The Agenda with Steve Paikin (Audio) - Ontario's Award-Winning Teen Poet

Episode Date: May 23, 2025

Kyo Lee was the youngest ever winner of the CBC Poetry Prize at just 16, and now at 18 she has released a collection of poems, called "i cut my tongue on a broken country." The poems deal with culture, girlhood, immigration and queerness, and she joins us to discuss.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Hey, OnPoly people, it's John Michael McGrath. Join Steve Paikin and I for a special live taping of the OnPoly podcast at the Isabel Bader Theatre in Toronto on May 28th at 6.30 p.m. Visit onpoly-live.eventbrite.ca for tickets. Writing about platonic and romantic love, Kyo Lee made history when she became the youngest person to win the CBC Poetry Prize when she was 16. Now at age 18, she's released her first book of poems about the struggles of girlhood, relationships, religion,

and culture. The book is called I Cut My Tongue on a Broken Country, and Kyo Lee joins us now for more. Hi. Hi. This is such a fantastic collection of poems. The title of this collection is I Cut My Tongue on a Broken Country.

The line is so powerful. What does it mean to you? I cut my tongue on a broken country is a line from one of my personal favorite poems in the collection, a love poem between countries. And that poem is about how we love between countries, you know, as countries, but also people from different countries. And for me, it's first of all about two things. What about the country itself. For me when I was writing it, it's about Korea because it is literally broken into North and South Korea. But the reason I like it is that I think it's resonant for a lot of people because all countries are at least a little bit broken. So I think it applies to all countries. You know in Canada some

people apply it to Canada and I think that's also absolutely true. And the other part is about translation, in that I cut my tongue part. A lot of the collection is about exploring what is lost in translation, you know, not just the meaning of words, but parts of myself. Where am I lost in translation? And what parts of myself are lost in translation? And I think that was like the physical image of cutting my tongue and things spilling out, right? Like things myself, you know, my words, my culture, my family, like all of these things spilling out like blood. Yeah, like I've cut my tongue on all of these different broken countries and what parts of myself have I lost

in them and maybe what parts of myself am I reclaiming or have I gained? You combine the languages within the book of The Collection of Poetry. Which language do you think captures you the best, Korean or English? I think English. Well, at least I feel more comfortable talking about my feelings in English, which is very strange but I definitely... Why is it strange?

Because it's strange for me to think about the fact that I am different people in different languages. That's one of the large topics I talk about in the book, and it's the CBC Poetry Prize-winning poem The Lotus Flower Blooming into Breast. I think that poem also explores that a lot, about how I am different people in different languages. For me, in English, I definitely feel better talking about myself and my feelings. And I don't know if that's just the language itself, and that the culture, the people here are more comfortable talking about their feelings than perhaps they do in Korea.

But I think it's also just part of my experiences in either of those languages. Yeah, but there's definitely parts where I feel like the English language is not enough to capture me. And I think those are the parts that I use Korean in the book. If my memory serves me correct, in one of the poems, you said that there isn't a Korean word to capture home. Yes.

I thought that was interesting. So how do you then, because I think, not to put words in your mouth, but it seems as if throughout the collection, this is a place, this is something that you're in exploration of. Yes, absolutely. I wanted the collection itself to be something like a home, like a safe space. And I have been thinking about that a lot,

the fact that there is no word for home in Korean. Actually, I feel like that is the case in many languages. In fact, it's very interesting that English has different words for home and house. And I find that that's really important, that's really significant. And I don't really know how else my perception of how my perception of home would be if I didn't have English to to guide me. Yeah, but I think I am even more so recently trying to figure out what is home to me in Korean. So what is home? I don't know. I am on my journey of meaning. But I think for me right now it's pieces of moments, people. Yeah, the moments of love that I try to find. It's beautiful to me in some way

that there is no word to capture all of this, that it's just so much, and that it's just incapturable with language. But I am trying. I also think sometimes when we are in the process of becoming adults, that we are looking to external people to be there for you. And sometimes when you don't have that, it's really hard to navigate this world,

because it's big and it's scary. I appreciate it that you dedicated this book to yourself. So it feels in a way that you have shown up for yourself each and every time, and perhaps you are home. Yes. Yeah, that is such a beautiful way to think about it. That maybe I need to find home in myself. You said that in a previous interview

that you were able to write this book because of, quote, ignorance. Yes. What did you mean by that? You know, there's the director of Citizen Kane, he talks about the reason he was able to direct Citizen Kane is because of ignorance, because he didn't know how hard it was. And I largely feel that, not to compare myself

to the director of Citizen Kane. But I feel like I wrote this book because I didn't know how hard it was to write a book. I had to gaslight myself into thinking that it was going to be easy. And it wasn't really, but I think I wouldn't have been able to get started if I knew how hard writing a book was.

And I feel like- Why did you want to write it? You know, it's very interesting because I started writing in eighth grade after reading Milk and Honey, and I was like, oh, like I could probably do this too. And I realized that I couldn't

because writing poetry is pretty hard. But I started writing a book like from the get-go, like ever since I started writing poetry, I was writing for a book, and I wrote three different manuscripts that were really bad that I, you know, dislike before I ended up with this one, which I am proud of and which I do like. Yeah, before I ended up with this one, which I am proud

of and which I do like. Yeah, so I feel like I've always been writing poetry with the intention of writing this collection. Why poetry? It was inevitable, I think. I started writing at all in eighth grade and when I started writing it was poetry and I don't even know why. I think poetry just comes more easily to me because

I can sit down and I can finish a poem in one sitting and I'm done with that poem and I don't really think about that poem anymore and I feel like it's just like a short little in that short little time can get so much out of me. I can tell so many different stories and I don't have to worry about plot. I don't have to worry about characters. But some of them have a plot. Yes and some of them also have characters but I don't really to worry about characters. But some of them have a plot. Yes, and some of them also have characters. But I don't really think about them in the same way that I think about essays or fiction or short stories,

because I do write those as well. And I am hopefully working on a novel. But for those, I feel like I have to think a lot more and I have to research more. But for poetry, it's just more like I can sit down and something will come to me. You're going to read a poem for us. But before we get to the poem,

who are you writing about? In the collection? I think many different people. At least, you know, a large part of the book is at least semi-autobiographical. And they are, lots of the stories in here are based on true stories, but maybe not completely factually.

I will say like some true stories are mixed together. In some ways, I'm talking about the true stories of my parents and my grandparents, about my real friends, about past relationships. And sometimes they are just fiction. Can you read it from us? Of course. So you're going to read a poem for us.

It's called, What Does Your Name Mean? And will you tell us a little bit about the piece before you read? Yes, absolutely Yeah, so my name in Korean is actually so, you know It's Ki-ho Lee and then Ki-ho is like the second part of my name like in Korean It's actually Eun-gyo and Kyu is the part that gets translated to Ki-ho and for the first year that I was here after is the part that gets translated to Kyo. And for the first year that I was here after immigrating, I went by in Kyo and then it's too long and nobody was able to pronounce it. Did you go by Susan for, or is that just from the poem? Yeah.

No, I did also a little bit go by Susan at one point, Sarah at one point. I don't know. There were lots of different things. I actually did have an English name planned for myself. It was, I don't know, Julie or something. I don't remember. And I was supposed to go by that after coming to Canada but then an immigration officer just called me Kiyo by chance and I was like, okay, I'll go with that so I became Kiyo and

It's very strange to think that Your name has so much to do with you, right and The fact that I have changed my name so many different times, you know, when I was young, when I was like six or seven, so that I would be more convenient for people. Which I find- That's interesting words.

You would be more convenient for people. Yes, so that people would find me more digestible maybe and find me like less like hard, just like even beginning with my name. Because it's the more difficult a name is, the more the other person has to make a better effort? Yes, yes. And I think I was afraid to maybe take up space

or to take up people's time or to take up people's effort. But even just saying that a name is difficult, it's, you know, anyway. Yes, yeah. Yeah, and I think just that fact was really sad that I didn't like, I wanted to like fit some sort of like, I wanted to be something easy, because I didn't want to be different in another way. Right? You want it to belong. Yes. Yeah. And when I think about that now, it's sad that I thought about it that way. I am I like my name now, you know, being Kiyo.

I wouldn't want another name. And I, yeah, and I do, I'm proud of it now, but I think it took me some time to get to where I am. Okay. What does your name mean? Kiyo. Beauty. Moonlight.

Laughter. To teach. To choke. Unite in Japanese. To draw a line down your name and watch the gap widen into parallel barricades. Apricot in Japanese. Your taemyeong was apricot because you were so small and sour and spring. The things we end up meaning by accident.

To go by Sarah in dressing rooms because you're tired. To answer to pauses. To say your own name like a bullet caught between the teeth. In. Grace. Silver. Edge. To growl, to suffer, to be green as grass. To sever pieces of your name like wishbone. To hang in the air like a collapsed promise, as if abandoning a name is all you need to become something new. Lee. Hometown, wound, foreign intruder,

a boy resting under an apricot tree. You want to sit down beside him, forget your name, and pick a warm fruit to share. You dream of a world where your name is apricot, apricot, apricot, a world where three wrongs make a right. Sarah, your pastor tries to baptize you with Dasani and calls you Sarah. You wonder if your God can pronounce your name. Beautiful suffering, silver choking, moonlit end, water song, bird song, apricot,

apricot, whatever you want it to. You are so talented. Thank you so much for doing that for us. It's great. It's a real privilege to be able to hear it in your own voice. Writing, I think there's this idea throughout history that when we talk about poets, that they're very tortured. And I think it's even made more popular right now because of Taylor Swift's latest album. And one of the poems in this collection is titled, Can You Be a Poet and Be Happy? As a poet, what is the answer? Does it matter?

I want to say yes. And I would say, even just a couple of weeks ago, I would have been able to say yes with a little bit more confidence. That yes, you are happy? Or? Yes, I am happy. Yeah, I don't really like the idea

that poets are tortured, I guess. I think one of the central ideas that I explore in the poem itself is that art is not made because of pain, but in spite of pain. But recently, I started writing again. And it's strange, because writing makes me happier. But it also makes me a little bit miserable, because I don't know if it's because I am writing

about miserable things. But it puts me in some sort of headspace where I think, I don't know, like the world is against me or something, which I know is factually not true. And I think after, I don't know, like the world is against me or something, which I know is like factually not true. And I think after, I was also like maybe a little bit miserable like writing this collection, but I think afterwards it made me much happier because I felt like I worked through a lot of the stuff.

And I think for me poetry is a coping mechanism. And maybe I have to like feel some more things and I have to grapple with difficult things as I'm writing, but afterwards I feel better because I feel like a weight has been lifted off me. Hmm, that's so it's maybe your way of understanding about yourself and your place in the world. Yes, absolutely.

You write poems that explore the relationship you have with your father and your mother. Yes. Was it difficult for you to write about this? And if you don't want to answer, you can tell me to shut up. Yeah, absolutely. Some of those are real stories and some of them are not. But it's very hard for me, I think, to write about them.

Yeah, but I don't know. Then why do it? Because again, I feel like it was somewhat inevitable. Like, I don't sit down thinking, oh, I'm I want to talk about my mother. But it sometimes comes up, because it is at least partly like a coping mechanism. And I think for me, like, just again, like, a way for me

to understand myself and maybe my relationships. Yeah, they feel somewhat necessary for my well-being. I always read the acknowledgments, because I think you get a better understanding of the author. And in the acknowledgments, you thank people who might be upset after reading this and say, you know, thank you for loving me up until this point. And you also say you're, you thank your mom and father for everything that they've done for you. What have the reactions been like from the collection, from the people closest to you?

You know, that's interesting. I feel like the collection has been, you know, celebrated and I've been super grateful for that. Just like, more broadly, but I think for the people closest to me, it has actually been like pretty subdued. You know, I feel like people are like, oh, I guess you wrote the book.

And it's like, oh, it would have been great if you cared. But I actually have grown to kind of like that because first of all, it keeps me a little bit grounded, I think, and also I just like the idea that people don't care that much because it's like, oh, they still see me as Kiyo the person instead of Kiyo the author. And yeah, sometimes I do think,

oh, it would be really wonderful to have the people closest to me care the most, but then I think, oh, maybe not. It has enforced somewhat of a work-life balance for me, at least in how I think about myself. And I think something that, everything that I've read about you starts with your age. And I can imagine that can become a little confining.

And you're also being placed in the category of queer writing. How do you feel about those labels? That's interesting. Yeah, like I definitely don't want to be, you know, like a good writer for a young poet or like a good writer, you know, in the category of queer poetry.

Like I definitely, I don't know. Like sometimes I do not mind the labels because I think, you know, sometimes they're just, again, like inevitable just with like marketing and whatnot. But that is also not particularly how I see myself. Like I don't want to see myself just as a young poet, nor just as a queer poet. I think my work has more to offer. I think too there's this idea that even to write a memoir you have to be a certain age

in order to be able to fully understand life. Do you think that's something that, I don't know, maybe the industry needs to work on a little bit because good work is good work no matter the age. Yes, I think so definitely. I think in literature, it is actually probably better than other industries. I think a lot of my work has been met with just the idea, oh, it is good work,

so it doesn't matter how young you are. And I've been immensely grateful for that, that people haven't just been like, oh, like nevermind, you're 16. Yeah. And I think especially, not even just like disregarding age, but I think we have so much to learn from young writers to get to hear how they experience life

and their life from their own voices. And in the set of, in these poems, you write a lot about girlhood. Yes. Now you're on your way to adulthood. Yes. Is there a certain do you feel grief? Do you feel excitement? How are you feeling in that transition? Yes, I feel recently I've been feeling a little bit of grief.

I turned 18 now two, three months ago, and it didn't feel very real for me at the start, but now I'm realizing, oh my goodness, I'm legal. I can sign my own documents. And even just in things like that, I'm finding that, oh, maybe I am a little bit more alone than I was. And I don't mean that in,

that my parents are suddenly abandoning me now that I'm an adult but it's just that oh like I don't have something to like fall back on as much I still feel like I do which you know is still keeping me a little bit like a child but it is very strange to think that I am becoming an adult and that I don't know like I definitely don't feel like an adult and that, I don't know, like I definitely don't feel like one. Well, I mean, I don't think we have those conversations a lot because you're actually going to Yale in the fall.

How are you feeling about going away abroad and also going to Yale? Yeah, I mean, first of all, I'm incredibly excited, but also I think a part of the reason why I've been grieving a lot recently is just I feel like I've been going through a phase of like pre-grief in that I'm already grieving what I will be grieving, right? I'm already grieving the people that I love right now, you know, my family, my friends and the people that I'll be, you know, leaving behind or the people I won't get to see as much anymore.

Yeah, I feel like I'm pre-grieving my childhood and I'm trying to acknowledge that but also try to not let that get in my way of loving people because I think I have this sort of tendency to block myself off, to try not to get hurt, right? To love people less so that I won't get hurt as much in the future. But I'm really trying to cut that out.

I'm trying to love as much as I can right now, love broadly and really forcefully. I mean, grief is the price we pay for being able to love. Finally, what do you want people to take away from this collection? I want people to feel safe while reading it. I hope you find some sort of meaning in it. I like the idea that writing is a collaborative process. You know,

I'm always dependent on readers to find their own meanings, right? I can't, it doesn't, none of this means anything if you're not willing to take it. So I feel like my part of the work has been done, you know, I'm offering this to you and do what you will with it. It's been fantastic having you here. Thank you so much for your time. Congratulations on everything. We're going to be rooting for you. Whatever you do next. Congratulations. Thank you. Thank you so much.