I reminisce about an autumn years ago
when we sent each other scented letters.
Scented with the fragrance of Love and flowers.
The penned strokes, flirtingly romantic, fly on the pages.
I remember the heart’s hesitancy when I wrote
“How many lives have I waited
for us to love and be together.”
O My Love,
the letters still here,
but you’re somewhere faraway.
I search for you in the starlight of yesteryears.
Remember that day when we walked together to the bridge,
You let down your long silky hair,
and we promised each other to love and be loved.
The words of Love gently floated down the river to some harbor…

Oh Time!
The passage of Time seems to have erased the words of Love.
The passage of Time has faded the color of many letters.
I returned to this place to burn the letters,
to forget the love that seems like thousands of years ago.
Love with the passing of months and years has withered.
The love in the artist’s heart has died.

I reminisce about an autumn years ago
when I wandered alone in the forests and rivers.
The autumn leaves fell and withered.
I reminisce about that day
when we walked together to the bridge.
You let down your long silky hair.
Where’s the Love now that was in our hearts then…

Translated by Vương Thanh

Lá thư

Nhớ tới mùa thu năm xưa gửi nhau
phong thư ngào ngạt hương
nét bút đa tình lả lơi
nhớ phút ngập ngừng lòng giấy viết rằng
chờ đến kiếp nào
tình đầu trong gió mùa
người yêu ơi
em nay về đâu?
phong thư còn đây
nhớ nhau tìm trong ánh sao
nhớ tới ngày nào cùng bước đến cầu
ngồi xõa tóc thề
hẹn lời ân ái
trôi đến bến nào hình dáng thuyền yêu

Thời gian
như xóa lời yêu thương
thời gian
phai dần màu bao lá thư
anh quay về đây đốt tờ thư
quên đi niềm ân ái ngàn xưa
ái ân theo tháng năm tàn
ái ân theo tháng năm vàng
tình người nghệ sĩ phai rồi

Nhớ tới mùa thu năm nao
mình anh lênh đênh rừng cùng sông
chiếc lá thu dần vàng theo
nhớ tới ngày nào cùng bước đến cầu
ngồi xõa tóc thề
còn đâu ân ái chăng người xưa?

Đoàn Chuẩn

Even if it rains daily, I want to walk with you till the end of life
Even if dark clouds or storms are gathering, I long to be at your side
Even if it’s windy and biting cold, or the roads muddied with snow
Even if the leaves are falling, sad and desolate…
Even if whatever… Whatever happens…, I Will Still Love You…

Leaning on each other’s arms, sharing peace and warmth
Finding each other’s lips with a passionate kiss
Hand clasping hand, feeling imprisoned desires stirring…
My hair, unkempt and gray with memories of a sad love
But just looking at you,
just looking at you for a moment,
I long to say “I Love You.”

Let me be a breath of sleepiness,
just this one time,
lulling you into a world of dreams,
taking you with me
into the yesteryears of Love…

I long to hold you in my arms
Like a dream pillow, you are so soft and warm
I long for a night full of passion
A night of love between wife and husband.

Even if one day some other walks with you till the end of life
Even if you have the heart to rip and tear apart mine
Even if I wish a thousand wishes,
or blames fate my whole life
it’s already too late!

O Love! Whatever happens, I Will Always Love You…

Translated by Vương Thanh

Niệm khúc cuối

Dù cho mưa tôi xin đưa em đến cuối cuộc đời
Dù cho mây hay cho bão tố có kéo qua đây
Dù có gió, có gió lạnh đầy, có tuyết bùn lầy
Có lá buồn gầy, dù sao, dù sao đi nữa tôi vẫn yêu em

Dựa vai nhau cho nhau yên vui ấm áp cuộc đời
Tìm môi nhau, cho nhau rã nát, rã nát tim đau
Vừa đôi tay, ước muốn tù đầy,
Tóc rối bạc màu vết dấu tình sầu
Nhìn em, nhìn em giây phút, muốn nói yêu em

Xin cho tôi, tôi như cơn ngủ
Ru em, đưa em một lần
Ru em vào mộng, đưa em vào đời
Một thời yêu đương

Cho tôi xin em như gối mộng
Cho tôi ôm em vào lòng
Xin cho một lần, cho đêm mặn nồng
Yêu thương vợ chồng

Dù mai đây ai đưa em đi đến cuối cuộc đời
Dù cho em, em đang tâm xé, xé nát tim tôi
Dù có ước, có ước ngàn lời, có trách một đời
Cũng đã muộn rồi

Tình ơi! Dù sao đi nữa xin vẫn yêu em.

Ngô Thụy Miên

Raindrops are tears for a love that’s fading…
Clouds drifting… are the nostalgic regrets of a time gone by…
You told me that you were happy, but your eyes say otherwise
Alas, my heart still cannot not forget
the heartaches of those days…

Fragile is Life, like the autumn leaf withering on the tree branch
Is it rain or warm teardrops falling, crying for a lost love?
Still there in my heart
are the months and years of longings
for us to live a happy life together.
Alas! The pains of Fate, of being late for each other.

I remember that autumn day,
grey clouds drifting in the far horizon.
The sad rain, your tangled hair wetting your lips
You give me your first kiss,
and wrap your arms around me.
I sing for you a song of youthful love in the twenties

Wandering in search of you but you’d already gone
Treading the streets that we had been together with lonely footsteps
O Love, do you hear the autumn leaves falling
Do you know that when autumn arrives,
we have lost each other in this life.

Translated by Vương Thanh

Nỗi đau muộn màng

Mưa rơi là nước mắt tình đã phai rồi
Mây trôi là nỗi nhớ tiếc thương mà thôi
Hạnh Phúc sao mắt môi em còn chơi vơi
Sao trái tim anh còn chưa nguôi
Những xót xa một thời

Mong manh đời như lá vàng úa trên cành
Long lanh giọt lệ ấm khóc cho tình xanh
Còn đấy bao tháng năm âm thầm em mang
Bao vấn vương cho đời thênh thang
Những nỗi đau muộn màng

Em nhớ có mùa thu mây giăng lối
Cơn mưa buồn tóc rối ướt bờ môi
Em đã trao anh nụ hôn đầu vòng tay ấm vui
Anh hát cho em bài tình ca đôi mươi

Lang thang tìm đâu thấy người đã đi rồi
Mênh mang đường phố vắng bước chân lẻ loi
Người hỡi anh có nghe lá vàng rơi rơi
Anh có hay khi mùa thu tới
Ta mất nhau một đời

Ngô Thụy Miên

Evening falls
Leaves asleep by the hillside
She, a slender beauty in white dress,
Looks at Heaven’s Gate, shrouded in smoke and mist…

Night temple gongs waken peony flowers
Four misty seasons, filled with longings for the homeland!
The wind gently sways bamboo branches
Her dress gently flows like sunset clouds…

Evening passes by
White clouds drifting in loneliness…
Calling on Poetry Spirit
She’s absent!

The ancient moon of legends traverses across the sky
Voices of the hidden heart float in the night
Anything left in this remaining age?

Still there’s the moon on the mountaintop
Still there’s the clouds in the distant horizon
Quietly hearing from afar the echoes of the sea,
And Mother’s voice singing lullabies to me…

Since I had left that autumn,
My heart’s been calling out to Vibrant Spring,
to the Sunshine Season of United Hearts Gathering…
The Vietnamese people,
From all corners of the world,
Fragrant with scents of Buddha’s teachings,
Coming together in Love and Peace.
O April ! How I miss my homeland …
When will it be reborn again?

Evening falls
The temple gongs sounding from afar…
Watching clouds drifting at the seaside
Love for homeland ebbs and flows like the tides

Translated by Vương Thanh

Cửa trời sương khói, khói sương

Chiều nghiêng
Lá ngủ ven đồi
Em nghiêng tà mộng
Cửa trời
Khói sương…

Chuông khuya
thức đóa Hải Đường
Tiếng chim hót…
bốn mùa sương
Nhớ Nhà!
Gió lay cành Trúc la đà,
Áo em tà mộng…
thướt tha mây chiều

Chiều đi,
Mây trắng cô liêu
Gọi Thơ,
Thơ vắng!
Gọi chiều,
mông mênh…

Ánh trăng huyền thoại,
lênh đênh!
Tiếng lòng ai gửi…
Cuối ghềnh gió bay…

Còn chi cuối vận hội này
Còn Trăng đầu núi,
Còn Mây cuối trời
Âm thầm tiếng vọng trùng khơi
Mang mang…
Ơi tiếng, Ru hời,
Mẹ Ru…

Con đi từ đó Mùa Thu
Gọi Xuân Hồng,
Gọi Nắng Mùa Đoàn Viên
Trời Việt Nam Ngát Kinh Hiền
Lời Kinh tha thiết Bình Yên quê nhà
Bốn phương về hội Thái Hòa
Tháng Tư! Lại nhớ xót xa quê mình
Bao giờ Quê Mẹ hồi sinh
Tháng Tư Khẩn Nguyện An Bình Quê Hương

Rưng rưng… Lá Nhớ,
chiều sương
Kinh Chiều âm vọng bốn phương, Nắng Hồng

Chiều nghiêng
Chiều nghiêng thu không…
Tiếng thơ rơi rụng! Bụi hồng gió bay
Tình Quê, Ý Bút vơi đầy…
Có người ra Biển nhìn Mây… Nhớ Nhà!

Tuệ Nga

Is the night gone yet, that the sky’s hurrying to show its lights.
A flock of birds carries the coming season on little wings in flight.
An autumn evening, I went to send her off…
Returning home, feeling sad and chilly…
Leaves on tree branches falling,
each leaf gets flown far, far away…

On the night of parting, what sadness keeps you silent.
I only hear you telling me ever so softly,
that it’s really late and time for me to go home.
The day was dreary, transporting the evening into night.
I force myself to smile, but my heart’s already in tears…

An ethereal night of moonlight and stars.
Stars filling the sky, each twinkling brightly.
A poetic mood comes upon me.
Taking my soul back to the road of memories…

Are we apart yet that my heart’s feeling desolate.
The road ahead, wide and windy, with just only me.
Drunken with wine, but my soul already in frost.
Leaves on tree branches,
the last leaf, falling, gets flown far away…

Translated by Vương Thanh

Chiếc lá cuối cùng

Đêm qua chưa mà trời sao vội sáng
Một đàn chim cánh nhỏ chở mùa sang
Chiều vào thu tiễn em sầu lạnh giá
Lá trên cành từng chiếc cuốn bay xa…

Đêm chia ly buồn gì sao chẳng nói
Chỉ nghe em nói nhỏ trở về thôi
Ngày buồn tênh cũng đưa chiều vào tối
Mím môi cười mà nhớ thương khôn nguôi

Mộng tràn ngập đêm trăng sao
Sao đầy trời từng chiếc lấp lánh
Rồi một chiều xuân thơ trinh
Cho lòng mình về với dĩ vãng

Xa nhau chưa mà lòng nghe quạnh vắng
Đường thênh thang gió lộng một mình ta
Rượu cạn ly uống say lòng còn giá
Lá trên cành một chiếc cuối bay xa

Tuấn Khanh

“À ơi,” the sweet voice of gentle Mother
Her lullaby warms even the mountains and rivers
Mother’s love is beautiful and pure
With fragrant hands, she opens thousands of history pages
O Mother, O Mother Vietnam
Your love’s in a thousand melodies of lullabies
You teach your children to be just and compassionate,
to remember their roots and heroic ancestry.
Vietnam’s like a sad river branch with many twists and turns;
The moon dimmed, the water murky, the poor people, the bloodsheds…
Now, Mother’s voice is low, deep and sad
The two abysmal dark regions, a single source of suffering
Gentle Mother with shining virtue like a mirror
Her Flower of Compassion grows in her children’s garden
Mother sings a wonderful lullaby
Mother sings a lullaby of Love of Flowers and People…

Translated by Vương Thanh

Lời ru Mẹ Việt Nam

À ơi! Lời ngọt Mẹ hiền,
Tiếng ru ấm cả ba miền núi non
Mẹ tươi lòng ngát như son
Tay thơm Mẹ mở ngàn trang sử vàng.
Mẹ ơi, Mẹ hiền ơi. Ơi Mẹ Việt Nam
Tình thiêng muôn sợi tơ (ơ) đàn Mẹ rung
Dạy con nghĩa núi, tình sông
Dạy con nhớ gốc, khơi dòng liệt oanh
Nhánh sông sầu mấy khúc quanh
Trăng mờ, nước tủi, dân lành máu tuôn
Giờ đây tiếng Mẹ trầm buồn
Hai miền u tối, một nguồn đau thương
Mẹ hiền đức sáng như gương
Hoa Nhân Ái nở trong vườn con tươi
Mẹ ru, Mẹ ru tiếng hát tuyệt vời
Mẹ ru, Mẹ ru, Mẹ ru tiếng hát Lòng Đời Ươm Hoa…

Tuệ Nga

The map of me can’t be all hills & mountains even though i’ve been country all my life. The twang in my voice has moved downhill to the flatland a time or two. My taste buds have exiled themselves from fried green tomatoes & rhubarb for goat milk & pine nuts. Still i return to old ground time & again, a homing blackbird destined to return. I am plain brown bag, oak & twig, mud pies & gut-wrenching gospel in the throats of old tobacco brown men. When my spine crooks even further toward my mother, i will continue to crave the bulbous tang of wild shallots, the familiar game of oxtails & kraut boiling in a cast iron pot. I toe-dive in all the rivers seeking the whole of me, scout virtual african terrain sifting through ancestral memories, but still i’m called back home through hymns sung by stout black women in large hats & flowered dresses. You have to risk the briar bush to reach the sweet dark fruit & ain’t no country woman all church & piney woods. There is pluck & cayenne pepper. There is juke joint gyrations in the youngun-bearing girth of this belly & these supple hips. All roads lead me back across the waters of blood & breast milk, from ocean to river, to the lake, to the creek, to branch & stream, back to the sweet rain, to the cold water in the glass i drink when i thirst to know where i belong.

Crystal Wilkinson

Our sorrow and our love move into a foreign language.
–C.P. Cavafy (tr. by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard)

English is dead   even though you still say English
Words even though you still   put them in English order
Your English is dead   yet it tugs away from you
Like a strong dog fighting a leash   the harder

It fights the   greater is your fear
It won’t if it gets free   return En-
glish fights you like a language   you’re
Taking in school   knowing you’ll never see the country

In the spring the trees outside the window are
Alive with life in the fall alive
With death   all year the teacher’s voice slips past you
A distant ambulance in a strange city

English is dead   the one Great Dane you’ve ev-
er seen in real life howls in the street   still but its howl is
Noise to you now now   you don’t recognize
The feeling in its cry   its foreign vowels

Shane McCrae

Now I will learn how to tie an apron and unclasp
my bra from behind. I will become hard,
like a moss-covered rock. I’ll be stiff as a nightgown

dried on the line. When the pond freezes over, I’ll walk
to its center and lie face up until it is May
and I am floating. I’ll become an anchor
pitched skyward. I will steer chiseled ships,

spinning fortune’s splintered wheel. I will worry
over damp stones. I will clean ash
from the Madonna’s cheek using the wet

rag of my tongue. I’ll make myself shrine-like
and porcelain; I will stand still as a broken clock.
I will be sore from lovemaking. I will become so large,
my hair, loosened, will be mistaken for the swallow’s cave.

After June, there is a year of forgetting, after the forgetting,
antlers adorn the parlor walls. Then it snows, and I’ll be
coarse. I’ll be soft as my mother’s teeth. I’ll be sugar crystals

and feathery snow. I’ll be fine. I will melt.
I will make children from office paper. They’ll be cut
from my stomach wearing blank faces. Bald
and silent, they will come out of me: triplicates

holding hands. I will smooth their foreheads
with a cool iron. I will fold the tepid laundry, turn down
the sheets, then sleepwalk along the Mississippi
until it is ocean and I’m its muddy saint. I will baptize
myself in silt and December. I will become
a pungent, earthly bulb. I’ll pillar to salt. I’ll remember
the pain of childbirth, remember being born.

Ama Codjoe

A few times a week, Yiadom-Boakye
painstakingly cuts oil paintings she believes
aren’t up to snuff. Instead of re-priming
the canvas, she reduces it to 2 X 2 ½ meter
pieces. She begins again. This isn’t
an ars poetica. Once, I made love in daylight.

It was a Saturday or Sunday in November
or July. My lover and I stumbled toward
the bedroom, turning our mouths
and our stalk-like waists. I don’t remember
if I undressed myself. The edge of the bed felt
precipitous. I’ve forgotten almost everything

about that day except the competing limbs
of kissing, walking, fucking-how confused
my feet were until, at last, they did not
touch the floor. It was my fault, I wanted so
little. This is not a love poem. Not a catalogue
of attempts. Yiadom-Boakye doesn’t set her figures

in time or place. They are composites of photographs,
magazine cut-outs, and the occasional life drawing.
She doesn’t call them portraits. When she scissors
her failures into unmendable bits, she aims
to deter scavengers and thieves.
In the room where I write this, my hands
smell like Ginger Gold apples. For hours,
I’ve been looking out the window—staring
into the hallway we took to my bedroom. I know
the sky is a blue wall. I know the walls
were sky blue. Memory paints them yellow.
I’ll keep this revision. The rest I’ve thrown away.

Ama Codjoe