Orchid Hill was Kim Sakkat’s literary name or style. Ch’a Sangch’an ascribes this poem to Kim Sakkat in “Puru shi’in yŏlchŏn” under the title “Thinking Tearfully of Home” or “Tears of Home.” Nevertheless, internal evidence, the death of parents, for example, and the early years in Seoul, raises doubts about the ascription.
“Song of Orchid Hill” is the only poem in the Kim Sakkat oeuvre with biographical details. It is included here, despite the doubts about its provenance, as an introduction to the life and work of the poet.
A bird has its nest, an animal its lair;
it hurts me to look back at life.
With straw shoes and bamboo stick I’ve tramped a thousand li;
my temper is like water, my disposition is like clouds, my home is wherever I am.
I cannot blame others; I cannot chide heaven.
It’s the last day of the twelfth month; I’m miserable, sadness fills my heart.
In my childhood I thought I knew joy.
I was born and raised north of the Han.
My family had wealth and honor through the generations.
We lived in a fine house in the flower and willow capital.
Neighbors sent congratulations on the birth of a son;
fame and fortune awaited me.
Time passed; karma grew progressively worse.
Ashes heaped the gate, the mulberry patch became the sea.
I had no kin to rely on; the world was heartless.
I mourned my parents’ death; our home was desolate.
To the peal of Chongnamsan’s dawn bell, I set off with a single pair of shoes;
I learned by experience the ways of the world.
Like a fox in a strange place, I longed for home.
I was at a dead end—a ram with its horns locked in the fence.
The south has always been full of wayfarers.
How many seasons of tumbling mugwort and floating duckweed have I endured?
I wasn’t meant to stand arrogantly above the world,
but spiked words are the only way I can survive.
In the midst of this I forget the passage of time;
the green face of Three Horn Mountain grows dim.
I’ve wandered through rivers and mountains;
I’ve begged in a thousand homes,
and still the poet of moon and breeze has an empty sack.
I’ve known wealthy young men and men with large land holdings;
I’ve tasted the highs and lows of hospitality.
My impoverished appearance generates dirty looks.
Hair and locks whiten with time; my heart grows heavy.
To go back is hard; to stay is difficult.
How long must I wander the roads?