WEEVILS THEY'RE CALLED
Weevils they're called.
Can they be eaten?
It was a question.
Not a poem.
You answered like a queen, Nope, throw away the rice
But when people starve like you once on the beach,
you, dwarf Canadian
once Vietnamese-tian,
in less-than Heaven,
they will drain out the black little things
and eat what's left
The rice Mommy once kept
~~~***~~~
Here in America,
weevils they're called,
found in Mommy's rice, oh my God...
Her cereals, too, her breakfast
and her juice, her Ensure, her thirst
Weevils they're called.
Little black things, crawling
in the water that soaks her rice, swimming…
Can't be caught
Oh my God
Like the scattered rice, I'm lost
Caregiving’s like making rain
in such heat of the desert,
where I gather the rice like sands.
Such impossible endurance
that shuts off remembrance
When Mommy's gone,
the moment's still here,
full of fear
Mommy can't fall,
and if she does,
I'll be the rug
under her and let it all befall
on me, and me alone
Where Mommy sits
is the throne
When I reach the phone
911, 911...
Oh Mommy!
The weevils're still here
in mass, my fear.
The moment's near
The Internet says they're harmless
Those little black things,
like black sesame that opens up Ali Baba's thieves.
And in my hole I begin to weep.
If you accidentally eat them,
truly, they're harmless.
So they come, to fill me speechless,
tearful still.
Drain them out,
and cook them down
In Mommy's rice, they stain
In my hole, I shrink, no pain
Oh Mommy, where should I put your rice to be safe?
I've swallowed them all, till they hatch
inside, larvae sing, and I won't bend.
Chilhood's end
Shoud we throw the whole bag of rice away?
Oh Mommy, let me push you through the alley
called memory,
where those little black things
scar us inside,
So I make them mine
On your throne, you reign high
Oh Mommy
Into your heroine I've become
on one injured foot.
To all the stars that shoot,
I hawl the bag away...
slip on tears, the rice grains with which I play
when you kiss the top of my head
and call me your princess
Rice makes people fight
or die
Rice makes people cheat
and feast
Rice's everything
where we once were
Us forever
The black little things
more than once, multiple beginnings
Oh Mommy
So now they're all in me
to set you free
~~~***~~~
Weevils they're called,
and we're home.
Thanks to Y-N
Feb. 26, 2022
___________________________________________
GIÓ
OH MY
WIND,
FROM TEMPEST
TO TEMPEST
Gió thổi
rừng thu qua rừng đông
Tôi nghe
từng giọt nhỏ trong lòng
Sương chiều
biến dạng thành câu hát
Tôi khép
mình lên những nhánh thông
From the forest of leaves to a sea
of snow – Autumn to Winter
You, Tempest my Wind, traverses
From dewdrops to notes on the staff,
escape or encounter
You, my Beethoven, converses
And I, nestling against branches of pine,
Risking all to embrace you, the
least of mine
Gió thổi trên thông, như thở than
Tôi nhìn ra
gió ngự trên ngàn
Dêm về gió
rít triền miên hận
Uất nghẹn
là dao, cắt tiếng đàn
Breathe over those pines, Tempest my
Wind, and lament to me
I recognize you, mountain-reign and
freedom-flee
But at night, teeth-grinding and
soul-bearing grudge
Oh my Wind, you become a butcher’s
knife, and chop my piano shut
Gió
thổi từ trên hoà xuống dưới
Tôi tìm
thượng đế ngự trong em
Gió không
là xích, hay cai ngục
Em vẽ dùm
tôi một đức tin
Keep on blowing, my Wind, from
above-Heaven and below-Hell
Where’s our creator, except in you, Tempest,
my Shakespeare will tell
But you‘re no shackle, nor prison
guard of late
So paint for me, with your head and
toe, a God-given faith
Gió thổi
từ Nam ra ải Bắc
Đuổi theo
vó ngựa cuả chinh phu
Em đứng bên
song, đừng khóc nhé
Khi gió
mang về khúc viễn du
Keep exhaling, from peninsula’s
South to borders’ North
In your last travel, chase after the
warrior’s horse
His widow’s leaning upon her window
frame, no tears please
when you, my Wind, return to deliver
the final freeze
Gió thổi
bên này, bên đó se
Lạnh như
mưa bão giữa trưa hè
Bên ngoài
ướt sũng thân co lại
Bên trong
hừng hực khói u mê
Wheeze on, my Wind, from this side
of heat to the other cold
Trembling tropical rain in summer
mid-day, burned with fire told
Outward: dripping-blood frost, the
body shrinks
Inward: charcoaled feverish smoke,
the soul blinks
Tôi sẽ van
xin cùng với gió
Đừng đa
mang nữa, nợ trầm kha
Chuyển làm
chi nếu mây hờ hững
Vứt bỏ oan
khiên, trở lại nhà
I will have to beg, my Wind,
to drop it all, such sinking debt
Not your job to move, if floating
clouds don’t fret
Go back home to find poetic justice
Be it yours, life’s only apprentice
Gió trốn
về đây, trong mắt em
Hình như
gió vẫn khắt khe tìm
Xin em nhắm
mắt và an nghỉ
Để gió tan
đi...mộng hão huyền
You can seek refuge now in the
Lady’s ebony eyes
Sternly searching still, Tempest to
Tempest you fool, oh the sun still shines
upon you, so in peace close the
black velvet curtain,
let the last gleam die out, life
vanishes, and stage’s certain
Dnn © Dec.28,2021-Jan
17, 2022
_______________________________________
Bilingual Poetry
About pre-1975 and post-1975 Vietnam --
an afterthought:
is there a chapter on reconciliation?
THE SKY STILL HAS AIRPLANES
a poem in prose
© NguyenNicole 2022-23
I turned four,
already knowing by heart the one-hundred-year universe, Tale-of-Lady-Kieu,
nostalgia for the past City-of-the-Flying-Dragon, that poetess Huyen-Thanh-Quan,
‘cause I was the first born child of Mommy the Viet-Lit teacher
During the day I was Mommy’s tail, tugging the corner of her ao dai Viet dress, I followed her to Level Four Viet-Lit class
At night I lay on the embroidered cod mat
in the front yard,
embraced in paternal Grandmom’s beloved arms
Grandmom told me to look to the sky, longing for the Son Tay mountain range,
not to hope for the sight of a comet
Like an adult, I crossed my legs, one foot over the other knee
And then I used my toe to draw onto the air segregating me from the ebony sky
The moon wasn’t too far away, its light: those smoky drew drops
dripping onto my body, my frame: moonlit
During the day I jumped out to the front yard again,
this time to squint at the mirror sun
No more ebony sky
Sunshine crystals sparkle like those hanging stars of the previous night
And then mechanical sounds engulfed the sun-filled sky,
replacing songs and tunes of the dark
Grandmom said,
Oh it’s just Daddy’s plane, making that sound
THE SKY HAS AIRPLANES…
That one’s Daddy’s plane, taking him back home
to Mommy,
and his Petite Fille
Oh of course,
THE SKY HAS AIRPLANES!
***
I was that Petite Fille,
growing up without my Daddy
Yet I dreamt of him, and knew of him
Daddy was forever absent, days in and months out
Once more, so solemnly, Grandmom stated:
Daddy’s so so smart
Hence he has to be in Europe
to earn all those degrees and take them home
Means to feed his wife and kids
You, his Petite Fille, and what’s more
Those hard-earned degrees are to serve the country,
consisting of homeland and rivers
Grandmom said, people must have their country
And that means homeland
Land must have water
So there come rivers flowing into the sea
Men like Daddy stand on his country, meaning land and water,
and send his soul across the homeland to rivers and sea
Men like Daddy belong to their country
As to me,
I simply said what I knew:
THE SKY HAS AIRPLANES!
***
In noble Washington, D.C.,
came the political sky of the United States
I met the Vietnamese poetess
Her name’s insignificant, except
she was from The-Other-Side
I was on This-Side
She wrote of some girl child,
who thought,
THE SKY HAD AIRPLANES
the child believed, too
THE SKY HAD AIRPLANES
that belonged to imperial America,
who dropped bombs upon the Viet’s
onto their homeland, rivers, and sea,
where she longed to be
That child, too, waited for her Daddy’s home-coming,
after years and years of absence
Days in and months out,
just like my Daddy, her daddy, too, stood on his homeland
and sent his soul across the land to rivers and sea
His soul, too, belonged to the country
***
In the sixties, American marines found
the VC soldier whose bloody guts spilled out, yet still firing his machine gun at airplanes
This-Side said
the VC soldier was shackled to the gun to shoot down airplanes
The-Other-Side said
the VC soldier was never shackled
He stayed with his gun and fired as his homeland’s patriot
The poetess said
the People’s pianist played on Ho Chi Minh trails
the People’s ballerina danced on Laos’ belt zone
I don’t believe
that music can blossom on soldiers’ trails
that ballerinas can dance their arms along canons’ tunnels
I am on This-Side
The poetess The-Other
In the language of poetry there exists our horizon’s gap
***
In the seventies, amid peace talks in Paris,
American platoons found the picture of the girl child
in the pocket of the dying VC soldier,
His bloody guts already spilled out of him, yet he still fired
That, I believe
There exist two girls, each longing for her Daddy:
THE SKY HAS AIRPLANES
THE SKY HAS AIRPLANES
***
I have grown up and turned old,
still living in noble Washington D.C.
among glib diplomats
I heard
the poetess had obtained a visa to America, eventually an American passport
She’s still on The-Other-Side
I’m still on This-Side
THE SKY STILL HAS AIRPLANES
THE SKY STILL HAS AIRPLANES
2022-23 © NN
Bilingual poetry
TRỜI CÓ MÁY BAY
© Dương Như Nguyện 2022-23
Tôi lên bốn
thuộc lòng trăm-năm-trong-cõi-Truyện-Kiều, Hoài-Cổ-Thăng-Long
Thành-Huyện-Thanh-Quan
Vì tôi là con cô giáo
Ban ngày tôi là cái đuôi của mẹ theo nắm áo dài
vào lớp học Đệ Tứ Văn
Ban đêm tôi ra sân nằm chiếu hoa
trong vòng tay bà nội
Bà bảo tôi nhìn trời mà vọng núi Sơn Tây
Đừng chờ mong sao chổi
Tôi gác chân lên gối như người lớn
rồi dùng ngón chân vẽ vào không khí ngăn cách tôi với trời đen như mực
Ánh mặt trăng như sương rơi rớt lên người
Ban ngày tôi nhảy xổ ra vườn nhìn trời sáng như gương
Không còn đen tối nữa
Ánh nắng lấp lánh như những vì sao đêm trước
Rồi tiếng động cơ khí, thay tiếng đàn tiếng hát
Bà bảo
đó là máy bay đưa bố về
Bà bảo
TRỜI CÓ MÁY BAY
và đó là máy bay của bố
đưa bố về với mẹ với con
TRỜI CÓ MÁY BAY
***
Tôi là đứa trẻ lớn lên không có bố
mà vẫn mơ thấy bố và biết bố
Bố tôi vắng nhà hết năm này tháng nọ
Bà bảo bố tôi học giỏi
nên phải ở trời Âu
Lấy bằng cấp về nuôi vợ nuôi con
và phục vụ đất nước
Bà bảo con người đã có Đất
thì ắt phải có Nước
Đứng trên mặt Đất, mà gửi hồn cho Nước
Tôi bảo tôi chỉ biết:
TRỜI CÓ MÁY BAY
***
Ở Hoa Thịnh Đốn kiêu sa
Bầu trời chính trị của xứ cờ hoa
Tôi gặp nàng thi sĩ
Nành ở phía Bên-Kia
Tôi ở Bên-Này
Nàng viết về đứa trẻ,
cho rằng
TRỜI CÓ MÁY BAY
Đứa trẻ ấy tin rằng
TRỜI CÓ MÁY BAY
của Mỹ bỏ bom
vào lòng đất nước
Đứa trẻ ấy cũng mong người bố
Biển biệt vắng nhà năm này qua tháng khác
Vì như bố tôi,
bố nó cũng đứng trên Đất
Mà gửi hồn cho Nước
***
Thập niên sáu mươi chiến binh Mỹ tìm thấy
anh bộ đội Vi Xi ruột đổ ra ngoài mà vẫn còn bóp cò nhả đạn
Bên-Này nói
anh bộ đội bị xiềng vào đại bác bắn máy bay
Bên-Kia nói
anh bộ đội không hề bị xiềng
mà chỉ nả súng vì lòng yêu nước
Nàng thi sĩ nói
Nhạc sĩ đánh dương cầm trên đường mòn Hồ Chí Minh
Vũ nữ Ba Lê múa trên Vòng Đai Hạ Lào
Tôi không tin âm nhạc nở trên đường mòn tải quân
Vũ nữ vươn tay trên lòng súng ống
Tôi ở Bên-Này
Nàng thi sĩ ở Bên-Kia
Trong ngôn ngữ thi ca có vùng trời cách biệt
***
Chiến binh Mỹ tìm thấy hình đứa trẻ trong túi áo anh bộ đội
Ruột đổ ra ngoài mà vẫn còn bóp cò nhả đạn
Điều ấy tôi tin
có hai đứa trẻ cùng nhớ bố:
TRỜI CÓ MÁY BAY
TRỜI CÓ MÁY BAY
***
Tôi đã lớn và tôi đã già,
vẫn ở khung trời Hoa Thịnh Đốn kiêu sa
Nàng thi sĩ đã lấy hộ chiếu giấy thông hành đi Mỹ
Nàng vẫn Bên-Kia
Tôi vẫn Bên-Này
TRỜI VẪN CÓ MÁY BAY
TRỜI VẪN CÓ MÁY BAY
2022-23 © NN
