Korean poet inspires through stories of ordinary people

Ode's mission is very inspiring for me. I love the idea of news that uplifts. And I am equally taken by the vast beauty of ordinary people living extraordinary lives. Ever since my first brush with Ode, I have felt my world expanding, precisely because my eyes and heart are opening wider and more deeply to recognize the awesome task of being human.

And of course, as my self opens inwardly, people and events come to me outwardly. So, I am living the privilege of discovery, one human being at a time.

Completely by chance the other day my eyes fell upon a book that caught my curiosity: Ten Thousand Lives by Ko Un. Who was the author? And what was the meaning of ten thousand lives? I ventured a stroll through the book, and became hooked. I danced my way through it from beginning to end in one sitting. A sensitive eye-opener.

It turned out Ko Un is "the best poet of the Korean language," as the book boasts. ¹ He was born in 1933, when Korea was under the ugly and severe Japanese occupation. During those horrendous years the Japanese tried to obliterate the Korean culture. Thousands died of starvation; violence was an everyday occurrence.

Ko Un grew up a witness and victim of cruelty. Because of early malnutrition, he was spared entering the army, but had military related tasks to perform all the same. During that time he experienced his share of existential and physical anguish.

Japanese colonization came to an end at the close of WWII. But poverty was rampant and fierce power struggles gripped both the nation and the world at large. This lead to further wars, both cold and actual.

At that time, when he was 19, Ko Un joined a Son (Zen) monastery. There he plunged fully into the rigorous discipline of monastic life. He learned invaluable lessons there. And he published his first book of poems while still a monk. Later in 1962 he returned to secular life and married.

During the 1970s he devoted his energy to the struggle for freedom and democracy in his country. He became one of the leading figures in the resistance movement against Korea's military dictatorship. He was imprisoned four times, and tortured. His third interment was meant to be for life. During that ordeal he was placed in solitary confinement in total darkness. His Son training served him well. It not only sustained him, but also provided a pathway for him to reflect upon himself as a poet and his duty to connect that talent to Korean history.

As he sat day after day totally cut off from others, he began a long and meaningful journey. As he experienced his own suffering, he felt a connection to both the joys and the unfathomable sorrows of everyone he had ever met in his life.

In order to honor those people who had crossed his life, he promised that should he ever come out alive, he would write a poem for each and every one of them. And that is how the seeds of Ten Thousand Lives were planted.

Ten Thousand Lives is not about the rich and famous. Rather it is about "the background people" as he called them. And because of that, this collection of poems unfolds an alternative view of history: that of ordinary people.

A change of government allowed Ko Un and other political prisoners to be released. But he has bravely kept up his outspoken political activities, never wavering from his idealism and purpose. And true to his promise, he started work on Ten Thousand Lives. That amazing still-in-progress project has so far emerged as twenty volumes. Ko Un plans on another five volumes to complete the series.

Ko Un is a prolific writer, producing much more than the awesome project Ten Thousand Lives. And of course, he has maintained his involvement in politics throughout. Slowly a few of his 150 books are being translated into English, opening a wider door to his profound and insightful sensitivity. And his greatness has been recognized by others, with honors and awards from many countries all over the world. In America he was especially revered by the beat poets of the 60s.

Below are a few examples of his writing. It is humbling indeed to sense his lovely earthiness and genuine love of people in these magnificent verbal portraits. How fortunate we are to read these snapshots of ordinary people written by this exceedingly extraordinary man.

"Aunt"

That aunt of ours who married the man at Sorae Ferry

Aunt Ye-bok

her laugh

a laugh like cold bean-sprout soup

Aunt Ye-bok

that cold aunt who had wept her fill.

"A Dead Dog"

On digging up the heating flue under the floor

when it refused to draw properly,

we found a dog that had disappeared from the house.

It was dead, of course.

Cautiously, Father took it up into the hill behind the house and buried it.

The next day it rained. As the rain made the leaves green again, they barked.

"Chae-suk"

Chae-suk, the girl from the house by the well,

a brimming crock of water perched on her head,

gazes into the far-off distance as she walks along.

The early autumn open road lies clear ahead.

Next year

Chae-suk will be leaving home.

Chae-suk's heart swells in expectation.

Chae-suk, so like the darkness left after the moon's gone down.

"Maternal Grandfather"

Ch'oi Hong-kwan, our maternal grandfather,

was so tall his high hat would reach the eaves,

scraping the sparrows' nests under the roof.

He was always laughing.

If our grandmother offered a beggar a bite to eat,

he was always the first to be glad.

If our grandmother ever spoke sharply to him,

he'd laugh, paying no attention to what she said.

Once when I was small, he told me:

"Look, if you sweep the yard well,

the yard will laugh.

If the yard laughs,

the fence will laugh.

Even the morning-glories

blossoming on the fence will laugh."

"Runny"

Nobody's around, they're all out working.

A small kid left on his own squats

beneath the eaves, playing with a worm.

After that, once the worm's gone,

he digs up some earth to gnaw,

and plays, just plays.

The whole village is empty.

One plump hen

is there on its own too.

The kid's on his own too.

He's not been put on the family register yet,

not even been given a name but

he often has the runs so he's called Runny, Runny.

After playing there alone

he falls asleep on the bare ground

then the shade moves away, so he wakes up

and cries a bit.

Nobody knows he's crying

but ---

that's not loneliness, it's trust.

A growing trust, though he's left on his own.

The trust that's in harmony with the world,

though he plays all alone.

How else would they dare?

Poor little Runny!

How else would they dare?

How else would they dare?

¹All the biographical information and poems in this essay come from 2005. Kobenhavn and Los Angeles. Green Integer Books. Ko Un. Ten Thousand Lives. Translated by Brother Anthony of Taize, Young-moo Kim and Gary Gach.