FROM JANUARY (Collected Poems) - Mai Văn Phấn. Translated from Vietnamese by Nhat-Lang Le. Edited by Susan Blanshard

Mai Văn Phấn

Translated from Vietnamese by Nhat-Lang Le

Edited by Susan Blanshard

 

 

 

 


Translator - Poet Nhat-Lang Le

 

 

 

 


Poet Susan Blanshard


 

 

 

FROM JANUARY

(From the poetry book “The Selected Poems of Mai Văn Phấn”)




The Secrets of a Moment: A reading of from january by Mai Văn Phấn

                       

 

 

 

By Lê Hồ Quang

Translated by Nathan Le

           

 

 

1. At first look, the title from january(1) seems rather simple. It is a little bit different from the titles of Mai Văn Phấn’s previous volumes, which are often somewhat special, sometimes mantra-like: Calling the Blue, Water Wall, Firmament without Roof Cover, and suddenly the wind blows, face-hiding flower, Just Born There… (The collection titles from january, and suddenly the wind blows, face-hiding flower are not capitalized by Mai Văn Phấn). Is it a random choice? I don’t think so. This writer is known for his careful choices of words. On the other hand, considered within a complete work, the title is a very important element, usually a guiding signal worthy of notice about the work itself. Indeed, in this collection, January is a meaningful starting point. It is a real point in time in the present, concrete and fresh with the life that each individual is living, experiencing. However, with the endless passage of time, that point in time is quickly buried on the universe’s perpetual, constant circumvolution without origin and without end. Thus, one can take from january as an insinuation of time according to Mai Văn Phấn—time of the moments. And at the same time, from january is also the beginning of a journey to commit more deeply into the vague and vast realm of spirituality and creativity, in order to search and uncover the secrets of those moments.

 

2. Inspired by time, the collection is organized essentially in linear order, along the flow of seasons, beginning with spring (and mostly about spring and summer, the most beautiful seasons in the eye of the poet). There, spring is associated with Tet Nguyên Đán—which is the lunar new year; to the Tomb Sweeping festival; to pilgrimage journeys; to cherry blossoms, plum blossoms, and seeds soaked in mud bursting into life. Summer is associated with the ocean, an image of freedom and liberty, sunlight, the wind and the rain as warm and strong as the very soul of seaside inhabitants… That is a journey of time as well as one of the human mind, in all its diverse expressions from Everyday to Spiritual and Creative. Therefore, with careful observations, next to the order of time, one sees that this collection is also organized into clusters of poems, into patches of themes and imageries. There are patches about spring days, about flowers, about the rain, about the dew, about bells, about the ocean… It can be said that for the same event or thing, the poet does not stop at fixed, immobile forms. He wants to observe it from many angles, in all of its own dimensions, nuances and liveliness and with the most succinct expressions, in order to maximally preserve the beauty of nature and the human mind. Thus, there are 20 poems about spring days, 20 about the rain, 23 about flowers, and 52 just about the sea. Just by looking at the titles of some poems about the sea, one can notice very clearly that the writer’s purpose is to capture life’s realistic beauties: Morning at Sea, Darkening Sea, Sea Blending into Night, Silent Sea, Rolling Sea, Sea Rain, Sea Breeze, House by the Sea, Drinking Tea by the Sea, Crowded Beach, Waiting for a Wave, Rising Tide, Putting My Cheek on the Sands, Lighting to Fish for Squids… In a very natural way, this descriptive method reminds me of Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai’s set of paintings, 36 Views of Mount Fuji, or a little further away, French artist Claude Monet’s more than 250 paintings about lillies. Just the one thing, at different moments, will express different beauties. And it is beautiful in every moment. Nonetheless, if in previous collections, Mai Văn Phấn describes events and things in a symbolic fashion, here it seems he just wants to “preserve” all those everyday moments and shapes in their simplest, clearest and most natural beauty. A tendency to chronicle, a presentness and a naturalness are the distinguished characteristics of this work.

 

3. Pushing events to the textual surface and maximally limiting the use of the first person pronoun create an easy-to-observe objectivity for the world of poetic imageries in from january. Nevertheless, one still sees rather clearly the face of the I-subject behind that painting of life. That is the self mostly expressed through actions of direct physical cognizance, such as by hands, feet, mouth, ears or eyes. Keen physical senses allow the poet-self to perceive life so quickly, fiercely and subtly. That explains why life always is recreated with such freshness and richness of feelings in Mai Văn Phấn’s poetry. On the other hand, that is due to a self which is extremely sensitive to Beauty, especially Beauty of the Present, in everyday’s life, around each of us. That self in particular is always aware of looking for and aiming at those moments where human beings exist in understanding of and in deep harmony with nature, and with various down-to-earth yet pure expressions; and where the present, or the moment, also wakes up our awareness of Infinity or Eternity. One can see this clearly in poems which seem simply to recreate scenes, for example:

 

Rain


Water fills up the garden

Peach flowers drift

As if running away

 

Here, the feeling of running away seems to belong to the poet. Such personification is especially clear when he writes about nature, trees, flowers, small animals or pagoda bells… But even when he writes about everyday activities of individuals, that sense of mutual understanding and blending still exists prominently.

 

With a mindset prudent and, at the same time, so light, the poet looks to turn up the folds of life, wakes up the mysteries hidden within them—life’s unblemished beauty. It is absolutely not the objective beauty, which opposes and is separated from the subject, but in contrary, a beauty born out of intimate interfusions between the subjective soul and all things around it. Like pagoda bells that can shake a bush of water wisteria / immobile / throughout Spring and create an extraordinary sympathy among all things, this beauty and this strength may very likely come from a soul that has attained the Tao. However, although he always believes and determines to look for wonders in every moment of existence, regarding the moment as something sacred and of great capacity to transform and purify human lives, Mai Văn Phấn doesn’t mystify or deify it in an extreme way. In this poet, there exists a mindset of life and creativity that is somewhat aestheticist, yet very open and realistic.

 

4. Regarding the organization of the text, each poem in from january has 3 lines. Each line usually corresponds to an independent image, creating ample space for associations. But at the same time, the poet often organizes his imageries and words according to a most natural form of expression and presentation. That coherence is expressed foremost in the syntactical order of the poetic lines, which are often connected to each other grammatically and semantically, so that many poems can be read continuously from the title to the last line. In those cases, rhythm is essentially created through enjambment. The title exists as an inseparable, or even syntactical, component of the first line, which splits off and is promoted as a title. Nevertheless, titles still have their relative independence. Most of the times, titles are words or phrases that serve as the “key” for a poem. From a certain perspective, one can see that this special formal cohesion between the title and the lines also represents the concept of the world as a living body with organic bonds among all the constituent elements. It is quite a pleasure to read many poems with that straightforward and cohesive impression.

 

Of course, this three-line poetic “form” demands the poet to have proper techniques to execute, regarding themes, language, imageries, etc. because without those, instead of an aesthetic structure, the poem is very likely only a descriptive statement broken mechanically into three lines. Let me take the poem “First Morning of New Year” to analyze this in more details:

 

First Morning of New Year


I find a child’s sock

Soft

As a ripened fruit

 

The poem tells of a very simple event: In the first morning of the lunar new year, the writer finds a child’s sock which is very soft. The sock evokes the presence of a child and wakes up feelings of tenderness and endearment. The event happens on the first day of a lunar new year and it is well-meaning in the poet’s heart. In fact, previously, the poem has been organized differently than in the version being analyzed. The previous version has the following enjambment: I find / A child’s sock / Soft as a ripened fruit. Three events are simply placed next to each other, with no significant point of emphasis, eventual information superseding emotional information. But behold the current version, where the adjective “soft” is separated into its own line. The poem, therefore, has found its center of gravity. The word “soft” becomes the “keyword” of the poem, the radial point of impressions and feelings.

 

Apparently in poetry one cannot disregard the organization of textual structures, where changing one element may mean changing the whole. Especially in this aspect, one can observe clearly the writer’s awareness and diligence in searching among possibilities. It is worth mentioning that in many three-line poems, scenes appear very fresh, like a spontaneous verbalizing of reality itself, as though there is no trace of any painstaking effort, and that is evidently a success as far as poetic craft is concerned. However, in some cases, a too obvious dependency of the title towards the first line makes the poem not quite a “three-line poem.” On the textual level, one can condense further to create high indepency of the poetic lines, in order to exploit more thoroughly the ideas and probably to stimulate a strong “explosion” in a reader’s associations and imagination.

 

5. Observing and explaining human lives and the universe in general depth has become the poet’s familiar line of aesthetic thought, and this affects rather clearly the thematic formation of the poems. The poet usually organizes his imageries and words in a rather centralized, associative field. The center of a poem is often a very specific, impulsive image at first look. However, in some cases, it quickly becomes a productive “meanings generation structure.” The following poem is a typical example:

 

Sowing Seeds

 

In decomposing mud

As I’ve made just a dozen steps

The fields grow full of fog

 

The poem discusses sowing seeds, with three consecutive actions—sowing, walking and growing—illustrating nature’s extraordinary reproductive force. The subject of description here is “seeds.” Seeds grow in mud like human souls grow in nature. In another words, human beings are also seeds growing amidst the crops of the universe. The poem, thus, is a metaphorical structure, which relies on the similarity between feelings and things to reach a symbolic awareness of the harmonious relationship between humans and nature, a rather familiar theme in Mai Văn Phấn’s poetry. Many other poems are also constructed on such similarity association mechanism. Some of them are simpler and more direct, such as Moutain Climbing, Wakened at Midnight, Looking, The Root

 

On the other hand, there are many other poems constructed based on the field of contrast association, such as: Overcrowded Flowers, From a Murky Puddle, A Fleck of Dust Clinging on a Hat, Passing by a Neighbor’s, A Thunder, A Bean, etc. The poem Overcrowded Flowers, at first glance, seems simply the retelling of an event:

 

Overcrowded Flowers

 

Overcrowded
Someone says

Fake apricot blossoms

 

A paradox is contained within the method of retelling which seems cold and objective. While flowers are “overcrowded” and offering their beauties to human beings, we are indifferent and dub them “fake apricot blossoms.” Is it because we have been satiated with the pretentiousness of fake flowers to the point of being blind in front of real beauty? Or is it because the real and the fake are now so similar and so difficult to distinguish? Anyway, the disadvantageous party here is not flowers but humans.

 

Many poems by Mai Văn Phấn has a coordination of several different points of view and different descriptive correlations and rationalizations. In observing and describing reality in particular, there are plenty of moments in which the poet reveals an insight that is humorous, naturally so mischievous: Sounds of Drilling on a Wall, Falling Asleep While Watching TV, A Tree and Its Shadow, Stopping in the Pagoda, A Piece of Watermelon, Passing by a Neighbor’s, etc. Sometimes his poem is a covert parody. Typical examples include the hesitation in deciding “whether to bite from inside or outside”(A Piece of Watermelon), or the noises from a street sweeper’s broom evoking crowds’ calls in an august afternoon (Sounds of a Bamboo Broom), or the sounds of a pestle crushing meat evoking the sounds of a frog jumping into a remote pond (Sounds of Meat Crushing), etc. Although the poems that follow this path are not numerous, they have really brought more personality as well as modernity into Mai Văn Phấn’s three-line poems.

 

6. An awareness of the universe and human conditions in their substantial relationships, interconnectedness and harmony, the extraction of word meanings to the core, the objectification of figures to a high degree, etc. are characteristics that stand out from the structure of Mai Văn Phấn’s three-line poetry. Of course, in order to create three-line poetry’s tight structure, it not simply a matter of techniques. Knowing which words to cut or keep, where to cut, and where to jump to the next line always requires the guidance of one’s intuition and verbal sensitivity, both of which are crucial in distinguishing a poet from a “poetic laborer.”

 

With the concise three-line poetic form, the control and envelopment of a sense of nature, the construction in accordance to “principles of seasons” and duo-imagery correlations, from january by Mai Văn Phấn very easily suggests that the reader associate it with the Japanese haiku. However, with this writer, studying and inheriting always go hand in hand with a strong sense of creativity and innovation in forming his own writing style. (That’s why he calls his poems “three-line” instead of “Vietnamese haikus.”) Even classical poetic materials, when touched by this Vienamese poet’s hand, bear new, unique modern aeasthetic aspects and meanings. Let us reread the following poem:

 

Sounds of Meat Crushing


A big frog

Jumps out of a cave opening

Already tight

 

A jumping frog is a too familiar image in haiku after the zen master and poet Matsuo Basho: The old pond; / A frog jumps in — / The sound of the water (trans. Robert Aitken). Mai Văn Phấn also describes the action of a frog that jumps out of a cave opening and this intentional closeness has created an obvious intertextuality. But reading has only become special when, upon glancing once more at the title, the reader suddenly realizes that the real subject being described here is not Matsuo Basho’s classical frog, but the sound of a pestle crushing meat. Thus, with intertextualy, the poet has put a common people’s food from his country up to the level of the the world’s poetic delicacies in a so lively, humorous yet no less elegant way! One can also observe the difference between two philosophies, one leaning to the deep, the discreet, and the mysterious (usually seen in Eastern classical poetry) and a whole daily life way of thinking leaning to the concrete, the realistic, and the lively (which is presumably inherent in Vietnamese culture). Along with those is a series of correlations of contrasts between the lyrical vs. the mundane, the poetic vs. the unpoetic, the traditional vs. the modern… The interesting impressions about the unexpected relationship between the sounds of a big frog jumping out of a narrow cave opening and that of a meat crushing pestle, therefore, is thus multiplied. One can see by this treatment of classical poetic materials that accepting outside artistic values is a familiar concept for Mai Văn Phấn—to accept means to innovate, in order to create domestically-generated aesthetic values instead of to depend on “imported” forms.

 

7. Keenness, calmness and elegance seem to be the dominant aesthetic shades of from january. Here, I mean the Keenness in observation, the Calmness in mood and creative state of mind, and the Elegance in verbal expressions. A keen observing eye, an ability to discover hidden relationships among things, a power to generalize, a prudence in word usage… are easy to recognize on the textual level. Yet the factor that really links all of the above is still an abundant, prolific poetic instinct and the sense of righteousness of one who finds himself in deep sympathy with trees, crops, creatures, the living and the dead, both in the present and in faraway places. This dulls the sharp sense of rationality from some of his other collections, rendering a warm feeling—regarding sentimentality; while at the same time, rendering a naturally symbolic style—regarding poetics. from january reveals a rich, sensitive, keen soul, although it sometimes leaves traces of techniques and is partly aestheticist. Therefore, not every poem in this volume reaches the beauty of innovation on grounds of tradition as a goal that the poet aims at. Besides, the objectivity, the conciseness and the suggestive power of three-line poetry are on one hand a value, a notable creative beauty, but on the other hand no small “challenge” to the reader: it requires the reader to really co-create.

 

Afterall, the moment is really Mai Văn Phấn’s philosophy for life and art. The moment allows human beings to penetrate secrets of the universe and those of the spirit. In the moment, one can see Infinity. Living and creating in each of those moments are not easy. It requires the artist to never let up doing what Mai Văn Phấn does: Using the tips of my shoes / I throw sands / Forward. But perhaps, that challenge is the very thing that makes up beauty and the real meaning of existence and creativity.

 

Vinh, May 5, 2015

L.H.Q

 

_______________
(1) Afterwards, Mai Văn Phấn says that the title
from january is suggested by his friend, the poet Pham Long Quận. This also explains why there
are certain differences between the title of this collection and those of previous collections by Mai Văn Phấn. However, this does not affect in any way on the wholesomeness of from january,
but in contrary, as analyzed above, this title is an element compatible with the content structure of the work. 



 


In a Goat’s Words

 

Open the pen

Drop your knife and cutting board

Let me go back to the mountains

 

 

 

 

With Toes Digging in the Soil

 

Without looking up

I still know

Young leaves are budding above

 

 

 

 

New Year Coming

 

As well-wishers gather

The sea out there

Doesn’t know it yet

 

 

 

 

New Spring

 

Bail

By bail of water

Runs down the field

 

 

 

 

In the Sounds of Fireworks

 

A few young fruits

May

Fall

 

 

 

 

First Morning of New Year

 

I find a child’s sock

Soft

As a ripened fruit

 

 

 

 

New Year’s Day

 

On the road

Picking a dried blade of grass

I touch the old year’s tail

 

 

 

 

The Splendid Spring Air

 

I rest

After collecting a full bucket of water

Not knowing what to do with it yet

 

 

 

 

First Night of New Year

 

Hearing waves

I shine a candle

Towards the sea

 

 

 

 

Choosing a Sofa

 

To place a vase of rhododendron

In the middle

Of Spring

 

 

 

 

Leisure

 

A cup of tea

Contains enough scents from

The new year

 

 

 

 

New Year’s Aspirations

 

I crave bird songs

Of any kind

From the sky

 

 

 

 

Young Buds

 

Lay underneath Spring

Fully stretched

Choked of their own breath

 

 

 

 

Spring’s New Grass

 

A buffalo calf

Is busy sniffing young grass

Its mother departing farther and farther

 

 

 

 

Midst of Spring

 

Strong winds

Paste peach flower petals
On the ground

 

 

 

 

Still Celebrating New Year

 

After my last piece of preserved fruit

I stand up to wind up the clock

Gladiolus flowers in full bloom

 

 

 

 

Spring Sun

 

Drops its breasts

Dangling down

To newly budding seeds

 

 

 

 

A Glimpse of Spring

 

A buffalo calf has passed by

A patch of young grass has disappeared

A boy has spilled honey

 

 

 

 

Late January

 

Spring rain has yet to come

Peach flowers fall

One petal at a time

 

 

 

 

Spring Rain Has Come

 

The air is moist

And cold

I have just taken a bath

 

 

 

 

Drizzle

 

Breaking
Dried wood
My hands warm up

 

 

 

 

Purification

 

A rain
This early in the season
I go wash my face

 

 

 

 

Getting Lost Watching the Drizzle

 

When I look down
A snail and I

Are touching the start line

 

 

 

 

Inserting Beans

 

In straight furrows

Once it’s done

The sky is laden with stars

 

 

 

 

Sowing Seeds

 

In decomposing mud

When I’ve made a dozen steps
The fields grow full of fog

 

 

 

 

Waking Up

 

At night I dream of being in a forest

In the morning
I select the seeds once more

 

 

 

 

Repaying a Favor

 

I lie face down near the  foot of a tree

Let leaves fall

On my back

 

 

 

 

Ahead

 

It’s more beautiful
I keep walking
Diving into an abyss of light

 

 

 

 

Crop

 

As I finish sowing a bed of beans
The calls of a Radde’s accentor remind me
Of the sky above

 

 

 

 

Fog

 

Hovers
For so long that
Rotten wood spawns flowers

 

 

 

 

Feelings

 

When fields are vast
Dewdrops

Seem more transparent

 

 

 

 

Spring Morning

 

Flower buds
Listen to children
Call each other to go dig worms

 

 

 

 

Stretching a Bow

 

An entire spring
Pulled

Backwards

 

 

 

 

Spring Still in Earth

 

Peach flowers
Fall

On apricot and plum flowers

 

 

 

 

Wild Rose

 

Blooms first
So that the nearby trees

Bloom later

 

 

 

 

A Trellis of Blue Trumpet Vine

 

Droops down
I stand on tiptoes

To see if any flowers remain

 

 

 

 

White Plum Flowers

 

As it grows dark
I lean close to them
To finish the page I’m reading

 

 

 

 

Rain

 

Water fills up the garden

Peach flowers drift
As if running away

 

 

 

 

Overcrowded Flowers

 

Overcrowded

Someone says
Fake apricot blossoms

 

 

 

 

Alone Brewing Tea

 

Waiting for water to boil
I sit and count cherry-apple flowers
Only to the sixth

 

 

 

 

Coming Winds

 

Push the chrysanthemums

To bend
Towards the weeds

 

 

 

 

In the Garden

 

I gather

Nine flowers
Forgetting to count the one just held

 

 

 

 

Botanical Love

 

Some of the peach flowers
Are falling
To the foot of a tree nearby

 

 

 

 

Where a Flower Falls

 

I put my face close to the ground

And look up
The flower has been there

 

 

 

 

A Flower Fallen into the Well

 

Dropping a bucket
I have to draw most of the water out
To reach the flower

 

 

 

 

Old Man

 

All his teeth gone

He smiles next to the plant
With scattering flowers

 

 

 

 

Target

 

A leaf of spring
Falls
Right on summer

 

 

 

 

End of Spring

 

It’s so moist

As I shake a cushion

Spring goes by

 

 

 

 

Spring Leaving

 

I cannot catch up

Only a thin

Streak of smoke remains

 

 

 

 

End of March

 

Red cotton flowers blooming

I cannot guess

How many steps to reach the tree

 

 

 

 

Night Between Seasons

 

Almost morning

In deep sleep I was not aware

Of lying next to summer

 

 

 

 

This Morning

 

I forget to peel off a calendar page

A pot of water

Takes longer to boil

 

 

 

 

Early Morning

 

Going out to open the gate

I feel dazed

Between two worlds

 

 

 

 

Going into the Garden

 

As I pull out weeds

Dawn comes

Earlier

 

 

 

 

After My Bath

 

The sky

Moves to another season
The magnolia tree grows older

 

 

 

 

Luck

 

Still with a mouthful of coffee

I see a pair of sparrows

Copulating in a longan tree

 

 

 

 

A Cup of Apple Juice

 

After the drink

I look up to the hills

Apple trees begin to blossom

 

 

 

 

Eating an Apple

 

I bite on it vertically

Then horizontally

And see myself growing younger


 

 

 

A Sip of Tea

 

Not yet swallowed

While I watch a branch of guava

Fructifying

 

 

 

 

A Cup of Coffee

 

I drink half of it

And wait for the wind

To shake all the branches

 

 

 

 

Sounds of Drilling Behind a Wall

 

Perhaps my neighbor is hanging a painting

At the very place in my house

Where I hang a lamp

 

 

 

 

Falling Asleep While Watching TV

 

I wake up

Seeing people laying on a beach

While I am fully clothed

 

 

 

 

In a Dream

 

I have lived through many regimes

Yet

Never been bothered

 

 

 

 

Clearing the Way

 

Sweeping

The ground clean

So more leaves can fall

 

 

 

 

Earth Shaking

 

I sweep again

The road in front

Children run through it

 

 

 

 

In a Barbershop

 

I hear the wind

Stroking in waves

From the roots to the top of a tree

 

 

 

 

Passing Cars

 

Covered with dust

A gardenia on the side of the road

Turns into an earthen statue

 

 

 

 

Waking Up and Seeing Gardeners

 

They have cultivated more trees

I volunteer

To scoop water to irrigate.

 

 

 

 

Resting

 

Pigeons

Landing on the roof

Playing their games

 

 

 

 

In Front of a Hair Styling Shop

 

Roots of a curtain fig drop

And swing

Beautifully in every way

 

 

 

 

 

A Fluffy Cloud

 

Stops

On the ground where

A mother is breastfeeding her child

 

 

 

 

Unfamiliar Feeling

 

New sunlight

All over the garden

I stand up to narrow a door’s opening.

 

 

 

 

Isn’t It the Moment

 

Many people

Wait for night to come

Why am I so unconcerned

 

 

 

 

A Champion Martial Arts Fighter

 

Sits alone

Singing softly

A vaguely sad melody

 

 

 

 

New Day

 

I peel a calendar page

And write

All over the other side

 

 

 

 

Fishes

 

Resurface

Knowing the seasonal wind

Arrived last evening

 

 

 

 

Night Rain

 

Not wanting trees to dry

This morning’s sunlight

Is also wet

 

 

 

 

Waking Up in a Hurry

 

Sparrows on a tree

And I

Have fallen asleep

 

 

 

 

Apartment

 

A bird flaps its wings

Four or five neighbors

Open their doors to look

 

 

 

 

Lychee Season

 

Trees full of fruit

While walking I count

My steps

 

 

 

 

Stepping Calmly

 

In the rain

The road

Is in twilight

 

 

 

 

The Rain Has Stopped

 

Perennial peanut flowers

Around the temple tower of Po Nagar

Cannot open their eyes yet

 

 

 

 

A Flower Vendor’s Burden

 

The flower vendor wipes her sweat

Peonies

Bundled together with tulips

 

 

 

 

Painting the Cold

 

Rainwater

Flowing through beehives

Spills over a brick wall.

 

 

 

 

Industrial Era

 

A dragonfly sitting on top of a crane

In ten minutes

Lifts up three different loads of product

 

 

 

 

Confusing Me with a Grain of Sand

 

The wind

Grazes through

Several times

 

 

 

 

Young Birds

 

Expecting their mother

Leaves around the nest

Call her to them

 

 

 

 

Hearing Squabble From a Neighbor

 

I see young birds

Newly born

So pitiful


 

 

 

Reading a Book

 

Suddenly confused

I stare

At a road in the night

 

 

 

 

Journal Writing

 

Everyone is disappointed

So am I

Then speak

 

 

 

 

Near a Water Fountain

 

A pair of pigeons

Look at each other

For a very long time

 

 

 

 

Stone Bench

 

Old men deep in discussions

A sweeping woman respectfully

Invites them to another bench

 

 

 

 

Meeting an Old Friend

 

Conversation

Silence

A brook is still flowing steadily

 

 

 

 

Walking

 

A clump of ivory bamboo twists and turns

An old man passing by

Arms swinging briskly

 

 

 

 

Still Like a Child

 

I stand on my veranda

Waiting for the moon

To slice me the biggest part

 

 

 

 

Fish in Cages

 

Slippery
They dare not look
At people passing by

 

 

 

 

Small Street

 

A prevailing wind
Blows this way
And that way

 

 

 

 

A Tree and Its Shadow

 

Keep
Burying each other
Into the ground

 

 

 

 

Fuchsia Flowers

 

Hanging down
Cast its halo
Over me

 

 

 

 

Like the Sound of Breaking Crystals

 

Dropping a bunch of keys
Just that
Changed so many thoughts

 

 

 

 

A Happy Moment

 

Is when tearing
A calendar page

Becomes easier

 

 

 

 

New Sun

 

A pigeon flies
Leading the way
For a large cloud

 

 

 

 

Stepping on a Patch of Sunlight

 

I hold tight
Until
The yellow no longer moves

 

 

 

 

High Sun

 

A dragonfly departs
A bindweed flower
Keeps waving

 

 

 

 

Longan Flowers

 

Cling to a bee’s feet
Which drops pollen

To the ground

 

 

 

 

High Sky

 

A fish

Wiggles its tail
Up the water

 

 

 

 

Beautiful Day

 

My neighbor is away

A window high up
Left open

 

 

 

 

Humid Day

 

A photo blurs with moisture
I see my relatives
From another world

 

 

 

 

Yellow Moonlight

 

Spreads everywhere
It’s time
For me to go home

 

 

 

 

Sound of Wings Flapping

 

I drink my cup of water
Yet do not know the name of the bird
That just flew away

 

 

 

 

A White-Eye

 

Lands upon
The sunlight
The garden full of thorns

 

 

 

 

A Mindless Butterfly

 

Gets lost and flies into my room
I turn out the lights
Still it’s bright outside

 

 

 

 

Sparrows

 

In spring

Bathe
Even in places without water

 

 

 

 

Birds

 

Perching on the wires
Looking from afar
Like knots

 

 

 

 

Unrestrained

 

A bee flies across my door
Changing its socks quickly
And hits the road again

 

 

 

 

Flowerpecker

 

Short calls
Switching branches constantly
Perhaps its nest is near

 

 

 

 

A Strange Bird

 

Lands in the yard

Looking at me
We know each other in our past lives

 

 

 

 

A Pair of Birds

 

Perching on the same branch
Calling to each other
Until their voices go hoarse


 

 

 

 

Only Bird Calls

 

Can sow
Seeds
Into stones

 

 

 

 

Sound of Fish Thrashing

 

This morning
Regrettably
I don’t understand it all

 

 

 

 

Horse Painting

 

It gets more beautiful as I paint it
Suddenly I am afraid
It is turning into a real horse

 

 

 

 

Paper Fan

 

Its crane painting
When folded
Resembles a heap of ground meat

 

 

 

 

Ripened Fruit in the Garden

 

Not picking them
I watch the red-whiskered bulbul
Nibble a little while singing

 

 

 

 

Waiting Until I Leave the Garden

 

An orchid blossom

Emits its scent
To a bush of oxalis

 

 

 

 

After a Bath

 

My hair still wet

I lean onto a calla lily

To listen to April’s melody

 

 

 

 

Eating a Guava

 

I look at the sun
Nearing a rainbow
Then vanishing

 

 

 

 

A Honeydew

 

After it is washed
Water condenses
Into large drops

 

 

 

 

A Piece of Watermelon

 

Succulent and bright red
I can’t decide
Whether to bite from inside or outside

 

 

 

 

Eating a Peach

 

One bite at a time
As sunlight
Reflects bright red on the ceiling

 

 

 

 

Peeling a Potato

 

Afterwards
Both the potato and the knife
Are pretty

 

 

 

 

Drinking Tea

 

Until
Tea is one way
I another

 

 

 

 

Twilight

 

A cat misses its prey
The blade of an axe
Gets stuck in a log

 

 

 

 

The Sun About to Set

 

A fish

Swims

Close to where I sit

 

 

 

 

Colony of Bats

 

Swarming at sunset
In pairs
They fly through my dream

 

 

 

 

O, Insects

 

No more rattling please
On the sky
Stars have sprouted thickly

 

 

 

 

Waiting for a Mosquito Extinguisher

 

Several mosquitos
Are whirring
For the last time

 

 

 

 

Snoozing

 

Sunlight
Comes straight to me
Telling me to go elsewhere

 

 

 

 

Missing You

 

Moonlight
Falling on my body
Is heavy too

 

 

 

 

A Squirrel Among the Leaves

 

Looks at a woman
Eating an orange
And reapplying her lipstick

 

 

 

 

A Dream of Wine

 

I lay on my back
The mouth of a giant jar
Covering my face

 

 

 

 

Last Night’s Dream

 

Trees with sweet fruits
Always next to me
I just reach for them

 

 

 

 

Mother Teaching Baby How to Eat an Orange

 

Suck on each segment
Linger
Then swallow

 

 

 

 

Seeing

 

A hobbling cockroach
Crawling across the big yard
I don’t have the heart to kill it

 

 

 

 

A Snail

 

Tries to stick its tongue out
To cool off
All this earth

 

 

 

 

Holding the Body of a Cicada

 

So light
As though it
Has never existed

 

 

 

 

Watching Flies Flying

 

Chaotic
But not colliding with each other
Their commander must be nearby

 

 

 

 

Leaning  My Back on a Chair

 

Opening a newspaper
I find news
They have stemmed the flood

 

 

 

 

Falling Tree Shadow

 

Ripened fruits
Drop
And dissolve on the ground

 

 

 

 

In Colder Weather

 

Trees shrink
Young women
Drape themselves in a hurry

 

 

 

 

An Arcade of Interlocking Trees

 

Forms a cathedral
Their leaves fall
Into hell

 

 

 

 

A Spider Spinning Its Web

 

From a green persimmon
To
An over-ripened one

 

 

 

 

A Damselfly

 

Lands on a duckweed leaf
That floats to the sea
Still it does not fly away

 

 

 

 

A Mosquito

 

Trails a beggar all night
Is it the same one
Or another

 

 

 

 

Reading a Book

 

I hold it with both hands
Solemnly
Towards other objects

 

 

 

 

Extending a Phone Cable

 

Groping my way
To a clump near the village entrance
I get lost

 

 

 

 

Sunset

 

I go into the garden
To pick up
Ripened tomatoes

 

 

 

 

Roasting Peanuts in the Evening

 

As the peanuts churning in the pan
Pop
Stars appear slowly in the sky

 

 

 

 

Night Begins

 

At sunset
As a rat
Bursts across the road

 

 

 

 

Waiting for the Moon

 

As moon rises from the water surface
I feel assured
To fall asleep for a while

 

 

 

 

To Drive Away the Birds

 

Some people make
Then distribute
Scarecrows

 

 

 

 

The Moon

 

Shines
For the trees
And even for the worms

 

 

 

 

Wakened at Midnight

 

Grabbing a knife
I confuse it with a candle
Its flame so sharp

 

 

 

 

Hearing Something Drop in the Night

 

I wake up
The mountain’s shadow
Falls near my doorsteps

 

 

 

 

Listening in the Night

 

A bamboo grove twists and turns
Sounding like burning charcoal
Popping

 

 

 

 

A Bean

 

Is budding
Not seeing
The worm next to it

 

 

 

Conference Room Flowers

 

Still fresh
But they must be replaced

Because of another meeting

 

 

 

 

Reading a Good Book

 

With doors locked

I am startled when someone comes knocking

Then goes away

 

 

 

 

Swelling Knees

 

Hobbling to the window
I am anesthetized

By a white butterfly

 

 

 

Watching the Moon Rising

 

Trees grow glossy
I look for a warm glass of water

And drink it all

 

 

 

 

Harvesting Day

 

Carrying rice stalks burdened with grains
I dare not go fast
Fearing they might drop

 

 

 



Looking

 

A bird and I on top of a tower

Looking at each other

Two dots

 

 

 

 

The Areca Palm in Front of My House

 

Plunges down
Nailing the moonlight

To the garden

 

 

 

 

Water Still Flowing

 

Under the bridge
The river
Is cut into sections

 

 

 

 

A Buffalo

 

Is tied to the foot of a bamboo
All afternoon
Fighting with flies

 

 

 

 

Rural Wedding

 

With music turned up loud

Everybody talks
In inaudible voices

 

 

 

 

Crowded Market

 

Masks
Hung in rows
On a bamboo screen

 

 

 

 

A Speck Fleck of Dust Clinging on a Hat

 

Doesn’t know
It is brought to
A sumptuous reception

 

 

 

 

Next to a Writer’s Statue

 

A plate of burned out
Candles
Is broken

 

 

 

 

Bird Nest High Above

 

A young bird has just hatched
I remove my hat
Not knowing where to put it

 

 

 

 

Lychee Season

 

A first bunch of fruit has ripened
A woman
Uses her hand to tuck up her hair

 

 

 

 

Visiting My Father’s Grave in the Rain

 

It cleanses

My hands
So pure

 

 

 

 

Scooping Water up to My Face

 

Here
Near my father’s grave
The river flows all year long

 

 

 

 

Grave Visiting Festival

 

I burn incense
Still holding onto a handful of grass
Pulled from above the grave

 

 

 

 

Souls of the Dead Passing By

 

I hastily pull
A bunch of grass
To wipe the tomb with

 

 

 

 

My Father’s Death Anniversary

 

The river in front of my house
Flows
Quietly

 

 

 

 

In Tribute to the River

 

A goby
Rubs into the berm
As cool and fresh water flows by

 

 

 

 

Burning Incense for My Father

 

Five teacups

Four saucers

Father used the cup missing its saucer

 

 

 

 

A Gardenia

 

Has fallen next to my father’s grave
Perhaps early this morning
He gathered it

 

 

 

 

Visiting My Grandparents’ Graves

 

After burning incense for them
I lean back
On a neighboring grave

 

 

 

 

A Glass of Wine

 

As I burn incense for my father
I pour it on the ground

Making noises

 

 

 

 

Cemetery Trees

 

Shake
In all directions
With leaves young and old

 

 

 

 

At a Windy Place

 

As the ghost money just catches fire
A wind quickly snatches it
And carries it away

 

 

 

 

Sweeping Graves

 

After pulling grass
With no place to wash my hands
I clenched my fists all the way home

 

 

 

 

Anonymous Graves

 

Clouds passing by quickly
It seems
They have gone

 

 

 

 

Grave Visiting on a Sunny Day

 

Waiting until incense burns off
I fetch towels drenched with river water
And wring them over each grave

 

 

 

 

Homesick

 

Rain falls
On kitchen smoke

Fruits fall with no time to ripen

 

 

 

 

Strong Winds

 

Ghost money burns fast
Its ashes
Scattering all over the fields

 

 

 

 

Going to Visit Graves

 

Behind a small dog

From time to time

It lags behind

 

 

 

 

Walking Around a Grave

 

It’s like playing back
The short life cycle

Of the one who lies beneath

 

 

 

 

Going to the Country

 

Looking back at the city
As though a receding
Ship

 

 

 

 

The Forest Passage

 

Slippery path
The human loving soil
Sucks each of my toes

 

 

 

 

Water

 

Collects near the foot of a bridge
Then pours
Through the other side

 

 

 

 

Harvest

 

The wind blows on my feet
Everywhere I cut off
Rice stalks

 

 

 

 

On the Middle of the Bridge

 

As I wait
For yet another thunder
The river is still gushing

 

 

 

 

 

Picking a Grapefruit

 

Leaves
On the tree
Turn and look

 

 

 

 

In a Load of Firewood

 

A young leaf
Follows me
Home

 

 

 

 

Mother Cow Standing Still

 

A young calf turns its face up
Not a single drop of milk
Falls out

 

 

 

 

Picking up Tropical Almond Leaves

 

Purplish
This leaf color
Sometimes I dare not look

 

 

 

 

The Root

 

A dewdrop and I
Look at each other
Two siblings

 

 

 

 

A Dewdrop

 

Escapes the dark night
And hangs from the eaves
To let me see it

 

 

 

 

A Stake of Decayed Wood

 

Wears
Some dewdrops
A crown

 

 

 

 

Two Clouds

 

Dissolve into each other
High above
Then fall

 

 

 

 

In Unison

 

A munia calls
Shaking dewdrops
A thunder

 

 

 

 

Daybreak

 

A dewdrop
Falls from night
Into day

 

 

 

 

In Silence

 

You read a book
A flamingo searches for its prey
I am afraid that it flies away

 

 

 

A Pond Surface and a Kingfisher

 

Look at each other for so long
Sunlight rushes in
The space between them

 

 

 

 

In the Rain

 

Under the eaves
I serve the salt vendor
A cup of thick tea

 

 

 

 

The Lake Bed

 

Knows
Clouds
Cover it up

 

 

 

 

The Country Now

 

Birds
Do not fear scarecrows
I hang a white flag

 

 

 

 

Words of a River

 

Flowing silently for centuries
To live differently

You’d better listen

 

 

 

 

At a Glance

 

A ragged signboard
Nobody sees it off
The rain goes on

 

 

 

 

Autumn Has Passed

 

An earthworm
Just now
Emerges from earth

 

 

 

 

Busy Watching Flowers Along the Road

 

As I enter the shop
Someone asks
Where are you from

 

 

 

 

Washing My Face in the Dark

 

Hearing a timaliid singing
I feel my face
Getting cleaner

 

 

 

 

Another Day

 

Near daybreak
A dream
Grows paler

 

 

 

 

Being Grateful

 

A scarecrow stretches out his arms
To let the cold wind
Blow through

 

 

 

 

Northeast Wind

 

I lie flat on the field
Letting corn stalks
Poke through

 

 

 

 

A Young Calf

 

Is suckling
The mother cow stares at
Young grass

 

 

 

 

Light

 

Is grasping tightly
The trees

And I are budding

 

 

 

 

Birds Cuckooing

 

From afar
I think I am in
A large water jar

 

 

 

 

Winds

 

Blow stronger
A butterfly
Does not fly

 

 

 

 

The Monsoon Coming

 

Like a giant bird
Making wind on the ground
I touch its feathers

 

 

 

 

Writing a Poem Under the Moonlight

 

When done
Unable to make out its words
I start a new one

 

 

 

Driving Past Tree Shadows

 

The sun
Flashing on the windows
Like lamplight

 

 

 

 

Afternoon Sun

 

Through window railings
Divides the floor
Into uneven squares

 

 

 

 

Crossing a Bridge

 

I struggle
Holding on to the rails
A duck swims in the river below

 

 

 

 

Mountain Dwellers

 

In leisure time
They go out together
On the mountain top

 

 

 

 

Drinking Wine

 

In silence
I watch a dog
Not particularly sad or happy

 

 

 

 

Sounds of Meat Crushing

 

A big frog
Jumps out of a cave opening
Already taut

 

 

 

 

Butterflies Coupling

 

On a banana leaf
Underneath
Dew condenses into droplets

 

 

 

 

Murky Water

 

Recedes
Alluvium makes the field
Look like mirrors

 

 

 

 

Fall Crop Already Coming

 

At the edge of the field
Banners shout our commitment
To harvest the summer crop

 

 

 

 

Shrimp Catchers on the Fields

 

Dividing fish into a shallow area
One says
Let’s do it properly ashore

 

 

 

 

A Grass Cutter

 

Under heavy rain
Carries
Wet grass into the house

 

 

 

 

Done Cutting a Load of Grass

 

I go inside the communal house to dodge the rain
And see that all things
Are half finished

 

 

 

 

Little Boy by the Lake

 

Just as he holds up his flute
Water
Ripples

 

 

 

 

From a Murky Puddle

 

A crane flies away
Leaving
A strip of spotless white clouds

 

 

 

 

Passing by a Neighbor’s

 

Such a fat dog
In this poor village
He must come from someplace else

 

 

 

 

Two Women

 

While preparing wedding betel quids
They recount
The times of old when they got married

 

 

 

 

A Kid

 

Stops
To watch people kill a pig
Then goes

 

 

 

 

My Uncle

 

Lived private life
Now with Facebook
He takes pictures of anything

 

 

 

 

A Long Time Away From the Country

 

Picking lemon leaves in the garden
I have pulled an unripened fruit
And been sad ever since

 

 

 

 

Looking at a Fish

 

Jumping up
To snatch a loofah flower
I decide to change the bait I fish with

 

 

 

 

The Sun

 

Sneaking through a cloud
Cannot escape
An algae cluster in the pond

 

 

 

 

Sparse Fences

 

Moonlight
Overflowing the alley
Can go any way it likes

 

 

 

 

A Heap of Grass

 

Withers right after it’s cut
Things that we don’t see
Move too fast

 

 

 

 

 

Midsummer

 

A frog
Sits there for a long time
With cool earth under

 

 

 

 

 

Early Winds

 

Blow through leaves
My body
Is hot then cold

 

 

 

 

 

Lightning

 

In the night
I see a horse’s hoof
Stained with mud

 

 

 

 

Rainfall

 

I stir my coffee
Dark brown drops
Fall slowly

 

 

 

 

A Storm

 

I shut my doors tight
Rearrange my shelves
One book on top of another

 

 

 

 

A Rain Is Near

 

Steam
Following the birds
Flies here

 

 

 

 

Each Time the Wind Hurls

 

A canopy shakes itself up
Clean
And calm

 

 

 

 

During Lightning

 

In the yard
Next to a heap of firewood
I see the axe I forgot to store away

 

 

 

 

 

Thunder

 

Not touching a dewdrop yet
Has penetrated
A human heart

 

 

 

 

First Drops of Rain

 

A white rose
Trembles
Shaking off chains

 

 

 

 

It Rains

 

A bell is not wet
It wants to ring
And ring

 

 

 

 

Fuzzy Rain Shaft

 

Trees droop
Birdcalls faraway
I open my window

 

 

 

 

 

Heavy Rain

 

Disperses coolness equally
To the lake
And a wild fire

 

 

 

 

During a Rain

 

A twig of earth-orchid in my garden
Sticks its hand
Through a fence

 

 

 

 

A Rain Party

 

Water
Fills up to the base of grass stalks
Then recedes quickly

 

 

 

 

Buffalo Calf

 

First time seeing the rain
She turns her face up
And chews the drops

 

 

 

 

 

Doors Shut Tight

 

Still I hear clearly
The sounds of water
Escaping through a drain

 

 

 

 

Sound of a Bamboo Broom

 

I thought it was a crow’s call
Fitful
Close to the road surface

 

 

 

 

 

A Tree after Rain

 

Like a small dog
After a bath
It stands shaking off water

 

 

 

 

Waning Rain

 

Ever so slowly
Writing about a flood of moonlight
Light rising up on dark tree trunks

 

 

 

 

 

Ceremony

 

The rain
Washes a pile of firewood
The sun is coming up

 

 

 

 

Hesitation

 

It’s raining
Raining again
Let’s eat some more

 

 

 

 

 

Arriving at the Foot of Mount Yên Tử

 

With fog hovering all over the place
I search for someone
To ask for a way to heaven

 

 

 

 

Worshiping the Buddha on a Rainy Day

 

A patch of dried mud
So neat
On the shirt of the person in front of me

 

 

 

 

 

Roadside Stop

 

Flowers budding everywhere
I eat an egg
So creamy

 

 

 

 

 

Done Burning Incense

 

Silently I
Sit
Behind a Buddha’s statue

 

 

 

 

 

Stopping in the Pagoda

 

Having burned incense
For a while
The Buddha sits relaxed

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trapped Animal

 

Brought
Past the pagoda gate
It escapes

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stinking Pond

 

Overwhelms the scent of lotus
I
Look silently at the flowers

 

 

 

 

 

Spirit of Zen

 

A lotus
When nobody is around
Blooms

 

 

 

 

 

On the Way to the Pagoda

 

A transparent dewdrop
Hanging off one’s head
Nobody notices

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lotus Season

 

On land there is much grief
Lotuses in the lake
Are blooming despite all

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Falling Lotus Petals

 

The wind comes
Circling above the water
Without regrets

 

 

 

 

 

In the Fog

 

The sounds of a wooden bell
Make the river
Flow faster

 

 

 

 

 

Done Chanting

 

I notice a person next to me
With a face
Resembling the Buddha’s

 

 

 

 

 

High Sun

 

The pagoda’s gate has not opened
A lay brother stops sweeping the yard
And peeks through the arched door

 

 

 

 

 

Guarding My Bike at the Pagoda’s Gate

 

A bonze comes out calling
Do not worry
Just go in and worship Buddha

 

 

 

 

 

A Clear Brook

 

White pebbles
Castaway leaves
Are drifting

 

 

 

 

Long Way

 

Putting my shoes down orderly
I look for another place
To rest my feet

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sound of a Waterfall

 

If it only screams a little louder
It will envelop
Me

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Top of Mount Con Son

 

In an afternoon light breeze
Grabbing on tree twigs
White clouds flow away

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Climbing on a Cliff

 

I see an army of ants
Lining up
Going down a canyon

 

 



 

 

A Remote Location

 

On the edge of a stone
A tree
Has such a beautiful form

 

 

 

 

 

Inside a Large Bell

(For the poet Phạm Long Quận)

 

A bee flies
To the top
Then again to the bottom

 

 

 

 

 

A Lay Brother From a Poor Pagoda

 

Goes down the mountain to carry water for the plants
As he comes back to the pagoda yard
It rains

 

 

 

 

 

Pagoda on the Mountain

 

Children
Beat each other
To sneak under a low hanging bell

 

 

 

 

 

Pagoda Next to a River

 

Bells
Sound
Clearer

 

 

 

 

 

Just As

 

The bells sound off
I eat a piece of sweet potato
Crumbly and savory

 

 

 

 

 

Bells

 

Shake a bush of water wisteria
Immobile
Throughout Spring

 

 

 

 

 

A Cloud

 

Wraps itself around the bell tower
Bell sounds scatter
And scatter

 

 

 

 

 

A Couple

 

Kiss next to a bell
Without it sounding
The wind is already vibrating

 

 

 

 

 

Sitting Among Lotus Leaves

 

A toad
Sticks out its tongue
To lick the moon

 

 

 

 

 

A Water Strider

 

After rotating
On a lotus leaf
It sleeps after all

 

 

 

 

Sacred Place

 

Spare offerings
A fly flying by
Dares not land

 

 

 

 

A Mountain in the Fog

 

Is drifting
Winds
Are light

 

 

 

 

Mountain Climbing

 

I have brought an iced beer
As I reach the mountain top
Both of us sweat

 

 

 

 

 

Stones

 

A young tree
Buds from a mountain rift
Stones have soft insides

 

 

 

 

As the Mountain Stands There

 

It hears everything
Yet seems like
It knows nothing

 

 

 

 

 

Clear Brook

 

By a young woman’s feet
Pebbles
Are spotlessly white

 

 

 

 

Brook Side Dream

 

I retrieve a rotten wooden stick
Then a fresh wooden stick
Exactly alike

 

 

 

 

 

 

Looking Back at Yesterday’s Street Corner

 

Do newcomers know
That I am parting ways
With them

 

 

 

 

 

Sea Bed

 

Full of water
Waves leap up
To catch raindrops

 

 

 

 

 

Fishermen’s Wharf

 

Each boat making one link
Connected to each other
All are bobbing about

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting for a Wave

 

A girl jumps up
Perhaps thinking
It’s not onshore yet

 

 

 

 

On a Smooth Sand Bar

 

A woman
Quietly looks
Far away

 

 

 

 

Remote Beach

 

Waves erase footprints
A chair
Hunches onto a tree trunk

 

 

 

 

Seashore

 

Waves
Roll over and over
Where children have been playing

 

 

 

 

Silent Sea

 

A ship heads to the open sea
Sometimes swaying
Like there are waves

 

 

 

 

Sea Blending into Night

 

At the darkest place
One can
Walk on water

 

 

 

 

Vacant Sea

 

Dried fish hang in rows
I don’t know
Whether the sea has any fish left

 

 

 

 

 

House by the Sea

 

Is like
A cup of water
Put for a brief moment on a table

 

 

 

 

Deep Sea Diving

 

Back home boiling a pot of water
I pour it fast
Breaking my cup

 

 

 

 

A Beach Janitor

 

Panics
Fearful of waves arriving
Sooner

 

 

 

 

 

High Wind

 

Shakes and pulls
On flowers
With cores hard as steel

 

 

 

 

 

Seaside

 

I heat a pot of water
And wonder
Why it takes so long to boil

 

 

 

 

 

Night Closing In

 

Waves
Push light
Under my feet

 

 

 

 

 

In Front of a Marine Life Specimen

 

I stand speechless
Like having been dried stiff
For them to observe

 

 

 

Coastal

 

After each wave
A row of trees once again spurts out
Young leaves

 

 

 

 

 

Rain at Sea

 

Pours down
The water surface
Falling upended

 

 

 

 

 

Suddenly Awake

 

Hearing waves
I think someone is sleep talking
From another dream

 

 

 

 

A Child Staring at Sea

 

Perhaps the mother is soundly asleep
And dreaming of the sea
Along with her child

 

 

 

 

Drinking Tea by the Sea

 

With one more ice cube
The ocean is still warm
And rich with fish

 

 

 

 

Souls

 

Dried fish on a bamboo screen
Strong winds from higher up
Cannot disperse a cloud

 

 

 

 

End of the Road

 

I hit a cliff
A bird flying by
Fills in for me


 

 

 

 

Lifebuoys

 

Like a group of children
Holding each other’s hand
They emerge from water

 

 

 

 

Peaceful Sea

 

Looking far away
And breathing heavy
I think waves rise up from the shore

 

 

 

 

 

Trees on the Shore

 

Shaken by winds
The leaves don’t drop
The sea is wide

 

 

 

 

I Open My Door

 

And look
The waves are no longer crashing
Like before

 

 

 

 

Middle of Ha Long Bay

 

Seeing that sky and sea
Are one color
I eat the fruit in my pocket one by one

 

 

 

 

Passing by a Cemetery at Night

 

Like a calm sea
The waves sleep peacefully
Among graves

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting for Sunrise

 

A young woman
Stretches her legs out
On white sands

 

 

 

 

Sea Breeze

 

I hold my door open
To catch the breeze along with my furniture
Then close it

 

 

 

 

 

Rising Sun

 

Half asleep on the beach
I hear children footsteps
Approaching

 

 

 

 

Stuffy Summer

 

A woman turns on the faucet
She has not washed her hands yet
Her shirt is already wet

 

 

 

 

Time to Say Goodbye

 

The sun about to set
A flower
Droops down

 

 

 

Crowded Beach

 

I dive down
And meet a school of white anchovies
Swimming leisurely

 

 

 

 

 

Standing Inside a Waterfall

 

All my concerns wearing off
I see my core
My white shins

 

 

 

 

A Silver -Eared Mesia

 

Hovers close to the water surface
To where
Does the sea carry its image

 



 

 

Ebb Tide

 

Leaves sediments on the plain
The moon
Is cleaner

 

 

 

 

Hearing Funeral Clarinets

 

Lost among the waves
I suppose near the sea
There is only life

 

 

 

 

 

After the Rain

 

A young tree
From a stone crack
Reaches out towards the sea

 

 

 

 

Lighting Up for Squid Fishing

 

The murky light
Drills into the ocean
A deep hole

 

 

 

 

Flood Tide

 

The wind blows hard
The sky
Is closer to the water surface

 

 

 

 

Putting My Cheek on the Sands

This beach
Tomorrow
We come apart

 

 

 

 

Sunrise at Water Edge

 

I breathe deeply
And run in elation
On the sands

 

 

 

On the Seashore

 

Winds
Tear
Bird calls into shreds

 

 

 

 

Dumb Play

 

I stick a finger into my son’s mouth
He holds tight
It’s painful

 

 

 

 

Each Time There Is a Wave

 

A common teal flies up
Then lands
On the same place

 

 

 

 

Day of Rough Seas

 

A school of mackerel
Learns how to fly
On top of the waves

 

 

 

 

Dreaming

 

Of crossing the sea alone
I wake up
My pillow drenched in sweat

 

 

 

 

A Wave and a Reef

 

Wrestle each other
Like
Two children

 

 

 

 

Drinking Wine on the Seashore

 

The bigger the waves
The smaller the cup
I want to drink from

 

 

 

Solitary Promenade

 

Using the tips of my shoes
I throw sands
Forward

 

 

 

 

Biography of Nhat-Lang Le:

 

Nhat-Lang Le was born in 1969 in Saigon, emigrated with his family to France in 1983, and moved to the U.S. in 1985. He has a B.A. in Linguistics and Computer Science from the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA). Nhat-Lang Le worked for more than a decade as a software programmer, before switching careers to work as a news translator and editor for a Vietnamese media organization based in the Little Saigon area of Southern California. His poems and translations have appeared in the printed magazines Thế Kỷ 21Văn Học and Văn, and the literary e-zines Tiền Vệ (tienve.org) and Da Màu (damau.org). He has been on Da Mau’s editorial staff since 2007.

 

 

 

 

Biography of Susan Blanshard:

 

Susan Blanshard was born in Hampshire, England. She is an internationally acclaimed Poet, Essayist, and Best-selling Author. Susan has written more than 35 books. She has edited translations for 7 international volumes of poetry. Selected poetry and essays are published in The World’s Literary Magazine, Projected Letters, Six Bricks Press, Arabesque Magazine, Lotus International Women’s Magazine, ICORN International Cities of Refuge. PEN International Women Writers’ Magazine. PEN International Writers Committee The Fourth Anthology, Our Voice, Nuestra Voz, Notre Voix. Her literary essays The Pillow Book, Four Recipes, The Traveler, Orientation, published in Arts And Culture, Lotus International Magazine, Hanoi. Her collected poems Running the Deserts, Midnight Mojave were included in the Vaani 9.69 seconds, a collection of short stories and poems dedicated to the London Olympics 2012. Selected new poetry from Poems from the Alley, have been translated into Bengali to be included in three upcoming literary reviews. She has also published book-length poetic prose: Sheetstone: Memoir for a Lover, Sleeping with the Artist, Fragments of the Human Heart, Memoir of Love and Art: Honey in My Blood. Susan is member of PEN Interntional Womens Writers and a Foundation Member of Asian Pacific Writers APW. She lived in Hanoi for eight years and has written two non-fiction travel books on The Old Quarter of Hanoi. She is married to a visual artist and writer. They have two adult children. Susan resides near Sydney, Australia where she is currently completing a three book work of fiction.




Biography of Mai Văn Phấn:


Vietnamese poet Mai Văn Phấn was born 1955 in Ninh Bình, Red River Delta in North Vietnam. Currently, he is living and writing poems in Hải Phòng city. He has won several national literary awards of Vietnam. He has published 24 poetry books and 1 book "Critiques–Essays", 10 poetry books of those are published and released in foreign countries.

 

• “Giọt nắng” (“Drops of Sunlight”. Poetry book. Hải Phòng Union of Literature and Arts Associations, 1992);

• “Gọi xanh” (“Calling to the Blue”. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 1995);

• “Cầu nguyện ban mai” (“Prayers to Dawn”. Poetry book. Hải Phòng Publishing House, 1997);

• “Nghi lễ nhận tên” (“Ritual of Naming”. Poetry book. Hải Phòng Publishing House, 1999);

• “Người cùng thời” (“People of the Era”, Hải Phòng Publishing House, 1999);

• “Vách nước” (“Water Wall”. Poetry book. Hải Phòng Publishing House, 2003);

• “Hôm sau” (“The Day After”. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2009);

• “và đột nhiên gió thổi” (“and Suddenly the Wind Blows”. Poetry book. Literature Publishing House, 2009);

• “Bầu trời không mái che” (Vietnamese-only version of “Firmament Without Roof Cover". Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2010);

• “Thơ tuyển Mai Văn Phấn” (Mai Văn Phấn: Selected Poems - Essays and the Interviews, Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2011);

• “hoa giấu mặt” (“hidden-face Flower”. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2012);

• “Bầu trời không mái che / Firmament Without Roof Cover” (bilingual 2nd edition. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2012);

• “Vừa sinh ra ở đó” (“Just Born There”. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2013);

• “Những hạt giống của đêm và ngày / Seeds of Night and Day” (bilingual Vietnamese-English. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2013);

• “A Ciel Ouvert / Firmament Without Roof Cover” (bilingual Vietnamese-French. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2014);

• “Buông tay cho trời rạng / Out of the Dark” (bilingual Vietnamese-English. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2013);

• “Ra vườn chùa xem cắt cỏ / Grass Cutting in a Temple Garden” (bilingual Vietnamese-English. Poetry book. Page Addie Press of United Kingdom Australia, 2014);

• “Zanore në vesë / Vowels in The Dew” (Poetry book. BOTIMET M&B, Albania, 2014);

• “บุษบาซ่อนหน้า / hidden face flower / hoa giấu mặt” (Poetry book. Artist's House, Thailand, 2014);

• “Yên Tử Dağının Çiçeği” (“The Flower of Mount Yên Tử”. Poetry book. ŞİİRDEN YAYINCILIK, Turkey, 2015);

• "The Selected Poems of Mai Văn Phấn" (Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2015);

• “thả” (“Letting Go”. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2015);

• “आलाप प्रतिलाप” (“Echo of the Aalap”. Poetry book. Publishing House of Kritya, India, 2016);

• “Không gian khác” (“Another Dimension”. Critiques–Essays. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2016);

• “Два крыла / Đôi cánh” (“Two Wings”. Bilingual Vietnamese-Russian. Poetry book. “Нонпарелъ” – Publishing House of Мoscow, 2016);...

 

Poems of Mai Văn Phấn are translated into 22 languages, including: English, French, Russian, Spanish, German, Swedish, Albanian, Serbian, Turkish, Uzbek, Kazakh, Slovak, Rumanian, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese,  Hindi (India), Bengali (India), Korean, Indonesian, Thai, Nepalese.

 

Simultaneously on the book distribution network of Amazon, thecollections “Firmament Without Roof Cover”, “Seeds of Night and Day”, “Out Of The Dark”, “Grass Cutting in a Temple Garden”, “A Ciel Ouvert” waspublished and exclusively released in the USA, Canada, the UK, Australia and European countries by Page Addie Press of the UK.

 

December 2012, the English collection titled “Firmament without Roof Cover” became one of the 100 best-selling poetry books of Amazon.

 

June 2014, the three collections in Vietnamese and English titled “Ra vườn chùa xem cắt cỏ” (“Grass Cutting in a Temple Garden”) and “Những hạt giống của đêm và ngày / Seeds of Nights and Day” as well as his Vietnamese-French collection titled “Bầu trời không mái che” (“A Ciel Ouvert/ Firmament without Roof Cover”) were among the top ten of the 100 best-selling poetry collections from Asia on Amazon.

 

Poems of Mai Văn Phấn were introduced in newspapers and magazines of Sweden, New Zealand, the UK, the USA, Canada, Australia, India, Albania, Turkey, South Korea, Hongkong, Indonesia and Thailand, etc.



Poetry's Mai Văn Phấn on Amazon
















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Tập thơ THẢ, Nxb Hội Nhà văn 2015

















 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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