Kim Yideum
시골창녀
시골창녀
진주에 기생이 많았다고 해도
우리 집안에는 그런 여자 없었다 한다
지리산 자락 아래 진주 기생이 이 나라 가장 오랜 기생 역사를 갖고 있다지만
우리 집안에 열녀는 있어도 기생은 없었단다
백정이나 노비, 상인 출신도 없는 사대부 선비 집안이었다며 아버지는 족보를 외우신다
낮에 우리는 촉석루 앞마당에서 진주교방굿거리춤을 보고 있었다
색한삼 양손에 끼고 버선발로 검무를 추는 여자와 눈이 맞았다
집안 조상 중에 기생 하나 없었다는 게 이상하다
창가에 달 오르면 부푼 가슴으로 가야금을 뜯던 관비 고모도 없고
술자리 시중이 싫어 자결한 할미도 없다는 거
인물 좋았던 계집종 어미도 없었고
색색비단을 팔러 강을 건너던 삼촌도 없었다는 거
온갖 멸시와 천대에 칼을 뽑아들었던 백정 할아비도 없었다는 말은 너무나 서운하다
국란 때마다 나라 구한 조상은 있어도 기생으로 팔려간 딸 하나 없었다는 말은 진짜 쓸쓸하다
내 마음의 기생은 어디서 왔는가
오늘 밤 강가에 머물며 영감(靈感)을 뫼실까 하는 이 심정은
영혼이라도 팔아 시 한 줄 얻고 싶은 이 퇴폐를 어찌할까
밤마다 칼춤을 추는 나의 유흥은 어느 별에 박힌 유전자인가
나는 사채이자에 묶인 육체파 창녀하고 다를 바 없다
나는 기생이다 위독한 어머니를 위해 팔려간 소녀가 아니다 자발적으로 음란하고 방탕한 감정 창녀다 자다 일어나 하는 기분으로 토하고 마시고 다시 하는 기분으로 헝클어진 머리칼을 흔들며 엉망진창 여럿이 분위기를 살리는 기분으로 뭔가를 쓴다
다시 나는 진주 남강가를 걷는다 유등축제가 열리는 밤이다 취객이 말을 거는 야시장 강변이다 다국적의 등불이 강물 위를 떠가고 떠내려가다 엉망진창 걸려있고 쏟아져 나온 사람들의 더러운 입김으로 시골 장터는 불야성이다
부스스 펜을 꺼낸다 졸린다 펜을 물고 입술을 넘쳐 잉크가 번지는 줄 모르고 코를 훌쩍이며 강가에 앉아 뭔가를 쓴다 나는 내가 쓴 시 몇 줄에 묶였다 드디어 시에 결박되었다고 믿는 미치광이가 되었다
눈앞에서 마귀가 바지를 내리고
빨면 시 한 줄을 주지
악마라도 빨고 또 빨고, 계속해서 빨 심정이 된다
자다가 일어나 밖으로 나와 절박하지 않게 치욕적인 감정도 없이
커다란 펜을 문 채 나는 빤다 시가 쏟아질 때까지
나는 감정 갈보, 시인이라고 소개할 때면 창녀라고 자백하는 기분이다 조상 중에 자신을 파는 사람은 없었다 ‘너처럼 나쁜 피가 없었다’고 아버지는 말씀하셨다
펜을 불끈 쥔 채 부르르 떨었다
나는 지금 지방축제가 한창인 달밤에 늙은 천기(賤技)가 되어 양손에 칼을 들고 춤춘다
Переводы:
Country Whore
My hometown Jinju had many kisaengs* throughout the history,
but I’m told we had zero kisaeng in our family line.
Jinju, located under the skirts of Mt. Jiri, has the Kisaeng history that traces back the furthest,
but I’m told our family line had only chaste women, never a kisaeng.
Declaring that our lineage only contains noblemen and scholars,
no peasant, slave, or merchant,
father proudly recites the family tree.
In the afternoon when we were watching the Jinjukyobang shaman dance in the front yard of Chukseokru gazebo
I made an eye contact with a women performing a sword dance.
Her feet were covered with the white silk socks, her hands, the long and colorful silk sleeves.
I don’t believe that there wasn’ a single kisaeng among our family ancestry.
It is so disappointing to be told that there was no governmental slave aunt
who plucked a gayageum harp with erect nipples when the moon rose by the window,
no servant grandmother
who killed herself because she didn’t want to be harassed at the drinking parties,
no slave girl mother
who was just exquisite,
no merchant uncle
who had to cross rough rivers to sell colorful silk,
no butcher grandfather
who pulled out his sword, when he faced contempt and scorn for his profession.
It especially saddens me to hear that our family ancestry contains many heroes
who saved the country every time there was an insurrection,
but not a single daughter who was sold off to be a kisaeng.
Then where did the kisaeng of my heart come from?
Where did this impulse to serve my sugar daddy, muse by the night river come from?
Just for a line of a poem, I would sell my soul; what should I do with this debauchery of mine?
From which star did it come from; this gene of ecstasy that dances with swords every night?
I am no different than a voluptuous whore tied down by the loan sharks’ interest rates.
I am a kisaeng. I am not a girl sold herself off to pay for her sick mother’s treatment. I am a voluntarily obscene and debauched emotional whore. I feel like doing it when I wake up, I puke, drink, and feel like doing it again. I shake my disheveled hair, gotta keep this party going, I’m a hot mess, and just like that,
I write.
Again I walk the south side of the Jinju river. It is the night of the floating lanterns festival. At the night market that’s taking place next to the river, drunk people harass you. The paper lamps with multi-national flags painted on float down the river, only to crash into each others, getting tangled up. High with the festival goers’ filthy breath, the country market never sleeps.
I pull out my pen. I’m sleepy. I bite the pen; the pen leaks, and the ink dribbles out of my lips, but I’m oblivious. I sniffle, and write by the riverside. Finally, I’ve become a madwoman who fully believes she is tied down by the couple of lines of poems she wrote.
The devil pulls down his pants in front of my eyes.
I’ll give you a line if you suck my dick.
I know he is the devil, but I still feel like sucking him. I will suck and suck and suck and
suck and suck.
I wake up from my sleep, walk outside. I don’t feel all that desperate, I don’t even feel humiliated. I just suck with a big pen in my mouth,
until poetry cums.
I am an emotion slut. When I introduce myself as a poet I feel like it is a confession of my whoredom. There was no one who sold themselves among our ancestors. My dad said, there was never bad blood in our family like you.
Stroking the pen, I tremble in ecstasy.
Right now, I feel like I have become a filthy prostitute on a moon night when the country festival is booming.
I am dancing,
swords in my both hands.
*Kisaeng refers to women whose job was to entertain aristocrats through various fine arts—including music and poetry—, and sexual service in premodern Korea. Even though kisaengs’ poems were regarded as sophisticated in its form and ideas as the aristocrat intellecturals’, kisaengs were still considered secondary citizens, and their art inferior. One of the rare instances where a kisaeng was regarded highly was when the kisaeng performed a patriotic act, like Nongae, an iconic kisaeng who killed a Japanese general by embracing him and jumping off the cliff. The narrator of the poem refuses such value system, resists the erasure of the powerless, and instead chooses the ecstasy of art and pleasure.
landnutte
die geschichte meiner heimatstadt jinju kennt viele gisaeng
mir aber wurde gesagt, dass wir solche frauen nicht in unserer familie hatten
jinju, das unter den ausläufern des berges jiri liegt, hat die am weitesten
zurückreichende geschichte, was gisaeng betrifft
mir aber wurde gesagt, dass in unserer familie nur keusche frauen
bekannt sind. gisaeng? nein, die kennt man nicht
in unserer verwandtschaft gibt es einzig adlige und gelehrte,
keine bauern, sklaven oder kaufleute
so weiß vater voller stolz den stammbaum aufzusagen
am nachmittag, als wir im vorhof des ahnenpavillons den traditionellen
tanz des schamanen beobachteten
kreuzte ich die blicke mit einer frau, die einen schwerttanz aufführte
die füße in weißen seidensocken, ihre hände in langen, farbenfrohen seidenärmeln
ich glaube es nicht, wenn ich höre, dass es in unserer familie nicht eine
einzige gisaeng gab
es ist so enttäuschend, dass ich keine staatlich versklavte tante haben soll
die mit erigierten nippeln eine gayageum-harfe zupfte, wenn der mond
am fenster aufging
keine dieneroma
die sich umgebracht hat, weil sie bei den saufereien nicht länger
belästigt werden wollte
keine als kind versklavte mutter
die einfach exquisit war
keinen kaufmannsonkel
der wilde flüsse überqueren musste, um farbenfrohe seide zu verkaufen
keinen metzgersopa
der sein schwert zückte, als er für seinen beruf verachtet und verhöhnt wurde
besonders traurig macht es mich, wenn ich höre, dass es in unserer
familie viele helden gibt
die das land bei jedem aufstand gerettet haben
aber nicht eine einzige tochter, die als gisaeng verkauft wurde
woher aber kommt es bitte, dass ich das herz einer gisaeng habe?
woher kommt dieser drang, einem sugar daddy zu diensten zu sein,
dieser muse am nächtlichen fluss?
für eine einzige gedichtzeile würde ich doch meine seele verkaufen.
was mach ich mit dieser verkommenheit?
von welchem planeten soll sie denn kommen, diese ekstatische
veranlagung, die jede nacht mit den schwertern tanzt?
ich bin nicht anders als eine lockende nutte, genötigt durch die zinsen der kredithaie
ich bin eine gisaeng. ich bin kein mädchen, das sich verkaufen muss, um
die therapie ihrer kranken mutter abzuzahlen. ich machs freiwillig. ich bin
eine obszöne und verlockende hure der emotionen. ich habe lust dazu,
wenn ich aufwache, kotze und trinke. und dann hab ich schon wieder lust.
ich schüttle mein zerzaustes haar, ich muss die party am laufen halten,
ich bin ein einziges chaos und einfach so
schreibe ich
wieder gehe ich an der südseite des flusses in jinju entlang. es ist die
nacht des schwimmenden laternenfestes. auf dem nachtmarkt neben
dem fluss wird man von besoffenen belästigt. papierlaternen mit auf-
gemalten internationalen flaggen treiben den fluss hinunter, nur um
ineinanderzukrachen und sich ineinander zu verheddern. der markt hier
auf dem land kommt nicht zur ruhe, so prall gefüllt mit dem dreckigen
stem der besucher
ich ziehe meinen stift heraus. ich bin müde. ich beiße darauf herum.
der stift läuft aus und die tinte läuft mir unbewusst über die lippen. ich
schniefe und schreibe am flussufer. endlich bin ich zu dieser verrückten
geworden, die sich einbildet, sich durch ein paar gedichtzeilen gefesselt
zu haben
der teufel lässt vor meinen augen die hosen runter
ich gebe dir eine zeile, wenn du meinen schwanz lutschst
ich weiß schon, dass es der teufel ist, aber ich habe trotzdem lust, ihn zu
lutschen. ich werde lutschen und lutschen und lutschen und
lutschen und lutschen
es reißt mich aus dem schlaf und ich gehe nach draußen. ich fühle mich
nicht verzweifelt, ich fühle mich nicht mal gedemütigt. ich
lutsche einfach an einem großen stift in meinem mund,
bis die lyrik abspritzt
ich bin eine gefühlsschlampe. wenn ich mich als lyrikerin vorstelle,
kommt mir das vor wie das geständnis meiner nuttigkeit. da ist keiner
in unserer verwandtschaft, der sich je verkauft hat. meinte mein vater.
keiner in unserer familie ist ein schwarzes schaf wie du
ich streiche über den stift und zittere vor ekstase
in diesem moment fühle ich mich wie eine dreckige prostituierte in einer
mondnacht, während das volksfest in vollem gange ist
ich tanze
schwerter in beiden händen
Anmerkung der Autorin:
Gisaeng bezeichnet Frauen, deren Aufgabe es war, im vormodernen Korea Aristokraten durch verschiedene schöne Künste, einschließlich Musik und Poesie, sowie sexuelle Dienste zu unterhalten. Obwohl die Gedichte der Gisaengs in Form und Ideen als ebenso anspruchsvoll angesehen wurden wie die der aristokratischen Intellektuellen, galten die Gisaengs immer als zweitrangige Bürgerinnen und ihre Kunst als minderwertig. Einer der seltenen Fälle, in denen eine Gisaeng hoch angesehen war, war, wenn sie eine patriotische Tat vollbrachte. Wie Nongae, die bekannteste Gisaeng, die einen japanischen General tötete, indem sie ihn umarmte und von einer Klippe sprang. Die Erzählstimme des Gedichts lehnt eine solche Wertung ab, wehrt sich gegen die Auslöschung der Machtlosen und wählt stattdessen die Ekstase der Kunst und des Vergnügens.
Country Whore
Even if there were a lot of kisaeng in Jinju
It is said that we had none in our
family.
Though they say the Jinju kisaeng under
the skirts of Mt. Jilisan have the longest kisaeng history in this country
Our family may have had many chaste
women, but never a kisaeng.
Saying that we were nobles and scholars
with no peasant, slave, or merchant origins, Father recites the family tree.
In the afternoon when we were watching
the Jinjukyobang shaman dance in the front yard of Chukseokru
I met eyes with a women performing a
sword dance wearing socks. She had both her hands covered with the traditional
cloth.
It’s odd that there wasn’t a single
kisaeng among our family ancestry.
That there is no governmental slave aunt
who plucked a gayakeum with a floating heart when the moon rose by the window
And that there is no grandmother who
killed herself because she didn’t like attending to drinking parties
And that there was no slave girl mother
that was beautiful
And that there was no uncle to cross
rivers to sell colorful silk
And that there was no peasant
grandfather who pulled out his sword because of contempt and scorn
Is so disappointing.
That there was an ancestor who saved the
country every time we faced an insurrection, but there was not a single
daughter who was sold off to be a kisaeng is really depressing.
Where did the kisaeng in my mind come from?
Tonight by the river, wanting to serve
inspiration
What should I do with this decadence?
For just a single line of a poem, decadence would sell my soul.
Which star is that gene stuck to? My
adult entertainment, sword dancing every night.
I am no different than a physical whore
strapped to the indenturement of a private loan.
I am a kisaeng. I am not a girl sold off
for her sick mother. I am a voluntarily obscene and debauched emotional whore.
With the feeling of doing it when I wake up from sleep, I puke and drink and
with the feeling of doing it again, as I shake my ruffled hair, with the
feeling of the party saving the life of the mood, in a mess, I write something.
Again I walk the south side of the Jinju
river. It is the night of the Yu-deung festival. On the riverside, at the night
market, drunk people talk to you. Multi-national flags painted on paper lamps
float above the river. As they fall down they get tangled in the wreckage
below. Amongst the filthy breath of people who spill out, the country market
lights are the light of the life at night.
Disheveled, I pull out my pen. Sleepily.
Biting the pen, not knowing that the ink brimming from the lips is spreading, I
sit by the riverside and write something, sniffing my nose. I am tied to the
couple of lines of poetry I wrote. I am a madwoman that finally believes she is
bound to poetry.
The devil pulls down his pants in front
of my eyes.
I’ll give you a line if you give me a
suck.
Even if he is the devil, I feel like I
will suck and suck and suck and suck and suck.
I sleep and wake and walk outside
without desperation, without shame
Biting a big pen, I suck until poetry
cum.
I am an emotion slut, when I introduce
myself as a poet I feel like it is a confession of my whoredom. There was no
one who sold themselves among my ancestors. My dad said, there was never bad
blood in our family like you.
Stroking the pen, I delicately shook.
Right now I feel like I have become an
old filthy whore on a moon night when the country festival is booming. I am
dancing, a sword in each of my hands.
