In her poem, There is a Witch, Kang Hye-bin ruminates over the mysticism attached to deviant femininity and the alienation that comes with being an outsider.
Based upon the fact that in the Korean language the word for 'witch' can only be gendered as female with no male equivalent, There is a Witch seems to be an exploration of the darkness, evil, and mysticism that have been attached to femininity cross-culturally for centuries. While women--and especially queer women--are expected to be dangerous and repulsive, Kang questions this by highlighting her innocence in contrast to the deviousness that is unfairly attached to her because of her gender and sexuality. There is a Witch seems to call out modern-day witch-hunts taking place around the world that prevent women from expressing themselves shamelessly regardless of gender identity or sexual orientation.
There is a Witch
In the mirror there is no warlock
but there is a witch.
Outside the window there is no wizard
but there is a witch.
If I made a deal with the devil
would I have waited meekly until sunrise
for children who dug a manhole to come of age in,
for youth dissipating in the bat of an eyelash,
for mealtime when we can mix [the contents of] our cups?
There, in the dark,
I wouldn’t be able to tell if I were riding my broomstick upside down,
and I wouldn’t even know where we were gathering—whether it be in the forest or the clouds or the water.
When our rally around the blue flame begins,
we can quietly burn unpleasant memories but
Where is the crooked nose and jutting chin?
The long, knife-like fingernails?
The dull, frazzled red hair?
The ones they say bite necks like vampires?
The ones they claim howl bitterly like werewolves?
The spindly hat that hides a parrot?
The rancid breath that causes old pumpkins to shrivel?
Where did the needles we crushed through the doll’s body go?
There is no daughter above the lectern but
there is a witch.
There is no daughter below the dining table but
there is a witch.
If I didn’t know sorrow
would I have meekly watched
tears oozing like bird droppings,
a roof that burns up in a single gasp,
a sandcastle floundering in water
until the sun goes down?
If I start lifting one eyebrow then the other,
the brightly glinting eyeballs above my forehead
blink slightly then ask how I am doing but
I can’t answer with cheek or back or elbow.
In fact, I don’t even know who is crying--
not here, in the dark.
마녀는 있지:
거울 손에 마남은 없지만
마녀는 있지
창밖에 마남은 없지만
마녀는 있지
내가 악마와 내기를 했다면
맨홀을 뚫고 자라는 아이들을
속눈썹에 내려앉아 반짝이는 젊음을
서로의 컵과 컵이 섞이는 식탁의 시간을
해가 뜰 때까지 얌전히 기다렸을까?
어둠 속에서는
빗자루를 거꾸로 타도 모르고
숲이나 구름이나 물속에 모여도 모르지
파란 불의 집회가 시작되면
나쁜 기억을 조용히 태울 수 있지만
매부리코와 주걱턱은 어디에 있지?
길고 뾰족한 손톱은?
빨갛고 푸석푸석한 머리카락은?
흡혈귀처럼 목을 문다는?
늑대인간같이 목 놓아 운다는?
앵무새를 숨긴 고깔모자는?
늙은 호박을 말라 죽게 하는 입김은?
인형의 몸에 찔러둔 바늘은 어디로 갔지?
단상 위에 딸은 없지만
마녀는 있지
식탁 아래 딸은 없지만
마녀는 있지
내가 슬픔을 몰랐다면
새똥처럼 흐르는 눈물을
조그만 한숨에도 타들어 가는 지봉을
물에 빠져 허우적대는 모래성을
해가 질 때까지 얌전히 바라봤을까
하나둘 눈썹 위를 들추기 시작하면
이마 위에서 투명하게 빛나는 눈알
잘게 깜빡이며 안부를 묻지만
볼이나 등이니 팔꿈치로 대답해도 모르지
사실 누가 우는지도 모르고
어둠속에서는
Translation Notes:
COMING SOON
About the poet:
Kang has been actively writing poetry since 2016, when she was awarded 'Literary Society Rookie of the Year.' Her work deals with color, and particularly rainbow colors, because of her sexual identity. She is both a photographer and a poet. Follow her on instagram at @paranpeng and @paranpee.
References and Further Reading:
강혜빈, 밤의 팔레트, 서울: 문학과지성사, 2020.
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