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The Korean Poet Kim Chi HaAuthor(s): DENISE LEVERTOVSource: The American Poetry Review, Vol. 4, No. 4 (July/August 1975), pp. 46-47Published by: American Poetry ReviewStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/27775026.

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PENISE LEVERTOVDenise Levertov recently published The Poet In The World (New Directions), a book ofprose about poetry and the poet.

The Korean Poet Kim Chi HaThe Korean poet, Kim Chi Ha,is under threat of death. Somereaders may recall having seen areport in February of his havingbeen freed, with other critics ofthe Park regime, from the deathsentence for an alleged studentplot to topple the Seoul Government. International pressure atthat time did result in a Presidential decree suspending his sentence?but he was rearrested amonth later on charges of being aCommunist?which in South Korea means execution. Kim is infact a Christian, as his workattests, though a Christian, cer

tainly, of that essential kind thatsees in the Gospel a powerfulrevolutionary message."Aah. Now I have it," says theKing in one of Kim Chi Ha'sfables, who can't understand whythe people?whose livers he wishes to devour "on doctor's orders'-Lshow no fear of him and even callout "Go to Hell " and "Stoptelling lies" when he demandsthattheyslit their ellies open forhisfbenefit, but pretends that hewill eventually give them back?"Aah... Your fearlessness comesfrom... that cursed Jesus."He pretended to bear all the burdensand agony of human beings.He was humbly born, a carpenter.But he was ambitious.By calling himself the Son ofHeaven.He misled the world and confused the

people by means of promises andrumors.He deserved blame and he deserved

death.He lacked due appreciation for thepower ofRome.It's not Jesus the people should dependon, but the six-shooter.

And he not only fires his sixshooter but brings to bear all hisroyal rifles, machine guns, cannons, tanks, and planes?yet failsto destroy the bleeding but nevertheless inviolate small statue ofJesus he so fears.With our own political prisoners?for instance, Martin Sostre,T. J. Reddy, the Nebraska Two,Eddie Sanchez, and many manymore, some of them also writersand artists?largely ignored bythe intellectual, artistic "community," there is perhaps littlereason to hope that public opinionwill be vigorous in the struggle tosave the life of a Korean poet. Yetsometimes, ironically, the distantand exotic seems to act upon thephrenological bump of indignationwhen homegrown outrages fail todo so. Many a tear was shed forSolzhenitsyn when he was sentinto exile by eyes that stay dry forSostre. Perhaps Americans will

only learn to comprehend internalstruggle through arousal in behalfof someone far away (but whoseoppression comes from a government we, that is the U.S., helpedto establish as another bit of theAsian *'domino*' mosaic). Listedas members of the InternationalCommittee to support Kim ChiHa one does of course findAmerican names?the familiar,honorable names of, for example,Howard Zinn, Noam Chomsky,Dorothy Day. And AmericanPEN, headed these days, thankGod, by Muriel Rukeyser, isbacking his struggle likewise.Yet, as often before, one can'thelp askingwhy it is always onlythese indefatigable people whosenames one sees on all the defensecommittees, appeals, petitions.Where are all the other poets,writers, artists, intellectuals ingeneral? The readers of APR?Why does each campaign have tostart from scratch?Kim has said of himself, "I'mnot a Solzhenitsyn, you know..."We have here a person who takesno personal pride and pleasure inmartyrdom?yet is being martyred in a bloodiness to which theSolzhenitsyn affair cannot becompared. Perhaps people's willto attempt useful action in Kim'sbehalf (as distinct from an inactive "sympathy" which will donothing to save life and limb) maybest be stimulated in these pagesby trying to give some idea ofwhat kind of a writer he is (thoughof course, as he would undoubtedly be the first to agree, the moralobligation to decry torture, persecution, oppression of all kindsought to be felt as keenly in behalfof the inarticulate, the obscureand ungifted, as for the mosttalented).The English translations inCryof the People and Other Poems(Autumn Press, Tokyo) are unfortunately the well-meant but somewhat inept, and inevitably hasty,work of a group of his supporterswho, as they themselves statedisarmingly in a prefatory note,"are not poets. Much of the purelypoetic character of the...originalshas been lost in the process, forwhich the translators take fullresponsibility." The English is,on a basic level, somewhat lessthan adequate?viz. "trouts" for"trout," "Feodora" for "Fedora"(hat), an inexplicable "grande"for "grand," "brooch" misspelled"broach," and so on. That severalhands undertook the task and didnot always work in aestheticharmony is likewise evident; inone place one will have theidiomatic andeffective) ropping

of the personal pronoun:Wish I were a bird,water, or else wind....Wish the blue were the sea.

But when that is followedby"Could the sea gleam even inmybrief dream?" the effect is to makeone wonder if the absence of "I"really was idiomatic, since thesentence beginning with "Could"definitely is not. Again, in a longpoem (the title poem) that isuncompromisingly topical, suchantique rhetoric as "Frame notthe innocent...Create not incidents.." etc., are unfortunaterenderings. Nevertheless thereemerges, to the reader willing toexpend a little empathic energy onthese poems, a voice?the voice ofa poet. It is, it seems to me, arather Mayakovskyan voice, having that tone which, despiteequally poor translations of Mayakovsky, we know as a peculiarblending of lyricism and satire:Kim is said to think of himself as ahumorist. In disclaiming the roleof "a Solzhenitsyn" he said (in aninterview), "My problem is nothing... I'm Kim Chi Ha. Not atragic figure. A comic, like thesebad teeth ofmine. I feel happy inany situation." But at the sametime (1972)he spoke of his "pity,deep pity, for the government...But I think when one cannotmanage power, one must give itup." And: "One hundred seventyof my friends were tortured inMarch. But that's not new. Theytortured them this year and twoyears ago and five years ago. It'sa part of life for those around me.Sunday is my confirmation dayand I must forgive them (thegovernment and the Korean CIA)but I can't. Even after I'm deadI'll not be able to forgive them. Iwant to, but I can't." While Kim,in some poems, appears to fusethe lyrical and satirical elements,he also writes poems that are notin the least satirical. The firstthird of the book presents"straight" elegaic lyrics whichthese lines may represent:

Farewell, farewell.Passing the low silvery hills,Passing the dancing flowersIn the quivering shade of the grove,Vanishing cityWhere my bloody youth was buried,Farewell.Winds fluttering restlesslyAmong the fallen shacks,Among the collapsed fences.Sunrays yelling, tearing apart the

yellow earth.Heavy silenceSuppresses the crying all around,

And in the heart, sadness burns.More dynamic, and undoubtedlymore indicative of the poet'soriginality and strength, however,is the somewhat Lorca-like "The

Sun":The sun was only as wide as a man's

foot.Not a single person knows of thecyclone approaching,

Steadily approaching.In the fields, however,The leaves dance to and fro in thewind?The wind has been known to move

mountains.The waves are not quiet for a moment.Do you know that the blade has at lastcorroded?You would not know though the windhowled by.The sun was only as wide as a man 's

foot. Idiot sunThe fire-tempered steel melts in thefire;The water-reared city falls asleep in thewater.No one knows, nowOn the streets, every night,People let out cries from their nightmares.Sometimes people go mad Do youknow?You probably don't know that the bladehas corroded.

Do you know or don't you?Was there ever a night when you werenot whipped?There was probably never a day whenrocks did not fly at you.Never a day, of courseLike being worn away by water,Like a boulder being constantly worn

away?like thatI say the day will comeThe old sword's blade rotted away?while weeping?When it cannot even cut the windwhile weeping aloud?Do you know the rusted blade?The sun's an idiot. Do you know?The sun was only as wide as a man'sfoot. Do you know or not?

Damn itYou could not be expected to know.

The second third of the bookconsists of satirical poems thatoften?in these versions at anyrate?are formally prose parablesor fables, rather than strict poems. It is in these that I see afusion of lyric and satiric?thelyric (aside, of course, from whatever sonic felicities may exist intheKorean) residing in the surrealimages and situations. In onesuch bizarre fable, "The Origin ofa Sound," the protagonist?akind of easygoing Everyman, "aninnocent and decent man whocould livewithout laws telling himhow to behave," but who isconsistently luckless, at last isdriven to exclaim, "What a bitchthis world is "?and for this well

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justified complaint is arrested,and accused of "standing on hisown two feet and spreadinggroundless rumors/' This turnsout (elaborated upon) to be acrime against the state, and so thefollowing sentence is pronounced:"That from the body of the accusedshall be cutoff immediately, after the closing ofthis court,

One head, so that he may not be able tothinkup or spread groundless rumors

anymore,Two legs, so that he may not insolentlystand onthe ground on his own two feet anymore,One penis and two testicles, so that he

may notproduce another, seditious like

himself.And after this is done, since thereexists a greatdanger of his attempting to

Resist, his two hands shall be tiedtogether behindhis back, his trunk shall beTied with a wet leather vest, and histhroat shall

be stuffed with a hard and longlasting

voice-preventing tool, and then heshall be

placed in confinementFor five hundred years from this date. ""No " he cries out.Snip"No, my penis is gone " snip snap"My testicles too, no, no." crack"My neck, oh my neck is gone." hackhack"No, my two legs also gone. "Hand

cuffs, leathervest, voice-preventing tool.So they brutally shoved the fellowAn-Dointo a solitary cell.Click

The locks were locked...An-Do continues to cry out inprotest, and tells the wild geese totell his mother that he swears toreturn, "even if I am dead...whatever happens."

And then An-Do wanted to sing, but hehad nohead. He wanted to cry, but he hadno eyes.He wanted to shout, but he had novoice.

With neither voice nor tears, he criedsoundlessly

day after day, night after night,sheddingblood-red tears,Crying soundlessly in thedepths ofhissoul, cryingno, no, no.

Roll,Roll your trunk.An-Do rolled over and over,Back and forth from wall to wall,

kung, backand forth from wall to wall,continuously,

KungAnd one more time Kung and againKungKungKung

And the poem ends with therevelation that the mysterioussound, Kung, which has beentroubling all hearers, ismade bythe endless rolling back and forthof An-Do's headless, limbless,faithful trunk. And those whoknow this "as they whisper thisstory in the streets of Seoul, have

a strange fire in their eyes."Finally, there is a title poem, along, didactic piece in two-linestanzas (one wonders if in theoriginal they are rhymed couplets)which strikes me as less aesthetically successful, though it wasconsidered all too successful aspolitical statement and was thecause of his arrest in 1974. In it hedeals indetail with act after act ofthe Park regime; its brutal exploitation of the people and the land isnot generalized about, merely, butreferred to in inexorable specifics.A few examples: the stanza thattells us, "For the export trade instone/Even tombstones are notsacred" carries a note, "A reference to the Yi dynasty tombstones that have been sold to theJapanese for use in the latter'sstone gardens." Others need nonotes:

In collaboration with oil men,Refineries are established;Expressways are builtTo consume more oil...

and so on, untilRelying on imported oil,Our coal mines left to rot;Dependent on imports only,Our own resources ignored;Domestic industry lies desolate,Dependence on foreign capital

complete.

Bankrupt industry inducedTo suck the blood of labor;Pollution industries imported,The people choked to death... *

It iswithout doubt a useful pieceofwriting, though it is not poetry.And it becomes, towards its end,a rallying cry that must indeed bean inspiration to those activelyengaged with Kim in a struggleagainst an oppression so heavythat, for instance, in 1971, aworker, who had tried unsuccessfully to organize Seoul's garmentworkers, burned himself to deathto protest Korean labor's inabilityto improve its conditions. But ifwe had only this poem to go by,we would not think Kim a poet,though we would note his abilityas a polemicist, and appreciate hissheer courage. Fortunately wehave his other work too.Kim is only 34. He has alreadybecome a voice of the people, aspokesman for inarticulate millions. His potential as a writer isstrong. He could conceivablybecome a world-poet, a NazimHikmet or a Pablo Neruda. Hemay already be, I am prepared tobelieve, (translation difficultiesbeing taken into account) of therank (a rank as fine, though not asbroad in range and appeal asHikmet and Neruda) of, say,Attila Josef, Miguel Hernandez,* This last does in fact have a note: "Thegovernment's desire to promote theexpansion of the heavy and chemicalindustrieshas led it to permit foreignenterprises to pollute the environmentwithout restriction."

Nguyen Cong Thi, Miklos Radnoti (I am thinking of poets passionately involved in political struggle, human rights; and no aptAmerican name comes tomind, atleast here where I am writing inthe south ofMexico, far frommypoetry shelves. GwendolynBrooks, perhaps.) At the veryleast, he is evidently a writer oforiginality, vigor, and that courage to continue writing under themost dangerous circumstances,the thought of which makes oneless than sympathetic to some ofthe so-called problems of manywriters in?or at least on theborders of?well-cushioned academia. When one sees a picture ofKim tightly bound?elbows tosides, wrists to elbows, eventighter than Bobby Seale atChicago?and thinks of the crueltortures he is right now enduringand of the great waste of gifts hisdeath would mean, itputs one in arage. May all of us feel that rageand make it a rage fruitful inaction; not one that merely expends itself in useless internalbitterness. Don't let Kim's ownwords fulfill their prophecy:

No going home,even ifyou rise,see the bloodstains on the wall,hear the shrieks of ghosts come backand tremble

The room with footstepsheavy on the ceiling all night long,back and forth.faceless, disembodied laughtercomes mocking and arrogant fromabove.

I shall not return having once steppedinto this place.

Those who want to appeal onKim Chi Ha's behalf should write:President Park Chung Hee, Seoul,South Korea; Minister of CultureWon Kyung Lee, Seoul; Ministerof Justice Sanduk Hwang, Seoul;your Congressman and Senators,President Ford and SecretaryKissinger.

MARTINGROSSMAN

1973Refugees attacked the border at dawnand broke their faces & handson the sides of several mountainsInmy housethewindows open and close by themselvesand the hollow arm fillswith dustI stalk this cage of sweatlooking foran angel

while pursuing my unborn childrenOutside the dark lake walksremembering its hour full of fishA bird falls from a grey cloudIwatch thewater evaporate into the skybecoming a fog inwhich nothing lives

The first edition of theHOLLOWSPRING REVIEW, a tri-annual journal of modern poetry, is planned forpublication in the fallof 1975.The purpose of theREVIEW will beto feature poems of exceptional qualityon any subject.Preference will be givento those writers who have had limitedpublication, or who have yet to bepublished. Manuscripts by writers whohave been published are also cordiallywelcomed to submit their works forconsideration.

Deadline for submission:November 15, 1975Please include a self-addressed envelope with return postage attached.HOLLOW SPRING REVIEW

Alex Harvey, EditorP. O. Box 76Berkshire, Massachusetts 01224

July/August975 Page 47

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