Do Jong Hwan
Do Jong Hwan (nacido el 27 de septiembre de 1954 en Jeongju, provincia de Chungcheong del Norte, Corea del Sur) fue profesor de escuela y escritor a tiempo parcial hasta la muerte de su mujer (solo dos años después de casarse), lo que le llevó a escribir Malvarrosa, una colección de desgarradores poemas de amor con los que consiguió fama y las alabanzas de la crítica. Con el objetivo de mejorar los estándares de educación, ha sido director de un sindicato de docentes y también ha sido un activo líder regional de una organización en favor de la democracia. Aunque perdió el trabajo de profesor e incluso fue encarcelado por sus actividades, ha continuado luchando por la justicia y un futuro mejor.
Obra
Escrita en parte como tributo a su esposa fallecida, cuya pureza y belleza le recuerdan a la malvarrosa, en el poemario Malvarrosa es palpable la insoportable pena por la repentina pérdida de su amor y el intenso anhelo de felicidad que compartió con su mujer. Cuando él se da la vuelta "dejando una canción en su tumba", ella lo sigue "en el lloro de insectos sin nombre"; y cuando él va hacia su casa "dejado una lágrima en su tumba", ella se convierte "en la lluvia que cala profundamente en su cuerpo". Para superar esta angustia y desesperación, el poeta abraza el mundo con una perspectiva nueva. A través de su sufrimiento, el poeta se da cuenta de que la vida ha de seguir incluso si es más dolorosa que la muerte.
Do Jong Hwan también ha escrito sobre la división de Corea, describiendo las dificultades que vive un solo pueblo en un país dividido y abriendo nuevas posibilidades para la unificación de Corea del Norte y Corea del Sur. Ha obtenido numerosos premios de literatura.
Obras en coreano
En la aldea Godumi (1985)
Malvarrosa (1986)
A ti a quien amo (1988)
Quién eres (1993)
Una flor cae en el pueblo de la gente (1994)
Suave línea recta (1998)
La raíz de la pena (2002)
Vacilando, florecen
¿Habrá flor que florezca sin vacilar?
Hasta las flores más hermosas del mundo,
vacilando, florecen.
Vacilando yerguen su tallo recto;
pues no hay amor que prospere sin vacilar.
¿Habrá flor que florezca sin mojarse?
Hasta las flores más relucientes del mundo,
mojándose, florecen.
Sus tiernas hojas brotaron entre lluvia y viento;.
pues no hay vida que prospere sin mojarse.
Traducción de Zyanya Gil Yáñez.
Ríos
Fuimos hacia el lugar más bajo,
llevando las cosas más sucias,
¿ustedes nos denigraron?
¿ustedes nos ensuciaron?
Gente que a nuestro paso lava inquieta en la orilla sus manos,
nosotros siempre fluiremos a un lugar más bajo que el suyo.
Traducción de Zyanya Gil Yáñez.
http://literaturacoreana.blogspot.com.es/
IVY
That is a wall.
When it feels like just one of those walls,
then,
the ivy silently climbs the wall.
When it is called a wall of despair,
without a drop of water, and not a single grain of seed could survive,
the ivy moves forward without haste.
Even a short span is scaled together, hand in hand,
until all despair is covered blue,
– there is no letting go of that despair.
When we shake our heads before an insurmountable wall
an ivy leaf leads thousands of ivy leaves
and eventually conquers the wall.
BETWEEN THREE TO FIVE O’CLOCK
The face of a wild cherry tree leaf is turning redder than a red dragonfly The seasons of the universe are passing by autumn, and the time of my life is between three to five in the afternoon My life between twelve to one o’clock was intense, but what followed was mostly worm-eaten
Though already distanced from the centre of time, I am grateful that there are still a few hours before dark, and happy at the thought of being granted yet another brilliant spectacle of clouds illuminated by a twilight sky just before the sun goes down
Soon, winter will arrive There will come a day when ice melts at the northern end of the earth, sending ice chunks all the way to seaside villages Even then, the woods will embrace my dimming body and shadow The flowers and trees are well aware of how much I loved the cork oaks, squirrels, children and pansies last spring and summer, and how hard I fought to protect them The earth will raise its tranquil hand as my witness
I still have a few hours left
and the time now is between three to five o’clock
EVENING FOREST
In memory of Scott Nearing
It is evening, when even the peony closes its flowers.
Watching the birds call out to one another in the same cry
and nesting on the branches, I rest my axe.
At this hour
when the forest gathers its final scent
for beans and potatoes planted yesterday, and for squirrels and deer,
the sound of wood-splitting will not be comforting.
While neatly stacking pieces of firewood under the rafters,
I thought of you.
When you moved to the Vermont forest
after twice being dismissed from mainstream society,
you had lost hope for the progressive movement
and were thoroughly shunned by the world.
However, you escaped
from the engulfing madness, destruction and devastation.
I washed my forehead with the flowing water,
sat down on a rock and thought.
Unlike you, after a day of hard work, reading, and writing
I did not experience harmony with nature.
Just like arranging the scattered blocks of wood and sprigs
in a neat pile, my life too
will be put back in order.
Brushing the dust off my clothes
I will greet evening in a slow and simple way.
As darkness cloaks the woods and valleys
the grass and trees align their hands
towards the stars.
We are a family living the same life.
I hear a wish for abundance and peace
cradled in the arms of the complete, massive universe.
Tonight, many stars are still covered by the clouds
while the night fog has not lifted from my heart.
But as I become familiar with the simplicity of life,
with a firm grasp on consistency
when my eyes regain the light of the universe
the stars will come flooding to this valley.
Of all that which fills me up within,
remove what should be removed and
return what should be returned.
Let things fall into place.
If I were to get back a natural face and smile
and mature into the well-balanced character that you are,
with righteousness and goodness joined in the body,
how wonderful it would be. Then
summer mountains and autumn forests will rejoice.
I am happy to have known you in my later days.
May you find peace on the other side of the sea.
In memory of you and your timeless search for perfection
in the forest and beneath the stars.
Poems translated by Park Kyung-ri
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