Tag: korea (page 6 of 10)

18 August 2009 / 0 Comments

Sunshine for Kim Dae-jung

‘He was the embodiment of suffering
at a time when suffering was needed.’
—KO UN, ‘Kim Dae-jung’

on the day you died i heard helicopters
& jet planes flying over seoul's old head 
the sun was shining hot & burning down
teheran-ro & the steel streets of gangnam
were full of young girls holding umbrellas 
by the subway entrance a young man held
the hands of an older man who was writing
something on a small pad, both looking sad 
about something, although I knew it wasn't 
you; & as I walked down the stairs into the 
subway station I watched girls coming up 
holding handbags over their behinds to
prevent the up-skirt glances & cameras
i'd recently read were on the increase . . . 

i knew that you had just died & so how
could anybody here have that knowledge
but it made me sad in any case to think
about your long & amazing life & the life
of gwangju people that is so different from
that of the girl walking through gangnam 
wearing a medical mask (not because of flu
but due to a recent visit to the face doctor
& it's not her fault & I don't know anything
about her life but i wonder what's the point
of all this, although i don't expect an answer 
from her let alone anyone here i must find my 
own reasons for life & carrying on within me
 
i have to stop thinking about sad things like 
the photo of you and kim jong-il, hand in 
hand at last, while ko un looked on; i have
to believe in some sphere of freedom where
girls can walk around wearing short skirts
& holding umbrellas to protect their bleached
faces from the harmful old sun's gamma rays, 
& boys do not have to do their twenty-six 
months & old women don't have to live in 
basement apartments & crawl up the stairs
& no one tries to steal up-skirt glances at 
anyone & tawdry old mats covered with red
peppers spread out to dry can be left in the 
middle of the road; 

                              i have to believe in this
road & the reasons for walking alone at night
& so i write & think of you in the past tense 
knowing that within hours of your death your
wikipedia entry had been changed to reflect 
the fact & then I knew you were really gone 
& it was all beyond dispute, & your life was no
longer an article that doesn't cite its sources
but rather a song free of kidnappers & enemies 
& crocodiles crying aloe-vera tears yes forget
that it doesn't matter now, you'll join roh moo-hyun 
somewhere behind a waterfall & together you'll
wait for the rest of us to arrive (one by one like
days of summer filled with moving tears & hands

                        & sunshine
16 August 2009 / 0 Comments

How to get to (and from) Muuido

  1. Catch subway for 45 minutes from Nonhyeun to Hapjeong.
  2. Wait for 30 minutes while hungover friend wakes up.
  3. Sit and drink coffee for an hour waiting for other friend to turn up.
  4. Catch subway for 1 hour from Hapjeong to Incheon.
  5. Wait for 30 minutes at bus stop.
  6. Catch bus (30-45 minutes) to Incheon airport.
  7. Get dropped off 2klms from ferry terminal. Walk for 20-30 minutes.
  8. Wait for ferry (5 minutes).
  9. Catch ferry (2 minutes).
  10. Catch small bus (5 minutes).
  11. Arrive at “Silmi Resort” at 6pm to find low tide, mud flats and no water.
  12. Spend an hour sitting on the beach.
  13. Decide to return home because someone else has to work the next day.
  14. Repeat steps 8-10 in reverse.
  15. Arrive at Incheon airport. Friend loses phone somewhere in airport (discovered later).
  16. Catch airport bus back to Hapjeong in 35 minutes.
  17. Realise what a complete waste of time outward journey was.
  18. Finally eat dinner in Hongdae around 10pm.
  19. Catch subway back to Nonhyeun at midnight.
  20. Forced to get off subway after four stops.
  21. Subway closes.
  22. Catch group taxi with maniac driver.
  23. Finally arrive home around 1am.
  24. Never do this again.
A white tiger
16 August 2009 / 4 Comments

White Tiger: How I got my Korean name

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.’

Okay so there have been a few exceptions to that hastily cobbled-together rule.

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.
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*

12 August 2009 / 2 Comments

50/49 redux

& later I realised I was halfway through my journey 
     waiting for a phone call (but I couldn't remember 

my own name. waking up to the sound of drilling
     wearing a t-shirt backwards I heard the dogs bark 

outside (artists drank soju & looked at leaves as if 
     they were maps & the traffic was silent & to meet 

travellers who might be gone by nightfall, oh! wash-
     ing piling up in my room without seeing stars when 

I didn't need a candle without a breeze from the sea 
     & showering under a cold hose. passing the ajumma 

out the front of her seafood restaurant (that took my 
     breath away smiling at the girls holding hands at the

markets. green revenue stamps from the immigration 
     department layered like a thinking plate of kim chi &

about my faraway family (or an overwhelming grief as 
     humid as bowls of bubbling soup. then the phone call 

made it all different. where old men sit in the park 
     on newspapers listening to the trills of old ladies at 

sweet stalls. in which season is it now on the verge of 
     turning. when my wallet bulged in my pocket, staring at 

holes in the bottom of empty soju glasses, watching as
     Koreans dreamed on the subways or standing in line.

catching pigeons with a net I eat dinner alone in a city 
     where everyone eats together, pore over hangul script 

crossing roads & counting seconds as the lights change
     wasted checking emails with a mosquito and a ceiling 

fan buzzing in my ears fished for hope in streams step-
     ping over puddles of spittle in the street. I no longer 

recall Australian radio stations. those were really days 
     drinking coffee cold from a can land of caffeine calm
10 August 2009 / 0 Comments

Morgenland reviewed by Adam Fieled

I was super-chuffed recently to stumble across a review of my chapbook Morgenland by the impossibly-cool Adam Fieled in the impossible to pronounce (but no less cool because of it) online journal Ekleksographia. As Ekleksographia doesn’t seem to be online anymore, here’s the review in full:

Philip Larkin wrote a poem called ‘The Importance of Elsewhere’ that had to do with the freedom that can only come when you are either traveling or settled in a foreign country. That freedom, and the strangeness that attends to it, are the subject of Morgenland, a chapbook originally released in 2007, while poet David Prater was living in Seoul, South Korea. The poems express culture shock, bemusement, awe, and a feeling of transience or impermanence that has a clear resonance with Buddhist philosophy. We are informed that Ko Un is Korea’s most famous living poet, and in ‘Drunken Ko Un’ we see Prater narrate the following: “Audience of subway strangers. Stagger at them! Pelt/ them with praise! I’m Ko Un, and I’m drunker than a/ poem. This text, pirated, sallies forth upon the bristled/ breeze. Ko Un!” The poet steeps himself in the mysteries of a foreign culture, and his poems become rather like circus mirrors, showing us another culture via his own obsessions, feelings, and responses. Yet the chapbook ends with the poet placing himself ‘Back to the Tourist’, left again in a liminal locale: “freshly paved street/ sheets of burning rubber/ castle motel conventions/ buses without destinations”. The chapbook takes on the flavor of a joyride in stolen (Korean) car, and we travel the width of a circle until we are home again, which is on the road, moving, forever. The message is change; the Buddha would be proud.

Thanks Adam!

Update: oh and thanx also to Adam for profiling one of my poems on his personal blog, as part of a wider discussion about ‘post-avant’ poetry. I’m double-chuffed to be mentioned. Okay, that’s it from me. Time for dumplings.

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This is [d/dn], the home of David Prater, a writer and editor currently living in the third person.

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