The last time a poem of mine appeared in a journal was back in 2013. But in the intervening years, the dim flame of my poetic muse has been sustained by the appearance of some of my published poems in a number of anthologies.
Suddenly, these old poems have a new agency. They just “hit differently” the second (or sometimes even third!) time around. Sure, there’s only five of them, but that’s, like, one every two years. And in the absence of any other kind of engagement with the publishing space, I’ll take those odds.
Imagine a city with no streets
but networks of amputated limbs.
An officious city of criminal investigations
and inquests whose soul is a square of cheap,
grey carpet
and a water dispenser.
The tinkle of pachinko,
the sudden sirens of attack.
Those women with the hand bills,
so stubborn and intent upon their mission,
invading the bodyspace of the factory workers like an influenza.
Sheets of steel carried by a dozen men at a time
towards the railhead.
Rain in bursts of noise upon their heads.
Somewhere there is a map of the city's improvements
but no one I speak with has seen it.
Wheelchair-bound ladies protest at
the new constructions rising up around them
in terrifying spirals.
No-one is allowed to see them.
Behind their riot shields,
the policemen are only boys.
Some of them wear white sneakers,
as if they have been called in from basketball practice.
Sleeping street people
curled up like scraps of paper
on the subway stairs,
trusting that the spirits will protect
their small change,
their street salaries.
Mandarin peels in the gutters.
Sewer smells that hit the face like a nervous pigeon,
the frightful proximity of disease.
A hollow city,
stained with sad skirmishes
and pickled fistfights.
Gouged-out eyes that speak.
Tables hoarded under orange shelters.
Old men dancing in parks for citizens,
while other citizens peer out at the sky
like lost kittens in bamboo.
Squeals.
Drums.
Discarded cloths,
blood-stained.
News of another separatist attack filters through
stale cups of coffee,
cigarette butts neatly stacked like bullets.
A simulated odyssey through virtual historical battles
gains popularity in the parlours.
No one speaks of it;
these things require no advertisements.
Beware the reconstituted cutlets of crumbed meat:
that way annihilation lies.
Pull back the tarpaulin to reveal today's wares—
a rack of twisted and burnt squid,
dried suckers and flattened jerky.
Remove hospital identification barcode.
Shoulder arms.
One of the highlights of my recent three month residency in Seoul was my meeting with poet Ko Un (above), considered one of Korea’s most famous and public poets. Having read many of his poems and autobiographical writings (and even written a poem for him) I was keen to make a connection with him and to further my understanding of Korean poetry and history.
I couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome.
We met on a windy autumn morning at a subway station close by Seoul National University, from whence we were whisked to the campus grounds courtesy of one of Ko Un’s graduate students. The meeting was facilitated by Professor An Sonjae of Sogang University, who had been my supervisor during my time as a teacher there in 2005.
An Sonjae (known in English as Brother Anthony) is a translator and academic a lot about modern Korea, having lived there for almost thirty years. I had in fact interviewed him several weeks earlier – you can read the transcript of that meeting on the Cordite site.
Our meeting/interview with Ko Un lasted for just over an hour, during which time I had the chance to ask him many questions about his life, his poetics and his personal philosophy. One quote that sticks out from the interview is the following, on the subject of the ‘Zero’:
At that time it was just after the Korean war, everything was destroyed. I was a survivor surrounded by ruins and emptiness, and an orphan. So therefore it’s not just my poetry or myself personally or something, it’s that the whole world seemed to be nothing but zero, a mound of ash. So my poetry begins in the midst of this zero, and me being this naked survivor, so to speak. And when you come to the present time, I can’t tell with this zero whether I’ve moved in a plus or a minus direction but in the present too it’s always a matter of starting again, starting again from a zero, again from nothing, to always start again from that, as it were, ground zero …
I’ve now completed the complete first draft of ‘Steam’, a story which may one day become a novel. Steam started out as a sequel to ‘Smoke’, a much shorter story about a woman living in Neo-Melbourne.
In the original draft, each part of Steam hyperlinks to a section of Smoke, and although the connections between the stories become more tenuous as Steam progresses, the intention has always been to join these stories at some point, either by using alternating narrative voices or some other technique (perhaps italics).
As Steam progresses, the sections get longer and longer. I’m not really sure why this happened—perhaps it just took me a while to warm up. In any case, what seemed like appropriately manageable and readable text chunklets in the early sections pretty soon became much longer (and perhaps less easy to read) superchunks.
I’m also not sure, in hindsight, whether it was wise to pursue this ‘prose poem’ style in the story. By the time I wrote the final section, it was all just pure Kerouac flow, whereas with some intermediate sections I made the effort of inserting paragraph breaks and more recognisable dialogue markings, as in a more conventional story.
I suspect that the second draft will require a lot of this kind of editing, to make the text more readable and well-paced.
That being said, as each section of the story was written in a single burst, it does almost seem appropriate to present the work in its present form. The only difficulty I had writing the story in this way was that when it came to dialogue, where I used italics, it was hard to write two statements one after the other. I always had to insert a ‘he said’ or another descriptor when one character stopped talking, before moving on to what the next character said. Also, as the thoughts of main character in the story are also italicized, it does get a bit confusing at times.
This could also be said about the plot or narrative of the story as a whole. As Duck-young himself recognises in the story, the plot is full of gaping holes, and there are several characters who are introduced but who are not very well developed. Obviously I could just put this down to the need to paint in broad brush strokes when writing the first draft. However, I also recognise that a bit of planning might not have gone astray.
Nevertheless one of the greatest joys of writing, for me anyway, is sitting down and creating a narrative or plot line in real time. I could never have imagined where the story might end up – indeed, the ending of the story is still very confused and rushed, and needs a lot of work. Still, it was a great experience to just go where the story lead me, even if it meant following ridiculous and improbable hunches, or trying to write a synopsis for a non-existent film.
I was aided in these efforts by some very useful books, courtesy of the Korea Language Translation Institute here in Seoul, who have very generously made their library available to me. I would like to be able to claim that everything in this story is made up but, unfortunately, it is not. Much of the story is inspired by writings on Korea past and present, and is of course also informed by the people and places I have come to know during my time here.
In particular I have been inspired by both the owners and patrons of Mania Street, the real-life inspiration for the bar Shesa Maniac in the story. Perhaps one day, if the story is ever translated into Korean, some of these people will recognise themselves in it. I am a little nervous about such an eventuality, mostly because I have taken great liberties with reality in the story.
Then again, that’s fiction. It’s been a huge challenge for me to write fiction again, after so many years pursuing poetry. One thing I was not prepared for was the immensely draining experience of writing prose, even in 1,000 word chunks. It’s also been a bit of an eye-opener in terms of the difficulties prose writers must experience in attempting to represent the passing of time on the page. The majority of the story happens over a period of just one day, and I was constantly amazed at much effort it took to even make my characters walk down the street, or engage in a conversation.
Now that the first draft is complete, I think I’ll just take a little rest, and think about where to go next. I’d welcome any comments or suggestions on the draft. I look forward to improving it and hopefully, one day, presenting the story as a finished whole.
I spent four months in Korea in 2005 during which no-one called me anything except ‘Davey’, ‘Sir’ or ‘Professor Davey’. This time around, two weeks into my three-month residency, I have a real Korean name: Bek-ho (백호), or ‘White Tiger’.
I’ve promptly forgotten it; asked someone else to translate its meaning for me; remembered it again; and now, finally, re-met the person who gave it to me originally. And I couldn’t be happier.
The thing about Korean names
The thing about Korean names is that you can get a whole bunch of them. But please note that my knowledge on this subject is about as extensive as Chris de Burgh’s punk collection.
There’s the ‘temporary’ name you get at birth, something along the lines of ‘bubba’ or ‘baby’.
Then within about two months you get your Chinese ‘birth’ name. Your astrological sign, plus a complex combination of the significance of your day and time of birth, determine this one.
Then of course, there’s your actual Korean name. Your grandparents usually choose this one (although not always). The name you receive may also depend on the names of older cousins and other relatives.
Finally (I hope), there’s your Anglicised or English name, which for Catholics is often your confirmation name. But it might also be based on names perceived as being popular in the West.
White Tiger (Bek-ho)
This would explain why many of my former students used names like ‘Brandon’ and ‘Priscilla’. But it doesn’t help me explain why I an now called Bek-ho (백호), or ‘White Tiger’.
For a start, I was born in the Year of the Rat. So my name should be ‘White Rat’, which doesn’t have such a majestic ring to it. Furthermore, obviously, I’m not Korean. I doubt that any of my grandparents had much of an interest in giving me a Korean name when I was born.
However, I did apparently have the unofficial nickname of ‘Buddha’ when I was a very young (and extremely plump) child. So that has to count for something. And as I already have an English name, I’m one step ahead of the competition there.
But what led that young Korean gentleman to give me the name of White Tiger? Why were we sitting outside the classically-named ‘Mania Street’ bar last Friday night? And what led me to forget the name almost as soon as he had bestowed it upon me?
Bek-ho and non-Bek-ho
Alcohol obviously plays a part in this kind of story. But the process of gaining a powerful name should also involve a period of rejection of said name. Otherwise there would be no point sticking with one name at all.
I mean, I’ve received all kinds of names over the years. Some more or less savoury, more or less anatomically-accurate. I haven’t ever just turned around and said, ‘You’re right, and I accept this name.’
But I don’t think even my parents ever pondered the question of what my name should be. Not for a full two minutes.
On all of those previous occasions, the name came immediately to mind due to some hilarious (or not) situation. Then it either stuck or else I forgot it.
An image of a white tiger. O-or, is it an image of me, Bek-ho? Heh heh.
White Tiger: How I got my Korean name (twice)
On this occasion, as I have already intimated, I both immediately accepted and forgot Bek-ho. I don’t really know what was going through the guy’s mind as he sized me up. But I presume it was something along the lines of the following.
Hmmm, powerful paws and considerable girth; shining stripey pelt and faintly pale stripe colour; intimidating roar and penchant for meat …
Well, you get the idea. Although I’ve never heard of a tiger that drinks beer until 5am waiting for someone to decide on its name.
The fact that I forgot my own name led to my being in a state of limbo for several days. Then I happened to be out with a couple of friends. One speaks passable Korean, and was able to communicate with a very tattooed barman. He then wrote down the hangul characters for Bek-ho.
As soon as I heard the words ‘Bek-ho’ I experienced a transformation. From a state of limbo to a new awareness.
I am White Tiger. Hear me roar.
Ever since I have been saying my new name to anyone who will listen. Invariably I get a laugh or two. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t also receive more than my fair share of odd looks.
Even the guy who gave this name to me had to laugh when we met for a second time. Maybe it was because I triumphantly introduced myself as ‘Bek-ho’. I could see him thinking: Do I know you? This so-called Hoju White Tiger is, hmmm, just a little weird.
My friends may well ask: what’s new? To which I would respond: not much, but call me Bek-ho, please, from now on.
I am White Tiger. Hear me roar.
*trudges slowly back inside fake cave within cramped zoo enclosure*
