LOVE SONGS FORA N T A R C T I C AA COLLECTION OF POEMS, SONGS, AND OTHERW R I T I N G S P E R F O R M E D T O A N TA R C T I C AD E C E M B E R 2 7 t h T H R U 3 1 s t 2 0 1 1

EDITED BY / VIVIAN SMING

P A R T I C I P A N T S

PABLO CARRILLOHEISUE CHUNG

NADIA DOUGHERTYLOREN GUSTAFSON

PÁLL HAUKURBILLY HERNANDEZ

MINHA PARKJOHANNA REED

BEN TONGTIFFANY TZUANGCHARLENE YUNG

LUIS ERNESTO ZAVALA

“Imaginary Iceberg, No. 1” / Photograph by Three (2011)

A N T A R C T I C A , I M A G I N E D .

/ VIVIAN SMINGIn my Antarctic fantasy, I would be alone. I would be enveloped by its vastness,and humbled by its majesty.I would feel the temporality of my existence:alive, fragile, and cold.

On December 23, 2011,I set off on my journey to Antarctica.I brought with me 6 poems, 3 songs,1 story, 1 letter, and 1 book.These were written and composed byartists, writers, musicians, and daydreamers.Love songs for Antarctica.

I would give these to Antarctica,though I had nothing to say.Just the silence of an imagined experience,repeating over and over in my head.

Dear “A,” After years of not seeing each other,I am writing to you because I miss you. I miss the way I felt when I was with you. I miss dreaming of what we could have been.

I wonder often how you are doing.Do you still live down south?Have you found a pet Husky yet?But more importantly,do you still think of me?

I’m not bitterthat I’m the onewho got hurt in the end.That’s a risk I tookopening my heart up to you.

I have no regrets.I find comfort knowing thatthe love we had was our own.A love that not even a future soul mate can touch.

Although we are miles apart,please know that I love you and I will never forget you.

Love,Charlene

“LOST LOVE LETTER”/ CHARLENE YUNG

READ TO THE ANTARCTIC SOUNDO N D E C E M B E R 2 7 , 2 0 1 1 .

“ N E V E R A G A I N ”SHOUTED INTO THE ANTARCTIC SOUNDO N D E C E M B E R 2 7 , 2 0 1 1 .

/ PABLO CARRILLO

“ THE WATERGATES A N D A L ”/ LOREN GUSTAFSON

AUDIO (STEREO), 5 MIN. 21 SEC.

HUMMED TO THE SOUTH SHETLAND ISLANDS ON DECEMBER 28, 2011.

Parrot, that feathered mimic from India’s dawnlands, Is dead. Come flocking, birds,To his funeral: come, all you godfearing airborne Creatures, beat breasts with wings,Mourn, claw your polls, tear out soft feathers (your hair) , and Pipe high your sad lament.Philomela, nightingale, the ancient crime of Tereus Which you lament is long past –Divert your grief to the obsequies of a rare and modern Bird: poor Itylus’ case was tragic, but antique.All wing-borne voyagers through the clear empyrean Lament now, and above allHis friend the turtle-dove. They lived in complete agreement, Their bond of faith held firm to the end.What Pylades was to Orestes of Argos, that, Parrot, Turtle-dove was to you – while Fate allowed.Yet of no avail your devotion, your rare and beautiful plumage, Your adaptable mimic’s voice;Not even the care that my darling lavished on you – Poor Polly, paragon of birdhood, is dead.So green his feathers, they dimmed the cut emerald; scarlet His beak, with saffron spots.No bird on earth could copy a voice more closely Or sound so articulate.Fate, jealous, removed him – that unaggressive creature, That talkative devotee of peace, With his tiny appetite, whose love of conversation Left him little leisure for food,Who lived on a diet of nuts, used poppy-seed to encourage Sound sleep: kept his thirst at bayWith nothing but water. Quails spend their whole life fighting – Maybe that’s how they reach a ripe old age.

“EULOGY TO THEPARROT” BY OVID

/ BEN TONGREAD TO THE SOUTH SHETLANDISLANDS ON DECEMBER 28, 2011.

Carnivorous vultures, kites gyring high in the heavens, Weather-wise jackdaws, prophets of rain to come, All are long-lived – while Minerva’s bête noire, the raven, Can outlast nine generations. Yet Parrot is dead,That loquacious parody of human utterance, that bonanza From the eastern edge of the world.Greedy death almost always picks off the best ones early – It’s the third-raters who reach a ripe old age.Thersites attended the funeral of Protesilaus; Hector Was ashes while his brothers still lived.What point in recalling the desperate prayers my sweetheart uttered? Some stormy sirocco blew them out to sea.Six days he survived, and then, at dawn on the seventh, His thread of destiny ran out.Yet somehow, though dying, he could still find utterance, And the last words he ever spoke were: ‘Corinna, farewell!’Beneath a hill in Elysium, where dark ilex clusters And the moist earth is for ever green,There exists – or so I have heard – the pious fowls’ heaven (All ill-omened predators barred).Harmless swans roam after food there, there dwells the phoenix, That long-lived, ever-solitary bird;There Juno’s peacock spreads out his splendid fantail Amid the billing and cooing of amorous doves; And there, in this woodland haven, the feathered faithful Welcome Parrot, flock round to hear him talk.His bones lie buried under a parrot-sized tumulus With a tiny headstone bearing these words:R.I.P. Polly: this tribute from his loving mistress: ‘Articulate beyond a common bird’.

“ P E R M A N E N TW I N T E R ”

/ JOHANNA REEDUNIQUE BOOK (VOL. 1)

L E F T I N A N T A R C T I C W A T E R SO N D E C E M B E R 2 7 , 2 0 1 1 .

안녕 남극아너는 계속 녹아내리겠지. 너를 떠나 보내는 이 마음이 너무 슬프구나. 남극의 여름에도 작별을 고한다. 남극의 겨울은 이미 끝이 났다. 이 편지가 울려퍼질때면 이미 모든 것이 끝이 나는 거다. 안녕 남극아.

“FAREWELL LETTER”/ MINHA PARK

WHISPERED TO THE ANTARCTICSOUND ON DECEMBER 27, 2011.

snow cone daysAntarctica, these are our snow cone daysleaving me in a dazelazing under the frozen sunmemories are spunlet us joyously meetsinging songs so sweetour breaths will puff into the skyimmortalized for you and I

“SNOW CONE DAYS”/ TIFFANY TZUANG

READ TO THE ANTARCTIC SOUNDO N D E C E M B E R 2 7 , 2 0 1 1 .

“ H O T 9 2 . 3 F M(LET ME MELT YOU)”

/ LUIS ERNESTO ZAVALAPUBLIC RADIO,

AUDIO (STEREO), 5 MIN. 18 SEC.

PLAYED THROUGH SPEAKERS TOT H E A N T A R C T I C S O U N DO N D E C E M B E R 2 7 , 2 0 1 1 .

Once upon a time, there was a girl who believed in a miracle.She believed in the miracle that there existed a paradise,not one that was far away, to be entered only after a steep and life-long climb into the heavens,but one that existed here on earth,perhaps as close as the next block,or even the next corner,or even as close to us as the heart beating in our chests.

One day, she met a boy who offered a way to paradise.They became friends, and then they fell in love.They spent every hour of each day together,and with each day, the girl thought “We are on our way to paradise!”“Yes!” she thought “Truly, we are on our way to paradise!”There, the burden of past memories would be lifted,there would be peace of mind, kindness, grace, and mercy.As they strolled along contentedly, together,side by side,hand in hand, the girl glimpsed a flicker of paradise and ran, overjoyed, towards itstretching out her fingers eagerly.But the boydid not follow. He did not see it.In fact, he did not even believe in miracles. As she slowed her speed, she became aware thatthe impossibilities of hopelessness were on the hunt.They had her cornered.She looked down, shivering with fright,at the hand that had gripped so tightly to a miracle.She raised the hand to her faceand relaxed her grip,

“ B E H O L D ,THE MIRACULOUS!”

/ NADIA DOUGHERTYREAD TO THE SOUTH SHETLANDISLANDS ON DECEMBER 28, 2011.

just enough so as to peer inside the fist, to see if this miracle really did exist.But as she did, there was the soft and tantalizing sound of a flutter, a breathtaking burst of bright.Just like that the miracle had slipped away, and instead of a paradise,the girl and boy were thrown into the pits of what was surely the opposite.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who had lost a miracle.She had lost the miracle that there existed a paradiseon this earth,because she was overcome by the knowledge that there was also a hell,which roared alive regrets,and was as close as despair is to the despairing.

One day, she met a boy who offered a way to paradise.They became friends, and then they fell in love.They spent every hour of each day together,but with each day, the girl felt more and more fearful.Even though she longed for her miracle to return,she worried that she was too careless to deserve it,and that she would again let it slip away,andin its stead,crush another innocent heart with a hell of hopelessness!And soshe stopped searching, and stopped believing.The girl let the miracle disappear into the heavens of hope,and this timeshe let the boy follow it.

for future i’d like to work for abused womeni know them i know how they feelbecause i know everything about them because i know i meani have been there and how they feeli know what they are thinkingthey are trying to hide from everybodyi have been there beforei know how to talk to themmy dream hopemoney comes lateri really don’t care about moneybecause i know whatever i need god will give to mei want everything but i know god gives me what i need not what i wantmoney comes later sothat’s my hope

EXCERPT FROM ANINTERVIEW WITH M R S . W I L K I N S *

/ HEISUE CHUNGWHISPERED TO THE ANTARCTICSOUND ON DECEMBER 27, 2011.

* interview & photograph ofMrs. Wilkins from “Korean Military Brides in America: A Shot in the Dark” (2010) / Heisue Chung

“DEATH IS THEO N L Y T H I N GLEFT TO RESPECT”WRITTEN ON A FOGGED STATEROOM WINDOW IN THE ANTARCTIC SEASO N D E C E M B E R 2 9 , 2 0 1 1 .

/ PÁLL HAUKUR

“GOOD DREAMS”/ BILLY HERNANDEZ

AUDIO (STEREO), 1 MIN. 11 SEC.

PLAYED THROUGH SPEAKERS AT CAPE HORN ON DECEMBER 31, 2011.

“Imaginary Iceberg, No. 2” / Photograph by Three (2011)

A N T A R C T I C A , I N A C T U A L I T Y.

/ VIVIAN SMINGAntarctica stood like an elegant statue,pristine, pure, and precious.

I wanted to hold it in my palm, and perhaps place it under glass.

Everything seemed to disturb and taint Antarctica.The boat, the wind, the penguins, andany sound above a whisper.

Instead of feeling the temporality of my existence,I felt the temporality of Antarctica.It was like us: fragile, helpless, and alive.

Antarctica listened to the world above it.It changed and morphed accordingly, leaving its fate in our hands.

T H A N K Y O UTO ALL WHO PARTICIPATED, AND ALLTHOSE WHO MADE THIS POSSIBLE.

A special thanks to my parents and my sister.

All images and text belong to their rightful owner.Images of Antarctica are taken by Vivian Sming.

Text: Bodoni / Display: Didot

© 2012 by Vivian Sming