“I hope that there will be more things that get better as I live.
With good things
“I might secretly like myself.”

The time poet Park Jun visited
Seasonal greetings as we count down the days to come

Poet Park Jun, who has consistently received love from readers with his poetry collections, “I Made Up Your Name and Ate It for a Few Days” and “We Could See the Rainy Season Together,” and his prose collection, “Nothing Will Change Even If I Cry,” is publishing his second prose collection, “Seasonal Prose.”
It has been four years since the publication of my first collection of prose.
As readers have long waited, 『Seasonal Prose』 neatly presents the poet's new stories and deepened sentences accumulated over his life.
The poet observes the scenes that pass by us at the crossroads of the seasons while we live the time that is given to us as a matter of course, then carefully takes them out and caresses them.
Therefore, the emotions and feelings that make up the prose are also delicate and affectionate.

In this collection of essays, the writings written in polite language stand out.
This seems to be a letter that is sent to someone by folding a page of the season, an intimate monologue of the poet himself, and a reminiscence from the past.
The words that were directed at someone soon become blurred and “scattered in various shapes” like the game the poet played as a child, “looking at a streetlight in an empty place and turning my head from side to side.”
The poet's story, unfolded in this way, expands and intertwines with the story of the reader reading the book.

From the memories of often looking at the 'baduk dot', the big mole on the face that has now disappeared, to the evenings when I stayed in the annex of an old hanok and lived like the owner's grandchild, to the memories of the past such as holding my sister's hand and going to the academy, to the memories of traveling to Sangrim, Gokseong, Jinju, and Ubud, and like remembering winter days while catching the passing breeze and putting words that make up spring in my mouth or exhaling, the 'waiting' and 'longing' that the poet depicts in his own way still make us smile or cry, just as they did in his previous prose collection.
In this way, readers encounter their own childhood, or find themselves standing in the middle of a deep forest and suddenly encountering the blue sea.
In this way, the temples that unfold like a promenade through the seasons find new colors through the breath of language breathed into them by the poet.