Korean Short Stories
Moon Taejun Flatfish 가재미 Translated by Min Eungyeong
Information This work was previously published in New Writing from Korea . Please contact the LTI Korea Library. library@klti.or.kr
About Moon Taejun Moon's poems employ a comforting language to soothe the wounds of the soul. His poems seek to assuage the pains of those suffering from the violence and oppression of a heartless society. He values "conversation" highly, emphasizing full empathy between two existences, such as when he says, "That over there, is in me here; and I here, am in that over there. Let me respect that which is not me, and therefore those things that are me." The poet aspires to a state in which the subject and object are not distinct form one another, but fused together. In this respect, Moon carries on the traditional lyrical tradition. Newly emerging poets too often look askance at the old lyricism, seeking instead new language suited to the tastes of the present age; but the result is often an idiosyncratic poetry that is difficult for the reader to understand. Moon’s poetry tacitly challenges this trend, and embodies hope for easy communication with the world through language steeped in lyricism. His poetry employs familiar subjects from the natural world such as flowers, trees, falling leaves and paths, and people from everyday life such as wife, child, and sufferer. But in the familiarity emerges the unique individuality of the poet, bringing to our awareness the fact that the familiar is not “old.” His work has been translated in The Growth of a Shadow detail, and the The American Reader. LTI Korea eLibrary: http://library.klti.or.kr/node/132
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Flatfish In Room 302, Gamcheon Hospital, a room for six, she lies wearing an oxygen mask, battling cancer. Like a flatfish resting on the ocean floor, she lies flat and low. I lay myself by her side, parallel and flat as a flatfish. As one flatfish glances at the other, her eyes swell with tears. In her thinness one eye has skimmed over to the other side, she only looks at death while I gaze at the sea of her life. I recall her ocean life, swaying left and right, in the watery seas, her wooded trail, its noontime cuckoo song, thin noodle dinners, a family that owned barely a mud wall. Her two legs are being slowly broken apart, her spine bent like a tree branch crushed by the sudden snow. I think of that winter day. Her breath grows rough like the bark of an elm. I know now she cannot see the world outside of death, her eyes are swept into each other's darkness. Left, right, I rock toward her to lie next to her in the sea as she blankets me softly with water inhaled through the oxygen mask.
Copyright 2008 Literature Translation Institute of Korea
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