1.
the poem falling
on the cold surface of lake Lak

in the middle of the night
in deep darkness is the lake
farmers singing in the field
scattered light far away at the top of the hill
she’s dreaming of a wonderful banquet

singing not in a karaoke bar
there’s death in the clouds
there’s fear in the night
sirens and passing traffic
dropping off cases of Larue

dead people under their shrouds
continues to celebrate
their sins forgotten

the dead continues to passionately pray in the forest
they’re dancing around a fire where the MC is holding a white candle
he invites everyone to drink

the poem continues to shift the grounds of the forest
sickly children playing the game Chơi U
they’re breathlessly wrapped around each other’s arms after all the running
the cause of the small lump in her throat and and of those in their graves
those who had just passed away

.

gosh the tearful abandoned land
the forest sighing
maddening night winds through the branches
hell and its hair down flying free from the branches

within the mires are the rising cries
grey skies snubbing out burning lights
exhausting drowsiness

the traveller’s eyes sees
the agony
burning throbbing flames
peaking oblivion

2.
the poem
on the cold watery surface of lake Lak (2)

the gate of dreams is guarded by the gods
so you must live on
not sure for how many more lifetimes
struggling, singing, crying, screaming, fighting for your life
before dawn they bludgeon you to the point of madness
out of fear

you’re spinning like the earth
in a single spin and it’s light
in a single flame is the sky
you are the call of the copper gong
those you invited to drink with you last night
even though you’ve forgotten, they remembered
they turned up

you are a dream like the night is yawning
struggling through terror alone, unbeknownst to all
you are a shining halo
you are ageless

I have drifted along with you at the end of the horizon
flickering thunderous threatening grey clouds
echoing cries
ghosts rising from the blue waters of Tarlac

you are swift like a deer trying to escape a tiger
through the untouched forest
now scattered and thin like mother’s grey hair
the grass is a portrait of your identification
the hunt is rampant, the rampant fear
not a single wandering soul is left in the forest
like fate, you ran away from the dry branches

stumbling over the mountains
you are lost in the caves
you’re the shrubs of the highlands
drinking from the springs
through the mires
like grass

and the mires are now in your hot burning eyes
you’re cursed
you can now see what mother no longer wants to see

on top of the imperial hill of the emperor long ago
now run down and abandoned with no one sweeping its hallways
steps covered with springtime
the youth of the empress Mộng Điệp

you step over a dais lost of its gods
the forest has been emptied of ghost and demons
abandoned graves void of wine and spirit
where the moon rises from the valley
where the moonlight is a blanket over the lake
the unbearable mysterious beauty of it all
overwhelms you as you sat there
and remember

at the front door of the longhouse you’re startled
like the dry and curled up grass in field
on the ladder is a dead tortoise
and a breathless turtle at one pillar of the house
the curse of the land
fossilised into Bazan red dust
archaeological remains

you have cried at the graves
watched the souls leaving you
like in history, the passing of the ages
forgotten emperors

you’re flying over the vats of wine full of fear
Yang’s wrath
where the undefined jokes are scattered like dust over the sad smoked stained stoves
where the curse of the land is cremated my the sun
but refused to be desolate
old age is unpredictable
the emperor will eventually die
but you don’t know how to be tired
and that is your mistake

even after all the Pơtao Apui – Pơtao Êa have sat on the golden jewelled encrusted dias
sword dance and rainmakers
forming the wind with wave of their shields
but no one could account for all the harvests
old age is like the fruits ripening on the branches
the fall of history is inevitable
gosh, the laden sins of the spirit
and the destruction is great

the Creature’s pity couldn’t possibly be the consolation prize
your rest cannot be found in the graves of your forefathers
time is flapping its wings
the dark is devastating inside mother’s gùi

you’re flying over the fields on your way to the Garden of Eden
but the ghosts are the ones holding the keys to the gate of heaven
residing in the crescent moon are the gods
like the mark of a ranger’s axe

you belong to the night night belonging to mother
mother living the multiplication of our life
fighting, striving, oh the cries
make her songs the offerings to the sky
to cook to squeeze out the bitter juices of eggplants
salty still after rinsing
riding the the elephants
stand at the gate of the palaces of kings
screaming out of terror


3.
the poem falling over lake Lak

gold shimmering opulence
swamps full of light
Mnong O, so like a dream?

so dreamy Yersin had mistaken it for a mirage
suspending soundly the night
where resides the homes steep in flood and deluge
pots of terracotta turning into the dawn of adventures

where the anger of Krông-nô is poured into the opening of Krông-ana
the fog weepy for the tranquillity of the land beneath the flood

swamps
in the maddening moments
meaningless truths
where passersby took ivory down to Phan Rang to exchange for salt
1 pair of husks for 1 gùi full of salt
as salty as the winter

desperate crazy dreams radiating light
across the horizon blinding humanity
the unexplained daggers
Yersin not once but twice injured
twice sitting there drinking
like any other dream, the overwhelming memories so
dreamy O people of Mnong

O people of Mnong do you at all dream?
not of the opulent palaces
there in dreamy Dalat
where the grassy eaves touches the ground couldn’t be bothered about anything
as long as there is the rise of fairness
over the top of her alluring home and grassy terraces in the field
where the swamps are as fragrant as the smell of her skin
where the leaves high up in the sky once upon a time wandered
beneath the low grass eaves
where they make rice
embroidered weaved baskets and gùi
daydreaming all day composing poetry as you open your eyes
where Ot-Nrông is passed on from one generation to the next
where an epic tale has the power to make evil
submit
or at least deters them

where there are men with long beards
commands out of control young men
broken people, those with hairy faces
with their heads buried in their mother’s chest

where there is history of invasion
when the xà-gạc was stained with blood

oh the people in those shimmering swamps
I had barely a chance to catch a glimpse of any god
but in my imagination
the carved figures guarding the tombs are on their knees like the elephants
clear in my mind is the fear and respect
restless is the eternal sleep of passing kings
arrows
hunted not only people and wild beast

tonight the MC will light a fire
I will fan the weak glowing amber coal
though brilliant in my mind
and I will sit there and remember
the hundred and hundreds of years legend residing
in the nights full of tears

O my people
come to me clandestinely like a December fog in night
I will hide you
surround you with fear

we will bang each other silly like sadists
plagiarism has no place in such a time
making money and doing charity is the only thing on our mind

a country sick of hearing about charity
charitable people
complaining about the lies and deceit
watch doctors feed their patients out of their own money
thirty thousand dong
to straight after pocket envelopes with three million dong
the evil inside love
witches and angels
O sacred home O epic tale
bearing the dawn of summer amidst a cold winter
everyone had to leave the house
useless flames stirring under the timber floor
where poisonous mushrooms are thriving and rocks bloom
where the maddening truth had swallow you whole like a flame

where there’s a bridge over a dried up riverbed
exposed like the chasm of a tomb
the chaos brought on by the damp
the gods exposed to the sunlight
distant and praying
choking are the bamboo straws in a vat of wine
even the moonlight
and those they claimed to have liberate you into the dark

watchful eyes
as we are singing about the future
with the curses of highrising homes
bats flying closer and closer to the ground
as the crowd retreat
including those who thought they are artists
the poems as fluffy as clouds
buckling beneath the moon
dormant like a volcano
caves cutting into her
more vast than the sound of the wind

replying to the wind are the thin half fed elephants
moving as slowly as mother ageing in time


4.
a poem falling on lake Lak
(or an epic poem about the Mnong)

.
we all know
the forest have wings in the night
golden steps
up the eaves as high as steeples

we all know
trees falls
only by the incantation of the sharman on his knees
guiding the trees home
causing the sleeplessness of all ten Mnong hamlets

hamlet not village
making even the moon sad
trying to touch such intangible emptiness
you had accidentally allowed the rain to touch those tantalising fingers
during our separation

hamlet not village
don’t be sad
the day betrayal is on the tip of our tongue
asking yourself when you’ll have to climb the wall to escape
leave my lips behind in the thick clouds

tonight the rain are not just clouds, they are a pair of eyes
looking for a way to climb the wall to escape
please lock me up because the length of my pants is only up to my knees
revealing too much flesh
please lock me up because I am forcing the moon to
acknowledge the existence of the two of us
they should lock lock you up my love because you betrayed the love of a boy
who only yesterday had looked at you and smiled dearest
please lock me up because I’m trapped
inside your body my love

lock you up because you are guilty dearest
a poor country supporting too many poet
dreamers throwing their weight around
entitlement blaming anyone else
except themselves

Where did these strangers come from?
lecturing us on their high horse
looking down at us through their rosy glasses
but be careful of what’s in the fog, be careful of what’s hidden in shadows at night
no one wants to ignore the cries
though dare they call out the name of the monster
sucking dry the blood of the people

it’s time the country lockdown the poet
so he can stay locked up inside his red room
so all the nurses in their white uniform may
treat his fog paranoia
night paranoia
he’s frightened of everything
but when will he be paranoid of all the crime
behind all the songs
all the reformed screaming and shouting

we will stab him with a long needle
inject him with expired vaccines
until he has no desire to be reformed
instead of plagiarising he will speak the truth
and look into the smoked burned
eyes of the people

in the dark
know that there’s blood on the floor, blood on the door
know that a young soldier had hung himself
know that there are those who have lost everything
jumping off bridges, knows the pain of hunger
know how to talk, know how to hoot like an owl as lowly
and as deeply

know what price those who had made this hell must pay
the rows of vegetations and innocent rice terraces in ashes
the long rows of people bowing their heads to crawl in a cave
dreamy Mnong volcanic rocks
and volcanoes

the old stories
the people of Mnong uses them in songs
like the epic tale no one bothers to discern
oh Mnong your heart have been pierced by five arrows
shot down by oblivion
six bullets

.
now that you’re dead
what can you say now
What is there left to say or sound when even death is challenged?
did I not buried you
twenty years ago?

like a weak smile
like weed on the side of the road
oh this human body of mine, sleep
on this dust covered bed
cover it with your fear and decay

oh sleep, my friend sleep
you must bear your unbearable struggle
you must accept cunning
when they remove the old clothes on your body
for the last time

.
far far away
we are eunuchs
in an imperial city full of historians
fortune tellers and street performers

we do not have name or station
like what all the elephants have left with are tears
the tears of all the hired help

.
dearest esteemed leader of mine
gosh you are the epitome of greatness
as brilliant as the star across the sky
we’re parading inside the Palais de Justice
the glorious opulent light

hovering above our head the truth is screaming and intact
you have a gift from heaven
so people may know that
God is the Creator of destiny

you were sad that night
and tired, that night
but perhaps because you couldn’t grasp
the reason for your sadness then
as the people of Mnong gar couldn’t understand why the people of Mnong pré
continued to love

sadness can not be drowned out by alcohol
nor could it be discarded through prayers
it’s a caravan of people confined by death
chased by ghost in the desert
haunted by regret

but you have cried out
and have all came
a caravan of people who appeared to be dead
heading towards rebirth
out from the sad and sombre caves

you sang to us
and we were proud
because we were on the side of tears

by consuming the clouds
we drank one cup of brilliant
sunlight

wrapping ourselves in another blanket is how we overcome the chill
we’re not naked in a skirt
we’re decorated with ornaments
bronze arms as hot as our lover

I’ll let you in on a secret
when I take up her mother’s name
begging everyone’s pardon, the matriarchal reigns
the dead are shaking
the dead are sitting up, they are rising
inside my battered heart

from my throat
comes flying out is the fear
emptiness in tired eyes
I’ve turned into a hopeless wanderer
I am hungry and I am ashamed

in the end the warhorse in steel turned up
you abandoned everything and left with your despicable heart
slipping off one side of the sun
and night was dropped
like a crumbling wall

heaven and earth separated by a hug
night piled up at the front door
darkness piled one on top of another comes down crashing
like the tombstones from the top of a mountain

the night ends in clouds
steeped in the colours of flower petals
lost in the dark as the day gives light

the night is lost, the day is also lost
only our memories will take us back
by waiting for the night to die
the sun dawns over one’s head each night
light is the cause of all the shadows

so that by noon you can fill everyone’s heart
with fear and sadness
people see more than they should

God will bless you with a flame at noon
the sun in the evening, breakfast in the morning
your light turning into homes and humanity
into bitterness
into grey rock boulders
and the colour grey is born
like the tiredness quietly slipping into the veins of the sun

now it’s a look that could
make the sun get lost in the hills
now, black
making life wait for a brilliant moment
now darkness
making peaceful moments
now separation
don’t ask me why they shatter
and break with their sound echoing as they fall
into silence

one night perhaps in the future remember
you had barely escaped from Death’s scythe
and carved into the wall of darkness
the imagery with two shadows
a mixture of colours on a crumbling pillow

you’re admiring this imagery
consuming it in lonely nights
you’re a little bird
your birdsong is as chilly as winter
your laughter as hot as a log fire
you drink and burp, as though
you’re human
safeguarding faith inside destiny
stirring tales of the soul
painful deaths
you’re the cause of their tears and lowered heads

you erect the palaces
shimmering gold staircase
in one night with the mystery of life and death
you tell me you will die alone
like a forgotten concubine

winter alone as though you are winter
winter telling me that it will die alone
night like one night in any night
night telling me it will persist in a world
stripped bare and shivering with the cold

my heart fading with the dying foliage
falling with the rain
cold night after night
warm by the summer heat
to the point of an awakening thought

that I will never die
I will be nobody
I will not be missed
like those who are gone
please let them rest in peace

but I’m shaking through all the verses
the scar, a burden for so many years
I am steeped in blood
writing poetry is the destruction of my life

when I call, and there is no answer
I will know then all is lost
the sun has set
bled along with all the shredded light

in a dark corner
imagine a man frantic and going mad
not knowing if he should place her down on the grass
dig into her and sucking, licking her breast
until she no longer has any strength left

Mnong you are the air, you are the spirit
you are the Atman of the cosmos
to the very end of Brahman

the greatness of your people
draping across the length of the earth
smiling, with your right hand on your chest
sings the national anthem in one voice
5.
a poem falling on lake Lak
(or an epic poem about the Mnong)

.

there’s a river. spilling into the swamps. rain. the tip of its tongue licking a cold winter.

there’s a boulder on the verandah that looks like an old fallen elephant. the tip of it broke into pieces, forming thousands and thousands of cracks and painful fractures.

there’s a forest like a small hamlet imprisoned by winter.

in the forest the elephant wandered around ending up its wandering days in a yard full of sunlight. there, the curling ivory husks looked like severed arms reaching for the sky, trying to embrace still a land of mystery and wonder.

and for a long time in a shredded dream, an elephant calf was born. it died because its mother had the permission to be a mother.

when an elephant dies, the sun must set, the clouds cry, you as the people of Mnong must remain silent, mother elephant losing its footing. stumbling it would end up by a rapid. it waits for a Hero to appear to rescue the elephant calf.

while the Hero watches the elephant disappear amongst the ancient trees, he’s waiting for the elephant to appear on the other side of the river from where he stood. Hoàng Cầm once out of despair lost a hand in the muddy water at lake Lak. Yersin was injured twice here on his way to Ama-Jhao for a drink.

the river running against the gods of the electrical dam just for fun, it’s dancing on a giant boulder forming a waterfall in the rapids. it slithers rapidly like a snake. the Hero tries to stand his ground but falls as he wades through the river. the water is so cold that he loses all his senses. the Hero swallows a gulp of water before he continues to fight the rapid, but all he does is create these broken pieces of the world.

he’s shouting: save the elephant. when dusk turns into night, the elephant’s shadow looming against the sky, blanketing its siblings, the human race. unlike the sacred Indian cow or the cat in Egypt, the people of Mnong do not worship elephants like gods; they consider them as part of the family. in a family, fathers’ calls his elephant his “son” , mothers’ calls her elephant “daughter”, and mothers’ children and elephants are siblings.

the river when it escapes the concrete electrical dam, the imprisoned fear disappears, it dives with all its might into a dream about the sea. the Hero is slightly afraid, because vast is the sea that did once swallow the sun whole, the goddess that Pơ-tao long ago loved and recklessly gave up his life for her, dropping and losing even his magic dagger. the Hero tries to swim against the current, and catches the sight of the soul of a man about to die drifting out towards the sea. but unlike the Hero the spirit of the dead man is heading towards the sun.

the Hero knew nothing about the millions and millions of people who died at sea and they are now free throughout the nine levels of the sky.

before sinking, the Hero was taken aback by the sight of the looming elephant taking up the entire sky, its voice booming and its eyes on fire. trying for the last time to sing a song about the incredible strength of elephants, defending the village and hamlets in all their victories. elephants that had made history bled in the battles they had spearheaded, and history had made the heroes return to the fields after the battle, rarely do they stay back and hide in the stinky palaces and royal courts.

both the Hero and elephant are being chased out of the forest of their home, stumbling through a dream, the dreamy dreams of the Mnong, a place where they have lived with elephants for more than a thousand years.

The Mnong people take care of their elephants the way they take care of their lovers. lowering her husks, she waits for him, her carer to throw a scoop of water at her, so she can wash her feet. her trunk swaying in the river. moving in a way that makes sures that both elephant and man may watch out for each other. a thousand years connection that has been there long before the strangers turned up. resounding are the sounds of the cymbals and gongs, when father prays for the health of the elephants. a song about how the people of the Mnong bow to the sun and at night the Mnong bow to the moon:

– the clouds are bowing, no one is running or hiding.

you’re a child, what can you see? a Chinese motorcycle flipped over on bunches of vegetables as old as Mother. but all the clouds could do is curl up staring at the ground, because it’s the air, it’s the sign of the times. history had abandoned and forgotten about the elephants beyond the victories.

there’s a forest between two hamlets
in this village, a revolution already in the past
what’s old has turned into darkness, nearly a row of homes
was abandoned.

you’re there to pick up the fear
the way people pick mushrooms
but you have been tricked

this is not a poem
you are just simply heading closer towards the truth
and the horror of it
causes you to disappear

you will not tell everyone
where it is
the darkness of the forest
where light cannot leave a mark
interactions full of ghosts, paradise full of leaves
and you’re attentive
you’re listening

because it’s a poem
about trees
like the trees they harvest wood from still
the source of musical instruments
you’re playing each note
each pain each individual loneliness

and you’re discarded
like a hymn after mass
without the need of the ranger’s axe…



6.
the poem on the cold glassy surface of lake Lak
(or an epic poem about the people of Mnong)

.

when you love oh Mnong you do not eat anything spicy and hot
because the wedding itself is bitter
you ran away because you’re forced to be a bride
but in the end you are always in each other arms
even as a widow you belong to each other

Mnong
the volcano turning you into ashes
taking your last breath in an epic tale
right or wrong, not two
but you will always choose one

some thought you had no other choice
it’s rather selfish. even though you’re always fair. you’re in the middle a hearing
for that very reason.

a king is not necessary because you have your own laws
where does the text stop. you’re binding the incantations together, call them ót-nrông
as though you are half between dreams and wakefulness

Are we not like verses in an epic poem?

mother, it was not my fault
you’re tired. you tried your best to continued
you remember everything, while “everything” is on fire. the soul anchor you onto everything that has turned into ashes, and you’re not afraid
when high heaven raises the bar of sadness
the entire hamlet is running and reminiscing on the past
as though history has more than one god
now all you have to do is to kneel down and worship the one God each new dawn

you feel as though the world has been turned upside down
your tears fall. you leave the people with despair and regret
your love is precarious, hurtful and dangerous
who will be happy once the sun has set?
you’re playing around with the words ignoring grammar
will you fail then in telling the epic poem?

red. black. white fire
your blue tunic
once upon a time was black and red
dragged through the mud to collect ox horns
drenched in the drizzle mucking around crying
caught eels found the fishes
dragged the tomb idols with a heavy heart
ran in one breath from Lak to Buôn Đôn
nine levels of knives cutting into your soul
met the Laotian met the Hmong
loved the Funan smelt flowers gathered honey
blown out the candles as you together as one

in the dark your soul is not lost
you’re racing in a vehicle of light through the clouds
your feet on the ground through the sand and soil, the moon
chasing after the memories of when you ran away
clouds drawn towards the light want to embrace the sun. you left your heart on the verandah of the longhouse, hoping, one day, your old lover will come back to say goodbye. in silence. it seemed I have mistakenly placed it in the palm of your hand full of moonlight. accept the gift from a woman you refuse to love

sure you’re stuck like the yearning in one’s mind
sure you would hang around like a stain on a shirt
you figured you had once overcame it
but until now could not escape it

you spit out the sanctified holiness. the cool breeze on your skin. the sound of the wind through the canopy.
you hoped would save this world without the need for spells and incantations

celebrated in the Tăm Blang M’prang festivals
partied said goodbyes cried
erected cây nêu to welcome the good spirits (tall bamboo sticks decorated with lanterns)
clarity and brilliance are welcomed to stay

but dear Yàng
no one is accusing you of anything. to you life and death now has no meaning. it could take away your soul because you’re human. light. darkness. balance. gave you a living. faith is reserved for you, more significant than any kind of pain

please, forgive me
you have to step into a circle of fire
so the MC could serve you a drink
the pompousness of ceremony
while the elephants are chopping on watermelons

so your prayer may save this world
please look at the leaf, it will soon have to leave. Death will eventually come for all of us. and the pain will be excruciatingly beautiful, vigorous, and frightful
ashes to ashes to nothing as the leaves goes wandering

I will love you until there’s no one left next to you
I’m sorry…

I don’t have enough money for a wedding, mother needs us to celebrate first Kep-môi then Dạm but I only have enough money for one copper bangle for your wrist
wait for the matchmaker to pull you down
as I flip the blanket over to the sound of clapping and cheering

the adulterers have been burned to ashes
we will never get a divorce
we still have our children
may we burn into ashes together with the sharman’s paper altar

7.
on the cold glassy surface of lake Lak
(or an epic poem about the people of Mnong)

.

each drop of water was once a god
a leaf represents a god
humanity stands for dreams
like her heart is a symbol of love

before there were philosophers
symbolistic of how at the very least you have turned into a religion
chasing all the ghosts away

symbolistic of how at the very least you have formed a nation
to then merge into nationalism

your symbolism
the king is no different to a farmer
same tradition same language
the king is no different to a farmer
play the same role with the same responsibility
the role for “all”

like the symbolism for “all” asking themselves
why we are like a cage
and a cage means being stuck
you’re inside the door of the longhouse

the door representing a face
like the moon, the moon is the face of humanity
a human face for each love affair
symbolism is a love affair
like a hunter in the middle of hunting

she is the hunter
and you ask yourself why a fox, like tiger understands the fact
that they are the same as a rabbit? you fall into their trap
because she represents a rabbit

a rabbit is not a symbol of peace
not because it’s smart
it’s innocence can not avoid the bloodshed
we’re a caterpillar
she’s a symbol of a caterpillar curled up inside life

If life is a prison, then what would a prison symbolise?
it’s used to store everything
inside it and left to starve to death and die
without a voice
it keeps everyone out of reach
all we can do is visit

how may the representation of religion destroy
war and a kind of love that nurtures hate
Why are we blind like a bat and deaf like a fish?

land and country is one
home and family is one
we should draw a nation
as one in tears out of national pride

let’s draw from the symbolism
a shattered mirror as broken to then be whole again
representing the faces in green hues of youth
only the eyes are dark and deep

you look at the broken pieces of those
who were once human
once human until the day they die
death is not the end
karma turning one into an ant an insect
Where’s there left to hide?

like the way you ran away from reincarnation
in a dash, the struggle at the end is death
inside symbolism death just means the end
no more mixing the colour of new green leaves with red

but a nation has many colours
and a nation also has many nationality
each person is a broken piece
broken pieces forming a government
the water in the water bay you used to bathe the elephants

the elephant trunk rolls up like sadness
you are the comfort in each small moment
an elephant has no scar
just salty water in its eyes
raining

now we begin
to look for people that will never go missing
they only say goodbye
the way the sun disappears in the rain

8.
on the cold glassy surface of lake Lak
(or an epic poem about the people of Mnong)

.
Ót N’rông
the Mnong people are all the rivers encompassing
as sad as deer horn fortified liquor in one’s blood

you’re sombre, you’re the arts, tweeting bird songs, beyond meaning
I’m looking for you in the dark of night
because of the burdening cravings of the flesh
I am blind

blind but my eyes are wide opened
eyes turning darker and darker into blackness
that feeling just before passing out
eyes catching a glimpse of a rainbow
discerning your present hues of glory
& beauty

your hues within the epic tale pour into a river
you’re the creator and founder of the land
you’re a hero
you’re a god you’re a thing of beauty

.
time’s sole aim is to colour your life
but you dismiss it
you allow it to fade away
or like sunlight it’s ever present
after the rain?

is it waiting for you
singing and moving alluringly
singing and making offerings to the gods
singing half laughing and crying

you embody an epic tale
and the past of your people
the people of Mnong turning into a dream
unhindered by earthly matters

Please tell me your colour?
I need more colours like a smile
mix it with the spring water
you used to make liquor last night

.
I am in your hand
the tip of a nib you’re cleansing in an inkpot

the pot smiling on the outside
screaming inside
and that is when you want to add other colours

say cool hues with the abundance of leaves
your rest after the festivity of the harvest
your communicable darkness in the dying light
you’re the stuff of history and folklore and this made her more curious
about the name of the mountain and those rivers

she knows these heartbeats
they are the startled notes through the bamboo grove
thumping in harmony with the graceful movements of an elephant
stamping the grounds of the burrows in the fields with their bulky feet
helping mother load the gùi the colour of her skin onto her back

the sky falling upon you with a promise
the sunset falling like tears
red running down your cheeks
a sinking deep colour

your world is often colourless
stuck inside a heartbeat
bloodless and thumping

.
you walk over the rainbow and the rain
joy and sadness
hold on to her or let her go?
to the very least
you adore all seven colours
in white in all the unrequited love

.
bitterness
it is a shade of disappointment
like what, do what
something is coming to a close
even when it didn’t have a chance to open up
the mixing of colours is the symbolism of blood

.
the power of purchase
when I am a poem
by a poet who has a limited choice of colours
something you could sell

like a gùi full of golden harvest
poetry is in black and white
the doors are closed
left me in pitch black darkness
a shade of secrecy

I had wished once that you were the cool shades of stars
because it had never occurred to me that we would roll
so far like that

so the past may pass by
the present also moves on
after all the heartache
not once did you ask
not once did you come to any hasty conclusion that
poetry is also a shade of Ót N’rông

you’re worried poets will not
write with a nib
poets will not
know your pain

no
perfection is unnecessary but you need it to be honest
drama is unnecessary but you need it to be expressive
fame is unnecessary but you need to scream
one’s name is not something you envy
one could be so hasty in dishing out one’s pity
mistaking you to be rather naive
admiration is unnecessary because you are pure
not powerless though you’re brave
whatever passes your heart
in the end will not be me
but it will be the pain
in the shade of innocence

like me, a poem is something I do
I feel the love buried in my chest
I destroy it by tearing
it apart

my love, you are weak like that
you love too easily
only once were you teased
lucky that my love, you’re the one
the epic tale of the Mnong is the last piece of literature
for the Mnong people

my love, you’re so oblivious to everything around you
but you will tremble when discover that the poem about the Mnong people is so good
and everything
makes it harder for you my love to ever love again

there’s never a need for the Mnong to ever sulk
when you my love admits and accepts
that my heart is pounding as though I’m running up towards the top of a mountain
and the king’s imperial robe is still hanging up there
when Mộng Điệp brought the imperial seal and sword back to the imperial city
then together with you cut open the ox

everything has their own meaning
the world can not exclude pain
because pain is necessary for the acceptance of love

but you as a people have never loved poets
because their words are words of lies
they have no idea that an epic tale that has once been archaic is now ancient history
all they ever want is the refinement of fame

they don’t understand the fact that an epic tale has once been folklore by design
all they are after is a heroic epic tale
they’re all about fighting as one for the love of the nation
even when you have stated “we’re the consumer of the forest” and we’re the creator of the world
in the great flood the demons
chewed and swallowed you before they spit you out
you are still “Đam Brơi”
you are still “Chàng Trăng” like Damsan wanting the Sun to be his wife
you are the narrator of even the dreams of those who came
out of nowhere
forever burning down institutions
forever a joke as the great narrator



9.
on the cold glassy surface of lake Lak
(or an epic poem about the people of Mnong)

.

wood
chopped down, leaving behind an insipid blacken path
where the forest felt safe and hidden in the night
so many eternities

they have turned up widening even the horizon
with homes clad in rosewood and marble
they have all these ideas
like clouds are not white
meres and swamp marvelling at the magic of arches and domes
popping out of the ground like the crowns of newly appointed kings

alcohol and riots are tainted with fleshy red
you could hear a voice
you see the smiles
magic looking up at the hills
your eyes sheds the tears

and just like that you’re adrift
until the night is purple
you’re drunk singing in a carefree ode of your own
the verses for a while now no longer has light
stirring up the ancient promises of the past

it’s possible the forest may stumble and fall
but you must stand your ground
you don’t need a mask
because you have been a metropolis
proud and fierce against each sunrise
proudly hidden from the primaeval forest
like sages

.

my swamp
where Krông Ana is brimming and rising right in the middle
What if I tear apart your heart my love?
far from home far from our children will I be able to withdraw completely from our forefathers
from our lineage?

or should I warm up
veins of the swamp with a song
my swamp, where mother and father
once forged knives and moulded pots out of clay
once dreamed

once drowned an army
where the young men were like fading shadows
fell in folklore
when the slaves turned up to share their freedom

your freedom is not something one can form
from an unfamiliar prayer
only your voice can ignite a swamp
full of ghost and spectres
like mother’s call in the night
blanketing the dewy grass fields
in a sleep that could never again be awaken
that belongs to the people of Mnong

resounding echoes of ancient gongs from the domes
covered in so much of father’s prayers
– you guys must always be respectful of all
worshipping in my name

even though they’re falling apart all around you
you’re still dreaming about
the sound of a stone altar in the shape of an elephant
rising amidst the hinterland

where the sweetest satisfaction is the land
ownership of a farmer
where folklore is as small as a mushroom
dense may it be, it is still a dream

where the valleys in the middle of the night
swamped with birdsongs
where the moon is a golden colour
hypnotising the fairies harvesting in the fields

.

swamps are where my love is reserved for you my love
none of my dreams, but my memory
luckily is filled with images of light
blinding flames hiding all that lineage

wake up Krông-Ana
Krông-Nô had once upon a time despised heritage
you had once ruled the vast swamps
once the lineage of a nation
our souls have merged into one
gosh those poor philosophers
who had once looked down on all the poets

philosophers
who had once denied the language of the heart
merging nature with rules and regulations
suffered the consequences as they looked for the cause
hopeful fanatics seeking hopelessness
night after night

an explosion of legendary sophistry
someone’s tongue skinned like a crested bulbul black-throated laughingthrush
limp and wordless like leaves hanging from the branches

wholly in confidence
the way the tides care not for the allure of dreams
when it comes to sun

the ancient banquet once again makes an appearance
the fire burning brightly inside your home
together with the promises in stone
overwhelming memories
about the centuries long gone
when the trees were taller than the domes
when greatness had created the world
mystical epic tales

where everything was lit up by memories
whispers of bygone days

where your eyes were lowered
as a ghost drifted by
Mnong Nong, Mnong Prêng
floating, adrift like an incantation

10.
on the cold glassy surface of lake Lak
(or an epic poem about the people of Mnong)
.

before the time of the philosophers
symbolism and you were a religion
chasing away the ghost

the people represent the king
speak the same language
together cry out in pain and silent regret
side by side equal role as combatants
a role for “all”
and the artist would colour “all” on the backs of elephants into battle
returning in black and grey

.
black, you’re trying to jump over a hole. one foot in a hole. deep. eyes closed so they can’t work out what we know. followed by the seconds. it’s about to happen. a great sweep. a mystery to those who are sound asleep. excited about those in hiding. share the sadness of those struggling angels. bleed as brothers and sisters.

can you see in the dark? congratulations, if you understand black, black do not understand strangers. often too monstrous

.
grey. you’re abandoned
the day is quiet in a grey shadow. today is no different to yesterday. like any other day. all the same. the afternoon is hidden somewhere as though you’ve gone away

because you know that Ot Ndrong did once stayed silent
created a world with a sky in three colours and love in seven hues
and you have descended from heaven and came from Tiăng hamlet. hence even though you’re an epic tale you still hunt, fight, take her back from your enemy. take her back to the old hamlet, Tiăng hamlet

when “the leech swallowed Tiăng hamlet” you were at war. the battle was worse than the battle of Troy by the late antiquity Greek author Homer. you have no reason to be angry with Achille

you have been a democrat a military advisor have from the swamp step onto a boat. make war. buried the dead made offerings to the gods
ate without worrying about when it will all end or if you might die
because you are Mnong

.
a rabbit will always be white

gosh, what is happening to me? I swear to you I was there. if only I was a bird. flying. but can not tweet. we have a national language. but now I’m nothing but a tree that can not talk. why did this. happened. to me?

oh mother

I have given it much thought. after some time I have turned into a crocodile. swamps are full of crocodiles. but please my love don’t rush don’t run away

I swear to you that my brown skin is more valuable than crocodile skin. please my love, come back. I need someone’s head on my shoulder. perhaps to watch the sunset
perhaps to forget
a name from Mon K’Ho Lạch people
married to Êđê drank Khmer liquor
carried the blood of mother Chau in the tales of Điểu-Kâu

it seems I may have forgotten something. what. I forgot where I’m supposed to be. where am I going? am I from the forest or from the sea? Where have the Chăm people gone to? what are they trying to keep a hold of? for heaven sakes, it seems I’ve forgotten everything

I saw Mother Chau in a Queen butterfly. or was it Monarch? the generations one after the other are growing prettier and prettier. greetings butterfly, what is your name butterfly? my name? oh please, don’t lie. please give me a nickname. like the colour blue on mother’s grave

say my name so I may understand you
if what you say is the truth
thank you, friend. what should I do next?

perhaps it was deliberate that I wanted to forget
or I was running after a path of a white rabbit
one could draw them in the sunlight
the way people sell their paintings
I believe people are selling
my secrets

.
please take me, teach me how to get lost. I will obey, bend my knees. no one seems to see, please stay as far away as possible from these people who were once Poetry and Desolation. there are these upsetting verses since you’ve now mistook it for an oration, like the way a poet only wants to kiss the pad of your feet my love. I can but kiss myself momentarily stuck in hell

please save me, you’re lost in the lost hamlet
now I’m empty
I can not escape
my fate

I want much more but you give me barely nothing at all
Why am I the only one in the entire forest?

.
tears, friends and heaven
please spare me some sunlight, give me a reason to live. I’m sick of these rhymes. I have Ót-Nrông but you have not

okay, fine. I want to escape but it’s too late, I have collapsed. at the moment my soul is dying

what is mine?
was I not free before?

they turned up and took everything
now I’m just a rice husk, completely empty. the rice grain is dead.
the golden terrace fields. why are they too afraid to draw them? or could they be only in grey and black?

death, means there’s nothing to live for anymore. wake me up once I’m in heaven. perhaps then I will still be alive, smiling when I’m having a bath with you, my love. please spit water from your mouth laugh sleep
in a thriving lush green garden
like the wind

the hues of summer passing by
such a place is rather sad

do the Mnong like to dream
what is there to cry about

now it’s winter
purest is the grass and morning dew
the swamp’s first kiss
grass loving
second
grass longing

third the grass thought
it was me my love

the grass is still as green as a girl
wild grass
painful

how far away
the climb fading
dawn is like two lovers making love
coming

oh yes
not quite yet awake


11.
on the cold glassy surface of lake Lak
(or an epic poem about the people of Mnong)

.
the light from darkness is concentrated within your soul
who had overcome the nightmare
who had raised their eyes in despair
the birth of oblivion?

is it useless, all those
dreams, it’s the stuff of your imagination

me, I deny the desire of my soul
cold and hollow
everyone, please stop talking
because there’s no one left to listen and understand
in all that noise you are forgotten
offerings upon the pregnancies, ear-blowing ceremonies, weddings
celebrations of good health, funerals
you have lived a lifetime

you’re wandering searching for a forest from the origin
the goddesses have led you astray
a sacred forest no one dares to enter
an ancient forest no one dares to guess its age
because it is the cemetery of the gods

it’s the home of sacred spirits
the god of good and the god of evil
vats buried by you right by the graves
upon your return to be with the sacred spirits

.
no the vats of liquor needs you like the escaping beer foam overflowing over the brim of the glass
as though it’s the joy of battle
the painful slogans
screaming

they, why are they following me?
they fill up all the crevices and space
their eyes on all the graves
lighting incense

ah, a grave on the far corner is waiting for you
there’s no memory sustainable forever
though in the garden of Eden you’re dreaming
about everlasting life
you must bear the judgement
just and fair

because you’re merely an autographed gift
left behind in everyone’s pocket
because you decided it was your right to multiply everything by two
abundant like those viruses

.
ah, sombre is the night
a rifling storm looming in the sky
lions locked up in isolation
turning into a throng of monsters

no one dares to skip the moments
but you are never afraid
you go through the forest to get to lake Lak
look for those who had cut down the trees

.
blue pale stars, you disregarding the sign
from up high
the peak of the eternal

now searching for a message from within your symbiosis
please teach me so I may find the best time to impregnate

this screen of the future
gosh the clouds are a waste of time and money
from sickly soul
your sons can fly
to the peak of freedom?

the isolation area is as dense as the jungle
it’s too bright, too bright
where the moonlight is brilliant within my heart
because or the tranquillity in the forest tonight

I’m shaking so much
over each flower, each leaf
rolling up all the young women
the young men sticking together like a row of beads
and dewdrops

it’s too bright, it’s blinding
right by a swampy river
the reflecting stars
sinking soundly drowning deeply

they wash the elephant
before they allowed me a bath
as though they think that when you’re not sad
you’re not dirty

perhaps because your eyes have covered up the sadness
the suffocating mountains is not something they understand
suffocating clouds
I can’t breathe
I’m waiting for the autumn storm to finally burst
since the night winds have arrived
sounds like a rooster: cocka doodle doo

until my soul falls
like a deer facing fear
startled and confused even though the tiger tried to calm it down
the rage of the night
with you on a long flight
suddenly you decided to increase the speed
cocka doodle doo

don’t skip a single note
in a passing storm

like a funeral shroud
the angels shall descend from up high
oh when when
I can just see your crown
popping up right there at the foot of the bamboo pole, cây nêu?

now you’re covering up all the deep dark pits
black, like a poem without a purpose
the rifling storms
even spring onions had a price rise during isolation
doubling my debt
doubling the suspicion
doubling the fear
as it turned out, you’re turning me into a virus

her breasts also doubled
her thighs doubled
an image describing how it was impossible to eliminate you

without peace
life is much like it is inside a tomb
without eternal peace
cocka doodle doo
I want to be an alluring soul
be a danger to other souls
me, someone who have been hypnotised by the soul of the mountain
land and country
even though I’m battered to the bone
nothing but hanging flesh

.
ah, but the autumn
the poetry now across the airwaves
cooka doodle doo

where resounding is their rhymes
how sombre and heart breaking is oh oh the fall

the last time in wandering yellowing leaves
you find an incredible place of destruction
it’s words of farewell
oh but why must I lose the leaves, where are you hiding now?
even when it comes to your own pain
you’re lying

the vernacular gently whispering
without the leaves the thorns will be the sustenance of memory
we are still here
the scars, the reasons why I love you so much my love
so so much

and everyone will adorn the mourning cloth
when the flowers are solemnly draped over the graves in Mliêng hamlet
you are the ancient trees you are sacred
you are the old forest you don’t need anyone to guess your age
you are the origin
you are the author of our heritage

you have moved the pair of elephant boulders
father and mother of Yang-Tao
like a wish
adorn the rocks mend the horizon
the maker of history

*******