Σας παρουσιάζουμε τα ποιήματα του Βιετναμέζου ποιητή Βui Xuan
Επιμέλεια παρουσίασης: Εύα Πετρόπουλου Λιανού ποιήτρια-συγγραφέας
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 dense darkness
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
the day is over
I’m lying in the middle of the grass
sad crickets crowing
leading the symphony at late night
arrive early
like autum
hastily lead the golden thread of sunshine into the garden of rotting leaves
I transform into the grass into the tree
the sleep that does not wait for the stars to rise.
Fertility
thinking again about Vishnu and Shiva
create, preserve, destroy
thinking again about Yoni and Linga
fertility, proliferate, flourish
thinking again about your black eyes
pure, radiant, inviting
thinking again of the seeds of the earth
rising that warm sunlight.
Morning prelude
Your body is shining
purity flows from the deep night pit
the source of the black eyes flowing through the chest
heaving and silent navel formed
tornadoes
the sky does not promise the firery sun
storm is sleeping
The wind blows softly through the hair
timid, tolerant clouds fly towards the horizon
where the kiln opens the door of ash
I bend over the terracotta vase
praising clay, water and fire
praise your radiant body
purity flows from the deep night pit.
Light up
After the evil Xangsane storm
I learn from the tree the lighting
as if there’s never been a gust of wind above level twelve
as if there was never an uprooted ancient tree
as if there were no ruined houses
and my mother and my sister and brother
sat and cried.
To live is to light
I acknowledge and affirm
I argue and defend.
Hey you
if one day in front of you is a void or a breakdown
please light up a young leaf for yourself
beautiful on the tree branch after the storm
and if hope does not return
your heart is empty
please light up whether it’s loneliness or despair
never become the insensitive dying light.
Young mud
When the flood season passed, it left a layer of young mud on the ground. The neighbor did not hide his joy: “This year’s young mud is thicker than every year”. Mother laughed: “It’s a big flood”. He listened to mother’s voice and fills his lungs with the smell of new dirt.
Young mud. Howling wind, pouring rain. The vast plains of water. Imitation of village drums. The water on the floor swept away many things. The water remained in the mud. Mother lifted up her palm with fresh drops of mud. Mother’s smile reminded him of the taste of the earth, the scent of the season. Mother’s gaze reminded him of a way of thinking, of seeing, of living.
Time drifted to infinity. Sometimes he asked himself: What is my soul? And he answered himself: My soul is a young mud soul.
He saved every drop of mud after the flood season to make up for his poor rice fields. He distilled joy, sadness, experience, found in it a little essence and he thought of one thing, every flash of rain would pass, what was left, what remained was young mud and everything could possibly become a fertile alluvial layer…
The other side
One late afternoon I called a ferry to cross the river. After a while, from the other side there was a « hey » and a boat appeared from behind the reeds. The old ferryman had a white beard. The old man’s oars were slow. The boat drifted languorously 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 other side?” The old ferryman looked at me: “It’s been a long time so it has become a habit, and to me, the two banks are only one, so I forget to think that you are anxious to go to the other side”. I saw in the old boatman’s words some meaning, but because my mind was only looking at the river quickly, I did not ask again. The boat docked, I disembarked, nodded to the old man and hurried away. As I stepped off the riverbank, the old boatman called out: “Hey, when you get back to the other side, remember to remind me to row the boat quickly.”
Sun shadow
At noon in the summer, I stayed in a hammock under a bamboo grove. The bamboo leaves rang and the tall bamboo trees swayed in the wind. The sun shone down from above, through the bamboo then became sunbeams on the ground. The hammock I laid in and even my body was dappled with sunlight. I smiled and thought: “The sun is wearing a brocade shirt for me”. Then I closed my eyes and fell asleep. Under the shade of bamboo, the sun is dotted. The hammock swayed with a creaking sound.
Baby, life doesn’t have many moments like that, but those moments will follow us forever. And you will never be the sad sun. And I will never be the pool of suffering. Because in us there have been wonderful moments, worth living. Under the shade of bamboo, the sun is dotted. The hammock swayed with a creaking sound.
(Translated into English by Vu Hoang Linh Chi)
