Tony's Web
Self Portrait
(자화상)
| poem by | Seo Jeong-ju (서정주) | |
|---|---|---|
| year of publication | 1939 | |
| poetry collection | Wha-Sa Jip (Flower Snake, 화사집), 1941 |
| 자화상 | Self Portrait | |
|---|---|---|
| 애비는 종이었다. 밤이 깊어도 오지 않았다. | Father was a servant. He never came home as the night deepened. | |
| 파뿌리같이 늙은 할머니와 대추꽃이 한 주 서 있을 뿐이었다. | There were only old Grandmother with snow-like hair and a flowering jujube tree. | |
| 어매는 달을 두고 풋살구가 꼭 하나만 먹고 싶다 하였으나…. | Coming due with me, Mother craved so much for just one fresh apricot, but no ... | |
| 흙으로 바람벽한 호롱불 밑에 | Under an oil lamp against the earthen wall, | |
| 손톱이 까만 에미의 아들. | the son of a mother with blackened fingernails. | |
| 갑오년이라든가 바다에 나가서는 돌아오지 않는다하는 | 1894 or thereabout, they say my maternal grandpa took to the sea and never returned, | |
| 외할아버지의 숱 많은 머리털과 그 커다란 눈이 나는 닮았다 한다. | whose thick thatch of hair and large eyes they say I take after. | |
| 스물세 해 동안 나를 키운 건 팔 할이 바람이다. | Eight of ten, it was the wind that raised me in my twenty-three years. | |
| 세상은 가도 가도 부끄럽기만 하드라. | Wherever I went in this world, I only had shame. | |
| 어떤 이는 내 눈에서 죄인을 읽고 가고 | Some saw me and read a sinner in my eyes | |
| 어떤 이는 내 입에서 천치를 읽고 가나 | and some only read idiocy from my mouth | |
| 나는 아무것도 뉘우치진 않을란다. | but I am not going to feel sorry for anything. | |
| 찬란히 틔어오는 어느 아침에도 | Even on those brilliantly dawning mornings | |
| 이마 위에 얹힌 시의 이슬에는 | the dew of poetry forming on my forehead | |
| 몇 방울의 피가 언제나 섞여 있어 | invariably had a few drops of blood mixed in, | |
| 빛이거나 그늘이거나 혓바닥 늘어뜨린 | which is how I have come this far, heaving like | |
| 병든 수캐 마냥 헐덕어리며 나는 왔다. | a sick dog with tongue hanging out, rain or shine. |
| 자화상 |
|---|
| 애비는 종이었다. 밤이 깊어도 오지 않았다. |
| 파뿌리같이 늙은 할머니와 대추꽃이 한 주 서 있을 뿐이었다. |
| 어매는 달을 두고 풋살구가 꼭 하나만 먹고 싶다 하였으나…. |
| 흙으로 바람벽한 호롱불 밑에 |
| 손톱이 까만 에미의 아들. |
| 갑오년이라든가 바다에 나가서는 돌아오지 않는다하는 |
| 외할아버지의 숱 많은 머리털과 그 커다란 눈이 나는 닮았다 한다. |
| 스물세 해 동안 나를 키운 건 팔 할이 바람이다. |
| 세상은 가도 가도 부끄럽기만 하드라. |
| 어떤 이는 내 눈에서 죄인을 읽고 가고 |
| 어떤 이는 내 입에서 천치를 읽고 가나 |
| 나는 아무것도 뉘우치진 않을란다. |
| 찬란히 틔어오는 어느 아침에도 |
| 이마 위에 얹힌 시의 이슬에는 |
| 몇 방울의 피가 언제나 섞여 있어 |
| 빛이거나 그늘이거나 혓바닥 늘어뜨린 |
| 병든 수캐 마냥 헐덕어리며 나는 왔다. |
| Self Portrait |
|---|
| Father was a servant. He never came home as the night deepened. |
| There were only old Grandmother with snow-like hair and a flowering jujube tree. |
| Coming due with me, Mother craved so much for just one fresh apricot, but no ... |
| Under an oil lamp against the earthen wall, |
| the son of a mother with blackened fingernails. |
| 1894 or thereabout, they say my maternal grandpa took to the sea and never returned, |
| whose thick thatch of hair and large eyes they say I take after. |
| Eight of ten, it was the wind that raised me in my twenty-three years. |
| Wherever I went in this world, I only had shame. |
| Some saw me and read a sinner in my eyes |
| and some only read idiocy from my mouth |
| but I am not going to feel sorry for anything. |
| Even on those brilliantly dawning mornings |
| the dew of poetry forming on my forehead |
| invariably had a few drops of blood mixed in, |
| which is how I have come this far, heaving like |
| a sick dog with tongue hanging out, rain or shine. |
photo from http://encykorea.aks.ac.kr
Self Portrait (자화상) is the first poem in the great poet Seo Jeong-ju (서정주)'s first poetry collection Wha-Sa Jip (Flower Snake). The works in this collection deal with profound and heavy subjects such as self-perpetuating life instincts, the deeper realm of the human psyche, and so on. This particular bent in the author's early works gave the poet the label of Lifist (생명파).
The work starts with a stark depiction of the birth of the author himself. You get the feeling that it foregoes any embellishment or euphemism in the brutally honest and naked scene of the humble birth, neglected by his own father so that the old grandmother is the only one around, in a dead poor shabby place, by a mother whose fingernails were black. It was really a rock bottom start.
The boy still survives and grows up, even though, in his own words, all he encountered in the world was shame. People see a sinner or a fool in him but he brushes it off, and won't apologize for anything.
He finds his share of brilliantly dawning mornings, in poetry in particular, but even that doesn't turn him into a nice docile person. He declares that he lived a life of a sick dog heaving with its tongue hanging out. It seems the instinct for survival is what kept him going, as he states what raised him was the wind more than anything else.
It is a narrative we don't see in poetic works every day, and is made all the more striking by the succinct yet impactful words. The author's direct, in-your-face kind of depiction touches your heart and puts the scene right before your eyes, so to speak, skipping any cerebral interpretation, which may be the hallmark of great poetry.
