POETRY IS AN ARGUMENT WITH THE SELF AND DISCOURSE WITH THE DIVINE –
DR JERNAIL S. ANAND IN CONVERSATION WITH DR. ANNIE JOHN
[Prof. Dr. Annie John, Head, Dept. of English, A. R. Burla Mahavidyalaya, Solapur, serves as Chairperson, Board of Studies and Member of Academic Council. A prolific writer, editor, and reviewer, she has authored 46 books, 60 research papers, 27 chapters, 40 articles on morals and ethics, guided 9 Ph.D scholars, and contributes as resource person at conferences.]
1. When and how did you first discover your passion for writing?
I was studying in B.A. when I came across a friend who had published a book of Hindi short stories. That was the stimulus for me to move ahead in the direction of writing. However, I was very young, in 9th standard, when I started writing in my mother tongue Punjabi. I wrote a short novelette about our migration from the village to the industrial city of Ludhiana. In our school times, in 9th and 10th standard, two teachers would inspire us to read Russian and Punjabi novelists, which propelled me towards writing. Lala Hardyal’s Hints for Self culture gave me the necessary impetus for loving English writing.
2. How does your personal and cultural background align with your writings?
I believe that all art is autobiographical. Objectivity has its limits. The personality of a poet or an artist makes interventions in his artistic pursuits. The text that a poet creates comes from several sources, and the most momentary of all is the personal circumstances which govern his mindset. Once this moment passes, he will create a different type of text, words will be different, arrangement will be different, and may be, the entire idea of writing may change, and it is also possible, he may decide not to write at all. This is how bio text works. The personal and the cultural lie embedded at the foundation of every writing, and they colour the thought process of the writer. The suffering that I have seen in my life has always coloured my world view, and I come from a humble background, I possess a particular world view about the subaltern sections of society. All the empathy that you can see saturating my works is the result of my personal and cultural bearing, a period of struggle and evolution.
3. What inspires you to write and how do you balance imagination with reality?
Writing is second nature to me. Most of the thoughts come to me while I am on a walk. As soon as I enter the fields, and get close to the grooves of trees, thoughts which have poetic potential strike my mind. So, it it is natural settings, birds, vegetation, the sky, animals – all these have the potential to set the poetic bells ringing. Thoughts actually come with a certain continuity. Sometimes it is not easy to connect back to that series of thoughts. So, I always make a small note of key words, from which I could rebuilt the poetic spectrum which made me think of a particular idea. As I get home, and when I get time, I write poetry directly on the mobile. Reality and imagination coalesce in a poetic text. Reality is the pitch and imagination is the flight. Everybody comes across ordinary events, but the poet has to impart these events a sense of urgency, some element of rhetoric, so that they become special, and for this, he needs imagination. Imagination is the mint where the words are sculpted.
4. How do you blend excellence and understanding in your writings?
Things come naturally and effortlessly when we are clear in our head about our priorities, which also gives us a sense of the fields forbidden to saunter in. Understanding is the base, the foundation, on which excellence can be built. Excellence is the pursuit of the finest in a particular field, and for achieving this state, it is essential that we understand what we are after. It also includes our understanding of our limitations and strengths, and what we should aspire for. What is best for us, perhaps it is too tall an order to know. But, it is a fact that we do not get beyond our capabilities. Excellence also embraces the idea of hard work and pursuit of a particular ambition. People who are habitual of hard work, excellence is a natural corollary of their actions. Understanding, as I said earlier, is the foundation and for this to be strong, we need proper education and training of our faculties.
5. What type of sensibility is required for excellence in poetry?
You are talking of a poetic sensibility. It is a unique endowment which cannot be acquired in training saloons. It is inborn. Poets are divinely endowed with a sensitive mind, which can discover the inevitable in every event, and perceive the invisible presence of a divine hand behind whatever happens. The highest poetry has been written by poets who were blessed by the Muse. Writing poetry for the sake of poeticising is also an art, in which we can compete with others for positions in contests, but for excellence in creativity, we need a sensibility rooted in a divine vision, of the oneness of creation, and man’s divinity. I find the poetry of sages and saints like Guru Nanak Dev from Punjab is the highest form of poetry. Nobody can excel Kabir and Rumi.
6. What goes into making a literary work truly excellent and immortal?
It is the subject matter of a work of literature which lends it immortality and it is its treatment and presentation, which make it excellent. Great literature deals with questions of existence, philosophy and spirituality. Excellence relates to the formal aspect of the writing. The treatment, the selection of language, the clarity of thought, and how the poet finally delivers his message, all these aspects add to the excellence of a work of art. Immortality simply means transcendence in matters of time and space. Art that deals with eternal values, finally transcends time. A work whom generations after generations find conversing with them, stands the test of time, and in such a work, the loftiness of thought is combined with its formal finesse in delivering a message of ultimate significance.
7. Has writing ever changed your own perspective on life?
Civilization is a ceaseless progression from past into the future. So are our lives. Whatever we face, and how we negotiate it, leaves its impact on our life and thinking. I feel as times have changed, and I have assimilated more and more of life and literature, I perceive a definite change in my perceptions. My thoughts on nature can be cited as an example. Previously, I thought that nature is secondary to mankind, and less intelligent too. But over the time, my perception has changed. Now, I believe that nature is the first empire of Godly creation, which possesses the highest level of intelligence. Human intelligence, in my opinon, is acquired intelligence, we can call it AI. To every new born child, God gives a natural intelligence. Nature also has this original intelligence. It is also called INNOCENCE. Innocence should not be confused with ignorance. Nature is not ignorant. They know their job better than men can perform. That is why there is comparative peace in the world of nature, whereas there is absolute chaos in the world of men, where we depend on artificial intelligence, which I dare described as ‘Artificial Wisdom’. These ideas have been dealt with in my epic ‘Revelations’, which was released recently.
8. How do you know when a piece of writing is complete?
It is not possible to say that a piece of writing is complete. We leave it half way. In India, when a man dies, it is said, “poora ho gaya’ which means, his journey has been completed. In the same way, a writing can be called complete, it seems impossible, because, just as a man continues to live even beyond his years through his sons and daughters, an author bears poetry which keeps evolving in time. So, the idea of a writing being complete is illusionary. An artist when he gives finishing touches to a work of art, is never sure of its completion. It is only his feeling that it is completed. Personally, I always feel there is so much to say on any topic on which I write poetry or prose. But it has to be rounded off with a temporary sense of conclusion.
9. Many people opine that there is magic missing in contemporary poetry. How do you react to this?
I find there is a lot of democratization of the poetic sensibility. It is not confined to literature benches only. People are writing poetry, getting it published, and books after books are being released by different poetry portals. You find so many competitions, so many awards. These days, senior scholars are holding workshops also to teach how to write poetry. In this connection, I feel that any person can write an article, or even a story, or a novel, because after all these genres are dependent on the thought stream of writers, in which mind plays a great role. But, these criteria do not apply to poetry. Poetry cannot be taught. It is a natural endowment and poets are inborn. They have a special sensibility and a keen view with which they look at life, and this keen vision is coupled with the power of versification, which again is innate. If the poetry comes from these natural sources, it carries a certain loftiness, and what you call ‘magic’. If it is forced, it is just versified prose which lacks poetic magic.
10. What tempts you to keep the pen rolling?
Poetic sensibility means a poet’s power to discern poetic moments in ordinary life. These moments cast a pull on our imagination, and then, while walking, I make a halt, take out my mobile phone, go to notes, and write down a word or two, so as to remind me of the entire spectrum of thought, when I start writing a bit later, when I feel comfortable. For me, it is the wish to share my experience with the cosmic audience, what I have felt about certain things, and whether I like them, or how I want them to be. Poetry is an argument with the self and the cosmic forces as well.It is a private conversation, which we make public so that it remains as a living document of the discourse with the divine.
11. How has modern technology changed writing and reading habits?
Modern technology has opened great vistas of knowledge which has been documented for future generations. Things are available at the click of a button. Scholars are simply required to sift the information and select from the information available in abundance. All this seems to be a rosy picture. It should have made more time available to the youngsters. But, no. Their reading habits have undergone a marked change. The question is why people develop reading habits? In the past, people had vacant time, and they wanted novels and short stories etc. for the sake of entertainment. Now, the youngsters are left with no time at all. Moreover, whatever entertainment they need is coming from the films and videos streamed nonstop of the OTT platforms. You tube is a great source of entertainment. So, should our youngsters go to books? Instruction, which came from books, is no longer required because the kids grow mature quite faster, and overtake the wisdom of their parents. In a way, reading has become out of place. That is why, libraries are becoming cold stores of knowledge, which have no takers. AI has further brought people to the brink of thinking that book reading is a wastage of time. Make reels and make money from you tube and google. I don’t think any serious book readers are left in our vicinity, except those who rush to books written in lighter vein, comics, or books which tell ten ways to make money, and these days books about astrology are becoming acraze with young ones. Interest in books dealing with serious literature are accessed by students only if these books are prescribed in their course of study.
12. Looking back is there anything you would like to change in your literary journey?
We cannot go back, nor can we edit what has taken place in the past. Moreover, I am a strong believer that we are performing to the best of our abilities, yet, there are forces which don’t allow us to do things neither better nor worse. I have a positive faith in invisible forces. I have always looked forward, and did whatever I thought better in those circumstances. Some decisions were rash also. But, we cannot go back, nor edit what we have done. So, I think it is better to focus on the future.
13. How would you like to be remembered as a writer?
Here lies the man who was his own worst critic because he was his own greatest lover.
14. What advice would you give young aspiring writers?
If you look at my life, I have always believed in hard work, and a passionate engagement with my ambition. I never deviated from my mission to be a Lecturer in English, and then, to be an author. What makes you better is the struggle that we have to face while wading through life. In this struggle, we should not play smart for the sake of success. It is better to remain rooted, and have faith in the power of our faith. One should aspire for the impossible and work for its achievement, there is nothing wrong in it, but, while working for our own wellbeing and uplift, we must not bring any harm to anyone else, may be from our family, or society, or the larger cosmic society. In other words, our actions should be in harmony with the cosmic forces. By way of advice to upcoming generations of poets and writers, I would like to say: try to be original and creative, and don’t keep looking towards the past. Future has a different composition, and it requires an innovative treatment. Evolution is the law of nature. Spiritually and philosophically, we need to grow and confront the emerging realities, so that our writing reflects contemporary conflicts and possible resolutions.
Dr. Jernail S. Anand, with 200 books to his credit [20 epics] is a Chandigarh-based polymath, and a vital architect of the 21st century ethical literature whose seminal work ‘Lustus: The Prince of Darkness’ challenges the moral complacency of our era. Founding President of the International Academy of Ethics, and Laureate of Charter of Morava [Serbia], Seneca [Italy], Franz Kafka [Germany, Ukraine, Czech Rep] and Maxim Gorky [Russia], his name is inscribed on the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. He is an Honorary Member of the Serbian Writers Association, Belgrade. Anand has built a poetics that unites ethics, Vedic spirituality, social critique, and the philosophy of meaning. Anand presents an articulated perspective on poetry as an instrument of planetary consciousness. A moral philosopher, professor, and international speaker, Anand has devoted much of his research to the ethical dimension of language, to the responsibility of the individual within a globalised society, and to the relationship between matter, consciousness, and transcendence. Email: anandjs55@yahoo.com.
Hello, my name is Timothee Bordenave, from France. I wanted to share an idea with you that is inspired from my life experience as a tree sower and can be called the Fruits Forest.
If you very simply collect the seeds from the fruits that you eat, then time after time you can sow these seeds. The best moment in the year to sow a seed would be generally the same as when you have just eaten the fruit from which it was taken off, because of natural cycles. But, I have tested this, many other moments in the year from late winter to early fall, can be appropriate too, as long as the weather conditions and the soil where to sow are good.
You would, very likely, by coming back to the place where a seed was sown, find a young plant of a tree at birth, a few months later. You would likewise, a few years afterwards, find very often a tree in itself, bearing fruits after merely only a year or two…
Then, if you realize this action often enough, several fruit trees, many fruit trees eventually, would be born and would bear good fruits, as in the orchard gardens this is what was always done, initially. And if you reproduce your sowing on a large enough scale, then not long after your beginning, an orchard that would be about the size of a small wood, or even of a small forest, can be implanted into your land – and this for an undefined, but likely to be very long time for the future.
The same proceeding can be undertaken as starting in a wood or a forest at first, where if you take advantage of the original disposition and distribution of the existing trees, you will be able to sow fruit seeds and also if you know how to do so to graft on fruit-bearing branches, locally at first and after a time, with a patient and constant work, on a very large forest surface, easily.
This principle can be applied to any lands were the soils would be good and clean enough, I presume. I presume also this applies to any type or species of fruit trees. Then, it can be done at any level of implementation : from one tree in your backyard to a forest of fruits…
When I was young, I was very impressed by a story from a French writer, M. Jean Giono, entitled : The man who planted trees. Where is described the life of a postman who declined despairing about his region being arid and a close-desert, and who then planted oak trees he had collected seeds of at first, to thereafter gradually be giving birth to an oak forest covering acres, and acres, and acres, of the hills around his village.
Believe me : inspired by this narration, I then tried with my humble own manner to do the same. And even if I did not maybe yet achieve the quest for planting a whole fruit forest… Well, I can say I have been at the origin of thousands of trees bearing fruits, and I notably planted a few big orchards already, along with many seeds that I sew in the wild, of which I saw many trees growing, which I could eat the fruits of.
I chose from the beginning to sow seeds of fruits, because I foresee here a great utility, both for the food they bring obviously to my fellow humans, second for the food they bring to various animal species, facilitating their ability to live near and to enhance the « biodiversity », and improve the ecological system or environment in these areas concerned by a new food supply from the fruits of these trees.
Now, would we hopefully one day, realize a whole fruits forest in France, for example, where a majority of our vast wooden lands would host a lot of fruit trees, we would then be close to our old, European medieval idea of a Forest of Abundance, which was closely related to our ancestors’ views of an Earthly Paradise!
Call me a dreamer if you wish to, still, this idea starts with the simple, calm and peasant work of anyone who would like to take a seedling of a fruit, and sow it in the good soil, in Nature, to enjoy it being grown soon after in a tree, where fruits can be picked off… Indefinitely, in time, afterwards!
Born in 1984 in Paris, France, Timothee Bordenave is a French author of fiction and essays, and a poet. He has published many books, about 25 to date, and his literary works have been translated in large parts to about 20 languages… He is also a visual artist, whose photographs and paintings have been shown in France and in various international locations. He used to work directing libraries in Paris, and nowadays he is a full time creative.
He sauntered into the classroom, nose in the air, bobbing his head, eyes gazing over other students, expecting me to sign an add slip, which I did since it was a small class I feared might be cancelled. As a writer, I needed the work as an adjunct instructor.
He didn’t seem a hipster per se, although he did sport a bleached dreadlock bun, oversized square glasses, drooping pants. I figured him for one of the theater majors who often enrolled in the course attracted by dramatic monologues and performance as part of the syllabus. Budding poetry and prose writers alike were drawn to the Asian and European forms of poetry, sudden fiction, and memoir.
Just as I was passing out the day’s activity sheet and about to introduce the process of peer review, the students were all abuzz, so much so that I turned to one and quietly asked: “What’s up with all the fuss?”
She whispered back: “He’s a local rapper. He’s even been part of the lineup at Paramount Theatre for Oakland’s Hip HopAthon.”
That’s when I instead distributed the survey, “My Expectations for This Class” to be filled out, shared, discussed.
During discussion, theater folk predictably revealed they wanted to be performative in class and that this and their other classes could enrich each other. The emerging poets B-Bluzee were open to just about everything as were the storytellers.
He called himself B-Bluzee or something like that I couldn’t wrap my head around, probably because I’d grown uninterested in rappers, having been outspoken against rap lyrics demeaning women. This rapper, I came to call Blue, announced he enrolled to practice his act and make new rhymes, punctuated by “You feelin’ me?” as he looked past me and to the class as if an audience.
Some students chimed in with “Yas. aight, feelin’ you,” as if looking forward to, I imagined, a poppin’ class with some free entertainment.
Determined not to let Blue run the room, after class I handed him the syllabus and some rules of order: “Your assignments are nearly overdue having entered late, and your allowable absences for the term are practically used up.” Following his deadpan stare, I went on: “You, like everyone else, are expected to participate in aspects of creative writing meant not so much for the stage but more for the page, including being open to the work of established writers as well as to other students’ work.”
Blue said little, or maybe said nothing. What I remember best are the wings on his jacket, back to me, as he drifted out of the room. I figured he would not return.
Return he did, but at his leisure. After I said: “Blue,” to get his attention, he corrected in a snappy head turn: “B-Bluzee.” “Blue,” I continued, “your signature on the attendance sheet is artistic,” and continued with the off-the-cuff remark of “Just like tags on the campus pedestrian tunnel wall sprayed in silver huffer paint.”
He never turned in assignments or responded in workshops after that. Even the MMA fighter never missed a day despite late nights, black eyes, split lips. Nor did the single mother struggling with childcare, or others facing life’s unsung but ongoing challenges.
And then came time for final presentations of what students chose as their best writing to present as their portfolio in self-published chapbooks to exchange with each other and to turn in for a grade. This time I hoped Blue would finally participate, come to the front of the class and perform as others had, performance supposedly being his thing. I coaxed him: “C’mon Blue. Your’ve got a captive audience here.”
He just shook it off with a shoulder shrug, pulling his hoodie up over his head and down past his eyes, slouching at his desk. At the end of that last class, I distributed a final survey titled “The Grade I Deserve and Why” students could pick up at my office for my written response.
As I read them at home later that night, I was touched by the thoughtfulness in their narratives about their own work and working with others. Then came B-Bluzee’s, an unexpected reply written in graffiti style lettering with a thick silver marker: “Fuck It. Gimme an F.”
And at that, really feelin’ blue, I wrote heavy-handedly in blood red: “OK—you got it.”
The Naked Couple at the Window
The complimentary champagne cocktail couldn’t begin to take the edge of things, leaving me feeling downhearted and disenchanted by the whole arts scene in the city where The Woman I Love and I had relocated. What a night at Bazaar Cafe on the outskirts of San Francisco, feeling like quite the wallflower. Who wouldn’t, as the other three poets featured sequestered in a corner reminiscing college days and amusing current students there to perhaps get a bit of extra credit.
“Stop beating yourself up,” The Woman I Love insisted. “Your stuff is better than all of theirs,” she reassured; but it didn’t help much as I carped on about having sold only one book and to the owner who liked that we both had roots back East.
As if this wasn’t enough, The Woman I Love decided to take one of her disastrous shortcuts through a neighborhood where we’d never been with its plethora of older highrises. Stuck in traffic, the light on the fritz, people were not playing well with everyone off to somewhere to do something that must have been terribly important made clear from the incessant bleating of horns and finger flying birds at windows.
Slumped riding shotgun, no radio station could drown out the self-obsessed clamor of thoughts in my head or cacophony of the street. It was then I looked upward toward the stars, perhaps for a bit of hope or calm; but there was not a one to be seen under the umbrella of city glow from ambient light. There was, however, something else that caught my eye—a second story apartment with blaring wall-to-wall and ceiling-to-floor lighting that seemed so barely furnished I wondered whether anyone lived there. Just then up from the couch, backs to the window, two figures rose, a fit and trim man and woman likely in their early twenties—both stark naked.
They stood there for a time. No hand holding, hugging, kissing. Then they moved in sync in glissades like practiced performers, one sliding along from the right, the other from the left until meeting center stage in front of the window where they did not touch, arms dangling at their sides, but only stared into the sea of cars below. The Naked Couple at the Window stood for a few mesmerizing minutes doing absolutely nothing, until they slid back to their original position in front of the couch before moving effortlessly en pointe toward a darkened room across the open space, turned back around, dipped in ballet révérence, then switched off the lights.
“Did you see that? I asked The Woman I Love.
“Did I see what? Those damn robo-taxis jammed up in the next lane?”
“No. Did you see The Naked Couple in the Window?”
“Are you being a Peeping Tomacita again?” was her only response as she released her white knuckle grip from the steering wheel to applaud traffic lights finally functional.
“C’mon, you really didn’t see that?”
The Woman I Love took my hand in hers and answered, almost in a condescending whisper: “Time to go home and maybe write one of your more wacky poems or wild tales about being stuck in traffic and gawking at The Naked Couple at the Window.”
People’s Drug
Melody took her usual seat at the counter near the prescription window of People’s Drugstore in Washington D. C.’s Georgetown neighborhood for her Sunday morning order of rye toast and black tea.
Saturday nights, the People’s corner was a hot spot she sometimes visited to get psychedelics from kooky weekend dealers. In those days she fit in with the eccentric cast of characters, smoking her Virginia Slims, sporting a boyish pixie, wearing false eyelashes, mod dresses, colored tights in chunky heeled ankle boots. Like most young people then, she was open to new experiences, especially if a bit taboo.
The waitress, always in uniform with her enamel name tag as Alice, knew just when to offer her more hot water for her teabag, never commenting on anything. Until one day, nodding toward a man on the opposite side of the oval counter, Alice questioned with an air of suspicion: “Are you okay with that guy taking pictures of you?”
At first Melody shrugged it off, since she never paid attention to or spoke to other patrons, not even regulars and certainly not this gawky and ill-kempt man, but then some huff washed over her. She slid off her stool, circled over to him, taking him by surprise as he looked longingly into her eyes behind muted shades. Then in a snit she snatched his camera, pulled out the ribbon of film, took it back to her seat, stubbed out her cigarette on it before dropping it into the teacup Alice instantly filled with hot water.
Melody doubled Alice’s tab to make an appreciative tip for her and made her way out as Alice played a song of the times on the countertop juke box, “These Boots are Made for Walking.” That was Melody’s cue to point back at the guy clasping his camera to his chest as she chimed in on the song: “and they just walked all over you.”
Because of this to a falling-out with the yeast cells clog and close a cut. A Because of this, I tame mallang mallangha.High With a soft face.
Blood, Yeonhapa Like wine gets hot inside me.
Any defect is a huge diamond. Scratch Have lofty feelings that cut. Number Or chuka Pain Window Ha The persimmon.Jung of the existence of just a stone’s throw away reveals (咫尺).
The bread is like flour for existence prior to a *. This person because of this that can not be removed from bones.I The table of wheat fields.
My Hunger is a On a wheat field Be a flock of birds to fly off. The organizations that fly in the sky in the sky.Willingness Che will be
If this is being limited to, flour. On a tray. A glass of wine and a slice of bread is. Ceremony Tak This table We have probably only for dinner one meal.
Drawing on the tray of fish. I don’t know why you are full and eat one’s knuckles and blue. Ha Is all the time The Shemiramoth,
A chunk of space, is only water and air. A piece of sacred pieces of bread honorable’is mixed.
My God there is (神) because of this
* ereulleu pongti <symbols in >
성체聖體
강영은
빵이라 부를 때 이것은 존재 한다
누룩과 불화하는 이것 때문에 상처가 아문다 상처를 길들이는 이것 때문에 나는 말랑말랑하고 부드러운 표정을 지닌다
빵이 되기 위한 밀가루처럼 존재에 선행하는 존재* 뼈에서 떼어낼 수 없는 이것 때문에 나의 식탁은 밀밭이다
나의 굶주림은 밀밭 위로 날아오르는 새떼가 된다 이 하늘에서 저 하늘로 날아다니는 조직의 지체가 된다
만일 이것이 밀가루에 국한된 존재라면 쟁반 위에 놓인 한 잔의 포도주와 한 조각 빵은 식탁이 차려준 한 끼니 식사에 불과했으리라
쟁반 위에 물고기 그림을 그린다 먹고 배부른 까닭을 알지 못 하나 손가락 마디에 푸른 하늘이 스민다
물과 불과 공기가 관계한 한 덩어리 우주, 한 점의 빵 조각을 성스럽게 받든다
이것 때문에 나의 신(神)이 존재 한다
*에를르 퐁티<기호들>에서
Romance with the Evening
Kang young eun
– <Translation by Ko Chang-soo>
In the evening’s expression,
An emotion with a differing color of blood blooms and fades.
Like jasmine that shifts the color towards violet, soft violet, white,
In those moments the evening takes on an expression that most resembles solitude.
Thus I forget for a moment that my limbs have become awkward,
And my ears, neck, mouth and nose have bloomed.
Though several people walk together, the evening touches one eyeball.
Like a corridor that gets increasingly calm each time light deflects,
In those moments the evening becomes a lover;
I become friendly with death like a child roaming in a maze.
And I witness the alleys lengthen out gradually.
While waiting for a call-taxi before a florist where pollen scatters,
I think of you
Like a memo paper that will be forgotten tomorrow,
Like the slight fever of bored time.
In those moments the evening is lost in a love affair.
So I, blooming under an old window-frame,
Become unfamiliar.
On some evenings I’m absent;
So, if the landscape has disappeared into my inside,
I’m absent, that is, in the place left behind by the evening.
In those moments, the evening, not knowing it is evening,
Seeps into the window.
The consolation of being alone suddenly comes in hundreds of faces
In that very moment.
저녁과의 연애
강영은
저녁의 표정 속에 피 색깔이 다른 감정이 피었다 진다
보라 연보라 흰색으로 빛깔을 이동시키는 브룬스팰지어자스민처럼
그럴 때 저녁은 고독과 가장 닮은 표정을 짓는 것이어서
팔다리가 서먹해지고 이목구비가 피었다는 사실을 잠시 잊는다
여럿이 걸어가도 저녁은 하나의 눈동자에 닿는다
빛이 굴절될 때마다 점점 그윽해져가는 회랑처럼
그럴 때 저녁은 연인이 되는 것이어서
미로 속을 헤매는 아이처럼 죽음과 다정해지고
골목이 점점 길어지는 것을 목격하기도 한다
화분이 나뒹구는 꽃집 앞에서 콜택시를 기다리는 동안
당신이 생각나기도 한다
내일이면 잊혀 질 메모지처럼 지루한 시간의 미열처럼
그럴 때 저녁은 연애에 골몰하는 것이어서
낡은 창틀 아래 피어 있는 내가 낯설어진다
어느 저녁에는 내가 없다
이내 속으로 풍경이 사라진 것처럼
저녁이 남기고 간 자리에 나는 없더라는 말
그럴 때 저녁은 제가 저녁인 줄 모르고 유리창 속으로 스며든다
혼자라는 위로는 불현듯 그때 수백 개의 얼굴로 찾아온다
Profile
Poet Kang Young-eun was born on Jeju Island and earned a Master’s degree in Literature from the Graduate School of Culture and Arts at Kookje University. She made her literary debut in 2000 through the quarterly literary magazine Minerva. Since then, she has published the poetry collections The Green Silk Python, Floating Reef, the Back of the Sea, Mago’s Jar, A Gentle Poetics, The Bird Beyond, and Longing Gravity. She has also published the selected poems Poems Dedicated to the Japanese Nutmeg Yew, the essay collection Letters from the Mountain Hydrangea, the collaborative travel poetry collections The Crescent Moon of Tibet, Mingalaba, Myanmar, and Nazar Boncu, as well as the anthology of poems in English, Faces of the Festival, featuring twelve poets.
Kang Young-eun’s poetic world is deeply rooted in the landscape of Jeju, where the vitality of nature, the sense of loss, and the solitude of writing converge. She has described writing poetry as “the loneliest and freest way to embrace time and space,” revealing an attitude that accepts even her own transience and futility as an inevitable part of existence. Her essay collection Letters from the Mountain Hydrangea, which combines poetry, photography, and reflective prose, demonstrates how her creative practice extends beyond lyrical poetry into visual imagery and contemplative essays. By interweaving images of nature with profound inner sorrow, she has developed a distinctive poetic voice that has been consistently recognized across multiple collections rather than at a single moment in her career.
Her honors include the Excellence Award of the Siyesul Poetry Prize (2006), the Korean Poetry Literature Award (2012), the Arts Council Korea (ARKO) Literary Creation Grant (2014), selection as a Sejong Outstanding Book (2015), the Writers Association of Korea Author Award (2016), the Literary Youth Award and recognition as an Outstanding Content publication by the Korea Publication Industry Promotion Agency (2018), the Seogwipo Literary Award (2023), and selection for the Literature Sharing Program (2024).
She previously served as an instructor of creative writing at the Lifelong Education Center of Seoul National University of Science and Technology and as Chair of the Organizing Committee for the Seogwipo Chilsimni Literary Award. She currently serves as a Board Member of the Korean Poets’ Association and an Editorial Board Member of Literary Youth.
