Prof. Sungrye Han (South Korea)

 
Prof. Sungrye Han (South Korea)
 
Born in 1955 Rep of Korea. Poet, Translator(Japanese-Korean). Adjunct professor.
She majored in Japanese language and Japanese literature at Sejong University and earned her master’s degree in Japanese studies at Sejong University’s Graduate School of Policy Science.
Her works have earned her the Newcomer Award of <Poem and Consciousness>, Korea’s the Heonanseolheon Literature Award and Japan’s Sitosozo Award.
Book of Poetry 『The Beauty in a Laboratory』, 『Smiling flowers』in Korean, 『The Sky in the Yellowish Red Korean Skirt』, 『Drama of the Light』in Japanese. Historical essay 『The Formation of the Ancient Nation in Japan and Japanese oldest anthology Manyo-shu』 and so on.
Her poems express Korean tradition, life and death, sadness, pain and anguish in surrealism, modernism and avant-garde forms
She translated many Japanese literary works into Korean and many Korean literary works into Japanese. This work includes more than 200 volumes, for example, poems, novels, essays, poem anthologies, books for children, humanity books, self enlightenment books and scientific books. In particular, she translated many poems and Book of Poetry between Korea and Japan.In particular, she translated many poems and Book of Poetry between Korea and Japan.
Korean textbooks used in Korean high schools contain several translations of her for educational purposes.
She has translated and introduced Korean and Japanese poems in literary magazines between the two countries since 1990.
She is now an adjunct professional at Sejong Cyber University in Seoul, South Korea.
 
 
The Angle of a blind spot
 
The faded sunlight shines through the leaves
Underneath the tree, the leaves turn into a navy blue canvas
A hazy curtain hung
At the evening when red and black are blended
The hour of the devil, neither day nor night
Spiders are coming down low
A bird flies low
Lives falling down from the air
 
Under the influence of that power,
The heaven comes to the earth
The boundary between the earth and the sky is erased
Now is the time to forget what we said during the day
At the end of the earth’s axis
Where the blood of day and night is blended
A dream that hasn’t cooled down is being buried
The sunset drags its feet carefully
Not to spill over the blood in a basket
A person also flows holding up their lives in critical condition
 
I came to see a walking tree of mirage
Created by the yearning for the sunshine, but…
A tree that has its own feet
A tree that has its root on its body
To move along to get nutrients
Suddenly, a cluster of trees looks like a group of people
A death spot
Appearing on the skin immediately after death
I wonder if the spot has buried lives in it
A moment
When things look dimly
At the evening neither day nor night,
The angle of a blind spot
That cannot distinguish this world or afterlife
 
 
Scarlet Peony Blossom
 
We wake up every morning in a drift of blindness. Old relics, with the corners of the soul being weathered little by little. In front of them, you should insensitively accept the graze of the body which heaps up the tower of oblivion again and again. A supernova emitting a bright light. This morning a new star was born. No. It’s a dying star. The star that will be vanished in the mystical power of enduring darkness. With the explosion, it will shine a tremendous amount of light, end its life, and search for the ultimate door to eternal regression.
 
All the twinkling stars are naked. The soul, which had briefly dwelled in the star, waves away. It is vanished between light and darkness like an echo that never returns.
 
The past that repeats forever
The past is already blinking in the future.
 
In the spring of the year when the man passed away, the woman stole the peony blossom every day. She plucked them one by one and put them on the table. She murmured that women get old when flowers look pretty as someone said. A noble scarlet peony blossom bloomed in an old tree caught the woman’s eye one day. The king of the flowers, the ruler of the world of shamanism, she saw the desirable and beautiful flower with rapture, then cut its throat.
 
A flying object that looks like a butterfly or a bird flies over a darkly shining sea. One side of the her wings was wet, so that it is hard to flap. Below it, a boat without a paddle sails through the head wind. Just-born stars burst into the sea at the moment. There is only starlight that burns itself to light between the black sky and the dark ground.
 
We wake up every morning in drift of blindness.
As if she lived in splendor enough, the scarlet peony blossom looks withered today.
 
 
A night of a stray cat crying
 
A stray cat cries. Stray cats flock together and cry. They swallow each infant’s soul and raise babies’ voices. A hungry kitten cries, steals food, fights against rivals in love, and sex with her love. Every single act is summarized in cries. Sadly, sadly, it sounds pitiful, pathetic and sometimes even beautiful.
 
There is a reason why babies suddenly cry in the middle of the night. It’s the struggle not to lose her soul to something, and sometimes the earth’s magnetic field fluctuates, even the slow movement of the earth’s lower mantle is exerting forces. It’s the struggle against all the forces of the world.
 
My mother, who is almost 90 years old, never puts mushrooms in her mouth. She can’t chew on the mushy mushrooms, saying they are like the flesh of babies. As a child, when she followed her grandmother to the next village, she used to pass by a large guardian tree of the town. And she saw the dead body of a baby hung on the tree dripping with rotten water. In that custom of southern hanging children on a tall tree, not burying on the ground so the baby would not be eaten by wild beasts like wolves, the fat mushrooms were said to have been everywhere under the guardian tree.
 
A flock of stray cats cries in the middle of the night. One by one, they swallow the spirit of babies who have passed away in a hurry, and the pure soul makes the cry of a baby that must have cried like that if she lives. The soul cries with an old mouth that knows everything, not with a metaphor.

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