Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Kim Yideum

THE FINAL FUTURE

I was walking just after sunset. The calm night spread out purple like a lilac cloud. Near the garden, as I grew damp and knackered by the fragrances, the door of the house opened and a tall, slender man appeared.

This age might be the last where we really meet in real life. To that, I said, no fucking way. If you attack and stop you can breathe again. The last generation to quit smoking, those that remember the dead, the few last to have readings and recite poetry, all those 

people that brought the charcoal to keep the fire lit, that world has died. You attached a picture of grilling meat, and I said no fucking way. Spring and fall also vanished and they said that there won’t be public phones and no more post office boxes, and yet 

well, I also thought I’d be the last generation to have to wear school uniforms, and that my generation would be the last to have to do things like sewing, and video cassettes would vanish and yet… Just like always, why am I saying some shit like an idealist displaced from reality? To take refuge when night falls? There are landslides and tsunamis, but the sound of the cricket in the sea is like the god of the storm.

Every single day I say no fucking way. Yesterday at Gangnam station I screamed, no fucking way. While I shielded my head from falling people, I screamed louder and louder until the rock in my chest turned to white ash. 

If I had taken one step further into the garden in front of that house in South Bend, that Virginia man could’ve legally shot me dead. I could’ve been done like an African American grandma or grandpa because I wasn’t one of them.

Every catastrophe is quickly forgotten. I say no fucking way, but that’s always the case. What’re you going to do with that spool? Don’t look for a sewing needle, just go to the tailor. Don’t write their names on the tiles of roofs. Grandma, BANG, when you meet your lover, instead of postcards, handkerchiefs, or soup, bring a shotgun and a body bag. Say I love you so much, BANG! BANG! I hope you’ll be the last generation for the vegetation and the birds. Soon we’ll be placated by a future government that’ll tear off the limbs of our children and bury them in the mountains and seas.

This age might be the last where we meet in real life. Has the real world really ended? Is this the last poetry reading? I see you in the depths of the darkness. I face you every day. But looking at a lilac garden on a desktop is also very charming.

DE LAATSTE TOEKOMST

Ik liep in de schemering over straat. De vredige avond strekte zich uit als een wolk van violet. De geur van de tuin bedwelmde en vermoeide me, totdat de voordeur openzwaaide en een lange dunne man naar buiten stapte.

Misschien is dit het laatste tijdperk waarin we elkaar echt in levenden lijve ontmoeten. Dat zei je en ik antwoordde: ben je gek. Als je aanvalt en daarna het bijltje erbij neergooit kun je opgelucht ademhalen. De laatste generatie die stopt met roken, de laatste generatie die poëzie voordraagt bij een dodenherdenking, alle mensen

die houtskool op het vuurtje gooiden, die wereld is voorbij. Je stuurde een foto waarop je vlees staat te grillen en ik zei: ben je gek. Ze zeiden dat de seizoenen één zouden worden en dat telefooncellen en brievenbussen uit het straatbeeld zouden verdwijnen, maar

ja, ik had ook verwacht dat mijn generatie de laatste zou zijn geweest die een schooluniform moest dragen en dat er na mij niemand meer zou hoeven naaien en dat de videoband een stille dood zou sterven en… Waarom kraam ik toch altijd zulke onzin uit, als een soort idealist die compleet van de wereld losstaat? Vluchten als de avond valt? Er zijn lawines en tsunami's, maar krekelgeluiden op de bodem van de zee zijn de goden van de storm.

Elke dag zeg ik: ben je fucking gek. Gisteren schreeuwde ik het in Gangnam Station: ben je fucking gek. Terwijl ik de mensen die bijna op mijn hoofd vielen ontweek, schreeuwde ik het net zo lang tot de brandende rots in mijn borstkas veranderde in witte as.

Als ik een stap dichterbij die tuin in South Bend, Virginia had gezet, dan had de man wetmatig een kogel door mijn hoofd mogen jagen. Ik had net als zovele oude zwarte mannen en vrouwen aan mijn einde kunnen komen, omdat ik er niet bij hoorde.

Elke ramp wordt meteen weer vergeten, hoe vaak ik ook zeg: ben je fucking gek. Het staat muurvast. Wat ga je met al dat garen doen? Laat je naald en draad toch liggen, breng het naar een kleermaker. Schrijf hun namen niet op de daken. Oma, BAM, als je je geliefde gaat ontmoeten, neem dan geen zakdoek of soep of een ansichtkaart mee, maar een geweer en een lijkzak. Ik hou zo van je, BAM! Je wil bij me weg? BAM! BAM! Ik hoop dat je de laatste generatie voor de planten en de vogels bent. Binnenkort zijn we gewend aan een toekomst waarin de overheid onze kinderen ontdoet van hun ledematen en ze in de bergen en op zee begraaft.

Misschien is dit het laatste tijdperk waarin we elkaar echt in levenden lijve ontmoeten. Is de echte wereld nu echt voorbij? Is dit de laatste poëzievoordracht? Ik zie je in de verre duisternis en elke dag kijken we elkaar in de ogen. Maar op mijn scherm naar een tuin met viooltjes kijken heeft ook wel iets.

마지막 미래

해가 진 후 걸었다. 잔잔한 저녁이었고 라일락이 보랏빛 구름처럼 번졌다. 그 정원 가까이에서 내가 나른하게 향기에 젖었을 때, 현관문이 열리고 성큼 한 남자가 나왔다.

실제로 만나는 것만이 제대로인 만남인 시대는 두 번 다시 오지 않을 거야. 네가 그 말을 했을 때 나는 그럴 리 없다고 했다. 공격하면 끄고 편히 숨 쉬면 된다. 담배를 끊는 마지막 세대, 죽은 이를 기억하며 낭독회를 하는 마지막 몇몇.

뜨거운 숯을 들고 오는 사람은 더 이상은 없을 거라고, 한 세계는 끝났다고 했다. 너는 고기 구워 먹는 사진을 첨부했다. 나는 그럴 리 없다고 했다. 봄가을도 사라지고 드넓게 펼쳐진 거리 어디에도 공중전화나 우체통은 없을 거라고 했지만

글쎄, 나야말로 교복을 입는 마지막 세대일 거라고 예상했지만, 우리 세대 이후에는 아무도 바느질 같은 건 하지 않을 거고 비디오테이프도 사라질 거라고 했지만…… 그러나 여전히 나는 세상과 동떨어진 말을 하는 걸까? 밤이 오는데 피신하던 일은? 산사태와 해일이 있었다. 귀뚜라미 소리가 바다 속에서 폭풍의 신처럼.

나는 그럴 리 없다는 말을 매일매일 한다. 차차 더 크게, 어제는 강남역에서 소리쳤다. 가슴속에서 불타는 바위가 흰 재가 될 때까지. 머리 위로 떨어지는 사람들을 피해가며.

내가 한 발짝만 더 그 정원에 접근했다면, 버지니아 주의 사우스밴드에서 나는 그 집 남자가 쏜 총에 맞아 합법적으로 죽었을지 모른다. 몇 안 되는 주민이 아니므로 늙은 흑인에게도 일어났던 일.

재난이 올 때마다 곧 잊히겠죠, 나는 그럴 리 없다고 말하면서 확신한다. 실패는 뭐하게요? 바늘 찾지 말고 수선집에 맡겨요, 기왓장에 이름을 쓰지 마세요, 할머니, , 손수건이나 엽서 대신 엽총 한 자루 들고 애인을 만난다. 너무 사랑해, , ? 헤어지자고? 탕탕. 초목과 새를 향해 마지막 세대이기를, 자식 사지를 짖찢어 산과 바다에 묻는 정부의 미래에 곧 우리는 침착해지나.

실제로 만나는 것만이 제대로인 만남인 시대는 두 번 다시 오지 않을 거야. 실물로 오가는 세계는 끝인 걸까? 마지막 낭독회일까? 새가 없는 밤 나는 너를 먼 어둠 속에서 보았고 매일 마주 본다. 바탕 화면으로 보는 라일락 정원이 훨씬 정취가 있다.

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THE FINAL FUTURE

I was walking just after sunset. The calm night spread out purple like a lilac cloud. Near the garden, as I grew damp and knackered by the fragrances, the door of the house opened and a tall, slender man appeared.

This age might be the last where we really meet in real life. To that, I said, no fucking way. If you attack and stop you can breathe again. The last generation to quit smoking, those that remember the dead, the few last to have readings and recite poetry, all those 

people that brought the charcoal to keep the fire lit, that world has died. You attached a picture of grilling meat, and I said no fucking way. Spring and fall also vanished and they said that there won’t be public phones and no more post office boxes, and yet 

well, I also thought I’d be the last generation to have to wear school uniforms, and that my generation would be the last to have to do things like sewing, and video cassettes would vanish and yet… Just like always, why am I saying some shit like an idealist displaced from reality? To take refuge when night falls? There are landslides and tsunamis, but the sound of the cricket in the sea is like the god of the storm.

Every single day I say no fucking way. Yesterday at Gangnam station I screamed, no fucking way. While I shielded my head from falling people, I screamed louder and louder until the rock in my chest turned to white ash. 

If I had taken one step further into the garden in front of that house in South Bend, that Virginia man could’ve legally shot me dead. I could’ve been done like an African American grandma or grandpa because I wasn’t one of them.

Every catastrophe is quickly forgotten. I say no fucking way, but that’s always the case. What’re you going to do with that spool? Don’t look for a sewing needle, just go to the tailor. Don’t write their names on the tiles of roofs. Grandma, BANG, when you meet your lover, instead of postcards, handkerchiefs, or soup, bring a shotgun and a body bag. Say I love you so much, BANG! BANG! I hope you’ll be the last generation for the vegetation and the birds. Soon we’ll be placated by a future government that’ll tear off the limbs of our children and bury them in the mountains and seas.

This age might be the last where we meet in real life. Has the real world really ended? Is this the last poetry reading? I see you in the depths of the darkness. I face you every day. But looking at a lilac garden on a desktop is also very charming.

THE FINAL FUTURE

I was walking just after sunset. The calm night spread out purple like a lilac cloud. Near the garden, as I grew damp and knackered by the fragrances, the door of the house opened and a tall, slender man appeared.

This age might be the last where we really meet in real life. To that, I said, no fucking way. If you attack and stop you can breathe again. The last generation to quit smoking, those that remember the dead, the few last to have readings and recite poetry, all those 

people that brought the charcoal to keep the fire lit, that world has died. You attached a picture of grilling meat, and I said no fucking way. Spring and fall also vanished and they said that there won’t be public phones and no more post office boxes, and yet 

well, I also thought I’d be the last generation to have to wear school uniforms, and that my generation would be the last to have to do things like sewing, and video cassettes would vanish and yet… Just like always, why am I saying some shit like an idealist displaced from reality? To take refuge when night falls? There are landslides and tsunamis, but the sound of the cricket in the sea is like the god of the storm.

Every single day I say no fucking way. Yesterday at Gangnam station I screamed, no fucking way. While I shielded my head from falling people, I screamed louder and louder until the rock in my chest turned to white ash. 

If I had taken one step further into the garden in front of that house in South Bend, that Virginia man could’ve legally shot me dead. I could’ve been done like an African American grandma or grandpa because I wasn’t one of them.

Every catastrophe is quickly forgotten. I say no fucking way, but that’s always the case. What’re you going to do with that spool? Don’t look for a sewing needle, just go to the tailor. Don’t write their names on the tiles of roofs. Grandma, BANG, when you meet your lover, instead of postcards, handkerchiefs, or soup, bring a shotgun and a body bag. Say I love you so much, BANG! BANG! I hope you’ll be the last generation for the vegetation and the birds. Soon we’ll be placated by a future government that’ll tear off the limbs of our children and bury them in the mountains and seas.

This age might be the last where we meet in real life. Has the real world really ended? Is this the last poetry reading? I see you in the depths of the darkness. I face you every day. But looking at a lilac garden on a desktop is also very charming.

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