On a Wandering Day

A translation of Kim So-Yeop’s poem “떠도는 날에”

One day, unbeknownst to me,

a thief slipped inside,

stole my heart,*

and ran away. 

In search of my lost treasure

I wander for ten years, 

until on the tip of a naked twig I meet the sun,

then turn back home.

I break the rusted lock

and enter my room:

for ten years my heart, now rusted too,

lay waiting unharmed in the dust.

* “heart”, line 3: the word “마음” can translate as both heart and mind.

---

While it seems simplistic at first, the poem is an allegory of enlightenment (satori). Upon an encounter with the Sun, the speaker realises that the thing she thought was lost were actually always there, inside, if only she had looked. The lost "heart" symbolizes the lost center, but also ignorance, for "heart" also suggests the mind in Korean. Finding her heart implies finding spiritual understanding (satori, #깨달음).

Original Poem:

<떠도는 날에>

 

언젠가 나도 몰래
도둑이 들어
내 마음 모두들 훔치어
달아나 버렸네.

 

잃어버린 보물 찾아
헤매인 십 년
빈 가지 끝에 걸린 해를 만나곤
비위 둔 집으로 되돌아왔네.

 

녹슨 자물쇠를 부수고
내 방에 들어와 보니
십 년 전 내 마음도녹이 슬어서
고스란히 먼지 속에 놓이어 있네.

 

김소옆

... Sanko Lewis

A plea to the conqueror

It is bricked up, you know, 
my heart; it's fortressed shut 
and securely protected
against pillager and thief. 

Not because it is valuable
as such, for what could
a ruined heart be worth 
on the blackmarket of love?

It is just that it is sensitive, 
the exposed nerve endings
filamenting from the shattered 
pieces and open wounds. 

That's why, you see, the bricks
and buttresses, the moat and all. 
Thus I besiege of you to seize 
this siege and cede your loot. 

For surely a cracked and broken 
clock is hardly worth the effort
of such a vigorous campaign 
with so little wealth to gain. 

My Beautiful Wife

A translation of my Afrikaans poem "My mooi vrou".


A sculptor—a Michelangelo or Rodin—
must knead your shape from clay,
cast your impression in copper,
etch your forms into marble,
so that our children
and children's children
and great grandchildren
may admire your place in time-and-space and say:
“I'm begotten from that goddess!”

Someone should paint you. A Klimt or Botticelli—a man
that loves beautiful women—should paint you.
No instant digital photo, no pseudo-iris will do.
The artist must remove his tie when he sees you
and envy me with his stiff brush dripping warm red paint.



... Sanko Lewis

Seisoenale verdenking / Seasonal Suspicion

Seisoenale verdenking

Hy weet dit is herfs
want die ginkgo biloba
sidder geel—soos verdriet;

en hy weet dit is herfs
want die esdoornboom
skud bloed van haar hande af.

Dit is herfs, en hy weet dit,
want sy binnegoed is bruinblare
en hy staar voëlverskrik na sy verlede.

Dit is herfs. Ongetwyfeld is dit herfs.
Want alles sterf tog so verskriklik mooi
nes die noodlotige son in brons en in rooi.

Seasonal Suspicion

He knows it is fall
for the ginko biloba
trembles yellow—like grief;

and he knows it is fall
for the maple shakes blood
from her limbs.

It is fall, and he knows it,
for his insides are brown leafs
and he stares like a scarecrow at his past.

It is fall. Undeniably fall.
Because everything dies so awfully beautiful
like the fated sun in scarlet and in bronze.

... Sanko Lewis

Belemmer / Blundered

Belemmer

'Jy het die liefde-van-jou-lewe verloor,'
sê jy asof ek dit nie weet nie—
my hartklop is
          uit gelid;
my toekomsdrome is ou verbruinde kiekies
tot as verbrand; my hoop wat eens
na lemoenbloeisels geruik het, het gegis
en asyn geword; my holtes wat op 'n tyd
reservoirs vir liefde was, is nou stowwerige
pakkamers van ru verlange en kru verlies.

Wat jy nie begryp nie:
lankal reeds het jy my verloor
—'n lyn van 'n gedig of melodie
as mens aan die slaapraak en dan verdamp,
soos 'n skaduwee wat skrik vir 'n bedlamp,
soos kiekies in 'n vuur, soos hoop wat te lank
in holtes en hole vergete laat lê is;
soos 'n ridder wat 'n soen belowe is,
maar ongekus is—jy het ons reeds
daardie eerste keer belemmer,
toe jy my hart verruil het,
en op 'n ander hart
se klop gewed het.

Nee, ek wil nie met jou trou nie.
Jy is nie meer my trouvrou nie.

Blundered

'You have lost the love-of-your-life,'
you say, as if I don't know it—
my heartbeat is
         out of step;
my future dreams are old browned photos
burned to ash; my hopes that once
smelled of orange blossoms had fermented
and turned vinegar; my hollows that were once
reservoirs for love have become dusty
storerooms of raw longings and rude losses.

What you do not comprehend:
you have lost me already long ago—
a line of a poem or melody
when one falls asleep and then evaporates,
like a shadow frightened of a bedside lamp,
like photos in a fire, like hope left lying
forgotten in hollows and trash heaps;
like a knight that was promised a kiss,
but with lips untouched—you blundered us
already that first time,
when you exchanged my heart,
and bet on the heartbeat
of another.

No, I do not want to marry you.
You are no longer the one for me.

... Sanko Lewis

Eendag is eendag / One day for sure

Eendag is eendag

Eendag gaan ek jou nog afskud
soos 'n perd sy inbreker
of soos bloed van hande,
of soos 'n verantwoordelikheid,
of 'n ou tradisie, 'n superstisie,
of watter ander derglike dekselse ding
waarvan 'n mens jouself van kan afstroop,
jouself van kan afwas, van kan detoks,
kan opkots, uitkots, wegtos.
Eendag gaan ek dit nog regkry
om myself los te skud van jou,
myself los te wringel uit die doringbos,
myself—en my hart—te bevry.

Eendag is eendag. Maar nie vandag nie.

One day for sure

One day I will yet shake you off
like a horse it's trainer
or like blood from hands
or like a responsibility
or an old tradition, a superstition
or whatever other such damned thing
one can strip oneself off of, 
one can wash oneself clean of, one can detox of,
one can vomit up, puke out, toss away.
One day I will yet succeed
in shaking myself loose of you,
in wriggling myself free from the bramble bush,
in freeing myself—and my heart—from you.

One day for sure. But not today.

... Sanko Lewis

allermins / after all

allermins

dit is, allermins, hoe die lewe is.
mense sterf. daagliks. alleen of in groepe.
maar vir ons sterflikes
is daar geen aardskuddings,
is daar geen sonsverduisterings nie.
die blou tol draai voort.
die geel gloeilamp skyn aan.
sonder wankeling.
sonder flikkering.
sonder simpatie.
sonder nabetragting oor die sterflikheid
van die kortstondige sterflikes.
want dit is, allermins, hoe dit is.
om te lewe is om te sterwe.
nie Vader Son nóg Moeder Aarde
gee 'n dêm om nie.

maar vir wat dit werd is, my geliefde,
ek gaan jou mis.

after all

this is, after all, how life is.
people die. daily. alone or in groups.
but for us mortals
there are no earthquakes,
there are no eclipses.
the blue top continues to spin.
the yellow lamp continues to shine.
without wobbling.
without flickering.
without sympathy.
without musing over the mortality
of us momentary mortals.
because this is, after all, how it is.
to live is to die.
neither Father Sun nor Mother Earth
gives a damn.

but for what it is worth, my beloved,
i will miss you.  

... Sanko Lewis

A Bridge's Lamentation

One would be tempted to think the purpose of a bridge quite obvious, would one not? To connect the unsurpassable; to link the estranged; to make a way where there seems none between points, events, circumstances. The whole reason for a bridge’s construction is to provide an alternative means; to give an opportunity where none exist or supply a better way if the former is too difficult; to provide a solution. And even if one has no need of any particular bridge, even if one need not journey from one’s current A to whichever B that particular bridge provides a means to, still the bridge ought to stand as a reminder for all life’s bridges, ought to symbolize the hope which every bridge is a symbol for. To make such assumptions, to come to these conclusions, seems obvious—even natural—do they not? Obvious. Natural.

Then why do they jump?


... Sanko Lewis

Wat om met 'n geheim te doen / What to Do With a Secret

Wat om met 'n geheim te doen

Wanneer jy die albatros
(swaar soos 'n siekte)
nie langer wil dra nie,
soek, met 'n sielsoeke, na 'n boom.

Dit moet 'n gróót boom wees:
'n skaduwee van daardie éérste boom
van kennis van goed en van kwaad;
'n boom wat die gewig van 'n geheim
tot ná die derde en die vierde geslag kan dra.

'n Kremetart sal deug
of 'n ou plaasbloekom
of 'n akkerboom
wat vir generasies
lank kan swyg.

Wanneer jy die régte ene vind,
soek vir 'n leë houtkappernes
(of as dit moet, maak self 'n gat
met waarheid en flymskerpwoorde)
en vou jou hande buis daarom.

En dan, soos die ou Sjinese
wat wel bekend was met allerlei rituele,
fluister jou geheim die holte binne

en vinnig—voor die vlugtige ding kan vlug!—
smeer die gat haastig toe met modder
en seël dit met 'n soen.

Dis wat jy met 'n geheim moet doen.

Óf, belei dit. Op eie risiko.

What to Do With a Secret

When you don't want to carry the albatross
(heavy like an illness) any longer,
search, with a soul search, for a tree.

It must be a big tree:
a shadow of that first tree
of knowledge of good and of evil;
a tree that can carry the weight of a secret
until after the third and the forth generation.

A baobab will do
or an old farm eucalyptus
or an oak
that can keep quiet
for generations.

When you find the right one,
search for an abandoned woodpecker's nest
(or if need be, make a hole yourself
with truth and sharp words)
and fold your hands around it.

Then, like the ancient Chinese
who were well versed in all types of rituals,
whisper your secret into the hole

and quickly—before the volatile thing can flee!—
cover it hastily with mud
and seal it with a kiss.

That's what you should do with a secret.

Or, confess it.
At your own risk. 

Aan almal wat die ratte geölie hou / To All Who Keep the Gears Greased

Aan almal wat die ratte geölie hou

Ek het die jagters lief,
die gaarders, die slagters, die verbouers,
die bakkers, die grouers, die bouers,
die wewers, die kinderoppassers, die voeders,
die opvoeders, die versorgers, het ek lief.
Almal wat die ratte geölie hou.
Wat hulle hande vuil kry,
wat sweet, wie se voete brand
na 'n lang dag van swoeg,
wie se rûe pyn soos Atlas s'n.
Kom, kom sit en laat ek jou voete was;
kom, kom dat ek jou skouers vryf,
die sweet van jou voorkop met my mou af vee;
kom, dat ek jou growwe hande in myne hou,
jou op die lippe soen soos 'n kammeraad.
Kom, kom sit hier, kom rus,
kom luister hoe ek jou besing—
ek het jou lief.

To All Who Keep the Gears Greased

I love the hunters,
the gatherers, the butchers, the farmers,
the bakers, the diggers, the builders,
the weavers, the child-rearers, the feeders,
the educators, the caretakers—I love them all:

All who keep the gears greased.
All who get their hands dirty,
who sweat, whose feet burn
after a long day of toil,
whose backs ache like that of Atlas. 

Come, come sit and let me wash your feet;
come, come let me rub your shoulders,
wipe the sweat from your brow with my sleeve,
let me kiss you on the lips like a comrade.

Come, come sit here, come rest,
come listen how I serenade you—
I love you. 

... Sanko Lewis

Magnolia

Binnekort gaan die magnoliaknoppe
hulle sluiers soos Oosterse bruide oopgooi
en soos die volmaan maagdelikwit
hulself ontbloot;

—laat elke bruidegom wat 'n oog het sien;
laat elke beminde wat 'n neus het ruik;
laat elke minnaar wat 'n mond het proe—

binnekort is dit magnolia-tyd.

Soon the magnolia buds will
throw their veils to the wind like Oriental brides
and expose themselves
like the full moon, virgin white;

—every bridegroom that has an ear, let him hear;
every beloved that has a nose, let him smell;
every lover that has a mouth, let him taste—

it will be magnolia season soon.

... Sanko Lewis

the poet and his cat
   draped over his shoulder like a river
in the autumn sun sat
waiting for the current of inspiration

and it came
falling like leaves
that the poet saw, but didn't see

the cat concurred
and purred

Vakmanskap / Craftmanship

Vakmanskap

My geliefde vriend,

Ek wil so graag vir jou 'n gedig beeldhou,
maar die klei gly my vingers ongevorm verby,
die beitel skram etsloos teen die marmer wang.

Ek weet goed hoe om 'n vrou se vorm te vou—
my kunstenaarsoog is wel bekend met haar gekruinde lyne,
my skrywerstong ken haar valleie en haar duine.

Maar jy, my vriend, los my woordeloos.
Wie gaan my hierdie vakmanskap leer?
Hoe skryf ek die liefde van 'n mansvriend neer?

Craftsmanship 

My beloved friend,

I so want to sculpt you a poem,
but the clay slips pass my fingers unimpressed,
the chisel ricochets etchless from the marble's cheek.  

I know well how to fold a woman's form—
my artist's eye is well informed with her curved lines,
my writer's tongue knows her dunes and ravines. 

But you, my friend, leaves me speechless.
Who will teach me this craftsmanship?
How do I scribe the love of male companionship?

... Sanko Lewis

engines

fire and water copulates       momentum
a women heaving in labour       puffs of steam
a caravan of steel cross land       state       country       continent

horse power kicks       the driver back in his seat
worlds pass in ribbons       lives flash before eyes
the F-1 grinds       the cosmos into fumes of noise

it's arms swirls       meditatively like a Sufi
until it breaks all ties with this world       chopping space-time asunder
the helicopter is enlightened       therefore it levitates

a cat chasing       electric mice
a hawk swooping       binary quail
it catches bytes       imprison them behind liquid crystal veils




... Sanko Lewis

The Heist

Dragonfly hovers, then lands upon your lips—a sealed lotus—
and with its soft touch picks the lock. Slug gently oils the hinges.
The bulb relaxes, slightly parts—just enough for Tadpole!
He slips in, slides through the corridor, locates your levers
and opens wide the gate. My mouth manoeuvres to the exit
as I patiently await your attempted escape.
When you exhale, I swallow your spirit in one ecstatic gulp.
With this kiss I seal you in me. Thus blackmailed,
you dip your tongue in my ink and sign on the dotted line.
The contract reads: I am yours; you are mine.



... Sanko Lewis

Art of War

Fingers—the virile cavalry of my hands—graze
over the lush mountains of your calves, gain ground
over muscled thighs, sink and anchor in the bulged
lotus pedestal of your centred hips.

With your foundation so seized, victory is assured:
My lips need merely fingertip your heaving chest
or my tongue but scarcely wet the pulsing of your neck
and all your hesitant suspension collapses.



... Sanko Lewis

Aan die maagde, om nie tyd te mors nie

'n Vry vertaling van Robert Herrick (1591–1674) se “To the Virgins, to make much of Time”.


Pluk roseknoppies wyl jy kans het,
Outa Tyd is aan die vliet:
Die blom wat tans 'n glimlag het
is môre dalk tot niet.

Die glorieryke lamp, die son,
hoe hoër hy in die hemel hang
hoe vinniger is sy resies om,
en vroeër is sy ondergang.

Die prille leeftyd is tog beter,
'wyl jeug en bloed nog warm is:
eens opgebruik, is alles slegter
wanneer die houer koulik is.

Wees nie skaam nie, benut jou tyd,
en terwyl jy kans het, loop en trou:
Want eens jou lewensbloei verstrek het
mag jy dalk vir altyd rou.
 

... Sanko Lewis

Good Riddance!

If I should lose you,
I say: 'good riddance!'
I've already lost my heart,
what more is there to lose?

Without my heart's eye
sunsets are without colour,
the night sky is without a diadem,
and flowers are cadaver claws
grabbing at the void;
without my heart's ear
music knows no melody,
birds are nihilistic sirens
screaming existentialistic slogans
at each other; without my heart's
tongue what is their to taste
but palateless protein and chewy
carbohydrates and frothing fat?
Without my heart's skin all touch
is the touch of an open wound.
For without my heart what
is their to smell but the raw flesh
and gaping hole in the centre
of my bleeding chest?

If I should lose you
'good riddance!' say I,
for I have lost all
when I lost my heart to you.


... Sanko Lewis

en ek wonder hoekom / and I wonder why

en ek wonder hoekom

soos om 'n bok af te slag stroop jy gedetermineerd my uit my klere uit,
strooi my hemp en belt en broek en onderbroek en kouse in die wind,
en ek wonder hoekom ek nie terugdeins voor jou jagtersmes nie.

wanneer jy my om die nek vat en met jou erektiele tong die vagina
na my long volstop en ek terugval soos 'n verslaande op 'n slagveld
en myself aan jou oorgee wonder ek hoekom ek nie veg vir asem nie.

ek word wakker met my eiers genes in die bak van jou palm
en ek wonder hoekom ek nie bang is—só met die weegskaal
van my manwees in die greep van jou manlike hande—nie.

ons trek aan—jy maak 'n wurgtou van my das, skuif die mambakop tot teen my keel,
vou my kraag plat teen my skof en vee onsigbare stof van my skouers af, 
en ek wonder hoekom ek nie jou bloeddorstige nabyheid vrees nie. 

jy hou my bebloede ontwortelde hart soos 'n vrou se tiet met hard-
handige verkoestering vas en ek wonder hoekom storm ek nie om
dit uit jou selfversekerde greep soos na iets kosbaars te gryp nie.

and I wonder why

like slaughtering a steer you determinedly strip me from my clothes, 
scatter my shirt and belt and pants and underpants and socks to the wind, 
and I wonder why I'm not recoiling from your hunter's knife.

when you take me about the neck and plug with your erectile tongue the vagina
of my lungs and I fall back like a conquered on a battlefield 
and give myself up to you, then I wonder why I'm not fighting for breath.

I arise with my eggs nested in the pot of your palm 
and I wonder why I'm not scared—so, with the balance scales 
of my manliness in the grasp of your manly hands.

we get dressed—you make a noose of my tie, push the mamba head against my throat, 
fold the collar flat against my nape and wipe invisible dust from my shoulders,
and I wonder why I'm not frightened of your bloodthirsty closeness.

you hold my bloodied uprooted heart like a women's tit with hard- 
handed nurturing and I wonder why I'm not storming at you to 
snatch it, like at something valuable, from your confident grip.



... Sanko Lewis

Bespeur / Perceive

Gister wou ek myself in jou reuk toedraai—
jou soet warm walms soos 'n kombers
om my vou en myself daarin deurweek soos 'n sjamaan.

Eergister was dit jou stem—ek wou swem
in die helder lettergrepe van jou keel se tromboon
totdat elke sel in my jou klanke weergalm.

Maar vandag wil ek eenvoudig aan jou vat—
my hand op die wand van jou gesig rus
en met my vingers die lyne van jou lippe lus.

Yesterday I wanted to wrap myself in your smell—
fold your sweet odour around me like a blanket
and soak myself in it like a shaman. 

The day before it was your voice—I wanted to swim
in the clear syllables of your throat's trombone
until every cell in me echoed your sounds.

But today I simply want to touch you—
rest my hand on the side of your face
and with my fingers loop the lines of your lips.

... Sanko Lewis