Category: South Korea

Modern poetry is anarchism, South Korea

Shave

!Epic Tomorrows

By Seonku Yang

My father’s chin
was a wall covered with moss.

Father,
the moss is drying.

You can rest now.

“Everything changes.”

My father’s words
quiver between cracked bricks.

His body
grows lighter and lighter.

Like an empty hanger
swaying on a clothes rack.

Father,
where are you going?

From that hanger
hangs a coat
with worn sleeves.

When I take his hand,

a severed lizard’s tail
crumbles from his palm
into dry sand.

My father, reduced to dust,
keeps settling

on the window,
along the windowsill.

Father,

I call your name,
but no answer comes.

With my index finger,

I wipe away
my father’s name.

From my own chin,

cactus spines
begin to grow.

DIARIES & MEMOIRS: COUNTRIES A-Z, Exclusive to COTW, Letters to the editors, Popular & established authors, South Korea

Letter from Jo Eun Young to Matthew, COTW editor

!Epic Tomorrows

Dear Matthew,

I hope you have been doing well.

After returning from Europe, I took about a week to recover from jet lag and regain my energy.

For this journey, I printed fifty copies of our leaflet, and I was able to leave forty-eight of them at bookshops along the way.

My first stop was the conference in Siena, where I shared the leaflet with professors and several students in Korean Studies. They were genuinely interested, especially in the translations, and I promised to send them the original Korean poems after returning home.

After Siena, I visited Florence and Rome. The experience was quite different from my visit to Lisbon in 2019.

In Lisbon, I felt warmly welcomed. Perhaps it was because Fernando Pessoa is celebrated throughout the city, with bookstores and shops proudly displaying books and souvenirs inspired by him. It felt like a city that embraces its poets.

Florence and Rome, however, felt different. After returning home, I found myself reflecting on why.

First, Florence and Rome are much more tourism-oriented cities than Lisbon. Perhaps people naturally saw me as a tourist rather than as a writer.

Second, I wondered whether my limited English, together with being an Asian visitor, made communication more difficult.

Third, many of the bookshops I visited also operated as cafés, restaurants, or bars, which may have made it less practical for them to introduce or display independent literary projects.

Because the leaflet was written in English, one bookseller—who I believe was probably a staff member rather than the owner—suggested that I should instead visit bookshops specializing in English-language books.

In Florence, every bookshop kindly accepted my leaflet. In Rome, one bookshop politely declined. It appeared to be one of the busiest bookstores in the neighborhood, and the staff explained that any decision to display printed materials had to be discussed and approved at a staff meeting.

I cannot say that I was enthusiastically welcomed everywhere, but I also realize that this expectation was my own. If even one person becomes interested and a genuine connection begins, I will consider this journey worthwhile.

Most importantly, this small adventure was meaningful because I was able to share a leaflet that we created together—you, the illustrator Han So-jin, and I. Thanks to this project, I wandered far beyond the usual tourist destinations and explored the small streets and independent bookshops of Florence and Rome.

Back in Korea, I am currently teaching as a professor while also working with a local cultural foundation on a project interviewing independent neighborhood bookshops. Looking back, from March through August, I have been on a continuous journey through local bookshops in both Korea and Europe.

Thank you, Matthew, for accompanying me on this journey through your work and encouragement.

Now many projects are waiting for me again.

I hope to spend this summer working, reading, writing, and loving.

With my sincere gratitude,

JO EUN YOUNG

P.S.

I’ve been documenting this journey on my Instagram (@bella_joeun), if you’re interested.

Modern poetry is anarchism, Popular & established authors, South Korea

The Summer We Once Wanted

!Epic Tomorrows

By Jo Eun Young, Korea. See also: Meet Me at Three O’clock at the LerDevagar Bookstore and The Woman Not On Any List

Featured image: Way to Home by Park Sojin

Beneath the silk tree,

the cry of cicadas
becomes a curtain.

The forest
holds a wedding come too late,

while the wind
still clings
to the edge of the veil.

Shall we go now?

Lifting
the frayed hem
just a little,

we walk
along the back
that evening offers.

The road steps aside
to be alone.

At a corner
where endings are delayed,

words left unsaid
lie folded.

The cicadas
leave their cries behind,

and the long blessing
fades away.

A promise
to cry one day through

and molt.

I became
a bride for a single day,

walking barefoot.

We walk side by side,

only to drift
past one another
at last.

Upon our joined hands,

the living world
settles,
layer by layer.

Let us make a veil

from light
coming loose
at the seams.

With blue evening
wrapped around our ankles,

we slip away

among summer’s guests.

Modern poetry is anarchism, Popular & established authors, South Korea

Meet Me at Three O’clock at the LerDevagar Bookstore

!Epic Tomorrows

By Jo Eun Young, Republic of Korea; translated by Jung Slin. See also: The Summer We Once Wanted and The Woman Not On Any List

Dear Zeze’s one and only Mister Portuga,

My teacher asked about Papa and

Got a packed lunch from Mama, but the next day

He left a thick book only in the next desk over.

So I tear out the last page and go

To Lisbon

To the bookstore LerDevagar

The workwoman who bikes across the store each day

Wrote poetry and was fired from the print shop, they say

Against the screaming pages

Her fingertips come into bloom

When her feet hum round and round the pedals

Songs in canon rouse from slumber to form a path

I cut the wire around my chest

And put up my hair in a gentle bun

When the sun shines at a three o’clock tilt

The scenery hiding underfoot unwraps its belt

A shadow has sunk its teeth into my dusty feet

And when its slant leans to the left

I take one slow stroll around the bookstore

In the bookshelf, three sections from the leftmost end

I’ll hide two books, and between the pages will be

Dried carnations once slipped into the muzzles of guns

I’ll ask for an Espresso• with one drop of ink

Only when the dust peeled naked by the sun

Falls onto the shattered mirror

Sound out my name backwards, Dear Mister Portuga

The name my teacher never said

And meet me at three o’clock

At the LerDevagar bookstore

•The LerDevagar bookstore was once a print shop, where the first issue of the Portuguese newspaper Espresso was printed. It was also the epicenter of the bloodless 1974 revolution known as the CarnationRevolution.

Popular & established authors, SHORT short stories, South Korea

The Memory Pawnshop (Everyone Remembered Him Except Me)

!Epic Tomorrows

By Hyoungshim Choi; Hyoungshim Choi is one of the most popular authors on COTW. After this piece, try her excellent short story, Tongue.

In the shop tucked away in the corner of the alley, there hung a heavy atmosphere. A grey-haired man stared intently at an old set of scales, placed on a display stand. The reading, steeply rising, eventually came to a stop. 

—You hit the jackpot with this one. 

The eyes of the man in the jeweler’s loupes gleamed keenly. 

—Please give me a good price for it.

I mumbled, as if pleading. The man carefully removed the device that was connected to my head. You’d have thought this device for stimulating the brain might have gotten some upgrade by now, but he was sticking to the old ways. However, he was a veteran with a great many clients, reliable. He knew indeed how to distinguish valuable memories and extract them without damaging them. He was famous in particular for implanting memories neatly and noiselessly. While the man priced my memory, I, after hesitating several times, found the courage to open my mouth. 

—I’m here today to propose a very special deal.

This place where precious memories are bought and sold is called the soul’s pawnshop. I’m a regular here. Mainly as a seller. The memories I sell are to do with romance. Some people might call it love, but I just call it romance. So people call those who do this kind of work, like me, the prostitutes of the soul. As the name suggests, it’s not a particularly well-regarded job.  

I’ve been doing this for almost 5 years now. The first time I sold a memory was when I had just left the childhood care facility. Since I had nothing, I decided to sell off the memories of what I wouldn’t exactly call my first love. When I sold one of these memories for the first time, I experienced a miracle where my body felt lighter. Perhaps selling that memory had taken some of my darker childhood memories with it. Those memories had been woven into the background of my first love. It’s somewhat regrettable that the memories cannot be removed completely even when they are supposed to be, since some traces are left behind that might be considered as afterimages. In any case, I got into this work because of the lightness of heart I got from sloughing my dark memories, and because I was attracted to the fact my experiences went for a pretty high price to the wealthy.

Memories sold in this manner are sometimes used for basic construction of virtual reality, and if there are people who want to make these memories more vividly their own, then the memories are transplanted after undergoing some slight processing. The kind of people who buy the memories of people like me, I was told, are the ones who are unwilling to experience things in this busy world by putting their own mind and body under stress but who still would like to indirectly have those experiences. Of course, there is no reason to undergo all the sorts of hardships that people like me have to, people who have no place to stay, no parents, and no proper social protection. Plus, they are busy competing to survive in this high-tech world, nor can they afford to use up their mental and physical energy struggling to have and maintain romantic relationships. People who have been closely managed from the time that they were a fertilized egg and have to live their best lives are different from those like me who were conceived and born naturally and have to deal with all sorts of pain and diseases. That is to say, I am of the lowest caste in this society. 

—How was the person you went out with this time?

Anna, sitting next to me in the waiting room, asked me while we were waiting for our memories to be transferred to the computer simulation. Anna looked at me with her face all swollen up. She must’ve come here to sell the memory she acquired from staging some tear-jerking melodrama.

—He was okay. Very much so.

I choked up as I responded.

—What does he do?

Anna asked, still wiping away her eyes.

—Space explorer. He went all the way inside a black hole and managed to escape, just about.

—Sounds fun. How did you meet?

—At a space communication club. I became friendly with a man who lives on Planet Titan, and he invited me over to his.

—That’s cool. Then why did you break up?

I could not give an answer. I always used to think of Anna as a silly goose, immersed in self-pity and overly sentimental. But this time around, I was the one crying. In an attempt not to cry I ground my teeth, but the sound of my choking up still escaped. Anna looked at me astounded, then, without words, she wiped my eyes with her sleeves.

As I sat there, the memory surfaced with painful clarity. Once again I was aboard the shuttle, staring through the window at the familiar black sky and starlight. The afterimage of Ian, disappearing into the darkness beyond, was still vivid. Looking at the blue Earth slowly nearing, I touched the empty seat next to mine.

The last night on Planet Titan, he handed me two tickets to Earth. With the words that he wanted me to be with me forever. Except for the check-in process being strangely slow at Titan Space Station, everything went smoothly. That is, before Ian pressed the emergency evacuation button with the terrorist in his arms. For a long time after the spaceship departed from Planet Titan, Ian and I could not sleep at all because of our expectations for a new life. As the passengers went into hibernation for the long journey to Earth, a terrorist tried to force his way into the cockpit. We were just about to go into hibernation. I had absolutely no clue that it was going to be like this when Ian quietly rose and wrapped his arm around the terrorist.

They put him as missing. The terrorist had already broken the security camera in the cabin before he tried to force his way into the cockpit. I, the only witness, testified at the top of my lungs to his heroic sacrifice, but nobody gave ear to what I had to say.

My memories with him—these, I really did not want to sell. I wanted to remember him for long (for a long time / forever) and I wanted to miss him until the day I died. But I had to sell my memories, so at least I could make other people remember him for long (for a long time / forever)

First, I made up my mind to sell all of my memories that might be worth any money except for the scene where Ian, nestled within the emergency evacuation capsule with the terrorist in his arms, disappears into the starlight. Recollections of my mother, faceless and remembered only as warmth deep down in my memories, all the way up to him proposing to me. They were worth pretty good money, for they were ones I had intended not to sell and to cherish for a long time. But then, I placed a very special order with the owner of the soul pawnshop. I asked him to simultaneously insert the scene into the memories of a great number of people—the scene where Ian escapes into space with the terrorist in his arms to save the lives of hundreds of passengers. We agreed that I would pay for this with the money I earned from my memories.

Lying on the memory-harvesting machine, I felt my left arm. On it, I had tattooed Ian’s name. For I wanted to be left with it, only this, even though all of his memories would be erased. Soon enough, the machine lit up. I closed my eyes.

—You may come out now. 

The machine stopped and I woke up. As always, my head was hazy. A finalized bill was waiting for me at the cashier. As I was about to step out of the pawnshop having picked up the papers, the owner said wistfully that the new memory-transplant program is astonishingly good. I just smiled at him, not understanding what he meant. My eyes teared up as I was pushing the glass door, strange. The owner’s countenance bidding me goodbye was dark. The door closed behind me and the sight of the street caught my eyes. The sun was shining brightly. The sky was as clear and clean as it’s ever been. A strange man was smiling on the big news billboard erected at the end of the street. His face seemed somehow familiar.

—We all shall remember his noble sacrifice for a long time.

The news anchor was struggling to keep under his control the emotions surging within him. I thoughtlessly put my hands into my pockets and walked up to the end of the street. Anna, recognizing me at the far end, smiled brightly. Tears, whose meaning I could not understand, kept flowing from my eyes.