Selected Poems

Phuong Le, Vietnam

1. SNOW ON MAU SON MOUNTAINS
(December 2012)

Snow, snow, snow
falling, falling, falling,
covering the mountains,
the lakes and trees,
making them all freeze.

Crowds of tourists,
in coats and gloves
wandering about
cheering, chatting, laughing.
enjoying winter holidays.

Snow, snow, snow.
falling, falling, falling,
covering the hills,
all huts and fields.
bringing an icy blanket of chill.

Groups of children,
poorly clothed,
running backwards
shaking, shivering, straggling
fighting their way home.

Groups of cattle,
bleary eyes bewildered
nuzzling against one another,
shivering together
like patients with fever.
Long winter days
in the highlands.
Can it truly be
a joyful holiday
for you?

THE LAST HOURS OF THE YEAR
(March 2013)

Old wheelbarrows
full of bonsai and peach blossoms.
hurriedly running here and there,
the labourers are smiling.
The last hours of the year.

A young couple,
holding their newly-born baby,
waving at a passing bus,
anxious to be home again.
The last hours of the year.

Dozens of motorbikes,
loaded with food and decoration,
dashing past each other.
Eager shoppers have come and gone.
The last hours of the year.

Small store owners,
closing up their businesses
pulling down the metal shutters,
contented to be finished.
The last hours of the year.

An old woman
kneels in front of a small altar
her palms together
mumbling a string of prayers.
The last hours of the year.

A few homeless peddlers,
stare at a crippled blind man
worriedly asking a lottery seller
where to go and what to do.
The last hours of the year.

THROUGH A BAR WINDOW
(March 2013)

A middle-aged woman
in high-heeled shoes
strutting wearily.
All clients are rogues.

A fat bearded man
with an empty glass
leaning on the counter.
All shares are traitors.

An elderly father,
with a small sheet of paper,
watching the words blurring.
All children are debts of nature.

In the early hours.
each in a bar corner,
looking for oblivion.
of the present and future.

No one is talking.
No one is whining.
But the cold moon
is weeping for them all.

SOLITUDE
(March 2013)

A young woman
walking slowly,
in heavy rain:
Tears in her heart.

An elderly man
holding his son's hand,
on a station platform:
Scars in his soul.

A spoiled teenager
hugging an elderly banker,
near a trendy Mercedes:
Smiles a false smile.

Solitude seems equally bitter,
wherever it is found.

THE TRAIN THAT I TOOK
(March 2013)

On the train I took,
I talked to a tired man,
returning from a village
looking for his brother.
Mementoes contained in his case:
a handful of rough soil,
a rusty card so cherished.
Sorrows were born to last.

On the train I took,
I met a very young soldier,
going home after years
protecting a small islet,
His backpack full of gifts:
a pretty sweater for Mom,
a pair of glasses for Dad,
and stories that never end.

On the train I took,
I watched a kind couple
hugging a baby they’d adopted,
smiling at the girl with hope.
The toys bulging in their sack:
colourful balls and dolls,
cute hats and pretty clothes,
their love clearly shows.

On the train I took,
I saw some eager youths,
heading to a mountain school,
helping to rebuild a bridge.
Their shoulders laden with tools:
hammers tied up with planes,
large bags of bolts and nails -
their plans are still ahead.

The train that I took
made me ponder
about war and peace,
about sorrows and joys,
and despair and hope.
So I truly wondered
on the train that I took.

NO GUNFIRE
(April 2013)

No gunfire does not mean joy.
No gunfire yet sorrows remain.
No gunfire yet despair still reigns.

Old women became widows in their teens.
Old women have been old since their youth.
Old women have run out of tears for their sons.
Old women have never enjoyed a married life.
Old women have nurtured no hopes of joys.
Old women silently endure and cry,
Walking into and out of lonely huts each day.
Old women with white hair and bent backs.

Their hair's turned white with all the worrying.
Their hair's turned white with all the waiting.
Their hair's turned white with all the yearning -
With all the rice-growing, their backs bent double,
With all the salt-carrying, their backs bent double,
With all the cooking, their backs bent double.

With their backs bent, they carry their life history.
With their backs bent, they carry the national destiny.
No gunfire does not mean peace.
No gunfire does not mean joy.

HIS CHOICE TO LEAVE
(June 26th, 2013)

A child of 8
left his home one day,
with a very naive thought
"this will save the food
for my siblings"

The world was immense
but he was minute.
He walked and walked
further from home
He walked and walked
into the unknown.

He could never know
that destined departure,
would take him away
from his warm nest
for half his lifetime

His siblings lost a brother.
His parents lost a son.
and he lost a family,
for more years than he could count

Such is just one moving story,
that makes up my homeland -
where a child chose to leave home,
to save food for those he dearly loved.

Such is a simple story,
that weaves into the culture
of my country, where people
are thrifty with basic needs
but extravagant with love and care.

IT TOOK ME 20 YEARS
(June 26th, 2013)

It took me twenty years
to arrive at this place
on a ship, to where you went away
Twenty years ago.

It took me twenty years
to solve the mystery
of why you left this world
without saying farewell to Mom.

It took me twenty years
to experience the moment
when I stood as a captain
on this ship, as you once did.

I grew up with Mom's lullabies
and my growth nurtured by your feat.
Now I come with a wreath for your resting place,
to continue the song you left halfway.
It took me twenty years.

OUTSIDE A UNIVERSITY EXAM CENTRE
(July 4th, 2013)

The father eagerly pushes the wheelchair
That carries his daughter into the exam room.
She is a rare gem in his life.
The daughter watches her Dad,
Who walks out into the yard with a limp.
He is an unsung hero in hers.

A gray-haired peddler with her basket of peanuts,
Waits for her son outside the closed gate.
The world behind it is something she’s heard about
But never entered to know what was inside.
She sits on the ground, happy to be with other parents
Whose child is one step toward their dream.

A peasant who slept in a nearby inn last night.
After a long trip from the mountain.
Hesitantly joins the noisy crowds:
His son will also take part in this exam,
Aspiring to make a difference to his life.
And the fate of all the folks in their village.

A grandmother comes with an orphan grandson,
Thrusting into his hand a coin of good luck.
Confides in him all the trust of her life.
Silently prays to her daughter in heaven.
And smiles at the thought of satisfaction
For she’s fulfilled the promise she made.

The university gate this morning to them all:
Is a holy shrine of scholarly knowledge,
A glorious ambition they have desired for a lifetime,
A shining goal they’ve cherished with endless hard work.
Their past was full of sweat, worry and anxiety.
But the future’s filled with hope, pride and joy.

LIFE’S TOO FAST
(September 24th, 2013)

Life’s so fast that ladies leave farms for noisy nights in bars and hotels instead.
Life’s so fast that young people choose to quit school to join gangs or take drugs.
Life’s so fast that some change partners as quickly as they do with their outfit.
Life’s so fast that teenagers cannot wait to marry and quickly divorce.
Life’s so fast that many devise cruel ways to cheat as much as they could.
Life’s so fast that criminals do not think twice before killing people.
Life’s so fast that officials would rather buy qualification than study hard for it.
Life’s so fast that people sell women and children, rather than cakes or fruits.
Life’s so fast that conflicts are solved with knives and guns, rather than with talks.
Life’s so fast that many things have changed the way they never should.

MY LAST TRAIN *
(September 24th, 2013)

I’m on the last train of my life,
sent home from the hospital.
I’m on the last train of my life,
to live the final days with Mom.

I’m on the last train of my life
so I smile at every face before my eyes.
and wish to give each one a friendly hug.
or shake their hands as warmly as I could.

I’m on the last train of my life
So every house is a dream place to visit.
And every single tree a real wonder of nature.
And every river leads to memorable childhood.

I watch and listen, like a baby fully bewildered
At the interesting life on the crowded train.
And the even livelier world outside the window.
While I’m travelling on the last train of my life.

White clouds like cotton blossoms lazily floating.
And seagulls playfully soaring up and down for fish.
And the waves showing their rhythmic dance to the shores.
As I’m making my definitely last journey home.

I’m still not yet twenty though to me
Anger, fear, and the like no longer exist.
No worry, no haste, no dreams, no whatsoever.
As I’m now taking my very last train home.

This journey will end and I go home to rest.
And certainly enjoy the simplest things I always cherish.
The silky smoke rising from village huts in the mist.
With addictive smells of evening meals filling the air.
But above all, familiar shadows of the woman I dearly miss.
When I can shout out loud, “Mom, I’m finally home.”

*Inspired by Duc, a kidney patient in a documentary made by Phan Huyen Thu, a Vietnamese journalist.

A SOLDIER’S LETTER *
(September 25th, 2013)

Some may say that once you love a soldier,
You certainly have to face a huge loss.
But I truly believe since I loved you,
I’ve received more than what I can ask for.
So I treasure the memories we’ve had,
All moments of joys and those of sorrows.

Life with you has always been a blessing.
When you leave, it’s a constant hope for me.
Talking to your photo becomes my habit.
So does expecting train whistles each night.
For, who knows, you may suddenly come back
As in the prayers I frequently have.

Gone is the war, so are bombings on fields.
Battlegrounds have become nice schools and parks.
Where teachers now are soldiers of the past.
Joining children in their laughter daily.
But with me, war is not all over yet.
You haven’t been home and I’m still waiting.

Then out of nowhere, your letter arrived.
As a Godsend, after three decades full.
It brought me joys, memories and the such.
Tears in my eyes but great warmth in my heart.
As I believe you are always with me.
In my past, present, even years ahead.

You wrote to me on a harsh battlefield
Where death was a serious fear and threat.
But you only talked about plans and hopes.
With cute babies, decent jobs and nice friends.
As in the belief that we both cherish.
That love can conquer all evils of war.

You wrote about your amazing comrades,
Vigorous youths boasting of their first kiss.
Daydreaming about mesmeric feelings.
When war would one day be a distant past.
They then return in embraces of love.
To build houses, raise kids and work on farms.

Since your letter has no return address,
I’m unable to send you a reply.
But I’ve washed my hair with our garden herbs.
Which you often say is the best perfume.
Then I’ll ask the wind to bring you this gift.
As an eternal link between you and me.

*Inspired by the letter written by Nguyễn Thái Hòa, a soldier from Nam Định (1952-1979), Vietnam.

HAD THERE BEEN NO WAR
(October 18th, 2013)

Had there been no war,
The old woman would not be sleepwalking,
Hoping to hear quiet knocks in tranquil nights,
The elderly man would not spend years searching for his son,
Just to bitterly return with a handful of rock and soil.

Had there been no war,
The young lady would not sleep with scanty memories
About her husband that she cherishes each night.
Nor would the children innocently ask, “Where’s Daddy?”
Pondering about the lack of the fathers in their families.

Had there been no war,
There would never be an entire village of silent spinsters,
Having spent their youth in fighting trenches and fortifications.
Neither would it have taken 30 years for letters to reach home
While their writers in the cold earth still expecting an answer.

Had there been no war,
The legendary general would have been a teacher in a distant village
Who loves to tell the pupils marvelous stories about the history
Of a land where people have fought with great love and determination,
While still singing and making poetry in quiet times on the battlefield.

Had there been no war,
The artillery man would have been a passionate musician
Who delightedly plays melodies about youthful life and love.
And the heroic guerrilla would have been a happy farmer.
Watching the green rice fields and dreaming of bumper crops.
Had there been no war.

TELEPHONE’S RINGING
(Janaury 20th, 2014)

The phone’s ringing.
The big boss is calling.
Delightful date to be cancelled.
The young secretary’s grumbling.
How displeasing!

Sunday breakfast with friends.
The phone’s ringing.
An operation to be done.
The surgeon’s complaining.
How disturbing!

The final penalty kicks on TV.
The phone’s ringing.
An urgent meeting to attend.
A delegation to be welcomed.
How frustrating!

The phone’s ringing.
The teacher’s cooking.
A substitute class to fill in.
More papers to be scored.
How irritating!

Early weekend morning.
The phone’s ringing
“Two cases of beer, please”
“… Oh, no. Wrong number”
How annoying!

It’s well past midnight.
The phone’s ringing.
Anything can happen.
In the pitch-black night.
How frightening!

A retired old man’s idling
His boring time away.
Expecting a phone call
That seems to never come.
How disappointing!

Loud and clear last night.
The phone’s ringing.
Hastily the man sat up.
Yet, it was just his dream.
How depressing!

HE BATIK LADY
(March 2014)

Quietly and laboriously
The batik lady’s painting
Mysterious circles and artistic curves
Hardly comprehensible to anyone.

Unperturbed by the outsiders
The batik lady’s fully engaged
In the dream world she’s creating
With sacred jungles and vast deserts
With distant stars and immense seas
With ardent love that cannot be shown
And deep pains that cannot be told
Like numerous layers of sorrows
Underneath a time that never unfolds.

Winter goes and summer comes.
But since when that lady can never tell
She has been sitting there, drawing, weaving
And getting lost in a world of her own.