[55th Modern Korean Literature Translation Awards] Poetry Commendation Award: Butterfly's Dream

Written by Shin Kyeong-nim

Translated by Shane Ingan and Lee Jeong-ju

Butterfly’s Dream

For 40 years, half a lifetime,

I lived life as a butterfly.

Fluttering over barbed-wire fences,

Previous my mom in her little again room

Stitching and stitching on into the evening,

To the sting of the yard, the place, way back,

Clinging to my massive sister’s again,

The 2 of us used to play hopscotch,

I landed on the clothesline to relaxation…

Drifting by way of the sharp stench of compost

Freshly turned over by the varsity’s again gate,

I heard the youngsters of grade two

Studying aloud from their language books,

A sound just like the buzzing of bees…

Now, not a day goes by that I don’t discover myself questioning,

Am I not proper now dreaming?

How might I, a butterfly,

Find yourself right here, 40 years spent squatting at this stall,

Half a lifetime, promoting roasted potatoes?

Am I not dreaming?

Quick ideas in early spring

-In Yeonghae

The wind rides ocean waves a thousand miles

Rattles and dances by way of the outdated pine forest

As I’ve walked 100 miles

Over hills and valleys to reach

At this sandy shore, to lie down

Drunk on this small magnificence

Nowhere left to go

A summer season day

-in Macheon

Whereas I used to be dozing at the back of the bus

We should have handed by way of a rainstorm,

And the bus, hesitant earlier than the surging floodwater,

Slowed to a cease on the outskirts of city.

By the facet of street, wading by way of the frosty water

A younger lady pulls up her costume, revealing her white thighs.

Rinsed with rain, the dangling tassles of a willow tree

Give off a musky, considerably earthy scent.

Jeongseon Arirang

-To the singer Kim Byeong-ha of Jeongseon

With us, the creator strikes no bargains:

Scenic panoramas, towering peaks

And clear mountains streams that dazzle the attention

In trade for these steep stony fields

And exhausting rain-fed paddies.

And so, clinging to the foot of this mountain

Crowded spherical this trickling little creek

We scratch a dwelling.

And since concern is all we all know

As a result of concern is the life that we’ve been given

Whereas slicing hay or weeding fields

We drown our sorrows in tune:

Keop-jaeng-i-ra / i-reu-ji mal-la

Eo-ri-seok-da / mal-ha-ji mal-la*

*Don’t name us cowards

Don’t say that we’re fools

Mountain lass

-To the mountain hermit of Namwon, Li Younger-sil

Chunhyang fell in love with Mount Jiri,

And so she got here right here to dwell.

Not for Lee Doryeong would she lead a lifetime of tears.

At any time when she thinks of that man who,

Decided to develop into a authorities spy,

Up and left at some point on an airplane,

She locks up her store and climbs the mountain.

Whoever she meets on the paths that day

She takes as a lover.

However don’t get any concepts.

Her legs and arms are as sturdy as any man’s,

Her coronary heart as exhausting because the boulders of this mountain

And as powerful because the gnarled maples

Clinging to those rugged peaks.

Autumn rain

A moist leaf pins itself to the window of the practice station, the place,

Although the practice is pulling into the station now, I’m alone.

Hidden within the shade of a airplane tree, the outdated picket tea home.

Inside, a woman carries a tray of tea. I guess her hair smells like grass.

Tonight once I get house, I’ll hearth up the outdated range,

And deal with myself to a scorching cup of tea.

The rain-soaked melody of a pop tune steadily offers method

To the clatter of practice automobiles rounding the hill.

The outdated station grasp lurches to the platform

And languidly waves his tattered flag.

Splattering upon his slumped shoulders, autumn rain–

Naeweon-dong

-On Juwang Mountain

That hidden village within the valley,

That place on the finish of the stream

That our grandfathers used to name paradise, is a lie.

Pulled down and deserted, bleak and in disarray

The very stones of its basis now

Simply barely seen beneath a discipline of reeds.

The wind that strikes our backs

Wails and moans.

They inform me my hometown is in no higher state,

That strive as we’d to calm it, this wind

Heedlessly sweeps throughout the land.