Poet & ColumnistThe village where the reeds fall, I came to my hometown, passing through the sharp, biting wind. I stopped for a moment, swaying, in front of the front gate. Sitting by the gate were things so very, very yellow. It was a cluster of chrysanthemums. At their vivid yellow, my eyes, which had been surveying the entire world, subsided. Truly, it was yellow goodwill.

Chrysanthemums were kindness, the kindness of yellow. It was because of the goodwill given by the color yellow that I briefly let go of my animosity towards the world in the forsythia field last spring, and that I smiled at the sight of kindergarten children in their bright yellow clothes.

In a life filled with adversaries, I have never let down my guard. I have lived such a tiring and difficult life. As a teacher defending the educational field, a life where I offered myself to the enemies of Korea, brandishing a blunt writing brush instead of chalk. That life is what is facing the chrysanthemums today.

I bow my head for a moment. I set down my weapon and look at the chrysanthemums. Crouching down, I bury my nose in their fragrance. Oh, the exhilarating scent. Then, my heart sinks. I have released the scabbard that held my weapon. In front of this beautiful color, this yellow devoid of animosity, I am like a child, rubbing the petals.

Liberal democracy is our peace. We have fought battles with our whole beings against the treacherous enemies who destroy our nests for communism. That enemy was not just my enemy, but an enemy of Korea. The enemy was also in my poetry. The beauty that poetry pursues is tender lyricism for humanity. A life without lies. I have not stopped wielding my sword with one arm to protect my dreams from the lowlifes who speak of democracy, from falsehood and hypocrisy. 

Today, however, I am momentarily forgetting my sword in front of my country house gate. The enemy will not hide the edge of their invasion with the fierce wind, but for now, I must momentarily forget the struggle for the sake of the chrysanthemums. As we erase the traces of that winter and welcome spring again, in the chrysanthemums' green leaves that revive with the desire to form new bonds, we heard the sound of summer thunder. Having sent off the spring butterflies and the summer cicadas, now, for the sake of the long-cherished chrysanthemums' prayer that concludes the year, I must clasp my hands.

The enemy has never spoken of the goodwill of chrysanthemums. Regarding the peace of chrysanthemums, the tears of chrysanthemums, the prayers of chrysanthemums, the enemy has spoken of the rule of the masses, common ownership, and the oppression of power. Now, they are intoxicated with the force that tramples flower gardens. Three special prosecutors. I can hear the wails of the chrysanthemums.

The chrysanthemums show me the extinction of countless lives and urge me to rest, but I have never forgotten my sword for the sake of my spiritual freedom. Because all of my self-reliance lay in not being dominated, I have never allowed the late autumn frost of dictatorship.

Even as last summer let go of its venom and departed, I did not speak of liberation. That I did not fear the dawn even as I faced sleepless nights was because I heard the song of the sword I held within me.

I momentarily release my scabbard before the chrysanthemums and look up at the sky where carefree lives, who loved the moon and stars, are passing by. The north wind, as always, is cold. Embracing the solace of the chrysanthemums, a sharp blue edge returns to my heart.

Someday, I will pass on my weapons, and then my scabbard, but afterwards, only beautiful poems will remain as my solace. Some will resent me, and some, like me, will be letting go of their animosity before the chrysanthemums, but in the world I dream of, there will never again be coercion on a day of frost.

I pick up my sword. I stand before the dictatorship named democracy.

Jeong Jae-hak, Poet & Columnist