Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Kim Yideum

I DIDN’T WRITE THIS POEM

I didn’t write this poem. 

Some words were scribbled in ink,
Some notes were written with a blunt pencil smudged by spit,
and some of the words were underlined in red. 

I put on my glasses to revise carefully.
In some places, I make up a few words on a whim
because I can’t read the handwriting.
Sometimes I jot down words
as if they were dictated to me
and I were a clerk at a resume service.

I didn’t write this.
I went on a picnic by myself. 

Somebody cries out from the tip of a branch in the forest
when water spills from a rock or a dead bird’s feathers flutter.

I untie the ribbon and open the red book. 
I caress you.

The warmth of your cheeks, the softness of your hair.
You are like a cracker drenched in syrup,
a still-soft cake stuck in its pan.
I can’t pull you out.
I can only read the book I’ve made out of you.

You’re an old song, a letter sealed with a kiss.
You’ve failed to seal me.
You’re bones that glitter like jewels.
You’re a book that I’ve written, that I footlessly stomp on.
I merely filter you, polish you,
and transcribe you, you who flow away from me.

So I didn’t write this poem.

My words begin with you, silent inside me.
You’re this poem’s end, and its limit.

DIT GEDICHT IS NIET VAN MIJ

Dit gedicht is niet van mij.

Deels met vulpen neergekrabbeld
deels met een slijmerig potloodrestje op papier gedrukt
en deels met rood onderstreept.

Ik zet mijn bril op en redigeer het nauwkeurig.
Hier en daar voeg ik wat woorden toe
omdat ik het handschrift niet kan lezen.
Soms schrijf ik zinnen alsof iemand ze me dicteert
als een klerk in dienst van een cv-coach. 

Dit gedicht heb ik niet geschreven.
Ik ben een dagje weg, picknick in mijn eentje.

Zodra er water van een rots af stroomt of een dode vogel met zijn vleugels fladdert
roept iemand ergens in het bos vanaf het einde van een tak.

Ik knoop het lint los en sla het rode boek open.
Ik streel je.

De warmte van je wang, je zachte haar.
Je bent als een cracker in een bad van stroop
een versgebakken taart in een bakvorm.
Ik krijg je niet los.
Ik kan alleen lezen uit het boek dat ik van je heb gemaakt.

Je bent een oud lied, een met een kus verzegelde brief.
Maar je hebt verzuimd mij te verzegelen.
Je bent een skelet dat straalt als een juweel.
Een boek dat ik geschreven heb, dat ik zonder voeten vertrap.
Ik filter je slechts, polijst je
en transcribeer je, terwijl je ongestoord van me wegdrijft.

Dit gedicht heb ik dus niet geschreven.

Mijn woorden beginnen bij jou, geruisloos in mijn binnenste.
Jij, zowel de grens als het eindpunt van dit gedicht.

제가 쓴 시가 아닙니다

이건 내가 쓴 시가 아니에요

대충 만년필로 휘갈긴 것도 있고
침 묻힌 몽당연필로 꾹꾹 눌러쓰고 빨간 밑줄을 그은 것도 있네요

나는 안경을 쓰고 세심하게 윤문하지만
알아볼 수 없는 글자 때문에 제멋대로 몇 자 넣을 때도 있어요
간혹 자기소개서 대행업체 직원같이 불러주는 대로 받아 적을 때도 있답니다

이 시는 내가 쓴 시가 아닙니다
난 혼자 피크닉을 떠났어요

바위에서 물이 쏟아지고 죽은 새의 깃털이 펄럭일 때
숲 속의 가지 끝에서 누군가 웁니다
리본을 풀고 붉은 책을 펼칩니다
나는 당신을 만집니다

뺨의 체온 머리칼의 감촉
나는 당신을 다 꺼내놓을 수 없습니다
시럽에 빠뜨린 크래커를 건지듯
따뜻한 틀 속의 쿠키를 꺼내듯
단지 나는 당신을 가지고 만든 책을 봅니다

당신은 키스로 봉한 편지처럼 오래된 노래
나를 봉하는 데 실패한 사람
보석처럼 빛나는 유골
없는 발로 꾹꾹 눌러쓴 책
단지 나는 당신을 여과하고 퇴고하고
나와 상관없이 흐르는 당신을 옮겨 적습니다

그러니 이 시는 내가 쓴 게 아닙니다

내 안에 침묵한 당신은 내 말의 시작
이 시의 끝이고 한계

Close

I DIDN’T WRITE THIS POEM

I didn’t write this poem. 

Some words were scribbled in ink,
Some notes were written with a blunt pencil smudged by spit,
and some of the words were underlined in red. 

I put on my glasses to revise carefully.
In some places, I make up a few words on a whim
because I can’t read the handwriting.
Sometimes I jot down words
as if they were dictated to me
and I were a clerk at a resume service.

I didn’t write this.
I went on a picnic by myself. 

Somebody cries out from the tip of a branch in the forest
when water spills from a rock or a dead bird’s feathers flutter.

I untie the ribbon and open the red book. 
I caress you.

The warmth of your cheeks, the softness of your hair.
You are like a cracker drenched in syrup,
a still-soft cake stuck in its pan.
I can’t pull you out.
I can only read the book I’ve made out of you.

You’re an old song, a letter sealed with a kiss.
You’ve failed to seal me.
You’re bones that glitter like jewels.
You’re a book that I’ve written, that I footlessly stomp on.
I merely filter you, polish you,
and transcribe you, you who flow away from me.

So I didn’t write this poem.

My words begin with you, silent inside me.
You’re this poem’s end, and its limit.

I DIDN’T WRITE THIS POEM

I didn’t write this poem. 

Some words were scribbled in ink,
Some notes were written with a blunt pencil smudged by spit,
and some of the words were underlined in red. 

I put on my glasses to revise carefully.
In some places, I make up a few words on a whim
because I can’t read the handwriting.
Sometimes I jot down words
as if they were dictated to me
and I were a clerk at a resume service.

I didn’t write this.
I went on a picnic by myself. 

Somebody cries out from the tip of a branch in the forest
when water spills from a rock or a dead bird’s feathers flutter.

I untie the ribbon and open the red book. 
I caress you.

The warmth of your cheeks, the softness of your hair.
You are like a cracker drenched in syrup,
a still-soft cake stuck in its pan.
I can’t pull you out.
I can only read the book I’ve made out of you.

You’re an old song, a letter sealed with a kiss.
You’ve failed to seal me.
You’re bones that glitter like jewels.
You’re a book that I’ve written, that I footlessly stomp on.
I merely filter you, polish you,
and transcribe you, you who flow away from me.

So I didn’t write this poem.

My words begin with you, silent inside me.
You’re this poem’s end, and its limit.

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère