Poems by Bui Xuan (Vietnam)

 

Poems by Bui Xuan (Vietnam)

His brief biography:

Bui Xuan is a poet and a literary translator

Born in 1959 in Quang Nam province.

Bachalor of Science of history. Member of Vietnam Writers’ Association. Member of Literary translation Council of Vietnam Writers’ Association. Published 2 volumes of poems and 4 books of translation works. Won 4 literary prizes.

His poems:

Hidden fire

Cups
not yet arranged neatly on the tea tray
suggest me ideas beyond the
piece of clay
the potter moulds and bakes in the fire

Intuition tells me
the fire hidden in the cup
is making streams.


Space

leaving the space behind
I'm lost in the void in front of me

the last rain of the season has ended
the last drop of sunshine is gone
it's as if the earth is no longer under my feet
it's like my body is being diluted
merge with the void that has densedarkness

suddenly you appeared
shimmering flowers of the shirt button in the past.



That place

I'm afraid that the place I return to, a lotus flower will bloom to welcome my feet
in that place my heart is like a lake without ripples
wisdom is like the full moon passing through green gardens
                                                                          and the rocky hillsides

that place the heart doesn't hurt the chains
my chest doesn't explode in your whisper

that place
how can i still call passionately
honey.

Sleeping among the trees 

thedayis over
I’m lying in the middle of the grass

sad crickets crowing
leading the symphonyat late night
arrive early
likeautum
hastilylead the golden thread of sunshineinto the garden of rottingleaves

Itransforminto the grassinto the tree
the sleepthat does not wait for the stars to rise.


Fertility

thinkingagain aboutVishnu and Shiva
create, preserve, destroy

thinkingagain about Yoni and Linga
fertility, proliferate, flourish

thinkingagain about your black eyes
pure, radiant, inviting

thinking again of the seeds of the earth
rising that warm sunlight.


Morningprelude

Your body isshining
purityflowsfrom the deepnight pit
the source of the black eyesflowingthrough the chest
heaving and silent navel formed
tornadoes

theskydoesnot promise the firery sun
storm is sleeping
The windblowssoftlythrough the hair
timid, tolerantcloudsflytowards the horizon

where the kiln opens the door of ash
I bend over the terracotta vase
praisingclay, water and fire

praiseyour radiant body
purityflowsfrom the deep night pit.

Light up

After the evilXangsanestorm

Ilearnfrom the treethe lighting

as if there'snever been a gust of windaboveleveltwelve

as if therewasnever an uprootedancient tree

as if therewere no ruined houses

andmymother and mysister and brother

sat and cried.

To liveis to light

Iacknowledge and affirm

I argue and defend.

Hey you

if one day in front of youis a void or a breakdown

please light up a youngleaf for yourself

beautiful on the treebranchafter the storm

and if hopedoes not return

your heartisempty

please light up whetherit'sloneliness or despair

neverbecome the insensitive dying light.

Young mud

When the flood seasonpassed, itlefta layer of youngmud on theground. The neighbordidnot hidehisjoy: "This year'syoungmudisthickerthaneveryyear". Mother laughed: "It's a big flood". He listened to mother'svoice and fillshislungswith the smell of new dirt.

Young mud. Howlingwind, pouringrain. The vast plains of water. Imitation of village drums. The water on the floorsweptawaymanythings. The water remained in the mud. Mother lifted up her palm withfresh drops of mud. Mother'ssmileremindedhim of the taste of the earth, the scent of the season. Mother's gaze remindedhim of a way of thinking, of seeing, of living.

Time drifted to infinity. Sometimesheaskedhimself: Whatismy soul? And heansweredhimself: My soul is a youngmud soul.

He savedevery drop of mudafter the flood season to make up for hispoorricefields. He distilledjoy, sadness, experience, found in it a little essence and hethought of onething, every flash of rainwouldpass, whatwasleft, whatremainedwasyoungmudand everything couldpossibly becomea fertile alluvial layer...

The otherside

One lateafternoon I called a ferry to cross the river. After a while, fromthe othersidetherewas a « hey » and a boat appearedfrombehind the reeds. The oldferrymanhad a white beard. The old man's oarswere slow. The boat driftedlanguorously across the river. When the boat docked, I got on the boat and said, “Are you tired because of the old age? You didn't know that I was eager, hoping to get to the otherside?" The oldferrymanlooked at me: "It's been a long timesoithas become a habit, and to me, the twobanks are only one, so I forget to thinkthatyou are anxious to go to the otherside". I saw in the oldboatman'swordssomemeaning, but becausemy mindwasonlylooking at the river quickly, I did not askagain. The boat docked, I disembarked, nodded to the old man and hurriedaway. As I stepped off the riverbank, the oldboatmancalled out: "Hey, whenyouget back to the otherside, remember to remindme to row the boat quickly."

Sun shadow

At noon in the summer, I stayed in a hammockunder a bamboogrove. The bambooleaves rang and the tallbambootreesswayed in the wind. The sunshone down fromabove, through the bamboothen became sunbeams on the ground.Thehammock I laidin and evenmy body wasdappledwith sunlight. I smiled and thought: "The suniswearing a brocadeshirt for me". Then I closedmyeyes and fellasleep. Under the shade of bamboo, the sunisdotted. The hammockswayedwith a creaking sound.

Baby, life doesn't have many moments likethat, but those moments willfollow us forever. And youwillneverbe the sadsun. And I willneverbe the pool of suffering. Becausein us there have beenwonderful moments, worthliving. Under the shade of bamboo, the sunisdotted. The hammockswayedwith a creaking sound.

(Translated into English by Vu Hoang Linh Chi)