Kim Hyesoon - Mirk/Murk

 

 

In November, SLEEP would not come.  

By November nights, all the STARS on the ceiling LIT UP.     

Come November,  my chest grew so BRIGHT,  my eyes wouldn't SHUT. 

     Cold, well water, higher than my head,

sloshing PERILOUSLY as I walked.  

Mirk and Murk lay inside a BLUE baketsu with CLENCHED fists.  

CLAMPED DOWN, like a PIANO with a TOOTHACHE.

  

 

MIRK wore the clouds;  MURK wore the shadows.  

 Mirk was battered by wind;  MURK clung to the sea.  

MIRK called it the SCENT of FLESH;  Murk called it the SCENT of WATER.  

MIRK DESPISED sunlight;  MURK’s feet were COLD.

MIRK would NOT EAT,  and MURK would NOT DRINK.  

Even as I ATE,  I was NOT THERE;  

Even as I DRANK,  I was NOT THERE.  

MIRK was SHATTERED,  and MURK was in PIECES.  MIRK was BLOWN APART,  and MURK was SCATTERED AWAY.

My skin CRACKED like a barely fitted JIGSAW PUZZLE.

 Mirk WEEPT for days past,  and Murk WEEPT for days gone.

 Mirk ATE the SOAP,  
and Murk BECAME the LAUNDRY.

  I wrapped a SCARF of wet LAUNDRY around my neck like Saturn’s RINGS.

  Mirk had a TONGUE of ICE,  and Murk had EYEBALLS of ICE.

      My SHOULDERS ached from HAULING the ICE.

 

 

 

 

 

Mirk on her left shoulder, Murk on her right. A woman appeared, carrying a full water-yoke— 

Like a Tibetan grandmother spinning her prayer wheel, chanting mantras, Mumbling Heaven Hell, Heaven Hell, over and over—

She poured a baketsu of Mirk and Murk right under my skin, then left.

 

Kim Soo-young is  Kim Soo-young-YOUNG-YOUNG,  

Kim Choon-soo is  Kim Choon-soo-soo-SOO,  

Kim Jong-sam is  Kim JONG-SAM-SAM-sam,  

RIGHT foot after LEFT foot,  

2 after 1,  
3 after 2,  

AND AFTER MIRK comes MURK.  

 

On a night filled with the world’s arithmetic, 

 

my revered poets hang from death’s umbilical cord.

 

Colly to Melan,

 

December to November  —  

 

MIRK combed the FALLING RAIN, MURK COMBED THE falling rain.

 

MIRK put a white sneaker on the left, Murk put a white sneaker on the right.

 

I lay across the INSTEPS of my FEET TWO WHITE BIRDS 

 

with SEVERED STRINGS.

 

 And so I was trapped, unable to go anywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For this one poem, I would like to add a few more:

 

A poem originally written by Kim Hyesoon, 

the original title will directly translate to gloom or melancholia. 

While skimming through the synonym dictionaries, I had found a set of syllables, mirk and murk, 

that I am at this point in time not familiar with. 

 

Please consider this translation as a draft. It is too early to write my bad alias o beneath it.

 

until then,

S