FROM JANUARY (Collected Poems) - Mai Văn Phấn. Translated from Vietnamese by Nhat-Lang Le. Edited by Susan Blanshard
Mai Văn Phấn
Translated from Vietnamese by Nhat-Lang Le
Edited by Susan Blanshard
Translator - Poet Nhat-Lang Le
Poet Susan Blanshard
FROM JANUARY
(From the poetry book “The
Selected Poems of Mai Văn Phấn”)
The Secrets of a Moment: A reading of from january by Mai Văn Phấn
By Lê Hồ Quang
Translated by Nathan Le
1. At first look, the title from january(1) seems rather simple. It is a little bit different from the titles of Mai Văn
Phấn’s previous volumes, which are often somewhat special, sometimes
mantra-like: Calling the Blue, Water
Wall, Firmament without Roof Cover, and suddenly the wind blows, face-hiding
flower, Just Born There… (The collection titles from january, and suddenly the wind blows, face-hiding flower are
not capitalized by Mai Văn Phấn). Is it a random choice? I don’t think so. This
writer is known for his careful choices of words. On the other hand, considered
within a complete work, the title is a very important element, usually a
guiding signal worthy of notice about the work itself. Indeed, in this
collection, January is a meaningful starting point. It is a real point in time
in the present, concrete and fresh with the life that each individual is
living, experiencing. However, with the endless passage of time, that point in
time is quickly buried on the universe’s perpetual, constant circumvolution
without origin and without end. Thus, one can take from january as an insinuation of time according to Mai Văn Phấn—time
of the moments. And at the same time, from
january is also the beginning of a journey to commit more deeply into the
vague and vast realm of spirituality and creativity, in order to search and
uncover the secrets of those moments.
2. Inspired by time, the
collection is organized essentially in linear order, along the flow of seasons,
beginning with spring (and mostly about spring and summer, the most beautiful
seasons in the eye of the poet). There, spring is associated with Tet Nguyên Đán—which
is the lunar new year; to the Tomb Sweeping festival; to pilgrimage journeys;
to cherry blossoms, plum blossoms, and seeds soaked in mud bursting into life.
Summer is associated with the ocean, an image of freedom and liberty, sunlight,
the wind and the rain as warm and strong as the very soul of seaside
inhabitants… That is a journey of time as well as one of the human mind, in all
its diverse expressions from Everyday to Spiritual and Creative. Therefore,
with careful observations, next to the order of time, one sees that this
collection is also organized into clusters of poems, into patches of themes and
imageries. There are patches about spring days, about flowers, about the rain,
about the dew, about bells, about the ocean… It can be said that for the same
event or thing, the poet does not stop at fixed, immobile forms. He wants to
observe it from many angles, in all of its own dimensions, nuances and
liveliness and with the most succinct expressions, in order to maximally
preserve the beauty of nature and the human mind. Thus, there are 20 poems
about spring days, 20 about the rain, 23 about flowers, and 52 just about the
sea. Just by looking at the titles of some poems about the sea, one can notice
very clearly that the writer’s purpose is to capture life’s realistic beauties:
Morning at Sea, Darkening Sea, Sea
Blending into Night, Silent Sea, Rolling Sea, Sea Rain, Sea Breeze, House by
the Sea, Drinking Tea by the Sea, Crowded Beach, Waiting for a Wave, Rising
Tide, Putting My Cheek on the Sands, Lighting to Fish for Squids… In a very
natural way, this descriptive method reminds me of Japanese artist Katsushika
Hokusai’s set of paintings, 36 Views of
Mount Fuji, or a little further away, French artist Claude Monet’s more
than 250 paintings about lillies. Just the one thing, at different moments,
will express different beauties. And it is beautiful in every moment.
Nonetheless, if in previous collections, Mai Văn Phấn describes events and
things in a symbolic fashion, here it seems he just wants to “preserve” all
those everyday moments and shapes in their simplest, clearest and most natural
beauty. A tendency to chronicle, a presentness and a naturalness are the
distinguished characteristics of this work.
3. Pushing events to the textual surface
and maximally limiting the use of the first person pronoun create an
easy-to-observe objectivity for the world of poetic imageries in from january. Nevertheless, one still
sees rather clearly the face of the I-subject behind that painting of life.
That is the self mostly expressed through actions of direct physical
cognizance, such as by hands, feet, mouth, ears or eyes. Keen physical senses
allow the poet-self to perceive life so quickly, fiercely and subtly. That
explains why life always is recreated with such freshness and richness of
feelings in Mai Văn Phấn’s poetry. On the other hand, that is due to a self
which is extremely sensitive to Beauty, especially Beauty of the Present, in
everyday’s life, around each of us. That self in particular is always aware of
looking for and aiming at those moments where human beings exist in
understanding of and in deep harmony with nature, and with various
down-to-earth yet pure expressions; and where the present, or the moment, also
wakes up our awareness of Infinity or Eternity. One can see this clearly in
poems which seem simply to recreate scenes, for example:
Rain
Water
fills up the garden
Peach
flowers drift
As if
running away
Here, the feeling of running away seems to belong to the
poet. Such personification is especially clear when he writes about nature,
trees, flowers, small animals or pagoda bells… But even when he writes about
everyday activities of individuals, that sense of mutual understanding and
blending still exists prominently.
With a mindset prudent and, at the same
time, so light, the poet looks to turn up the folds of life, wakes up the
mysteries hidden within them—life’s unblemished beauty. It is absolutely not
the objective beauty, which opposes and is separated from the subject, but in
contrary, a beauty born out of intimate interfusions between the subjective soul
and all things around it. Like pagoda bells that can shake a bush of water wisteria / immobile /
throughout Spring and create an extraordinary sympathy among all things,
this beauty and this strength may very likely come from a soul that has attained the Tao. However, although he
always believes and determines to look for wonders in every moment of
existence, regarding the moment as something sacred and of great capacity to
transform and purify human lives, Mai Văn Phấn doesn’t mystify or deify it in
an extreme way. In this poet, there exists a mindset of life and creativity
that is somewhat aestheticist, yet very open and realistic.
4. Regarding the organization of the
text, each poem in from january has 3
lines. Each line usually corresponds to an independent image, creating ample
space for associations. But at the same time, the poet often organizes his
imageries and words according to a most natural form of expression and
presentation. That coherence is expressed foremost in the syntactical order of
the poetic lines, which are often connected to each other grammatically and
semantically, so that many poems can be read continuously from the title to the
last line. In those cases, rhythm is essentially created through enjambment.
The title exists as an inseparable, or even syntactical, component of the first
line, which splits off and is promoted as a title. Nevertheless, titles still
have their relative independence. Most of the times, titles are words or
phrases that serve as the “key” for a poem. From a certain perspective, one can
see that this special formal cohesion between the title and the lines also
represents the concept of the world as a living body with organic bonds among
all the constituent elements. It is quite a pleasure to read many poems with
that straightforward and cohesive impression.
Of course, this three-line poetic “form”
demands the poet to have proper techniques to execute, regarding themes,
language, imageries, etc. because without those, instead of an aesthetic
structure, the poem is very likely only a descriptive statement broken
mechanically into three lines. Let me take the poem “First Morning of New Year”
to analyze this in more details:
First Morning of New Year
I find
a child’s sock
Soft
As a
ripened fruit
The poem tells of a very simple event:
In the first morning of the lunar new year, the writer finds a child’s sock
which is very soft. The sock evokes the presence of a child and wakes up
feelings of tenderness and endearment. The event happens on the first day of a
lunar new year and it is well-meaning in the poet’s heart. In fact, previously,
the poem has been organized differently than in the version being analyzed. The
previous version has the following enjambment: I find / A child’s sock / Soft as a ripened fruit. Three events are
simply placed next to each other, with no significant point of emphasis,
eventual information superseding emotional information. But behold the current
version, where the adjective “soft”
is separated into its own line. The poem, therefore, has found its center of
gravity. The word “soft” becomes the
“keyword” of the poem, the radial point of impressions and feelings.
Apparently in poetry one cannot
disregard the organization of textual structures, where changing one element
may mean changing the whole. Especially in this aspect, one can observe clearly
the writer’s awareness and diligence in searching among possibilities. It is
worth mentioning that in many three-line poems, scenes appear very fresh, like
a spontaneous verbalizing of reality itself, as though there is no trace of any
painstaking effort, and that is evidently a success as far as poetic craft is
concerned. However, in some cases, a too obvious dependency of the title
towards the first line makes the poem not quite a “three-line poem.” On the textual
level, one can condense further to create high indepency of the poetic lines,
in order to exploit more thoroughly the ideas and probably to stimulate a
strong “explosion” in a reader’s associations and imagination.
5. Observing and explaining human lives
and the universe in general depth has become the poet’s familiar line of
aesthetic thought, and this affects rather clearly the thematic formation of
the poems. The poet usually organizes his imageries and words in a rather
centralized, associative field. The center of a poem is often a very specific,
impulsive image at first look. However, in some cases, it quickly becomes a
productive “meanings generation structure.” The following poem is a typical
example:
Sowing Seeds
In
decomposing mud
As I’ve
made just a dozen steps
The
fields grow full of fog
The poem discusses sowing seeds, with
three consecutive actions—sowing, walking and growing—illustrating nature’s
extraordinary reproductive force. The subject of description here is “seeds.”
Seeds grow in mud like human souls grow in nature. In another words, human
beings are also seeds growing amidst the crops of the universe. The poem, thus,
is a metaphorical structure, which relies on the similarity between feelings
and things to reach a symbolic awareness of the harmonious relationship between
humans and nature, a rather familiar theme in Mai Văn Phấn’s poetry. Many other
poems are also constructed on such similarity association mechanism. Some of
them are simpler and more direct, such as Moutain
Climbing, Wakened at Midnight, Looking, The Root…
On the other hand, there are many other
poems constructed based on the field of contrast association, such as: Overcrowded Flowers, From a Murky Puddle, A
Fleck of Dust Clinging on a Hat, Passing by a Neighbor’s, A Thunder, A Bean,
etc. The poem Overcrowded Flowers, at
first glance, seems simply the retelling of an event:
Overcrowded
Flowers
Overcrowded
Someone says
Fake
apricot blossoms
A paradox is contained within the method
of retelling which seems cold and objective. While flowers are “overcrowded” and offering their
beauties to human beings, we are indifferent and dub them “fake apricot blossoms.” Is it because we have been satiated with
the pretentiousness of fake flowers to the point of being blind in front of
real beauty? Or is it because the real and the fake are now so similar and so
difficult to distinguish? Anyway, the disadvantageous party here is not flowers
but humans.
Many poems by Mai Văn Phấn has a
coordination of several different points of view and different descriptive
correlations and rationalizations. In observing and describing reality in
particular, there are plenty of moments in which the poet reveals an insight
that is humorous, naturally so mischievous: Sounds
of Drilling on a Wall, Falling Asleep While Watching TV, A Tree and Its Shadow,
Stopping in the Pagoda, A Piece of Watermelon, Passing by a Neighbor’s,
etc. Sometimes his poem is a covert parody. Typical examples include the
hesitation in deciding “whether to bite
from inside or outside”(A Piece of Watermelon), or the noises from a street
sweeper’s broom evoking crowds’ calls in an august afternoon (Sounds of a Bamboo Broom), or the
sounds of a pestle crushing meat evoking the sounds of a frog jumping into a
remote pond (Sounds of Meat Crushing),
etc. Although the poems that follow this path are not numerous, they have
really brought more personality as well as modernity into Mai Văn Phấn’s
three-line poems.
6. An
awareness of the universe and human conditions in their substantial
relationships, interconnectedness and harmony, the extraction of word meanings
to the core, the objectification of figures to a high degree, etc. are
characteristics that stand out from the structure of Mai Văn Phấn’s three-line
poetry. Of course, in order to create three-line poetry’s tight structure, it
not simply a matter of techniques. Knowing which words to cut or keep, where to
cut, and where to jump to the next line always requires the guidance of one’s
intuition and verbal sensitivity, both of which are crucial in distinguishing a
poet from a “poetic laborer.”
With the concise three-line poetic form,
the control and envelopment of a sense of nature, the construction in
accordance to “principles of seasons” and duo-imagery correlations, from january by Mai Văn Phấn very easily
suggests that the reader associate it with the Japanese haiku. However, with
this writer, studying and inheriting always go hand in hand with a strong sense
of creativity and innovation in forming his own writing style. (That’s why he
calls his poems “three-line” instead of “Vietnamese haikus.”) Even classical
poetic materials, when touched by this Vienamese poet’s hand, bear new, unique
modern aeasthetic aspects and meanings. Let us reread the following poem:
Sounds of Meat Crushing
A big
frog
Jumps
out of a cave opening
Already
tight
A jumping frog is a too familiar image
in haiku after the zen master and poet Matsuo Basho: The old pond; / A frog jumps in — / The sound of the water (trans.
Robert Aitken). Mai Văn Phấn also describes the action of a frog that jumps out of a cave opening and this
intentional closeness has created an obvious intertextuality. But reading has
only become special when, upon glancing once more at the title, the reader
suddenly realizes that the real subject being described here is not Matsuo
Basho’s classical frog, but the sound of a pestle crushing meat. Thus, with
intertextualy, the poet has put a common people’s food from his country up to
the level of the the world’s poetic delicacies in a so lively, humorous yet no
less elegant way! One can also observe the difference between two philosophies,
one leaning to the deep, the discreet, and the mysterious (usually seen in
Eastern classical poetry) and a whole daily life way of thinking leaning to the
concrete, the realistic, and the lively (which is presumably inherent in
Vietnamese culture). Along with those is a series of correlations of contrasts
between the lyrical vs. the mundane, the poetic vs. the unpoetic, the
traditional vs. the modern… The interesting impressions about the unexpected
relationship between the sounds of a big frog jumping out of a narrow cave
opening and that of a meat crushing pestle, therefore, is thus multiplied. One
can see by this treatment of classical poetic materials that accepting outside
artistic values is a familiar concept for Mai Văn Phấn—to accept means to
innovate, in order to create domestically-generated aesthetic values instead of
to depend on “imported” forms.
7. Keenness, calmness and elegance seem
to be the dominant aesthetic shades of from
january. Here, I mean the Keenness in observation, the Calmness in mood and
creative state of mind, and the Elegance in verbal expressions. A keen
observing eye, an ability to discover hidden relationships among things, a
power to generalize, a prudence in word usage… are easy to recognize on the
textual level. Yet the factor that really links all of the above is still an
abundant, prolific poetic instinct and the sense of righteousness of one who
finds himself in deep sympathy with trees, crops, creatures, the living and the
dead, both in the present and in faraway places. This dulls the sharp sense of
rationality from some of his other collections, rendering a warm
feeling—regarding sentimentality; while at the same time, rendering a naturally
symbolic style—regarding poetics. from
january reveals a rich, sensitive, keen soul, although it sometimes leaves
traces of techniques and is partly aestheticist. Therefore, not every poem in
this volume reaches the beauty of innovation on grounds of tradition as a goal
that the poet aims at. Besides, the objectivity, the conciseness and the
suggestive power of three-line poetry are on one hand a value, a notable
creative beauty, but on the other hand no small “challenge” to the reader: it requires
the reader to really co-create.
Afterall, the moment is really Mai Văn
Phấn’s philosophy for life and art. The moment allows human beings to penetrate
secrets of the universe and those of the spirit. In the moment, one can see
Infinity. Living and creating in each of those moments are not easy. It
requires the artist to never let up doing what Mai Văn Phấn does: Using the tips of my shoes / I throw sands /
Forward. But perhaps, that challenge is the very thing that makes up beauty
and the real meaning of existence and creativity.
Vinh, May 5, 2015
L.H.Q
_______________
(1) Afterwards, Mai Văn Phấn says that the title from january is suggested by his friend,
the poet Pham Long Quận. This also explains why there are certain differences
between the title of this collection and those of previous collections by Mai Văn
Phấn. However, this does not affect in any way on the wholesomeness of from january, but
in contrary, as analyzed above, this title is an element compatible with the
content structure of the work.
In a Goat’s Words
Open
the pen
Drop
your knife and cutting board
Let
me go back to the mountains
With Toes Digging in the Soil
Without
looking up
I
still know
Young
leaves are budding above
New Year Coming
As
well-wishers gather
The
sea out there
Doesn’t
know it yet
New Spring
Bail
By
bail of water
Runs
down the field
In the
Sounds of Fireworks
A
few young fruits
May
Fall
First Morning of New Year
I
find a child’s sock
Soft
As
a ripened fruit
New Year’s
Day
On
the road
Picking
a dried blade of grass
I
touch the old year’s tail
The Splendid Spring Air
I
rest
After
collecting a full bucket of water
Not
knowing what to do with it yet
First Night of New Year
Hearing
waves
I
shine a candle
Towards
the sea
Choosing a Sofa
To
place a vase of rhododendron
In
the middle
Of
Spring
Leisure
A
cup of tea
Contains
enough scents from
The
new year
New Year’s Aspirations
I
crave bird songs
Of
any kind
From
the sky
Young Buds
Lay
underneath Spring
Fully
stretched
Choked
of their own breath
Spring’s New Grass
A
buffalo calf
Is
busy sniffing young grass
Its
mother departing farther and farther
Midst of
Spring
Strong
winds
Paste
peach flower petals
On the ground
Still Celebrating New Year
After
my last piece of preserved fruit
I stand
up to wind up the clock
Gladiolus
flowers in full bloom
Spring Sun
Drops
its breasts
Dangling
down
To
newly budding seeds
A Glimpse of Spring
A
buffalo calf has passed by
A
patch of young grass has disappeared
A
boy has spilled honey
Late January
Spring
rain has yet to come
Peach
flowers fall
One
petal at a time
Spring Rain Has Come
The
air is moist
And
cold
I
have just taken a bath
Drizzle
Breaking
Dried wood
My hands warm up
Purification
A
rain
This early in the season
I go wash my face
Getting Lost Watching the Drizzle
When
I look down
A snail and I
Are
touching the start line
Inserting Beans
In
straight furrows
Once
it’s done
The
sky is laden with stars
Sowing Seeds
In
decomposing mud
When
I’ve made a dozen steps
The fields grow full of fog
Waking Up
At
night I dream of being in a forest
In
the morning
I select the seeds once more
Repaying a
Favor
I
lie face down near the foot of a tree
Let
leaves fall
On
my back
Ahead
It’s
more beautiful
I keep walking
Diving into an abyss of light
Crop
As
I finish sowing a bed of beans
The calls of a Radde’s accentor remind me
Of the sky above
Fog
Hovers
For so long that
Rotten wood spawns flowers
Feelings
When
fields are vast
Dewdrops
Seem
more transparent
Spring Morning
Flower
buds
Listen to children
Call each other to go dig worms
Stretching a
Bow
An
entire spring
Pulled
Backwards
Spring Still in Earth
Peach
flowers
Fall
On
apricot and plum flowers
Wild Rose
Blooms
first
So that the nearby trees
Bloom
later
A Trellis of Blue Trumpet Vine
Droops
down
I stand on tiptoes
To
see if any flowers remain
White Plum Flowers
As
it grows dark
I lean close to them
To finish the page I’m reading
Rain
Water
fills up the garden
Peach
flowers drift
As if running away
Overcrowded
Flowers
Overcrowded
Someone
says
Fake apricot blossoms
Alone Brewing Tea
Waiting
for water to boil
I sit and count cherry-apple flowers
Only to the sixth
Coming Winds
Push
the chrysanthemums
To
bend
Towards the weeds
In the Garden
I
gather
Nine
flowers
Forgetting to count the one just held
Botanical
Love
Some
of the peach flowers
Are falling
To the foot of a tree nearby
Where a Flower Falls
I
put my face close to the ground
And
look up
The flower has been there
A Flower
Fallen into the Well
Dropping
a bucket
I have to draw most of the water out
To reach the flower
Old Man
All
his teeth gone
He
smiles next to the plant
With scattering flowers
Target
A
leaf of spring
Falls
Right on summer
End of Spring
It’s
so moist
As
I shake a cushion
Spring
goes by
Spring
Leaving
I
cannot catch up
Only
a thin
Streak
of smoke remains
End of March
Red
cotton flowers blooming
I
cannot guess
How
many steps to reach the tree
Night
Between Seasons
Almost
morning
In
deep sleep I was not aware
Of
lying next to summer
This Morning
I
forget to peel off a calendar page
A
pot of water
Takes
longer to boil
Early Morning
Going
out to open the gate
I
feel dazed
Between
two worlds
Going into
the Garden
As
I pull out weeds
Dawn
comes
Earlier
After My Bath
The
sky
Moves
to another season
The magnolia tree grows older
Luck
Still
with a mouthful of coffee
I
see a pair of sparrows
Copulating
in a longan tree
A Cup of Apple Juice
After
the drink
I
look up to the hills
Apple
trees begin to blossom
Eating an Apple
I
bite on it vertically
Then
horizontally
And
see myself growing younger
A Sip of Tea
Not
yet swallowed
While
I watch a branch of guava
Fructifying
A Cup of Coffee
I
drink half of it
And
wait for the wind
To
shake all the branches
Sounds of Drilling Behind a Wall
Perhaps
my neighbor is hanging a painting
At
the very place in my house
Where
I hang a lamp
Falling
Asleep While Watching TV
I
wake up
Seeing
people laying on a beach
While
I am fully clothed
In a Dream
I
have lived through many regimes
Yet
Never
been bothered
Clearing the Way
Sweeping
The
ground clean
So
more leaves can fall
Earth Shaking
I
sweep again
The
road in front
Children
run through it
In a
Barbershop
I
hear the wind
Stroking
in waves
From
the roots to the top of a tree
Passing Cars
Covered
with dust
A
gardenia on the side of the road
Turns
into an earthen statue
Waking Up and Seeing Gardeners
They
have cultivated more trees
I
volunteer
To
scoop water to irrigate.
Resting
Pigeons
Landing
on the roof
Playing
their games
In Front of
a Hair Styling Shop
Roots
of a curtain fig drop
And
swing
Beautifully
in every way
A Fluffy Cloud
Stops
On
the ground where
A
mother is breastfeeding her child
Unfamiliar Feeling
New
sunlight
All
over the garden
I
stand up to narrow a door’s opening.
Isn’t It the Moment
Many
people
Wait
for night to come
Why
am I so unconcerned
A Champion
Martial Arts Fighter
Sits
alone
Singing
softly
A
vaguely sad melody
New Day
I
peel a calendar page
And
write
All
over the other side
Fishes
Resurface
Knowing
the seasonal wind
Arrived
last evening
Night Rain
Not
wanting trees to dry
This
morning’s sunlight
Is
also wet
Waking Up in
a Hurry
Sparrows
on a tree
And
I
Have
fallen asleep
Apartment
A
bird flaps its wings
Four
or five neighbors
Open
their doors to look
Lychee Season
Trees
full of fruit
While
walking I count
My
steps
Stepping
Calmly
In
the rain
The
road
Is
in twilight
The Rain Has
Stopped
Perennial
peanut flowers
Around
the temple tower of Po Nagar
Cannot
open their eyes yet
A Flower Vendor’s Burden
The
flower vendor wipes her sweat
Peonies
Bundled
together with tulips
Painting the
Cold
Rainwater
Flowing
through beehives
Spills
over a brick wall.
Industrial Era
A
dragonfly sitting on top of a crane
In
ten minutes
Lifts
up three different loads of product
Confusing Me
with a Grain of Sand
The
wind
Grazes
through
Several
times
Young Birds
Expecting
their mother
Leaves
around the nest
Call
her to them
Hearing
Squabble From a Neighbor
I
see young birds
Newly
born
So
pitiful
Reading a
Book
Suddenly
confused
I
stare
At
a road in the night
Journal
Writing
Everyone
is disappointed
So
am I
Then
speak
Near a Water Fountain
A
pair of pigeons
Look
at each other
For
a very long time
Stone Bench
Old
men deep in discussions
A
sweeping woman respectfully
Invites
them to another bench
Meeting an Old Friend
Conversation
Silence
A
brook is still flowing steadily
Walking
A
clump of ivory bamboo twists and turns
An
old man passing by
Arms
swinging briskly
Still Like a
Child
I
stand on my veranda
Waiting
for the moon
To
slice me the biggest part
Fish in
Cages
Slippery
They dare not look
At people passing by
Small Street
A
prevailing wind
Blows this way
And that way
A Tree and
Its Shadow
Keep
Burying each other
Into the ground
Fuchsia Flowers
Hanging
down
Cast its halo
Over me
Like the Sound of Breaking Crystals
Dropping
a bunch of keys
Just that
Changed so many thoughts
A Happy Moment
Is
when tearing
A calendar page
Becomes
easier
New Sun
A
pigeon flies
Leading the way
For a large cloud
Stepping on a Patch of Sunlight
I
hold tight
Until
The yellow no longer moves
High Sun
A
dragonfly departs
A bindweed flower
Keeps waving
Longan Flowers
Cling
to a bee’s feet
Which drops pollen
To
the ground
High Sky
A
fish
Wiggles
its tail
Up the water
Beautiful
Day
My
neighbor is away
A
window high up
Left open
Humid Day
A
photo blurs with moisture
I see my relatives
From another world
Yellow
Moonlight
Spreads
everywhere
It’s time
For me to go home
Sound of
Wings Flapping
I
drink my cup of water
Yet do not know the name of the bird
That just flew away
A White-Eye
Lands
upon
The sunlight
The garden full of thorns
A Mindless
Butterfly
Gets
lost and flies into my room
I turn out the lights
Still it’s bright outside
Sparrows
In
spring
Bathe
Even in places without water
Birds
Perching
on the wires
Looking from afar
Like knots
Unrestrained
A
bee flies across my door
Changing its socks quickly
And hits the road again
Flowerpecker
Short
calls
Switching branches constantly
Perhaps its nest is near
A Strange Bird
Lands
in the yard
Looking
at me
We know each other in our past lives
A Pair of
Birds
Perching
on the same branch
Calling to each other
Until their voices go hoarse
Only Bird
Calls
Can
sow
Seeds
Into stones
Sound of Fish Thrashing
This
morning
Regrettably
I don’t understand it all
Horse
Painting
It
gets more beautiful as I paint it
Suddenly I am afraid
It is turning into a real horse
Paper Fan
Its
crane painting
When folded
Resembles a heap of ground meat
Ripened Fruit in the Garden
Not
picking them
I watch the red-whiskered bulbul
Nibble a little while singing
Waiting
Until I Leave the Garden
An
orchid blossom
Emits
its scent
To a bush of oxalis
After a Bath
My
hair still wet
I
lean onto a calla lily
To
listen to April’s melody
Eating a
Guava
I
look at the sun
Nearing a rainbow
Then vanishing
A Honeydew
After
it is washed
Water condenses
Into large drops
A Piece of
Watermelon
Succulent
and bright red
I can’t decide
Whether to bite from inside or outside
Eating a Peach
One
bite at a time
As sunlight
Reflects bright red on the ceiling
Peeling a Potato
Afterwards
Both the potato and the knife
Are pretty
Drinking Tea
Until
Tea is one way
I another
Twilight
A
cat misses its prey
The blade of an axe
Gets stuck in a log
The Sun
About to Set
A
fish
Swims
Close
to where I sit
Colony of
Bats
Swarming
at sunset
In pairs
They fly through my dream
O, Insects
No
more rattling please
On the sky
Stars have sprouted thickly
Waiting for
a Mosquito Extinguisher
Several
mosquitos
Are whirring
For the last time
Snoozing
Sunlight
Comes straight to me
Telling me to go elsewhere
Missing You
Moonlight
Falling on my body
Is heavy too
A Squirrel Among the Leaves
Looks
at a woman
Eating an orange
And reapplying her lipstick
A Dream of
Wine
I
lay on my back
The mouth of a giant jar
Covering my face
Last Night’s
Dream
Trees
with sweet fruits
Always next to me
I just reach for them
Mother Teaching Baby How to Eat an Orange
Suck
on each segment
Linger
Then swallow
Seeing
A
hobbling cockroach
Crawling across the big yard
I don’t have the heart to kill it
A Snail
Tries
to stick its tongue out
To cool off
All this earth
Holding the Body of a Cicada
So
light
As though it
Has never existed
Watching
Flies Flying
Chaotic
But not colliding with each other
Their commander must be nearby
Leaning My Back on a Chair
Opening
a newspaper
I find news
They have stemmed the flood
Falling Tree
Shadow
Ripened
fruits
Drop
And dissolve on the ground
In Colder Weather
Trees
shrink
Young women
Drape themselves in a hurry
An Arcade of
Interlocking Trees
Forms
a cathedral
Their leaves fall
Into hell
A Spider Spinning Its Web
From
a green persimmon
To
An over-ripened one
A Damselfly
Lands
on a duckweed leaf
That floats to the sea
Still it does not fly away
A Mosquito
Trails
a beggar all night
Is it the same one
Or another
Reading a
Book
I
hold it with both hands
Solemnly
Towards other objects
Extending a
Phone Cable
Groping
my way
To a clump near the village entrance
I get lost
Sunset
I
go into the garden
To pick up
Ripened tomatoes
Roasting Peanuts in the Evening
As
the peanuts churning in the pan
Pop
Stars appear slowly in the sky
Night Begins
At
sunset
As a rat
Bursts across the road
Waiting for
the Moon
As
moon rises from the water surface
I feel assured
To fall asleep for a while
To Drive
Away the Birds
Some
people make
Then distribute
Scarecrows
The Moon
Shines
For the trees
And even for the worms
Wakened at
Midnight
Grabbing
a knife
I confuse it with a candle
Its flame so sharp
Hearing
Something Drop in the Night
I
wake up
The mountain’s shadow
Falls near my doorsteps
Listening in
the Night
A
bamboo grove twists and turns
Sounding like burning charcoal
Popping
A Bean
Is
budding
Not seeing
The worm next to it
Conference
Room Flowers
Still
fresh
But they must be replaced
Because
of another meeting
Reading a Good Book
With
doors locked
I
am startled when someone comes knocking
Then
goes away
Swelling
Knees
Hobbling
to the window
I am anesthetized
By
a white butterfly
Watching the
Moon Rising
Trees
grow glossy
I look for a warm glass of water
And
drink it all
Harvesting
Day
Carrying
rice stalks burdened with grains
I dare not go fast
Fearing they might drop
Looking
A
bird and I on top of a tower
Looking
at each other
Two
dots
The Areca
Palm in Front of My House
Plunges
down
Nailing the moonlight
To
the garden
Water Still
Flowing
Under
the bridge
The river
Is cut into sections
A Buffalo
Is
tied to the foot of a bamboo
All afternoon
Fighting with flies
Rural
Wedding
With
music turned up loud
Everybody
talks
In inaudible voices
Crowded
Market
Masks
Hung in rows
On a bamboo screen
A Speck
Fleck of Dust Clinging on a Hat
Doesn’t
know
It is brought to
A sumptuous reception
Next to a Writer’s
Statue
A
plate of burned out
Candles
Is broken
Bird Nest
High Above
A
young bird has just hatched
I remove my hat
Not knowing where to put it
Lychee
Season
A
first bunch of fruit has ripened
A woman
Uses her hand to tuck up her hair
Visiting My
Father’s Grave in the Rain
It
cleanses
My
hands
So pure
Scooping
Water up to My Face
Here
Near my father’s grave
The river flows all year long
Grave
Visiting Festival
I
burn incense
Still holding onto a handful of grass
Pulled from above the grave
Souls of the
Dead Passing By
I
hastily pull
A bunch of grass
To wipe the tomb with
My Father’s
Death Anniversary
The
river in front of my house
Flows
Quietly
In Tribute to the River
A
goby
Rubs into the berm
As cool and fresh water flows by
Burning
Incense for My Father
Five
teacups
Four
saucers
Father
used the cup missing its saucer
A Gardenia
Has
fallen next to my father’s grave
Perhaps early this morning
He gathered it
Visiting My
Grandparents’ Graves
After
burning incense for them
I lean back
On a neighboring grave
A Glass of
Wine
As
I burn incense for my father
I pour it on the ground
Making
noises
Cemetery
Trees
Shake
In all directions
With leaves young and old
At a Windy
Place
As
the ghost money just catches fire
A wind quickly snatches it
And carries it away
Sweeping
Graves
After
pulling grass
With no place to wash my hands
I clenched my fists all the way home
Anonymous
Graves
Clouds
passing by quickly
It seems
They have gone
Grave
Visiting on a Sunny Day
Waiting
until incense burns off
I fetch towels drenched with river water
And wring them over each grave
Homesick
Rain
falls
On kitchen smoke
Fruits
fall with no time to ripen
Strong Winds
Ghost
money burns fast
Its ashes
Scattering all over the fields
Going to
Visit Graves
Behind
a small dog
From
time to time
It
lags behind
Walking
Around a Grave
It’s
like playing back
The short life cycle
Of
the one who lies beneath
Going to the
Country
Looking
back at the city
As though a receding
Ship
The Forest
Passage
Slippery
path
The human loving soil
Sucks each of my toes
Water
Collects
near the foot of a bridge
Then pours
Through the other side
Harvest
The
wind blows on my feet
Everywhere I cut off
Rice stalks
On the
Middle of the Bridge
As
I wait
For yet another thunder
The river is still gushing
Picking a
Grapefruit
Leaves
On the tree
Turn and look
In a Load of
Firewood
A
young leaf
Follows me
Home
Mother Cow
Standing Still
A
young calf turns its face up
Not a single drop of milk
Falls out
Picking up
Tropical Almond Leaves
Purplish
This leaf color
Sometimes I dare not look
The Root
A
dewdrop and I
Look at each other
Two siblings
A Dewdrop
Escapes
the dark night
And hangs from the eaves
To let me see it
A Stake of
Decayed Wood
Wears
Some dewdrops
A crown
Two Clouds
Dissolve
into each other
High above
Then fall
In Unison
A
munia calls
Shaking dewdrops
A thunder
Daybreak
A
dewdrop
Falls from night
Into day
In Silence
You
read a book
A flamingo searches for its prey
I am afraid that it flies away
A Pond
Surface and a Kingfisher
Look
at each other for so long
Sunlight rushes in
The space between them
In the Rain
Under
the eaves
I serve the salt vendor
A cup of thick tea
The Lake Bed
Knows
Clouds
Cover it up
The Country
Now
Birds
Do not fear scarecrows
I hang a white flag
Words of a
River
Flowing
silently for centuries
To live differently
You’d
better listen
At a Glance
A
ragged signboard
Nobody sees it off
The rain goes on
Autumn Has
Passed
An
earthworm
Just now
Emerges from earth
Busy
Watching Flowers Along the Road
As
I enter the shop
Someone asks
Where are you from
Washing My
Face in the Dark
Hearing
a timaliid singing
I feel my face
Getting cleaner
Another Day
Near
daybreak
A dream
Grows paler
Being
Grateful
A
scarecrow stretches out his arms
To let the cold wind
Blow through
Northeast Wind
I
lie flat on the field
Letting corn stalks
Poke through
A Young Calf
Is
suckling
The mother cow stares at
Young grass
Light
Is
grasping tightly
The trees
And
I are budding
Birds
Cuckooing
From
afar
I think I am in
A large water jar
Winds
Blow
stronger
A butterfly
Does not fly
The Monsoon
Coming
Like
a giant bird
Making wind on the ground
I touch its feathers
Writing a Poem Under the Moonlight
When
done
Unable to make out its words
I start a new one
Driving Past
Tree Shadows
The
sun
Flashing on the windows
Like lamplight
Afternoon Sun
Through
window railings
Divides the floor
Into uneven squares
Crossing a
Bridge
I
struggle
Holding on to the rails
A duck swims in the river below
Mountain
Dwellers
In
leisure time
They go out together
On the mountain top
Drinking
Wine
In
silence
I watch a dog
Not particularly sad or happy
Sounds of
Meat Crushing
A
big frog
Jumps out of a cave opening
Already taut
Butterflies
Coupling
On
a banana leaf
Underneath
Dew condenses into droplets
Murky Water
Recedes
Alluvium makes the field
Look like mirrors
Fall Crop
Already Coming
At
the edge of the field
Banners shout our commitment
To harvest the summer crop
Shrimp
Catchers on the Fields
Dividing
fish into a shallow area
One says
Let’s do it properly ashore
A Grass
Cutter
Under
heavy rain
Carries
Wet grass into the house
Done Cutting
a Load of Grass
I
go inside the communal house to dodge the rain
And see that all things
Are half finished
Little Boy
by the Lake
Just
as he holds up his flute
Water
Ripples
From a Murky
Puddle
A
crane flies away
Leaving
A strip of spotless white clouds
Passing by a
Neighbor’s
Such
a fat dog
In this poor village
He must come from someplace else
Two Women
While
preparing wedding betel quids
They recount
The times of old when they got married
A Kid
Stops
To watch people kill a pig
Then goes
My Uncle
Lived
private life
Now with Facebook
He takes pictures of anything
A Long Time
Away From the Country
Picking
lemon leaves in the garden
I have pulled an unripened fruit
And been sad ever since
Looking at a
Fish
Jumping
up
To snatch a loofah flower
I decide to change the bait I fish with
The Sun
Sneaking
through a cloud
Cannot escape
An algae cluster in the pond
Sparse
Fences
Moonlight
Overflowing the alley
Can go any way it likes
A Heap of
Grass
Withers
right after it’s cut
Things that we don’t see
Move too fast
Midsummer
A
frog
Sits there for a long time
With cool earth under
Early Winds
Blow
through leaves
My body
Is hot then cold
Lightning
In
the night
I see a horse’s hoof
Stained with mud
Rainfall
I
stir my coffee
Dark brown drops
Fall slowly
A Storm
I
shut my doors tight
Rearrange my shelves
One book on top of another
A Rain Is
Near
Steam
Following the birds
Flies here
Each Time
the Wind Hurls
A
canopy shakes itself up
Clean
And calm
During
Lightning
In
the yard
Next to a heap of firewood
I see the axe I forgot to store away
Thunder
Not
touching a dewdrop yet
Has penetrated
A human heart
First Drops
of Rain
A
white rose
Trembles
Shaking off chains
It Rains
A
bell is not wet
It wants to ring
And ring
Fuzzy Rain
Shaft
Trees
droop
Birdcalls faraway
I open my window
Heavy Rain
Disperses
coolness equally
To the lake
And a wild fire
During a
Rain
A
twig of earth-orchid in my garden
Sticks its hand
Through a fence
A Rain Party
Water
Fills up to the base of grass stalks
Then recedes quickly
Buffalo Calf
First
time seeing the rain
She turns her face up
And chews the drops
Doors Shut
Tight
Still
I hear clearly
The sounds of water
Escaping through a drain
Sound of a
Bamboo Broom
I
thought it was a crow’s call
Fitful
Close to the road surface
A Tree after
Rain
Like
a small dog
After a bath
It stands shaking off water
Waning Rain
Ever
so slowly
Writing about a flood of moonlight
Light rising up on dark tree trunks
Ceremony
The
rain
Washes a pile of firewood
The sun is coming up
Hesitation
It’s
raining
Raining again
Let’s eat some more
Arriving at
the Foot of Mount Yên Tử
With
fog hovering all over the place
I search for someone
To ask for a way to heaven
Worshiping
the Buddha on a Rainy Day
A
patch of dried mud
So neat
On the shirt of the person in front of me
Roadside
Stop
Flowers
budding everywhere
I eat an egg
So creamy
Done Burning
Incense
Silently
I
Sit
Behind a Buddha’s statue
Stopping in
the Pagoda
Having
burned incense
For a while
The Buddha sits relaxed
Trapped
Animal
Brought
Past the pagoda gate
It escapes
Stinking
Pond
Overwhelms
the scent of lotus
I
Look silently at the flowers
Spirit of
Zen
A
lotus
When nobody is around
Blooms
On the Way
to the Pagoda
A
transparent dewdrop
Hanging off one’s head
Nobody notices
Lotus Season
On
land there is much grief
Lotuses in the lake
Are blooming despite all
Falling
Lotus Petals
The
wind comes
Circling above the water
Without regrets
In the Fog
The
sounds of a wooden bell
Make the river
Flow faster
Done
Chanting
I
notice a person next to me
With a face
Resembling the Buddha’s
High Sun
The
pagoda’s gate has not opened
A lay brother stops sweeping the yard
And peeks through the arched door
Guarding My
Bike at the Pagoda’s Gate
A
bonze comes out calling
Do not worry
Just go in and worship Buddha
A Clear
Brook
White
pebbles
Castaway leaves
Are drifting
Long Way
Putting
my shoes down orderly
I look for another place
To rest my feet
Sound of a
Waterfall
If
it only screams a little louder
It will envelop
Me
On Top of
Mount Con Son
In
an afternoon light breeze
Grabbing on tree twigs
White clouds flow away
Climbing on
a Cliff
I
see an army of ants
Lining up
Going down a canyon
A Remote
Location
On
the edge of a stone
A tree
Has such a beautiful form
Inside a
Large Bell
(For the poet Phạm Long Quận)
A
bee flies
To the top
Then again to the bottom
A Lay
Brother From a Poor Pagoda
Goes
down the mountain to carry water for the plants
As he comes back to the pagoda yard
It rains
Pagoda on
the Mountain
Children
Beat each other
To sneak under a low hanging bell
Pagoda Next
to a River
Bells
Sound
Clearer
Just As
The
bells sound off
I eat a piece of sweet potato
Crumbly and savory
Bells
Shake
a bush of water wisteria
Immobile
Throughout Spring
A Cloud
Wraps
itself around the bell tower
Bell sounds scatter
And scatter
A Couple
Kiss
next to a bell
Without it sounding
The wind is already vibrating
Sitting
Among Lotus Leaves
A
toad
Sticks out its tongue
To lick the moon
A Water
Strider
After
rotating
On a lotus leaf
It sleeps after all
Sacred Place
Spare
offerings
A fly flying by
Dares not land
A Mountain
in the Fog
Is
drifting
Winds
Are light
Mountain
Climbing
I
have brought an iced beer
As I reach the mountain top
Both of us sweat
Stones
A
young tree
Buds from a mountain rift
Stones have soft insides
As the
Mountain Stands There
It
hears everything
Yet seems like
It knows nothing
Clear Brook
By
a young woman’s feet
Pebbles
Are spotlessly white
Brook Side
Dream
I
retrieve a rotten wooden stick
Then a fresh wooden stick
Exactly alike
Looking Back
at Yesterday’s Street Corner
Do
newcomers know
That I am parting ways
With them
Sea Bed
Full
of water
Waves leap up
To catch raindrops
Fishermen’s
Wharf
Each
boat making one link
Connected to each other
All are bobbing about
Waiting for
a Wave
A
girl jumps up
Perhaps thinking
It’s not onshore yet
On a Smooth Sand Bar
A
woman
Quietly looks
Far away
Remote Beach
Waves
erase footprints
A chair
Hunches onto a tree trunk
Seashore
Waves
Roll over and over
Where children have been playing
Silent Sea
A
ship heads to the open sea
Sometimes swaying
Like there are waves
Sea Blending
into Night
At
the darkest place
One can
Walk on water
Vacant Sea
Dried
fish hang in rows
I don’t know
Whether the sea has any fish left
House by the
Sea
Is
like
A cup of water
Put for a brief moment on a table
Deep Sea
Diving
Back
home boiling a pot of water
I pour it fast
Breaking my cup
A Beach
Janitor
Panics
Fearful of waves arriving
Sooner
High Wind
Shakes
and pulls
On flowers
With cores hard as steel
Seaside
I
heat a pot of water
And wonder
Why it takes so long to boil
Night
Closing In
Waves
Push light
Under my feet
In Front of
a Marine Life Specimen
I
stand speechless
Like having been dried stiff
For them to observe
Coastal
After
each wave
A row of trees once again spurts out
Young leaves
Rain at Sea
Pours
down
The water surface
Falling upended
Suddenly
Awake
Hearing
waves
I think someone is sleep talking
From another dream
A Child
Staring at Sea
Perhaps
the mother is soundly asleep
And dreaming of the sea
Along with her child
Drinking Tea
by the Sea
With
one more ice cube
The ocean is still warm
And rich with fish
Souls
Dried
fish on a bamboo screen
Strong winds from higher up
Cannot disperse a cloud
End of the
Road
I
hit a cliff
A bird flying by
Fills in for me
Lifebuoys
Like
a group of children
Holding each other’s hand
They emerge from water
Peaceful Sea
Looking
far away
And breathing heavy
I think waves rise up from the shore
Trees on the
Shore
Shaken
by winds
The leaves don’t drop
The sea is wide
I Open My
Door
And
look
The waves are no longer crashing
Like before
Middle of Ha
Long Bay
Seeing
that sky and sea
Are one color
I eat the fruit in my pocket one by one
Passing by a
Cemetery at Night
Like
a calm sea
The waves sleep peacefully
Among graves
Waiting for
Sunrise
A
young woman
Stretches her legs out
On white sands
Sea Breeze
I
hold my door open
To catch the breeze along with my furniture
Then close it
Rising Sun
Half
asleep on the beach
I hear children footsteps
Approaching
Stuffy
Summer
A
woman turns on the faucet
She has not washed her hands yet
Her shirt is already wet
Time to Say
Goodbye
The
sun about to set
A flower
Droops down
Crowded
Beach
I
dive down
And meet a school of white anchovies
Swimming leisurely
Standing
Inside a Waterfall
All
my concerns wearing off
I see my core
My white shins
A Silver
-Eared Mesia
Hovers
close to the water surface
To where
Does the sea carry its image
Ebb Tide
Leaves
sediments on the plain
The moon
Is cleaner
Hearing
Funeral Clarinets
Lost
among the waves
I suppose near the sea
There is only life
After the
Rain
A
young tree
From a stone crack
Reaches out towards the sea
Lighting Up
for Squid Fishing
The
murky light
Drills into the ocean
A deep hole
Flood Tide
The
wind blows hard
The sky
Is closer to the water surface
Putting My
Cheek on the Sands
This
beach
Tomorrow
We come apart
Sunrise at
Water Edge
I
breathe deeply
And run in elation
On the sands
On the
Seashore
Winds
Tear
Bird calls into shreds
Dumb Play
I
stick a finger into my son’s mouth
He holds tight
It’s painful
Each Time
There Is a Wave
A
common teal flies up
Then lands
On the same place
Day of Rough
Seas
A
school of mackerel
Learns how to fly
On top of the waves
Dreaming
Of
crossing the sea alone
I wake up
My pillow drenched in sweat
A Wave and a
Reef
Wrestle
each other
Like
Two children
Drinking
Wine on the Seashore
The
bigger the waves
The smaller the cup
I want to drink from
Solitary
Promenade
Using
the tips of my shoes
I throw sands
Forward
Biography of Nhat-Lang Le:
Nhat-Lang
Le was born in 1969 in Saigon, emigrated with his family to France in 1983, and
moved to the U.S. in 1985. He has a B.A. in Linguistics and Computer Science
from the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA). Nhat-Lang Le worked for
more than a decade as a software programmer, before switching careers to work
as a news translator and editor for a Vietnamese media organization based in
the Little Saigon area of Southern California. His poems and translations have
appeared in the printed magazines Thế Kỷ 21, Văn Học and Văn,
and the literary e-zines Tiền Vệ (tienve.org) and Da
Màu (damau.org). He has been on Da Mau’s editorial staff
since 2007.
Biography of Susan
Blanshard:
Susan Blanshard was born in Hampshire, England. She is an internationally
acclaimed Poet, Essayist, and Best-selling Author. Susan has written
more than 35 books. She has edited translations for 7 international volumes of
poetry. Selected poetry and essays are published in The World’s Literary Magazine, Projected
Letters, Six Bricks Press, Arabesque Magazine, Lotus International Women’s Magazine, ICORN International Cities of Refuge. PEN International Women Writers’ Magazine. PEN International
Writers Committee The Fourth Anthology,
Our Voice, Nuestra Voz, Notre Voix.
Her literary essays The Pillow Book, Four
Recipes, The Traveler, Orientation, published in Arts And Culture, Lotus International Magazine, Hanoi. Her
collected poems Running the Deserts,
Midnight Mojave were included in the Vaani 9.69 seconds, a collection of short stories and poems dedicated to
the London Olympics
2012. Selected new poetry from Poems from the Alley, have been translated into Bengali to be
included in three upcoming literary reviews. She has also published book-length
poetic prose: Sheetstone: Memoir for a
Lover, Sleeping with the Artist, Fragments of the Human Heart, Memoir of Love and Art: Honey in My Blood.
Susan is member of PEN Interntional Womens Writers and a Foundation Member of
Asian Pacific Writers APW. She lived in Hanoi for eight years and has written
two non-fiction travel books on The Old Quarter of Hanoi. She is married to a
visual artist and writer. They have two adult children. Susan resides near
Sydney, Australia where she is currently completing a three book work of fiction.
Biography of Mai Văn Phấn:
Vietnamese poet Mai Văn Phấn was born 1955 in Ninh Bình, Red River Delta in North Vietnam. Currently, he is living and writing poems in Hải Phòng city. He has won several national literary awards of Vietnam. He has published 24 poetry books and 1 book "Critiques–Essays", 10 poetry books of those are published and released in foreign countries.
• “Giọt nắng” (“Drops of Sunlight”. Poetry book. Hải Phòng Union of Literature and Arts Associations, 1992);
• “Gọi xanh” (“Calling to the Blue”. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 1995);
• “Cầu nguyện ban mai” (“Prayers to Dawn”. Poetry book. Hải Phòng Publishing House, 1997);
• “Nghi lễ nhận tên” (“Ritual of Naming”. Poetry book. Hải Phòng Publishing House, 1999);
• “Người cùng thời” (“People of the Era”, Hải Phòng Publishing House, 1999);
• “Vách nước” (“Water Wall”. Poetry book. Hải Phòng Publishing House, 2003);
• “Hôm sau” (“The Day After”. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2009);
• “và đột nhiên gió thổi” (“and Suddenly the Wind Blows”. Poetry book. Literature Publishing House, 2009);
• “Bầu trời không mái che” (Vietnamese-only version of “Firmament Without Roof Cover". Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2010);
• “Thơ tuyển Mai Văn Phấn” (Mai Văn Phấn: Selected Poems - Essays and the Interviews, Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2011);
• “hoa giấu mặt” (“hidden-face Flower”. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2012);
• “Bầu trời không mái che / Firmament Without Roof Cover” (bilingual 2nd edition. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2012);
• “Vừa sinh ra ở đó” (“Just Born There”. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2013);
• “Những hạt giống của đêm và ngày / Seeds of Night and Day” (bilingual Vietnamese-English. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2013);
• “A Ciel Ouvert / Firmament Without Roof Cover” (bilingual Vietnamese-French. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2014);
• “Buông tay cho trời rạng / Out of the Dark” (bilingual Vietnamese-English. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2013);
• “Ra vườn chùa xem cắt cỏ / Grass Cutting in a Temple Garden” (bilingual Vietnamese-English. Poetry book. Page Addie Press of United Kingdom Australia, 2014);
• “Zanore në vesë / Vowels in The Dew” (Poetry book. BOTIMET M&B, Albania, 2014);
• “บุษบาซ่อนหน้า / hidden face flower / hoa giấu mặt” (Poetry book. Artist's House, Thailand, 2014);
• “Yên Tử Dağının Çiçeği” (“The Flower of Mount Yên Tử”. Poetry book. ŞİİRDEN YAYINCILIK, Turkey, 2015);
• "The Selected Poems of Mai Văn Phấn" (Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2015);
• “thả” (“Letting Go”. Poetry book. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2015);
• “आलाप प्रतिलाप” (“Echo of the Aalap”. Poetry book. Publishing House of Kritya, India, 2016);
• “Không gian khác” (“Another Dimension”. Critiques–Essays. Publishing House of The Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2016);
• “Два крыла / Đôi cánh” (“Two Wings”. Bilingual Vietnamese-Russian. Poetry book. “Нонпарелъ” – Publishing House of Мoscow, 2016);...
Poems of Mai Văn Phấn are translated into 22 languages, including: English, French, Russian, Spanish, German, Swedish, Albanian, Serbian, Turkish, Uzbek, Kazakh, Slovak, Rumanian, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Hindi (India), Bengali (India), Korean, Indonesian, Thai, Nepalese.
Simultaneously on the book distribution network of Amazon, thecollections “Firmament Without Roof Cover”, “Seeds of Night and Day”, “Out Of The Dark”, “Grass Cutting in a Temple Garden”, “A Ciel Ouvert” waspublished and exclusively released in the USA, Canada, the UK, Australia and European countries by Page Addie Press of the UK.
December 2012, the English collection titled “Firmament without Roof Cover” became one of the 100 best-selling poetry books of Amazon.
June 2014, the three collections in Vietnamese and English titled “Ra vườn chùa xem cắt cỏ” (“Grass Cutting in a Temple Garden”) and “Những hạt giống của đêm và ngày / Seeds of Nights and Day” as well as his Vietnamese-French collection titled “Bầu trời không mái che” (“A Ciel Ouvert/ Firmament without Roof Cover”) were among the top ten of the 100 best-selling poetry collections from Asia on Amazon.
Poems of Mai Văn Phấn were introduced in newspapers and magazines of Sweden, New Zealand, the UK, the USA, Canada, Australia, India, Albania, Turkey, South Korea, Hongkong, Indonesia and Thailand, etc.
Poetry's Mai Văn Phấn on Amazon