THE WRITERS POST (ISSN: 1527-5467) VOLUME 8 NUMBER 2 JUL 2006 |
MAI VAN PHAN __________________________________________ three
poems by MAI VAN
PHAN translated by Do Xuan Oanh The night spring begins Waiting around the lamp light spreads, interruptedly believed someone holds a torch to examine the face of each one. Cooking up game to kill time : on whom the light sheds that person calls the way spring begins. The following words are noted down : The cold shirking bird makes
arrow fall down the wall of winter. Looked through window the face
suggests scrawling handwriting A drop of dew splits tender grass foot into abyss… Jesting stories callously relate to heaven and earth Things move themselves unsteady mountain shadow Bird moans that wind changes season… Pulling up lamp wick Flocks of arrows swift through the roof. Selecting a scene In the dream lying down on sea resting head on your arm You think the sea here is 8 meters deep (I can read the thought) with a mass of cloud and albatross I bring dream to the street at breakfast think of myself as a piece
of Jew’s ear boiled in the bouillon pot a pot of 8 meters deep Visiting friend in narrow alley the house plate resembles Jew’s ear in
bouillon pot friend’s voice resounds from 8 meters
deep Close the door a bit since cold vague damp vapor soaks quite deeply Distance is seen from stool foot to
statue sound of wood-borer comes as quick as
lightning among faces in alien noodle soup inn… equal to distance between mass of cloud
and albatross extremely beautiful over 8 meters deep My brother At the moment of having one foot in the
grave, he asks me to help keeping the memories. He said they are precious
data. But the stock of my memory is already brimful, even mouldy, rotten. I
advise him better to paint or write book. But he is not writer, nor painter.
I bring up several other solutions : cut to pieces, restart, reduce in size,
suddenly stop, simmer well, crush into powder… He
looks at me very sad ! I look at the river water changing its
color and skimming through the drooping grass bank. Alluvium is glossy and
fine. The moon rises early, innocent with a whiffing of straw. Miss my
sweetheart terribly. He
looks at me very sad ! The recently washed dress is all wrinkled
and silently smells without I know it. Then the thin threads of stuff are again
neat and smooth under the burning iron. Wash-iron, wash-iron…Life sometimes
resembles a too old clock pendulum…I learn to think idly so that thinking
could be continued. He
looks at me very sad ! He waits as I wash my hands. The tap
flushes hard, very clean, extremely fresh. Pity him. I look at the soap suds
turning muddy on the smooth wet skin and feel really comfortable.
MAI VAN PHAN The Writers Post & literature-in-translation, founded 1999,
based in the US. Editorial note: Works published in this issue are simultaneously published in the printed Wordbridge magazine (ISSN: 1540-1723). Copyright © Mai Van Phan & The Writers Post. Nothing in this magazine may be downloaded, distributed, or reproduced without the permission of the author/ translator/ artist/ The Writers Post/ and Wordbridge magazine. Creating links to place The Writers Post or any of its pages within other framesets or in other documents is copyright violation, and is not permitted. |
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