“It’s OK, I’m a Pig” by Kim Hye-Soon

Kim Hye-Soon
Kim Hye-Soon (image source)

The Pig Speaks

Nailing the pig to the cross was so natural it was meaningless.

In the meditation room, I glare at the wall while deciding to meditate and sit in the Lotus Position.

You know what? I just gotta come out with it. Truth is, I’m a pig and I’ve been one since the day I was born.
I’m filthy. Filthy. Absolutely filthy, I’m telling you. And a soul? I don’t have one.

But I’m smart. Among mammals, my IQ is the highest. And while I like cleanliness,
bathroom dreams are utterly detestable. Every time I dream about them, my IQ falls 30 points.

I want to clear out my nose, cough, and snort like someone waking up in dirty water,
but there’s no tissue in this Zen meditation room. Is it that Buddhist monks just never get runny noses?

You know, haven’t you heard that pigs get depressed, too? That pigs also have facial expressions?
A soft and squishy sadness that puts weight on bodies, filthy water, slippery mud.

In Kunsthalle at Notre Dame, I saw photos taken by Jan Banning of people once colonized by Japan.
There were photos of old Sumatran women and in their faces were two expressions.

If not worry, then sadness. So as I walked, I gave names to all the wrinkles’ faces.
“You are worry. You are sadness. Sadness. Next, worry. Worry. Sadness. Sadness.”

My insides, sadness and worry, are a contents made by a lifetime of what I shoveled into my squealing mouth.
Sadness and worry, whose voices called out between the barley fields, “A pig’s coming!”

Who called out to my sad surprise, “…and pigs are filthy, so let’s drag the pig out of our hearts. Let’s cleanse our pig selves.”
The monk with bamboo stick in hand intending to lash this pig who dozed mid meditation passes over me.

Nailing the pig to the cross was so natural it was meaningless.
What pig would want to believe that after dying a pig would be resurrected as a pig?
But anyway, having come here now just seems so pointless. I’m not cut out for a temple stay.

And you know what? I’ll just confess it to them a little later: “I’m a pig. I’ve always been a pig.”

Perishing Pig

I’m a pig, I’m a pig who’s never even come close to seeing the outside, I’m thoroughly a pig, I’m a depressed pig, I’m a pig crying wolf, I’m the world’s most frightened pig plucked to be king, I’m a pig grasping at my pillow and proclaiming “O majestic gutter!”, I’m a pig smiling alone and thinking how wonderful it’d be if someone grabbed hold of my mother who gave birth to a pig that was bound to die, I’m a pig with blistered lips thinking all the world is rice porridge, I’m a 4XL pig, I’m a pig that fills up the entire bed, my name is ‘never pig’, I’m a pig that trembles at just hearing “Cross the sea”, I’m a yes-pig that has never raised his head, I’m a pig that dies from fear at even the thought of lifting my head in awe at the vast night sky, I’m a dying pig that thinks a dying pig is still a pig.

Pig whose arms and legs have grown longer, pig hiding his tail between his legs to extinguish the pig, pig who’s fastened together emptiness and wonders why it’s so heavy, pig whose armpits smell like warm clouds when his hands are placed in them, unnaturally smooth pig, snug and shallow pig, ride and play on my back for life, pig cozy even when mice gnaw at his piglets, pig with something worn over pupils, pig unsure of why he’s a pig, the photographs know and so does the mirror, yet he’s the only one unknowing, pig who’s never seen past the window, pig with teeth pulled out, pig of lamentation, pig of regret, pig with teeth plucked, tail cut, and a lonely tongue left alone in his mouth, a pig who only squeals“pig, pig” when his lips are spread, pig meat.

q q q q the sound of a pig calling out along with the crow atop its head.
q q q q master gone to jail and an animal’s cries—an expected shrieking—filling up its legs.
q q q q the sound a of a pig inwardly screaming that he’s not a pig.
q q q q the words of a pig which screamed that he was a pig when his mother was dragged off.

q q q q the seductive squeals our nation’s sows which know less well than I do that I am a pig.

[…]

Bloom, Pig!

Though I didn’t steal, I have to die.
Though I didn’t kill, I have to die.
No trial.
No flogging.
Just a shallow hole dug and an order to enter in.

A black Poclain excavator draws closer and
before anyone could even shout, “Kill! Kill!”,
before blood could splatter on the shit-smeared wall in the light of a bare light bulb,
before piglets’ hide could be ripped from stomach to make a pair of cheap, speckled shoes,
before a pale-faced examining official in black glasses could shout “Confess! Confess!”,
before the unbearable torture of distance and its impending horror could be jump-roped over,
before I can bite my tongue
like when the crack of a palm sounds out as it bites into the cheek of a friend in the next room,
before I can say, “Mommy, I’m sorry. I was wrong. I won’t do it again!”,
before a towel can be pressed to one’s face and a kettle could boil,
without so much as a rope or handcuffs.

Every night I read of our nation’s history of torture
until each new morning when I open my door, look out at the rooftops beneath the mountains, and touch them with my song.
Even in my dreams I can’t forget this miserable place.
There is a pig I must wash out of me through song.
O, my song, today the pig was only stuck to my body for 12 hours.
Like a steady young man, the sturdy herd of pigs threw themselves into the shallow hole.

From my grave, I weep.
I weep standing not on four legs but two.
I weep wearing ashes on my head.
It’s not that I can’t bear the pain!
It’s the shame…
In the grave my belly bloats with broth and gas.
In the grave my stomach bursts.
In the grave I boil like a putrid stew
while blood overflows the shallow hole.
On rainy nights, the revolting pigs sparkle like will-o’-the-wisps
and ruptured guts bore through the burial mound and blaze up at its surface.
Resurrection! The entrails still live! Live on as a snake!

Bloom, pig!
Fly, pig!

A wild boar comes and grazes on the entrails.
A flock of eagles comes and eats the organs.

Tonight my intestines fly off into the blue skies!
The decapitated pig is flashes of lightning!
A fearful night where, though he dies and dies again, the pig will not be cast aside!
A night filled with the weeping of a pig.
I am a pig! A pig! A night of mourning!

Tonight, on the pig tree clusters of pigs are in bloom.

[…]

Setting Out from the Buddhist Temple Gates

They said to go without the body, but I bring him with me.
They said to go abandoning the pig, but I bring him with me.

I left in my dreams.
They say, “Enough, just become a bird already.”
From inside me a bird sings out,

“Enough. Goodbye. I can live without you, too.”

The pig follows behind me.

I’m that woman right there.
I’m that ugly, filthy woman.
I’m that woman with forgetfulness in her stomach.
I’m that woman with nothing but vomit filling her head.
I’m that young woman spitting as she passes.
I’m that woman standing on the corner who has just run off.
I’m a house of cramped writing beneath an imposing man’s boots,
and when that’s too confining, when I don’t know how to be anything else,
I’m a filthy face, a dirty ass, bloodstained toenails.
I’m a woman acquainted with spirits hearing the sound of the hearse come to carry me.
I eat because I’m afraid. I scream and because I’m afraid, I eat again. I’m that woman.
I’m a rice bowl stuck to lips. I’m that woman eating what’s spat and shit out.
That disgusting woman, that foul-smelling woman, that crazy bitch hitting a bitch.
If I laid down on a plate, would you slather me in sauce and roast me?
Ugly woman, woman who takes daily antibiotics,
you said you could love me, feel compassion towards me even…
but I’m a pig…

Still, if I could add just one more thing, I’m a fun pig.
I’m a secret in the form of a pig. Something probably so funny
I might as well be a full bladder bouncing about on a playground full of kids.

From a little ways back, the pig sets out from the Buddhist temple’s gates to follow me.
The pig must be cold on leaving its 36.5C room. As it follows, it carries its fowl-smelling pelt.

Rejoice, the pig has come!
Let all the earth receive it!



돼지는 말한다

아무래도 돼지를 십자가에 못 박는 건 너무 자연스러워, 의미 없어

나는 선방에 와서 가부좌하고 명상을 하겠다고 벽을 째려본다

있지, 지금 고백하는 건데 사실 나 돼지거든. 있지, 나 태어날 때부터 돼지였어
더러워 나 더러워 진짜 더럽다니까. 영혼? 나 그런 거 없다니까

그러나 머리는 좋지 아이큐는 포유류 중 제일 높지 청결을 좋아하지
난 화장실 넘치는 꿈 제일 싫어해 그 꿈 꾸고 나면 아이큐가 30은 빠져

나는 더러운 물속에서 아침잠을 깬 사람처럼 쿨적거린다
코를 풀고 싶지만 선방엔 휴지가 없다 스님들은 콧물 안 나오나?

있지, 너 돼지도 우울하다는 거 아니? 돼지도 표정이 있다는 거?
물컹거리는 슬픔으로 살찐 몸, 더러운 물, 미끌미끌한 진흙

내가 로테르담의 쿤스트할레에서 얀 배닝이라는 사진가가 일제 식민지 치하
수마트라 할머니들 찍은 사진을 봤거든 그런데 그 사진 속 표정은 딱 두 종류였어

불안 아니면 슬픔, 그래서 난 걸어가면서 그 주름 얼굴들에게 이름을 붙여줬지
당신은 불안, 당신은 슬픔, 슬픔 다음 불안, 불안, 슬픔, 슬픔.

나의 내용물, 슬픔과 불안, 일평생 꿀꿀거리며 퍼먹은 것으로 만든 것
슬픔과 불안, 그 보리밭 사잇길로 뉘 부르는 소리 있어 돼지 한 마리 지나가네

그런데 돼지더러 마음속 돼지를 끌어내고 돼지우리를 청소하라 하다니
명상하다가 조는 돼지를 때려주려고 죽봉을 든 스님이 지나간다

아무래도 돼지를 십자가에 못 박는 건 너무 자연스러워, 의미 없어
아무래도 돼지가 죽어서 돼지로 부활한다면 어느 돼지가 믿겠어?
아무래도 여긴 괜히 왔나 봐, 나한테 템플스테이는 정말 안 어울려
있지 조금 있다 고백할 건데 나 돼지거든 나 본래 돼지였거든

뒈지는 돼지

돼지다, 도무지 밖을 본 적 없는 돼지다, 내내 돼지다, 우울한 돼지다, 늑대가 온다 외치는 돼지다, 세상에서 가장 두려운 돼지를 왕으로 뽑은 돼지다, 오 멋진 시궁창! 외치며 베개를 껴안는 돼지다, 뒈질 돼질 낳아주신 엄마를 잡아가면 좋겠네 혼자 웃는 돼지다, 온 세상이 다 쌀죽이라고 생각하는 입술이 부르튼 돼지다, 4XL 돼지다, 침대에 꽉 찬 돼지다, 그 이름 도무지 돼지다, 바다 건너란 말만 들어도 벌벌 떠는 돼지다, 고개를 들어본 적 없는 예예 돼지다, 밤하늘 드넓은 궁창을 우러르기만 해도 무서워 뒈져버리는 돼지다, 뒈지는 돼지는 돼지라고 생각하는 뒈지는 돼지다

팔다리가 축 늘어진 돼지, 꼬리를 가랭이 사이에 감추고 쿨적거리는 돼지, 허공을 묶었는데 왜 이리 무거워 돼지, 겨드랑이에 손을 넣으면 뜨거운 구름냄새가 나 돼지, 부드러운 도대체 돼지, 아늑한 이윽고 돼지, 일평생 나를 타고 놀아 돼지, 쥐가 새끼를 갉아먹어도 아늑한 돼지, 눈동자에 무엇을 껴입었니 돼지, 왜 돼지가 돼지인 줄 모르나 돼지, 사진은 아는데 거울은 아는데 너만 모르는 돼지, 한번도 창문을 내다본 적 없는 돼지, 이빨 뽑힌 돼지, 탄식 돼지, 후회 돼지, 이빨 뽑히고 꼬리 잘린 다음 입 안에 혼자 남은 외로운 혀 돼지, 그러나 입만 벌리면 돼지 돼지 소리가 나는 돼지, 고기 돼지

q q q q 까마귀가 머리에 올라 앉을 때 돼지가 따라서 우는 소리
q q q q 주인은 감옥 가고 똥물이 무릎 위까지 차올라올 때 돼지가 지르는, 당연히 비명
q q q q 돼지가 돼지가 아니라고 할 때 속으로 외치는 말
q q q q 엄마를 데려갈 때 뒤돌아보는 건 돼지라고 말하는 돼지가 하는 말

q q q q 무엇보다 제가 돼지인 줄 모르는 우리나라 돼지들의 교성

[…]

피어라 돼지

훔치지도 않았는데 죽어야 한다
죽이지도 않았는데 죽어야 한다
재판도 없이
매질도 없이
구덩이로 파묻혀 들어가야 한다

검은 포클레인이 들이닥치고
죽여! 죽여! 할 새도 없이
알전구에 똥칠한 벽에 피 튀길 새도 없이
배 속에서 나오자마자 가죽이 벗겨져 알록달록 싸구려 구두가 될 새도 없이
새파란 얼굴에 검은 안경을 쓴 취조관이 불어! 불어! 할 새도 없이
이 고문에 버틸 수 없을 거라는 절박한 공포의 줄넘기를 할 새도 없이
옆방에서 들려오는 친구의 뺨에 내리치는 손바닥을 깨무는 듯
내 입안의 살을 물어뜯을 새도 없이
엄마 용서하세요 잘못했어요 다시는 안 그럴게요 할 새도 없이
얼굴에 수건을 놓고 주전자 물을 부을 새도 없이
포승줄도 수갑도 없이

나는 밤마다 우리나라 고문의 역사를 읽다가
아침이면 창문을 열고 저 산 아래 지붕들에 대고 큰 소리로 노래를 부른다
이곳이 차마 꿈엔들 잊힐 리야
나에겐 노래로 씻고 가야 할 돼지가 있다
노래여 오늘 하루 12시간만 이 몸에 붙어 있어다오
시퍼런 장정처럼 튼튼한 돼지 떼가 구덩이 속으로 던져진다

무덤 속에서 운다
네 발도 아니고 두 발로 서서 운다
머리에 흙을 쓰고 운다
내가 못 견디는 건 아픈 게 아니에요!
부끄러운 거예요!
무덤 속에서 복부에 육수 찬다 가스도 찬다
무덤 속에서 배가 터진다
무덤 속에서 추한 찌개처럼 끓는다
핏물이 무덤 밖으로 흐른다
비 오는 밤 비린 돼지 도깨비불이 번쩍번쩍한다
터진 창자가 무덤을 뚫고 봉분 위로 솟구친다
부활이다! 창자는 살아 있다! 뱀처럼 살아 있다!

피어라 돼지!
날아라 돼지!

멧돼지가 와서 뜯어 먹는다
독수리 떼가 와서 뜯어 먹는다

파란 하늘에서 내장들이 흘러내리는 밤!
머리 잘린 돼지들이 번개 치는 밤!
죽어도 죽어도 돼지가 버려지지 않는 무서운 밤!
천지에 돼지울음소리 가득한 밤!
내가 돼지! 돼지! 울부짖는 밤!

돼지나무에 돼지들이 주렁주렁 열리는 밤

[…]

산문을 나서며

몸 버리고 가라는데 몸 데리고 간다
돼지 버리고 가라는데 돼지 데리고 간다

꿈속에서 나가
이제 그만 새나 되라는데
몸속에서 새가 운다

이제 그만 안녕 너 없이도 살 수 있어

돼지가 따라온다

내가 바로 저 여자야
못 생기고 더러운 저 여자
뱃속에 가득 망각이 들어간 저 여자
머릿속에 토사물만 가득 든 여자
지나가던 소녀가 침을 탁 뱉는 바로 저 여자
길거리 모퉁이에 서 있으면 모두 달아나버리는 저 여자
무서운 아저씨들의 장화 밑에서 우글거리는
글의 집이 너무 좁아 피할 줄도 모르는
때 묻은 얼굴이야 더러운 엉덩이야 피 묻은 발톱이야
날 데리러 오는 장의차 소리는 귀신같이 아는 바로 저 여자야
무서워서 먹고 무서워서 소리치고 무서워서 또 먹는 바로 저 여자야
나는 입술에 붙은 밥통이야 뱉은 걸 먹고 싼 걸 먹는 바로 저 여자야
역겨운 여자 냄새나는 여자 미친 년 맞는 년
내가 접시에 누우면 맛있는 소스라도 발라서 구워줄래?
못생긴 여자야 하루에 한 움큼씩 항생제 먹는 여자야
네가 나를 사랑해주겠다고 동정해주겠다고 그러지만
나 돼지야

그런데 한마디 덧붙이자면 나 재미있는 돼지야
나는 이렇게 생긴 비밀이야 유머가 터질 듯해서
아이들이 운동장에서 차고 놀 수 있는 오줌보야

돼지 한 마리가 산문을 나서는 나를 멀찍이 따라다
36도 5부 방에서 나왔으니 춥겠지? 냄새나는 코트 들고 따라온다

기쁘다 돼지 오셨네
만백성 맞으라!


Kim Hye-Soon (1955—) was first published in 1975 in the quarterly Literature and Intelligence (문지과지성) by Moonji. Since then, she has written several books of poetry—the most recent collection being Bloom, Pig (피어라 돼지), published March 3, 2016 by Moonji.

The book Bloom, Pig is divided into 4 sections, with the poem “It’s OK, I’m a Pig” (돼지라서 괜찮아) taking up the first section (45 pages). The entire poem is divided into 15 sections, so the translation above is just an excerpt.

Versions of the poem have appeared in several literary journals before being published in the 2016 collection. It was translated into English in 2014 by Don Mee Choi as I’m OK, I’m Pig,  and an excerpt of her translation can be read in the Lantern Review.

The poem draws part of its inspiration from the 2010-2011 South Korean outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease among livestock in Gyeongbuk Province and the government’s mandate to cull livestock through mass burials. The burials were used in conjunction with nationwide vaccinations to combat the spread of the disease, protect public health, and assuage fears about the safety of South Korean cattle exports. The majority of animals that were disposed of through mass burials during the outbreak were still alive at the time that they were buried.

The government’s decision caught the attention of Time Magazine, CNN, The Huffington Post, The Daily Mail, The Guardian, and The Los Angeles Times, among others. According to a 2013 study of the outbreak published in the CDC’s Emerging and Infectious Diseases, approximately 3.48 million animals were killed between 2010 and 2011, and at its peak the disease had infected pigs and cattle in 75 cities in 11 provinces in South Korea.

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