Mother 

Vietnamese version (Tiếng Mẹ)

Mother, there was a poem
I often told myself to write
But year by year, it was delayed
And remained there in me, deep inside

Suddenly, at the end of one hurried day
as the wind was chasing the sun away
I listened carefully and heard a pink rose blossom*
I was stunned to realize
That I no longer needed to look anywhere else
For those beautiful words or new ideas:
“Mother” is already a poem.

From the bilingual poetry collection “Hãy nhảy cùng em – Dance with me”, 2018

*A Buddhist tradition: in the mid-July full moon, those whose mothers are still alive will be given a pink rose to put on their blouses; those whose mothers passed away will receive a white rose. The rose in the photo is from my garden. Soon after this poem was written, I had to wear a white one.

You call me ‘Tango’ because

I dance to the joy, I dance to the sorrow

I dance for inexpressible loneliness

I dance for the happiness of summer crickets

Let’s praise the pure beauty

of new-born babies’ hands

praise the joy that nothing can hold back

praise something thought to be lost, suddenly found

the love we thought only a dream, suddenly real:

Dance with me to the desperate hand

waving from the river.

Dance with me to a heart broken

by loss of trust, by betrayal

by a mistake that can’t be fixed

And dance with me

to the tender silence

of the cross’ carrier

Dance with me to the end of pain.

– after “Dance with me to the end of love” by Leonard Cohen

Vietnamese version (pdf)

Our last evening, the Paris sky was gray

holding rain, as in Saigon.

Charles De Gaulle was dim

I sat at the bar alone with my cabernet.

Something is lost between us

Is gone is dying. We have used up our talk

and now we are quiet you and I.

We are as different as fire and water

as stars and the moon as red and brown.

As a shy small bird greeting the dawn

or an eager goat who wants the change the world.

On the sea of things we haven’t understood, haven’t said, cannot be said

floats the appreciation of what we’ve had, what we’ve shared.

We came to Paris as lovers

and leave as friends.

Our last night I woke, slept, tossed, had good dreams, odd dreams

Twelve days are too short to grow beyond oneself

but too long to spend with a stranger.

Our ignorance of each other is vast as that sea.

Waking our last morning,

good intentions and sweet memories gentled my kiss

But faster than the kiss you slid away

Starting over is a shooting star.

Differences make the world beautiful

people interesting

scientists learning

Make me say goodbye.

Vietnamese version (pdf)

A kiss is not tears

however my eyes brim,

is not a breeze though

it shivers silken threads.

How long does it take

for a deep kiss to

turn to indifference,

Warm lips turned to stone,

a wave that unbalances?

No one takes the measure

of distance. Good and bad

repeat themselves. Kisses

pass like seasons:

winter, spring.

I swear I will not hope

this time.  But the last

season lies ripening

on the windowsill.

Soon the next will come.

Vietnamese version (pdf)

Our legs entwined

We flutter to deep music

Like swirling butterflies

floating above a vast green field.

Fast, fast back steps

The road stretches behind

Those long ago days

Come back to one by one.

Like fresh grass

The melody floats;

In their dance

Every move is poetic.

A great love is not always

the first love. The one who loves me

most may the the nearest one.

As the song slows

I pour my soul into every step.

As it speeds, my legs fly feverishly

Across the floor and I am lost

In the heart of tango.