Thephong's poems: revolution is a good thing+ where have all my mates gone / poems by the phong (uplifting poems/ dai nam van hien books, saigon 1971 -- this edition : 2012 -- hcm city)

revolution is a good thing + ... poems by thephong
dai nam van hien books, this edition 2012 / hcm city

WHAT I CHOOSE IN THIS MAD WORLD

I choose autumn, pine forest and sad sunshine

I give up poetry

and will not torture myself anymore

Do me a favour, my solemn-faced and wise wife.

Say to me,

'Burn a fire ! Hang the mosquito-net ! '

I am the voluntary slave who is fully contented.

Let us have a long sleep,

O wife, sons and daughters !

Tomorrow morning we'll wake up early

set out to grow vegetables.

Outside hedge near the farm gate

We'put up a board ' Trespassers Will Be Preosected '

In all languages of the world

The Phong

(TENGGARA 6 Kuala Lumpur 1973)

  REVOLUTION IS GOOD THING
by the phong
TRANSLATED BY DAM XUAN CAN

To blame is surely bad
to be possessed by greed or lust or anger ...
But I merely want to put down
this a matter of record

Till yesterday they slept a lot
drank a lot,
fucked a lot,
drank a lot, ate a lot
did an awful a lot of bad things ...

One day later ...
they are begging for mercy
     SAIGON, NOV. 1st, 1963.

WHERE HAVE AL MY MATES GONE

What is left, my dear
the city is old an familiar,
but my eyes are new
and I an amazed

I'm still a stranger to other people in our city
The sky looks gloomy,
the rain is sadly murmuring
in voice free from human voices
I'm walking behind you in silence
These days are as sad as the somber sky
what is left, my dear
I'm walking away,
saying good bye to all that
This part of the world
does not accept a freedom loving soul like mine

I've not seen my mates anywhere since yesterday
They've left the sidewalks to fade away in darkness
Who are they?
Yes, a friend
A girl sweetheart
And hand's touch
A kiss into the unfathomable past
The color of love-green-turns into the color of
despair-brown
Who cares about fine weather when there is no friend
to talk to
I'm standing,
mute as the straight standing trees
Which pear could pierce the sky
which sheds blood over the the trees
Those who are still around are not real humans
They're wearing raincoats with revolvers inside
I'm so sad I cannot utter a word ...

This Sunday afternoon
I come into the familiar café
It is almost empty,
the mini-skirted girl is always behind the cash
register
It is still like the old days:
we two great each other with the eyes
And the waiter an rightly guess what a regular guest
will order
Chamber music sounds are wounding my heart
Looking around,
I sadly realize my mates have all gone

Autumn rain is falling over mist filled valleys
I've been so long as an object
All of a sudden
I laugh to wake up myself
There are just few words
I want to say
I miss you
Nothing is left,
nothing remains
my dear.
  SAIGON, OCT. 28, 1963

CRITIQUE OF LIFE, A POET IN SOCIETY

1
In this century,
the life of a man in a weak
small country
Still leaves much to be desired
(The world broke in two or tree long time ago
There is little we can do about it)

For an ordinary man it would take him a long time
Before he can have a cool look at himself and
his society
He must have a wife and kids
just to be called a responsible citizen

I live as braved as a big tree in the forest
Braving rain and thunder and all ...
To day
as yesterday
still without a family
I feel pity for all,
for everybody
in this wretched land
This society is full of injustice
It must be destroyed by fire and water
Only twice
did I weep
In 1945
when the Revolution broke out
and the day
I lost my Mother
Dear friends I'live enough
I've suffered enough
In this stagnant society am I needed ?
what I can do besides writing poems ?
I give this critique if life out of concern for it
I want to be true to myself
and others ...
Why are there more prisons than schools
more cops than people out in streets
(These poems have just been unearthed
To be pit under the glittering sun)

Well,
in this society
monks and spies look the same
Poet only produce what had been ordered
The sky today is cloudless
I feel like crying now
But isn't it much better
to suffer silently

2
I grew up with the mist in the highland
In my home place the straight
standing trees outnumbered spikes
My first love left me
when the Revolution broke out
O mountains and forests
I'm still alone
Is my mind being taken away from me
I've been over the abyss before
My days
have been full of sweat and tears
The thousand love poems
I've written
are not love poems
I've learned sorrow
since I first went to the graveyars
Just to pluck a flower
on an unknown tomb
My parents left me
a long time ago
Far from me,
with no one to weep for them
In my childhood house
on that highland
I've only the sun as friend
(Apart from passing girl as silent as shadows)

I've grown up
with love since that time
Now that I'm a man
I'm not too concerned with it
Love pure
noble love
does not mean a thing for me.

Past memories
make me truly ad
But I've become so mature
and so much wiser
I've realized my lot
of being this land
Let me be without memory.

This century
rugged land far exceeds fertile part
I grew up in difficult times
I refuse to hear soothing words
Life is stripped of liberty
every line of poetry should be a bullet
To bring down walls of calumny and hypocrisy

Look!
Even the grass we grow in public gardens
is imported from Europe
I feel estranged in my country
and turn a foreign visitor
Let me be evade a heroic mockingbird flitting
in the setting sun
Let me evade the world I never made
when I cast a glance at the desolate expanse ...
The best way to travel is to walk by oneself.

I choose Autumn
pine forest and sad sunshine;
I give up writing poetry
an will not torture myself anymore
Do me a favour,
my solemn-faced and wise wife
Say to me,
'Burn a fire! hang a mosquito-net! '
I am the voluntary slave
who is fully contented
Let us have a long sleep
O wife, sons and daughters!
Tomorrow morning
We'll wake up early
set out to grow veeatables
Outside the hedge near the farm gate
We'll put a board
Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted'
In all languages of the world.
SAIGON, NOV. 8--12, 1963

the phong

POSTCRIPTS

  These UPLIPTING POEMS * -- with the exception of two -- were written during the stormy says before the oppressive regime of President Ngô đình Diệm was brought down in late 1963.
A full decade has passed. I sadly realize how I have changed but Vietnam itself is little changing since that and it is still the Waste Land.
Now we must go through darkness again before a New Day is born.
We publish this collection of poems with the hope that our country will soon for the better.
All of us should be better.
And I will write, happier poems !

SAIGON, VIETNAM
September 7, 1974

THEPHONG

---
* original tittle : THƠ LÀM LỚN DẬY CON NGƯỜI,
Dai Nam Van Hien Boos, Saigon 1974.

ASIAN MORNING WESTERN MUSIC

poems by the phong