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| 0003182897 | 811.15 -25-576 | 서울관 인문자연과학자료실(314호) | 이용가능 |
출판사 책소개
“Tears, Such Beautiful Waterdrops”
It’s been fifty-three years since I started writing poetry. I have tried to make a set of clothes that can withstand the cold wind with every stitch.
A poet is someone who hands a bunch of warm words to the world. Each bunch of words is a bag containing the poet's unique fragrance. When the bag is opened, the fragrance goes flying toward the world. Therefore, a poet is a lover of words, a companion of words, a servant of words. Even on painful days, on meeting him, the pain gets better.
The Poet’s Words
“Waterdrops are round. Waterdrops are beautiful.
The waterdrops that have soaked my whole body then returned, are teardrops.
Just as blades of grass bend, holding waterdrops for a long time, I will accept this separation and endure it for a long time.
I will wash away the utterly wretched separation with teardrops.
Before the earth grows old, we must share green love.”
Tears, such beautiful waterdrops
The name sorrow lives in sorrow.
Like a tree waiting for spring, I live by waiting.
I walk to the world’s remote house
embracing beautiful longing like a book.
Tough the silver thread of sunlight breaks,
the string of waiting does not break.
When I call your name, you flocks of butterflies
with tens of thousands of wings come to me,
and the wind blows to the end of the world made by sorrow.
Family, my eternally dependent family,
you body of time that share my heart
like leaves sharing dew in the air,
you to whom I want to give the most precious thing,
the only precious thing I have is tears,
and tears only moisten, they do not break.
tears, such beautiful waterdrops
It’s been fifty-three years since I started writing poetry. I have tried to make a set of clothes that can withstand the cold wind with every stitch.
A poet is someone who hands a bunch of warm words to the world. Each bunch of words is a bag containing the poet's unique fragrance. When the bag is opened, the fragrance goes flying toward the world. Therefore, a poet is a lover of words, a companion of words, a servant of words. Even on painful days, on meeting him, the pain gets better.
The Poet’s Words
“Waterdrops are round. Waterdrops are beautiful.
The waterdrops that have soaked my whole body then returned, are teardrops.
Just as blades of grass bend, holding waterdrops for a long time, I will accept this separation and endure it for a long time.
I will wash away the utterly wretched separation with teardrops.
Before the earth grows old, we must share green love.”
Tears, such beautiful waterdrops
The name sorrow lives in sorrow.
Like a tree waiting for spring, I live by waiting.
I walk to the world’s remote house
embracing beautiful longing like a book.
Tough the silver thread of sunlight breaks,
the string of waiting does not break.
When I call your name, you flocks of butterflies
with tens of thousands of wings come to me,
and the wind blows to the end of the world made by sorrow.
Family, my eternally dependent family,
you body of time that share my heart
like leaves sharing dew in the air,
you to whom I want to give the most precious thing,
the only precious thing I have is tears,
and tears only moisten, they do not break.
tears, such beautiful waterdrops
책속에서
[P.17] My Poetry
I often fall asleep at night with the words on, then even
in my sleep I wander around looking for warm words like
cotton clothes. It’s been fifty-three years since I started
writing poetry. I have tried to make a set of clothes that can
withstand the cold wind with every stitch. I have tried to
write poems like the sound of rain falling on sesame leaves,
the wind blowing through reeds, the green leaves where bugs
sleep, the first flower buds hanging from the tips of branches,
apricot blossoms that I see when I get off at a small station,
I have tried to write poems like a scarf knitted by my own
hands after picking up the fallen stitches, like the warmth of
a blanket that I put my frozen hands in when I come back
from school on a cold day. It’s still unfinished, please wait.
For this small promise, I will walk steadily without resting for
the rest of my days. Even though my steps are slow, I will go
toward you, soothing my sore feet, if you just wait, if you just
endure and wait. [P. 57] The word poetry
The word poetry breaks my ears open in a flash,
scales I had never heard before are reborn.
The wind bringing a congratulatory address,
the clouds reading a farewell address then leaving,
the green willow leaves of the reservoir waking up
and a tray of sunlight
rustling as it asks me to put something in it.
The blades of grass that have shaken off dew bring noon.
Someone keeps throwing the future in front of him.
A bouquet of words
brings to birth a constellation that was not there before.
A heart that asks where beauty is
is that beauty.
The shoes are heading toward a new life. [P. 85] Sorrow to joy
No matter how much I sing, the stars are not happy.
No matter how much I dance, the butterflies are not happy
I walked alone to meet joy.
The wild flowers frowned, asking to be called by my name.
The weight of sorrow cannot be measured
even if I hold it in my hand.
But today, I am happy alone.
I got a letter saying that after reading my poems,
you hugged the book tightly,
copied out a line, then fell asleep.
I often fall asleep at night with the words on, then even
in my sleep I wander around looking for warm words like
cotton clothes. It’s been fifty-three years since I started
writing poetry. I have tried to make a set of clothes that can
withstand the cold wind with every stitch. I have tried to
write poems like the sound of rain falling on sesame leaves,
the wind blowing through reeds, the green leaves where bugs
sleep, the first flower buds hanging from the tips of branches,
apricot blossoms that I see when I get off at a small station,
I have tried to write poems like a scarf knitted by my own
hands after picking up the fallen stitches, like the warmth of
a blanket that I put my frozen hands in when I come back
from school on a cold day. It’s still unfinished, please wait.
For this small promise, I will walk steadily without resting for
the rest of my days. Even though my steps are slow, I will go
toward you, soothing my sore feet, if you just wait, if you just
endure and wait. [P. 57] The word poetry
The word poetry breaks my ears open in a flash,
scales I had never heard before are reborn.
The wind bringing a congratulatory address,
the clouds reading a farewell address then leaving,
the green willow leaves of the reservoir waking up
and a tray of sunlight
rustling as it asks me to put something in it.
The blades of grass that have shaken off dew bring noon.
Someone keeps throwing the future in front of him.
A bouquet of words
brings to birth a constellation that was not there before.
A heart that asks where beauty is
is that beauty.
The shoes are heading toward a new life. [P. 85] Sorrow to joy
No matter how much I sing, the stars are not happy.
No matter how much I dance, the butterflies are not happy
I walked alone to meet joy.
The wild flowers frowned, asking to be called by my name.
The weight of sorrow cannot be measured
even if I hold it in my hand.
But today, I am happy alone.
I got a letter saying that after reading my poems,
you hugged the book tightly,
copied out a line, then fell asleep.
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