vài bài viết các tác giả: PHẠM DUY+ MAI TRUNG TĨNH+ TRẦN THIỆN HIỆP+ ROBERT FROST đã đăng trên blog THEPHONG' s POEMS (2015.)
hứ Ba, 29 tháng 12, 2015
musician phạm duy & memorable appointments by phạm duy (blog pham duy)
musician phạm duy & memorable appointments
by phạm duy
When performing in Phan rang in 1944, suddenly one day there was a car of the governor of Phan rang -- Mr. Nguyễn duy Quang to the theater to welcome me to the Palace, between the astonishment of trouper.
Coming to the palace then I knew Bảo Đại was sitting there. He often reigned in Dalat when went out for hunting in the forests rather then sitting on the throne in Huế.
Today he from a certain region hunting down play Phan rang and rest in the palace of Province Chief. I have known the love of the king when he took thượng thư Phạm Quỳnh' s -- Phạm Bích as a personal secretary that he was only beatena very good guitar.
Stopped viewing audience is important advocated when sing the song for her to sing more than, I do not have an inferiority complex as he sat hugging his guitar, sang for the king to hear.
Mr. Bảo Đại very polite, very courteous, after hearinng the song was over, invited me to eat pastries sit and talk to me in French. Ask me where to learn music? Ever? Slightly surprised that my answer is not learned one ! " A king loves art so sure was behind dark glasses he wears, there a lurks a benevolent eye.
Yeah, it does, undergone many upheavals of history, there are many critics who straps her mouth Bảo Đại was this and that, but I have not seen anyone sy thta he was imprisoned ot killed a Vietnamese South. " Asking about him. Well, about my family. A king loves art so sure is behind dark glasses he wears, there lurks a benevolent eye.
(...)
During the past couple of Revolution in the world, you know how many poeple have dissppeared or been imprisoned by the leaders called patriotic. Done sing the 'bush'
(the voice of the profession are: singing unpaid) when I felt, the governor Nguyễn duy Quang walked me to the door, very delicate, hand wrapping is available a 5 meter cloth filter
it' s good to give him the young singer.
With this fabric, I unfortunately get two shirts, one worn until the breakdown, will givew him a poet Nguyễn Bính when you meet him in Saigon a few months later to his shop sold for money to lie Smoking.
Go to the cinema and breeze is singing for the king listened, shaking his head the whole troupe stick blade admiration. With an artist' s 20, troubadours, to meet an emperor, it is an unfortunate encounter.
Meetings with the Politicians of Vietnam Republic
I get to meet and talk Ngô đình Diệm family because my brother Well then- Secretary then as Ambassador of his government. Go when Nguyễn văn Thiệu government because
I was Assistant Director of Television so sometimes I have to pick him up every time he went to capture.
Particularly Vice President Nguyễn cao Kỳ is always met me at his home minister Lansdale arts to recreation activities.
Meetings with the Americans ...
Also in Lansdale home minister, I meet writer John Steinbeck when he passed Vietnam to visit children who are disciples Đạo Dừa.
John Ernest Steinbeck III (1902- 1968) was an American novelist known as the pen has described the relentless struggle of the people must hold on their land for survival.
The first work of John Steinbeck buzz is on 'Of MIce and Men' (1937) created a tragic story about two uneducated farmers longing for their own piece of land to cultivation.
The work is appreciated The Grapes of Wrath least (1939), Pulitzer Prize man (1940), made the Joad family' s story, being poor in a uncultivated areas of bangOklahama Dust Bowl, had moved to California in the crisis period economic crisis of the !930s.
Novel, contreversial, is considered not only fiction but reality as it is of social protest emotional, has become a classic in American literature. As one of the 'monument' literarture from the 1930s , Steinbeck took the central theme wa the quiet dignity of the people miserable, the oprressed.
Although his character is often surrounded in unfair world. they still hold ourselves as human beings with sympathy and with heroism, but can be subduel. John Steinbeck received Nobel Prize in 1962.
In the night gathered to sing togethr ???? Such, Ambassador Cabot Lodge also remove jackets out to sing. I also hd the opportunity to meet famous artits Peter Seeger, folk Viking USA:
Peter Seeger (born May 3, 1919), also known as Pete Seeger, as a musician, singer and country music as political activits. He is also a member of the Weaves, but also wrote many songs, including a recording of 'Goodnight Irene' has topped the charts for 13 weeks in 1950.
He is also a former member of the US Communist Party and who have major contribu-
tion to folk music and is the pioneer of the anti- war movement in the music of the 50s and the year 60. He was author famous anti- war song 'Where have All the Flowers Gone'?
He is also the author of Uncle Hồ song Teacher. (Uncle Ho- Teacher).
Meet with Vietnamese musicians + writers.
1944, I am the brother of burden Mucsic artist Tân Đức Huy, Troiupe of Tourane.
(Đà nẵng).
Phạm Duy (left) said that he have never meet
anyone who is as 'poetic' as Lưu trọng Lư (right)
Đà nẵng is a beautiful city on the Hàn River, the East Coast with the attractive features unmatched in other sea cities. I go to visit Chàm Museum admire a brillant Chàm culture, ancient statues, mascot of the church, the symbol of a prosperous nation in the hours just past.
This is the only museum of Chàm culture in the world and its values beyond its borders Việtnam. The most intersting is I met him that his cherished poet Lưu trọng Lư immen-
sely.
At that time he was teaching at the school Phan bội Châu (or Phan chu Trinh?). After hearing me perform at the theater, the next day he insisted on dragging me up to the trailer, taking me to school to sing for his students to hear. Until now, I have not met anyone as romantic as Lưu trọng Lư poet.
Never having heard of him he was very distracted. See you then look his appearance also saw him as a golden deer bewildered. Had someone told me how he took money shopping for offerings but on this occasion his wife had on opium and miss it!
(...)
Lê Thương, Trần văn Trạch and Đức Quỳnh
In 1951, when I lived in Saigon on, I have 3 friends that Lê Thương[ musician}, Trần văn Trạch [singer] and Đức Quỳnh. [musician + singer].
Lê Thương (right) making poetry flying butterflies but simple life
Lê Thương leave Bến Tre province, he worked as a teacher in Saigon. His small house is Võ Tánh is where I come to play every day, or ask him to buy the French press as Paris Match, wrote the bookstore at Portail Catinat or invite him to eat hang out. Le Commerce poems, make music, butterfly, but he had a very simple life.
Before, I only knew Le Commerce through the great song like 'The Men Spring,' Fall On Island Jingzhou',' A Green Day', she Hà Tiên and Part I of the immortal story' Hòn vọng phu'. Now I get more of all Mrs. Justice Sales, all 48 Peace, the United Nations, Sài Thành Village, Burning or Not Burning Telephone, The Clock, Mosquito Five train.
Trần văn Trạch is a singer Chanteur de charme, sang song ???? mouth, no repertoire shooting, fly planes and bombed by mouth, or humorous songs like this. At Théophine dancing, singing Trạch often much all our West and a few items.
Đức Quỳnh, oh oh vocals, floating hair nd coarse teeth. But always elegantly dressed, always wearing suits, bow ties, even though the weather was very hot Saigon.
Đức Quỳnh has composed a song titles 'Three Hours Late' that sing in Dancing Théophile Trạch. Then also write down 'HK Sild' (poet Nguyễn Bính) 'The Enginner Female With Supply Forum', 'Ask me', borehold, 'Returns UK. He also composed two song for chilhood is braying mule and Procession of Lights in August.
Then I went to Saigon, the unfortunate realization that is met Nguyễn đức Quỳnh two writers, Lê văn Trương. At the talks the vision, Nguyễn đức Quỳnh teach me hunbly. In it, Lê văn Trương taught me a hero. []
phạm duy
(Blog Phạm Duy)
Thứ Bảy, 26 tháng 12, 2015
rain + night wind + ( prose poems by mai trung tinh-- translated by dam xuan can / dai nam van hien books, australia, 2014)
prose poems by mai trung tinh -- 3 --
dai nam van hien books, australia, 2014
prose poems by mai trung tinh
TRANSLATED BY DAM XUAN CAN
PROSE POEMS by MAI TRUNG TINH
Dai Nam Van Hien Books, Australia, 2014.
RAIN
The blue sky is an ocean of silence where white sails glide happily.
On the land the trees flutter and dance in glee.
Along the margin of a sea rows of house cannot but be gay in such a company
When the sudden brutal wind rushes to the scene, the leaves quickly signal their defeat
The horrible black painted boats but it is too late already, so they are destroyed
Amid the invasion filled with threatening sounds I am a small child looking the sky
All myself I set out to seek a resting place, aching with my helplessness
Some bullets have raced through the air
Aware that I cannot do anything about it, my hands in my pockets, I wander about the hapless land.
NIGHT WIND
The light is suddenly on, and the wind turns suddenly cold. One day in my life takes wing and fly away. Why do not for no one I welcome no one. I am just an ill fated roamer. At a corner of the street that burns with all its red and blue signs alight, in a night of dust and wind. I walk about in a pensive mood. Where shall I meet you tonight? Shall I meet you on the dancing floor where excitement and drinks blunt my senses? In that fleeting moment while you are half enjoying the sweetness of love I feel your soft arms streaming with sadness. Shall I meet you in a deserted place where I hear the soundless noises of nothingness? Dear sweet little creature, I must take leave of you.
No, no I have only myself. My friends are so far away. The sounds of fire at night are just too much for me. Khải has gone without a word of farewell. Tạo has fallen in Đồng Xoài, his body mutilated beyond recognition in the foxhole. Vũ keeps going like a bird has been consuming me without respite. Morning, afternoon, evening, I keep asking myself like this: What must I do to escape the deepening sadness tearing my soul? And I am but a small sampan caught in the cateract of destiny.
The night walk tires me awfully. Of my life to me little remains, let me not be outcast from life' s feast.
Night is drawing to a close. Quickening my steps I depart after asting a glance at the sleepy housed town as mute as deserted tombs.
THE EAGLE & SLEEP
I live as in a dream. In lulls me with two wings of the eagle braving the wind so my lot is only tipsy minutes.
I turn with the invisible giant on top of which you are bursting with life. With my legs and hands and the brain and the heart -- possesions of a miserable creature, -- I rise up to catch the glory. But glory is only fit for a crystal clear soul while I am but a money minded merchant towards the end of a market day. No matter how strenu-
mous my search I fail and I fail. I keep walking without meeting a generous customer. On a certain day to come I will depart leaving my dust to life.
EVENING WHEN I COME BACK
Day ends. Across my sky passes the cloud of melancholy. I take the long way to the sad abode like a beast of affliction which has found nothing in its daily search.
With my two legs my two God given stick I carry my wretched body back to the station where I get some miserable food to get prepared for the next performance. I have tried more than once; Yet notwithstanding the oufit I remain my old self, a figure of sorrow. I have tried to find you many times, but you hide your heart like the door to a race, precious heritage so the visitor which I am loses heart in the red morass of evening.
In the sad, dreary days I set out searching medecine or begging pity from the crowd. But I went forth in the dead of winter when snow turned to ice and the fire kept flickering I have had only seen inclement weather -- Sadly feel my veins streaming down and I cast a glance at no-
thingness which brings tears to my eyes.
The sky is low on my head like a lid, a giant lid nothing will ever pierce. Surely it will not disintegrate under the blows from my hands which are short and frail.
Now the abode is within my sight. Streching my hands like two oars, I pace slowly at the mercy of the wind coming from behind.
HE OLD WOUND
One day in city I heard the cries screeching from every direction, wounding me to the depths of my being. I turn my face skyward, blue and mute like the wide opened eye bearing witness to my lifelong exile. In convulsions I recall you. Quickly I take my usual way back to where my poor soul my have some rest. But I find only strangers. Walls and trees begin to roam, blocking my way. In despair I search my soul your image for solace. I find to my aching surprise there is no trace left. And, I have to brave the cold autumnal winds tearing at my soul, carrying away the few fallen leaves on your old path. I say to myself I alone have to care for my thoughts of nothing and the pasage
of time. I tell you I will be stoic like Sisyphus. Nothing will bring tears to me, my blind pride in my ego I will always treasure. I have to finish the way where I have mursed so many pleasures, illusions and wild fantasies. Your past love shone bright within myself. But I was wrong: the cruel darkness did not fail to write its messge of destruction. So
you no longer blessed my faithful love. Something was wrong somewhere that I could not change. Holding back my tears I found your arms loosening and you were about to leave me. Because I lost you I lost all I had. Upon awakening with my scattered brain, I spend day after day sculpturing a wreath for my former self filled with incense.
Dusk saddenly falls on the empty city.
Stricken with fear I walk home to bandage the old wound which starts tormenting me again.
to be continued
mai trung tinh
dai nam van hien books, australia, 2014
prose poems by mai trung tinh
TRANSLATED BY DAM XUAN CAN
Dai Nam Van Hien Books, Australia, 2014.
RAIN
The blue sky is an ocean of silence where white sails glide happily.
On the land the trees flutter and dance in glee.
Along the margin of a sea rows of house cannot but be gay in such a company
When the sudden brutal wind rushes to the scene, the leaves quickly signal their defeat
The horrible black painted boats but it is too late already, so they are destroyed
Amid the invasion filled with threatening sounds I am a small child looking the sky
All myself I set out to seek a resting place, aching with my helplessness
Some bullets have raced through the air
Aware that I cannot do anything about it, my hands in my pockets, I wander about the hapless land.
NIGHT WIND
The light is suddenly on, and the wind turns suddenly cold. One day in my life takes wing and fly away. Why do not for no one I welcome no one. I am just an ill fated roamer. At a corner of the street that burns with all its red and blue signs alight, in a night of dust and wind. I walk about in a pensive mood. Where shall I meet you tonight? Shall I meet you on the dancing floor where excitement and drinks blunt my senses? In that fleeting moment while you are half enjoying the sweetness of love I feel your soft arms streaming with sadness. Shall I meet you in a deserted place where I hear the soundless noises of nothingness? Dear sweet little creature, I must take leave of you.
No, no I have only myself. My friends are so far away. The sounds of fire at night are just too much for me. Khải has gone without a word of farewell. Tạo has fallen in Đồng Xoài, his body mutilated beyond recognition in the foxhole. Vũ keeps going like a bird has been consuming me without respite. Morning, afternoon, evening, I keep asking myself like this: What must I do to escape the deepening sadness tearing my soul? And I am but a small sampan caught in the cateract of destiny.
The night walk tires me awfully. Of my life to me little remains, let me not be outcast from life' s feast.
Night is drawing to a close. Quickening my steps I depart after asting a glance at the sleepy housed town as mute as deserted tombs.
THE EAGLE & SLEEP
I live as in a dream. In lulls me with two wings of the eagle braving the wind so my lot is only tipsy minutes.
I turn with the invisible giant on top of which you are bursting with life. With my legs and hands and the brain and the heart -- possesions of a miserable creature, -- I rise up to catch the glory. But glory is only fit for a crystal clear soul while I am but a money minded merchant towards the end of a market day. No matter how strenu-
mous my search I fail and I fail. I keep walking without meeting a generous customer. On a certain day to come I will depart leaving my dust to life.
EVENING WHEN I COME BACK
Day ends. Across my sky passes the cloud of melancholy. I take the long way to the sad abode like a beast of affliction which has found nothing in its daily search.
With my two legs my two God given stick I carry my wretched body back to the station where I get some miserable food to get prepared for the next performance. I have tried more than once; Yet notwithstanding the oufit I remain my old self, a figure of sorrow. I have tried to find you many times, but you hide your heart like the door to a race, precious heritage so the visitor which I am loses heart in the red morass of evening.
In the sad, dreary days I set out searching medecine or begging pity from the crowd. But I went forth in the dead of winter when snow turned to ice and the fire kept flickering I have had only seen inclement weather -- Sadly feel my veins streaming down and I cast a glance at no-
thingness which brings tears to my eyes.
The sky is low on my head like a lid, a giant lid nothing will ever pierce. Surely it will not disintegrate under the blows from my hands which are short and frail.
Now the abode is within my sight. Streching my hands like two oars, I pace slowly at the mercy of the wind coming from behind.
HE OLD WOUND
One day in city I heard the cries screeching from every direction, wounding me to the depths of my being. I turn my face skyward, blue and mute like the wide opened eye bearing witness to my lifelong exile. In convulsions I recall you. Quickly I take my usual way back to where my poor soul my have some rest. But I find only strangers. Walls and trees begin to roam, blocking my way. In despair I search my soul your image for solace. I find to my aching surprise there is no trace left. And, I have to brave the cold autumnal winds tearing at my soul, carrying away the few fallen leaves on your old path. I say to myself I alone have to care for my thoughts of nothing and the pasage
of time. I tell you I will be stoic like Sisyphus. Nothing will bring tears to me, my blind pride in my ego I will always treasure. I have to finish the way where I have mursed so many pleasures, illusions and wild fantasies. Your past love shone bright within myself. But I was wrong: the cruel darkness did not fail to write its messge of destruction. So
you no longer blessed my faithful love. Something was wrong somewhere that I could not change. Holding back my tears I found your arms loosening and you were about to leave me. Because I lost you I lost all I had. Upon awakening with my scattered brain, I spend day after day sculpturing a wreath for my former self filled with incense.
Dusk saddenly falls on the empty city.
Stricken with fear I walk home to bandage the old wound which starts tormenting me again.
to be continued
mai trung tinh
Thứ Năm, 17 tháng 12, 2015
there are still flying clouds, a poem by trần thiện hiệp / translated by thiếu khanh ( art2all.net)
there are still flying clouds /
a poem by trần thiện hiệp.
(art2all.net)
there are still flying clouds
a poem by trần thiện hiệp
TRANSLATED BY THIẾU KHANH
trần thiện hiệp [1935- ] (left) + thế phong
Sipping coffee by the aquarium in early morning
Watching colorful ornamental fish swimming
To my serene mind with one more new day
Flowers in my garden pose in a poetical way
Stuffing tobacco into my pipe to look at the smoke
Recalling phases of my life with memories to evoke
In the morning I' d joined the armed force -- and soon
Deserted en mass and went into exile in the afternoon
How sad it is to make a living in the foreign land!
Looking for friends via literature I extend my hand
Pouring wine alone with all my melancholy
And my dear love for missing my home country
On understanding the meaning of life
Retiring to my homeland I engage no more strife
Opening my purse for charity
Hardly get drunk as I' ve changed for tea
How quick the time is as I find myself at eighty
Day by day it' s grateful that my life' s so happy
I enjoy what I have earned
Clouds, wind, and birds' songs as I' ve discerned
My gate may be closed, But my heart open
Visitors are welcome -- anyone
My wine is ready for our friendship and poetry
We would laugh in joys to the whole world happily.
trần thiện hiệp
1- 2015
(TRANSLATED BY THIÊU KHANH)
(art2all.net)
a poem by trần thiện hiệp.
(art2all.net)
there are still flying clouds
a poem by trần thiện hiệp
TRANSLATED BY THIẾU KHANH
Sipping coffee by the aquarium in early morning
Watching colorful ornamental fish swimming
To my serene mind with one more new day
Flowers in my garden pose in a poetical way
Stuffing tobacco into my pipe to look at the smoke
Recalling phases of my life with memories to evoke
In the morning I' d joined the armed force -- and soon
Deserted en mass and went into exile in the afternoon
How sad it is to make a living in the foreign land!
Looking for friends via literature I extend my hand
Pouring wine alone with all my melancholy
And my dear love for missing my home country
On understanding the meaning of life
Retiring to my homeland I engage no more strife
Opening my purse for charity
Hardly get drunk as I' ve changed for tea
How quick the time is as I find myself at eighty
Day by day it' s grateful that my life' s so happy
I enjoy what I have earned
Clouds, wind, and birds' songs as I' ve discerned
My gate may be closed, But my heart open
Visitors are welcome -- anyone
My wine is ready for our friendship and poetry
We would laugh in joys to the whole world happily.
trần thiện hiệp
1- 2015
(TRANSLATED BY THIÊU KHANH)
(art2all.net)
Thứ Tư, 16 tháng 12, 2015
episodes in a life + look quickly over your shoulder + farewell / poems by mai trung tinh ( dai nam van hien books, australia 2014)
prose poems by mai trung tinh - 2-
dai nam van hien books, australia, 2014)
prose poems by mai trung tinh
TRANSLATED BY DAM XUAN CAN
( Dai Nam Van Hien Books, Australia, 2014)
1. episodes in a life
1
In the time of grief I start on a journey to unvisited places within my soul for change. But after a many a search I am still my old
self -- a wheel with its immutable spokes turning round and round with the passing of my days.
2
The voice, once raised, becomes a curse and the laugh turns obscene. Shocked I slid to the terrain of silence, evaporating in
solitude.
3
You make your apparence in a halo. In my dusty place, on the edge of despair, I take it as a signpot towards salvation, Throwing away the meagre things so far collected I rush into your arms. I feel the honey from your lips trickle to the tip of my dried tongue. I seek a refuge resting on your breats which are to me a somnolent
continent when the sky falls off on the cracked earth. I gladly glide myself there, conjuring with your hair, finding an exit from time.
4
Phú Thọ in late afternoon is a sad road to the cemetery. Today the race course is deserted. Now that the winds keep blustering their threats the lawn lies tattered as if after a battle of the gladiators. I, a two year colt, already feel the hoofs tire. I start pacting slowly, recalling days of glory when I gleefully screamed amidst the chee-
ring of the the crowd. But now everything is gone and I am alone in the old places, haunted by past memories. Panic stricken, I am worn out already. Turning I perceive only darkness burning all around.
2. look quickly over your shoulder
I, the summer bird, stand shrieking, my tongue dried and my eyes red with longing. Time and again I raise my voice to ask my country back, but summer is about to end, and the chill of autumn and winter will settle in before long. Day and night I picture my land in its olf splendor. My wings are wind weary and my forehead wrinkles with age. The sky is blue, the cloud is white as it has been from time immemorial. Beset by despair I cast a glance around and hear the cicadae crying their fill. How long will it be like this, I sadly think.
Dusk. The blanket of fire over the skyline seems to start burning the citadels anew, It is hapless to go on so I raise my wings and fly away.
3. farewell
Love, sit down before my outgoing energy runs dry. For many years I have embarked myself in busimess, but it has been much of a disaster. What is present status is -- This is something I can never quite make out, never, never again. I recall the first days of our love when you were young, passionate and cheerful. I recall urging you to wear powder and perfume before we went out, in Springtime
Suddenly I realise with no end of suffering your once gorgeous beauty is no longer, with you, my love. I myself become an actor with no one to respond to me. My smiles will not be easily spent and my circle of friends will be smaller. Sky and earth will go in their course with flames licking everything and leaving myself scorched.
You are depressed about it all and I concede utter defeat. Fear stricken we cry for help but nothing comes out from the crowd except sarcastic laughs. Helpless, I start moving back to my sad abode. Only you are still around and already I have tired of your flabby flesh. Taking a deep sigh I wither into my meagre self.
poems by mai trung tinh
TRANSLATED FROM VIETNAMESE BY DAM XUAN CAN
dai nam van hien books, australia, 2014)
prose poems by mai trung tinh
TRANSLATED BY DAM XUAN CAN
( Dai Nam Van Hien Books, Australia, 2014)
1. episodes in a life
1
In the time of grief I start on a journey to unvisited places within my soul for change. But after a many a search I am still my old
self -- a wheel with its immutable spokes turning round and round with the passing of my days.
2
The voice, once raised, becomes a curse and the laugh turns obscene. Shocked I slid to the terrain of silence, evaporating in
solitude.
3
You make your apparence in a halo. In my dusty place, on the edge of despair, I take it as a signpot towards salvation, Throwing away the meagre things so far collected I rush into your arms. I feel the honey from your lips trickle to the tip of my dried tongue. I seek a refuge resting on your breats which are to me a somnolent
continent when the sky falls off on the cracked earth. I gladly glide myself there, conjuring with your hair, finding an exit from time.
4
Phú Thọ in late afternoon is a sad road to the cemetery. Today the race course is deserted. Now that the winds keep blustering their threats the lawn lies tattered as if after a battle of the gladiators. I, a two year colt, already feel the hoofs tire. I start pacting slowly, recalling days of glory when I gleefully screamed amidst the chee-
ring of the the crowd. But now everything is gone and I am alone in the old places, haunted by past memories. Panic stricken, I am worn out already. Turning I perceive only darkness burning all around.
2. look quickly over your shoulder
I, the summer bird, stand shrieking, my tongue dried and my eyes red with longing. Time and again I raise my voice to ask my country back, but summer is about to end, and the chill of autumn and winter will settle in before long. Day and night I picture my land in its olf splendor. My wings are wind weary and my forehead wrinkles with age. The sky is blue, the cloud is white as it has been from time immemorial. Beset by despair I cast a glance around and hear the cicadae crying their fill. How long will it be like this, I sadly think.
Dusk. The blanket of fire over the skyline seems to start burning the citadels anew, It is hapless to go on so I raise my wings and fly away.
3. farewell
Love, sit down before my outgoing energy runs dry. For many years I have embarked myself in busimess, but it has been much of a disaster. What is present status is -- This is something I can never quite make out, never, never again. I recall the first days of our love when you were young, passionate and cheerful. I recall urging you to wear powder and perfume before we went out, in Springtime
Suddenly I realise with no end of suffering your once gorgeous beauty is no longer, with you, my love. I myself become an actor with no one to respond to me. My smiles will not be easily spent and my circle of friends will be smaller. Sky and earth will go in their course with flames licking everything and leaving myself scorched.
You are depressed about it all and I concede utter defeat. Fear stricken we cry for help but nothing comes out from the crowd except sarcastic laughs. Helpless, I start moving back to my sad abode. Only you are still around and already I have tired of your flabby flesh. Taking a deep sigh I wither into my meagre self.
poems by mai trung tinh
TRANSLATED FROM VIETNAMESE BY DAM XUAN CAN
Thứ Bảy, 12 tháng 12, 2015
lines on a birthday + new year' s eve poems by mai trung tinh / translated by dam xuan can ( MAI TRUNG TINH/ PROSE POEMS / Dai Nam Van Hien Books, Australia 2014)
lines on birthday + new year eve
mai trung tinh/ prose poems
dai nam van hien books, australia 2914
lines of birthday
+ new year eve
poems by mai trung tinh
TRANSLATED BY DAM XUAN CAN
1. LINES OF BIRTHDAY
1
Day follows night as one coin piles on another
And I, a seasoned player, am ready to bet all I have
Knowing any refusal is untimely I stay until the very end
of the game
No matter what happens to my meagre self
My nerves and my own existence, I feel no tiredness
In following the throwing of the coin
Once I staked my lot hoping for a spectacular win
Yet I lost miserably
You have come as a race precious heritage
Which I wish to keep for myself forever
Just as a conscientious stone cutter fights time with marble
I devote myself to beautifying you
All of sudden, one evening there rose a storm
All the ill wind blew coldly around the hall of splendor
The plaster is steady falling off the pillars
Surely the wind will not fail to tear to shreds every last
carving on the wall
Sadly I think the end is near
Eargely I throw myself again in the game
As I look up at the eternal coin thrower
My blood freezes
Sweating coldly, my nerves gone, I take a final bet
And ignore what comes next
2
Over twenty years have flitted past as the sudden wind at
the turn of season. A leaf rises up and falls down, but at
the end is flown away all the same. The first sorrow I have cherished since I turned a young man become an eternal wound. Perhaps I will have to take it as hereditary sickness. Time and again, I shudder as if it sears my flesh. I can sit in wait for a brighter day, my body ageing, my veins greening. This will go on, I say to myself, until I fall like the dying moon.
Today is my birthday, I knock upon the soul' s door yearning for a dialogue. The sound is not cheerful, so the leaves and the flower in the garden of my memory turn away. I call loudly, but the echo loses itself in eternity until it fingers around the old stone you once
sat on. You have left and I cannot summon you back. The young saplings planted in rows will grow till they becomes trees of farewell. You have risen up like a phoenix, and I have been carried by a torrent, never able to turn back to follow your endless fight. Here and now I set about a futile search among nameless ruins.
The room is cold and dark like a cave.
I sit here to feel my own blood streaming.
Looking at my hands I stretch the fingers to see if I am still alive.
What I will do, what will I have to do?
How long will I be, and what will become of me ?
2. NEW YEAR EVE
New Year' s Eve and a sadness tingles myself. I put on a winte coat, go to a small shop, hide in a quiet corner, and light a cigarette. Time is slow and monotones as the stifled sound of water boiling in the kettle on the fire place nearby. My thoughts are suddenly turned to the day when I was young, when I fell madly in love with you. In the ephemeral windy scene I take off my shoes and garments, sit to wait for nothing, still as a tomb. I ask myself why you have not come back for a last visit as I start a life of seclusion, when I am the one to hear the anguished sounds on the coffin on burial day.
It almost late in the night. As for me, I am still here with lonely smoke languidly moving on my pale, withered visage. I keep telling myself, you must come, oh yes, you must come. I will keep myself waiting even if I have to spend to the last breath, even if dawn after dawn, the sun will torment me with its whip of fire battering on my face, and scare me back to to the sad abode. I wait for you just as I keep living day after day in despair. Be kind to me, lull me into an illusion of repose.
Since time unknown my heart has been like a fall the sound of which will still be heard years from now, so you cannot avoid me for long. You have come and I look at you through a screen of smoke which only make you loveller. In the haughty way of an aristocrat I welcome you into my life ... Within a minute I am inconsolable sorrow. The lingering smoke has whitened your head of hair. I now think of descending into the abyss muted. Frightened, I run out, into the spreading darkness. Awkwardly, I brush against a decrepit, white haired woman who is begging for her day-to-day existence ...
mai trung tinh
(p.4- 7 MAI TRUNG TINH/ PROSE POEMS)
about the poet
Born Hanoi 1937. Educated Chu Van An High School,
and Faculty of Letters, Saigon. Is by many considered
to be one of the most distinguished poets of the free
verse movement in Vietnam.
Published 3 books of poems from 1900 to 1869. His
BEYOND EDEN (1962) and PROSE POEMS (1969)
have been widely acclaimed .
Won National Literature in Poetry . (1960-1961.)
Taught literature at Cao Thang High School, Saigon
(1958- 1963.)
At the time of this publication he was serving as a
Pschywar officer in the Army of the Republic of Vietnam.
Died Maryland 2002.
mai trung tinh/ prose poems
dai nam van hien books, australia 2914
lines of birthday
+ new year eve
poems by mai trung tinh
TRANSLATED BY DAM XUAN CAN
mai trung tinh
[ i.e. nguyễn thiệu hùng 1937- maryland 2002]
(photo (saigon 1967): internet)
1. LINES OF BIRTHDAY
1
Day follows night as one coin piles on another
And I, a seasoned player, am ready to bet all I have
Knowing any refusal is untimely I stay until the very end
of the game
No matter what happens to my meagre self
My nerves and my own existence, I feel no tiredness
In following the throwing of the coin
Once I staked my lot hoping for a spectacular win
Yet I lost miserably
You have come as a race precious heritage
Which I wish to keep for myself forever
Just as a conscientious stone cutter fights time with marble
I devote myself to beautifying you
All of sudden, one evening there rose a storm
All the ill wind blew coldly around the hall of splendor
The plaster is steady falling off the pillars
Surely the wind will not fail to tear to shreds every last
carving on the wall
Sadly I think the end is near
Eargely I throw myself again in the game
As I look up at the eternal coin thrower
My blood freezes
Sweating coldly, my nerves gone, I take a final bet
And ignore what comes next
2
Over twenty years have flitted past as the sudden wind at
the turn of season. A leaf rises up and falls down, but at
the end is flown away all the same. The first sorrow I have cherished since I turned a young man become an eternal wound. Perhaps I will have to take it as hereditary sickness. Time and again, I shudder as if it sears my flesh. I can sit in wait for a brighter day, my body ageing, my veins greening. This will go on, I say to myself, until I fall like the dying moon.
Today is my birthday, I knock upon the soul' s door yearning for a dialogue. The sound is not cheerful, so the leaves and the flower in the garden of my memory turn away. I call loudly, but the echo loses itself in eternity until it fingers around the old stone you once
sat on. You have left and I cannot summon you back. The young saplings planted in rows will grow till they becomes trees of farewell. You have risen up like a phoenix, and I have been carried by a torrent, never able to turn back to follow your endless fight. Here and now I set about a futile search among nameless ruins.
The room is cold and dark like a cave.
I sit here to feel my own blood streaming.
Looking at my hands I stretch the fingers to see if I am still alive.
What I will do, what will I have to do?
How long will I be, and what will become of me ?
2. NEW YEAR EVE
New Year' s Eve and a sadness tingles myself. I put on a winte coat, go to a small shop, hide in a quiet corner, and light a cigarette. Time is slow and monotones as the stifled sound of water boiling in the kettle on the fire place nearby. My thoughts are suddenly turned to the day when I was young, when I fell madly in love with you. In the ephemeral windy scene I take off my shoes and garments, sit to wait for nothing, still as a tomb. I ask myself why you have not come back for a last visit as I start a life of seclusion, when I am the one to hear the anguished sounds on the coffin on burial day.
It almost late in the night. As for me, I am still here with lonely smoke languidly moving on my pale, withered visage. I keep telling myself, you must come, oh yes, you must come. I will keep myself waiting even if I have to spend to the last breath, even if dawn after dawn, the sun will torment me with its whip of fire battering on my face, and scare me back to to the sad abode. I wait for you just as I keep living day after day in despair. Be kind to me, lull me into an illusion of repose.
Since time unknown my heart has been like a fall the sound of which will still be heard years from now, so you cannot avoid me for long. You have come and I look at you through a screen of smoke which only make you loveller. In the haughty way of an aristocrat I welcome you into my life ... Within a minute I am inconsolable sorrow. The lingering smoke has whitened your head of hair. I now think of descending into the abyss muted. Frightened, I run out, into the spreading darkness. Awkwardly, I brush against a decrepit, white haired woman who is begging for her day-to-day existence ...
mai trung tinh
(p.4- 7 MAI TRUNG TINH/ PROSE POEMS)
about the poet
Born Hanoi 1937. Educated Chu Van An High School,
and Faculty of Letters, Saigon. Is by many considered
to be one of the most distinguished poets of the free
verse movement in Vietnam.
Published 3 books of poems from 1900 to 1869. His
BEYOND EDEN (1962) and PROSE POEMS (1969)
have been widely acclaimed .
Won National Literature in Poetry . (1960-1961.)
Taught literature at Cao Thang High School, Saigon
(1958- 1963.)
At the time of this publication he was serving as a
Pschywar officer in the Army of the Republic of Vietnam.
Died Maryland 2002.
Chủ Nhật, 6 tháng 12, 2015
robert frost short poems ( source: Short.Poems .org)
robert frost short poems
(Short.Poems. org)
Robert Frost Short Poems
robert frost [i.e. robert lee frost 1870- 1963]
Robert Frost (March 26/1870 -- Jan.29/1963) was an American poet. He is highly regarded for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of rural life of American colloquial speech. ... One of the most popular and critically respected American poets of his generation, Frost was honored frequently during his lifetime receiving four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry.
1. Now Close the Window
Now close the window and hush all the fields:
If the tree must, let them silently toss,
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my lost,
It will be long ere the marshes resume,
It will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But she all wind- stirred.
- ROBERT FROST
2. A Patch of Old Snow
There' s a patch of old snow in the corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow- away paper in the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is specked with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I' ve forgotten --
If I never read it,
- ROBERT FROST
3. A Time to Talk
When a friend calls me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don' t stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven' t hoed,
And shout from where I am, 'What is it'
No, not as there is a time talk,
I thurst my hoe in the mellow fround,
Blade- end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.
- ROBERT FROST
4. Fire and Ice
Some says the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice,
From what I' ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great And would suffice.
- ROBERT FROST
5. Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature' s first green is old,
Her herdest hue to hold,
Her early leaf' s a flower,
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to stay
Nothing gold can stay.
- ROBERT FROST
(source: Short Poems. org)
vài bài các tác giả; PHẠM DUY+ MAI TRUNG TĨNH+ TRẦN THIỆN HIỆP+ ROBERT FROST
đã dăng trên blog Thephong' s Poems ( 2015.)
( 25 APRIL, 2018)
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