How does one savour a woman?
Author: Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm
There's magic in translating a body of work from one language to another.
Categories
RUMI | Trước mặt anh em đã đến (113)
Trước mặt anh em đã đến
tôn tựa như trước bàn thờ.
Bao nhiêu lời nguyền trước
vỡ tan khi em thấy anh.
Gosh the cuts of young bamboo shoots my grandfather used to salvage from the forest. Where my uncle often faced tigers in the night(days there were still tigers). Now echidna is a condiment for drinking.
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Thân Trọng Ái | again April (1)
April returning
a golden era of antiquity
the bloodied flags bleeding across the pavements
the ancient tombs departed
across a regretful city the trees numb sagging
the afternoon bells resounding
the cathedral in mournful prayers
My return through the swaying trees
My return in a wooden box pinned with flowers
My return on a stretcher
On a helicopter the whites of mourning
—
Anh trở về hàng cây nghiêng ngã
Anh trở về hòm gỗ cài hoa
Anh trở về bằng chiếc băng ca
Trên trực thăng sơn màu tang trắng
I’m addicted to kopi luwak, the civet morning droppings
[ imagined that, sounds great doesn’t it ]
what money, let alone Asian palm civet
dear god. so are the days of our lives
picking up the pieces
Saigon’s fresh dew
at the 5th and 7th intersection
now besides the massacred trees
the tall looming buildings squashing the tiny shop fronts, toadstools on the pavement
By Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm, translation by Lê Vĩnh Tài into Vietnamese Các bạn có thể truy cập tất cả những hoạ sĩ, nhiếp ảnh gia, nhà thơ, dịch giả và nhà văn tôi yêu thích ở đây, bằng cách nhấn vào liên kết dưới đây. Tôi mong trong tương lai của #songngutaitram sẽ có […]
People: like whiskey, down the drain.
Con người: như whiskey, dưới rãnh.
_____
Inspired by the legend of Hemingway.
Không còn chảy máu: già nua, vợ mới.
—
Stop bleeding: old age, new wife.
Categories
Lê Vĩnh Tài | THEY… (259)
don’t want to note the glorious cyan aspect of the sea
with flowers
and the stars with a poem that’s a bit cold
the poems are anonymous
due to the lack of courage
Nàng đó ở giữa cánh đồng lúa
trên lưng voi,
trong những hẻm,
trong những quán rượu,
đu đưa một thành thép lạnh.
Bụng của nàng đầy,
đầy những đứa con,
mổ ra,
đời đời những thế hệ con gái.
—
She cradles the baby in her arms
to the day it’s torn from her.
She waits for a husband
that never returns.
She is in the rice paddocks,
on elephant backs,
the alleyways,
the bar,
swinging on the cold steel pole.
words is a flash of light
poetry is the startling gunshot
through a strangely difficult crowd
as you stand there like a full stop amidst this world
viewable only if so wholeheartedly
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Thái Hạo | A Prayerful Sun (36)
I said goodbye to my sleep
as though I’m saying goodbye to you
approaching April
with the lies
like nails
nailed into the palms of one’s hands
pockmarks on the wooden pillar
like the bouts of insomnia
poking holes through the night
all the leaves were bending over smiling
people were the only ones looking up crying
the day Mother rode the golden wind
headed for the sky turned into a silver star
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Đinh Trường Chinh | (M)aria (2)
I’m adrift on a string of memory you threw across the night
(like an acrobat that lost his faith
fumbling for pages of the bible).
The high moonlit hot burnt boozed-up eyes.
The sun falls at dawn.
The night gave birth to the moon.
The hard birth of some verses. Cramp in the thoughts of the imagination.
Unborn err choked in oblivion.
Categories
Nguyễn Văn Gia | WAR (3)
A MEETING/HỌP
The listener: a deaf guy
The speaker: a dumb dude
But both are fully aware that
They’re talking about nothing at all.
resonating deep echoes of a gong far gone
a gloomy day a baby turned in its mother’s womb
who gets to choose the door entering the world
the land hot bloodied in human sweat
recollections forgetful as clouds are as springs
child, are you sure it’s not too much…
the dreams of fire
a homeland drew up in white clouds
o homeland fresh and green
you leaning on me, you’re exhausted child
us leaning on a small frond
leaning into a song
what can a song do
a frond wet eyes
flying into the fresh green night…
the burden upon shoulders in our sandals slipping
o homeland thy slipping dignity
the universal dream
the rivers merging
the sea an ache
the vat of wine in the longhouse house bitter
facing the returning months and year
the forest exchanged for a broken vehicle
the gong at times a stage
in Thy eyes child play
the child yearns for its mother returns
but when you turn your back my child, the Sun also sets
to craving once more the dusk
you’re the light I’m the dark
darkness shattering human eyes
in throats upon lips
the lyrics…
