VIRGIL GHEORGHIU: 'hiding the face poem written towards year's end + ... by mai trung tĩnh / trans. by dam xuan can ( prose poems by mai trung tĩnh -- dai nam van hien books, australia 2015.)

ssThứ Sáu, 1 tháng 1, 2016

hiding the face + poem written towards year' s end +.... by mai trung tĩnh / translated by dam xuan can (prose poems by mai trung tĩnh -- dai nam van hien books, australia, 2014)

prose poems by mai trung tĩnh - 4-

dai nam van hien books, australia, 2014

p r o s e p o e m s

by mai trung tĩnh

TRANSLATED BY DAM XUAN CAN

cover drawing by cao bá minh

dai nam van hien books, australia, 2014

1. HIDING THE FACE

In the howling forest storm besets this century I am reduced to a fright sickened beast not knowing where to exit. I hide myself in a place of silence. I move among the dumb, dark things till a day I become a stream flowing in the darkness of destiny. In the good, God given moments I imagine basking in warm sunlight.

Awakened, I find flames licking all around, so I retreat again further South ...

2. POEM WRITTEN TOWARDS YEAR' S END

For Love

Twilight, I walk the spacious roads of youthful days in the shadow of the night and the sweet of your floating hair. I have never loved you more than in these days of despair. Love is prison, but I still sink my teeth in it so that my tree put forth new leaves -- my body extant for over thirty years in this world. I tell myself to forget everything, to forget all the steamy weariness in my veins and to love you as when I was in my teens. In this troublesome, progress metamorphosed century I take first faltering steps with my new feet towards you to see the awakening of the flora' s soul and your breathing as meek and gentle as the thread of sunlight. I lean on your shoulder as on a step of the North Eastern ruins where nothing is left but dust. I tell you to sleep like a plant in wait for the impending earthquake. In my futile pilgrimage you are a source of grace to my suffering soul. I lie waiting for the coming of Truth.

For Country

My country has more fertilizers than it can absorb though the tillers have not taken to ploughing and harrowing. Remember, once the gardens and paddies turned into a giant theatre filled with people. I, a buffalo keeper since cradle days, have always liked to hear the cries of the young animal. When I grew up I have no buffalo to sit on, waiting for the moon to rise with the wind. In grief I ask myself whether I am a country man, whether I am a city chap, I have not been long enough anywhere. The corner of blue sky where the kite used to fly, the one I always cherished as hope, shudders with flight after flight of jet fighters. I ask the mother and father of one who has fallen in the night, and those who never returned. Admidst the ruins of a dream filled youth I take to my feet as if I were mad. I raise my voice to make a question in the name of my suffering country, yet I hear only sounds of fire spreading. Well, let me sit in a corner of the communal village house and cast a glance at the pond of the old times. But don' t you see the water is as mute as a sepulchral blanket and the evening air is cold with the stench arising from the battlefield? I wait in vain for the bell to signal the day' s end. A fire has burned itself at the skyline, the time for the killers has come. Where will I go in my country tonight?

For Myself

Beset by illusory pride throughout a life of chimeras. I have seen myself through the big shade of the deep cave. Boundless desires and useless bits of knowledge from thr lectern in the university -- these I want to leave on the side of the road so that I may become free again. Never learn, never receive and you will have a soul simple as a stone. Bits of knowledge scattered in my brain, gather yourself to make me a rock I may use to dear the way for mankind. As for me I only ask for a road back. I just hear a bird singing, simple as truth which opens itself to you in all its simlicity. This evening, in storming weather, I want to depart as a pilgrim who is without a name, and who eargerly offers his heart as passport for the the world. Bits of knowledge why don' t you gather into a rock. I can lean against on the edge of the abyss. The bird twitters, then it flies, and I am left by myself as the weak sunlight in a lonely day.

mai trung tĩnh

( p.17- 19 PROSE POEMS)