Love Conquers All games

Heo Chohui: Bedroom Chagrin

Heo Chohui (1563–1589) was the sister of one of Joseon-era Korea’s most important writers, and because of that, in an incredible feat for a woman of her time, was able to learn become literate in Chinese, the intellectual lingua franca of the time. Since women were not supposed to be literate beyond reading edicts about how to be a good wife, in keeping with Confucian tradition, she burned her hundreds of poems before death. It is only because of copies saved by her brother that any of poetry survived at all, and was subsequently published posthumously.

When she died, likely by her own hand, she was 26 years old. Keep this in mind as you read her lament.

Bedroom Chagrin¹
by Heo Chohui (or Heo Nanseolheon)

The day before yesterday I was young,
But, alas, I already have grown old.
I think of the pleasures of my youth,
But though I speak of them, there is no hope.
I am old and the more I would call forth
Sad words, I am strangled by them.
Father begot me and mother brought me up,
[And many were] the pains they took to nurture me.
Though they didn’t hope for marriage to a prince or a marquis,
Their wish was that when I was reared
A gentleman would want to marry me.
It was the work of karma:
With chance as my matchmaker,
A frivolous knight-errant from the capital
[Became mine] as though in a dream.
I was cautious then,
Walking on thin ice.
When I was fifteen, sixteen,
The natural beauty in me came out
And with this face, this demeanor,
I made a vow [that my faithfulness was] to last a hundred years.
In a flash the years have vanished.
The gods displayed their jealousy:
Spring wind and autumn moon
Have flown [with the speed] of a hemp-loom shuttle.
My snowy complexion, my flower-like counternance:
Where have they gone?
My features have grown ugly;
I look at my face,
But who would love me [now]?
I am filled with shame,
But whom shall I impugn?
The new girls in the brothel garden,
[Waiting in knots of] three and five,
[Can they serve him] better than I?
When flowers bloomed and day was done,
He set out with no fixed destination.
With his white horse and his whip of gold,
Where would he rest?
I know not whether he is far or near:
Will I, alas, e'er hear news [of him again]?
Though our karma-relationship is severed,
I wonder if he does not think of me?
Not being able to see his face,
Would that I [could as well] not know this yearning.
Long, long are the hours of the day,
And lonely the thirty days [of the month].
The plum blossoms which burgeon by my window of jade,
How many times have they bloomed?
When winter nights are icy cold,
The heavy snow falls thick;
When summer days are interminably long,
Why does the dreary rain beat down?
And [even] the three [months] of spring
With their pleasant prospect of flowers and willows,
Are not without their grief.
When the autumn moon enters the room,
And crickets cry on my couch,
A long sigh and [salty] tears
Unavoidably remind me of my plight.
Perchance I would end this wretched life,
But that, too, is difficult!
Changing my mind, I console myself,
For how could I do a thing like that?
igniting the blue [flame on my] lamp [wick],
I pluck my green lute,
And [singing] my erotic song,²
I mix my pain [with musical accompaniment].
The sound of the bamboo echoes
The night rain on the Hsiao and the Hsiang.
Soe other crane comes crying
After a thousand years to Huapiao [pillar].
The skill with which my practiced hand does pluck [the strings]
Goes well with my voice.
But I sit alone [behind] curtains [embroidered] with hibiscus [flowers]:
Who is there to hear [my plaint]?
Again and again my [very] entrails [sting as my agony] is piece by piece let loose.
If I could but sleep,
And perchance see him in my dreams!
The leaves rustling in the wind,
The insects crying in the grass,
Why out of malice
Do they wake me from my sleep?
The Herdboy and the Weaving Girl in heaven,
Though difficult to cross the Milk Way,
Once a year on the seventh night of the seventh moon
Are never late [for their tryst];
But since my Lord has gone away,
What magic potion keeps him hidden from me?
Of his coming and going,
There is no news.
Leaning on the balustrade,
I gaze in the direction he went.
The dew upon the grass is strewn;
And when the clouds at dusk scatter on their way,
The voices of the birds are sadder still
From the bamboo copse so green.
In this world, the sorrow-worn
Are beyond my counting.
Alas, among pretty faces that have known cruel fate,
Have there been others like me?
Seemingly because of you, my Lord,
I can’t say whether to go on living or nay.

(Source: books.google.ca)