1
the materials for a poem
– a city jail
where a cat
was lost
tried to
snuck in
– tried to
snuck in
the cat
lost on the way
from the jail to the city
so on and so on
you can find
a poem
on any scrap pieces of paper
or document
after the initial selection
you can copy or cut, rearrange
or simply
add a question mark
just like that
the poem dictates a set of specific criteria:
– a hammer to pull out nails, a muddy sickle, for instance
– a book with a black cover (not a black book), the paper soft and thin, use to say wrap food and other stuff
– a rubber, as an eraser and wax, to seal, when the proof is necessary
– you can keep a copy, for future queries of copyright, you accept the money and let everyone know, the poem, it is an original piece of work
The poem does require the knowledge of how it started, but you must know how it ends, oh gosh…
don’t fret, since the most crucial factor for any poetry powerhouse, in the end, are the signatures of the authors when they finally accept the wads of notes or money
not just royalties
2
upon touching it, your finger will never pierce the poem
but you
might just
create
a void
dust and stars
drifting
orbiting like a dream
you thought: the cosmos was far, but
it’s only four miles ride on a bike
after your shift
town to home
hell
it’s but four miles on your bike passing
one tolling booth “thu phí”
you smiled
read backward “thi phú”, rich in poetry
thu phí thi phú (a tax for all that poetry)
bullshit
our country’s
poetry
you peddle the bike
starving exhausted
one
polymer note at the end of the month
shiny like the astrologer’s lens
you can observe the stars as much as you like
yellow, shiny and romantic
you need astrologers
to make a living
but the country is full of writers
and all famous renowned
poets
in the middle of the night
your universe
when chú Cuội heads for the moon
he imagined with a rabbit
that you thought was a dog
now (you or the rabbit?)
compose poetry
round and about like
Nguyễn Chí Thanh
boulevard
green divider
wild and wide
grass on the side
a dizzy and you’re high
on all those dreams
3
4 poems with something scintillating, like a bite mark
a mosquito bite on an enchanted night
the sheen
of its wings
fluttered, eyes shimmered
the mountain
quivered
like church bells
in a chill breeze
a far away display
at a cheap fete
on sale were the white resound of bells
gosh
the poem
the (bright)light
in a winter coat
4
under the poem’s dress
an attire
for a while now
unsuitable for someone
your age
ghost of dead babies
waited patiently to be noticed
while you rub your hands
pondered the rate of vaccine injuries
your discovery
no way near one in a thousand
mother couldn’t possibly grasp
the idea of one in a thousand
since she has only
one child
5
at the root of the magnolia
a poem, a single bloom
attentively
staring at a pee strewn wall
in the cool hues of rocks
seems like
for the first time
it has
an imagination
hence
it entertains itself
each time you pass by
you laugh at
its wagging tail
until you remember a lecture about a dog
barking on TV
even after the loss of electricity
drove you mad
drove you silly
6
the day you brought the poem home
like a present
worth about two dollars
(more than forty-thousand dong)
after a long bloody fight
everything shredded into bits
the poem in a million pieces
you taught me that
we should reduce our intake of sadness
take another bite of happiness
don’t dwell
fake it till you make it
afoot, I
kick it aside like a pile of rags
take back
the joy
no matter how
ridiculous
a lesson to remember
in life, even with thoughts of indiscretions
correct?
I know what you will give me
hence I’m in halves, allow the one half
to dangle
since you have already crawled in
touching everything, it’s the reason I believe
you allowed my existence
not because
the cracks on the moon were of your making
to
raise
the tides within our veins
for what?
that’s the reason why the wind
throws us around the entire night
blatantly
just like
that
7
the madness within the light
the poem, it’s
an image of you
a bolt out of the blue
a percentage commission
roses from a ghost, the Hứa family skeleton
flowers, popped up
like candlelight flickering
sinister
again and again, you ask:
a percentage commission
in roses…
What’s that?
you’re relaxed because
you’re flying
but there’s no reason for you to fly
or be high
a few more times?
it’s the destiny of words
turning into numbers
going nuts becoming more and more cryptic
you said: we’re
@@@%%%%$$$
and as I see it, the snowflakes upon the leaves
in Sapa, melts like you
so now:
I’m also like:
– oh, @@@%%%$$$
– if you are here, you would love it
– we are, once more, hehe…
hehe, you ask
what is what? what was it?
or it’s a small leaf
Someone wanted to try it
with Eve?
– yes!
So is it a poet?
– oh, maybe, oh oh yeah yeah, hehe
oh yeah today “hehe” there’s no up sale
child play with sticky candies
like a game we used to play long ago
climbing over each other up a pole
to grab the prize at the top
to whisper into lonely ears
and ahh umm, can you remember
anything? When you say: if not
I happen to like it
since he wants to muck around all night
I remember
the leaves
pretending? perhaps? or maybe
oh okay, why don’t we replace
the grape leaves
with almond leaves
stretched it out
nice and wide
8
it’s incomprehensible why you would continue to
stir poetry’s pot
you took an entire ladle
of soup from
the worry pot
the poem said: you should just allow it to simmer
you hate it when the poem gets
mixed up between “land” and “country”
you laughed:
we shouldn’t abuse the word “citizens”
otherwise, the poem is rather confounded
and lame
you put a variety of vegetables into the pot
when people add only a pinch of damp and wet
musing
you seemed idealistic
but at the same like to overindulge
hence everyone had to chop more carrots
vitamin A is good
your eyes might see the light
adding a variety of spices into the pot
means it will take you a long time
to tame
the taste of anger
churning in your stomach
on his skin
in his stomach
9
a waste of a springtime, but at least there was a breeze
there’s no poem
blooming
like a memory
that was lost
surpassing time
an amphetamine tainted sadness
the optimistic
announcements
from politicians
the people unaware
that even the sunlight
drops
and fall
censorship
unsanctioned
in the smuggle of
freedom
your dignity is wrapped
in a box
ribboned, and you thought it was a gift
Tet
you’re ready
with a sheet of polymer
caressing it
its coolness inside your free fitting “áo dài”
like the madame
inspectors
inspecting
temperatures
then there’s
a person with ears like a rabbit
snoring
a pigeon
whispering
about everything
that’s coming
from behind
10
in the end
in a tight corner of this big wide world
the poem
met again
deceit
faced down on the bed
people say
you’re more beautiful than ever
they even promised
they will love you more than before
in one step
meet, like a bowl of phở, deceit
hot still, blow then eat
you can’t just lie there
face
down
you wake up
stay in bed
for a few minutes more
each time you utter a word the poem
oozes
blood
the scars
you want to hide them
you have a thousand hand
like Bodhisattva with a thousand eyes
you thought if you prayed
then Guanyin will
take care of
the lies
day after day
your bedsheets are more and more
a mess
you do all you could
to stop yourself
from disappearing
they who
knows nothing
knows nothing
they are the basement
where you hid
avoid the bullets
escape harm
the charm
etcetera
11
ask, and you will not receive
starve and you will get even less
always scraping to get by
like the GDP
you’re still all about being fair
an elaborate laughable affair
useless
when
all the cannons have sunk
pickled in the sand
always
made people wait around
in the dark on the sidewalk in the rain
the poem is hungry and cold
waiting
between the quiver of the leaves
everyone learn how to compose a poem
full of uncertainty
after the years passes by
ask, and you will not receive
starve and you will get even less
gaunt eye workers going home quietly
steadfast are their
impenetrable heart
you will never be able to take it from them
play with them
in summation
represent them
in your
poetry
12
your mother did not give you a name
she instead tucked away all the rhymes
inside her memory for you
the poem, you use it
take it to places
to where people bid and bargain
you know that even
rhymes, like the shoes
you wear to the street
after the time you found
customers, those who likes to buy
and sell you
evade taxes
like a tree after a storm
the wind could make you
sick in the stomach
you’ll end up with gastritis
go home
in an ambulance
hence the chance of get thing wet
is always met
with no one to check or confiscate
appropriate
your mother will place a dream in your heart
through mystics slips
once or twice each night
the dreams in a tiny room
causing your chest to shrink
like the rhymes and words
in a poem, consolidated
every night
and yet you’re thinking about
how you wake up to the sound
of your children crying
Mothers are the source of life
not just something
one dwell on
someone who vouch for you
when the wind is high
through grey skies
when it is wet outside
13
the moon
hanging suspended
a flower
gold, unexpected, the entire sky opening-up
to a poem
that night on, the stars were no longer idyllic
lacklustre, less charming
dreary
each monthly planting 2 times the light
though you saw the moon grew but once
to after slowly shrinks
before
disappearing
you prefer to be lean
and, so you began to measure the three circumferences a couple
more time, until some were quite flustered, your mounts and crevices
exploding
you’re breaking
into two
though you never
failed
you provoke
as though, no one dislikes
it, as though the Sun
a blushing red
sacred
no one compares
the Sun with the moon
and you like flowers
you lightly blur out the light, as
you sway with a poem
in a breath from noon
till night
then you put on an áo dài in the hues of reeds
bowing, wilting and thought it
sometimes
now and then
tiny tiny
like the moon
you are the moon
just once
a month
14
the poem doesn’t understand how
an employee of a bank could “defraud” nearly four thousand million dong
did she not care for her life
like the important men playing politics
where would she find the money to fund it?
the nation starved
a lawless hunger
beyond the satiated parties high on blood
to soothe the hunger
can’t mean
we have to lick a hot wok
with blistered tongues
look at each other and cry
to then
fall into
an endless
sleep
those who have tasted the saltiness of the past
the blood, they’re now in the wok
stunned
no one
no one
who? No one
will take the responsibility
for a warehouse that could hold four thousand billion
it was just an empty warehouse
these were not just long nights
we have screamed and shout and went to sleep without the need for food
there were many nights like that
the banquets at restaurants
no rice just ceremonies
with bright banners
an execution surpassing
surpassing
like an old habit
the way she used to shred bullets randomly
she had covered
the hellish starvation
how deep was it, it’s impossible to know for sure
a demonic fights
we fell for the hopeless love affair
waiting endlessly for a heart breaking dream
with her
only because she
she gosh
she was the one
15
a pantheon of meaning
so sacred that the poem
hid behind a door
had to jump from
the altar
you stared at the accents
in red like the colour of lipstick
before seeing the gods
you will meet
not just the naked words, often
noisy and obvious
and if necessary, write
the threatening letter
you’re late
hence from behind the pantheon door, you couldn’t see
the gods
naked
ready for battle
the wall in the pantheon turns into a mirror
reflecting literature
a chill to the bone
we were the one left naked
cloaks for the gods
even the clouds shuddered at the sight
like the tattered skirt
of a storm
history, with the forehead
of the wind and clouds, with the blood
inside an inkpot, with red
steeped in the pen nib, with the sound
of choking, with animal bones
the making of relics
the same as how we will never understand
the meaning of a white sheet of paper full of shit
binned at the pantheon
the gods have taken the walls, the mirrors, and the white sheet of paper
in a continual embattlement
with an accent red like the colour of a lipstick
not a
word
but numbers
gosh the maddening numbers
flying
high on the farting smell of jackfruit
16
sound
here in the poem
and us, at the edge of the world
a journey with the tides
swift, like the flights
smoke-stained and dusty
a world
changing like winter
where the sea and the trees
broke off, perched on cliff sides
where summer
& flowers, the fresh colour
the name of a flight you no longer remember
it was
slightly traumatising
then
all that you understood about noise
to the day you die, a lie
with the right to govern
while there’s a sound
resounding at the bottom of the sea
while there’s a sound
trembling like the call of the wind
while there are rustling
clouds tugging at each other
the sound pulls
at you, stretching you out
like a bowstring
but always ends up
lax and loose
like the bottom of your pants
17
a river, a poem, the forest, the night
a poem disguised as a river
so away they can throw
a dead body
your feet wet
after a few days
the corpse became a source of life
when some guy
a PhD professor stuck his butt out
holding up a gyroscope
in the wind, searching for the dream prize
a river never
knows how to walk
on such a path
your tiny limited horizon
which destiny had combed like hair
you swallowed and digested the loneliness
because of the claws
on your feet
helped you grasped the fact that loneliness was a kind of joy
that was
impenetrable
like the poem could never be a thief, the night
eventually consumes even the moon
swallow whole the Sun
in one morning
night, it’s not “hang động” or cave
genial, light like a dream
you and the poem
thought it could not
so you steeped yourself in a soft dark matter
that belongs to everyone and the night
that day
18
where everyone passed by, right by the entrance into Big C supermarket
busy shopping
you see a forest
branches
a bird flying
its wings drooping (a little heavy)
at the entrance
you sit down
drunk
you know for today
it is
enough
– I don’t know
– I might have a fever
a man comes over to check
on you, a woman also comes over
touch you
touch the forest
drifting clouds
they’re shouting
they’re tapping
they’re touching
they didn’t know what to think
what to do next
– I don’t know
– I might have a fever
this new year you’re scattered like dead leaves
on the footpath
when
the supermarket like a forest changed into golden leaves
as though they are her eyes
crying
you will never
set foot into the supermarket
a pantheon
sacred
in gold
like a broken till
and I
gosh
then
fold my arms, look up
at the sky: okay, fine
when it’s the sacred pantheon
turn to summon
my name correctly
missing just a word in the middle
19
there were times the poem would see a writer
not eating
and it thinks perhaps he’s old and tired
he falls, a pencil still in his hand
that is how a section of the biographical review
describes him
his eyes is on the future
the past is not needed
like a letter, to him
long ago
an insult
he’s not bothered about letters
like the unavoidable spelling mistakes
but if they deliberately try to fix it
his background
like how now if they call the police
it scares him
like when you
wrote to the Chief editor
about the load on writer’s shoulders
not eating
passed away recently
you will get in return a standard reply:
– Dear sir/madam…
the deadline was yesterday
sir/madam you’re late
please keep them for yourself
keep it to yourself
the fanciful ideas
this dance of
immortality
20
you receive the congratulations
like receiving a seasonal poem instead
of the wind
not a leaf to cover your face on Halloween
the wind will be a leaf that staggers
like it has an injured foot
we could
easily surpass
most things in our life
like having a bath
you don’t have to use that much water
we move
like colours changing over the city at dusk
the endless
effort
hence even the clouds pretends to be sad
and breathless
we had
enough time to rest with one sunburnt finger
and the truth is the blistering thought
we pretend
to have children
with those
who likes to shut us up, choke us
to then invite us out for a meal
and we’ll come to admit
the earth is not just three-quarters of tears
but also three-quarters of it are clouds
drifting, dropping cluster bombs on little boys
who knew not how to lie
the clouds
shall be disguised as hair or the beard of those
greedy eyes
chastising us for not being Vietnamese
drink coffee is what we do all day
yet we continue to demand the pride of a nation
_____