Asked How Spring Should Be Used
I sleep beside an old film
where long-forgotten names come and go.
Sleep folds away the faces I miss,
soaked through with the tears of flowers.
In the place where past words were set loose,
unshed cries are tangled, unable to be locked away.
When I dip an old brush,
droplets open a path.
A breath touches that distant landscape —
in the place where hidden flowers bloom alone,
there is the heart of the sea.
Flowers blooming underwater
sway yellow with a trembling grief.
Some springs must gather courage
just to be used —
they must be wept through.
Hands that had sunk
heave up what they could not hold;
eyes whose depths cannot be known
even after sorrow has drained away.
Days we once embraced
lie arranged in quiet rows.
Spring returns carrying the word I’m sorry.
On the anniversary we meet again,
rolled up inside our unfinished speech.
I’m sorry
for leaving you behind.
봄을 어떻게 사용하느냐고 물었다
연명지
머리맡에 오래된 이름이 드나드는
낡은 필름을 두고 잔다
그리운 얼굴이 접혀 있는 잠은 꽃들의 눈물로 흥건하고
지나간 말을 부려놓은 곳에
잠그지 못한 울음들이 엉켜 있다
오래된 붓을 담그면 물방울들이 길을 연다
그 아득한 풍경에 닿아 있는 숨
혼자 숨어 핀 꽃들의 자리에 바다의 심장이 있다
물속에 핀 꽃들이 노랗게 울렁거린다
어떤 봄은 용기를 내서 울어야 사용 할 수 있다
가라앉은 손들이 울컥 게워놓은
슬픔마저 빠져나간 깊이를 알 수 없는 눈빛들
껴안았던 날들이 가지런히 놓여 있다
미안하다라는 말이 돌아오는 봄
기일에 만난 우리들 말 속으로 말아 올려지는
두고 와서 미안해
Mother’s Empty Room
By Yeon Myung Ji
When blood bloomed from her children’s fingers,
Mother would grind cuttlefish bone to dust
And cover our wounds.
In her final years, she was a map of tender pressure points;
She placed a heavy boulder atop the eyelids of life.
Leaving us—who once played beneath the shelter of her bones—
She let go of the hands she held until the end,
Taking not a single one with her as she went alone.
A certain someone, who wrote that we should rejoice
In having something left to leave behind,
Shed the tears of a bird.
And her children, sinners before their mother,
Stifled their tears, pressing them deep down.
They hid them in haste
So no one could ever find them.
Those who have buried a loved one in their hearts
Know how to unlock and bolt the gates of grief.
Though there is no scripture on how to mourn well,
Lips that met for the first time wailed out loud.
In three days, every trace of Mother
Was summoned away by the wind.
The woman who, in life, stayed only in her room,
Now hides within the fringe tree branches, within the breeze.
If blood should ever seep from her children’s fingers,
She seems ready to appear, clutching a piece of cuttlefish bone.
Even in death, she is Mother;
With that very word, “Mother,” she still cradles us.
엄마의 빈 방
Yeon Myung Ji
엄마는 새끼들 손가락에서 피가 나면
갑오징어 뼈를 갈아 상처를 덮어주었다.
늘그막의 엄마는 온통 압통점이어서
생의 눈꺼풀 위 묵직한 바위 하나 올려놓았다.
당신의 뼈 아래에서 놀던 우리를 남겨두고
마지막으로 잡았던 손들
하나도 데려가지 않고 혼자 갔다.
무언가 두고 갈 것이 있다는 걸
기뻐하라는 글을 남긴 어떤 이는
새의 눈물을 흘렸고
어미 앞에 죄인인 새끼들은 눈물을 꾹꾹 숨겼다.
누구도 눈물을 찾지 못하도록
바삐 숨겼다
누군가를 가슴에 묻어본 사람들은
눈물을 열고 잠그는 방법을 안다.
잘 울어야 한다는 교리가 있는 것도 아닌데
처음 본 입술은 깔깔 울었다.
엄마의 흔적은 사흘 만에
바람으로 불려갔고
살아서는 방에만 있던 엄마는
이팝나무 가지에, 바람 속에 숨어 있다.
새끼들 손가락에 피가 나면
얼른 오징어 뼈를 들고 나타날 것만 같은
엄마는, 죽어서도 엄마
그 엄마라는 말로 여전히 우리를 다독인다
Profile
Poet Yeon Myeong-ji began her literary career in 2013 with the poetry collection 『Gashibi』, published in the Minerva Poetry Series.
Her published works include the poetry collections 『Sitting Like an Apple』 and 『Where would the House of the Sorry’ be? 』 the e-poetry collection 『Seventeen Marco Polos,』 and the travel essay 『Step by Step, Walking the Camino.』
She has received the Tolstoy Literary Award, the Homi Literary Award, the Cheongsong Gaekju Literary Award, and the Aviation Literary Award. In 2025, she was awarded the Bronze Prize in Poetry at the Literature Asia Awards.
Her poems have been translated and published in local languages in India, Pakistan, Kosovo, Italy, Egypt, the United States, and Belgium.
