old acquaintance - Kim So-wol

옛낯 - 김소월
생각의 끝에는 졸음이 오고
그리움의 끝에는 잊음이 오나니,
그대여, 말을 말아라, 이 후부터
우리는 옛낯없는 설움을 모르리.

At the end of a thought falls somnolence And at the end of longing follows oblivion, Dearest, do not speak, from henceforth We know not the sorrow of old acquaintance past.
translated by: smy, aka diaphanus

The Scarlet Woman

Fenton Johnson (1888-1958)

Once I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister's wife.
My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people's tips; but he died two days after his insurance expired.
I had nothing, so I had to go to work.
All the stock I had was a white girl's education and a face that enchanted the men of both races.
Starvation danced with me.
So when Big Lizzie, who kept a house for white men, came to me with tales of fortune that I could reap from the sale of my virtue I bowed my head to Vice.
Now I can drink more gin than any man for miles around.
Gin is better than all the water in Lethe.

* * * * *

Since reading this poem for the first time, I often--too often--recite the last verse of this poem to myself. Work is my gin. But I'm growing tired of drinking my gin.

A Country Priest's Diary

a short story from Don Camillo's Dilemma by Giovannino Guareschi

Brusco looked at the wall and shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, what do you say?" asked Don Camillo.

"I don't know," Brusco answered.

"If a mason doesn't know whether or not he can make a door through a wall, then he'd better change trades!" exclaimed Don Camillo. "Perhaps I should call Neri."

"This wall is as old as the hills," Brusco explained, "and an old wall can be very tricky. Unless you let me knock off a bit of plaster and explore underneath, I can't give you any definite reply."

And so Don Camillo authorized him to make an exploration.

"Just remember you're in a sacristy," he admonished him; "try to do a neat job and not cover the place with litter."

Brusco took a hammer and chisel out of his bag and began to knock plaster off the wall.

"It looks bad," he said after two or three strokes of the hammer. "The wall's filled with clay and stones. If it were made of bricks, we could put a re-enforced cement architrave in just at the point of the first break-through and then carry the break down to the floor. But this way, it looks like trouble."

Don Camillo borrowed the hammer and knocked some plaster off another part of the wall. But here, too, he came upon a conglomeration of stones and clay.

"Queer," he observed. "The outside walls of the church are all brick. Why should they have put stones inside?"

Brusco threw out his arms with a baffled air.

"They may have made the supporting columns and an outer layer of brick," he said, "and then stuffed the rest with stones. But let's take it easy and explore a little deeper."

By means of a big nail he loosened the clay around an uncovered stone and pulled it out. Then he hammered at the clay behind it and came to another stone. While he was trying to dig this out too, it disappeared.

"There must be an empty space behind the stones, and I don't understand it. You'd expect the stones to go all the way to the brick outer wall."

Don Camillo widened the hole and soon they found an enormous wardrobe which the secondary wall had been built to conceal. Of course the priest was feverishly anxious to open it, and when they had come back down into the sacristy he said to Brusco:

"Thanks. I don't need you any more."

"I'm afraid you do," said Brusco calmly. "A wall fifteen feet long, nine feet high and eighteen inches thick makes a considerable mass of stones and clay. And if you want to open the wardrobe, the whole thing will have to come down."

"And what makes you think I'll tackle that wall?" Don Camillo asked. "I'm not totally mad."

"You're worse than that; you're Don Camillo!" Brusco retorted.

But when Don Camillo had though twice about the dimensions of the wall he had to acknowledge that it was too much for him.

"Very well," he said. "Go get enough men to tear it down and wagons to carry the debris away. But once the work is done, I want it understood that you will all go home. I want to open the wardrobe myself."

Ten minutes later most of the people of the village were on the church square and all of them for this reason:

"Don Camillo has discovered a hidden treasure in the sacristy."

They imagined pots and pans filled with gold ducats, paintings and all sorts of other objects of art, and so great was the excitement that everyone wanted to see. Brusco's eight helpers soon turned into eighty, and a long line of volunteers passed buckets full of debris from one hand to another. The wall came down very fast and the majestic wardrobe began to stand out in all its mystery. Darkness fell, but no one thought of going away, and soon after the last bucket full of clay and stones was carried away, Don Camillo took up his stand right in front of the wardrobe and said to the crowd in the sacristy:

"Thanks for your help, and good night to you!"

"Open it up! Open it up! We want to see!" they shouted at him.

"It's not your personal property," said an angry woman. "A hidden treasure belongs to all of us together."

"You're not out in the public square," Don Camillo replied. "You're in the church. And I'm responsible for everything in the church to the ecclesiastical authorities."

The carabinieri and their sergeant lined up beside Don Camillo, but the people were so frenzied that no one could keep them from pushing forward.

"Very well," said Don Camillo; "step back and I'll open it up."

They stepped back, and Don Camillo opened the first door. The compartment was filled with books, every one of which bore a number. And there were more and more books in all the other compartments. Don Camillo pulled out a book at random and leafed it through.

"It is a treasure," he explained, "but not of the kind you imagined. These are birth, death and marriage registers of the two hundred and fifty years ending in 1753. I don't know what happened that year, but apparently the priest was afraid they might be destroyed and walled them up here for safekeeping."

Things had to be arranged in such a way that everyone could see with their own eyes the truth of what Don Camillo was saying, and only when they had all marched by the wardrobe could Don Camillo call it a day.

"Lord," he said when he was left alone in the church, "forgive me if through my fault Your house was turned into an encampment of sacrilegious gold-diggers. I repeat that the blame is not theirs but mine; I was the first one to be in an indecent hurry. When the shepherd acts like a madman, what can you expect of his flock?"

In the course of the following days Don Camillo was stricken with another madness; his impatience to examine all the registers at once. He looked at them quite at random, one after another, and this turned out to be a good idea, for along with the registers of 1650 he found a notebook in which the priest had written up all the events worthy of remark every day.

He threw himself eagerly upon this diary and discovered all sorts of curious things. But among the notes of May 6, 1650 he found two really remarkable items, the first one of which was concerned with Giosue Scozza, whose marble statue stood in the main square of the neighboring village of Torricella on a pedestal marked with the following inscription:

Giosue Scozza
Creator of Divine harmonies
Beloved son of Torricella
Who wrote its name and his
own on the rolls of Glory
1650-1746

Torricella had dedicated to this favorite son not only this monument but also its main square, the theater, the widest street, the primary school, the public orphan asylum and the local band. His name inevitably came out in every piece of writing or speech-making in these parts and even big-city newspapers and magazines always referred to Giosue Scozza as "the swan of Torricella."

For centuries there had been a feud between the two villages, and the compatriots of Don Camillo and Peppone could not bear to see or hear this name. Now, in the old diary, Don Camillo found a passage which, translated into contemporary language, ran:

"Today Geremia Scozza, blacksmith, moved away to enter the service of Count Sanvito of Torricella. With him went his wife, Geltrude, and his son Giosue, born in this parish on June 8, 1647."

The records of 1647 confirmed the fact that the great man had indeed been born in this parish, and those of preceding years made it clear that the same was true of his family. In short, Torricella had acquired its "swan" when he was three years old.

This item in the diary was preceded by another equally extraordinary:

"Today, May 6, 1647, Giuseppe Bottazzi, blacksmith, 48 years old, was decapitated in the public square, having on April 8 made an armed attack and inflicted wounds upon Don Patini, rector of Vigolenzo for the purpose of stealing a bag of gold. Giuseppe Botazzi, a skilled worker but a man of sacrilegious ideas, was not born here but came twenty years ago and married a local girl, Maria Gambazzi, who bore him a son baptized Antonio, now fifteen years old. Giuseppe Botazzi has turned out to be the chief of a band of brigands who have committed thefts and murders in the land of Count Sanvito. Last December they surprised and murdered the men-at-arms of the Castello della Piana where Count Sanvito himself was in residence and managed to save his life only by fleeing through the secret underground passage."

Don Camillo took a look at the records of later years and clearly established the fact that the present-day Giuseppe Bottazzi, known as Peppone, mayor and Red leader, was a direct descendant of this blacksmith of the same name.

"When elections come around, I'll cook his goose," muttered Don Camillo. "I'll have this page of the diary photographed and plaster it up at every street corner, and under it the phrase: 'Blood will tell.' History repeats itself!"

This project was one that could not be carried out until the time was ripe, but its appeal was tremendous, for it meant killing two birds with one stone. Don Camillo planned to stake an indisputable claim to "the swan of Torricella" and strike a fatal blow at Peppone.

But the news about Giosue "Scozza was so exciting that Don Camillo couldn't help dropping hints about it, and one day Peppone came to the rectory to see him.

"Father," he said, "there's a lot of talk about some of the things you've discovered in the famous books. Since it's no political matter, but one concerning the honor of the village, may I ask you to tell me the whole story?"

"What's this?" muttered Don Camillo, throwing out his arms. "It's just a bit of history, that's all."

"What do you mean by history?"

"I mean something in the nature of geography--geography is what makes history, you know."

"I don't get it," said Peppone, scratching his head. "Will you kindly explain?"

"I don't know whether it's really proper."

"I see. You're cooking up some of your usual reactionary propaganda and planning to destroy somebody's reputation."

Don Camillo turned bright red.

"If I go in for propaganda, there's nothing false about it. I have documents to show that "the swan of Torricella" was born not in Torricella, but right here, three years earlier than its always been stated."

Peppone leaned forward.

"Either you're telling tall tales or else you're a man completely without honor. Because if you can demonstrate in private that Scozza came from here rather than from Torricella and refuse to do so openly, then you're depriving the village of a God-given right."

Don Camillo pulled out the diary and shoved it in front of Peppone's nose.

"Here's the whole truth for you; and there's other proof, besides."

"Then why don't you release it?"

Don Camillo lit his cigar butt and blew several mouthfuls of smoke up to the ceiling.

"The only way to release the news is to print a photograph of a whole page of the diary, or at least be ready to show it to anyone who asks to see."

"Well, that's the matter with that?"

"I can't make up my mind to do anything so drastic. The note about Scozza is preceded by another one corroborating the date, which happens to bear your family name. So, in the last analysis, it's up to you."

"My family?" exclaimed Peppone, dumbfounded.

"Yes, the Giuseppe Bottazzi who fills the entry for May 6, 1647 is the unfortunate ancestor of the tribe of Peppone. I've checked the whole thing, and it's indubitably correct."

Don Camillo pointed out the entry to Peppone and the latter proceeded to read it.

"Well," he said afterwards, "what have I got to do with a Bottazzi of 1647?"

"You know how people are. The original Giuseppe Bottazzi revealed to be a blacksmith, a priest-baiter and gang-leader, just like you! Your enemies would be able to put that to good use in their campaign. Just think it over."

Peppone read the two items several times and then gage the diary back to Don Camillo.

"I don't care what the reactionary swine may say. The important thing is to add Giosue Scozza to our village's glory. I put the village's reputation before my own. So go ahead and make the whole thing public."

Peppone started to go, then wheeled about and went over to the desk where Don Camillo was sitting.

"And do you know what?" he added. "I'm proud to have that Bottazzi for an ancestor. It means that Bottazzis have had the right idea even in 1647; they knew that they must get rid of priests and land-owners, even at the cost of their own lives. And it's no use your smiling, Father. Your turn is coming!"

"Remember that my name's Don Camillo, not Don Patini!" said the priest in reply.

"Politics may divide us, but for the good of the village, we are as one," Peppone shot over his shoulder. "We'll talk of that later; meanwhile, let's get after Giosue Scozza!"

Don Camillo threw himself like a lion into the chase for "the swan of Torricella." Without dragging Peppone's ancestor into the picture, he placed devastating articles in the provincial paper. Eventually the big-city papers chimed in. The romantic discovery of the archives sealed into the church wall made a good story, and they spread it so widely that Torricella had to surrender. And when people of Torricella were convinced that Giosue Scozza belonged to their enemies, they turned against him. A "public safety committee" was formed, for the purpose of wiping out all traces of the interloper, beginning with the statue in the public square, which was to be replaced by a fountain. Thus the blot would be washed away.

At this point Peppone appealed to the Reds on the other side. He proposed to give Torricella a marble fountain in exchange for the marble statue of the great man. It was settled that the exchange of gifts would be made into a solemn occasion. A wagon drawn by white oxen would carry the fountain to the boundary-line of the village, and meet there a similar wagon, bearing the statue. The money for the fountain was quickly raised, and a month later the wagons set forth. Giosue Scozza arrived in the village nailed to his pedestal and tied with ropes to the sides of the wagon, but looking very proud indeed. And Peppone, who was waiting to receive him, with the rest of the persons in authority and the local band, pronounced a speech written for the occasion, which began:

"Greeting, illustrious brother, upon your return, after centuries of absence, to your native place...."

It was all very moving. When the wagon from Torricella had taken over the fountain and gone away, Peppone took a hammer and chisel out of his pocket and knocked off the tablet which described Giosue Scozza as the "beloved son of Torricella." The smashed tablet was thrown outside the boundary line, and the little procession wound its way happily into the central square. There everything was ready: masons, marble-workers, a crane and a stone for the base. Soon the statue stood erect on its new foundation and a new tablet was fastened to the pedestal. A canvas had been thrown around it, and this was removed at just the right moment. Don Camillo pronounced a blessing and made a short speech on the theme of the return of the prodigal son. The welcoming committee, which was non-political in nature, had done things up brown, and the festivities did not end until evening, when Peppone rose to explain the significance of the occasion.

"We have seen your face, dear long-lost brother," he said, "but we have not heard your voice, that divine voice which you raised to the heights of immortal glory. And so a string orchestra is to play a program which will acquaint all of us with the greatest melodies of our own celebrated Giosue Scozza."

The square was crowded with people, and after Peppone had finished speaking there was a burst of applause, followed by a religious silence. The string orchestra, which had been brought from the city, was really first-class, and the first of the twelve pieces on the program "The andantino Number Six," turned out to be a musical jewel. After this came the "Air in C sharp Minor" and the "Sonata in D," which met with equal success. But when the fourth piece, "Ballet in F," began, there was a chorus of voices shouting:

"Verdi, Verdi!"

Peppone and Don Camillo were sitting in the front seats, and the conductor looked beseechingly at Peppone. Peppone looked at Don Camillo and Don Camillo nodded. Then Peppone called peremptorily:

"Verdi!"

Everyone was wild with joy. The conductor held a whispered consultation with his musicians, tapped the music stand with his baton, and the crowd was silent. At the first notes of the prelude to "La Traviata," people had difficulty restraining their applause and after it was finished it was almost overpowering.

"This is real music!" shouted Peppone.

"You can't beat Verdi," answered Don Camillo.

Verdi supplied all the rest of the program, and at the end the orchestra conductor was carried in triumph. As Smilzo passed in front of the statue of Giosue Scozza, "creator of divine harmonies," he observed:

"The climate of Torricella didn't do him any good."

"Exactly," said Bigio. "If he'd stayed here, he'd have written much better music."

"Historical things are beautiful even when they're ugly," put in Peppone severely. "Giosue Scozza belongs to history and he'll go down as a very great man, don't you agree, Don Camillo?"

"Of course," Don Camillo answered. "you must always look at an artist against the background of his times."

"But Verdi..." objected Smilzo.

"What's Verdi got to do with it?" Peppone interrupted. "Verdi's no artist; he's just a man with a heart as big as this--"

And he thew out his arms so eloquently that they cut a wide swathe all around him. Don Camillo wasn't agile enough to get out of the way, and received a blow in the stomach. But out of respect for Verdi he said nothing.

Guareschi's original illustration published with the story, 1954

Aloof

Christina Georgina Rossetti

The irresponsive silence of the land,

The irresponsive sounding of the sea,

Speak both one message of one sense to me:--

Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand

Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless band

Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;

But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?

What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand?

And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,

And sometimes I remember days of old

When fellowship seem'd not so far to seek,

And all the world and I seem'd much less cold,

And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,

And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.

Forget Not Yet

Thomas Wyatt
Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant
My great travail so gladly spent
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye knew, since whan
The suit, the service, none tell can,
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrongs, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in denays
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet, forget not this,
How long ago hath been, and is,
The mind that never means amiss;
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved,
Forget not this.

Der Mann von fünfzig Jahren

Hermann Hesse

Von der Wiege bis zur Bahre
sind es fünfzig Jahre,
dann beginnt der Tod.
Man vertrottelt man versauert,
man verwahrlost, man verbauert
und zum Teufel gehn die Haare.
Auch die Zähne gehen flöten,
und statt daß wir mit Entzücken
junge Mädchen an uns drücken,
lesen wir ein Buch von Goethen.

Aber einmal noch vorm Ende
will ich so ein Kind mir fangen,
Augen hell und Locken kraus,
nehm´s behutsam in die Hände,
küsse Mund und Brust und Wangen,
zieh ihm Rock und Höslein aus.
Nachher dann, in Gottes Namen,
soll der Tod mich holen. Amen.

Smoke

담배 - 김소월

나의 긴 한숨을 동무하는
못 잊게 생각나는 나의 담배!
내력을 잊어버린 옛 시절에
났다가 새 없이 몸이 가신
아씨님 무덤 위에 풀이라고
말하는 사람도 보았어라
어물어물 눈앞에 스러지는 검은 연기,
다만 타붙고 없어지는 불꽃
아 나의 괴로운 이 맘이여
나의 하염없이 쓸쓸한 많은 날은
너와 한가지로 지나가라

Smoke - Kim So-wol

Smoke, the unforgettable urge,
the companion to my wearisome sigh!
Some say it is the grass
growing atop the grave of a mistress
born in the old forgotten days,
her body untimely withering away.
The wavering black smoke,
the spark of light burning, disappearing,
Oh the pain of my heart,
the endlessly lonesome days,
do pass me by like the dissipating smoke.

p.s. My dad smoked one or two cigarettes a day, Dunhill being his brand of choice. The smell of it still persists, though faintly, on his old ivory filter, some twenty plus years after its last use. When I picked up the on-again, off-again habit at twenty-four, I typically smoked no more than my dad. I recently bought a pack of cigarettes after a long hiatus. This time, I can smoke no more than half a cigarette once a week. My body rejects it--I am obviously not healthy enough to smoke. But for those personal moments, as brief as they are, I have a silent companion who understands it all.


"I like cigarettes. . . . I like to think of fire held in a man‘s hand. Fire, a dangerous force, tamed at his fingertips. I often wonder about the hours when a man sits alone, watching the smoke of a cigarette, thinking. I wonder what great things have come from such hours. When a man thinks, there is a spot of fire alive in his mind--and it is proper that he should have the burning point of a cigarette as his own expression." - Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged, 1957

My dad used to smoke one or two cigarettes a day, Dunhill being his brand of choice. The smell of it still persists, though faintly, on his old ivory filter, some twenty plus years after its last use. When I picked up the on-again, off-again habit at twenty-four, I typically smoked no more than he. I recently bought a pack of cigarettes after a long hiatus. This time, I can smoke no more than half a cigarette once a week. My body rejects it--I am obviously not healthy enough to smoke. But for those personal moments, as brief as they are, I have a silent companion who understands it all.


I lit up a cigarette this evening. Benson & Hedges Ultra-lights Menthol and a lighter in hand, I stepped out onto the balcony, wrapped up in a blanket to protect myself against the chills of the night. Sitting on a little stool, I was staring directly into Sirius, the alpha star of Canis Major, or known better, appropriately, as the Dog Star.

I brought the lighter close to the tip of the cigarette, now resting between my lips, and lit up. With a short inhale through the little white stick, the tip turned into an amber glow. As I exhaled, the cigarette let out a delicately thin, white smoke of a sigh. I perched my feet up on the ledge and leaned back, staring again at Sirius.

Cold winter night, cigarette is such a tempting companion.

Two things always come to my mind every time I smoke--my dead father and a poem. Dad used to smoke no more than one or two cigarettes a day, Dunhill being his brand of choice. He always used an ivory filter (he probably hated having cigarette smell on his hands), and the smell of his Dunhill still persists some twenty plus years after the last used.

(s)He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

W. B. Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

It's a sleepless night. All those winter stars combined cannot soothe me to sleep. Something about this night recalls in me the song about a blackbird.


Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird - Wallace Stevens

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing
And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.

A Letter of Joy

즐거운 편지 - 황동규

내 그대를 생각함은
항상 그대가 앉아있는
배경에서
해가 지고 바람이 부는 일처럼
사소한 일일 것이나
언젠가 그대가 한없이 괴로움속을
헤매일때에 오랫동안 전해오던
그 사소함으로 그대를 불러 보리라

진실로 진실로
내가 그대를 사랑하는 까닭은
내 나의 사랑을 한없이 잇닿은
그 기다림으로 바꾸어 버린데 있었다.
밤이 들면서 골짜기엔 눈이 퍼붓기 시작했다
내 사랑도 언제쯤에선 반드시 그칠 것을 믿는다
다만 그때 내 기다림의 자세를 생각하는 것 뿐이다
그 동안에 눈이 그치고
꽃이 피어나고
낙옆이 떨어지고
또 눈이 퍼붓고 할 것을 믿는다.


A Letter of Joy - Dong-kyu Hwang

That I think of you
may be as insignificant as
the sun setting and the wind blowing
against the background of
where you are always seated,
but if and when you are lost
in the seemingly relentless misery
I shall call upon you
with that lingering triviality.

Truly, truly,
the reason I love you so
lies in having transformed my love
into an eternal wait.
The snow began to cover the valley by the night fall
My love will also find its end some day,
only I am thinking of how I will perceive my longing then
In the meantime I know
snow will melt
flowers will blossom
leaves will fall
and the snow will cover the valley yet again.

p.s. This is an entirely unauthorized translation, but it is how I interpret this poem, one of my favorites since junior high. I have long wondered about the meaning of the title, but it is yet to be understood.

XXXVIII - Gustavo Adolfo Becquer

Los suspiros son aire y van al aire,

Las lágrimas son agua y van al mar.

Dime, mujer, cuando el amor se olvida

¿sabes tú adónde va?

Marc Chagall, Lovers' Dream