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Poetry

Pillow

By Jang Jin-sung
Translated from Korean by Shirley Lee
Jang Jin-sung’s poem describes chaos, misery, and family ties in North Korea.

Both the seller
And the buyer
Have nothing to offer but themselves
In Pyongyang’s marketplace

The filters of cigarette butts
Provided cotton for this blanket on display
“Face-wash for sale!”
The ladies shout
And clutch at passers by

With nothing to offer but a bowl of water
For one face-wash
The traders sit here
To sell their poverty

The reasons for their poverty
Are on display
In every street
In every alley
On the dark posters
Of murderous intent:

“Death by firing squad to those who waste food!”
“Death by firing squad to those who spread rumors!”
“Death by firing squad to those who steal state property!”
“Death by firing squad to those who disseminate foreign culture!”
“Death by firing squad to those who break traffic rules!”

The only respite
Is the sound of begging
Of grieving
Of pain
That is all

In this marketplace, final breaths are gathered
In this marketplace, last days of life are gathered
There is not only wretchedness and misery
In this marketplace. There is also terror

The suffocating stench
And worn out clothes
And dirty outstretched hands
And angry shouting and swearing
Are everywhere seen
Are everywhere heard

“Quick! Get that boy!”
Someone shouts for help
“Catch him! Catch him!”
“Catch that thief!”
The shouts grow louder
Become more urgent

The stolen item
Means everything to her
Those who have nothing
Will not let the thief escape
They will catch the thief
Thus chaos ensues

Someone stands waiting for the thief
But he dodges to the left
Where someone else is waiting
But he turns and runs the other way
The child being pursued
And the adults chasing him
All stumble and fumble

Suddenly, a soldier seizes
The boy’s collar
And raising his fist
High above him
Lands it where
A chilling scream ensues
The crowd gather around them

The boy holding the bundle
Shouts at the stranger
“I am not a thief!”

You have no right
To say those words, boy
The one you robbed shall speak first
The crowd makes way
To let the woman in

“Give that back to me”
At those words
His crime is confirmed
The crowd becomes furious
The soldier raises his fist again

“Don’t hit him!
He’s my son!”

At those words
All eyes in the crowd
Become fixed on the woman
Who had been robbed
By the boy-thief

The boy tries to unwrap the bundle
And the mother rushes at him
Pulling at the bundle
In a tug of war

“Please, give it back
Don’t unwrap it”
“Please, let me look inside
I won’t do it again”

What is contained in that bundle
That the boy wants to see?
That the mother cannot allow him to see?
The crowd
Pushes and shoves
To get a better look
Telling each other what they have seen
Telling each other what they have heard

Not money
Not goods
To be sold or bought in the market
A pillow
Nothing but a pillow

What is inside
That the boy had to steal
That the mother
Pleads for him to return it to her?

What is inside
That the boy tears it open with his teeth
That the mother falls to the ground
And beats her chest

Nothing but a pillow cover
Filled with sand
Common sand spilled on the ground

The boy falls to the ground
The mother buries her face in her hands
The mother and son begin to scream
The boy looks at the sand again
And his shouting grow louder
And the mother trembles
A bewildering scene
Then the boy rises, clutching sand
Screaming at the top of his voice

“You lied to me!
You said the pillow was full of rice
But no–
It was sand all along!”

“You said it was rice
So I didn’t feel hungry!
You said the pillow was full of rice
So I made myself go to school!”

The onlookers beat their own chests
In despair

As the boy accuses the mother
The boy who had rested his life
On the pillow of rice

The sad strain of his voice
Is a curse
That voice
Does it belong to that one
Who is still a boy?

The ultimate act of motherhood
Was a rice-pillow lie
For deceiving her beloved son
The final pang of hunger
Was a pillar of faith giving way
For the ruin of a young boy’s life

Every night, the boy endured
With a rice-pillow in his arms
Until daybreak
The mother cried, looking on

How to carry on from here?
Mother and son who rested themselves
On pillows of rice
Will wake up to see only white sand

© Jang Jin-sung. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Shirley Lee. All rights reserved.

English Korean (Original)

Both the seller
And the buyer
Have nothing to offer but themselves
In Pyongyang’s marketplace

The filters of cigarette butts
Provided cotton for this blanket on display
“Face-wash for sale!”
The ladies shout
And clutch at passers by

With nothing to offer but a bowl of water
For one face-wash
The traders sit here
To sell their poverty

The reasons for their poverty
Are on display
In every street
In every alley
On the dark posters
Of murderous intent:

“Death by firing squad to those who waste food!”
“Death by firing squad to those who spread rumors!”
“Death by firing squad to those who steal state property!”
“Death by firing squad to those who disseminate foreign culture!”
“Death by firing squad to those who break traffic rules!”

The only respite
Is the sound of begging
Of grieving
Of pain
That is all

In this marketplace, final breaths are gathered
In this marketplace, last days of life are gathered
There is not only wretchedness and misery
In this marketplace. There is also terror

The suffocating stench
And worn out clothes
And dirty outstretched hands
And angry shouting and swearing
Are everywhere seen
Are everywhere heard

“Quick! Get that boy!”
Someone shouts for help
“Catch him! Catch him!”
“Catch that thief!”
The shouts grow louder
Become more urgent

The stolen item
Means everything to her
Those who have nothing
Will not let the thief escape
They will catch the thief
Thus chaos ensues

Someone stands waiting for the thief
But he dodges to the left
Where someone else is waiting
But he turns and runs the other way
The child being pursued
And the adults chasing him
All stumble and fumble

Suddenly, a soldier seizes
The boy’s collar
And raising his fist
High above him
Lands it where
A chilling scream ensues
The crowd gather around them

The boy holding the bundle
Shouts at the stranger
“I am not a thief!”

You have no right
To say those words, boy
The one you robbed shall speak first
The crowd makes way
To let the woman in

“Give that back to me”
At those words
His crime is confirmed
The crowd becomes furious
The soldier raises his fist again

“Don’t hit him!
He’s my son!”

At those words
All eyes in the crowd
Become fixed on the woman
Who had been robbed
By the boy-thief

The boy tries to unwrap the bundle
And the mother rushes at him
Pulling at the bundle
In a tug of war

“Please, give it back
Don’t unwrap it”
“Please, let me look inside
I won’t do it again”

What is contained in that bundle
That the boy wants to see?
That the mother cannot allow him to see?
The crowd
Pushes and shoves
To get a better look
Telling each other what they have seen
Telling each other what they have heard

Not money
Not goods
To be sold or bought in the market
A pillow
Nothing but a pillow

What is inside
That the boy had to steal
That the mother
Pleads for him to return it to her?

What is inside
That the boy tears it open with his teeth
That the mother falls to the ground
And beats her chest

Nothing but a pillow cover
Filled with sand
Common sand spilled on the ground

The boy falls to the ground
The mother buries her face in her hands
The mother and son begin to scream
The boy looks at the sand again
And his shouting grow louder
And the mother trembles
A bewildering scene
Then the boy rises, clutching sand
Screaming at the top of his voice

“You lied to me!
You said the pillow was full of rice
But no–
It was sand all along!”

“You said it was rice
So I didn’t feel hungry!
You said the pillow was full of rice
So I made myself go to school!”

The onlookers beat their own chests
In despair

As the boy accuses the mother
The boy who had rested his life
On the pillow of rice

The sad strain of his voice
Is a curse
That voice
Does it belong to that one
Who is still a boy?

The ultimate act of motherhood
Was a rice-pillow lie
For deceiving her beloved son
The final pang of hunger
Was a pillar of faith giving way
For the ruin of a young boy’s life

Every night, the boy endured
With a rice-pillow in his arms
Until daybreak
The mother cried, looking on

How to carry on from here?
Mother and son who rested themselves
On pillows of rice
Will wake up to see only white sand

© Jang Jin-sung. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Shirley Lee. All rights reserved.

베개

물건을 판자도
물건을 산자도
남은 것은 목숨뿐인
평양의 시장
담배꽁초 주어모아
그 솜으로 채웠다는 이불이며
– 세수하고 가세요!
소리치며 붙들며
세숫물 파는 여인들
맹물 밖에 없는 궁핍
그 궁핍마저 팔려고
시장 밖까지 진열된
백성의 찌질한 가난
가난할 수 밖에 없는
그 모든 이유들이다
거리마다
골목마다
시커멓게 붙여진
살인의 포고문들이
식량을 낭비하는 자 총살!
유언비어 퍼뜨리는 자 총살!
국가재산 훔치는 자 총살!
외국문화 유포하는 자 총살!
철도질서 어기는 자 총살!
포고문의 용서란
동냥하고
통곡하고
아파하고
신음하는
그 뿐이어서
마지막 숨들이 모인 시장이다
최후의 날들이 모인 시장이다
그래서 더 침침하고 비통하다 못해
공포까지 느껴지는 평양의 시장
진동하는 악취
기워 입은 옷들
동냥하는 때 낀 손들
고함소리 싸우는 소리
눈에 보이고
귀에 들리는 이 모든 것
– 저 애를 붙잡아줘요!
누군가의 부르짖음에
– 저 놈 잡아라
도둑 잡아라
여기저기 번지는
다급한 외침들
도둑 맞힌 전부가
가진 것의 전부인
텅 빈 삶들이어서
놓치지 않으리라
대신 잡아 주리라
온 시장이 들썩이는데
앞에서 막아서면
왼쪽으로 피하고
그 쪽에서 기다리면
또 뒤로 돌아서며
도망치는 아이나
잡으려는 어른이나
갈팡질팡 하는 속에
마침내 군인의 억센 손이
녀석의 멱살을 틀어쥔다
하늘 향해 쳐드는
커다란 주먹도 보인다
저 주먹이 내려치는 곳에
뼈아픈 비명도 있으리
우르르 모여드는 사람들
하지만
보따리를 그러안은 채
초면이자 악연을 향해
당돌하게 소리치는 아이
– 훔친 게 아니예요!
그 말은
네가 해선 아니 될 말
물건 임자가 해야 될 말
뒤늦게 달려온 여인에게
서둘러 길 내주는 사람들
– 그거 이리 내놔
여인의 첫 마디에
틀림없는 짓!
사람들이 격분하고
군인이 다시 주먹을 드는데
– 때리지 말아요!
그 애는 내 아들이에요
그 한 마디에
모두의 시선이
여인에게 집중된다
분명 잡아달라 쫓아왔던
그 목소리의 임자
사람들이 더 놀랐던 것은
보따리를 헤치려는 아이에게
어머니가 미친 듯 달려들 때
보따리를 부여잡은 모자(母子)가
서로에게 빼앗기지 않으려 할 때
– 제발 이리 줘다오
보지 말고 이리 줘다오
-한번만 보게 해줘요
다시는 안그럴게요
도대체
저 속에 무엇이 들었기에
보겠다는 아들이고
봐서는 안 된다는 엄마인가
시장의 사람들
밀치며 당기며
어깨들 너머로
보고 본 대로 말해주고
듣고 들은 대로 다 알게 된 물건은?
돈도 아니었다
시장에서 팔고 사는
흔한 것도 아니었다
색 낡은 베개였으니
다시 봐도 베개였으니
그 베게가 무엇이어서
아이는 훔쳐야만 했고
엄만 지금 저토록
돌려 달라 애원해야 하는가
그 베개 속에
무엇이 들었기에
아이가 필사의 발악으로 이빨로 물어뜯자
엄마는 기절할 듯 쓰러지며
제 가슴을 쥐어 때리는 것인가
그래봤자
고작 베개인 것을
땅바닥에 쏟아지며
흩어지는 것이란
모래뿐이었던것을
길에서도 그냥 주울수 있는 것을
하지만
오 하지만
아이는 맥없이 주저앉고
엄마는 얼굴을 감싸쥐고
그때부터 시작되는
모자(母子)의 통곡이여
땅바닥의 모래들을 쏘아보며
아이의 울음소린 더 커지고
엄마의 어깨도 세차게 흔들리고
그렇게 알 수 없는 사연 속에서
모래를 휘 뿌리며 일어서는
아이의 처절한 부르짖음
– 엄마는 거짓말쟁이야!
이때까지 쌀 베개라 하구선
아니잖아
모래였잖아
쌀이라고 해서
굶지 않았는데!
쌀 베개라고 해서
학교에도 참고 갔었는데!
모여 섰던 가슴들을
때리는 그 절규
쌀 베개 하나에
목숨을 베고 살아 온
아이의 슬픈 그 고발
아이의 목소리가
이리도 슬프게 들리다니
무서운 저주처럼 들리다니
이것이 정녕
아직 세상을 못 다 산
저 꼬마의 목청이란 말인가
사랑하는 자식에게
쌀 베개라 속여야만 했던
그 최후의 모성
그동안 기대왔던 믿음 앞에서
어린 삶이 무너져야만 하는
그 마지막 배고픔
매일매일 긴 밤을
아이는 그 베개를 그러안고 잤으리라
동트는 새벽까지
엄마는 그 뒷모습을 마주보며 울었으리라
아 이제는 어찌살꼬!
쌀 베게에 누워 살던 그 인생들에
일어 날 아침이 모래로 하얗게 덮혀서!

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