Kim Ch'un-su / 김춘수 ( Poet )

[merveaydin]

Kim Ch'un-su / 김춘수 ( Poet )

25 Kasım 1922 de doğmuştur. 29 Kasım 2004'te ölmüştür. 20. yüzyılın önemli şairlerinden biridir. Birçok edebi ödül kazanmıştır. Birçok eseri İngilizce, Almanca ve İspanyolca'ya çevrilmiştir.

Chungmu'da doğmuğtur. 1940-1943 yılları arasında Japonya'da bulunan Nihon Üniversitesi'nde çalışmıştır. Fakat Japon İmparatorluğu hakkında söyledikleri yüzünden sürgüne yollanmıştır. Affından 7 ay sonra Kore'ye dönmüştür. Buradaki lise ve orta okullarda öğretmenlik yapmaya başlamıştır. 1946 yılında şiirlerini yayınlamaya başlamıştır. 1965 yılında Kyungpook Ulusal Üniversitesi'ne katılmıştır. 1978'de Yeungnam Üniversitesi'nde edebiyat bölümünün başkanı olmuştur. 1981 yılında seçim ile Ulusal Meclis'in üyesi olmuştur.

Çeviren: merveaydin



English

Kim Ch'un-su (November 25, 1922-November 29, 2004) was one of the leading South Korean poets of the late twentieth century. He won numerous literary awards and was a professor of Korean Literature. His works have been translated into English, German and Spanish.

Kim was born in Chungmu (present-day Tongyeong). He studied literature at Nihon University in Japan from 1940 to 1943, at which time he was expelled and jailed for speaking against the Japanese Empire. After his release seven months later, he returned to Korea and taught in middle and high schools. He began to publish poetry in 1946. He joined the faculty of Kyungpook National University in 1965, and became Dean of the Department of Literature at Yeungnam University in 1978. In 1981, he was elected to the National Assembly.

Kaynak/Source

[merveaydin]

İngilizce'ye Çevrilen Bazı Şiirleri

Absence


Whenever the wind shook it,
the fence
raised sorrowful sounds.

Cockscombs, lilies, balsams and the like
bloomed in season
and faded without a sound.

Even in cold midwinter,
the lonely sunshine dozed
on the stepping stones
and was gone.

Only time kept flowing listlessly;
people lived as in a dream
and passed away.




Flower


Until I spoke his name,
he had been
no more than a mere gesture.

When I spoke his name,
he came to me
and became a flower.

Now speak my name,
one fitting this colour and odour of mine,
as I spoke his name,
so that I may go to him
and become his flower.

We all wish
to become something.
You to me and I to you
wish to become an unforgettable gaze.



Prologue for a Flower


I am now a dangerous animal.
The moment my hand touches you,
you become darkness, unknown and remote.

At the tip of a trembling twig of being,
you bloom and fall, without a name.
I weep all through the night
in this nameless darkness seeping through my eyelids,
lighting a lamp of remembrance.

My weeping will gradually turn into a whirlwind,
shaking a tower,
and become gold when it penetrates the stone.
--My bride, her face veiled!



The Bare Tree; a Prologue to Poetry


The winter sky vanishes into a mysterious depth;
the infinite, which may or may not be,
has dropped the luxuriant foliage and fruits,
making the fig tree stand bare;
but might that be poetry
that is almost, almost reaching the tip
of the sensitive twig?
the moment language is asleep,
without words,
the infinite comes smiling
the luxuriant foliage and fruits dropping as historical
events:
but might that be poetry
that blinks at the tip
of the sensitive twig?



The Snow Falling on Chagall's Village


Snow falls on Chagall's village, in March.
At the temple of a man looking forward to spring,
a new vein
trembles.
At the trembling temple of the man,
caressing the new vein,
the snow, with thousands of wings,
descends from heaven, covering
the roofs and chimneys of Chagall's village.
When snow falls in March,
the winter berries of Chagall's village
revive in olive
and women make
the most beautiful fire of the year
in their ovens.



Goya's Scream


The Latin word 'Ars' has tied
Rubens up.
he is glad to be tied up.
VAan Dyke,
Tintoretto,
Velazquez, all of them,
shout that 'Ars' makes the world
be born anew.
At Toledo I heard El Greco
say the same thing.
He whispered in the dim inner room
of the house he rented.
Only Goya felt the pain
of the iron chain
eating into his flesh.
Maja, the woman 'Ars' created,
had her head cut off,
and one day
the outlines of his portraits wore out
like the Jesus of Rouault.
They have no background even.
Go and look!
His scream is shaking
the Prado even now.

[Yang mi kyeong]

[éhl@]

Tesekkürler paylasim için.

[Song Ji Hyo]

Çok tesekkür ederiz.

[Aphrodite]

Degerli sairimizi tanittiginiz için tesekkür ederim.

[k-sorry]

Paylasim için çok tesekkürler.