925735-52-9

Poems of Hwang Yuwon, Ha Jaeyoun
and Seo Dae-kyung

Translated from Korean
by Jake Levine, Hedgie Choi, Soeun Seo, Seok Hyemi,

Soohyun Yang.
Edited and introduction by Jake Levine

Vagabond Press|Asia Pacific Poetry Series

CONTENTS

Introduction .... 7

Hwang Yuwon

Everything in the World, Maximized .... 15
세상의 모든 최대화
Windy Day .... 19
바람 부는 날
Night of the Centipede .... 22
지네의 밤
The Meditating Buddha Sitting Full-Lotus that Meditates on
the Beginning of Winter .... 26
초겨울에 대한 반가사유
Bird Whistle .... 30
새 호루라기
Deep in the Heart of the Mountains .... 32

첩첩산중

Everything Soaked by the Rays of the Sun .... 35

모두가 쏟아지는 햇살 속에 있었다

The Power of Perception .... 37

인식의 힘

The Green Spider Speaks .... 39

초록 거미가 말한다

The Sleeping Habits of Laughing Buddha (Cloth Sack) .... 41

포대화상의 잠버릇

Ha Jaeyoun

Hello, Dracula .... 45

안녕, 드라큘라

A Dining Table for the Clouds .... 46

구름의 식탁

Spirit and Opportunity .... 48

스피릿과 오퍼튜니티

An Acquired Life .... 49

후천적인 삶

The Things I Know .... 50

아는 것들

27 Letters .... 51

27글자

A Person .... 52

한 사람

Black Domino .... 54

검은 도미노

More than Fiction .... 55

픽션보다

Belinda May .... 56

벨린다 메이

Proliferation of the Silent Night .... 57

고요한 밤의 증식

Peer Gynt .... 58

펠귄트

12 O’clock .... 59

12시

Observation Report .... 60

관찰기

It’s Okay If You Don’t Know Who I Am .... 61

내가 누구인지 몰라도 괜찮아

April Story .... 62

4월 이야기

Seo Dae-kyung

Ninja .... 65

닌자

Autumn Night .... 67

가을밤

Fox Step .... 69

여우계단

The Inspection .... 72

검문

Summer in Saint Petersburg .... 74

상트페테르부르크의 여름

Night of the Circus .... 76

서커스의 밤

Night of the Railway .... 78

철도의 밤

The Idiot Feels the Atmosphere .... 80

백치는 대기를 느낀다

Golem .... 82

골렘

Abdul Kirihan .... 83

압둘 미리한

About the authors and translators .... 88

HWANG YUWON

E V E RY T H I N G I N T H E
WO R L D, M A X I M I Z E D

ten thousand guitars in the baggage car, loaded and running—
the longest and most heavy heart in the world—

and yet only the tracks know what nobody knows—
the inside of that heart— by dividing the trampled length of the
body into measurements of trampled time, calculating the speed it
takes between the point where a train’s desperation begins and the
success-ing point in self-justification of its end— always enduring,
withstanding the weight of the moving train—

no matter how the train tramples, how the train goes, it
chops no fingers, chops no toes—

but the guitarist who lost his fingers understands, understands
that it’s better to O.D. and die than make mangled songs,

and the caterpillar with no toes understands, understands that
it has to try and go to the places it wants to go, even if its crawl is a
crawl with no toes,

and thus, in other words, a visual maximization of the invisible
musical notes—

however, we should admit drugs are also a healing thing—

and arriving at the final-stage when the train crammed with
more cures than names of diseases finally gives in, when it derails,
only the afflicted know that feeling— a feeling nobody knows—

pills gush into that field full of snow— and after the afflicted
wake in the morning from the dream where they walk to the
field and take and swallow the pills, they come to understand,

15

understand the cold body of the train—

because understanding that a train that tripped over and turned
its body on its back is the same as turning your body in exactly
the opposite direction from everyone else in the world that doesn’t
understand you—

there is no escaping reality— there is only maximization—

tonight their prayers elongate like the train so that the speed of
the spin of the rotation of the prayers that round the earth lift the
train slightly into the air, bit by bit, until finally, looking at the train
that has taken off, a hope—

a hope that the tracks will become comfortable for the first
time in their lives— a hope

that when held for the first time, because it is held for the
first time—

it causes the nosedive of the train—

and like an earthquake shaking its axis, like a man punched
in the gut, when the tracks vomit acid, in that acid, the feeling of
millions of spilling guitars—

does anyone know it?

after rolling off the bed, does the kid that got spilled out a dream
understand?

for no matter how long I write, my words will always fall short
of the rail— and now, even though it doesn’t make a difference
whether I quit or not,

on a silent night, a very very holy night, a night that fell over
and spilled out all the carols it was carrying, after hopping over

16

busted light bulbs, after knocking Santa over in a fucked up way, I
immediately seize the essence of Christmas—

the heart of the engineer that has to fix all the guitars before the
earth makes a single rotation, only the guitarist who spends all night
fixing broken riffs knows that heart—

so, I wonder, what is the thing that you carry and spill completely
when you trip?

is there a rhythm that is inevitably caught because it overflows?

while riding around the fertile dream on the rhythm inevitably
caught because it overflows,

because the place you fall is always at the face of a cliff, a feeling:
exhilaration,

and crouching behind it, have you ever endured the rhythm face
to face?!

while estimating to what extent the crinkled rhythm can be
smoothed out, if done soundly, estimating what it can cover, the
reddest wine is ordered and tonight

the train that is hauling ten thousand boxes of red wine in its gut,
who can know for what reason, for what reason the train can’t keep
its balance, because

even Joni Mitchell could drink a case of you, darling, and still be
on her feet, and maybe

even Amy Winehouse who wore the Winehouse nametag
and gushed her name

out wherever, whenever, maybe she also understands—

the extreme side effects that follow the tiny and impactful shock

17

and the maximization of everything that occurs in a single
second—

every time the feeling of one long train gets sucked in, blowing
its whistle, slurped between open legs, the feeling that in the end
everything is rounded up in one single go,

for the too-long sentence, now, at last, a comma

18

HA JAEYOUN

HELLO, DRACULA

If you let me inside you
I will stay by your side forever
And with the face of a child or an old man
I will give you all of my love.
From beginning to end,
Even though all the rooms of the world are filled with sunshine,
The fact that you’re alive, how beautiful to know
That I’m the only one who knows it.
It’s okay if you don’t abandon the boy in you and
It’s okay if I don’t desert the girl in me.
Even though all the rooms in the world are full of wide open doors,
The fact you’re in agony, how beautiful to know
That I am the only one who knows it.

If you give me your permission
To become a white bride or virgin lunatic,
I will be the evidence
That you are you.
In the gushing darkness,
Rather than birthing a baby,
We will give birth to ourselves.
The we that we will make
Will really live.
But only if you say hey
In a voice that’s never been used in the world,
Only if my ears don’t go deaf
In the sunlight that brightens this world.

45

A DINING TABLE FOR THE
CLOUDS

In the 25-hour supermarket on the fourth shelf to the left
Are the blue sardine cans.
They cost one thousand four hundred won a piece.
Dust sits on each can in the shape of a swirl.
I pay with a 10,000 won bill and I return home,
My pockets jingling with change.
Seven deaths filled to the brim with bones. Seven meals on a table.

The sardines in front of the kitchen window sit
With their sharp ends facing the sky.
Where did all the sardine heads go to?
Sometimes a cat comes round the window. Sometimes light rain.
They leave fingerprints.
However, the sardines don’t pay attention to the cat, the cat
Doesn’t notice the rain, and the rain isn’t interested in sardines.
They leave their indifferent fingerprints, fingerprints for many days.

The thing I sometimes invite to eat at my table
Is a cloud. He rests his chin on his hands
And casts a shadow over me and my food.
Since it’s hard to clear away a cloud,
I hang the cloud to one side like a curtain and I open up a can.
Anytime you look, seven sardine cans line my kitchen window.
Seven types of death. Seven kinds of luck.

Past the three Mighty Monkey machines at the arcade
And the wooden bench outside Hyundai Real Estate Agency
Is the 25-hour supermarket.
I’ve never been there after midnight.

46

All I can imagine
Is the sign left on by its owner, brightly lit till morning, and
On the fourth shelf to the left, blue pickled death
And the unmoving swirls, stacked up,
One thousand four hundred won a pop.
 

47

SPIRIT AND OPPORTUNITY

Without any reason whatsoever,
Did you start a program
Called the infinite vacation that never ends?
When the command that enters you
Pushes you forward
In a way that can only be described as fatal,
In order to record the soul of the sandstorm
Blowing in from the farthest lands,
Your whole body must be covered with dust.
The proof is in your pupils.
All worlds begin from dust.
Spirit tumbling down the canyon of broken time.
In a scene impossible to unfold,
Like the wings of a satellite that are eternally spread,
Sourced from infinity, sorrow is transmitted
Like a single speck marked between infinity and infinity,
To us.

48

SEO DAE-KYUNG

NINJA

Atop tiled roofs blanketed in moonlight, a man wearing
a black mask ran with my head hanging from his waist. I
wondered though, who was the person who needed my head?
Unjustly at a loss for words, I couldn’t even swear. Look here!
Who the hell told you to kill me? Without a word, the masked
man climbed over the eaves of a building.

He ran surprisingly fast. Like hell my body ran after my
head, my head swinging from that man’s waist, eyes fixed
like holy shit. My body staggered. Maybe it couldn’t balance
without a head. I saw my body following my head, but all I
could do was stare vacantly. I felt myself floating in midair and
I looked down. The alleyways blanketed in moonlight were
blinding.The masked man began to huff and puff like he was
running out of breath. Faster motherfucker! Faster! my head kept
yelling at me.

I couldn’t figure it out. I was so sure that it was my head…
this head… this head… It was unfortunate, but I was in no
position to take a good look. The man lurched forward and
moonlight fell black and blue and this head… this head… my
head muttered.

I began to feel like the man’s body was my body more
than my own body, so every time he wobbled I said oh, oh, be
careful, but soon I became intoxicated with that scent of cherry
blossoms carried by the wind that lightly flicked my ears as
it passed. Though staggering, luckily my body continued to
jump from roof to roof after the man. Jump… Jump… Jump…
and with a sudden jerk the man came to a halt and turned to
face my body at the edge of a roof.With a deafening shout the
man yelled. Hey motherfucker! What’s the use of running for your
life if you’re already dead? And just like that he sent the body

65

flying underneath the leaves of the giant trees of the cherry
blossom forest and my head, engulfed in space, made a distant
and radiant shriek as I lost consciousness.
 

66

AUTUMN NIGHT

One fall night I puked up a monkey. I was in the bathroom
at a bar.Two ice cold hands opened my mouth from inside my
body and then, with a thump, the monkey fell on the tiles of
the floor. Shining oily black under the phosphorescent light,
it grabbed the pipes under the sink. It swiftly climbed above
the mirror and up the wall. I looked with sobered eyes upon
the little beast’s scared face, the little beast with blood red eyes
and a body covered entirely with short, grey hair. I wrapped
the monkey in my coat. Shivering slightly, the monkey rolled
up its tail and burrowed its face into one of the coat pockets.

The man who filled my glass asked me with surprised eyes
where I got the monkey.“I was nauseous, so I puked and this
dude came out.” I placed a cut-up slice of dried squid into the
monkey’s hand. The man sitting next to me slowly nodded
his head. He wore a profound expression. “Poor beast.” the
man said. “As you know, it is a physical manifestation of your
repressed unconscious.”“Probably.” I said.We silently watched
the sparkly flash of the canines that appeared through a hole
in the monkey’s little mouth whenever the monkey took a
bite of the squid. The man pouring my drink said, “Look
at those teeth! And look at those red eyes like blood. Yes, it
looks frightened. But the monkey’s nature is to be sly and cold
blooded.”Then with a contemptuous look, he whispered,“Of
course I don’t mean this as an attack on you.” I smiled bitterly,
emptied my glass, and rose from my seat.

I walked on the dead leaves that carpeted the tree lined
street, the monkey huddled to my chest. The night sky was
clear and cold.The monkey gasped in pain as it dug into my
chest. I whispered,“Are you sad and in pain?”With a cracked
voice that rose feebly from the inside of my arms it said “Yes.”

67

“I know I cursed and denied you. I hit you and I choked you.
But you know, you are not my repressed unconscious.” “Yes.”
“Do you want to die?” “I want to die.” “But you’re just an
illusion I’m having.” “I want to die.” As I slowly pulled the
shivering monkey away from my chest,its entire body shriveled
up. The dry and thin fall moonlight sparkled blindingly over
the monkey’s short, grey hair. “Who are you?” I asked. The
small and opaque, blood red pupils looked at me. “I want to
die.” the monkey whispered.

68