Suphil Lee Park (수필 리 박 / 秀筆 李 朴) © Sam Ahn
Daniel Carden Nemo: I’d like to know where a poem or story begins for you.
Suphil Lee Park: Inspiration is always such a tricky question for me, because I feel compelled to answer that I’m inspired by current events of social gravity, some memorable experiences from the past, or an exceptional piece of art that sparks admiration—something concrete and respectable that also makes sense. In truth, though, I can never quite tell how I come to conceive a particular story or a poem. It might start as a fleeting thought that grows into something more, a few lines I start writing in a dream and wake up to jot down, or meaningless scribbles I take too far. I sometimes manage to locate the starting point in retrospect, but only on rare occasions.
If I had to be a poet about it, I’d say it’s like watching drops of ink spreading in a glass of water without knowing the source, and trying to capture the unfolding of the phenomenon as this invasive substance takes over the transparency. If I had to be straightforward and precise about it, I’d say: subconsciously.
DCN: What would you say are the main themes covered by your poetic work? Are there recurrent reference points in your writings?
SLP: At the beginning (of my immigrant life, at least), hunger, war, and the inadequacy of language were recurring themes of most of my work. Unsurprisingly, what would become my first collection was even originally entitled Acatalepsia Room. Those same themes still recur in many of my poems and stories, but these days, I’m more interested in the tragicomic nature of human misunderstanding and miscommunication (cultural, linguistic, or contextual), and the idea of emotion as a fundamental logic and survival mechanism for lifeforms, rather than something sublime or particularly humanizing.
DCN: How do you find shifting between genres, from poetry to prose to translation?
SLP: To be honest, funnily enough, I never think much of it. But since I do get this question a lot, I have thought it over for some time now. And this is my most up-to-date theory: switching between genres might feel more natural to me than to some writers, because many aspects of my identity itself are multifaceted and fluid. As a result, adapting between different modes of thinking and behaving has always been a relevant way of life for me.
For example, apart from the obvious—being a second-language writer who started writing in another language close to her twenties—I was born from unlikely intermarriages that involved families with clashing values and socioeconomic standings, from North Korean refugees and independence movement supporters to Japanese sympathizers during the colonial era.
DCN: You grew up in South Korea and then moved to the US. What kind of impact did that have on you? How much of it do you think has affected you creatively?
SLP: My immigration has definitely uprooted my life, but I wouldn’t say it was a major creative influence. I’ve always been an avid reader and got into writing early on, and even before moving to the U.S. unexpectedly, I had already planned to study literature. It didn’t make all that much of a difference that I had to do it in another language. Of course, it might have been a different story had I been younger at the time. But I was almost eighteen when I came to the US, and by that point, had been sure of pursuing writing for some time.
If my immigration did affect me in any significant way as a writer, it’s probably that I found myself transported back to the very beginning where I had to figure out my relationship with writing all over again. In that sense, writing in English felt more like a desperate one-sided love rather than a comfortable long-term bond I enjoyed with my mother tongue. It was challenging, sure, but ultimately, English allowed me to approach writing with a certain clarity and excitement, because no word in this language had yet to carry the same emotional baggage I could neve separate from my mother tongue.
That said, I’ve gained some unexpected advantages, too. What might feel conventional or predictable about my writing in the arena of Korean literature can seem fresh or intriguing to English readers, simply because of the shift in literary and cultural contexts. So I’m often far less boring in this language, a perk I certainly enjoy very much.
DCN: How does the dual linguistic and cultural framework inform your writing? Which one feels more intimate to you?
SLP: I’m still constantly learning how my bilingual background informs my writing, and I’ve realized it’s far more nuanced and complex than I once thought. In one of my recent musings, I wrote:
“I can’t really find the right words in English to elaborate, so I’ll have to stray to my mother tongue—it still feels weird that some thought so persistently remains in its birth tongue, once it’s formed, explored, and articulated in one language rather than another.”
I’m still trying to understand why, even though I generally feel more comfortable writing in English now—having received higher education and completed an MFA in this language—certain sentiments and thoughts are still better articulated in my mother tongue. This seems to happen because those experiences were born outside the framework of English, if that makes sense.
DCN: Does writing in a second language allow a certain distance for that language to be scrutinized, and even have its boundaries pushed?
SLP: I appreciate the role of distance in most relationships, and my relationship with language is no exception. But what interests me more is how an unfamiliar language doesn’t just create distance—it redefines a writer’s relationship with the world. It offers a space where even the most basic objects can be re-examined—their role, history, validity, and connotations shifting under a new light. The longer you stay in that space, the more you begin to reconsider each word meant to encapsulate those objects, as if words themselves were tangible things. This applies to abstract notions as well.
Take the word love in English. A native Korean speaker wouldn’t use the equivalent word so casually—it’s reserved for specific contexts, never for something as trivial as food. But in English, love has a more ravenous, expansive quality—you can love a dish without any serious emotional involvement at all.
These linguistic differences create a gap between your perception of a word and its real-world application, forcing you to adjust to its expanded, contradicted, or even distorted meaning. You add sidenotes, reconsider your stance on the concept, or leave it open-ended altogether. And that’s the beauty of distance—it creates room for exploration, shifts perspective, and often, when held at arm’s length, the world reveals a different side of itself, one that might take you by surprise.
So yes, in a way, writing in a second language makes words more than just language—they become a lens through which to see the world, only to realize that the world itself exists beyond and apart from the words we use to describe it. And maybe that’s shaped my writing more than I realize.
DCN: When reading some of the poems you first published in English just under a decade ago, it is evident that your voice as a poet has changed over time. It is more assured, less mythical and more anchored to the real—it studies and even questions its own surroundings. By doing so it creates its own mythology, rather than being part of a cultural collective. The “we” or the distancing “he/she” perspectives have receded, now giving more prominence to the “I”. Would you say you feel more firmly sedimented in the English language, and enjoy exploring its own landscape of possibilities more?
SLP: It’s probably just that I’m a bit less self-conscious as a writer. I’ve always struggled with this idea that writing, when it comes down to it, is a deeply and unabashedly self-serving endeavor—even when it addresses important issues of our time and beyond. That’s why I often pushed writing further from what its heart might actually be. That’s also why I hesitated to engage fully with the first-person narrator, even when the “I” in poetry is not exactly an imitation of the self, unless the poet intends it to be.
Most aspects of life are, in truth, follies and indulgences, aren’t they? Even such universal values as financial security, spiritual well-being, or conventional family systems—you name it. In the grand scheme of things, when we step outside a human-centric perspective, they, too, feel arbitrary. But that doesn’t make them any less valuable; value itself is make-believe, after all.
I used to feel I needed to make something more out of writing and might have taken it a touch too seriously. Over the years, though, I’ve come to see that this existential struggle is often just another form of the self-importance I’m so wary of, and not much else. Now, I feel much less uncomfortable exploring what interests me, without worrying too much over what that interest says about me as a writer or even as a person.
You could say, in short, time has caught up to me—or maybe I’ve just stopped trying to outrun it!
DCN: Your poetry feels like a trail that the reader is invited to follow. The poems play on words’ double meanings, the line breaks are carefully crafted to conjure new images, new resonances. The shorter the lines, the more the reader’s view of your world expands. Where language is compression, meaning stretches. Is this something that you pay particular attention to when you write?
SLP: Thank you for noticing that! I’ve long been enamored with poetry’s ability to pack so much meaning into so few words; a single well-placed enjambment or an unexpected antanaclasis can completely shift a reader’s perspective. Getting a question like this can be so reassuring as it confirms my efforts haven’t gone entirely unnoticed and I must have done some things right after all!
While many contemporary poets push boundaries and redefine what poetry can be, I’m personally more drawn to the qualities that set poetry apart from other forms of writing. After all, language is all about capturing the ineffable by evaluating and enacting these defining categorical differences as accurately and faithfully as possible.
To me, one of poetry’s most defining qualities is its ability to expand meaning through compression, and particularly through line breaks, unique to poetry. Line breaks have the power to single out a phrase—or better yet, at times, a single word—and create new layers of interpretation, sometimes even multiple times within the same sentence. And when done right, this kind of compression can paradoxically open up the poem’s landscape rather than confining it.
Poetry often feels to me like the art of pauses and condensation, of coloring in not just the words but also the spaces between. And I’m always thrilled to meet readers who revel in the beauty of poetic compression and the surprises it can bring.
DCN: We touched on how the reader’s view is expanded with your poems, but how condensed and tight the material actually is. Your poetry is perhaps more vertical than it is horizontal. The voice that speaks through is one that delves and aspires, it is centered by the poem’s own gravity, at once pulled by downward and upward forces. For instance, whenever you conjure up light, it is a certain darkness that emerges, as in “A Biopic” with its cloud “enveloping a pit of light.” What a wonderful, complex image to convey! As a poet, do you feel such dichotomies are essential to do justice to the complexity of language, and indeed the world?
SLP: I’ve always admired William Blake’s Marriage of Heaven and Hell for its timeless insights, which I think were far ahead of its time. It reveals how the world, with all its complexity and dichotomies, is unironically a cohesive, unified whole rather than a patchwork of incongruous parts. Human society—especially Western culture—has pushed this idea of opposing forces and binaries, but when you look beyond human constructs and interests, the world simply exists as it is, indifferent to our judgments and incessant attempts to pull it apart, to make sense of its seeming contradictions.
When a poet looks at the world and attempts to capture any aspect of it with clarity and honesty, that effort inevitably requires attention to all of its nuance and infinitely fluid presence. When an artist discerns a certain darkness, a certain lightness comes with it—not as its opposite, but as another symptom of the same phenomenon. Darkness isn’t the negation of light; it’s simply the point where light becomes less evident. Both light and darkness are ways our field of vision interacts with the world, not clashing forces.
I think this applies to anything a poet might want to explore—so long as the desire to explore is sincere. And if you’ve found any amount of such sincerity in my work, that’s perhaps the highest praise I could ever hope for.
DCN: To take the theme of light further, it seems to me that your poems are spoken from a very lucid perspective, almost analytical at times. Emotions are muffled, yet underlying, as if they didn’t dare surface. Is the restraint a cultural one, and do you find that the same happens when you write in Korean?
SLP: This probably only further proves your point, but I actually like to think emotions are no more than involuntary thoughts, and thoughts, processed emotions. They’re both reactive human experiences, just captured at different stages of our perception and expression.
Which is to say, when it comes to creative expression, I prefer to explore emotions at a later stage, largely in retrospect. Emotions are often the more immediate and visceral forms of experience—the heart of what is felt—rather than its layers. The crust of coherent articulation builds on this heart over time, and in that sense, my mother tongue gives me more direct access to that raw core than English does. But that also means my second language, because it inevitably forces me to put more distance between experience and expression, gives me better access to its crust.
So, yes, in a way, I think this restraint is a cultural one; but it has more to do with my bilingual way of processing language rather than my Korean sensibility.
DCN: It seems the poem in a lot of your work finds itself at the meeting point of internal and external colliding viewpoints. What lies at the intersection that exists between them for you?
SLP: That’s such a big question. I’m not sure if my poems actively try to merge colliding viewpoints, per se. As I touched on earlier, I think a poet’s sincerest aspiration is simply to observe—to put into words the organic existence of the world in all its messy, unfiltered reality. And that process often starts by cutting through the noise—whether that be our human perspective, personal biases, or the ways we impose structure onto things. But the goal isn’t to reduce it all to fragments—it’s to hold it all together in its rawest form. Sometimes, that might look like bringing colliding viewpoints into focus.
In that sense, poetry often resembles a knife—not one that inflicts suffering, but one that delivers painful clarity. Like I wrote in “Time and Time Again,” rephrasing the question of poetry’s role: “What knife, once made, won’t draw blood?” So I suppose what lies at the intersection is what makes poetry relevant to me—its ability to, ruthlessly yet not unsympathetically, cut—not to divide, but to bring together the dissonant elements of the world on the page.
DCN: What contemporary poets have you read recently that left a strong impression on you? What aspect of their work did you particularly enjoy?
SLP: I’ve recently reread Ilya Kaminsky’s Deaf Republic. With all that’s going on across the world, it has proven time and again to be such a timelessly chilling book. It always sits on my bookshelf for my all-time favorites.
As for new discoveries, I’ve also read Microclimate by Minha Lee. It’s rare to come across such discerning yet humorous poetry, and I always appreciate a sense of self awareness and deprecation in poems that makes the reader delightfully complicit in lyrical inside jokes. I love it so much, in fact, that I want to get in touch with the poet and ask if I can translate some of her poems—I would love to be able to share her work with English readers in the future.
Suphil Lee Park: Inspiration is always such a tricky question for me, because I feel compelled to answer that I’m inspired by current events of social gravity, some memorable experiences from the past, or an exceptional piece of art that sparks admiration—something concrete and respectable that also makes sense. In truth, though, I can never quite tell how I come to conceive a particular story or a poem. It might start as a fleeting thought that grows into something more, a few lines I start writing in a dream and wake up to jot down, or meaningless scribbles I take too far. I sometimes manage to locate the starting point in retrospect, but only on rare occasions.
If I had to be a poet about it, I’d say it’s like watching drops of ink spreading in a glass of water without knowing the source, and trying to capture the unfolding of the phenomenon as this invasive substance takes over the transparency. If I had to be straightforward and precise about it, I’d say: subconsciously.
DCN: What would you say are the main themes covered by your poetic work? Are there recurrent reference points in your writings?
SLP: At the beginning (of my immigrant life, at least), hunger, war, and the inadequacy of language were recurring themes of most of my work. Unsurprisingly, what would become my first collection was even originally entitled Acatalepsia Room. Those same themes still recur in many of my poems and stories, but these days, I’m more interested in the tragicomic nature of human misunderstanding and miscommunication (cultural, linguistic, or contextual), and the idea of emotion as a fundamental logic and survival mechanism for lifeforms, rather than something sublime or particularly humanizing.
DCN: How do you find shifting between genres, from poetry to prose to translation?
SLP: To be honest, funnily enough, I never think much of it. But since I do get this question a lot, I have thought it over for some time now. And this is my most up-to-date theory: switching between genres might feel more natural to me than to some writers, because many aspects of my identity itself are multifaceted and fluid. As a result, adapting between different modes of thinking and behaving has always been a relevant way of life for me.
For example, apart from the obvious—being a second-language writer who started writing in another language close to her twenties—I was born from unlikely intermarriages that involved families with clashing values and socioeconomic standings, from North Korean refugees and independence movement supporters to Japanese sympathizers during the colonial era.
DCN: You grew up in South Korea and then moved to the US. What kind of impact did that have on you? How much of it do you think has affected you creatively?
SLP: My immigration has definitely uprooted my life, but I wouldn’t say it was a major creative influence. I’ve always been an avid reader and got into writing early on, and even before moving to the U.S. unexpectedly, I had already planned to study literature. It didn’t make all that much of a difference that I had to do it in another language. Of course, it might have been a different story had I been younger at the time. But I was almost eighteen when I came to the US, and by that point, had been sure of pursuing writing for some time.
If my immigration did affect me in any significant way as a writer, it’s probably that I found myself transported back to the very beginning where I had to figure out my relationship with writing all over again. In that sense, writing in English felt more like a desperate one-sided love rather than a comfortable long-term bond I enjoyed with my mother tongue. It was challenging, sure, but ultimately, English allowed me to approach writing with a certain clarity and excitement, because no word in this language had yet to carry the same emotional baggage I could neve separate from my mother tongue.
That said, I’ve gained some unexpected advantages, too. What might feel conventional or predictable about my writing in the arena of Korean literature can seem fresh or intriguing to English readers, simply because of the shift in literary and cultural contexts. So I’m often far less boring in this language, a perk I certainly enjoy very much.
DCN: How does the dual linguistic and cultural framework inform your writing? Which one feels more intimate to you?
SLP: I’m still constantly learning how my bilingual background informs my writing, and I’ve realized it’s far more nuanced and complex than I once thought. In one of my recent musings, I wrote:
“I can’t really find the right words in English to elaborate, so I’ll have to stray to my mother tongue—it still feels weird that some thought so persistently remains in its birth tongue, once it’s formed, explored, and articulated in one language rather than another.”
I’m still trying to understand why, even though I generally feel more comfortable writing in English now—having received higher education and completed an MFA in this language—certain sentiments and thoughts are still better articulated in my mother tongue. This seems to happen because those experiences were born outside the framework of English, if that makes sense.
DCN: Does writing in a second language allow a certain distance for that language to be scrutinized, and even have its boundaries pushed?
SLP: I appreciate the role of distance in most relationships, and my relationship with language is no exception. But what interests me more is how an unfamiliar language doesn’t just create distance—it redefines a writer’s relationship with the world. It offers a space where even the most basic objects can be re-examined—their role, history, validity, and connotations shifting under a new light. The longer you stay in that space, the more you begin to reconsider each word meant to encapsulate those objects, as if words themselves were tangible things. This applies to abstract notions as well.
Take the word love in English. A native Korean speaker wouldn’t use the equivalent word so casually—it’s reserved for specific contexts, never for something as trivial as food. But in English, love has a more ravenous, expansive quality—you can love a dish without any serious emotional involvement at all.
These linguistic differences create a gap between your perception of a word and its real-world application, forcing you to adjust to its expanded, contradicted, or even distorted meaning. You add sidenotes, reconsider your stance on the concept, or leave it open-ended altogether. And that’s the beauty of distance—it creates room for exploration, shifts perspective, and often, when held at arm’s length, the world reveals a different side of itself, one that might take you by surprise.
So yes, in a way, writing in a second language makes words more than just language—they become a lens through which to see the world, only to realize that the world itself exists beyond and apart from the words we use to describe it. And maybe that’s shaped my writing more than I realize.
DCN: When reading some of the poems you first published in English just under a decade ago, it is evident that your voice as a poet has changed over time. It is more assured, less mythical and more anchored to the real—it studies and even questions its own surroundings. By doing so it creates its own mythology, rather than being part of a cultural collective. The “we” or the distancing “he/she” perspectives have receded, now giving more prominence to the “I”. Would you say you feel more firmly sedimented in the English language, and enjoy exploring its own landscape of possibilities more?
SLP: It’s probably just that I’m a bit less self-conscious as a writer. I’ve always struggled with this idea that writing, when it comes down to it, is a deeply and unabashedly self-serving endeavor—even when it addresses important issues of our time and beyond. That’s why I often pushed writing further from what its heart might actually be. That’s also why I hesitated to engage fully with the first-person narrator, even when the “I” in poetry is not exactly an imitation of the self, unless the poet intends it to be.
Most aspects of life are, in truth, follies and indulgences, aren’t they? Even such universal values as financial security, spiritual well-being, or conventional family systems—you name it. In the grand scheme of things, when we step outside a human-centric perspective, they, too, feel arbitrary. But that doesn’t make them any less valuable; value itself is make-believe, after all.
I used to feel I needed to make something more out of writing and might have taken it a touch too seriously. Over the years, though, I’ve come to see that this existential struggle is often just another form of the self-importance I’m so wary of, and not much else. Now, I feel much less uncomfortable exploring what interests me, without worrying too much over what that interest says about me as a writer or even as a person.
You could say, in short, time has caught up to me—or maybe I’ve just stopped trying to outrun it!
DCN: Your poetry feels like a trail that the reader is invited to follow. The poems play on words’ double meanings, the line breaks are carefully crafted to conjure new images, new resonances. The shorter the lines, the more the reader’s view of your world expands. Where language is compression, meaning stretches. Is this something that you pay particular attention to when you write?
SLP: Thank you for noticing that! I’ve long been enamored with poetry’s ability to pack so much meaning into so few words; a single well-placed enjambment or an unexpected antanaclasis can completely shift a reader’s perspective. Getting a question like this can be so reassuring as it confirms my efforts haven’t gone entirely unnoticed and I must have done some things right after all!
While many contemporary poets push boundaries and redefine what poetry can be, I’m personally more drawn to the qualities that set poetry apart from other forms of writing. After all, language is all about capturing the ineffable by evaluating and enacting these defining categorical differences as accurately and faithfully as possible.
To me, one of poetry’s most defining qualities is its ability to expand meaning through compression, and particularly through line breaks, unique to poetry. Line breaks have the power to single out a phrase—or better yet, at times, a single word—and create new layers of interpretation, sometimes even multiple times within the same sentence. And when done right, this kind of compression can paradoxically open up the poem’s landscape rather than confining it.
Poetry often feels to me like the art of pauses and condensation, of coloring in not just the words but also the spaces between. And I’m always thrilled to meet readers who revel in the beauty of poetic compression and the surprises it can bring.
DCN: We touched on how the reader’s view is expanded with your poems, but how condensed and tight the material actually is. Your poetry is perhaps more vertical than it is horizontal. The voice that speaks through is one that delves and aspires, it is centered by the poem’s own gravity, at once pulled by downward and upward forces. For instance, whenever you conjure up light, it is a certain darkness that emerges, as in “A Biopic” with its cloud “enveloping a pit of light.” What a wonderful, complex image to convey! As a poet, do you feel such dichotomies are essential to do justice to the complexity of language, and indeed the world?
SLP: I’ve always admired William Blake’s Marriage of Heaven and Hell for its timeless insights, which I think were far ahead of its time. It reveals how the world, with all its complexity and dichotomies, is unironically a cohesive, unified whole rather than a patchwork of incongruous parts. Human society—especially Western culture—has pushed this idea of opposing forces and binaries, but when you look beyond human constructs and interests, the world simply exists as it is, indifferent to our judgments and incessant attempts to pull it apart, to make sense of its seeming contradictions.
When a poet looks at the world and attempts to capture any aspect of it with clarity and honesty, that effort inevitably requires attention to all of its nuance and infinitely fluid presence. When an artist discerns a certain darkness, a certain lightness comes with it—not as its opposite, but as another symptom of the same phenomenon. Darkness isn’t the negation of light; it’s simply the point where light becomes less evident. Both light and darkness are ways our field of vision interacts with the world, not clashing forces.
I think this applies to anything a poet might want to explore—so long as the desire to explore is sincere. And if you’ve found any amount of such sincerity in my work, that’s perhaps the highest praise I could ever hope for.
DCN: To take the theme of light further, it seems to me that your poems are spoken from a very lucid perspective, almost analytical at times. Emotions are muffled, yet underlying, as if they didn’t dare surface. Is the restraint a cultural one, and do you find that the same happens when you write in Korean?
SLP: This probably only further proves your point, but I actually like to think emotions are no more than involuntary thoughts, and thoughts, processed emotions. They’re both reactive human experiences, just captured at different stages of our perception and expression.
Which is to say, when it comes to creative expression, I prefer to explore emotions at a later stage, largely in retrospect. Emotions are often the more immediate and visceral forms of experience—the heart of what is felt—rather than its layers. The crust of coherent articulation builds on this heart over time, and in that sense, my mother tongue gives me more direct access to that raw core than English does. But that also means my second language, because it inevitably forces me to put more distance between experience and expression, gives me better access to its crust.
So, yes, in a way, I think this restraint is a cultural one; but it has more to do with my bilingual way of processing language rather than my Korean sensibility.
DCN: It seems the poem in a lot of your work finds itself at the meeting point of internal and external colliding viewpoints. What lies at the intersection that exists between them for you?
SLP: That’s such a big question. I’m not sure if my poems actively try to merge colliding viewpoints, per se. As I touched on earlier, I think a poet’s sincerest aspiration is simply to observe—to put into words the organic existence of the world in all its messy, unfiltered reality. And that process often starts by cutting through the noise—whether that be our human perspective, personal biases, or the ways we impose structure onto things. But the goal isn’t to reduce it all to fragments—it’s to hold it all together in its rawest form. Sometimes, that might look like bringing colliding viewpoints into focus.
In that sense, poetry often resembles a knife—not one that inflicts suffering, but one that delivers painful clarity. Like I wrote in “Time and Time Again,” rephrasing the question of poetry’s role: “What knife, once made, won’t draw blood?” So I suppose what lies at the intersection is what makes poetry relevant to me—its ability to, ruthlessly yet not unsympathetically, cut—not to divide, but to bring together the dissonant elements of the world on the page.
DCN: What contemporary poets have you read recently that left a strong impression on you? What aspect of their work did you particularly enjoy?
SLP: I’ve recently reread Ilya Kaminsky’s Deaf Republic. With all that’s going on across the world, it has proven time and again to be such a timelessly chilling book. It always sits on my bookshelf for my all-time favorites.
As for new discoveries, I’ve also read Microclimate by Minha Lee. It’s rare to come across such discerning yet humorous poetry, and I always appreciate a sense of self awareness and deprecation in poems that makes the reader delightfully complicit in lyrical inside jokes. I love it so much, in fact, that I want to get in touch with the poet and ask if I can translate some of her poems—I would love to be able to share her work with English readers in the future.
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Suphil Lee Park (수필 리 박 / 秀筆 李 朴) is the author of the poetry collection Present Tense Complex (Conduit Books & Ephemera, 2021), winner of the Marystina Santiestevan Prize, and a poetry chapbook, Still Life (Factory Hollow Press, 2023), winner of the Tomaž Šalamun Prize. She is the translator of If You're Going to Live to One Hundred, You Might As Well Be Happy by Rhee Kun Hoo. You can find more about her at suphil-lee-park.com
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Suphil Lee Park, Still Life (Factory Hollow Press, 2023)
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