Could a sound, in the middle of the night, come from somewhere in the house, say the kitchen, be the sound that substitutes a verse in your poem?

You can only stipulate that it’s a useless substitute to regain order, since how can nothingness be orderly? You’re disappointed when you see a poet who refuses to conform. You know that the nation conforms but refuses to disappear, don’t you? Through history, arrogant kings who had stepped off their throne turned to philosophy to explain their longevity, how they will live on forever.

You agree with Nietzche. All the philosophers, those who tried to deny themselves heaven was how they had boosted their ego. Since we all believe that we are the only ones who could come up with the ultimate ideal. 

We are full of ourselves, we are full of poets while other people are full of astronauts.

We are full of ourselves, we are full of poets while other people are full of traders

We are full of ourselves, we are full of beautiful qualities of great men while other people’s concerns are to serve the most ordinary and plainest of people.

We are full of ourselves, we are full of heroic proletarians. We are proletarians so we cannot stop ourselves from being turned into commodities, we export labour so other people have the responsibility of paying our wages.

You think the philosophers are innocent, but their attack on the towers and idols are the cause of your confusion, you are privileged and blameless, disregarding all else. Within what is real, you are laughing aloud because the philosophers are constantly spinning you around and around in a fitful fever, since you’re just a virus.

They talk to your wife since you’re in an institution: my love, I’m poisonous and you are the antidote. Your lips will kiss the top of a cloud until there’s nothing left, besides the red stains blooming in an orderly manner. I promise you that I won’t bite but I will like it if you’re prepared to wait for nothing at all, like the creation we will make for each other tonight.

—

October 2023

–

TRẬT TỰ THAY THẾ HƯ KHÔNG

có khi nào bạn nhìn thấy một tiếng động trong đêm, vang lên đâu đó, có thể từ nhà bếp, và tiếng động này thay thế cho câu thơ của bạn?

bạn biết đó chỉ là sự thay thế vô ích của trật tự, vì hư không làm sao mà trật tự? Bạn thất vọng khi nhìn một gã nhà thơ không chịu hòa đồng. Bạn biết đất nước đang hòa nhập mà không chịu hòa tan kia mà? Trong lịch sử, những ông vua kiêu ngạo như vậy luôn từ chức để ngồi tự viết triết lý cho sự bất tử của mình.

bạn nghĩ Nietzsche đã đúng. Tất cả những nhà triết học, những người đã tìm mọi cách để từ bỏ thiên đường chỉ để làm tăng thêm sự kiêu ngạo của mình. Vì chúng ta từng nghĩ chỉ có chúng ta mới tìm ra chân lý.

chúng ta tràn ngập chúng ta tràn đầy những nhà thơ khi họ tràn ngập những phi hành gia.

chúng ta tràn ngập chúng ta tràn đầy những nhà thơ khi họ tràn ngập những thương nhân.

chúng ta tràn ngập chúng ta tràn đầy những đức tính đẹp nhất của vĩ nhân khi họ chỉ lo phục vụ những người bình thường và xấu xí nhất.

chúng ta tràn ngập chúng ta tràn đầy những người anh hùng của giai cấp vô sản. Chúng ta vô sản nên chúng ta không thể ngăn mình biến thành hàng hóa, chúng ta xuất khẩu lao động cho họ oằn mình trả lương.

bạn nghĩ các triết gia vô tội, nhưng cuộc tấn công xô đổ ngọn tháp và thần tượng của họ đã làm bạn rối tung, bạn chỉ còn biết đổ lỗi và cuối cùng bạn quên tất cả. Trong sự tồn tại, bạn bật cười vì các triết gia luôn vặn xoắn bạn vào cơn sốt, vì bạn chỉ là một con vi-rút.

thế giới chứa đầy vác-xin và sự cô đơn nên họ cố gắng đi tìm thuốc giải, thần dược của họ chữa cả nỗi buồn và nhiễm vi-rút.

họ nói chuyện với vợ của bạn vì bạn đang nằm viện: em yêu, anh là thuốc độc và em là liều thuốc giải độc. Đôi môi trên bầu trời của em sẽ hôn lên đám mây cho đến khi không còn gì, ngoài những dấu vết màu đỏ nở hoa trong trật tự. Anh hứa sẽ không cắn nhưng anh sẽ thích nếu em chịu chờ đợi hư không, như những gì chúng ta được tạo ra, cho nhau đêm nay.

Not just about the Paracel – Spratly islands
Though Poetry loves politics
Allowed the patriotism
Poetry dives in head first into it
Splashing the love around
She knows Poetry’s lying

The people wearing NO-U T-shirts
Her friends
Lost somewhere in the dark

She reminded Poetry
– blogging is not for the number of views
Nor begging more than once
Permission to post loads of poetry
Yet the display of pretence
Fearful
Vagueness

It is but a glorious doom
Since besides light is darkness
Besides the now is the future
Besides grace is indiscretion
As for those who will never come home
Poetry could never deny

Poetry!
We must continue to covet hate
But those who compose poetry lacks the power of choice
The gifts in the pretence of birthdays
A party in the pretence of a house warming
Even the ornamental flowers are embarrassed
Poetry try to find more writers
Dragging them down like the escalators
Residential highway

Poetry is not an escalator
Dragging everyone into hell
Poetry is a moment of joy
The day she loved Poetry
Poetry in a fit of ticklishness
Sleepless
The entire night

1
nye
falls a grain of dust

a grain of dust
dancing
you giggling
flicking it off my hair
you claiming I’ll never grow old

you know time is a blanket of dew on the lawn
not our hair
laughing
you, pulling me closer

us astride the spine of a leaf
watching the nightfall
each piece small
fall
falling

you laughing
at my clumsy sketch
like clumsy kisses on cheeks

you whispering in my ear
for-e-ver
I hear you
my eyes smiling
falls
warm
upon the grain of dust on nye…

2
the first
sunlight of a thousand bells
within you grinning

golden bells
purple
ringing
you accepting countless anthems

the bells ringing ever ceasing
they continued to sing
continued to ring
the songs in you resounding

don’t cover the wrinkles
the fat deposits in your eyelids
an indescribable private
ardour

you’re slower and lighter
softer
as a thousand bells
white
continued to ring
steaming
hot
in your eyes

3
the second
may destroy you
may wet your smile
may perch on your lips

maybe
the second is an unexpected errand
you’re away
and someone still thought of you
while sipping coffee on their verandah
like in books leaves flying
sees the words you couldn’t say
as you’re absent from home
on a motorbike taxi out drinking

the second
stays with you like a collection of souvenir
somewhere there
far perhaps

maybe
beating gently is the second
you, removing it from your chest
so all could see
the seconds…

4
the third made you lose an entire day
the only day you could say:
– I love you

you’re in debt for a glimpse
through her closing window
during the second…

5
you sleep all day on the third

the fourth
like a poem
but between the lines
you find always foolishness

the fourth
stirred in you
as a poem would, stirs up everything
you thought: how could one love a poem

as she once thought:
– how could one love a poet?

6
How do one first blindfold a poem?
– you’ve already forgotten light
How do one first earplug a poem?
– you’ve already forgotten sound

do you remember the last time
you’ve stepped into the light
you feeling the sunlight on your skin
like the poem, it exists always

though you tried to first earplug the poem
in your own way
your soul listens still
the resonating emotions
you’ve already forgotten long ago

do you regret not being able to speak
we dare not Open our Mouths
we’ve for a long time now familiar with self-harm
by freely keeping our Mouths Shut

when you look at the fallen memories at your feet
a face like a shattered mirror
with a smile

we learn songs with the use of silence
as a child would learn how to ride a bike
never knowing why we fall

the poem also does not know why it falls
there’s no one here
to hold on to the voice…

7
the fifth
you replaced fear with desire

you write a poem with three hundred and sixty-five pages
a number of pages ripped out
because you were silent

the poem still must keep its borders
hence you would glue back those pages
very gently

you pretend to compose love poems
for those iniquitous lawmen still reading you
practising romance

but when you read her
looking for her defined lines in the dark
the fifth is un-rushed

you’re not a poet proficient in the poetry of love
and you know
in each movement of your pen
a bullet
its explosion
could be heard
around the world…

8
the sixth
like remaining
memories

like a new friend
new memories
forming happiness
sadness
all yours

memories, like her
and the sixth together walk out the door
after nye greetings and wine

you waiting
for her eyes
near implosion aside

you know it’s nothing
you listen to the shrieking
petitions
and the wind…

9
the sixth
the flowers stop blooming
giving way for the leaves
to blossom
on lips

her’s
the smile on her face
are you receiving her blessings

your heart
is sliced into small pieces
chopped
till you’re in moments
would stop breathing…

you’re on fire
but she’s afraid of getting burnt
you could let it all turn into ashes and smoke

you want the poem
not to fade
like her shadow
out of sight…

10
the sixth
you compose a poem:
– bird, butterflies, a frenzy of hunting

butterflies
wild in the rain
birds
a cool breeze like a discerning fan
you inspire
in the blistering wind a kiss

you insight the bird
in anger fly

11
the sixth
it’s a kiss
absent
evaporated
gone

leaving a scent
lipstick mark…

12
you have loved her an entire year
why wait for the seventh

perhaps
you’ve forgotten
the things
the eighth shall never forget

14
forgetfulness
pains you
to forget, first you have to remember…
.
February 2019

Do you remember how I almost cried
waiting so long

my mother thought I would never wait for anything
women are the first to get hurt
first betrayed

your sleep was rather soundly
the sleep of a pregnant bird
Its skies suffocating
amongst the clouds
scattered with slogans

we open the door and welcome
the ghosts
meddle with legends
amalgamating all the historical images
—
November 2023
____

bạn nhớ mình suýt khóc
vì chờ đợi kéo dài

mẹ tưởng bạn không chờ đợi bất cứ điều gì
phụ nữ vẫn thường là những người luôn luôn bị thương
luôn luôn bị phản bội

giấc ngủ của bạn khá sâu
đó là giấc ngủ của một con chim biết bầu
trời của nó không còn một hơi thở
giữa các đám mây
treo đầy khẩu hiệu

chúng ta đang mở cửa cho phép
những bóng ma
can thiệp vào truyền thuyết
bao gồm tất cả các bức ảnh của lịch sử

we all know
our feet are grounded
as of this morning
her bare feet are on the dewy wet grass

as at the airfields at 20:48
on the speaker
and 20:49 you’re flying
feet dangling in the air

the laptop in your hand
and the poems
also flying at 20:57

as of this very night
you’re a practice piece
standing still
opening up your arms
slowly moving them up and down
not the wings of a plane but of a bird
until you feel like
you’re the light
flying high
ever ceasing

at 00:00

many prefer you not to compose poetry
as though it may fly
hence they note the minutes
you’re postmodernism they said

but your preoccupation is stretched out
life long on a grey screen
00:48
not a plane but a screen
she’s lifted right by her window

the poem doesn’t know how to fly
they’re mere verbs
lifted up
with both hands

hers
at 01:18

a kiss is just a kiss
until the moment you find someone to love

a dream is just a dream
until the moment it is realised

coming home means coming home
to someone you love…

.

and it’s not long before you’re
home, where people are busy with
an all around the world
poetry convention

– not a sight of any writer coming
home, just expert consumers

home, stumbling contrive waves
in pain and silence

home, to wipe away the sleep in your eyes
bury the tears of your past

home, to where there was true love
to the moment we’re adrift at
sea
in a silent death

home, to join each other in songs
like sunlight and green leaves

home, to listen like
our mother’s breathing
dreaming of dream
now drowned
at the bottom of the sea…

your homecoming could be drawn in
watercolors

or one’s tongue
dip in blood

you could draw the waves
the waves running away

draw the painful screams

draw the deception and lies
draw a nation of your homecoming
like a fisherman on their boat, dead
wrapped in a sheet of plastic
—-
December 2023
—

một nụ hôn chỉ là một nụ hôn
cho đến khi bạn tìm thấy người bạn yêu

một giấc mơ chỉ là một giấc mơ
cho đến khi nó trở thành sự thật

một cuộc trở về là trở về
khi bạn gặp những người yêu bạn…

.

chẳng bao lâu nữa bạn sẽ
về, nơi người ta đang làm
một hội thảo thơ tầm quốc tế

– nhà văn thì không thấy về
về, toàn thấy nhà ăn

về, như một gợn sóng lăn tăn
của tĩnh lặng đau đớn

về, lau sạch giấc ngủ từ đôi mắt
khóc vùi ngày xưa của bạn

về, như sự thật chúng ta từng yêu mến
cho đến khi chúng ta trôi ra
biển
chết điếng

về, hát cho nhau một bài hát
như lá xanh dưới ánh mặt trời

về, để lắng nghe như
ngày xưa mẹ vẫn thở
cùng giấc mơ
chết đuối…

ngày về
bạn có thể vẽ
bằng màu nước

hoặc vẽ bằng lưỡi
những bức ảnh đẫm máu

bạn có thể vẽ
vẽ những con sóng đang chạy

vẽ tiếng hét lên vì đau đớn

vẽ sự kết thúc của dối trá và lật lọng
vẽ đất nước ngày về
như ngư dân trên thuyền
nằm trong một tấm ni-lông