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Between The Lines


Bi-lingual Edition Modern Korean Literature Asia Publishing Company presents some of the very best modern Korean literature to readers worldwide through its new Korean literature series <KoreanEnglish Bi-lingual Edition: Modern Korean Literature>. We are proud and happy to offer it in the most authoritative translation by renowned translators of Korean literature. We hope that this series helps to build solid bridges between citizens of the world and Koreans through rich in-depth understanding of Korea.

Masterfully translated, this bilingual series will prove invaluable to readers everywhere and to the classroom. The editors and translators are among the very best and most widely experienced in the field, and the works chosen for the series are key parts of the modern to contemporary literary world of Korea.
















artwork Hanna Lee............................8,29,55,56,68 Junha Hwang........................cover art,11,70,72, Jennifer Park......................14,28,41,43,75 Solji Choi...........................17 Boeun Choo..........................19,23,35,49,50,60 Lucia Kim...........................32 Rick Tierney.......................64

spoken word poetry Emotion................................65

musical composition My perfect blue......................66

non fIction Psychology of blue................................................................52 The Artist: Walk of Homage towards the Past............................54 Avatar: helping out or throwing out?.....................................57 The Awakening: a Blemish on the Feminist Movement................58 The Pearl: a glow of truth......................................................59 Lâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;empire des Lumières: The Compatibility of Paradox .............62


poetry Untitled.....................................................10 what phil down the pub was chatting about...15 The blue onion............................................18 Everblue....................................................20 Tok Tak Tic.................................................27 Bring out the Dead......................................34 The Non Existence of Blue...........................38 Blooming....................................................41

oulipo What is oulipo?...................................21 Bluebells...........................................22 Blue...................................................24 Snowball............................................26

remix poetry Earth Being Blue......................................25

translation The Glass Window 1..............................43

editorial The Crew................................................................4 4 Line poem............................................................9 Translation as an artistic practice......................42 A spring fantasy in a winter night: an interview...44 Crew Recruitment .................................................68 Submission Details: Phobia....................................70 Fonts....................................................................72

short stories Tied................12 Perfectionist...28 Comma...............30 Vestige.............36

|art| Jennifer Park 7

|art| Hanna Lee


|poetry| Jillian Chun

Your face like an open Braille book My hand fumbling like a blind, blind reader.


|poetry| Yunha Hwang

fpd It is when you realize that You don’t know what lies beneath you Or how deep it is Or how cold it is The moment when you loosen yourself You could fall forever before you’d know, you know. And when you fall, your eyelids stay glued tight until The last breath gets stuck in your chest, And you realize that it was after all Then, you know that you ought to face the blurry world that pierces your eyeballs the vast world too large to envision the world saltier than your tears Watery silence slices your eardrums open To make you aware of all orchestral gurgling boos and woos And giggling bubbles And gulping end of a scream. All that smothering pressure on you Penetrating, piercing, harassing in any way possible All that pressure that tells you to rise above but Only drags you deeper down You wouldn’t dare even speak a word out loud, When the sour world gushes and drowns your throat before you could sound anything Similar to a dumb pop. The hostile rippling air that makes you fear breathing Even when your lungs screech for air like a ship-horn And your heart leaps like the tail of trout under the knife But most of all, The chilly sweat Stoop up veins The brain-freeze that bites your neck And the tsunami of realization that you are alone With nothing to hold on to Floundering Falling Alone in that cold dark ebbing world Dying ****************************


So, Mr. Swallow, I’m saying this for the last time. I am not going to capsize from this yacht, not when we are 600 meters away from the shore. Stop trying to convince me with all that life-vest, life-guards, safety-cords and once-in-a-life-time experience and builds-your-character crap. Don’t you dare push me out this yacht!

|art| Junha Hwang


Tied |short story| Christy Lee


he man and the girl picked their way among the mangroves and the mud. When the mud became marsh, the man stopped and looked down at the girl. Can you swim? No. He stood wondering about that, but he didn’t wonder for long. It was the marsh or the road and the road was death.

Like all the things he hadn’t wanted to do since the world ended, he hadn’t wanted to go near the water because the marsh at night was no place for the living - if they wanted to go on living. He’d wanted to stay on the road and make a bed of blankets and sleep in the woods where it was still dry.

He’d found the canoe because he’d known where to look for it. It had been fastened to a sign on a store’s roof. The store, like the town he’d once known, was empty. But there was a coil of rope and so he took it. And there was a wrench wedged under one of the many bodies. The jaw was adjustable and after he’d scraped the blood from it, he put the wrench with the rope. In a workroom at the back of the store, he found a ladder amongst cracking tarpaulins, paint cans, and hardened brushes. Then he went outside to see about the canoe. The girl followed and waited while he positioned the ladder.

What will happen if you fall?

He looked at the roof. It was a long way up. I’ll hit the ground, he said and began to climb. But The Last were looking for survivors and they would come along the road. That had been two days ago. He hadn’t wanted to bring the girl either and would’ve left her between her decaying parents at the back of the inn where he’d found her three days before, but his wife, dead as she was, would not have forgiven him.

Having found her, he hadn’t wanted to talk to her, but she needed to speak and so, he supposed, did he. He hadn’t wanted the world to end; he’d wanted to live out his life, have kids, retire, move to the coast, fade into old age and then into nothing. He hadn’t gotten any of the things he’d wanted. It didn’t bother him. There was nothing to be done. tied, was his life and that would end soon enough. He only had to wait.

But, for now, there was the marsh and the canoe.


The end of the world had been some time before that. It had become harder and harder to keep track of the gunshots and all the screaming and the quiet knocks on locked doors and the coaxing whispers to turn the key, to lift the deadbolt, to let in the inevitable, to feed The Last - and so he didn’t. There was only today and tomorrow. Yesterday really didn’t matter.


The girl said while they stood in the mud and watched the water. It wasn’t his name, but she’d seen it stitched on the sleeve of the military jacket he wore and she’d

taken to calling him by it. He hadn’t bothered to correct her. He doubted either of them would live long enough to regret the lie. What? he answered.


I miss my father, the girl said. And my mother. I’m hungry.

He undid the ties on his rucksack and, one by one, laid out the contents. Matches. The wrench. A cereal bar. A bottle of water.

He gave the cereal bar to the girl, who put down the bucket she carried and began to eat. He watched her a little while, thought of saying something nice but didn’t know how to begin. When she dropped a small chunk of the cereal bar and stooped to pick it out the mud, he tried to say her name but realized that he had forgotten it.

So he watched her a little longer as she sucked the mud from the gritty piece of cereal bar, spat the mud out and chewed the soggy crumbs, and he thought that, even then, he might have grown to like her in another time and in another place.

He eased the canoe from his back, slid it into the water, got down on his haunches, and leaned his weight on it. The caulking held for a few moments cided they would have to bail as they went, but they wouldn’t have to bail as much as he’d thought. He pulled the canoe back on to the shore, put the bucket and the oar in the hull, and told the girl to climb in. He handed his rucksack to the girl and told her to keep it in her lap. Then, he pushed the canoe out into the marsh, walking behind it until the water reached his waist, and did his best to

He didn’t say anything to that. What was there to say?

He wondered why he kept on walking when everyone he knew was dead. He had good rope. There were trees everywhere. He wasn’t ready to die. When he was ready, he would stop.

Around sunset, they reached the tallest tree he had gers and tied one end of the rope around the width of the canoe. The other he tied to the wrench and threw it up into the branches. When the wrench came down and a branch held the rope, he climbed into the canoe and pulled on the rope. The canoe rose an inch. He pulled some more and the canoe rose another inch.

He hauled them up that way. He hauled for three hours. When his arms tired, he loosened the wrench, put it against the rope, twisted it so that the rope held the wrench, and tied off the loose end onto a sturdy branch.

Then he drank some of the water they had with them, listened to the wind in the trees, the creaking of the rope, and the girl’s shallow breathing, and lay back in the canoe and slept as well as he could. When he woke at some time in the night, he hoped that The Last wouldn’t follow them into the marsh.


in the morning there would be only undisturbed mud at the edge of the marsh.

Is it cold?

In the morning, there was mist on the water. It hadn’t looked like it rained. A group of men stood waist-deep in the marsh, like ghosts in the fog.

It’s cold. Come down, one said. Will you get sick? The man sat watching them. There were too many to Maybe. It doesn’t matter.

Moisture had gathered on her hair and on her clothes. The men of The Last would use her and, when they could use her no more, she would die.

When will we come to the end of the water? If we have to come up there and get you, said one of I don’t know.

The girl looked up at him. What is the Last?

Bad people.

Are they following us?

The man in the canoe, the man the girl called Paul, looked down at them and then looked at the rope. He loosened the end wrapped around the wrench and, keeping his weight on it so that it didn’t slip, he tied the rope into a noose and slipped the noose around the girl’s neck. He thought of kissing her forehead but worried that the kiss might wake her and so he didn’t.


will they catch up?

Then he let go of the rope and dropped with the wrench into the mist, where he disappeared amongst the scattering men.



Phil do the pub was chatting abo

|photography| Jennifer Park 14


out |poetry| James Shillabeer

A diaphragm in a playground no longer has symbolic weight because “we” have lost our way but really we haven’t its just a sort of exaggeration that makes us think we are generationally distinct and have redefined what it is to be pleasurably screwed up indulging in faux despair and unnecessary French language interruptions masquerading as refinements while thinking unimaginable that we can be topped because if we are not at the edge where are we? At a window? Well, we are precisely where they left us which is where they were left in their turn to lark in inheritance and spend it on more of the same with the volume raised so that we can drown out the absence of nagging doubts which we hope upon like those countless meteors that could one day interrupt the rotation of the earth and bring no sun to bear against our almost-instinct.


|art| Solji Choi


|art| Solji Choi


The Blue Onion

|poetry| chloe kim

One morning, a fine one too Was a man who started his day As he did before. Barely awakened by the deep rumbles of caffeine And the colorless sunlight He sits down like any other day. The worn out visage Reflected on the filthy wood Seems to have no end to it. Like always, the man lowered his eyes, Hoping to see his unhappiness Only to stare at A curious thing a radiant blue That shone Even in the darkest clouds But gave tears to any His eyes, brightened up A relief to run away from his life at first, After, gasping at its value. His mouth, smothered with saliva Showed his toothless inside Roaring, roaring That now, he could be mighty Haughty over thousands Who would kneel low Hoping to get a glimpse of that Magnificent fruit that peculiar hue While rejoiced His body trembled with familarity Only for a moment Fear that he had so long ago Losing something precious What meant being paralyzed of bitterness Shaking his head, he stares at it Over and over Until he jumps at the sound Of heavy knocks 18

Shouts of men threatening him The uproar makes him Frantic, aghast Devastated Just to imagine its bluish glow gone The blares outside gets closer thuds of pillars trying to break in Until he, in a blink Shoves the fruit into his mouth. Chewing furiously at the raw fruit Without even peeling The white juice oozes down his chin With bits left undigested Tears pour down his wrinkles Were they sadness Were they satisfaction or merely its pungent taste The sharpness Poking his blaring nostrils Did he notice it at all The strong taste That left the wall of the mouth Inflamed and sore No longer were there any men Only the faint chimes of birds And the bustle of streets He glances at cold ground with the bits of fruit left And cries. Falls. Falls.

|art| Boeun Choo 19


You have a couple of eyes; Dug in your smooth sandy face Like two pits of desert oasis when you daydream Bluish moods float carelessly, Surface of tainted glass Coy smiles lifting their skirts Effortless; Unsaid jokes effervesce silently; Fizzing like- spilt soda Shallow aquarium Full of swimming emotions; Your pupils like round pebbles, Thrown in to that clear waters; Gleaming darkly like Bathtub stoppers. Shredded waves Stir out, when insults Plunge deep, like a bold Fishing hook; When knifely tongues Gut your opinions, Their glittering indigo Fins ripped; And pained, Your marine dreams Splay under the sun, Marinated. After the storm, your Eyes, saturated with sleep Laps away in small waves The shores of the dreamland, I lean down Like a thirsty traveler For a sip of The everblue. 20


u O u O ipo oul

oul ipo


is a unique approach to writing that is best represented by the technique of ‘restrained writing’, and originally began in 1960s among French writers and mathematicians. Oulipo seeks to enhance poetic creativity and rhythmic quality in poems by employing mathematical systems and structured ‘rules’. There are many variations, including those that use popular code forms such as anagrams to those that use restraints such as using only vowels for a poem. In this section of the BTL literary magazine, poets have employed methods such as N+7, V+7 (changing an already-published poem by changing every noun/verb by the seventh word after it in a dictionary), Snowball (creating a visual widening structure), or usage of active onomatopoeia.


Bluebells |poetry|Jillian Chun

-Dannie Abse and Oxford school dictionary and verbs that were six words too late.

Cutting for the bluebells near St. Mellons two boys taunted the defecating of the light in a high ebbing tunnel. They strained, left foot on the pedal, right on the ground, to shower loudly, My hedgehog Glad is sad aye!

When Keith lashed I DON l T BELONG IN GOD belong in God a sudden WHOOSH reprimanded. Four pupils dimpled. Tachycardia. A goods train clotted over and multitudinous thunderbolts stammered.

Later, bikes annihilated against a stout tree, they heated a mayonnaise bee shivering among the profusion of flowers they bestowed to pie. Keith saluted, Devout little bugger. stings like a daft insect l s prayer to me.

Through the returning dark tunnel they hugged echoes and lasted. But the small dot relished below the big question mark when they combed out (bluebells alive in the handlebar baskets) blessed in the unanswering light of the world.



|art| Boeun Choo

chicken 23

Red was your colour. If not red, then white. But red Was what you wrapped around you. Blood-red. Was it blood? Was it red-ochre, for warming the dead? Haematite to make immortal The precious heirloom bones, the family bones. When you had your way finally Our room was red. A judgement chamber. Shut casket for gems. The carpet of blood Patterned with darkenings, congealments. The curtains -- ruby corduroy blood, Sheer blood-falls from ceiling to floor. The cushions the same. The same Raw carmine along the window-seat. A throbbing cell. Aztec altar -- temple. Only the bookshelves escaped into whiteness. And outside the window Poppies thin and wrinkle-frail As the skin on blood, Salvias, that your father named you after, Like blood lobbing from the gash, And roses, the heart's last gouts, Catastrophic, arterial, doomed.

Your velvet long full skirt, a swathe of blood, A lavish burgandy. Your lips a dipped, deep crimson. You revelled in red. I felt it raw -- like crisp gauze edges Of a stiffening wound. I could touch The open vein in it, the crusted gleam.


Blue was better for you. Blue was wings. Kingfisher blue silks from San Francisco Folded your pregnancy In crucible caresses. Blue was your kindly spirit -- not a ghoul But electrified, a guardian, thoughtful. In the pit of red You hid from the bone-clinic whiteness. But the jewel you lost was blue.

Red was your coma If not red, then white. But red Was what you wrapped around you. Blood-red. Was it bloodshot? Was it redhead-octapus, for warming the deaf? Haiku to make immortal The precious hellish redhead, the fanatic redheads.

Blue |remix poetry|Jillian Chun, Ted Hughes, and Oxford school dictionary

When you had your way finally Our root was red. A juggernaut champagne. Shut castanets for generals. The carrot of bloodshot Patterned with darkening, Congress. The cushy-rugby corn bloodshot, Sheer bloodshot-fame from ceilbate to floppydisk. The customers the same. The same Raw carnivore along the wine-seaweed. A throbbing Celsius. Aztec alternative-tenant. Only the boomerangs escaped into whiteness. And outside the wine Porcupines thin and writhing-frail As the skirt on blood, Samurai, that your faucet named you after, Like blood lobbing from a gastropod, And rostrums, the heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s last governess,


Ted Hughes

Everything you painted you painted white Then splashed it with roses, defeated it, Leaned over it, dripping roses, Weeping roses, and more roses, Then sometimes, among them, a little blue bird.

Catastrophobic, arterial, doomed. Your veneable long full skull, a sweatshirt of blood, A lavish burrow Your liquid a dipped, deep crisp. You reveled in red. I felt it raw- like the crisp GCSE edition Of a stiffening wrapper. I could touch The open vendetta in it, the crusted glimpse Evoke you painted you painted white Then splashed it with rostrums, defeated it, Leaned over it, dripping rostrums, Weeping rostrums, and more rostrums, Then sometimes, among them, a little bluffbirth control. Blue was better for you. Blue has winkles. Kingfisher blue silvers from San Francisco Folded your prelude In crucifiable caribous. Blue was your kindly spit- not a gibberish But electrified, a guffaw, thoughtful. In the pitchblende of red You hid from the bonus-clitoris whiteness. But the jigsaw you lost was blue.


Earth Being Blue |remix poetry| Yunha Hwang

(inspired by Mars Being Red)

Being blue is the color of black sea where it lingers on a chin. Color of time surging in waves, of space rising Above floods. Blue of sighs by the trumpets in the chill of ageing, while our gazes released the tears of teal sinking to the bottom. Indigo of death, turquoise of bruised corpse, sapphire and opal of the coral bed, deep moonlight, spirit of the full moon as it pales to bones and disappears. Be alive. Do not give in to the languid blue veins of sage. In a blue world, render The silence and a droplet of peace for the war. It has gone. You will not be this quick-to-ashen forever. You will be green again, again and again.

Being red is the color of a white sun where it lingers on an arm. Color of time lost in sparks, of space lost inside dance. Red of walks by the railroad in the flush of youth, while our steps released the squeaks of shoots reaching for the light. Scarlet of sin, crimson of fresh blood, ruby and garnet of the jewel bed, early sunshine, vestiges of the late sun as it turns green and disappears. Be calm. Do not give in to the rabid red throat of age. In a red world, imprint the valentine and blush of romance for the dark. It has come. You will not be this quick-to-redden forever. You will be green again, again and again

Marvin Bell

Mars Being Red

|poetry|jillian chun







Fuzzed Honey


Jell-Oed Knifelike

Length of a

Mangled toe

Nameless nest

Of frostbitten bugs

Paralyzed wings, like

Quicksand, the winters

Rake away hungrily, while

Salivating savagely over all

That has lived a bit too long; it’s a

Ubiquitous law! One unicorn dies everytime a

Virgin gets her hymen pierced, the God scratches old men’s

Wrinkles, digs up fleshy dirt to mold fingers for that child yet unborn

X chromosomes knots and descend, heirlooms of a glint in the eye or an arch in the smile, a shard of the

Yesterday, midst of all that a dead bee can drop, eaten, fuzzed, honey icicled, jell-oed, knifelike and nestled within its parched, almost hollow stomach is perhaps a faint bu







The Perfectionist |short prose| Aekyung sin


very morning starts off with visiting the local coffee shop that probably lives off the money I spend in it everyday A cup of dark Americano with two teaspoons of sugar and no cream, please – in three minutes sharp. The barista shoots me that eerie half smile/half wince expression and I reply by raising my eyebrows. He’s probably thinking, “What’s the point of buying a dark Americano if you’re going to put sugar in it?” or something along those lines. Well, there isn’t. And that’s why my world is beautiful- a highly intellectual concept that he will never understand. Heading out from the coffee shop, I puff up the collars of my favorite navy Burberry jacket and sip some of my bittersweet Americano. I wince – the barista had put in two and a half teaspoons of sugar when I had coffee, making it bittersweet-sweet instead of just bittersweet. So I throw it away in the next trash bin I see and walk on without giving it a second glance. They always say that the start determines the rest – my motto in life. And so I don’t let this kind of trivial slip become a negative premonition of my day. I buy a bag of popcorn from the vending machine and head toward Central Park where I usually feed the ducks. At the park, my usual seat on the bench is surprisingly warm and I feel a bit violated for a moment, my sacred spot having been intruded upon by someone else. Yet, this mild irritation disappears after I catch the sight of two ducks waddling toward me. Riiiip goes the paper bag, and the smell of factory made popcorn stings my nostrils. I grab a handful and scatter it in front of the waddling ducks. Waddle waddle waddle they go as they pick at the popcorn, throw it up in the air, gobble it up, and repeat this cycle. Waddle pick swish gobble. Waddle pick swish gobble. Waddle pick swish gobble. From past experience, I know that it takes about twenty two (when there are many ducks and they are hungry) to thirty three (when there aren’t that many ducks) minutes to empty the bag of popcorn. Today I had

First the wrong coffee and now this... My life has always been perfect – and today will be too. I look at my watch and realize that it’s only 8:34am. Not too late to start a new day. It takes me twenty two minutes to walk back to my apartment. I take off my clothes and hang them in the closet, in the same place as they’re always in before I get dressed in the morning. I lie down in bed, retime my watch to 6:59am and pose as if I have fallen asleep. A few seconds later, the alarm rings - it’s 7:00am.

I reopen my eyes. It’s a brand new day. And everything is going to be perfect.


|art| Hanna Lee

|art| Hanna Lee


, Comma |short prose| Alliju kim

S -














|art| Lucia Kim 33

#3*/(0655)& %&"% |POETRY| JAMES SHILLABEER

I am so sorry they are disappointing. It is their fault that they are heavy And dull and empty of words. They did not last long, and it seems Like their efforts were expelled Without inflating A single thought that we can hold. Even when they brush against you, There is no way to tell That they were there. Numb uniformity does not answer A single question for us, Or provide an order with which to make our turn better: And the imprint they leave is so unshapely. Yet as they are drawn along to God Knows where I swear the dead hand Drags beyond its weight and Anchors, if only for a second, A suggestion that we must care. 34

|art| Boeun Choo


Vestige |short story| Eun yuep Kim









The Non-Existence of Blue |poetry| Megan Smith

Prick your finger, I say.

While you stared at your fingers,

And you do, with the fine point of a needle

I blew to the androgynous abyss,

Until a single drop of blood emerges, Like life in spring.

The end of the spectrum, The unprickable false line,

And then you stare, closely. You rub the color thin between index and thumb. It smears, and it remains.

The horizon. Go on, I say, take a drop of sky. Hold it in your hand.


Smear it between your fingers. Now prick the sky, I say. You reply, I am full of imagery

Watch it disappear. Blue.

And metaphors And nonsense.


Sky and

You prick your finger again.

Water Red


and Blue.

You say, Let us not go there And is nothingness.

And Deny life its color. And


|art| Junha Hwang




|poetry| Chloe Kim

Looking down upon others Distance, already distant Stars no longer embedded in my eyes Bottles of tears Dry parched stains in harmony With red blots drawn over my wrist Cold, callous winds dance

Standing alone, on top of the very bridge Hundreds died, those who are myself Understanding my destiny That I shall have to move on Into a different life Full of heaven

Breathing in last glups An end to doom Stepping out for the spirits to catch Hearing the lonely ghosts eager for company Howling, screaming to take my hand Hear cheers of joy Fierce gales of life getting fainter The fall into the waters Falling into the arms of the river Splashing its pollen Blooming to meet me.

|photogr phy| Jen nifer Pa

|photography| Jennifer Park


The Beautiful Toilet: Translation as a poetic practice

T. S. Eliot in his literary essay “The Music of Poetry” (1942) writes “I believe that

any language, so long as it is the same language, imposes its laws and restrictions and permits its own license, dictates its own speech rhythms and sound patterns.” erary works. Especially, when translating poetry, a genre with heavy usage of rhythm and sounds, translation almost seems like a futile maneuver that fails to do neither the source language nor the receiver language justice.

Here is one of the better known poems from Cathay, Pound’s anthology of Chinese poems:

The Beautiful Toilet Blue, blue is the grass about the river And within, the mistress, in the midmost of her youth,

For a long time, the purpose, method and ethics of literary translation have been much disputed. Translated literary works were often considered not as “literature” of its own sovereign literary value but rather as a murky informative window to different cultures. Translating literature seemed forever an incomplete and imperfect practice. However, Ezra Pound (1885-1972) solved this quandary by applying a different function to translating literature: Donald Hall in Remembering Poets (1979) declares that “Ezra Pound is a poet, who a thousand times more than any other man, has made modern poetry possible in English.” Ezra Pound is said to have “revitalized” literature in the 20th Century. As T. S. Eliot proposes that “forms have to be broken and remade” and one must “revolt against dead form” in “ preparation for new form or for the renewal of the old”. It was in this quest for a new style that Pound found the purpose in translating poetry, especially in translating Oriental poetry.

And she has married a sot, Who now goes drunkenly out

The strikingly simple image is created by the word “blue.” The choice of the word the language of common speech, but to employ the exact word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word.” Blue is a “common speech” in that everyone can understand and associate with the term “blue”. At the same time, “blue” is also an “exact word” because even though each reader may be thinking of blue of differground in which the readers can sympathize with each other and the poet, while the reader’s personal and unique experiences.

English conventions, Pound valued the form and structure of oriental language and believed that it was also possible to translate these intricacies: characteristic features of Chinese and Japanese regarding word order, repetition, rhyme etc. In other words, Pound considered translation as another process of creation and believed that it possessed a sovereign artistic value that was intrinsic to the translation itself. In fact, it must be noted that he did not know Chinese or Japanese languages himself. So his translation was done by referring to the notes of a Japanese scholar, Ernest Fenollosa. These circumstances may have facilitated his method of translating poetry with an emphasis on the exploring and experimenting with the oriental ‘form’ rather than its ‘meaning.’ It was while translating the Asian poetry he gave birth to a movement “Imagism”. Imagism favored clarity and sharpness of imagery and succinct and economical use of language. Asian poetry forms such as Japanese Haiku inspired Pound to break free from rhetorics, discursiveness and abstractions that prevailed in Romanticism prior to his time. Pound published extensive collections of translated oriental poetry in his anthologies Cathay(1915) and Lustra(1916).


In Pound’s opinion, images in poetry were not to deliver the poet’s ideas directly to the readers but rather ‘to resonate’ with them. They were triggers that conjured up the reader’s personal and unique responses. However, the images had to be created through ‘common’ and ‘exact’ words in order to provide an effective stimulus for the readers. Therefore an image for Pound was of paradoxical nature: it was born out of the common human sentiments and thought processes shared by the humanity, but it resulted in one’s employment of and insight into one’s individuality. Pound, perhaps understood translation in the same way. Translation was the ‘poem’ between two languages, rather than two individuals: No matter how different the languages and the cultures that set it’s bases were, there was also a set common rules, structures and expressions shared by two languages, which is brought to the surface through translation. For Pound, translation itself was a poetic action, which gave birth to another unique art that responded to the original literature in its own cultural sense, whilst not failing to resonate within the shared strings of sentiments across the whole humanity. Here Between The Lines presents a poem translated from Korean to English:

The Glass Window 1 By Ji-yong Jeong (b. 1903)

|translation| yunha hwang, jillian chun

Something cold and sad Heatlessly standing by; I

mid-night is

|translation| Yunha Hwang. Jillian Chun |photography| Jennifer Park



I S N P A R I W N I G N T F E A R N T N A I S G Y H 44

big ph raphy



an interview “What got you to take photographs of window frost?” “One morning in a cold winter day, I was taking photographs of frost, when the splendid window frost crazy!” “In addition to the main title, “A spring Fantasy in a winter night”, you have given this photo exhibition a subtitle: “The Most Beautiful and Happiest Moment in Life”. What was your intention behind choosing this subtitle?”

“It was impressive how you exhibited poetry in line with your photography in your gallery and exhibition. Also, I have heard that you keep a diary for your artistic inspirations and ideas; as a photographer, what do other media of art, literature and poetry, mean to you?”


“As a photographer, you capture the elusive beauty of moments and elevate it into an art form. What advice would you give to young artists who also aspire to do so?”

“The theme of this issue of Between the Lines is “blue”, and your use of blue backgrounds in your photographs attracted my attention. What does the color blue mean to you?”

A Spring Fantasy in a Winter Night Jong-yeor Chae


hind lots of tales and abstract images. Only nature can create without any tools such beautiful and fantastic metaphysical crystals. I am mesmerized by the stunningly mysterious realm that puts me in awe that their formation is made by chance. I have found my life and our lives in things that are destined to bloom and then vanish. It is the thrill and euphoria that have guided me to spend time agonizingly in weaving inner tales that are void, visible, or invisible. I start at dawn to express the world that comes and goes and its tie to my everyday life. Since I took up photography, I have tried not to overlook anything, and my photographic vision has probed who I am. It is when I am photographing that I discover myself and feel happy while doing my best in communicating with time. I have come to realize that the same object can be seen so differently whether it is seen by an onlooker or an investigator, and that it is possible to grasp and sense truth. I still have a long way to go to be able to express the beauty of time and the mystery of a moment more objectively. I hope to talk about beauty through nonverbal means and to come up with my own language so that I can properly express such indescribable things like geometric forms and command metaphors. its makers’ thoughts and sentiments, and so I am dwelling on how to become an earnest photographer. I believe that the key to becoming a better photographer lies not in age and experience but in understanding and loving people and the beautiful crystals formed only to melt quickly…this is similar to the way our life goes. The natural phenomenon seems to point out that beauty isn’t permanent, and so are our lives. Some of my works deal with individual objects, but I also make

works that are initially based on generality and then reduced to abstract. Science and maths can express beauty, but they are too limited to visualize all natural laws. I think nonverbal vision can break boundary between humanism and realism and can represent anything. Photography allows me to use such tool, and it gives me me joy and happiness. the middle of night, melts brilliantly with sunrise, and then is reincarnated as water. I am deeply attached to the frost as it lives fully There are times that I can’t get by days in chaotic reality, but I hold on to the hope that there will be time for me to have the brilliant moment like frost in the middle of winter. That’s why I may be attracted to frost to begin with, through which I can express my mind and relieve my burden. Photography awakes my thoughts, and lets me express what’s in experiment and challenge things, making something new out of the invisible. Isn’t this a true learning and philosophy? And also, photography allows me to see what’s been taken for granted in a fresh and diverse perspectives, to have empathy, and to enrich my arid sentiment. Many photographers would agree with me that photography indeed does all of this. I think I am ready to show my works about moments. I thank for given me meaning. I am convinced that photography makes me love myself and be happy. I cannot thank my family enough; they have supported my career as a photographer, and I wish to thank them back by promising to beautiful visual language.

1975~1999 1999 2000 2012 2007


Worked as an administrator in Seoul City. Completion of Photography Course, Citizens’ College, University of Seoul. Portrait Photography Program, KAPA Photo Academy, Seoul. Photography Instructor, Goyang City Academy for Citizens, Goyang City. Vice-President, Korean Digital Artists’ Association. New Art Grand Exhibition. Photography and Painting. Corea International Art Festival. Special Exhibition, the 4th Tashkent International Biennale, Tashkent, Germany. 0 Korean Photographers, Jilin, China. Invitational. Asia-Seoul International Arts Expo of 7 Nations. Invitational. Chae, Jong-yeor Goyang City, Ilsan Seo Gu, Tanhyun Dong 1485 Jinro Apt. 101-502 Tel: 031-813-4559 C.P: 010-8740-4779


Remnant and Vestige of Transferred Life |Kyung-ryul Lee, Photography Theorist|


he dictionary definition of an image indicates a reflection in the mirror or water, which means that an image is not created but refers to the existing or man-made object reflected in a twodimensional surface. From image-makers’ standpoint, there exists three types of images. First, there’s a type of an image that shows the actual, which is called the image of likeness in semiotic terms. Another type is an image pointing to the actual but demanding an interpretation. This type is the symbol-image, which is rhetorically a metaphor. The third type is a metaphysical image that offers only the trace of the actual and demands no interpretation. This kind is the index-image, which is called a metonymy in rhetoric terms. Metonymic images, in particular, are highly subjective and are defined as psychologically transferred images. A candle flame can become a flower bud, a nipple, or a mountaintop in one’s dream, the images related to one’s repressed desire. Psychological transference indicates the behavior that attempts to substitute mental burden with other things. Transference also includes the behavioral pattern of replacing aggressiveness or aims with other objects. For instance, when a cock is separated from the other cock during a cockfight, it keeps on pecking at things around. Likewise, a person who breaks up a fight is often attacked by the impassioned brawlers.. When a baby is interrupted from breastfeeding, it sucks its finger, instead. People seek subconsciously substitutes to release their tension. In the same way, what’s shown in an artwork can be analyzed in conjunction with its maker’s subconsciousness. An artwork, 48

thus, is a kind of transferred object, and photography, in particular, has a strong tie to transference. In this context, a photographic image reflects its maker’s own experience or substitutes the actual, since photography that can only record existing things is indexical by its nature. The frosty windows in the photographs of Jong-yeor Chae suggest artistic transference. His colorful photographs are reminiscent of a microscopic world of cells seen through a microscope, the mysterious big bang of the universe, a maze, a fantastic scene by fresh dew drops, and a blown-up fungus, displaying a panoramic effect and dreamy pattern. In his work monotonous everyday life is enlivened with surprises. The ordinary mundane scenes and objects like the window reflecting the sunset, spraying light at dawn, orange street lights, water-drops on a steam-filled bathroom mirror, and steamy grains of boiled rice grab our attention and carry us to the world of memory and illusion. The window frost in one winter day is something familiar to most of us. However, his work has something more than meets the eye. It shows a decisive moment of a fantasy that originates from the artist’s mind. It is not the external fancy, technically sleek surface but the hidden message that indicates that his work is about self-reflection and projection of his life. So, the artist confesses, “Since I took up photography, I have tried not to overlook anything, and my photographic vision has probed meaning of life in every trivial thing, which urges me to reflect on who I am. It is when I am photographing that I discover myself and feel happy while doing my best in communicating with time.” Thus, his work becomes a covert index to a piece of his own life and a substitute for his subconscious, implying that artist’s subconscious memories are transferred to his work. His work, however, doesn’t linger on his personal life that he might grumble over. It is neither a cut-off decisive moment that doesn’t come around to communicate nor a record of accumulated time. Strangely enough, his work echoes what’s in our memory and becomes our own experience, and the scenes transcend specific places or situations. His work stimulates our imagination like an incantation of a bard or an emotional ripple, and thus, is understood as the sign-stimulus. The testimony of an illusion transferred to window frost offers us an open space for memory, which means that as the specific situation instantly reverts to our own experience, its scene testifies the remembrance of our memory and becomes metaphysical transference restructuring our imagination. The feast of the frost images evokes a familiar place along with the faces associated with it, and the faces are overlapped with unfathomable desires. His work can be read as the artist’s soliloquy, but it also resonates with our lives. In his case, an image becomes a lyric of signs revealed along with emotional resonance.

|art| Boeun Choo


everyo glass 50

|art| Boeun Choo

one’s 51

psych ology of blue |non-fiction|Maylene You nition of the colour blue that the modern technology of red and yellow. How far have we progressed since books of Leonardo da Vinci in 1490? None. The three primary colours, red, yellow and blue are still worshipped by painters and somewhat unconsciously by non-artsy people as well, as they casually address plain black as ‘boring’. Look guys, even black, or let’s say- ‘the most horrendous and dull colour yet existing’ cannot be obtained without this divine trio.

Noneof the combination between existing colours can produce these three colours- it is as if they slipped into existence before all ment of red or yellow and vice versa. But without resorting to an expedient, what should the colour of blue exemplify?

The ancient East Asian philosophy had a clear distinction between the sky and the earth. ‘Sky-ness’ included divinity, fate, luck, arguably—redness. Redness may be in relation of vitality especially of a female. In traditional Chinese weddings, the whole banquet hall would be covered with red- the bride wears a bright red dress that covers up to her head like Burka, and the walls would be decorated with red fabrics. Red was considered as a symbol of fertility and life, and this psychology may have developed from the fact that blood of a living person is red.

Blue is often used to illustrate something that is not inhuman or dead. A dead corpse has a blue-purple shade after the blood has all drained out. This dead person no longer belongs to where living people live, the red earth. We can often when an extra-territorial creature or a ghost appears. These alien creatures are also quite frequently colored blue..


Blue also suggests superiority and possibility. In contrast to the red earth that we are standing on, the ocean and the sky were once a realm that humans could not enter: sky was left to remain as the ‘Godly space’, and although the ocean was conquered much earlier, it was still and the Underworld owned by Hades, but there is no ‘major’ God or Goddess that represents the earth- yes, Gaia maybe, but she became impotence. Both the sky and the ocean are blue and this funny coincidence would have added even more fuel to the belief that ‘Blue is holy’Virgin Mary is depicted in a blue robe consistently for two millenniums. The proverb ‘Aim for the sky’ would have been a huge blasphemy in

and synthetic resin, Museum of modern art of SaintEtienne Metropole Collection Inv. 73.8. 1

the patent for the colour he used for this painting, claiming that the colour itself has an immaterialist characteristic that helps the audiences for a trip to space.

The primary colour could have been anything. The meaning of these colours is simple- they are the most fundamental of all other colours. It torical occasions, the authority banned the venture of exploring the unknown by censoring texts and arts by branding it as a ‘work of Satan’ allows. So Hail Armstrong.


walk of homage towards the past

|movie review| Chan Choi

'The Artist’ Cast

Jean Dujardin Bérénice Bejo Penelope Anne Miller James Cromwell John Goodman Missi Pyle

Directed by

Michel Hazanavicius

Running time


“The following feature is a silent film, there are no dialogues.” The statement given to us at the premiere of the director Michel Hazanavicius’s the Artist was quite a shock. Of course, since the last year’s Cannes Film Festival, the moviegoers had heard of this well-received silent film through its viral marketing. So much unfamiliarity surrounds this film; the movie being black-and-white with no sound is not only peculiar and unusual but also questionable, considering the recent 3D boom. I have to admit that I expected an overly dramatized film specialized for the purpose of winning awards (the so-called “Oscar Buzz Film”) but instead I found it to be a daring crowd pleaser- like a well blended outcome of the films “Singin’ in the Rain” and “A Star is Born”. I recall suggesting a film called ‘Drive’, now well known to the mainstream audience, to a friend describing it as “the best film of the year”. He replied, “I think I’m going to pass.” Of course, that was the very reaction I expected; after all, we do hope to come across films that are entertaining, not a boring art-house flick. But The Artist is different from most of the artistic, critically acclaimed films. There are no exaggerations; it has more heart and sincerity than any feature films with a budget over 200 million. It has an appeal that lies within the performance, overwhelming the audience with delight up to the final credits. Nothing can go back in time. And for that reason The Artist really is a witty film, using the reverse psychological strategy of filming in classic Hollywood style instead of the money- grabbing 3D. The mix of black-and-white scenery with 21st century’s high-quality sound system is pleasing to all senses. Interestingly, the actor Jean Dujardin plays George Valentin, a silent movie superstar. The advent of the talkies will sound the death knell for his career and see him fall into oblivion. For young dancer Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo), it seems the sky is the limit as she rises into major movie stardom. As a silent film star falls, a talkie star is born. And the magical encounter of these two gives us an odd analogy, as we reflect on the modern theatre where 3D is taking over everywhere. I am a great fan of black and white films that give impressions of a vivid dream. Seeing a silent film, and actually enjoying it, is a rare occurrence these days. It seems that as always, it is a matter of taste.Some could easily say that letting Durjardin, an actor with a beautiful voice (as can be noted in previous film OSS 117), act silently is a waste of a great talent. It is true that The Artist is in black-and-white without any dialogues. Yet, despite such measures (or perhaps, precisely because of them) it was without a doubt one of 2011’s most accomplished film. But putting some of those thoughts aside, with the film’s central plot about the inevitable emergence of sound films in 1920s, the film brings out a bigger issue: Is there such thing as a past or a future in films? Well, the answer seems to be quite simple. A film does not change. Twenty years ago, Spielberg made the black-and-white Schindler’s List amidst the blockbuster era and went on to win the Academy Award for Best Film. 18 years later another work came out in the middle of the 3D buzz and won that very same award. Although there are patterns and trends, the audience embraces the changes in the film industry- each year adding an enthralling new chapter to it. And perhaps it’s immortal spirit hidden behind the guise of caprice is what allows the world to be in love with it for the past 100 years- an unchanging appeal that stands equal to that of


music and literature.

|art| Hanna Lee 55

|art| Hanna Lee 56

Avatar |movie review| Si Un Kim

rowing out? Helping out or th

Director: James Cameron Main actors: Sam Worthington, Zoe Saldana Genre: Action, Adventure, Science-Fiction Running time: 162 min. Release Date: 16 December 2009 (South Korea) Prize: 3 Oscars

The ever-sucCesSful director of Titanic, James Cameron, introduced yet another masterpiece to the world: Avatar. At first, Avatar apPeared to be a bland sci-fi movie with ups and downs, cheEsy sexual chemistry, and a trite plot of the goOd guys kilLing alL the bad guys… There were numerous batTle scenes, heavily funded graphics, obvious romance betweEn the main characters, and Na’vi’s final victory over the human capitalists. Yet, beneath these clichés lies a powerful mesSage James Cameron delivered with his mastery of filmmaking.

Avatar’s plot holds a striking resemblance to the history of colonialism. Humans from almostdestroyed Earth encroach on Na’vi tribe, native inhabitants of the planet Pandora. While they profesS generosity and camaraderie ostensibly, educating the indigenous and establishing a mutual relationship, they are hiding a secret agenda of exploiting them of their invaluable natural resources. The European colonization of the Americas revolved around the same isSue. During the 15th and 16th centuries, Europeans arRived on the shores of Latin America in pursuit of “God, Gold, and Glory.” With deceptive friendlinesS, they convinced the natives that they would help them flourish. Most notably, Spanish Conquistador, Hernando Cortez, was hailed by the Aztec King, Montezuma, as guardian and friend of the Aztecs. When the capitalists send Jake SulLy, the protagonist, into the Na’vi Tribe as part of espionage, he toO is welcomed by the tribespeople. He soOn develops intimacy with them, and this is when Avatar takes a difFerent course from the familiar historical route. The remarkable turn of the plot ocCurs when Jake felL in love with Neytiri, the female protagonist.

With Neytiri, Jake witnesSes the exotic beauty of the Na’vi Culture. It is not long before he begins to apPreciate the unique splendors of planet Pandora, recognizing the authority of the elders of the Na’vi and developing awed respect for their mystical practices. On the contrary, the capitalists were not aware of the beauty and intricacy of the Na’vi Culture. During their first batTle, the capitalists were heavily armed with guns against the Na’vi with bows and arRows. The humans imMediately asSumed that they were an ‘inferior’ race who did not know how to make use of the precious resources their lands bore. When the capitalists decide to invade the Na’vi Tribe to apPropriate the resources, Jake foreseEs the atTack and prepares the Na’vi Tribe for batTle against the capitalists. Although the Na’vi tribe and habitat is heavily damaged by the batTle, they emerged triumphant. This seEms to be a subtle reminder to many people who, blinded by the magnificence of their own feats and heritage, fail to recognize the intricacy and merits of a difFerent culture. Cameron calLed for a farewelL to people’s vain hubris: People must adopt a humble atTitude towards foreign culture in order to truly understand its value and strength.

On the surface, Avatar was a very conventional HolLywoOd movie. The overalL plot was obvious and the movie could have beEn viewed as a typicalLy comMercial movie aimed at coming first in the U.S. Box OfFice charts. NeverthelesS, its strong mesSage proves that Avatar is one of the most prominent sci-fi movies of the 21st century—one that entertainingly and insightfulLy criticizes our history of colonization.


The Awakening |literary review| yong jun byun

The Awakening Literary Review Review title: Edna Pontellier—a Blemish on the Feminist Movement Book Info: Author: Kate Chopin Year of publication: 1899 Place of publication: United States Name of publisher: H. S. Stone & Co.


dna Pontellier’s enlightenment was tinged with a crisp blue. In what she recognized as the rediscovery of individuality, she witnessed the vast blue of the sea and sky open up endless horizons for her. Ironically, in the last scene, it was this very liberating sensation of blue that gulped Edna and her wild vagaries down in the middle of the sea as she lamented her pathetic fate, disillusioned… Unfortunately, Edna Pontellier dabbled in a false sense of feminism that led to her demise. Once Edna Pontellier, the protagonist, became resolute in her belief to never yield to anyone else’s interests but remain only faithful to her own, she started living a new life. She swam to extents “no women may ever have imagined” and indulged in deep relationships which her earlier responsibilities would have prevented her from. The results, however, were devastating. Edna Pontellier’s actions left her children bruised with neglect; her husband scarred in spite of all his effusive love; and she eventually perished out in the wide blue sea. The account of a woman who wallowed in her liberating sense of individuality is quite straightforward; however, before we censure or acclaim Edna Pontellier’s whimsical rebellion, it is imperative that we clarify whether she battled against oppressive practices or rightful responsibilities—or both.

identifying how Edna Pontellier came to ‘awaken’. She was in her routine with Robert, a young man whom she had an ongoing affair with, when the rebellious thought struck her that she in fact could live ignoring all restrictions and interests of other people, especially that of her husband. The prevalent notion during this period was that tending a household and looking after the children were delicate and pleasant tasks only women were capable of performing. From Edna’s perspective, however, obligations of domesticity only seemed oppressive and burdensome. Loyalty to their and women from living lives faithful to their desires. However, as we do not give kudos to men who are remiss in their responsibilities of making a living for their family and, instead, spend all their time infatuated with other women, Edna Pontellier does not deserve our acclaim. Unlike Mademoiselle Reisz, a neighbor of the Pontelliers, who had never solemnly vowed to be faithful to one family and one man, it was out of Edna Pontellier’s own volition to become the mother of two children and the wife of her husband. It is only sensible that she abstain from such instinctual and lascivious desires. Edna, however, was distressed that Robert had to be so cautious and hesitant when he approached her. She understood that her responsibility as a mother thwarted her from building a more intimate relationship with Robert. The Awakening does not narrate an occasion when a late 19th century feminist woman became enlightened of her rights and claimed that she was to be granted them; instead, Edna ‘awakened’, in terms of discovering a glamorous any remorse.


The Awakening claims to be an account of a woman who came to discover that she was able to live beyond the women of her era. It is questionable, though, whether Edna Pontellier was the pioneer of such groundbreaking feminist thoughts. Countless women have brought such notions up earlier, and despite their efforts there has never been a fundamental shift in the role of men and women. Throughout history and various civilizations, women have always borne the responsibility of the typical mother to remain loyal to her family. The only change across time and culture was the level of respect women enjoyed for their responsibilities. In the ancient communities of Sparta, for instance, women were treated with greater respect than men, due to their duties and responsibilities taining an optimal balance in the rights of both genders paying special concern to the physiological traits of each gender. Men grow large muscles, while women give birth to children and breastfeed them. Naturally, men came to protect the household while women looked after the children. In a society where each gender was assigned with the responsibility that is best compatible with their intrinsic qualities, Edna questioned such conventions. The fact that she wanted to reject the comforts of adhering to the ‘optimal roles’ comes across as questionable, raising suspicions whether there might have been unspeakable ulterior motives. The late 19th and early 20th century had been the era of women. Many women rights came into recognition including such fundamentals as the right to vote. These promotions immensely changed the political and social topography of our world and certainly improved it. However, the character that Kate Chopin, a staunch feminist herself, had created in the Awakening is inherently different. Edna was not a social reformer who endeavored to reclaim the fundamental rights of women and demonstrate the capacity and struggles brought about only served to give higher grounds to the male argument that females were incapable of rational judgment and thus effected the consolidation of the androcentric structure of society. During a moment in history, when a handful of notable intelligent feminists were improving the lives of millions, Edna was certainly a failure. She was just like the vast many mendacious others who, cloaked in the ideology of feminism and women rights, simply left scars and questions to those who they loved most. Edna might have been a ruthless adolescent or a wily schemer. She might have been inebriated in the wild sense of freedom committing irresponsible acts just as how adolescents would challenge adults once they gained a clearer picture of the world. Or, she might have known all along. Under the name of feminism and women rights, the whole narrative might have been about her scheme to pave her way to a life of promiscuity. In either case, what could have become a true revolution and a reverberating outcry has failed to materialize itself as such.

a glow of truth |LITERARY REVIEW| haelan Ester ra

The Pearl Literary Review Book info: Author: John Steinbeck Year of publication: 1947 Place of publication: United States Name of publisher: The Viking Press


he Pearl is one of John Steinbeck’s simplest yet most colorful stories—lyrical, poetic, and profoundly symbolic. It holds a lesson on the futility of human desires.









|art| Boeun Choo



(The Empire of Light) Painting info: Artists name: RenĂŠ Magritte Date: 1953-1954 Medium: Oil on canvas Size: 76 15/16 * 51 5/8 inches

The Empire of Light, the Compatibility of

Paradox |art analysis| Sung Yurl In


contrast with the blue sky. A white building lies amid the forest, absorbed in darkness. A single black tree sprouts upward, high into the sky full of light, as if to drench itself in the bright fantasy of blue. A lone lamplight illuminates silently amongst the sea of

roof of the building, the tree pierces into the sky and drenches itself in the ocean of to become part of the heavenly world.

above the forest. Overall, the overwhelming darkness and the feeble luminance, along -

the earthly world.

shapes and forms. In contrast, the world below is the world of pitch darkness, where

and partly obscured by the tall tree, emphasizes the contrast between the sky full of light and the feeble land full of darkness. Using this powerful contrast of brightness,


a single canvass. the heavenly virtues of the world of god. He wanted people to become aware of the ec-




|art| Rick TIerney


|spoken word poetry| rob storey I am a Part of history A real sense of mystery The monologues of time have embellished me rather skilfully I AM EMOTION I overflow intellect faster than the dark blue When we collide I pass through it’s over I AM EMOTION Hidden behind a mask of calloused smiles Fingers red from scratching at the cage door a while I rage more and scowl I AM EMOTION Thoughts cascading over you The highest highs provoking soaking overviews while I engulf the soul of you STOP let me lie here a second I’m tired right this second Keep your eyes Shut this second and remember what I do for you I AM EMOTION And I protect the dark side from sparking and igniting you You laugh but I’m a fighter too, My main form of catharsis is; your protection. I AM EMOTION A metal jacket, a resurrection from depression A slumber that I put you in but will not let you back in I AM EMOTION I am back in the backroom Locked in a vacuum A vault of uncontrollable assaults on your Chat room, I AM EMOTION. Chemically concocted reservoirs of devotion Yes I AM EMOTION A potion deep enough to wake your strongest demons up I AM EMOTION So beware of my power, For I will watch over you, so long as I have power But take your chance with me, and soon create an enemy And know that I devour any enemy that I can see For I AM EMOTION

But I am a man And I will control my emotions as well as any man can Crashing bad emotions, ships crashing into dry land I AM A MAN, And I control my emotions They may have the power but only I control my oceans. 65

My Perfect Blue (Lyrics and Chord Sequences)

Intro Dsus4-C/Dsus4-B/Dsus4-A7 Verse Dsus4-C/Dsus4-B/Dsus4-A7

|composition| Minsung KIm |production| Matthew Kim

The skies are blue The momentary life I took away when I needed you The tables too are left to stay all broken down and I will never look upon Pre Chorus Dsus4-B/Dsus4-G/Dsus4-B/Asus2 Your faces Looking like the tides And All I want from you Is to stay my perfect blue Dsus4-B/Dsus4-G/A7/A7 Your places Searching for collides And All I want from you is to stay my perfect blue Chorus x2. Dsus4/Dsus4-F#/Dsus4-G/A7 My perfect blue My perfect blue My perfect blue My perfect blue


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|art| Hanna Lee


Deadline: 1st January 2013 Poetry: up to three poems no longer than 100 lines each

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Collage is a Collaborative Arts Group that puts together different genres of arts (Visual Art, Dance, Music and Literature) into one live performance after seven days of preparation. To find out more about Collage visit: To watch our videas Search on Youtube: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Collage: collaborative arts groupâ&#x20AC;?


|art| junha hwang



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