Like many translations, the decisions on word choice and how to structure the sentences and phrases throughout were incredibly difficult. Inherently, Korean and English have grammar structures that are completely the opposite of one another, which makes forming a literal translation more difficult. In terms of word choice, in some areas I decided to take more liberties, while in others, I stayed true to the original, more so than other translations I had read. There were a few phrases in which I decided to add an extra word because I felt that in order to convey the meanings that are packed into the original word. I had to include “attempt to” or “some unknown,” rather than “call” or “something,” respectively, on their own to bring out the full impact that I received from reading the original and put it in my translation. The second “I attempt to call them” is also an emphasis that does not maintain as much power and impact in the original as in my translation. But to underline the idea that the narrator tries to call upon these stars, he is unable to fully do so because they are so far away. Further, in the original the word “cicada” is not present. Rather, it is a general term for “insect” or “bug,” but the specific insect presents not only some alliteration but also a warmer feeling and allows for a more intense auditory experience.
I wanted to maintain the structure of the poem as much as possible and not exclude anything major that exists in the original in my translation. The fifth stanza seems more like prose stuck between a series of poems, but upon actually reading it, it flows relatively quickly, so I decided to keep it in the same format but included the “names of…” on a separate line so that it wouldn’t be too much of a mouthful. However, the rest of the poem remains faithful to the original to maintain the same flow and pauses. Throughout the translation, enhancing the myriad of emotions and bringing to life the visuals of each sentence, phrase, or word were the aspects I worked to pay attention to the most.
Yun Dong-ju was a Korean poet who was born in 1917 in the Myeongdong village of Jilin in China and died in 1945 at the age of twenty-seven in Fukuoka, Japan. From 1910 to 1945, Korea was colonized by Japan and underwent “cultural cleansing,” which was enacted through a series of unfair and often violent methods. Koreans were prohibited to speak Korean, write in Korean, own Korean books, teach and learn in Korean, and hold their Korean names. It soon became dangerous for Yun to write in Korean, as it was interpreted by the Japanese to be a rebellion. Yun’s older cousin, Song Mongyu, was a huge influence in his life as well. As a talented prose writer and an activist in the Korean independence movement, Song himself worked with Yun and a few other college friends to create literary magazines back in Yeonhi University, which is now Yeonsae University. Song potentially instilled in Yun the desire to refuse complete submission from the Japanese rule by continuing to write the Korean poetry he loved so much. Upon completing his education there, he moved to Rikkyo University in Tokyo and then transferred six months later to Doshisha University in Kyoto, where he was soon taken captive by the Japanese police to Fukushima prison, where he died, most likely as a victim of medical experiments. Yun never was able to publish his collection of poems, Star, Sky, Wind, and Poetry, because he was arrested as a revolutionary activist, but because he had given them to a close friend in Korea, Chong Pyong-uk, to hide until it was able to be published, Yun’s poems exist today for many to read.
Nadia Park is a student at the University of Pennsylvania majoring in communications and minoring in consumer psychology and French. As a Korean American, she was exposed to various cultures and languages the moment she was born and developed a passion for learning other languages, including Japanese and French. She loves to spend her free time doing pour overs, practicing yoga, and baking sweets.
photo by a DoubleSpeak staffer