The Universe Spins
Poems by Eight Young Koreans
By
Sanko Lewis (Editor)
Kang Jung Kyung
Kim Jin Ho
Na Seung Hee
Lee Da Eun
Lee Yung Joo
Lee Tae Hyung
Jung Yung Ho
Hong Yoon Ki
Copyright 2014 Sanko Lewis
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Introduction
This anthology contains a compilation of poems that were produced by Korean students majoring in English Literature at a university in Seoul, South Korea. The poems were the result of a creative writing class during which the students had to write both short stories and poetry. For their final assessment they had to submit two short stories and five poems. The poems included in this anthology were all selected from their final submissions.
The creative writing class is an elective module for fourth year students in the Literature & Academic English track at the university where I teach. My goal as their professor was two-fold. First, to get the students comfortable enough with English as their second language, so that they can start to experiment and play with the language. Foreign language studies often put stress on the learners as they aim to produce accurate language. This may cause anxiety with students, particularly when they are expected to produce creative works for which there are few formulas. Since foreign language studies frequently follow set templates, for instance drilling certain grammar patterns, or writing templates such as formal five paragraph essays, learners are hesitant to produce language outside of these fixed structures. Before they can create poetry they need to feel comfortable to take poetic license and break the rules. I will address this a little later when I discuss my role as editor of this anthology.
My second goal as their professor was to teach them specific poetic techniques. Much time was given to brain storming, working from general themes to specific ideas. At first I usually presented them with a theme, for example “victory” or “a beautiful death.” Using mind maps we would come up with word associations working from abstract concepts to concrete nouns and verbs from which metaphors or similes, imagery and other poetic devices could be built. The technique of word associations were used numerous times as a method for composing novel metaphors and symbols.
The writing goals (and also a big part of the criteria according to which I assessed their work) were as follows:
* make abstract concepts concrete and concrete statements interesting (by using metaphors, similes, imagery and other figures of speech);
* communicate feeling, but avoid excessive sentiment and cliches;
* and write in free verse, avoiding forced end rhyme, accept in cases where the poems really calls for it. (Meaningful and melodic internal rhyme, slant rhyme and use of alliteration and assonance were encouraged if it enhanced the poem.)
Limiting the writing goals to only these few points were intentional. Fewer criteria allow for more creative freedom. The conscious decision to write in free verse also removed some of the stress that might be associated with an unnecessary need for rhyme. As part of a second language learning exercise, deliberately writing poems that rhyme may be a useful vocabulary exercise. However, the main goal of this class was not primarily language acquisition, but a creative application of their second language in the form of poetry. To this end, two core aspects of poetry were encouraged: (1) figurative language that (2) communicate at an aesthetic, emotional level.
Much of the in-class facilitation took the form of editing their poems, keeping the above mentioned writing goals in mind. Typically I would request them to write a poem or two as homework, sometimes giving them a particular theme. Then in the following class I would randomly select students’ poems, and retype them on the in-class computer, which projects on an overhead screen. Working with individual poems in turn, I would first point out good elements in the poem. Second, I would question the student on parts of the poem that I do not understand. Generally this was due to confusing or erroneous syntax and usually required some simple “live” correction. For their homework I encouraged poetic license. However, where this produced syntax that was confusing or obviously wrong, I “fixed” it with their permission. Finally, I would point out those parts of the poem that are poetically “weak,” for instance where some concepts are too abstract and need to be rendered more concrete, or where some concrete nouns or ideas are too boring and can be enhanced by interesting adjectives, imagery or other poetic devices. This would usually start a brainstorming session involving input from the whole class. Final editing enhancements would always occur with the consent of the student. For instance, the whole class might brainstorm different alternative metaphors, but the student whose poem it is would decide which metaphor he or she wants to use. Since limited time prevented all students’ poems being edited in every class, occasionally students brought their poems to my office for editing. The editing in my office occurred in a similar fashion as in the class, with me fixing simple grammar mistakes and then facilitating the student in strengthening his or her poem.
As mentioned earlier, for their final writing portfolio for this creative writing module the students had to submit what they considered to be their best work produced during the semester in the form of two short stories and five poems. It was from this submission of poems that I chose poems for this anthology. Many of the submitted poems were “new” to me; in other words, I had not seen them previously during the semester. This meant that for inclusion in this anthology I had to edit them without the input of the author. I focused my editing on syntax—working towards better communication of ideas. I also made some creative edits, taking care to stay within the tone of the poem and the voice of the author. In cases where the poems required so much editing that it became difficult to discern between the original author’s voice and my own, where the authorship of the poem became questionable, I decided to omit the poem from this anthology. Other reasons why I may have left certain poems out of the anthology included submissions that were not on the same level as the student’s other poems, or the length of the poem.
Although it is true that I had creative input in many of the poems in this anthology, I do not consider myself to be co-author to any. I believe that the poems are first and foremost that of their original authors. Creative editing occurred with the presence and input of the authors, and when they were absent and immense creative editing were required, I dropped those poems from inclusion. Looking at the included poems one can often clearly recognize the unique tone, voice and style of each author. While all the students signed release forms that allow me to edit and publish their poems, the poems are nevertheless primarily the work of the students themselves.
Finally I wish to move away from discussing the class methodology and the editing process, and talk shortly about the students and their poems. The students are almost all young adults in their 20s. Thematically the poems touch on many personal topics such as childhood experiences, school life, family relations, friendship and (missed) romances. Some students also addressed social concerns such as the influence of technology (mobile phones) and socio-economic issues. With only occasional references to things that are specifically “Korean,” for example soju (a Korean alcoholic drink), the poems are not conspicuously Korean. Some reasons for this might be simply that poetry is in
nately universal, or the increasing globalization of Korea and in particular of younger Koreans may be the cause. Also, the fact that the students wrote in English may have caused them to adopt an “English voice.” It is possible that since these students are all English Literature majors and therefore exposed to Anglo-American poems, that this may have influenced their poetic register. Very few of the poems in this anthology focus on typical Korean scenes and the type of simple, yet vivid nature imagery for which Korean and other Oriental poetry is known for in West. Surprisingly, only two poems (“Fall is falling” and “Beautiful death”) is reflective of this style of poetry. It may be the fact that Korea has become very urbanized, so that the rural settings and pastoral themes once associated with (stereo)typical Korean poetry has been replaced with the modern, urbanized and technological landscape of contemporary Korea. It is interesting that the same student who wrote about fall leafs also wrote a poem about the cybernetic connection of people with their smart phones.
That the poems are not stereotypically “exotic” do not distract from their appeal for a foreign (i.e. English) readership. They are all unique reflections of young Koreans living in an increasingly globalized Korea. They display rich, often funny, often beautiful, and sometimes very touching, images. Motifs of longing (for the simplicity of childhood, old friends, missed lovers) or discontentment are clear threads running through most of the poems. In this sense the poems my indeed be “Korean,” demonstrating the Korean emotion of han, which is an emotion for which there is no direct English translation. It could be described as a feeling of despair, a painful longing, or a sense of hopelessness. Hints of han can be found throughout this collection of poems; however, it is definitely not the main theme. On the contrary, many of the poems reveal positive emotions of determination, gratitude, and love for family and friends.
Sanko Lewis
Editor
Kang Jung Kyung
Victory
Five. But for my breath
I am deaf to the world.
Four. Only nine players visible;
beads of sweat positioning.
Three. The universe pauses,
except for my dribbling.
Two. Running out of options;
just one shoot left.
One. My hands are empty.
Hope is already shot.
Zero. The ball volleys like a planet.
The buzzer echoes like the Big Bang.
Uncountable. The universe spins.
Worlds shouts. I live.
You and I
You and I, just two of us seated together.
After pouring our worries into transparent glasses,
I could see your heart.
Just two of us seated on the seashore,
after exhaling our worries out in white smoke,
I could see your hurt.
after vomiting up our sadness.
Glasses filled with anxiety, white smoke filled with memory.
In this world, you and I used to sit together, exchanging hearts.
Now I am sitting alone: pouring you into a transparent glass,
drawing in nostalgic smoke.
Sidewalk Food Stall
I miss my poor childhood,
when just one bowl of noodles made me content.
I miss when I lost track of time
as I spoke about past memories and future dreams.
I miss turning purple with rage
shouting at purple politicians.
I miss not feeling lonesome
when I was alone.
I miss the time I could wash my anguish away
with two bottles of soju.
I am missing
that I could miss what I miss.
Kim Jin Ho
Circle of life
crepitating burning leafs
my eyes sting from the smoke
last summer, the leaves did their best
nevertheless, down they came
a gardener laboriously sweeps
and burns the foliage
those leafs
which were to become nests
a playground of children
a momentary shelter of passersby
a link in the circle of life
Double, double, toil and trouble
When the bubble pops, all will crash down!
What was once abundant and rich will tumble down
leaving nothing but drops of water and soapy froth.
Delicate globes floating in the air, wearing rainbow coats,
filled with dreams they glow.
News on TV blasts soaring house prices, rising unemployment, a dog eat dog world.
Bubbles get bigger and bigger along with toils and troubles.
They think they can understand each other,
but faced with their own problems, they withdraw and hurt alone.
They think less of others in need, their world filled with their own troubles.
Self-centered and with no time to spare.
Easily swayed by power and money
treating others harshly
hurting them
and getting hurt in return
suffering.
If they were to stop and think for one moment:
Enormous bubbles are only reflections of their own desires and greed.
Wishing to be over others, to be better than others, to have more than others.
Overwhelming fear of losing and failing...
Na Seung Hee
Beautiful death
Bride
in black
crying
Burning crimson leaves
becoming ashes
Even
Even the harshest winter
eventually makes room for blossom.
Even in the most unforgiving seasons
flowers have a place.
Even though new love blossoms,
the old memories of you do not wither.
You are there,
I am here,
we live that way.
Love
The thirst of love
is the ocean
perpetually craving
The charity of love
(revealed at low tide)
perpetually giving
Lee Da Eun
Butterfly
Blazing light
infinitely scattered
a spectrum of affection
to a significant other.
Thus you gave me all
so that I can overcome
anything this world
has to throw at me.
Yet, I left your side
and flew away
like a butterfly
towards a hurricane.
Enlightenment
Enlightenment is not enlightenment
if you don’t record it.
Happiness is not happy
unless you share it.
Love is not love
until you give it away.
Lee Yung Joo
Time
Brilliant moments flow quickly like liquid gold.
The moment I became twenty years old—
I am loved by many people,
I enjoy my youth.
Brilliant moments leave me quickly like a departing train.
Those moments—like falling into a swamp.
Even after escaping, I feel no relief.
Like a train circling on a looped track.
Rain
a gift to our planet
quenching the thirst of plant
washing all that is covered with dust
the world is taking a shower
the sound of it becomes my friend
when I am alone, sitting beside the window
Father
The wrinkles—
at the corner of my father’s eyes twinkle
when he looks at me;
—of my father’s forehead is the milky way
when he works hard for me;
—of my father’s lips are a galaxy
when he praises me
and calls my name.
Lee Tae Hyung
Alone
Saturday morning,
alone in the dormitory,
my thoughts are jail-breaking
out the window:
Bald Mt. Bulam looks similar
to Mt. Suri of my youth
where my friend and I played like squirrels
and now, in my memories, play again.
That enjoyable time...
Where did it disappear to like mountain mist?
Staring out the window,
just me alone, imprisoned.
Diseased
It’s morning.
With an iron helmet on my head
crawl I to my desk—I am a maggot
creep I to class—I am a turtle
After lunch. Upset stomach.
Crying at the toilet bowl, like a mourning lover.
Alas, I am a diseased chicken.
My friends treat me like I’m a drunkard hobo.
My sleeping fairies are drowning
My son of a bitch roommate is in my bed
traveling in the World of Dreams.
From his mouth flows a river onto my pillow.
My sleeping fairies are drowning.
I hear their gurgling screams.
Their castle is flooded with a sticky tsunami.
It’s a fairycide.