Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Kim Hyesoon

BULGASAR

I leave my starfish in the Pacific,
leave my cuckoo in Tibet,
leave my sloth in the Amazon
and I grow old like this, cooking and lecturing.

On the tundra, I bind my fingers to a conifer.
In the Arctic, I bury my pupils inside a snow-bank.
And in the Pacific depths, I leave my heart to melt.
Like this, I eat, sleep, drink, and even laugh.

Then, grief blows in from Sumeru.
All year long, tears fall from the bottom of an ice-sheet that won’t melt. 
And then a fever shows up from the Sahara,
a place covered in cacti that can’t close their mouths;
needles stick out from their tongues.
Inside their mouths it is as hot as lava.

So, starfish, my wild starfish, stop coming back for me.
They say you came from a grain of rice.
They say you can grow as tall as a house, a mountain top.
Don’t come back—
even if a gutter forms each night under the bed
from all my tears.
The gutter is not your home.
If you come again, I’ll stick a star in my hair and the entire
night of the world will explode inside me.

A new day comes, clear like the sky after a typhoon.
When I slip on my dead, gutter-rat shoes and stand here in the street,
why are my arms, my legs, my limbs so far away?
Even when my body is this small . . . 
even with my butterflies blowing in from each direction?
I must have gotten wrecked inside this body after being
chased by all the wind inside this world.
My arms and legs fly in each direction. My head gets cloudy.

I crawl, step by step over the tundra
because I always lack oxygen.
My disease is being on time,
but I must go out to be on time.

Someone watches me a long time.
Disappears.
My feet are no longer in sight.

Both feet start to walk away, then run
like wolves into the mountain.

ZEESTER


ik laat mijn zeester* achter in de Stille Oceaan
ik laat mijn koekoek achter in Tibet
ik laat mijn luiaard achter in het Amazone-regenwoud
ik kook ik geef colleges en zo word ik oud
 
ik bind mijn vingers aan een naaldboom op de toendra
ik begraaf mijn ogen in de sneeuwhopen van de Noordpool
ik laat mijn hart in de diepten van de Stille Oceaan
zo eet slaap drink en lach ik zelfs
 
daardoor blaast vanuit Sumeru** een koude wind
vanonder een ijsschol die een jaar lang niet smelt duiken koude tranen op
daardoor duikt er koorts op vanuit de Sahara
in dat verre oord vol cactussen die hun lippen
niet aaneen krijgen door de naalden in hun tong
is mijn open mond vanbinnen heet als lava
 
zoek mij dus niet constant op mijn zeester gestoorde zeester
men zegt dat jij werd gemaakt van een portie rijst
men zegt dat jij zo groot wordt als een huis als een bergtop
kom hier niet terug al worden mijn nachtelijke koude tranen
vol verlangen naar jou een greppel onder het bed
die greppel is geen plek waar jij kunt leven
als jij mij telkens opzoekt steek ik een ster in mijn haren
en spat in mijn lijf de hele nacht van de wereld uiteen
 
als heldere ochtend na de storm wordt het een zorgeloze nieuwe dag
en sta ik op straat in schoeisel van twee dode rioolratten
dan komen uit alle windrichtingen mijn vlinders aangevlogen
waarom is mijn lichaam zo klein en waarom zijn dan mijn armen
mijn hoofd mijn benen mijn ledematen zo ver van mij vandaan
door alle winden van de wereld achtervolgd lijk ik in dit lichaam
wel schipbreuk te hebben geleden mijn armen en benen
schieten in alle richtingen weg mijn geest verwijdert zich
 
onder constant zuurstoftekort gaan mijn voetstappen over de toendra
de tijd al te goed in de gaten te houden is mijn ziekte maar
nu moet ik op het juiste moment eropuit
 
iemand staart mij een tijdje aan vliegt dan ver van mij vandaan
mijn voeten komen niet in mijn blikveld
 
mijn voeten verwijderen zich pas voor pas gaan er
als wolven naar die berg in de verte vandoor

Close

BULGASAR

I leave my starfish in the Pacific,
leave my cuckoo in Tibet,
leave my sloth in the Amazon
and I grow old like this, cooking and lecturing.

On the tundra, I bind my fingers to a conifer.
In the Arctic, I bury my pupils inside a snow-bank.
And in the Pacific depths, I leave my heart to melt.
Like this, I eat, sleep, drink, and even laugh.

Then, grief blows in from Sumeru.
All year long, tears fall from the bottom of an ice-sheet that won’t melt. 
And then a fever shows up from the Sahara,
a place covered in cacti that can’t close their mouths;
needles stick out from their tongues.
Inside their mouths it is as hot as lava.

So, starfish, my wild starfish, stop coming back for me.
They say you came from a grain of rice.
They say you can grow as tall as a house, a mountain top.
Don’t come back—
even if a gutter forms each night under the bed
from all my tears.
The gutter is not your home.
If you come again, I’ll stick a star in my hair and the entire
night of the world will explode inside me.

A new day comes, clear like the sky after a typhoon.
When I slip on my dead, gutter-rat shoes and stand here in the street,
why are my arms, my legs, my limbs so far away?
Even when my body is this small . . . 
even with my butterflies blowing in from each direction?
I must have gotten wrecked inside this body after being
chased by all the wind inside this world.
My arms and legs fly in each direction. My head gets cloudy.

I crawl, step by step over the tundra
because I always lack oxygen.
My disease is being on time,
but I must go out to be on time.

Someone watches me a long time.
Disappears.
My feet are no longer in sight.

Both feet start to walk away, then run
like wolves into the mountain.

BULGASAR

I leave my starfish in the Pacific,
leave my cuckoo in Tibet,
leave my sloth in the Amazon
and I grow old like this, cooking and lecturing.

On the tundra, I bind my fingers to a conifer.
In the Arctic, I bury my pupils inside a snow-bank.
And in the Pacific depths, I leave my heart to melt.
Like this, I eat, sleep, drink, and even laugh.

Then, grief blows in from Sumeru.
All year long, tears fall from the bottom of an ice-sheet that won’t melt. 
And then a fever shows up from the Sahara,
a place covered in cacti that can’t close their mouths;
needles stick out from their tongues.
Inside their mouths it is as hot as lava.

So, starfish, my wild starfish, stop coming back for me.
They say you came from a grain of rice.
They say you can grow as tall as a house, a mountain top.
Don’t come back—
even if a gutter forms each night under the bed
from all my tears.
The gutter is not your home.
If you come again, I’ll stick a star in my hair and the entire
night of the world will explode inside me.

A new day comes, clear like the sky after a typhoon.
When I slip on my dead, gutter-rat shoes and stand here in the street,
why are my arms, my legs, my limbs so far away?
Even when my body is this small . . . 
even with my butterflies blowing in from each direction?
I must have gotten wrecked inside this body after being
chased by all the wind inside this world.
My arms and legs fly in each direction. My head gets cloudy.

I crawl, step by step over the tundra
because I always lack oxygen.
My disease is being on time,
but I must go out to be on time.

Someone watches me a long time.
Disappears.
My feet are no longer in sight.

Both feet start to walk away, then run
like wolves into the mountain.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère