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.
"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.
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