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Two Poems by Im Yu Young scrap
by Im Yu Young
Translated by Hedgie Choi
September 2, 2024
Author Bio 작가 소개
Im Yu Young
Ichon Hangang Riverside Park
Now Seoul’s a home to me, more or less. You can become a Seoul resident but can you ever become that parsnippity-persnickety Seoul-girlie? Twenty years, I drink this Han River water from the faucet, but my face never gets pale. What I like is a Seoul man. With their pretty faces and friendly way with words. A Seoul man, with their shyness that can turn coy. I head to Mangwon-dong in a taxi with a Seoul Man. The Seoul Man says we should go to Euljiro later and have naengmyeon. The crisp taste of under-seasoned kimchi—sure, I know what’s good, too. The white-haired taxi driver asks, “You guys stepping in?” The Seoul Man doesn’t know what that means and, catching on, I say, “Yeah, we’re going downtown.” And still, the Seoul Man is confused. I tell him that he’s probably asking if we’re going in through the Sadaemun Gates. The taxi driver’s hometown is Ahyeon-dong. Says there’s a good stew place in Euljiro, says he swam in the Han River as a kid. When you drive up the Han River on the north side, you can spot the Ichon Hangang Riverside Park right away from its big trees. The Seoul Man says he likes those tall trees lined up over there, says it every time. What’s the name of those trees, he asks me. Poplars, aren’t they? The Seoul Man chatters sweetly in delight. Sounds quite nice. Looks quite nice. That nose of yours, ignorant of the osmanthus’s scent.
Medicinal Herb Market
The smell of dried medicinal herbs all mixed up. What grasses, what trees are these? Are they Chinese imports? Or domestic? Galangal and ginger and lemon grass from Southeast Asia. Guess they sell things like that these days. But you can’t even tell. Everything smells mixed-up. The dried dates piled up on a burlap bag, the herb slicer that was in use just a second ago, the ginseng—all their smells. Grows on you. This gamey, fishy smell. Gamey like blood? Bone and flesh and fur and fin. Once, someone brought Mom a huge, thrashing carp to simmer into a broth for Grandfather. Didn’t Mom cry then? I cried too. The smell of that gray soup in that wide bowl. Did I get any down or no? Either way, I still get nauseous at the thought of carp. When you get sick, Grandma pricks your finger. The thumb, wrapped tight with string, the drop of red-black blood, swelling fast under the nail. Strange, isn’t it? That it actually cures you. Do you know the smell of tulips? Have you had black licorice candy? When you took the KSAT, did you take a wuhwang cheongsimhwan too? Those gold pills with the calming herbs. I heard someone took a whole one and dozed through the first hour, so I just popped a half-pill. I heard they put musk in cheongsimhwan. Couldn’t tell, it’s all mixed up. There’s probably an ant’s teardrop’s worth in there. These days, the pharmacies prescribe herbal stuff too—no thanks. Who knows what’s in that, the stuff they keep giving me. The smell. Like rat shit, the smell of those black, balled up pills. So this is how you become the kind of person who tears up when they pass a pile of dried up leaves and stems. And in spite of yourself, you check if it’s domestic or Chinese. That’s a terrapin, isn’t it, and not a turtle? Didn’t Mom cry then? I cried too. It was probably domestic. I mean, it was alive.
by Im Yu Young
Translated by Hedgie Choi
Writer 필자 소개
Im Yu Young
Translator 번역가 소개
Hedgie Choi
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