|
Kim Hyesoon's Sorrowpaste Mirrorcream (translated by Don Mee Choi) has been sitting on on a chair in my room since December, daring me to read it again, convinced that it had something different to tell me this time. After all, if it didn't have anything to say, wouldn't it have found its way back to the bookshelf? So I'm rereading it, and barely got three poems in when I had a very clear idea of what I wanted to write, and then five words in, it said "Surprise fucker, here's another poem entirely, write until it's finished! So, here it is. Fresh. Unedited. I'm going to back in and see if this book is trying to tell me anything else. What's Right, What's Left
I am sweeping the crumbs of you off my bed I am sweeping the empty like a birthday party magician I am sweeping the piles of skin to the floor Fertilizing the carpet which will grow dozens of versions of you every spring None of them quite as you but all of them the same fragile I am claiming the center of the bed neutral territory sweeping the empty of me into the stitch ridges I am not taking sides in the shadowing of blame I am mining the dresser for the last silt of you See how we are not entirely the bed though that's where it always starts I am opening the window to diffuse the smell of you I am opening the window to remember there is always outside I am opening the window to call in birds to pick your skin out of the carpet but the birds are afraid of my inside I am emptying the refrigerator of all the food you like even if I bought it for myself I don't ever again want to taste a thing that brought you joy I am overreacting I am regretting the lemon meringue in the trash I am thirsty for the apple juice I think you only drank apple juice because I bought it anyway Why am I letting you vinegar my apple juice? I am checking the drawers for what's missing I don't remember precisely what was mine and what was yours I don't remember precisely which us I am trying to forget I don't know if that means I am successful in the forgetting There is a beanstalk in my bedroom There is a beanstalk that can not possibly have grown from your skin cells There is a beanstalk that some errant bird must have planted while I was busy in the kitchen There can not possibly be a beanstalk in my bedroom because this is an apartment in a city in the twenty-first century and I am lactose intolerant and devoid of cows and magic I go to sleep I wake up to bats and am not dreaming I wake up to bats circling a beanstalk and am not dreaming I am covering my head under bankets no bats no bats no bats no beanstalk bats no beanstalk no batstalk no stalking bats There is a cyclone of bats in my doorway The only escape is up the beanstalk Why should I escape? Why should I follow some mystery out of my home? Why shouldn't I just live on this bed until morning until the bats retreat out the window until this bed is mine I say mine again Morning sneaks in through the window while I am searching for the thinning veil of bats Morning sneaks in through the window like he is you Morning sneaks in through the window and I pretend I haven't been waiting for him Morning sneaks in through the window but halts at the beanstalk Morning hates fairy tails Morning likes literal Morning likes just say what you want Morning rolls its clouds at the very idea of beanstalks Morning shoos the last bat to the attic of a neighbor's house Morning sees me eyeing him shrugs boulders next to me on the bed No more reason to sneak Morning knows it is caught Morning doesn't care Morning knows we are both different every time we see each other Morning doesn't care Morning withers the beanstalk to husked leaves that fertilize the carpet Morning doesn't know what to call you either but its being there sometimes is enough
0 Comments
Once I'd finished buying a majority of the books people recommended either for this project or just, in general, to read, I looked for obvious holes on my bookshelf. Was I lacking in Queer Writers? Writers from a particular continent? Translations? Form poets? I discovered there weren't enough poets of Asian descent, so I googled until I came across this Lithub article that was published shortly after a white poet, whose name doesn't deserve to be linked to or read, was published under an Asian pen name that he adopted. I ordered as many of the books as I could afford from online, and wandered the local bookstores, hoping to find some of their work there. My favorite-so-far recommendations from the article, is the combination of Don Mee Choi's The Morning News Is Exciting, and Don Mee Choi's translation of Kim Hyesoon's Sorrowtoothpaste Mirrorcream, selected by Christine Shan Shan Hou. I enjoy how she breaks out of traditional narrative with phrases or images that repeat for a while but not long enough to be mantric. My Mother Thinks I Don't Listen, My Father Thinks I Can't
The doctor points at the little race car carousel horsing up and down as the dot matrix paper spools itself from a table stack to results on the floor I press a button like a contestant on the world's most boring game show Can Adam Hear? Beep Press the button Beep a little higher Press the button Beep higher still Press the button Silence Wonder if i should be pressing the button The car drifts up? Left? I am a car Beep I drift like melody Waver and beep and Watch the road ahead The snowy white future of unplowed sound Then blank canvass of excuses Beep I am possible hearing aids Definite braces Beep Press the button Is any part of me working properly? The car drifts My mother winces My father is talking on the other side of the glass Beep Press the button Stuffed garfield lying prone next to the stack of Beep Press the button Smiling technician Beep Drifting What does this mean? This long silence between beeping My garfield wears a sweatband My so 80s garfield like a stuffed cat in an olivia newton-john video Stuffed cat from the newspaper famous for fat and lasagne This version marketed thin with aerobic outfits Probably likes mondays I am too fat Beep Press the button I can't silence right Can't smile pleasantly Press the button Maybe there was a beep there I'm no good at video games This stupid car ups and downs and Beep I think Technician grimaces I should stop looking Shut my Beep Press the button Maybe i hear better in the dark |
InteractionalityAn ongoing conversation between writers and the text that they're reading. Archives
December 2018
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed
