Tag: thaihao

I grew up on a windy field
Gales of wind like embers delivered from the Sun
Incinerating our naps beneath the trees
The fields bleached white by dead fish
Together with the old
Carried to be buried at the spine of the mountain
Decimated by the tramplings of cows and buffalos
The sandy soil tumulus void of green grass the entire summer

I woke up from a sleep on a sail
a spirit in the wind
a song within a seashell from the origin
the dragonfly wings now void of movement
perched upon a portrait of a weather-beaten sail
glorious on the blue wall
a room overwhelmed by the sea

March in the dark
a volcano brewing beneath the yellowing cogon grass
from the heart of the back earth the shrieks of insect
shattering in time with the falling stars
March in the dark
I’m pacing in a room dense with cigarette smoke
by the window the falling neem blossoms like the rain
hastening the season
side by side with the cries of felines.

I shall recall the scents of guavas
Mixed in with the scent of her hair
A love affair sound in autumn followed by the sad prayers
The sadness bleaching the blooming branches of pomelo
The chilling scent in the wind
The pouring of dusty storms
The breaths with smoke overwhelming
Across the vast sky unfurling

The forest storm ever ceasing
My ox cart full of books soggy, muddy
The spine of the books
Held the details of fallen stars

I’m there composing poetry in thoughts of philosophy
By the rubber sap consuming mice
By the petty thievery of men and women
By the buildings by the schools void of the sound of people
Nothing but the scuttering sound of mice trying to make a living in the sewers

I grew up under the shredded clouds, meadows of thin harvests
By skinny buffalos sneaking bites of rice on the edge of the field
There were very mean guards at the fields
Drunk every day
Took the buffalos as hostages
We follow them in tears through the bruising country dusk
Together with the screams of ravens over our heads

I shall greet myself in familiarity
and we shall hand in hand
walk endlessly
the banks of the river of white reeds

Void of the coucal visit
I shall light a cigarette, make the clouds
set them free

a charcoal exclamation mark in white
a cross
the words brightly burning into the night

I’m awake in the heart of the mountain
the decade old flame kindling still in wisps of smoke
my father’s back an erect boulder
my mother’s hair
the whiteness of dreams

Even though I’m acquainted with such lies
no ripe golden harvest
but such fabrications are the source of my strength
so we could cross
this desolate, devastating land.