Dear all:
Modified from a song. The last two stanzas were all mine.
Wissai
I know a man, a good friend of mine
He spends all his time trying to make love work out right
But the woman he loves, she doesn't feel the same,
No, she doesn't
I don't know much about love but at least I learned one thing:
If it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go
Because when it doesn't come easy, there's no natural flow
Don't make it hard on your heart
You're better off alone
If it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go,
You'd better.
I know a woman, she's got a heart of gold
You know she'd do anything to make her man feel right at home
But the man she loves, now,
He's a restless kind of guy
I wish there was a way I could make her realize
That if it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go
Because when it doesn't come easy, there's no natural flow
If it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go, yeah
Let it go, though it's hard, I know
Let it loose, I'll tell you, it's no use
You'd surely wonder how the hell that I know so
I'm telling you I just do
After so many women just come and go
Into my life like they come to watch a show
About Michaelangelo
I am no artist, but this much I know:
Life ain't pretty if you ain't got no money
And you ain't got no real women
If all you do all day is to sit on your ass and write poetry
Roberto Wissai/NKBa'
December 30, 2011
__._,_.___
Friday, December 30, 2011
Year-End Meditations
I once told my High Priestess that it took more than at least three million U.S. dollars for me to find her. And she was worth it. She had a very biased (and high) opinion of herself. She didn't think she was fallible. I learned not to argue with her. Some blind people never learned to realize that they were blind. As the year of 2011 is drawing to a close, I have the following meditations:
1. Most humans are fucking no good. Education does not really make a damn difference to their character. All it does to accentuate their foibles and shortcomings, especially they have no grounding in philosophy and respect for truth and integrity like the Asshole and the Monkey I mentioned in various posts of mine.
2. The worst traits humans have are three: greed, anger, and mania. They all have to do with lack of moderation. Of those three, I have two. That's probably why greedy people turn me off. Yet these same people often righteously condemn me for being "cheap". I'm telling you, most humans are no fucking good. They are ready to condemn others and usually are easy on themselves. I look at their simian faces and I feel like putting them out of their misery.
3. With special homage to Chip Mosher, I have the following largely plagiarized words:
A few more short days, I'll turn sixty-three.
For more than thirty six years, I've been free,
Free of hunger and suppression.
But more than four million Vietnamese
Had to die so I could live with feelings of liberation.
A few weeks ago, they announced the war was over in Iraq
When the news reached me, my heart cracked
What a war! And for what?
Just like the wars in Korea and Vietnam,
All were for nothing.
I wonder what this once great country is coming to.
Useless ventures in order to serve the vultures.
The walking wounded and the living dead.
Souls maimed, humans turned animals.
Residual costs were in several trillion dollars lost,
All in the name of freedom and liberty,
But actually for the sake of making money
For the privileged few.
This adopted country of mine, sweet land of liberty,
Is now like Germany, after WW II, a nation of war criminals.
I have read the news today.
Oh boy, the war is over.
But how come no joy, no parties,
No dancing in the streets,
No parades of celebration,
No church bells clanging, banging ,
No people hugging one another.
Daily I look at the faces in the streets
And I realize I'm not in Garden of Eden,
But a cesspool of humanity,
Where Cain is chasing Abel,
Singing, I'm not my brother's keeper;
Don't you know I'm his killer
For he has what I want
And I envy who he is
4. Doesn't the fact I can't write anything these days without a shrill, strident tone suggests that I could not really shake free of the past? A friend of mine told me I had to get the past go if I wanted to be free. He was right, of course. But somehow I keep clinging to the past, my long lost country with all the noise, the dust, the music, the aroma of food wafting in the air, and the faces of young women I used to know. I don't think I suffer from a pathologization of sentiments. I think I just hang dear to the memories so I would know who I am.
5. I like the wilderness. I grew up in the tropics where the flora was abundant and verdant even during the dry season, where water and swamps and irrigation canals and ditches were everywhere, where there were bugs and birds flying around of all hours. Now I am discovering I like dry, arid lands. The few weeks ago, I camped in a national park near Las Vegas. I went for a walk on the first night. The night air was thick with an undefined odor of wilderness. The wind came down from the mountains and I felt its coolness. I saw the leaves on the some willow-like trees ripple in the wind. I smelled the pine and the scent of flowers. I looked up at the sky and thousands of twinkling stars and the full solitary shining moon. And I felt a kinship with the land, the air, and the sky. But moments like those are rare. These days I am laboring to put away my nagging desire to strike, to draw blood. With great efforts, I am writing. I write so the demon can be kept at bay.
6. As I said, I am not really a greedy man. I just want to make enough money to pay for food and shelter so I don't have to beg in order to survive. I never want to steal and cheat and lie and take away things, including money, in order to prove that I am smarter than my victims. I look at myself in the mirror have no reason to feel shame. Greed brings sufferings. I have seen that over and over again.
(to be continued)
1. Most humans are fucking no good. Education does not really make a damn difference to their character. All it does to accentuate their foibles and shortcomings, especially they have no grounding in philosophy and respect for truth and integrity like the Asshole and the Monkey I mentioned in various posts of mine.
2. The worst traits humans have are three: greed, anger, and mania. They all have to do with lack of moderation. Of those three, I have two. That's probably why greedy people turn me off. Yet these same people often righteously condemn me for being "cheap". I'm telling you, most humans are no fucking good. They are ready to condemn others and usually are easy on themselves. I look at their simian faces and I feel like putting them out of their misery.
3. With special homage to Chip Mosher, I have the following largely plagiarized words:
A few more short days, I'll turn sixty-three.
For more than thirty six years, I've been free,
Free of hunger and suppression.
But more than four million Vietnamese
Had to die so I could live with feelings of liberation.
A few weeks ago, they announced the war was over in Iraq
When the news reached me, my heart cracked
What a war! And for what?
Just like the wars in Korea and Vietnam,
All were for nothing.
I wonder what this once great country is coming to.
Useless ventures in order to serve the vultures.
The walking wounded and the living dead.
Souls maimed, humans turned animals.
Residual costs were in several trillion dollars lost,
All in the name of freedom and liberty,
But actually for the sake of making money
For the privileged few.
This adopted country of mine, sweet land of liberty,
Is now like Germany, after WW II, a nation of war criminals.
I have read the news today.
Oh boy, the war is over.
But how come no joy, no parties,
No dancing in the streets,
No parades of celebration,
No church bells clanging, banging ,
No people hugging one another.
Daily I look at the faces in the streets
And I realize I'm not in Garden of Eden,
But a cesspool of humanity,
Where Cain is chasing Abel,
Singing, I'm not my brother's keeper;
Don't you know I'm his killer
For he has what I want
And I envy who he is
4. Doesn't the fact I can't write anything these days without a shrill, strident tone suggests that I could not really shake free of the past? A friend of mine told me I had to get the past go if I wanted to be free. He was right, of course. But somehow I keep clinging to the past, my long lost country with all the noise, the dust, the music, the aroma of food wafting in the air, and the faces of young women I used to know. I don't think I suffer from a pathologization of sentiments. I think I just hang dear to the memories so I would know who I am.
5. I like the wilderness. I grew up in the tropics where the flora was abundant and verdant even during the dry season, where water and swamps and irrigation canals and ditches were everywhere, where there were bugs and birds flying around of all hours. Now I am discovering I like dry, arid lands. The few weeks ago, I camped in a national park near Las Vegas. I went for a walk on the first night. The night air was thick with an undefined odor of wilderness. The wind came down from the mountains and I felt its coolness. I saw the leaves on the some willow-like trees ripple in the wind. I smelled the pine and the scent of flowers. I looked up at the sky and thousands of twinkling stars and the full solitary shining moon. And I felt a kinship with the land, the air, and the sky. But moments like those are rare. These days I am laboring to put away my nagging desire to strike, to draw blood. With great efforts, I am writing. I write so the demon can be kept at bay.
6. As I said, I am not really a greedy man. I just want to make enough money to pay for food and shelter so I don't have to beg in order to survive. I never want to steal and cheat and lie and take away things, including money, in order to prove that I am smarter than my victims. I look at myself in the mirror have no reason to feel shame. Greed brings sufferings. I have seen that over and over again.
(to be continued)
Nỗi Lòng Tô Vũ
Dear all:
With a motley admixture of temerity, hubris, and humility,
I am laying out for all to see
The wondrous words of Bui Giang's poetry
I hope I have done some justice to BG.
If not, I won't cry for not having tried.
Most translated stanzas read like prose.
For that I plead guilty for having nothing better to propose.
I strongly urge you at this to try your hand
As Confucius once said, "you hear you forget, but if you do, you will understand."
Wissai/NKBa'
Nỗi Lòng Tô Vũ
Kỷ niệm một đoạn đời 15 năm chăn dê ở núi đồi Trung Việt Nam Ngãi Bình Phú
Đồi tăm tắp chạy về ôm chân núi
San sát đồi phủ phục quấn núi xanh
Chiều xuống rồi tơ lòng rộn ràng rối
Trời núi đồi ngây ngất nhảy dê nhanh
Thôi từ nay tha hồ em mặc sức
Nhảy múa tung sườn núi vút giòng khe
Thôi từ nay tha hồ em mặc sức
Vang vang lên đồi núi giọng be be
Những bận nào Trà Linh qua Đá Dừng Hòn Dựng
Dùi Chiêng về Phường Rạnh ngược Khe Rinh
Bao lần anh cùng chúng em lận đận
Bôn ba qua rú rậm luống rùng mình
Những bận nào Quế Sơn Rù Rì con suối ngược
Nước trôi nguồn nước lũ xuống phăng phăng
Những bận nào mịt mùng mưa gió ướt
Đẫm thân mình co rúm lạnh như băng
Em nhớ hay không? hồn hoa dại cỏ
Những ngậm ngùi đầu núi canh khuya
Vàng cao gót nai đầu truông hãi sợ
Gió cây rung trút lá mộng tan lìa
Nhưng từ nay Giáp Nam anh đóng trại
Cố định rồi - em khỏi ngại ngày đêm
Dưới nắng mưa tha phương du mục mãi
Cay đắng từng, bùi ngọt mặn mà thêm
Chiều hôm nay bên chó vàng chễm chện
Anh lặng nghe em bé hé bên sườn đồi
Khoanh mấy vòng tay anh thoăn thoắt bện
Vòng cho em từng chiếc sắp xong rồi
Chiều đã xuống em đà no nê chắc
Huýt tù và! em xúm xít lại anh đeo cho
Mỗi chúng em mỗi vòng mây mỗi sắc
Lại mau đây! to nhỏ cổ anh so
Này em Đen chiếc vòng vàng tươi lắm
Này em Vàng chiếc trắng há mờ đâu
Này em Trắng chiếc hồng càng lóng lánh
Này em Hoa Cà * hỡi! chiếc nâu
Ngẩng đầu lên! dê ơi anh thong thả
Đeo vòng vào em nghển cổ cong xinh
Ngẩng đầu lên! đây lòng anh vàng đá
Gửi gắm vào vòng mây nhuộm tơ duyên
Ngẩng đầu lên nhìn anh mờ mắt lệ
Từ lần đầu vòng ngọc tuổi hai mươi
Trao người em trăm năm lời ước thệ
Đây lần đầu cảm động nhất mà thôi **
Vòng em xong, vòng anh dành riêng chiếc
Dành riêng mình - Dê hỡi hiểu vì sao ?
Vì lòng anh luống âm thầm tha thiết
Gán đời mình trọn kiếp với Dê Sao
Nhìn anh đây các em Vàng Đen Trắng
Tía Hoa Cà lổ đổ thấu lòng chưa ?
Từ từ đưa chiếc vòng lên thủng thẳng
Anh từ từ đưa xuống cổ đong đưa
Và giờ đây một lời thề đã thốt
Nghìn thu sau đồi núi chứng cho ta
Cao lời ca bê hê em cùng thốt
Hòa cùng lời anh nghẹn nỗi thiết tha
Và giờ đây hoàng hôn mờ chĩu nặng
Bốn bề tràn lan bóng mịt mùng sa
Xếp hàng ngay nhanh lên hàng ngũ thẳng
Rập ràng về bế hế rập ràng ca
Bui Giang
A soliloquy of modern-day goat herder Tô Vũ
In memory of fifteen years of tending goats among the hills and mountains of Nam Ngãi Bình Phú, Central Vietnam
Rolling foothills rushed home and hugged the mountains tight,
So tight they are intertwined with the green mountains.
When late afternoons arrive, joys explode under the sky
And among the mountains and hills where the fleet-footed goats dance.
From now on, with abandon
You could dance on the mountain slopes and leap across bubbling brooks;
From now on, with merriment
Your voice would echo among the hills.
Remember the times we passed by Halted Rock, Installed Islet, Sacred Tea,
Striking Stick, went up the Noisy Brook on the way back to Canal Hamlet;
The times through the thickets we struggled
And tramped through thick beds of forests;
The times we went up the Murmuring Stream on the Cinnamon Mountain,
Trekked by the rushing waters of flooded creeks;
The times the blinding rains fell and the winds blew nonstop.
We huddled, shivered, and were cold as ice.
Do you remember? The lost souls of wild flowers and weeds
Grieving on the mountain top in the wee hours of the night,
The tall amber-colored horns of frightened deer,
The winds shaking free off the trees the leaves of blasted dreams.
But henceforth, I settle here in Southern Frontier.
Nights and day, you should no longer fear
The endless nomadic trekking under the sun and the rains,
The kind of life full of bitter and sweet pains.
This late afternoon, sitting by the golden-haired, smug-looking dog,
I listen to your bleatings on the hillside
While my fingers nimbly fashion
Collars for each of you out of vine.
The evening's drawing near, your stomachs must be full.
I blow the whistle and you all gather around me.
For each of you I'm going to place a color collar around your neck.
Come here quick! I'm taking your measure.
Here's the bright yellow collar for you, my little Blackie
For you, little Goldie, the white one no less bright
While the gleaming gold adorns my little White
And you, my adorable Purple, the brown one.
Lift your head, my dear, I'm leisurely placing
The collar around your lovely erect neck.
Lift your head high, in this vine collar infused with love
Went my precious gemstone heart.
Lift your head and look at my teary eyes
Ever since I placed the precious stone collar
On her as a token of my love when I was twenty years of age,
I have never been as moved as I am now
Your collars done, now it's my turn.
Do you, my dear, understand the reason why?
For I've silently vouched to devote myself
To you for the rest of my life.
Look at me, all of you, White, Goldie, Blackie,
And Purple, understand me now?
Slowly I am lifting the collar up high
And slowly placing it around my swaying neck.
So the oath has been uttered
And witnessed and honored for eternity
By mountains and hills, your lilting voice
Together with mine fused in heartfelt unison.
And now dusk is firmly in place;
Misty fog is spreading far and wide
You please assemble in right formation.
We are heading home while singing in undulation.
Very rough draft translation by Roberto Wissai/NKBa'
December 30, 2011
With a motley admixture of temerity, hubris, and humility,
I am laying out for all to see
The wondrous words of Bui Giang's poetry
I hope I have done some justice to BG.
If not, I won't cry for not having tried.
Most translated stanzas read like prose.
For that I plead guilty for having nothing better to propose.
I strongly urge you at this to try your hand
As Confucius once said, "you hear you forget, but if you do, you will understand."
Wissai/NKBa'
Nỗi Lòng Tô Vũ
Kỷ niệm một đoạn đời 15 năm chăn dê ở núi đồi Trung Việt Nam Ngãi Bình Phú
Đồi tăm tắp chạy về ôm chân núi
San sát đồi phủ phục quấn núi xanh
Chiều xuống rồi tơ lòng rộn ràng rối
Trời núi đồi ngây ngất nhảy dê nhanh
Thôi từ nay tha hồ em mặc sức
Nhảy múa tung sườn núi vút giòng khe
Thôi từ nay tha hồ em mặc sức
Vang vang lên đồi núi giọng be be
Những bận nào Trà Linh qua Đá Dừng Hòn Dựng
Dùi Chiêng về Phường Rạnh ngược Khe Rinh
Bao lần anh cùng chúng em lận đận
Bôn ba qua rú rậm luống rùng mình
Những bận nào Quế Sơn Rù Rì con suối ngược
Nước trôi nguồn nước lũ xuống phăng phăng
Những bận nào mịt mùng mưa gió ướt
Đẫm thân mình co rúm lạnh như băng
Em nhớ hay không? hồn hoa dại cỏ
Những ngậm ngùi đầu núi canh khuya
Vàng cao gót nai đầu truông hãi sợ
Gió cây rung trút lá mộng tan lìa
Nhưng từ nay Giáp Nam anh đóng trại
Cố định rồi - em khỏi ngại ngày đêm
Dưới nắng mưa tha phương du mục mãi
Cay đắng từng, bùi ngọt mặn mà thêm
Chiều hôm nay bên chó vàng chễm chện
Anh lặng nghe em bé hé bên sườn đồi
Khoanh mấy vòng tay anh thoăn thoắt bện
Vòng cho em từng chiếc sắp xong rồi
Chiều đã xuống em đà no nê chắc
Huýt tù và! em xúm xít lại anh đeo cho
Mỗi chúng em mỗi vòng mây mỗi sắc
Lại mau đây! to nhỏ cổ anh so
Này em Đen chiếc vòng vàng tươi lắm
Này em Vàng chiếc trắng há mờ đâu
Này em Trắng chiếc hồng càng lóng lánh
Này em Hoa Cà * hỡi! chiếc nâu
Ngẩng đầu lên! dê ơi anh thong thả
Đeo vòng vào em nghển cổ cong xinh
Ngẩng đầu lên! đây lòng anh vàng đá
Gửi gắm vào vòng mây nhuộm tơ duyên
Ngẩng đầu lên nhìn anh mờ mắt lệ
Từ lần đầu vòng ngọc tuổi hai mươi
Trao người em trăm năm lời ước thệ
Đây lần đầu cảm động nhất mà thôi **
Vòng em xong, vòng anh dành riêng chiếc
Dành riêng mình - Dê hỡi hiểu vì sao ?
Vì lòng anh luống âm thầm tha thiết
Gán đời mình trọn kiếp với Dê Sao
Nhìn anh đây các em Vàng Đen Trắng
Tía Hoa Cà lổ đổ thấu lòng chưa ?
Từ từ đưa chiếc vòng lên thủng thẳng
Anh từ từ đưa xuống cổ đong đưa
Và giờ đây một lời thề đã thốt
Nghìn thu sau đồi núi chứng cho ta
Cao lời ca bê hê em cùng thốt
Hòa cùng lời anh nghẹn nỗi thiết tha
Và giờ đây hoàng hôn mờ chĩu nặng
Bốn bề tràn lan bóng mịt mùng sa
Xếp hàng ngay nhanh lên hàng ngũ thẳng
Rập ràng về bế hế rập ràng ca
Bui Giang
A soliloquy of modern-day goat herder Tô Vũ
In memory of fifteen years of tending goats among the hills and mountains of Nam Ngãi Bình Phú, Central Vietnam
Rolling foothills rushed home and hugged the mountains tight,
So tight they are intertwined with the green mountains.
When late afternoons arrive, joys explode under the sky
And among the mountains and hills where the fleet-footed goats dance.
From now on, with abandon
You could dance on the mountain slopes and leap across bubbling brooks;
From now on, with merriment
Your voice would echo among the hills.
Remember the times we passed by Halted Rock, Installed Islet, Sacred Tea,
Striking Stick, went up the Noisy Brook on the way back to Canal Hamlet;
The times through the thickets we struggled
And tramped through thick beds of forests;
The times we went up the Murmuring Stream on the Cinnamon Mountain,
Trekked by the rushing waters of flooded creeks;
The times the blinding rains fell and the winds blew nonstop.
We huddled, shivered, and were cold as ice.
Do you remember? The lost souls of wild flowers and weeds
Grieving on the mountain top in the wee hours of the night,
The tall amber-colored horns of frightened deer,
The winds shaking free off the trees the leaves of blasted dreams.
But henceforth, I settle here in Southern Frontier.
Nights and day, you should no longer fear
The endless nomadic trekking under the sun and the rains,
The kind of life full of bitter and sweet pains.
This late afternoon, sitting by the golden-haired, smug-looking dog,
I listen to your bleatings on the hillside
While my fingers nimbly fashion
Collars for each of you out of vine.
The evening's drawing near, your stomachs must be full.
I blow the whistle and you all gather around me.
For each of you I'm going to place a color collar around your neck.
Come here quick! I'm taking your measure.
Here's the bright yellow collar for you, my little Blackie
For you, little Goldie, the white one no less bright
While the gleaming gold adorns my little White
And you, my adorable Purple, the brown one.
Lift your head, my dear, I'm leisurely placing
The collar around your lovely erect neck.
Lift your head high, in this vine collar infused with love
Went my precious gemstone heart.
Lift your head and look at my teary eyes
Ever since I placed the precious stone collar
On her as a token of my love when I was twenty years of age,
I have never been as moved as I am now
Your collars done, now it's my turn.
Do you, my dear, understand the reason why?
For I've silently vouched to devote myself
To you for the rest of my life.
Look at me, all of you, White, Goldie, Blackie,
And Purple, understand me now?
Slowly I am lifting the collar up high
And slowly placing it around my swaying neck.
So the oath has been uttered
And witnessed and honored for eternity
By mountains and hills, your lilting voice
Together with mine fused in heartfelt unison.
And now dusk is firmly in place;
Misty fog is spreading far and wide
You please assemble in right formation.
We are heading home while singing in undulation.
Very rough draft translation by Roberto Wissai/NKBa'
December 30, 2011
Translations
Ánh trăng mỏng quá không che nỗi
Những vẻ xanh xao của mặt hồ
Những nét buồn buồn tơ liễu rũ
Những lời năn nỉ của hư vô.
The moonlight is too faint to cover
The lake's pallidness
The willow's hanging sorrows
The cries of emptiness
The moonlight was too faint to lighten
The pale frailty of the lake
The drooping willow in melancholy
The pleading echoes from emptiness
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
That's a tough challenge. Poetry goes with culture, translating it from one language to another will filter out the uniqueness of that culture, rendering the poem into nothing.
To me I think he meant the softness moon light using the word thin. The meaning of softness here is used in its opposite sense, meaning too "bright" so all the lake, willow branches, can not be hidden.
Here is my translation, don't laugh.
Soft, feeble moon light
too weak even to hide
paleness of gloomy lake,
in misery hang willow branches,
from emptiness, its silent wail.
Những vẻ xanh xao của mặt hồ
Những nét buồn buồn tơ liễu rũ
Những lời năn nỉ của hư vô.
The moonlight is too faint to cover
The lake's pallidness
The willow's hanging sorrows
The cries of emptiness
The moonlight was too faint to lighten
The pale frailty of the lake
The drooping willow in melancholy
The pleading echoes from emptiness
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
That's a tough challenge. Poetry goes with culture, translating it from one language to another will filter out the uniqueness of that culture, rendering the poem into nothing.
To me I think he meant the softness moon light using the word thin. The meaning of softness here is used in its opposite sense, meaning too "bright" so all the lake, willow branches, can not be hidden.
Here is my translation, don't laugh.
Soft, feeble moon light
too weak even to hide
paleness of gloomy lake,
in misery hang willow branches,
from emptiness, its silent wail.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Assholes
Though I am not a physiologist, I know a lot about assholes. My knowledge about them increased with leaps and bounds over the Christmas Day. A pompous, bumptious, ignorant, self-impressed pontificating asshole intimated that I was trying to ride the coattails of the crazed, but talented poet Bui Giang to fame despite my lack of comprehension of the poet's works. What a croak of shit the asshole proved himself to me. He went on accusing me of being deficient in both Vietnamese and English when he proved in his bumbling, babbling, sputtering, stammering, stuttering prose in Vietnamese and English that he was a fucked-up, ignorant, short, ugly peasant who often didn't know what the fuck that he was pontificating about. Luckily for him, he didn't profess that he could write poetry as the Monkey asserted, otherwise I would pillory him in the public square of the capital where the shameless liar resided.
Then at the other end of the spectrum of gender, there was a vixen who was denounced by me on the early morning of Christmas morning as the incarnation of stingy, calculating, cheap tawdriness. The bitch had long held a despairing, futulitarian, desperate, yet vainly illusional crush on me. I did nothing to encourage her. I was merely polite and courteous as she was my landlady. I rented a condo from her. Because of her affection for me, she let me stay in there with a reduced rent. To trade off, I had to endure long phone calls from her about just everything under the sun. I moved out of the condo on Christmas when I was told by a mutual friend that the landlady bitch had been telling peoole that I was trying to seduce her with my physique, but she was holding out because she thought I was not physically endowed enough. Have you ever heard of such a filthy nonsense and absurdity in your life? Women are crazy, let me tell you, especially if they think they have a hook into you. I was fooled enough in my life. I now know better.
Anyway, yesterday something very odd and moving happened to me. That is making me revise my thinking about chance, fate, and spirituality. Before I go into that wondrous experience, let me preface that I always had a vain, deep, dark, secret inkling and intuition that I was a rare man, possessing some rare gifts of clairvoyance and extrasensory perceptions that allowed me to milk and plumb some well of subconscious. My explorations of poetry via he medium of a foreign language reflect this fascination of mine about language acquisition and the question if a borrowed, non-native tongue is adequate in understanding and trasmitting beauty and truth. Back to the moving experience that I had of yesterday. I took my little harem out to lunch. We had a good time. After the lunch, we stopped at the little snack shop for desserts, where we slurped and stuffed ourselves with Viet delicacies. We were as high as kites by the time we staggered out of that paradise of sweets. I herded my aficionadas into my Toyota Sienna and headed back to my headquarters. I always took the interstate route because it was faster and thus more to my liking. But yesterday, I took the long way back home because inexplicably I failed to change into the right lane to get into the interstate. Not only that, I got into the far left lane so I could turn left once I passed the overpass bridge. As I got to the overpass bridge, I had a blowout on my front right tire. Luckily for us, I was not even driving fast as I customarily would and the van didn't flip or veer into the adjacent lane. I screamed for my High Priestess who was sitting up front to push the emergency signal light on. She was hysterical and could not even find it meanwhile I was struggling to bring the van under control while bracing for a possible rear-end collision. Because the traffic was relatively light on account of the holidays, nobody hit us. I didn't tell anybody about, except the High Priestess, the blow-out after we got back. She was deathly pale after learning of the news. She immediately went to the altar and prayed earnestly for solid ten minutes. Up until that moment, I had held prayers and similar acts of entreaties as exercises in self-deception, but listening to her emotional and moving expressions of gratitude for divine intervention, I had a sudden illuminarion that heartfelt prayers were gestures of uplifting and transcending communication, ostensibly with God, but actually inspirational dialogues with ourselves. Ever since that experience, I have been less judgmental of praying. In fact, I have been into meditation cum praying myself, with intense feelings of gratitude of being alive for not taking the interstate on that particular day.
The point of all these ostensible openings of my heart was not really to brag about myself or to blast the assholes because bragging about myself and blasting assholes don't really solve anything. I am here. I write. In writing, I may get in touch with something grander than myself because when I write, I understand more of the human heart, especially my own. I have to live my life my own way because surely I will die my own death. And I do know this: the assholes had better pray that I don't really mad because if I do, they will be really sorry for having the stupidity to bait and to denigrate me with no cause than other than their colossal ignorance and envy. I am on a mission to fuck up their lives, given a slightest opportunity. The assholes don't really know me.
(to be continued)
Then at the other end of the spectrum of gender, there was a vixen who was denounced by me on the early morning of Christmas morning as the incarnation of stingy, calculating, cheap tawdriness. The bitch had long held a despairing, futulitarian, desperate, yet vainly illusional crush on me. I did nothing to encourage her. I was merely polite and courteous as she was my landlady. I rented a condo from her. Because of her affection for me, she let me stay in there with a reduced rent. To trade off, I had to endure long phone calls from her about just everything under the sun. I moved out of the condo on Christmas when I was told by a mutual friend that the landlady bitch had been telling peoole that I was trying to seduce her with my physique, but she was holding out because she thought I was not physically endowed enough. Have you ever heard of such a filthy nonsense and absurdity in your life? Women are crazy, let me tell you, especially if they think they have a hook into you. I was fooled enough in my life. I now know better.
Anyway, yesterday something very odd and moving happened to me. That is making me revise my thinking about chance, fate, and spirituality. Before I go into that wondrous experience, let me preface that I always had a vain, deep, dark, secret inkling and intuition that I was a rare man, possessing some rare gifts of clairvoyance and extrasensory perceptions that allowed me to milk and plumb some well of subconscious. My explorations of poetry via he medium of a foreign language reflect this fascination of mine about language acquisition and the question if a borrowed, non-native tongue is adequate in understanding and trasmitting beauty and truth. Back to the moving experience that I had of yesterday. I took my little harem out to lunch. We had a good time. After the lunch, we stopped at the little snack shop for desserts, where we slurped and stuffed ourselves with Viet delicacies. We were as high as kites by the time we staggered out of that paradise of sweets. I herded my aficionadas into my Toyota Sienna and headed back to my headquarters. I always took the interstate route because it was faster and thus more to my liking. But yesterday, I took the long way back home because inexplicably I failed to change into the right lane to get into the interstate. Not only that, I got into the far left lane so I could turn left once I passed the overpass bridge. As I got to the overpass bridge, I had a blowout on my front right tire. Luckily for us, I was not even driving fast as I customarily would and the van didn't flip or veer into the adjacent lane. I screamed for my High Priestess who was sitting up front to push the emergency signal light on. She was hysterical and could not even find it meanwhile I was struggling to bring the van under control while bracing for a possible rear-end collision. Because the traffic was relatively light on account of the holidays, nobody hit us. I didn't tell anybody about, except the High Priestess, the blow-out after we got back. She was deathly pale after learning of the news. She immediately went to the altar and prayed earnestly for solid ten minutes. Up until that moment, I had held prayers and similar acts of entreaties as exercises in self-deception, but listening to her emotional and moving expressions of gratitude for divine intervention, I had a sudden illuminarion that heartfelt prayers were gestures of uplifting and transcending communication, ostensibly with God, but actually inspirational dialogues with ourselves. Ever since that experience, I have been less judgmental of praying. In fact, I have been into meditation cum praying myself, with intense feelings of gratitude of being alive for not taking the interstate on that particular day.
The point of all these ostensible openings of my heart was not really to brag about myself or to blast the assholes because bragging about myself and blasting assholes don't really solve anything. I am here. I write. In writing, I may get in touch with something grander than myself because when I write, I understand more of the human heart, especially my own. I have to live my life my own way because surely I will die my own death. And I do know this: the assholes had better pray that I don't really mad because if I do, they will be really sorry for having the stupidity to bait and to denigrate me with no cause than other than their colossal ignorance and envy. I am on a mission to fuck up their lives, given a slightest opportunity. The assholes don't really know me.
(to be continued)
Monday, December 26, 2011
Social graces
On a Christmas Day of this year, I knocked on the door of my psychotherapist's house, demanding that he see me, even though I didn't call ahead of time, and he already had company over for the dinner. He took one long look at me and said, "This had better be good, Roberto. You have an hour." I've seen Dr. Hammer on and off for ten years now. I'm reasonably sure that I helped pay for the fancy black Porsche he's driving. From the outset, he diagnosed my persistent flare-ups of depression as “Lack of awareness of self-impact" and “Diminished expression of ordinary social graces" after running me through a battery of questionnaires and puzzles and two weeks of probing questions. He didn't identify homicidal tendencies. I didn't tell him. He failed to ask me. The tests didn't reveal any.
On the way to his house, my mind was plagued with a question if and when the bodies would be found. I was not calm, cool, and collected in the aftermath as I had expected. I had an irresistible urge to see Hammer. He led me to his study after telling his dinner guests that he would be back after an hour. They looked at me with a barely concealed disgust and annoyance. I glared back. He closed the door, asked me to sit down and inquired if I needed a glass of water or something. I replied that a glass of water would be indeed appreciated.
He came back with two glasses, one for each of us, leaned back in his chair, and said, "What was wrong?"
And I told him, slowly, clinically, with all details I could remember. I could tell he was trying to remain impassive and professional, but flashes of anxiety and anger appeared on his intelligent, though lined face. After I was through, he asked me, "What do you expect me to do now?", instead of "Why? Why? Roberto! My goodness! What the fuck did you put yourself to?" as I had expected.
-I really don't know, Joshua (he and I were on first name basis. Hammer did care about me, despite his name and his ethnic background).
-You came here in full view of my friends. They must have guessed you were a patient of mine. And if the police know you were here, it would be hard for me to tell them that no, you never talked anything about two persons you had sent an exit tickets on Christmas Eve. I might be accused of hiding from them crucial information, even of aiding and abetting a criminal.
-But I won't tell them. I won't.
-You would just tell them that you were here on a social visit, that you missed your shrink, that you had nobody to talk to on a Christmas Day?
-Improbable, but not implausible reasons.
-Roberto, all these years I never thought you were capable of such stupid, useless act. You must have known killing in anger, and not in defense, didn't solve anything.
-Joshua, I did know that. But when I saw his piggy face, and the smug, arrogant expression on it, I flipped out.
-But why his wife also? Why her?
-She screamed and screamed. I couldn't stand the noise.
-Roberto, here is my advice. Run. Liquidate your assets fast. Change your identity. Change your appearance. Don't say anything to anybody. Don't confess. Deny everything. And hope they couldn't find you. Hope you will finally change for the better. Use your mind. Put it to good use. Go to Las Vegas or some big city where transients would not attract attention. Do let me know how you turn out, but be discreet. Don't get me into trouble. Now get the fuck out of here. Drive carefully. Be easy on the booze. Good luck to you.
On the way to his house, my mind was plagued with a question if and when the bodies would be found. I was not calm, cool, and collected in the aftermath as I had expected. I had an irresistible urge to see Hammer. He led me to his study after telling his dinner guests that he would be back after an hour. They looked at me with a barely concealed disgust and annoyance. I glared back. He closed the door, asked me to sit down and inquired if I needed a glass of water or something. I replied that a glass of water would be indeed appreciated.
He came back with two glasses, one for each of us, leaned back in his chair, and said, "What was wrong?"
And I told him, slowly, clinically, with all details I could remember. I could tell he was trying to remain impassive and professional, but flashes of anxiety and anger appeared on his intelligent, though lined face. After I was through, he asked me, "What do you expect me to do now?", instead of "Why? Why? Roberto! My goodness! What the fuck did you put yourself to?" as I had expected.
-I really don't know, Joshua (he and I were on first name basis. Hammer did care about me, despite his name and his ethnic background).
-You came here in full view of my friends. They must have guessed you were a patient of mine. And if the police know you were here, it would be hard for me to tell them that no, you never talked anything about two persons you had sent an exit tickets on Christmas Eve. I might be accused of hiding from them crucial information, even of aiding and abetting a criminal.
-But I won't tell them. I won't.
-You would just tell them that you were here on a social visit, that you missed your shrink, that you had nobody to talk to on a Christmas Day?
-Improbable, but not implausible reasons.
-Roberto, all these years I never thought you were capable of such stupid, useless act. You must have known killing in anger, and not in defense, didn't solve anything.
-Joshua, I did know that. But when I saw his piggy face, and the smug, arrogant expression on it, I flipped out.
-But why his wife also? Why her?
-She screamed and screamed. I couldn't stand the noise.
-Roberto, here is my advice. Run. Liquidate your assets fast. Change your identity. Change your appearance. Don't say anything to anybody. Don't confess. Deny everything. And hope they couldn't find you. Hope you will finally change for the better. Use your mind. Put it to good use. Go to Las Vegas or some big city where transients would not attract attention. Do let me know how you turn out, but be discreet. Don't get me into trouble. Now get the fuck out of here. Drive carefully. Be easy on the booze. Good luck to you.
Bao giờ
Bao giờ
Bằng bút chì đen
Tôi chép bài thơ
Trên tường vôi trắng
Bằng bút chì trắng
Tôi chép bài thơ
Trên lá lục hồng
Bằng cục than hồng
Tôi đốt bài thơ
Từng phút từng giờ
Tôi cười tôi khóc bâng quơ
Người nghe người khóc có ngờ chi không
Bui Giang
If she ever wondered
With a black pencil
I copied the poem
On the white- washed wall
With a white pencil
I copied the poem
On the rosy green leaf
With a piece of red-hot charcoal
I burned the poem
Every minute on the hour
I laughed and I cried
Apparently with no reason
She heard me cry
But did she ever wonder why
Rough translation by Wissai
December 23, 2011
Bằng bút chì đen
Tôi chép bài thơ
Trên tường vôi trắng
Bằng bút chì trắng
Tôi chép bài thơ
Trên lá lục hồng
Bằng cục than hồng
Tôi đốt bài thơ
Từng phút từng giờ
Tôi cười tôi khóc bâng quơ
Người nghe người khóc có ngờ chi không
Bui Giang
If she ever wondered
With a black pencil
I copied the poem
On the white- washed wall
With a white pencil
I copied the poem
On the rosy green leaf
With a piece of red-hot charcoal
I burned the poem
Every minute on the hour
I laughed and I cried
Apparently with no reason
She heard me cry
But did she ever wonder why
Rough translation by Wissai
December 23, 2011
Áo xanh
Áo xanh
mù sương, xuống mù sương
Bước xa bờ cỏ xa đường thương yêu
Tuổi thơ em có buồn nhiều
Thì xin cứ để bóng chiều đi qua
Biển dâu sực tỉnh giang hà
Còn sơ nguyên mộng sau tà áo xanh
Bui Giang
Green-Colored Blouse
Misty dews are getting together.
The farther you stay off the grassy path,
The more removed you are from the way to love.
If your youth is filled with melancholy,
don't let the evenings linger.
Things come and go,
But my reveries about your blouse of the green color
Stay forever
Draft translation
Wissai
December 23, 2011
mù sương, xuống mù sương
Bước xa bờ cỏ xa đường thương yêu
Tuổi thơ em có buồn nhiều
Thì xin cứ để bóng chiều đi qua
Biển dâu sực tỉnh giang hà
Còn sơ nguyên mộng sau tà áo xanh
Bui Giang
Green-Colored Blouse
Misty dews are getting together.
The farther you stay off the grassy path,
The more removed you are from the way to love.
If your youth is filled with melancholy,
don't let the evenings linger.
Things come and go,
But my reveries about your blouse of the green color
Stay forever
Draft translation
Wissai
December 23, 2011
Người con gái mặc quần
Người con gái mặc quần
Người con gái hôm nay mặc quần đỏ
vì hôm qua đã mặc chiếc quần đen
đen và đỏ là hai màu rồi đó
cũng như đời, đường hai nẻo xuống lên
Người con gái hôm nay mặc quần trắng
vì hôm qua đã mặc chiếc quần hồng
hồng và trắng là hai màu bẽn lẽn
cũng như núi và rừng đều rất mực chênh vênh
Người con gái hôm nay mặc quần tím
vì hôm qua đã mặc chiếc quần vàng
vàng và tím là hai màu mỉm miệng
mím môi cười và chúm chím nhe răng
Người con gái hôm nay mặc quần rách
vì hôm qua đã mặc chiếc quần lành
lành và rách đều vô cùng trong sạch
bởi vì là lành rách cũng long lanh
Bui Giang
The pants she put on
Today she put on a pair of red pants
For yesterday her pants were black
Red and black, the colors of contrasts,
Like life itself, up and down
Today she put on a pair of white pants
For yesterday her pants were pink
Pink and white were colors of shyness,
Like mountains and their tottering forests are rarely apart
Today she put on a pair of purple pants
For yesterday her pants were yellow
Yellow and purple ưere colors of imperceptible smiles,
Lips spreading and teeth barely showing
Today she put on a pair of torn pants
For yesterday her pants were in good shape
Torn or not, her pants were clean
And she looked resplendent in either pants
Draft translation
Wissai
December 23, 2011
Người con gái hôm nay mặc quần đỏ
vì hôm qua đã mặc chiếc quần đen
đen và đỏ là hai màu rồi đó
cũng như đời, đường hai nẻo xuống lên
Người con gái hôm nay mặc quần trắng
vì hôm qua đã mặc chiếc quần hồng
hồng và trắng là hai màu bẽn lẽn
cũng như núi và rừng đều rất mực chênh vênh
Người con gái hôm nay mặc quần tím
vì hôm qua đã mặc chiếc quần vàng
vàng và tím là hai màu mỉm miệng
mím môi cười và chúm chím nhe răng
Người con gái hôm nay mặc quần rách
vì hôm qua đã mặc chiếc quần lành
lành và rách đều vô cùng trong sạch
bởi vì là lành rách cũng long lanh
Bui Giang
The pants she put on
Today she put on a pair of red pants
For yesterday her pants were black
Red and black, the colors of contrasts,
Like life itself, up and down
Today she put on a pair of white pants
For yesterday her pants were pink
Pink and white were colors of shyness,
Like mountains and their tottering forests are rarely apart
Today she put on a pair of purple pants
For yesterday her pants were yellow
Yellow and purple ưere colors of imperceptible smiles,
Lips spreading and teeth barely showing
Today she put on a pair of torn pants
For yesterday her pants were in good shape
Torn or not, her pants were clean
And she looked resplendent in either pants
Draft translation
Wissai
December 23, 2011
Phung Hien
Phụng Hiến
Con có nghĩ: ắt là phải thế
Một đôi lần con ghì siết hai tay
Nàng thơ đẹp của trần gian ứa lệ
Bảo con rằng: hãy nhớ lấy phút giây
B.G.
Ngày sẽ hết tôi sẽ không trở lại
Tôi sẽ đi và chưa biết đi đâu
Tôi sẽ tiếc thương trần gian mãi mãi
Vì nơi đây tôi sống đủ vui sầu
Cây và cối bầu trời và mặt đất
Đã nhìn tôi dưới sương sớm trăng khuya
Mở buồng phổi đón gió bay bát ngát
Dừng bên sông bến cát buổi chia lìa
Hoàng hôn xuống, bình minh lên nhịp nhịp
Ngàn sao xanh lùi bước trước vừng hồng
Ngày rực rỡ đêm êm đềm kế tiếp
Đón chào tôi chung cười khóc bao lần
Tôi đã gửi hồn tôi biết mấy bận
Cho mây xa cho tơ liễu ở gần
Tôi đã đặt trong bàn tay vạn vật
Quả tim mình nóng hối những chờ mong
Sông trắng quá bảo lòng tôi mở cửa
Trăng vàng sao giục cánh mộng tung ngần
Gió thổi dậy lùa mơ vào bốn phía
Ba phương trời chung gục khóc đêm giông
Những giòng lệ tuôn mấy lần khắc khoải
Những nụ cười tròn mấy bận hân hoan
Những ngoảnh mặt im lìm trong ái ngại
Những bắt tay xao động với muôn vàn
Những người bạn xem tôi như ruột thịt
Những người em dâng hết dạ cho tôi
Những người bạn xem tôi là cà gật
Những người em không vẹn nghĩa mất rồi
Trần gian hỡi! Tôi đã về đây sống
Tôi đã tìm đâu ý nghĩa lầm than
Tôi ngẩng mặt ngó ngàn mây cao rộng
Tôi cúi đầu nhìn mặt đất thắp đen
Tôi chấp thuận trăm lần trong thổn thức
Tôi bàng hoàng hốt hoảng những đêm đêm
Tôi xin chịu cuồng si để sáng suốt
Tôi đui mù cho thoả dạ yêu em
Tôi tự nguyện sẽ một lần chung thuỷ
Qua những lần buồn tủi giữa đảo điên
Thân xương máu đã đành là uỷ mị
Thì xin em cùng lên thác xuống ghềnh
Em đứng mũi anh chịu sào có vững
Bàn tay bưng đĩa muối có chấm gừng
Tôi đã nguyện yêu trần gian nguyên vẹn
Hết tâm hồn và hết cả da xương
Xin yêu mãi yêu và yêu nhau mãi
Trần gian ôi! cánh bướm cánh chuồn chuồn
Con kiến bé cùng hoa hoang cỏ dại
Con vi trùng cùng sâu bọ cũng yêu luôn
Còn ở lại một ngày còn yêu mãi
Còn một đêm còn thở dưới trăng sao
Thì cánh mộng còn tung lên không ngại
Níu trời xanh tay với kiễng chân cao
Nhưng em hỡi trần gian ôi ta biết
Sẽ rồi ra vĩnh biệt với ngươi thôi
Ta chết lặng bó tay đầu lắc
Đài xiêu ôi xuân sắp rụng mất rồi
Đêm ứa lệ phồng mi hai mắt
Bàn tay ta nhỏ như lá cây khô
Mình hoa rã đầm đìa sương theo móc
Đỡ làm sao những cánh tiếp nhau rơi
Ta gửi lại đây những lời ảo não
Những lời yêu thương phụng hiến cho em
Rồi ta gục đầu trên trang giấy hão
Em bảo rằng:
- Đừng tuyệt vọng nghe không
Còn trang thơ thắm lại với trời hồng.
Bui Giang
Offerings:
I once thought: it must be so
Twice I squeezed her hands tight
The Muse's tears welled up in her eyes
She told me: remember this encounter
BG
The day will come and I won't be back
But I don't know where I'll go
I will forever miss this world
Where I've tasted both joys and sorrows
The trees, the sky, and the land
Have beheld me to take in the fresh air in the moonlight
In the wee hours of the misty morn,
And to bid farewell by the sandy riverside
The sun has gone down and the sun has risen
Rosy dawn has appeared and stars have beaten their retreat
Glorious days and gentle nights have taken their turns
In laughing and crying with me so many times
Occasionally I've sent my soul on a journey
To the distant clouds and the nearby willow tree
I've placed my steaming longing heart
In the hands of countless sentient beings
The gleaming river has urged me to open myself
The moon and the stars have hurried me to let my wings fly
The swirling winds have dispersed my dreams to four corners
Where rains fell down like midnight tears
At various times, the streams of tears have coursed in agony
The broad smiles have expanded into open elation
The silent turning asides of faces steeped in anxiety
The endless noisy shaking of hands
The friends who have considered me as their kinsman
And those who've been steadfastly devoted to me
The friends who have treated me as a buffoon
And those who didn't know the meaning of loyalty
Please hear me out! I came back in order to live
But I didn't understand the meaning of suffering
I looked at thousands of clouds in the sky up high
And at the dark ground down below
Over hundred times I sobbingly gave up
And I was in stunned panic night after night
I was willing to embrace madness in order to see
Just to love you, I didn't mind to go blind
I pledge to be faithful just once
In going through distressing sorrows
As the flesh is heir to all things sentimental
Please go with me through life's rapids and waterfalls
You and I together will steer through all obstacles
I'm offering you all my devotion:
I'm going to love you and this world
With all my body and soul
Please love forever and forever love one another
The butterflies and all the dragonflies in this world
The little ants, the weeds, the flowers,
The germs, the insects, and the worms
Continue loving, even if only one day is left
While breathing underneath the remaining night's moon and stars
Let go the wings of dream without hesitation
And reach for the sky while standing on tiptoe
But oh my dear, and this earthly realm also
I know I will have to say farewell
My heart sinks, my head and hands in gesture of resignation
Springtime is about to depart, oh tottering bastion
Night comes and my eyes are swelling up with tears
My little hands brittle like dry leaves
The flowers are laden with clinging dews
The helpless petals keep falling down
I'm leaving here with you my plaintive words,
Words of loving offerings to you
Then I will place my head on the vain pages
But you say:
"Please don't give up
Your poetic pages still tinge with the color of rosy sky"
Con có nghĩ: ắt là phải thế
Một đôi lần con ghì siết hai tay
Nàng thơ đẹp của trần gian ứa lệ
Bảo con rằng: hãy nhớ lấy phút giây
B.G.
Ngày sẽ hết tôi sẽ không trở lại
Tôi sẽ đi và chưa biết đi đâu
Tôi sẽ tiếc thương trần gian mãi mãi
Vì nơi đây tôi sống đủ vui sầu
Cây và cối bầu trời và mặt đất
Đã nhìn tôi dưới sương sớm trăng khuya
Mở buồng phổi đón gió bay bát ngát
Dừng bên sông bến cát buổi chia lìa
Hoàng hôn xuống, bình minh lên nhịp nhịp
Ngàn sao xanh lùi bước trước vừng hồng
Ngày rực rỡ đêm êm đềm kế tiếp
Đón chào tôi chung cười khóc bao lần
Tôi đã gửi hồn tôi biết mấy bận
Cho mây xa cho tơ liễu ở gần
Tôi đã đặt trong bàn tay vạn vật
Quả tim mình nóng hối những chờ mong
Sông trắng quá bảo lòng tôi mở cửa
Trăng vàng sao giục cánh mộng tung ngần
Gió thổi dậy lùa mơ vào bốn phía
Ba phương trời chung gục khóc đêm giông
Những giòng lệ tuôn mấy lần khắc khoải
Những nụ cười tròn mấy bận hân hoan
Những ngoảnh mặt im lìm trong ái ngại
Những bắt tay xao động với muôn vàn
Những người bạn xem tôi như ruột thịt
Những người em dâng hết dạ cho tôi
Những người bạn xem tôi là cà gật
Những người em không vẹn nghĩa mất rồi
Trần gian hỡi! Tôi đã về đây sống
Tôi đã tìm đâu ý nghĩa lầm than
Tôi ngẩng mặt ngó ngàn mây cao rộng
Tôi cúi đầu nhìn mặt đất thắp đen
Tôi chấp thuận trăm lần trong thổn thức
Tôi bàng hoàng hốt hoảng những đêm đêm
Tôi xin chịu cuồng si để sáng suốt
Tôi đui mù cho thoả dạ yêu em
Tôi tự nguyện sẽ một lần chung thuỷ
Qua những lần buồn tủi giữa đảo điên
Thân xương máu đã đành là uỷ mị
Thì xin em cùng lên thác xuống ghềnh
Em đứng mũi anh chịu sào có vững
Bàn tay bưng đĩa muối có chấm gừng
Tôi đã nguyện yêu trần gian nguyên vẹn
Hết tâm hồn và hết cả da xương
Xin yêu mãi yêu và yêu nhau mãi
Trần gian ôi! cánh bướm cánh chuồn chuồn
Con kiến bé cùng hoa hoang cỏ dại
Con vi trùng cùng sâu bọ cũng yêu luôn
Còn ở lại một ngày còn yêu mãi
Còn một đêm còn thở dưới trăng sao
Thì cánh mộng còn tung lên không ngại
Níu trời xanh tay với kiễng chân cao
Nhưng em hỡi trần gian ôi ta biết
Sẽ rồi ra vĩnh biệt với ngươi thôi
Ta chết lặng bó tay đầu lắc
Đài xiêu ôi xuân sắp rụng mất rồi
Đêm ứa lệ phồng mi hai mắt
Bàn tay ta nhỏ như lá cây khô
Mình hoa rã đầm đìa sương theo móc
Đỡ làm sao những cánh tiếp nhau rơi
Ta gửi lại đây những lời ảo não
Những lời yêu thương phụng hiến cho em
Rồi ta gục đầu trên trang giấy hão
Em bảo rằng:
- Đừng tuyệt vọng nghe không
Còn trang thơ thắm lại với trời hồng.
Bui Giang
Offerings:
I once thought: it must be so
Twice I squeezed her hands tight
The Muse's tears welled up in her eyes
She told me: remember this encounter
BG
The day will come and I won't be back
But I don't know where I'll go
I will forever miss this world
Where I've tasted both joys and sorrows
The trees, the sky, and the land
Have beheld me to take in the fresh air in the moonlight
In the wee hours of the misty morn,
And to bid farewell by the sandy riverside
The sun has gone down and the sun has risen
Rosy dawn has appeared and stars have beaten their retreat
Glorious days and gentle nights have taken their turns
In laughing and crying with me so many times
Occasionally I've sent my soul on a journey
To the distant clouds and the nearby willow tree
I've placed my steaming longing heart
In the hands of countless sentient beings
The gleaming river has urged me to open myself
The moon and the stars have hurried me to let my wings fly
The swirling winds have dispersed my dreams to four corners
Where rains fell down like midnight tears
At various times, the streams of tears have coursed in agony
The broad smiles have expanded into open elation
The silent turning asides of faces steeped in anxiety
The endless noisy shaking of hands
The friends who have considered me as their kinsman
And those who've been steadfastly devoted to me
The friends who have treated me as a buffoon
And those who didn't know the meaning of loyalty
Please hear me out! I came back in order to live
But I didn't understand the meaning of suffering
I looked at thousands of clouds in the sky up high
And at the dark ground down below
Over hundred times I sobbingly gave up
And I was in stunned panic night after night
I was willing to embrace madness in order to see
Just to love you, I didn't mind to go blind
I pledge to be faithful just once
In going through distressing sorrows
As the flesh is heir to all things sentimental
Please go with me through life's rapids and waterfalls
You and I together will steer through all obstacles
I'm offering you all my devotion:
I'm going to love you and this world
With all my body and soul
Please love forever and forever love one another
The butterflies and all the dragonflies in this world
The little ants, the weeds, the flowers,
The germs, the insects, and the worms
Continue loving, even if only one day is left
While breathing underneath the remaining night's moon and stars
Let go the wings of dream without hesitation
And reach for the sky while standing on tiptoe
But oh my dear, and this earthly realm also
I know I will have to say farewell
My heart sinks, my head and hands in gesture of resignation
Springtime is about to depart, oh tottering bastion
Night comes and my eyes are swelling up with tears
My little hands brittle like dry leaves
The flowers are laden with clinging dews
The helpless petals keep falling down
I'm leaving here with you my plaintive words,
Words of loving offerings to you
Then I will place my head on the vain pages
But you say:
"Please don't give up
Your poetic pages still tinge with the color of rosy sky"
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
prose and poetry
EM ĐỪNG HỎI
em đừng hỏi độ cao làn gió
đừng hỏi sao trời vắng ngẩn ngơ
dù hỏi lại lời không gặp gỡ
tựa môi em nụ khép như thơ
em đừng hỏi một mai buồn nhớ
đừng hỏi bao giờ nắng vẩn mơ
bởi dáng vàng thu tuyền lá nhỏ
đổ rừng cao rực ánh bâng quơ
em đừng hỏi mỗi khi hoa nở
đừng hỏi thêm ngày tháng hững hờ
vì vĩnh cửu thời gian tột độ
cũng vừa là giờ phút đơn sơ
em đừng hỏi tận cùng duyên nợ
một thoáng qua tình nghĩa sợi tơ
lòng chớm đẹp đêm huyền thấm sợ
cánh thời gian phủ kín thành mơ
em thầm hỏi tâm hồn dang mở
một kiếp thôi khẽ ngấm vận thơ
LND
PLEASE DON'T ASK
please don't ask how high the wind is blowing
why the sky is lost and empty
for you won't get a reply
same as your lips won't yield lines of poetry
please don't ask if I will ever miss you
and if sunshine and dreams ever mixed up
for every fall golden-colored leaves
sparkle tall in the woods
please don't ask when flowers blossom
nor inquire after the passing of time
for eternity is time
and yet time is also ephemerality
please don't ask if our love will ever last
or if our brief, intoxicating moments together
in the middle of the night would suffice
while we are covered with reverie under the wings of time
still, you softly ask if your unfolding heart
could withstand a lifetime of cursed poetry
Rough draft translation by Wissai, 2011
11. NE DEMANDE PAS
ne demande pas la hauteur du vent
ni pourquoi le ciel semble si désolé
la question n'aura pas de réponse
dormant à tes lèvres un poème à jamais
ne demande pas si déjà la tristesse s'en va
ni quand le soleil se pâmera de rêve
car l'automne aura ses feuilles d'or en myriades
quittant les vỏtes hantées des forêts d'aurore
ne demande pas quand viendra la saison des fleurs
ni comment les jours et les mois nous quitteront
car l'éternité dans son parcours divers
aura le même espace de l'instant éphémère
ne demande pas l'apogée de nos séjours karmiques
car un reflet seul suffit à éclairer notre joie unique
qui au sein des nuits enivrantes d'angoisse
nous couvre secrètement de rêves sous les ailes du temps
ne demande pas non plus en ton âme fervente
pourquoi une vie humaine est si chargée d'amour
Traduit par LND.
So I have demonstrated that I am equally at home with prose and poetry, and in a borrowed tongue no less. My words are out there for anybody who is bothered to get to know me. My words are the answer to the stupid and coarse Monkey who fancies that he has poetic sensibilities. To me, he is a stupid asshole cum ignorant Philistine who is not worthy of a lowly duty of wiping my ass after I take a dump in the morning. Assholes like him are dime a dozen in this crowded world.
Today the weather is gorgeous. The air is fresh; the temperature is hovering in the 50's. And I am being truculently horny and lonely. And that despite having sex just about everyday. Not only I am horny and lonely, I am also angry. Anger has been my nemesis. It has been quite a miracle that I am still alive or not incarcerated. I am going through a breathing exercise, supposedly designed to dissipate the anger, causing to disappear into thin air. The exercise is not working. I can tell you that. So I am resorting to what I usually do when I am angry: I write and I plagiarize. And my sentences are going to be like gleaming but dull axes which hurt and bruise, but won't cut you to pieces. You are going to survive, but you won't stay the same.
Nowadays when I engage in my daily geriatric orgiastic pleasures, I can't help but think of her and all other women who have gone through my life. And I am struggling with a tentative but haunting conclusion that I was truly naive and stupidly romantic. If you read in the paper someday that I have committed an act of homicide, you would or should know that I just simply and finally acted on with my repressed feelings of vengeance and impotence.
Once I bragged : "Of all the people that you personally know, how many can wield the pen as I do? When I am truly inspired, I can invoke magic and instill awe. I can also be annoyingly unforgettable. Words are my friend and my lover. Words are all I have. I value them almost as much as money. Money helps me stay alive. Words assist me in feeling good about myself." Of course, these immoderate words were uttered when I was down in the the dumps. I was trying to revive my flagging spirit.
Perhaps sensing that my spirit needed boosting, a reader sent me the following:
" I love your words when they are not daggers that are drawn to strike or an iron fist that wallops the reader with hideous and unforeseen terminology. Your gentle stirring words are the ones that beckon. The words that come from deep within your soul are the ones that softly whisper: 'here I am, come find me, if you dare and care.'
My heart and soul have felt and been aware of your anger and disquietness since we first met and they are something I have always tried to help smother or at least diminish."
(to be continued)
em đừng hỏi độ cao làn gió
đừng hỏi sao trời vắng ngẩn ngơ
dù hỏi lại lời không gặp gỡ
tựa môi em nụ khép như thơ
em đừng hỏi một mai buồn nhớ
đừng hỏi bao giờ nắng vẩn mơ
bởi dáng vàng thu tuyền lá nhỏ
đổ rừng cao rực ánh bâng quơ
em đừng hỏi mỗi khi hoa nở
đừng hỏi thêm ngày tháng hững hờ
vì vĩnh cửu thời gian tột độ
cũng vừa là giờ phút đơn sơ
em đừng hỏi tận cùng duyên nợ
một thoáng qua tình nghĩa sợi tơ
lòng chớm đẹp đêm huyền thấm sợ
cánh thời gian phủ kín thành mơ
em thầm hỏi tâm hồn dang mở
một kiếp thôi khẽ ngấm vận thơ
LND
PLEASE DON'T ASK
please don't ask how high the wind is blowing
why the sky is lost and empty
for you won't get a reply
same as your lips won't yield lines of poetry
please don't ask if I will ever miss you
and if sunshine and dreams ever mixed up
for every fall golden-colored leaves
sparkle tall in the woods
please don't ask when flowers blossom
nor inquire after the passing of time
for eternity is time
and yet time is also ephemerality
please don't ask if our love will ever last
or if our brief, intoxicating moments together
in the middle of the night would suffice
while we are covered with reverie under the wings of time
still, you softly ask if your unfolding heart
could withstand a lifetime of cursed poetry
Rough draft translation by Wissai, 2011
11. NE DEMANDE PAS
ne demande pas la hauteur du vent
ni pourquoi le ciel semble si désolé
la question n'aura pas de réponse
dormant à tes lèvres un poème à jamais
ne demande pas si déjà la tristesse s'en va
ni quand le soleil se pâmera de rêve
car l'automne aura ses feuilles d'or en myriades
quittant les vỏtes hantées des forêts d'aurore
ne demande pas quand viendra la saison des fleurs
ni comment les jours et les mois nous quitteront
car l'éternité dans son parcours divers
aura le même espace de l'instant éphémère
ne demande pas l'apogée de nos séjours karmiques
car un reflet seul suffit à éclairer notre joie unique
qui au sein des nuits enivrantes d'angoisse
nous couvre secrètement de rêves sous les ailes du temps
ne demande pas non plus en ton âme fervente
pourquoi une vie humaine est si chargée d'amour
Traduit par LND.
So I have demonstrated that I am equally at home with prose and poetry, and in a borrowed tongue no less. My words are out there for anybody who is bothered to get to know me. My words are the answer to the stupid and coarse Monkey who fancies that he has poetic sensibilities. To me, he is a stupid asshole cum ignorant Philistine who is not worthy of a lowly duty of wiping my ass after I take a dump in the morning. Assholes like him are dime a dozen in this crowded world.
Today the weather is gorgeous. The air is fresh; the temperature is hovering in the 50's. And I am being truculently horny and lonely. And that despite having sex just about everyday. Not only I am horny and lonely, I am also angry. Anger has been my nemesis. It has been quite a miracle that I am still alive or not incarcerated. I am going through a breathing exercise, supposedly designed to dissipate the anger, causing to disappear into thin air. The exercise is not working. I can tell you that. So I am resorting to what I usually do when I am angry: I write and I plagiarize. And my sentences are going to be like gleaming but dull axes which hurt and bruise, but won't cut you to pieces. You are going to survive, but you won't stay the same.
Nowadays when I engage in my daily geriatric orgiastic pleasures, I can't help but think of her and all other women who have gone through my life. And I am struggling with a tentative but haunting conclusion that I was truly naive and stupidly romantic. If you read in the paper someday that I have committed an act of homicide, you would or should know that I just simply and finally acted on with my repressed feelings of vengeance and impotence.
Once I bragged : "Of all the people that you personally know, how many can wield the pen as I do? When I am truly inspired, I can invoke magic and instill awe. I can also be annoyingly unforgettable. Words are my friend and my lover. Words are all I have. I value them almost as much as money. Money helps me stay alive. Words assist me in feeling good about myself." Of course, these immoderate words were uttered when I was down in the the dumps. I was trying to revive my flagging spirit.
Perhaps sensing that my spirit needed boosting, a reader sent me the following:
" I love your words when they are not daggers that are drawn to strike or an iron fist that wallops the reader with hideous and unforeseen terminology. Your gentle stirring words are the ones that beckon. The words that come from deep within your soul are the ones that softly whisper: 'here I am, come find me, if you dare and care.'
My heart and soul have felt and been aware of your anger and disquietness since we first met and they are something I have always tried to help smother or at least diminish."
(to be continued)
White Night in Summer
ĐÊM TRẮNG HẠ
đêm trắng hạ mưa buồn như suối vỡ
tóc bạc tuyền khởi dòng chữ ngẩn ngơ
rừng lá vợi cành khô buông tay mở
nối phân vân vào gốc vắng hoang sơ
mưa thiêm thiếp ngủ vùi trong khát vọng
từng giọt sa thầm kín mắt huyền mong
em im lặng nửa đêm lay tiếng sóng
khóc mỗi lần giọt xót ứa trong lòng
vết dấu tạm thì thầm trong bóng tối
con đường dài mải miết nỗi chơi vơi
thời gian hoá siêu hình trong nắng vợi
bỗng đêm qua một nét ửng làn môi
em tới đó ngâm hồn vào biển cả
ngả về đâu hạt cát giữa phù sa
ta luồng gió lạnh như vùng xa lạ
vẫn bay ngang vực tối ẩn hồn hoa
LND
WHITE NIGHT IN SUMMER
sad rain fell from the sky like waterfall in white summer night
cascading silver hair started a stream of words of wonder
the shorn forest opened its arms
in welcoming the wavering into deserted corners
the rain was sound asleep in its thirst
for the hidden tears in the longing dark eyes
you silently shook up the waves of pain in the middle of the night,
releasing the tears that welled up deep inside
fleeting memories jostled in darkness
the long road lost in its loneliness
night had passed and the sun came up,
bringing blush to your crimson lips
your soul dissolved in the vast ocean
like a grain of sand in the sediment
I was like a cold wind in strange terrain
blowing over an abyss of lost flowers
Rough draft translation by Wissai, 2011
NUIT BLANCHE D'ÉTÉ
nuit blanche d'été d'absence et de tristesse
tes cheveux argentés se tressent de langueur
et la forêt se dévide de ses feuilles
renouant au regret les écarts de solitude
la pluie s'assoupit dans ton âme assoiffée
comme des larmes au tréfonds des yeux noirs
tu gardes le silence secoué de peines
et de vagues au coeur qui saigne
les souvenirs chuchotent dans les ténèbres
au parcours sans fin d'émerveillement
le temps passe et se métamorphose au soleil
et la nuit soudain à tes lèvres s'empourpre
tu t'immerges dans l'océan d'âme
comme le grain de sable au sein d'alluvion
je suis le vent venu des espaces lointains
survolant les fleurs de tes nuits sibyllines
Traduit par LND
đêm trắng hạ mưa buồn như suối vỡ
tóc bạc tuyền khởi dòng chữ ngẩn ngơ
rừng lá vợi cành khô buông tay mở
nối phân vân vào gốc vắng hoang sơ
mưa thiêm thiếp ngủ vùi trong khát vọng
từng giọt sa thầm kín mắt huyền mong
em im lặng nửa đêm lay tiếng sóng
khóc mỗi lần giọt xót ứa trong lòng
vết dấu tạm thì thầm trong bóng tối
con đường dài mải miết nỗi chơi vơi
thời gian hoá siêu hình trong nắng vợi
bỗng đêm qua một nét ửng làn môi
em tới đó ngâm hồn vào biển cả
ngả về đâu hạt cát giữa phù sa
ta luồng gió lạnh như vùng xa lạ
vẫn bay ngang vực tối ẩn hồn hoa
LND
WHITE NIGHT IN SUMMER
sad rain fell from the sky like waterfall in white summer night
cascading silver hair started a stream of words of wonder
the shorn forest opened its arms
in welcoming the wavering into deserted corners
the rain was sound asleep in its thirst
for the hidden tears in the longing dark eyes
you silently shook up the waves of pain in the middle of the night,
releasing the tears that welled up deep inside
fleeting memories jostled in darkness
the long road lost in its loneliness
night had passed and the sun came up,
bringing blush to your crimson lips
your soul dissolved in the vast ocean
like a grain of sand in the sediment
I was like a cold wind in strange terrain
blowing over an abyss of lost flowers
Rough draft translation by Wissai, 2011
NUIT BLANCHE D'ÉTÉ
nuit blanche d'été d'absence et de tristesse
tes cheveux argentés se tressent de langueur
et la forêt se dévide de ses feuilles
renouant au regret les écarts de solitude
la pluie s'assoupit dans ton âme assoiffée
comme des larmes au tréfonds des yeux noirs
tu gardes le silence secoué de peines
et de vagues au coeur qui saigne
les souvenirs chuchotent dans les ténèbres
au parcours sans fin d'émerveillement
le temps passe et se métamorphose au soleil
et la nuit soudain à tes lèvres s'empourpre
tu t'immerges dans l'océan d'âme
comme le grain de sable au sein d'alluvion
je suis le vent venu des espaces lointains
survolant les fleurs de tes nuits sibyllines
Traduit par LND
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
HOW
LÀM SAO
làm sao quét sạch bụi trần
để chiều thanh thản đón ngần gió thu
để mưa trong vắt sương mù
để môi em đọng vị dư ngậm ngùi
làm sao hội đủ niềm vui
để làn sóng nhẹ lẩn vùi chân mây
để em ướp nắng tình đầy
để hoa rạo rực ngất ngây lần đầu
làm sao thăm hỏi từ đâu
để hồn cây ngả nhiệm mầu vào không
để thơ nhuộm ánh mênh mông
để em mới lạ vạn hồng hoa đăng
làm sao nghe kịp tiếng ngàn
để lời thành nhạc tim hoàng hôn em
để buồn dìu dịu chất men
để ta nhớ mãi mắt đêm ảo huyền
LND
HOW
How could I keep this world free of dust
So the easy evenings would be filled with clean flurries of winds in the fall,
And the misty rain would be composed of limpid water,
Leaving a sweet lingering taste on your lips?
How could I gather all the joys of the world
So a gentle wave would push all the clouds to the horizon,
And your overflowing love would bask in the sun,
Inflaming your passion at our very first encounter?
How could I say hello in such a manner
So the soul of my tree of love would reveal itself through empty foliage
And my poetry would shed its immense light,
Showing your splendor like thousands of rosy lamps?
How could I keep up with the cryptic voice
So the lyrics would become soulful notes of caressing music,
And my intoxicating melancholy would slowly faint away,
Leaving me with an undying yearning for your haunting, ghostly eyes?
Rough draft translation by Wissai, 2011
làm sao quét sạch bụi trần
để chiều thanh thản đón ngần gió thu
để mưa trong vắt sương mù
để môi em đọng vị dư ngậm ngùi
làm sao hội đủ niềm vui
để làn sóng nhẹ lẩn vùi chân mây
để em ướp nắng tình đầy
để hoa rạo rực ngất ngây lần đầu
làm sao thăm hỏi từ đâu
để hồn cây ngả nhiệm mầu vào không
để thơ nhuộm ánh mênh mông
để em mới lạ vạn hồng hoa đăng
làm sao nghe kịp tiếng ngàn
để lời thành nhạc tim hoàng hôn em
để buồn dìu dịu chất men
để ta nhớ mãi mắt đêm ảo huyền
LND
HOW
How could I keep this world free of dust
So the easy evenings would be filled with clean flurries of winds in the fall,
And the misty rain would be composed of limpid water,
Leaving a sweet lingering taste on your lips?
How could I gather all the joys of the world
So a gentle wave would push all the clouds to the horizon,
And your overflowing love would bask in the sun,
Inflaming your passion at our very first encounter?
How could I say hello in such a manner
So the soul of my tree of love would reveal itself through empty foliage
And my poetry would shed its immense light,
Showing your splendor like thousands of rosy lamps?
How could I keep up with the cryptic voice
So the lyrics would become soulful notes of caressing music,
And my intoxicating melancholy would slowly faint away,
Leaving me with an undying yearning for your haunting, ghostly eyes?
Rough draft translation by Wissai, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
To grow up
To grow up
I recall once a kind friend pulled me aside and softly intoned, "Roberto, everyone gets old, but not everyone grows up. Please grow up!" Every since, I have tried to live up to my friend's advice, to no avail. Maturity and wisdom are beyond my reach. I thus find succor and sustenance in words where my hurts and disappointments are slowly massaged into oblivion.
Everybody has an ego and everybody thinks they are better than they actually are. Throughout my life I have tried to avoid that trap, that cheap delusion. Recently an event belied my belief that I was not into Schadenfreude. Something foul had befallen to a lying, cowardly, cheap asshole who had irritated me beyond measure. Instead of feeling sorry for him for going through a misfortune, I felt a vast indifference. Worse still, an idea came to me that he somehow deserved the tragedy for he had been evil and nasty. And the tragedy was a way for him to learn about pain and suffering that he himself had inflicted on others throughout his long life. It would have been easy for me to pretend to others and to convince myself that I was a sensitive, caring chap, but I had too much self-honesty to engage in that exercise. Life is hard. Life is cruel. And there are many, many evil-minded human animals to populate this planet. I expect no pity from them, nor do I show them pity. Maybe that's why I think I have not grown up. Regardless, as I was driving home from the other day, a stupid yet inveterate sensation invaded my being after I listened to a Vietnamese song on the old cassette. I am trying recapture the sensation in English in the below, but I seriously doubt I am able to do it much justice.
I showed up for the first date we both looked forward to.
We had spent nights for weeks talking over the phone,
Opening our hearts to each other, hoping together
We would be lonely no longer.
You were all smiles when I arrived.
I shyly said hello.
You said, " Well, we meet at last
What do you think?"
My face turned red; my heart beat fast.
My eyes blinked.
Then you stepped forward and held me.
Instantly I felt both serenity and eternity.
I foolishly thought you would feel the same
I didn't know you later brought me nothing but shame
For being naive and stupid.
(to be continued)
I recall once a kind friend pulled me aside and softly intoned, "Roberto, everyone gets old, but not everyone grows up. Please grow up!" Every since, I have tried to live up to my friend's advice, to no avail. Maturity and wisdom are beyond my reach. I thus find succor and sustenance in words where my hurts and disappointments are slowly massaged into oblivion.
Everybody has an ego and everybody thinks they are better than they actually are. Throughout my life I have tried to avoid that trap, that cheap delusion. Recently an event belied my belief that I was not into Schadenfreude. Something foul had befallen to a lying, cowardly, cheap asshole who had irritated me beyond measure. Instead of feeling sorry for him for going through a misfortune, I felt a vast indifference. Worse still, an idea came to me that he somehow deserved the tragedy for he had been evil and nasty. And the tragedy was a way for him to learn about pain and suffering that he himself had inflicted on others throughout his long life. It would have been easy for me to pretend to others and to convince myself that I was a sensitive, caring chap, but I had too much self-honesty to engage in that exercise. Life is hard. Life is cruel. And there are many, many evil-minded human animals to populate this planet. I expect no pity from them, nor do I show them pity. Maybe that's why I think I have not grown up. Regardless, as I was driving home from the other day, a stupid yet inveterate sensation invaded my being after I listened to a Vietnamese song on the old cassette. I am trying recapture the sensation in English in the below, but I seriously doubt I am able to do it much justice.
I showed up for the first date we both looked forward to.
We had spent nights for weeks talking over the phone,
Opening our hearts to each other, hoping together
We would be lonely no longer.
You were all smiles when I arrived.
I shyly said hello.
You said, " Well, we meet at last
What do you think?"
My face turned red; my heart beat fast.
My eyes blinked.
Then you stepped forward and held me.
Instantly I felt both serenity and eternity.
I foolishly thought you would feel the same
I didn't know you later brought me nothing but shame
For being naive and stupid.
(to be continued)
Two Types of Tigone Flower
T.T.Kh: Hai Sắc Hoa Ti Gôn — Two Types of Tigone Flower
Roberto Wissai.NKBa
December 10, 20110
Hai Sắc Hoa Ti Gôn
Một mùa thu trước, mỗi hoàng hôn
Nhặt cánh hoa rơi chẳng thấy buồn,
Nhuộm ánh nắng tà qua mái tóc,
Tôi chờ người đến với yêu đương.
Người ấy thường hay ngắm lạnh lùng
Dải đường xa vút bóng chiều phong,
Và phương trời thẳm mờ sương cát,
Tay vít dây hoa trắng cạnh lòng.
Người ấy thường hay vuốt tóc tôi,
Thở dài trong lúc thấy tôi vui,
Bảo rằng: “Hoa, dáng như tim vỡ,
Anh sợ tình ta cũng vỡ thôi!”
Thuở đó nào tôi đã hiểu gì
Cánh hoa tan tác của sinh ly,
Cho nên cười đáp: “Màu hoa trắng
Là chút lòng trong chẳng biến suy”.
Đâu biết lần đi một lỡ làng,
Dưới trời đau khổ chết yêu đương.
Người xa xăm quá! – Tôi buồn lắm,
Trong một ngày vui pháo nhuộm đường…
Từ đấy, thu rồi, thu lại thu,
Lòng tôi còn giá đến bao giờ?
Chồng tôi vẫn biết tôi thương nhớ…
Người ấy, cho nên vẫn hững hờ.
Tôi vẫn đi bên cạnh cuộc đời,
Ái ân lạt lẽo của chồng tôi,
Mà từng thu chết, từng thu chết,
Vẫn giấu trong tim bóng “một người”.
Buồn quá hôm nay xem tiểu thuyết
Thấy ai cũng ví cánh hoa xưa
Như hồng tựa trái tim tan vỡ.
Và đỏ như màu máu thắm pha!
Tôi nhớ lời người đã bảo tôi
Một mùa thu trước rất xa xôi…
Đến nay tôi hiểu thì tôi đã,
Làm lỡ tình duyên cũ mất rồi!
Tôi sợ chiều thu phớt nắng mờ,
Chiều thu, hoa đỏ rụng chiều thu
Gió về lạnh lẽo chân mây vắng,
Người ấy ngang sông đứng ngóng đò.
Nếu biết rằng tôi đã lấy chồng,
Trời ơi! Người ấy có buồn không?
Có thầm nghĩ tới loài hoa vỡ
Tựa trái tim phai, tựa máu hồng?
T.T.Kh
Two Types of Tigone Flower
During the fall of yore, as the sun was going down
And the fading sunlight blending into my hair
I insouciantly picked up the fallen tigone off the ground,
Pending the arrival of my beloved.
While tugging at a nearby vine of white flowers,
He would frostily gaze into the distance
Where the roads got lost in a windy late afternoon of struggling sunshine
And where the mist started settling on the sand.
He would pass his fingers through my hair
And sigh upon seeing me filled with joy.
He cautioned : “I am fearful our love would be like the shape of this flower:
A heart badly broken.”
I didn’t know then as I know now
The shape of the flower’s petals could stand for separation
So I laughingly replied: “The white color of the flower
Could only mean unchanging purity.”
I didn’t know once I couldn’t keep my word
Love would forever be in agony in this world
He was so far away! And I was so sad on my would-be happy day of wedding,
With celebrating crimson-colored, spent firecrackers strewing on the ground…
Ever since, fall has come and gone,
And how long this frigid heart of mine would go on?
My husband understands I still miss the man of the fall,
That’s why my indifference still lingers.
I still walk on by, in the sidewalk of life,
By the love and sex without passion of my husband.
With each fall season dying away, year after year,
Hides in my heart, the image of my man of yesteryear.
Today, I sought escape from sadness in a novel of romance.
I noted that everyone compared the petals of the flower of yore
With the rose color of a broken heart,
With the red color of blood freshly run!
I recalled what the man had told me
In the fall of long time ago…
Now I understood what I was told,
And the love I had betrayed!
Nowadays, I am fearful of the fading light of late afternoon in the fall,
Of late afternoons when red flowers start falling down on the ground,
Of winds gathering in the deserted horizon absent of clouds,
Where the man is waiting for a ferry at the edge of a river.
If he knows I am already married
Oh, my God! Would he be heart-broken?
Would he think of the flower of yore
Which looks like a fading broken heart, and is red like crimson-blood?
Translated by
Roberto Wissai/NKBá
November 8, 2011
Roberto Wissai.NKBa
December 10, 20110
Hai Sắc Hoa Ti Gôn
Một mùa thu trước, mỗi hoàng hôn
Nhặt cánh hoa rơi chẳng thấy buồn,
Nhuộm ánh nắng tà qua mái tóc,
Tôi chờ người đến với yêu đương.
Người ấy thường hay ngắm lạnh lùng
Dải đường xa vút bóng chiều phong,
Và phương trời thẳm mờ sương cát,
Tay vít dây hoa trắng cạnh lòng.
Người ấy thường hay vuốt tóc tôi,
Thở dài trong lúc thấy tôi vui,
Bảo rằng: “Hoa, dáng như tim vỡ,
Anh sợ tình ta cũng vỡ thôi!”
Thuở đó nào tôi đã hiểu gì
Cánh hoa tan tác của sinh ly,
Cho nên cười đáp: “Màu hoa trắng
Là chút lòng trong chẳng biến suy”.
Đâu biết lần đi một lỡ làng,
Dưới trời đau khổ chết yêu đương.
Người xa xăm quá! – Tôi buồn lắm,
Trong một ngày vui pháo nhuộm đường…
Từ đấy, thu rồi, thu lại thu,
Lòng tôi còn giá đến bao giờ?
Chồng tôi vẫn biết tôi thương nhớ…
Người ấy, cho nên vẫn hững hờ.
Tôi vẫn đi bên cạnh cuộc đời,
Ái ân lạt lẽo của chồng tôi,
Mà từng thu chết, từng thu chết,
Vẫn giấu trong tim bóng “một người”.
Buồn quá hôm nay xem tiểu thuyết
Thấy ai cũng ví cánh hoa xưa
Như hồng tựa trái tim tan vỡ.
Và đỏ như màu máu thắm pha!
Tôi nhớ lời người đã bảo tôi
Một mùa thu trước rất xa xôi…
Đến nay tôi hiểu thì tôi đã,
Làm lỡ tình duyên cũ mất rồi!
Tôi sợ chiều thu phớt nắng mờ,
Chiều thu, hoa đỏ rụng chiều thu
Gió về lạnh lẽo chân mây vắng,
Người ấy ngang sông đứng ngóng đò.
Nếu biết rằng tôi đã lấy chồng,
Trời ơi! Người ấy có buồn không?
Có thầm nghĩ tới loài hoa vỡ
Tựa trái tim phai, tựa máu hồng?
T.T.Kh
Two Types of Tigone Flower
During the fall of yore, as the sun was going down
And the fading sunlight blending into my hair
I insouciantly picked up the fallen tigone off the ground,
Pending the arrival of my beloved.
While tugging at a nearby vine of white flowers,
He would frostily gaze into the distance
Where the roads got lost in a windy late afternoon of struggling sunshine
And where the mist started settling on the sand.
He would pass his fingers through my hair
And sigh upon seeing me filled with joy.
He cautioned : “I am fearful our love would be like the shape of this flower:
A heart badly broken.”
I didn’t know then as I know now
The shape of the flower’s petals could stand for separation
So I laughingly replied: “The white color of the flower
Could only mean unchanging purity.”
I didn’t know once I couldn’t keep my word
Love would forever be in agony in this world
He was so far away! And I was so sad on my would-be happy day of wedding,
With celebrating crimson-colored, spent firecrackers strewing on the ground…
Ever since, fall has come and gone,
And how long this frigid heart of mine would go on?
My husband understands I still miss the man of the fall,
That’s why my indifference still lingers.
I still walk on by, in the sidewalk of life,
By the love and sex without passion of my husband.
With each fall season dying away, year after year,
Hides in my heart, the image of my man of yesteryear.
Today, I sought escape from sadness in a novel of romance.
I noted that everyone compared the petals of the flower of yore
With the rose color of a broken heart,
With the red color of blood freshly run!
I recalled what the man had told me
In the fall of long time ago…
Now I understood what I was told,
And the love I had betrayed!
Nowadays, I am fearful of the fading light of late afternoon in the fall,
Of late afternoons when red flowers start falling down on the ground,
Of winds gathering in the deserted horizon absent of clouds,
Where the man is waiting for a ferry at the edge of a river.
If he knows I am already married
Oh, my God! Would he be heart-broken?
Would he think of the flower of yore
Which looks like a fading broken heart, and is red like crimson-blood?
Translated by
Roberto Wissai/NKBá
November 8, 2011
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