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Notes from the Divided Country: Poems
Offers poems of family, history, love, and vision.
80 pages, Hardcover
First published April 1, 2003
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 33 reviews
February 9, 2017
I would write about this excellent collection in my own words, but I'm not that eloquent, so instead I'm going to quote a bit that stood out to me from the poem "Montage with Neon, Bok Choi, Gasoline, Lovers & Strangers".
"the War Memorial in Itaewon counting
MORE THAN 3 MILLION DEAD OR MISSING -
still missed by the living, still loved beyond reason,
monument to the fact
no one can hurt you, no one kill you
like your own people."
I highly recommend these poems.
"the War Memorial in Itaewon counting
MORE THAN 3 MILLION DEAD OR MISSING -
still missed by the living, still loved beyond reason,
monument to the fact
no one can hurt you, no one kill you
like your own people."
I highly recommend these poems.
November 4, 2020
speechless
poems that i will return to again and again and again
poems that i will return to again and again and again
November 30, 2023
Wow. These were incredible. Dark, full of anguish, *very* graphic imagery. Masterfully written. I can tell already that Kim’s writing style will be a major influence for me as I continue to develop my own.
“Monologue for an Onion” earned its place in my top fav poems of all time
“Monologue for an Onion” earned its place in my top fav poems of all time
October 28, 2020
Frighteningly brilliant. Vividly beautiful and gorey. Deep seeded anguish. Visceral on a physical and spiritual level.
November 24, 2024
A poetry book that is getting me into poetry??
February 5, 2008
While much of poetry in general falls on my deaf ears, Monologue for an Onion almost singlehandedly changed my world-view.
How morose, the futile slashing of the human, skin after skin into what? for what? what heart? what truth?
"Look at you, chopping and weeping. Idiot.
Is this the way you go through life, your mind
A stopless knife, driven by your fantasy of truth?"
"Ruin and tears your only signs of progress"
"You are the one in pieces"
"Poor fool, you are divided at teh heart,
Lost in its maze of chambers, blood, and love,
A heart that will one day beat you to death."
Such things make me think. The search for meaning, the search for truth, is it all for naught? Is there no light at the end of the tunnel, no climax, no core, no heart to things? Perhaps it is the journey, the travels through layers itself; a life of veils while all we want is the point, the moral, the payoff.
How morose, the futile slashing of the human, skin after skin into what? for what? what heart? what truth?
"Look at you, chopping and weeping. Idiot.
Is this the way you go through life, your mind
A stopless knife, driven by your fantasy of truth?"
"Ruin and tears your only signs of progress"
"You are the one in pieces"
"Poor fool, you are divided at teh heart,
Lost in its maze of chambers, blood, and love,
A heart that will one day beat you to death."
Such things make me think. The search for meaning, the search for truth, is it all for naught? Is there no light at the end of the tunnel, no climax, no core, no heart to things? Perhaps it is the journey, the travels through layers itself; a life of veils while all we want is the point, the moral, the payoff.
June 4, 2024
whew! it’s rare to read a collection of poetry where every poem is a hit. I am forever changed as a reader and writer after engaging with this work. Miss Suji has a unique handle on creating beautiful yet haunting images, and masterfully writes on themes of war, immigration, generational trauma, and the human condition. I was struck by her colorful choice of words and the way she slowly journeys through painful stories.
I appreciated the organization of the book immensely. the four seperate sections felt different, but still interconnected. the last poem, “The Korean Community Garden in Queens” was the perfect way to wrap the collection up.
my favorite poems are “Montage with Neon, Bok Choi, Gasoline, Lovers and Strangers” and “Monologue For An Onion.” I cried reading the first, and had my hand over my open mouth reading the second. I’ll be coming back to this collection time and time again and recommending it to any and everyone interested in poetry.
I appreciated the organization of the book immensely. the four seperate sections felt different, but still interconnected. the last poem, “The Korean Community Garden in Queens” was the perfect way to wrap the collection up.
my favorite poems are “Montage with Neon, Bok Choi, Gasoline, Lovers and Strangers” and “Monologue For An Onion.” I cried reading the first, and had my hand over my open mouth reading the second. I’ll be coming back to this collection time and time again and recommending it to any and everyone interested in poetry.
January 24, 2015
These are gorgeous, brave poems that take the breath away. Weaving together experimental and traditional forms, Kim's words sing of her Korean inheritance: a legacy of occupation, civil war, and immigration. They tell of longing, of her search for a lost culture, of the awkward juxtaposition of life in America with her own rich heritage. The book is brimming with rich imagery, with tastes, sounds, and smells that leap from the page.
October 20, 2015
A collection in four parts with each part being pretty different, both in tone and style, and ranging over a wide variety of voices and content.
Largely focusing on various forms of revolution or dissent. From the personal to the political to the cultural and even to the body itself.
There are sections I certainly found better than others [II was my favorite], but the whole thing is worth looking at.
It's intense and sometimes brutal.
Largely focusing on various forms of revolution or dissent. From the personal to the political to the cultural and even to the body itself.
There are sections I certainly found better than others [II was my favorite], but the whole thing is worth looking at.
It's intense and sometimes brutal.
May 1, 2017
I thought this was fantastic, and showed a remarkable amount of formal range. Some of the poems had the feel almost of a Geoffrey Hill poem, while others were as sharp and visceral as Anne Sexton.
What also stood out to me was how, despite the titular reference to Korea, Kim's work seemed to reach out to a broader East Asian history rather than zero in on the moment of division. The Japanese invasion and occupation of Korea is as much a presence as the U.S. intervention, for instance.
What also stood out to me was how, despite the titular reference to Korea, Kim's work seemed to reach out to a broader East Asian history rather than zero in on the moment of division. The Japanese invasion and occupation of Korea is as much a presence as the U.S. intervention, for instance.
January 3, 2013
This woman is a master. Kim's poems are brilliant in their eloquence. There is a contained rage here, a perpetual grief. Her language is so fresh. She addresses everything real in Korean history, from the Pinan to racism in America. Here is a poetess who will give you stories that burn and ultimately transform the soul.
February 13, 2009
I love this collection; definitely one of the best I've ever read. There is so much going on in these complex pieces (history, family, heritage, culture, war, oppression and identity are all eloquently debated in this text). I can't wait for this multi-talented poet to publish again.
September 17, 2007
The first poem alone in this book makes it worth owning and rereading.
February 26, 2008
Booooooo!!!!!!
May 31, 2014
Exhilarating!
February 22, 2018
Monologue for an Onion <3
October 25, 2018
blown away
October 6, 2019
i can see how so many poets have been influenced by this.
April 24, 2024
My fave poems in the collection:
“Generation”
“Monologue for an Onion”
“Levitations”
“Generation”
“Monologue for an Onion”
“Levitations”
July 10, 2024
Incredible. Read this in the woods while escaping my very own Princess Rhaenyra Dragonstone pursuit which probably upped my rating a tiny bit. Thank you Auntie Courtney!
February 27, 2018
Beautifully written. But a lot of it went over my head since I'm unfamiliar with Korean culture. That is my fault, not the author's. (There's some scant notes at the end that helped a little.)
Montage with Neon, Bok Choi, Gasoline, Lovers & Strangers
None of the streets here has a name,
but if I'm lost
tonight I'm happy to be lost.
Ten million lanterns light the Seoul avenues
for Buddha's Birthday,
ten million red blue green silver gold moons
burning far as the eye can see in every direction
& beyond,
"one for every spirit,"
voltage sizzling socket to socket
as thought does,
firing & firing the soul.
Lashed by wind, flying up like helium balloons
or hanging still
depending on weather,
they turn each road into an earthly River of Heaven
doubling and reversing the river above,
though not made of much:
colored paper, glue, a few wires,
a constellation of poor facts.
I can't help feeling giddy.
I'm drunk on neon, drunk on air,
drunk on seeing what was made
almost from nothing: if anything's here
it was built
out of ash, out of the skull-rubble of war,
the city rising brick by brick
like a shared dream,
every bridge & pylon & girder & spar a miracle,
when half a century ago
there was nothing
but shrapnel, broken mortar-casings, corpses,
the War Memorial in Itaewon counting
MORE THAN 3 MILLION DEAD, OR MISSING--
still missed by the living, still loved beyond reason,
monument to the fact
no one can hurt you, no one kill you
like your own people.
I'll never understand it.
I wonder about others I see on the sidewalks,
each soul fathomless--
strikers & scabs walking through Kwanghwamoon
or "Gate of Transformation by Light,"
riot police rapping nightsticks against plexiglass shields,
hawkers haggling over cellphones or silk shirts,
shaking dirt from chamae & bok choi,
chanting price after price,
fishermen cleaning tubs of cuttlefish & squid,
stripping copper carp,
lifting eels or green turtles dripping from tanks,
vendors setting up pojangmachas
to cook charred silkworms, broiled sparrows,
frying sesame leaves & mung-bean pancakes,
hanyak peddlers calling out names of cures
for sickness or love--
crushed bees, snake bile, ground deer antler, chrysanthemum root,
the grocer who calls me "daughter" because I look like her,
for she has long since left home,
bus drivers hurtling past in a blast of diesel-fumes,
dispatchers shouting the names of stations,
lovers so tender with each other
I hold my breath,
men with hair the color of scallion root
playing paduk, or Go,
old enough to have stolen overcoats & shoes from corpses,
whose spirits could not be broken,
whose every breath seems to say:
after things turned to their worst, we began again,
but may you never see what we saw,
may you never do what we've done,
may you never remember & may you never forget.
Montage with Neon, Bok Choi, Gasoline, Lovers & Strangers
None of the streets here has a name,
but if I'm lost
tonight I'm happy to be lost.
Ten million lanterns light the Seoul avenues
for Buddha's Birthday,
ten million red blue green silver gold moons
burning far as the eye can see in every direction
& beyond,
"one for every spirit,"
voltage sizzling socket to socket
as thought does,
firing & firing the soul.
Lashed by wind, flying up like helium balloons
or hanging still
depending on weather,
they turn each road into an earthly River of Heaven
doubling and reversing the river above,
though not made of much:
colored paper, glue, a few wires,
a constellation of poor facts.
I can't help feeling giddy.
I'm drunk on neon, drunk on air,
drunk on seeing what was made
almost from nothing: if anything's here
it was built
out of ash, out of the skull-rubble of war,
the city rising brick by brick
like a shared dream,
every bridge & pylon & girder & spar a miracle,
when half a century ago
there was nothing
but shrapnel, broken mortar-casings, corpses,
the War Memorial in Itaewon counting
MORE THAN 3 MILLION DEAD, OR MISSING--
still missed by the living, still loved beyond reason,
monument to the fact
no one can hurt you, no one kill you
like your own people.
I'll never understand it.
I wonder about others I see on the sidewalks,
each soul fathomless--
strikers & scabs walking through Kwanghwamoon
or "Gate of Transformation by Light,"
riot police rapping nightsticks against plexiglass shields,
hawkers haggling over cellphones or silk shirts,
shaking dirt from chamae & bok choi,
chanting price after price,
fishermen cleaning tubs of cuttlefish & squid,
stripping copper carp,
lifting eels or green turtles dripping from tanks,
vendors setting up pojangmachas
to cook charred silkworms, broiled sparrows,
frying sesame leaves & mung-bean pancakes,
hanyak peddlers calling out names of cures
for sickness or love--
crushed bees, snake bile, ground deer antler, chrysanthemum root,
the grocer who calls me "daughter" because I look like her,
for she has long since left home,
bus drivers hurtling past in a blast of diesel-fumes,
dispatchers shouting the names of stations,
lovers so tender with each other
I hold my breath,
men with hair the color of scallion root
playing paduk, or Go,
old enough to have stolen overcoats & shoes from corpses,
whose spirits could not be broken,
whose every breath seems to say:
after things turned to their worst, we began again,
but may you never see what we saw,
may you never do what we've done,
may you never remember & may you never forget.
July 10, 2025
suji kwock kim, franny choi, rf kuang. what a simultaneous relief and immense burden it is to now realize that i don't hate asian american literature. i don't think i'll forget a single one of these poems, and how can i knowing that they were written from the grief of circumstance that no one has the power to change? kim makes me want to be as well-read and well-written as i can be, just so i can keep collecting and collecting until i write without thinking and let the enormity of my feelings organize the words on the page.
men with the hair of scallion root
playing baduk, or Go,
old enough to have stolen overcoats & shoes from corpses,
whose spirits could not be broken,
whose every breath seems to say:
after things turned to their worst, we began again,
but may you never see what we saw,
may you never do what we've done,
may you never remember & may you never forget.
and
I've never been one soul.
Sixty trillion cells stagger
zigzag down the street,
laughing, trash-talking, quarreling,
singing-crying, living-dying.
Sixty trillion cells -- all drunk!
men with the hair of scallion root
playing baduk, or Go,
old enough to have stolen overcoats & shoes from corpses,
whose spirits could not be broken,
whose every breath seems to say:
after things turned to their worst, we began again,
but may you never see what we saw,
may you never do what we've done,
may you never remember & may you never forget.
and
I've never been one soul.
Sixty trillion cells stagger
zigzag down the street,
laughing, trash-talking, quarreling,
singing-crying, living-dying.
Sixty trillion cells -- all drunk!
Read
October 12, 2019Come nearer, nearer,
for I want to see what you see—
Light a lighthouse over these broken spars
for I want to see what you see—
Light a lighthouse over these broken spars
July 6, 2021
Kim plums generational and intergenerational trauma and identity.
January 28, 2025
A really powerful perspective.
December 28, 2023
Amazing visceral imagery. Perhaps a weird compliment, but Kim has a special way of writing about violence. Loved how fleshy in-between spaces were in this collection, how palpable time and distance seemed.
May 2, 2025
Occupation
‘The soldiers
are hard at work
building a house.
They hammer
bodies into the earth
like nails,
they paint the walls
with blood.
Inside the doors
stay shut, locked
as eyes of stone.
Inside the stairs
feel slippery,
all flights go down.
There is no floor:
only a roof,
where ash is falling—
dark snow,
human snow,
thickly, mutely
falling.
Come, they say.
This house will
last forever.
You must occupy it.
And you, and you—
And you, and you—
Come, they say.
There is room
for everyone.’ (19)
RICE, or Song of Orientalamentations
Now.
I
see
you
completely.
I
see
the
Oriental
between
your
thighs.
Say
“boss-san.”
Lie.
Beneath
me.
Stay—
I
will.
Have
you.
Still.
A
part:
A
gain:
again.
Chink-
eye—
coin-
cunt—
tit-
tit—
tongue.
Feed
me.
Make
me.
Feel.
Fill
me.
Never.
Fail
me,
thing. (66)
‘The soldiers
are hard at work
building a house.
They hammer
bodies into the earth
like nails,
they paint the walls
with blood.
Inside the doors
stay shut, locked
as eyes of stone.
Inside the stairs
feel slippery,
all flights go down.
There is no floor:
only a roof,
where ash is falling—
dark snow,
human snow,
thickly, mutely
falling.
Come, they say.
This house will
last forever.
You must occupy it.
And you, and you—
And you, and you—
Come, they say.
There is room
for everyone.’ (19)
RICE, or Song of Orientalamentations
Now.
I
see
you
completely.
I
see
the
Oriental
between
your
thighs.
Say
“boss-san.”
Lie.
Beneath
me.
Stay—
I
will.
Have
you.
Still.
A
part:
A
gain:
again.
Chink-
eye—
coin-
cunt—
tit-
tit—
tongue.
Feed
me.
Make
me.
Feel.
Fill
me.
Never.
Fail
me,
thing. (66)
February 16, 2015
The first collection of poems that I actually admired to be 'great writing'! Despite reading it under the pressure of an assignment, it was actually a great read. It connects past, present, spiritual and mythological - A refreshingly diverse take on Korean history. I wish to read it again more closely.
August 10, 2007
I got a copy I'm dying to get rid of. Any takers? One thing I can't stand--self-exoticists. Give it up, SUSAN! You and Martin Yan really should meet up. I hear he manufactures his 'Chinee accent' just to keep his predominantly white audience watching, and his show on the air. Too much.
March 3, 2010
wonderful chilces of words-perhaps to thick and dense for some of the poems-overuse of blood, bone etc-still very worth reading-some poems just marvelous
Displaying 1 - 30 of 33 reviews