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)

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

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.

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)

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.

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

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