It took me awhile to settle into this book, jarred by what felt like so much self-pity and an intention to shock. And then you kind of fall in love with her. Her strange images that jump around, her immediate pairing of something transcendent with something gross (“the rat’s guts squirm with sugar pearls”), her frequent claims about poetry and life followed by her admission that “actually, she doesn’t really know,” and her humor (“my bed—which is in love with me—keeps saying, Let’s go flying, let’s split up”).
She’s so chatty and outrageous and then pulls back abruptly, questioning the efficacy of speaking. “No matter how much noise I make / will things ever become fair for the wild rats and cats? Whose snout is drooling out these lines?” And later: “Ah, how should I say it? Okay, I won’t.” There’s vulnerability in the wildness, but as she writes: “I love you and I love this amazing disaster.” (!!!)
The translator’s notes were also fascinating, sharing how Kim’s disappearing and mutating subjects aren’t just aesthetic choices but a response to the violence of modern Korean history. Her poems let loose a country’s repressed memories and emotions, the subjects often emerging into squeezed and grotesque forms. The translator also notes her destabilized syntax, which added to the difficulty of translation but was powerful to Kim’s Korean readers. Writing of one of Kim’s contemporaries who had a similar aesthetic, the translator says that “because his poems weren’t stable or safely interpretable,” they threatened those in power who leaned on colonial oppression. With that lens, Kim makes her poems—and the act of reading them—an intriguing form of subterfuge.