days like these
April, a reminder
our big brothers
generally returned in sealed boxes
friends gathered
around the wet eyes
and long goodbyes…
so their Mothers could see
how they’ve rushed
putting them boxes together
the elevated paradise
the colour of rice porridge
in their eyes…
1
April
the country rest on a long bench
slept
dreamt
for a bunch of centuries
2
April
a fog
in the middle of the day
citizens
drifting like sheep in a field
in the streets
void of light…
3
April
the nation breaks in half
in the middle of the two skies
the unplanned stroll
followed the tanks
to its destination
4
April
long ago
closed curtains, white nightgowns
a child came home
after dinner did their homework
the light in the street
possibly loud or silent
April
days away
from new exercise books
exposed belly button, untucked shirt
the tiny thing climbing over a fence at the end of a school day
April
rain
our teacher wore a pink hat
came to class from the staffroom
her footsteps heard
April
a memory
in an attic and it rained
the breeze
lashes sticking to locks of curly hair
April
The black “bà ba”
on coathangers
on the clothesline since March
since April
we’re liberated
eating potatoes satiated
falling of coal cars down the tracks
the excellent new development zones
warming people’s hearts
After that April
the corpses couldn’t keep up
remained along the coastline
gold in their fists
like jewellery for the wind
those fished up
after floating around bloated
Where are you from?
Sorry, we only know Vietnamese
5
April
birds feeding at night watched out for us
as we hid beneath
their canopies
gosh the trees
as in folklore the giant fronds
a macro-micro
projection for five, ten years
The blaring sunshine over our garden?
no one thought about asking themselves
why were we born here (of all places)
the high risk of closing up this part of the forest
the people after the storm
will there be an inspector for every tree
damaged, broken branches
each family was a vertical crack
starting from the top
down to the roots
one million people dizzy
one million people, sad
like how the trees curl up in the wind remained
the crack of independence
liberty
soppy happiness
a country on its back
curled up like a patient on a hospital bed
like a beached whale
the entire tree had to bear the brunt of the sawing
threatening sound of chainsaws
like gunfire
we’re all in an eventual agreement
with the Death Certificate
but the woodcutter
thought he had killed a blind monster
and rescued the princess
6
April
those alive returned home just in time
those dead couldn’t suddenly rose in status
I will not call upon you
as we are all now brothers and sisters
comrades
the replies none of us wanted
happiness sighing
we all have dreams and desires
Otherwise, there’s nothing left
but they had disregarded the poor
to the very end of April the poor bled
the glory as fragrant as lilies
upon their return
continues as proletarians
acclaimed poets
absolutely idyllic
as for them
minus the drug trafficking
there was nothing they wouldn’t do
the prudence of the people returning
answering for those who had died
7
April
we have our eyes closed
tried to differentiate the symptoms of a headache that had affected half of your head
due to the racket and artillery smoke
somewhere there’s an old saying
perhaps an old proverb
possibly sardonic
the rise in the community, the loss of liberty
the poets, withdrawn into a cell
searched for ways of assimilation
without disintegration
breaking barriers
they tried
all the study centres of poetry
showed up as though there was some kind of fungus infestation
the poets mumbling, whispering
and the vernacular also a champion
within its soft flesh
the vernacular can be as drunk as it wants inside a detention centre
no need to go home after the drinks
hence there were no concern of falls
breakage
safety helmets
and hearts
prone to tears
8
April
Have I turned ten yet? Ten yes
Did I run anywhere? Ran yes
Did I do any looting? Looted yes
April
Do I have membership(1) yet? A member yes
Did I pick up the garbage as my bit of contribution yet? Picked yes
Did I follow my parents somewhere to work in the fields(2)? Worked in the fields yes
Did I stay up all night for meetings? Attended the meetings yes
April
Did I eat sorghum(3)? Ate yes
Poop whole pieces of sorghum? Pooped yes
Pick up used cigarette butts to smoke? Picked yes
April
Have I made poetry in the glory of the Liberation yet? Made yes
Did I sing happily amid the city streets yet? Happy yes
Has my mother’s brother attended (4)re-education camp yet? Re-educated yes
Has his unhappy wife left him yet? Left yes
My aunt’s husband (5)escaped by sea, did he die yet? Died yes
Left behind, an aunt who resorted to (6)smuggling to feed her children, did she get caught and was left with nothing? Nothing yes
April
Have I dredged the ditches for irrigation yet? Dredged yes
Have I contracted Malaria yet? Contracted yes
Did my little brother drown yet? Drowned yes
Has my mother by his body fallen beyond consolation yet? Fallen yes
April
Have I grown up yet? Grew up yes
Search in my memories the burning ashes yet? Searched yes
Did my girlfriend’s smile shine yet? Shined yes
Have we become teardrops to fall into each other’s lives yet? Fallen yes
A lifetime
Followed April
For whomever it was, it was much the same
–
NB April 30th, 1975, marks the fall of Saigon
(1) membership to the communist party
(2) the new government took homes and estates, owners and their families were displaced to border forest land to farm
(3) less digestible barley was used to supplement rice
(4) re-education camps were for ex-military of the ARVN(Army of the Republic of Vietnam)
(5) an exodus of Vietnamese refugees via the Gulf of Thailand
(6) people used to smuggle all kinds of food and other essentials from the country to sell in the metropolitan areas due to rations
9
April
had sorted us into those:
from the jungle
from the North
already there
it was not fun
and naturally
it is now
how we choose our friends
on Facebook
10
April
an unresolvable pain
Aspirin is the cause of Mother’s bleeding
The thin, fragile veins on Mother’s hand
the doctor’s unknowing silence
when paracetamol and codeine was not allowed
no one knows or were they not allowed to know
April
like an equation
you solved it so many times
delta negative
no solution
April
the radiated silent aching
the nights’ mother was up all night
so tomorrow you may have a bowl of rice
so the teacher may call you up to the blackboard
continued to solve the equation
how many revolutions of the Sun were there before mother passed away
how many flower wreaths
remained nothing but an earthworm
the solution
11
April
a simple
announcement
like now, how we would wrap things up in old newspapers
seen a rocky shoreline never
Hàn Mặc Tử * never
slipping into dreams without a kiss
the poets shrinking smaller
smaller small very small
as small as a rabbit
beneath the Sun asking themselves
So have we been wrong all along?
and this yellow skin is now nothing but the colours of coal and ashes
after the country was decimated
burned
skin colour
or the colour of cowardice
in the echoes of corpses
lonely souls
a cover for a heart eagerly searching for
a small path across a grassy field
within their grave
universe
grovelling within fragility
tries to find a way, aimed for the wind
after so many dissolution and assimilation
to create a sweet snake venom
a sacred whisper
in red
presently
released by them
with one burlap frond “lá diêu bông”* so we may find again our rhythm
when we open our fist
and there’s nothing left
12
April
you were the hero in the depressing eyes of the people
after so many Tet Offensive 1968
almost lost your life
you create for yourself a demure gait
not all over the place
even for a bulky stature like yours
more like
a T54 tank
everyone thought your lips were as soft as hers
on her wedding day
the entirety of your words
and everyone smiling
like apes
a promise like your teeth
chipping with time
in arduous
re-education
the day we’re all in tribulation
we knew
it was not your real face
it was unmoving like the roof tiles
curling silent
beauty in mere moments
the rainbow slipped through the fence
as though we were
on the precipice of the discovery of a secret
our thoughts shifted
because of the swift sell-out
of Dreams shattering (no doubt)
inside a dusty haze of an illusion
13
April
when the tank entered the city
you were kicking your dream
fast asleep
a fleeting foreboding
there was a commander with a to-do list
once he was off the beaten path
entered the city
and those pushed to the side
after an unruly engagement
no one wanted to remember
the rules of deception
but the inspiration that they gave you
a resounding echo
like the sound of 105mm Cannons
in your backyard, the battering
When will it stop?
you loved once
a consuming love
but now our single desire was drowning
as we headed for the sea
a fragile vessel overflowing with human fate
frivolity
as they claimed you were free
no demons
no fear
April
the women in white
in the noon light
devoted
free
no worries
like Tet
at the threshold of nirvana
titbits as likely as a child’s tale
in conclusion
no one dared write down anything
until
The ôsin won
14
April
someone wrote your name on a tin of salt
a tin of shredded pork
the way we wrote down what was sad and dark
in our dairies long ago
like Nguyễn Đức Sơn
a fucken rose that never has to lift a finger
how the fuck can it be a rose?
April
people worked harder
except for those holding the guns
all they had to do was shout now and then:
– there are too many hippies in this city
hanging around all day, lazy, lazy hippies
the tall apartment buildings
on our return shimmered with tears
as we hugged each other and cried
a forgotten verse
heading for Saigon, our home on the boulevard
the resounding caves of the past
hid our motor vehicles out of habit
while we were busy writing our names on tins of salt
was the only thing we could think of
our best idea
everything became an inconvenient
including love
and sex
it destroyed the simple things in life
they don’t need to breathe easy when they love
they shove it in then they pull it out a bit
a bit more
a little deeper
they want everything
there’s nothing more joyous then a tired
obedient world that brought them joy
loving was no different to war
allocated patent and copyright
beyond the activities of the company
they freshly formed
don’t think all was devoid of thought and feeling
we shared the pain and noise
around a refrigerated van
when there were no more three-tire vehicles on the road
rickshaws and coal carts
oh why were your palms so swollen
not like the fingers they you to point at the shares
in years and years after that?
nothing will ever pierce the language of the heart
a voice through our vein
void of the accompaniment of drums
a chest-pounding on the verge of breaking
in every wobbly step through life
across the abundant sudden hills and valleys
our lungs embody the knocks
and our pulse or heart rate our breath
the reproductive system was the only exception
it remained limp
silent and depressed
April
belonged to a truth
for May June
July August
September October
did we miss a month or so
Dear god
15
April
the referee blew the whistle to end the game
end the exchange of human lives
you lowered your head when they
sniggered and laughed
gave you a medal
a stadium full of welcoming smiles
a parade of brown dying leaves
the round ball rolled into a tent
and it was kicked into a freshly dug hole
like crypt deep in the dirt
16
April
the palm of your hand is numb and sore
the hot red swelling
your growing body
starved
there was no such thing as obesity
just school sores
soft and gentle
the screams of those who did not die
asking for their life
the wooden dinghies
drifted
disappeared, unknownst
left behind their absence
sometimes salvaged was the word unknown
shattered pieces
where are you from?
sorry, I only know Vietnamese
remember,
the afternoons
at home
you watched your mother stare at the emptiness
out at the sea
17
April
dark
the damp sea breeze barely reached the shore
like our mother’s arms
in a breath took away your fears
the light fishing boat
at the end of a diminished darken horizon
the flicker of torch light on the boat
like a ship crew
like the sea
never dies
like we are now, alive
though we may have changed
even when it comes to games
the promise of an adventure
rolled up within the sound of crashing waves
don’t leave me
there’s no valid reason
a child should drown away from the sea
all that you desire
your greatest love
both
life and death
the waves engulfing our mother’s arms
wanting to hold on
to us forever
whose shadow was damp and slippery on the sand
there was no return for them
they were like your drowned lover
18
April
the vernacular were whispered
like some rebel from behind
a weathered leathery mask
titles morphing into thorns
accidentally stepped on
needed to be pulled out
duyên anh du tử lê
cung tích biền phan nhật nam
bùi giáng phạm công thiện
books now sold by the kilo
your thoughts
judged…
literature was a game dialectically left behind on the bookshelf
to collect dust
I could hear the spectre of the vernacular
in my sleep this winter
over and over again steadily, clearly
an era of dusty books
depressed and lonely
leaving no fingerprint
scorn upon now is individualism
as the lines on our foreheads dictates the past
you have to paste
but you only paste
you’re lucky to be alive
exploits to be found at an open air markets
within the welcoming silence of poetry
19
April
we’re bent out of shape, a mess
our fate
in vulgar hands
people returned to their homes
tried to dig
exhume the dead
find life
hot
cold
entanglements
ruinous
dusty, sandy, ashes
20
April
the sound of helicopters
now are like vibrations
smartphones in our pant pocket
a ray of noon light
like an arrow
flying
it’s not blurry
like the mark of a whip
skipping school long ago
21
April
the sunlight were in the colours of wonder
idyllic, fell across the canopies
like a freshly repainted house
April
the sunlight alluring
an inspiring ideal
with not a breeze
in conclusion, ideals are passions
parallel with darkness
like a single breath
even, under the moonlight
we’re all digging for survival
eagerly
bubbling away as though we’re floating
–
Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm 
