Three Poems

Bird's Poetry Book

This book is not really a book
It’s an I-do-bird sequence
a record of the sequence

When I take off my shoes, stand on the railing
and spread my arms with eyes closed
feathers poke out of my sleeves
Bird-cries-out-from-me-day record
I-do-bird-day record
as I caress bird’s cheeks

Air is saturated with wounds
Beneath the wounds matted over me
bird’s cheekbones are viciously pointed
yet its bones crack easily when gripped
The birth sequence of such a tiny bird

Poetry ignores
the I-do-bird-woman sequence

Woman-is-dying-but-bird-is-getting-bigger sequence
She says, The pain is killing me
When my hands are tied and my skirt rips like wings
I can finally fly
I was always able to fly like this
Suddenly she lifts her feet
Translation-of-a-certain-bird’s-chirping record
of I-do-bird-below-the-railing
sequence

Night’s carcass bloats
Waves of tormented spirits
One bird

All the nights of the world
Bird-carrying-the-night’s-nippleover-
the-pointed-as-an-awl-Mount-Everest sequence

Bird with dark eyes has shrunken
Bird has shrunken enough to be cupped in my hands
Bird mumbles something incomprehensible even when my lips touch its
               beak
Bird’s tongue is as delicate as a bud
as thin as the tongue of a fetus
The tiny bird’s
kicks-off-the-blanket-kicks-my-bodykicks-
the-dirt-and-exits sequence

I end up doing I-do-bird even if I resist doing it
I end up saying this is not a book of poems but a bird

I’ll overcome this existence
Finally I’ll be free of it

Bird-flies-out-of-water-shaking-its-wings poetry book

Now scribbles of Time’s footsteps appear in the book

Scribbles left by skinny bird legs
made with the world’s heaviest pencil

Perhaps there’s a will left in the scribbles

This book is about the realization of
I-thought-bird-was-part-of-me-but-I-was-part-of-bird sequence
It’s a delayed record of such a sequence

The promise of being freed from the book and
being able to step off the paper-thin railing
if I write everything down
It’s the delayed record of my regret


Bird's Repetition

All the stories bird tells perched on the treetop are about me
Nothing about the rumors of my lies, my thefts and such but
something ordinary like how I was born and died
Bird talks only about me even when I tell it to stop or change the topic
It’s always the same story like the sound of the high heels of the woman,
             walking around in the same pair all her life
This is why I have a bird that I want to break

Like a poet who buys a ream of A4 paper
and crumples the sheets one by one and tosses them
I have a bird I want to break
When I crumple up my poems that are like
the family members inside a mirror in front of me
I can hear the stories of fluttering birds
“You were born and died”
Then I say, You scissormouths
and go buy a paper shredder
to shred every poetry book of mine
But later, when I opened up the shredder
a flock of birds was sitting inside, talking about me as if reading line by line
Moreover, each bird had a different face
and the hens talked about me even while sitting on their eggs
They didn’t care to fly off
Instead, they clustered under the peanut tree and talked about me
like peanuts under the ground
So, I said to them, enough of telling the same old story of how I was born
             and died
How about something else?
For instance, how about the fact that I always wear the same high heels
to work and back
but when I’m under the same tree at the same park
I always dance a waltz
And do several movements of embracing the moon
But they replied,
You were born inside bird
Not opposite of that
You died inside bird
Not opposite of that
You were born and died


Don’t Fly in This Country

Daddy, I was born here, yet I’m told to escape
I’ve lived here all my life, but I’m not allowed anymore
This nation is out looking for me
Borders are sealed
I’m told to get out
All of its territory rejects my footprint
They all know my face
They’ll kill me if I breathe
I’m not allowed to cry

Daddy, I escape into the water
My body floats when I close my eyes
Nothing but water

Daddy, Look! I get even thirstier under water, that’s why my body floats up
Look, I can even lie down on walls
I can also walk on ceilings
I roll up my body and fly
Books fall from my shelves
My dishes fly away
My house leans sideways

Time drags its feet slowly along where water pressure is high
A thousand-year-old turtle crawls out from under my bed

Here, bird walks with its ten fingers over its face
worried that someone might recognize it and point a finger at it
worried that its body might float ridiculously in front of people

Daddy, When I lower my head and quietly fly down to the bottom of the
             building
my teacher sitting at the bottom of the ocean says,
It’s so difficult to die
Go up toward the light, go higher
Push up your butt!

Sun sits on top of sleep like a yellow houseboat
and a lonely diver’s tears well up from his chest

You are bound to lose your shoes in water
You are bound to lose your cell phone

You are bound to lose your passport

Right now, I’m ill up in the air
I’m deathly ill, unbearably thirsty
I want to open my eyes
but my nation says, Wait till I catch you!
All of its territory rejects my feet


Translated from the Korean by Don Mee Choi.



“Bird’s Poetry Book,” “Bird’s Repetition,” and “Don't Fly in This Country” from Phantom Pain Wings by Kim Hyesoon, translated by Don Mee Choi. Copyright © 2019 by Kim Hyesoon. Translation and copyright © 2023 by Don Mee Choi. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.