FIRMAMENT WITHOUT ROOF COVER (Collected Poems) - Mai Văn Phấn. Translated from Vietnamese by Trần Nghi Hoàng. Edited by Frederick Turner
Mai Văn Phấn
Translated
from Vietnamese by Trần Nghi
Hoàng
Edited by Frederick
Turner

Page Addie Press of the UK, 2012.

Publishing House of the Vietnam Writer’s Association, 2012.
FIRMAMENT WITHOUT ROOF COVER
Vietnamese version: Bầu trời không mái che

Translator - Poet Trần Nghi Hoàng

Professor - Poet Frederick Turner
I – Mothergate
Mothergate(1)
I.
Mother caressing child as the
moonlight
sound of passing from bough to
bough, the howling
Skin and flesh of the love
child spreading out deep into the dark night
lift the layered clouds heavy
with rain over the sources of rivers
A bough quivers on the water
surface
where a bird suddenly perches
Only I can see that small bird
so far away from the road
Far away from the garden, from
the other flocks of bird
I quietly pass through the
corona at the bottom of the water
And look up at the sky with
open wings
rising to the top of the tree
where the bird’s beak
bends down to feed into the
mouths of its fledglings each
sip of wind
Sound of chipped grain in the
chest
The bare ground and green fruit
the dense-leaved canopy of the
forest
Newborn child on the ground
Swim across the river the
tadpole’s tail severing
Learning to flaps the wings,
fanning the wind into the nest’s warm bowel
Sprouts the cotyledon leaves,
flies away freely
Steam rises by the river-wharf
space condenses the confusion
of time
Smoke steams up high
I realize I am swimming in a
sea-mist
Not mist but rain
The tall tower glittering
Breathing, muscles firm, the
leaf singing ...
The dead return, suddenly, in
the blossoming flower
I shudder at a shore-line
The water surface choking where
there are not breaking waves
A sip of cool water drifting
slowly...
Suddenly remember the high tide
season submerging the cricket’s cave
Clopblopping sound of bubbles
gushing up by stages
So that I realize where’s the
cave mouth...
II.
Place child on the ground
The riverbed has painful like
to tear off body of the night
Nature glossy wet
The trunk of trees
disintegration turn into splinters
Water swift-flowing
Flowing faster
I burst into tears sweep away
the spiderweb
Sound of the heron hoarsely
The ashes flashing up
Moon trembling
Pick up a pebble to draw on the
ground
A field
The young calf bewildered
Improving bold outline the calf
bent down to graze
Other direction draw an extra
eye
The eye of wild animals or eye
of human
Write the words on the
remaining empty boxes.
III.
The voice very close
Under the
dawn you must transforming yourself!
Fruits
Fire lights
Yin Yang bowl of water
As crawling over bout of
twilight
Pull the body gradually out of
the shell
I sip the dew-drops
The ghastly shell heap up high
Was out of reach
Group people helping each other
to go in the incapacity
End of dawn.
IV.
The shade of trees is burst out
under the foot
Image of the map are torn off?
Or the half-bat half-mouse
corpse?
I was so frightened, weaving
the grating
Set the booby-traps around
myself
Sharpening the knife
Preparing a matchbox
As close to the horizon
The darkness as drifting more
terrible
Faster than the emotions
I keep accumulating the
anxiety, the resentment
On the ground blackness of the
night was completely
erasing off.
V.
I chase the small prey
Throw myself upon the wave
crest then lost direction
The low tide
In the dream nearly morning
My bones painful
The tail and dorsal fin
frostbitten
There is a hand threading the
strings
Dragging me slowly on the
ground
They stopped to shelter from
the rain
Sudden release me
Near the foot of waves
I was grateful the rain
The loud thunder and cool wind.
VI.
Father
recently try to get up after the bedridden illness, he groping out to the door,
fall into square block of light
He
attempting to give out a finger and said: “that green beetle on that leaf canopy
father see it the first time”.
I tell the
unintentional stories during the time father was coma. Story of the large cloud
often slowly fly through our home. The deep wells rising the steam up to the
window. Story about sound of the crypsirina temia bird make everyone looking at
the bowl of drug,
The body of
father just like shallow rivers, dry wood, the empty paddy grain
The raceme
of weighty fruits swaying in the strong wind
Father
suddenly whispering: Please help father go to rest
Sound of the
dried leaf sliding on the roof make father and I also shedding tears.
VII.
The universe overlaying the
black overcoat up on me
Only the eyes open to pray
Mumbling I still thought
... white
hand black blood white tongue black tears white back black helix curl of white
hair black sweat
The black spill on everything
will end up
Let’s pray to save the people
in this world
Lighthouse...
Kitchen bright...
Look in any direction
Like learning look up to the
blackboard
Learning to separating the
colours
To spell the letters
This crossroad of white
The earth surface, the sea surface white
Great old man, a chair, the woman white
The inspector, the farmer in white color...
The mouth read aloud, the mind
still sundry thought
…white
tongue black tears white back black helix curl of white hair…
VIII.
Curled up I sleep in cold wind
Dream to become a fetus
The navel-string connect to the
solar
Fly above canopy of the trees
The eyes with a look make the
sound of sob to be blue
Every tiny bud of limbs
Springing lightly in the body
of Him
I wake up
That place started the road
The colt unsteady standing up
The flock of insects crawling
out of the trunk
The tiny shrimp blasting off
the throat of water.
IX.
drum gong and eight ornaments
open the festival of imperial
court
sing and dance to heaven
the great merit of four palace
open the mind of disciple
tolerance eyes look
the quiet weather
the special envoy giving out
the grace
sincerity respectfully kowtow
four gods flanking the lady god
garb and turban of sorceress
made of brocade and flowers embroidery.
come and go in good freshness
smoothly moving between heaven
and earth
a powdery cheeks ruby lips
rhythm of bamboo beating and
rhythm of castanets by the string of coins
sacred dragon hovering
five great mandarin
the hand swaying
high talent deep virtue
the flame glittering
fondle protecting
loving mason-bee
silkworm spit out the silk cord
garb and scarf flapping
alluvial cuddling
wind coming back in the
river-bed
cassaba melon pyriform melon
fragrancy of lotus and areca pervading
boys and girls entering the
region
pliable aromatic and
considerate
prepare the sedge mat, prepare
the blanket
as flower, as butterfly
countenance glowing with
pleasure
as the ground as the sky
grass and trees in good verdant
raining fast and violently
…
II - Moon Season
The Rock Inside Stream Bed
Be quiet for water flowing
Swift, deep, unending, icy cold
over the rock.
Is there the Spring?
Festoon climbing the trail
Voice of birds resounding down
gurgling
Shadows of trees tremble on the
rock, shade or sun--
How can the colors of
wildflowers could unscathed forever?
The stone closes its eyes in
calm to let the water sweep across it.
Langurs with ashen thighs(2)
Cause the tree-shadows again to
bob and rise;
Gentle drizzling rain
disordered flies
Creeping into the deepest
crevices.
Clouds stop where the clouds...
The fragrant odor of ripe guava
creeps through the forest
A porcupine ruffles up its
quills, goes still.
Above all in this moment
Let’s stay put at the spot
where you are at
Spring Tone
On the jagged rock
Your dripping body were in
pain.
Wide open. Tenderly drop by
drop
With passionate warmth
Drops of sunshine flow into
you.
In a radiant tide, the season
returns.
The bee cuts its flight
The wind go straight up
The tall tree rise up to my
shadow
The dove is fully fledged.
In dewy night the insects
awaken.
The straw-mushrooms open their
eyes
And cover the young green.
The Bulbul
A bulbul with white spots and a
red hat
Sings on the towering tree:
Tee-whit…whit…tee-whoo...
Quickly I draw a cage of
thought
Afraid the bird will fly away.
Just when I finished the
drawing he took off,
I hugging the sunny frame, the
windy frame;
The green bough quickly chased
after him.
In his disappeared without a
trace, I think
Later on the bulbul will be
back to peck the worms,
The ripe red fruit.
Every drop of water
Is my purity
Tee-whit…whit…tee-whoo...
The bird needn’t fly back
again--
I hear that birdsong now quite
clear.
The Scent of Cốm(3)
Autumn returns in shy
Vague mist upon the green rice.
That dress, that scarf, as
smooth as silk, the skin, the flesh...
The north-east wind is rising
up to heaven.
Rhythm of pounding Cốm,
bustling season of the sticky rice:
Baskets slowly sieving out the
husk. Ruddy
Fragrant grapefruit moistens
the sunny drought.
Pureness the inflorescences
ohmantus fragans
Between heaven and earth the
lotus tuber after rain
Tormented by a deep longing at
each tightening circling roll.
The green lotus leaves are giving
suck to you and me,
Over-ripening the horizon
clouds of summer
To nights of making love in
lamplit silence,
Persimmons drenched with the
fragrance of flawless Cốm.
Oh Buffalo Calf!
Steam early in morning garden
deep into the night
Rising high to the edge of
silky grass
More smooth than the layer of
fuzz
Green up windy
Buffalo-calf look for his
mother
Respire into clouds the sound
of rice fields, tree buds
Knocking the hooves on the
ground
The round ball rushing bouncing
up
Mole- cricket, mantis throwing
the pair of sturdily built pincer
The early sunshine illuminate
on body of buffalo-calf
Spreading out the caressing
eyes look
Interchange of season the vault
of green leaves stretch tightly
Hiding underneath of bridge
waiting for buffalo-calf
I run after my shadow to roll
it back
Feet touch the grass bouncing
up high.
Autumn Came!
That leaves falling
The ground will sunken down
Resounding the bell dispel the
dark clouds
Sun will hot and dry
The north-east wind trembling
small alley
new books aromatic the
infantile breath
Sweet of sugarcane overflowing
up to the top
The worms patience plaiting
shiny streak ovum around the base of century-old tree
The young calf touching his
soft tongue on the surface of grass
That leaf falls
Don’t know anybody be luckily
come close to
Moments the fall is back.
Wind Crest
I.
Crawling on sharp top of the
rock
Body of the wind is scratches
Blood of the wind is rain
Sunshine dripping down
Mountains roll the kiss up high
Gray clouds cast into block
Mountains open wide the arms,
trampling the feet into ground
Crushing up into fragments
Tear off body of the wind into
pieces
The starlight falling
Morning bursting out
Up to the top of slope in a
flash
Open eye looking down
The kisses heaping up higher
The frenzy wind rolls up on
another crest.
II.
Finding your mouth to sowing
Wind tender clinging the limbs
of land
Plunge down to the abyss
Rotten the bowels of hills and
mountains
Chest of wind drifting
Playing on the ground
The shell cracked flashing
Spring overflowing the grain
mouth
Waiting to sprout the
cotyledons
Wind carry the ground away.
III.
Shut tight the door the more
wind blew
Thing suddenly remembered also
breathlessly, tightness across the chest
The eye of wind swept me into
your
Rotating quickly round and
round
Swiftly pass a bridge
My body was bending down by the
wind
Drooping down like wet towel
across the railing
Dripping down to the
swift-flowing river.
Remembering the train cutting
through body of the wind
Column of smoke overturned and
sound of the siren disappeared in an instant
My breath is constringent
through the trumpet-reed
Glared flashing the pressure of
eagle spreading wide
Raising fragile dragonfly wings
Backrest cavalier on the wind
crest
Outside the vault of leaves
disorder
Stirred, tattered, to satisfy
the frenzied excitement
The inhibition of lust.
Your Garden
After rain the trees has slim
figure
Smooth green two-side of the
leaf
That hand-leaf always soft
Sound of Bách Thanh bird
tossing the net
Tighten again me with the
pomelo and the root of benjamin fig
Mallow, lavender, geranium ..
The garb of autumn more gently
You shut your eyes, the eyes
glittering everywhere
I stepped up on a piece of
sunshine
An early morning boat
You told let wait for you to
lock the gate tightly.
Moon Season
I.
The moon lay back on its other
side
Overhanging other kisses;
A curtain of fog, the smell of
other grass.
It was by a canal:
The silhouette of a small boat
against the bridge
The rocky shore lying still to
hear the strange sweat
Of midnight moonlight falling
drop by drop.
Your hands are searching for
the moon.
Every finger of the night is a
glitter,
A pure roadway
Awaking a breath of fragrance.
The string of sounds overflows
the day,
Going along with the moon,
laughing and speaking moon,
Choking forth its transparent
color.
II.
The leaves re-echo the waves of
the tangled grass
In that place hidden from even
the mountain heights, the forests themselves;
The water’s skin stretched
tight so no waves pass;
The lissome colors of the
kookaburra’s back
Transform me to a flap of moon.
I lead you by the hand, the
wind flips up your flower dress;
I kiss you, my little finger
Lifts you up to the moon.
The good weather rises under my
heel,
A heart throbs in the land’s
chest,
A stream of moonlight billows
around the trunk.
Gliding faster, my footprint
Brightens upon the earth, my
hand lengthens along it.
Slow down now, listen to me:
All the streets, the districts,
slopes, estuaries,
All the cornfields, the paddies
are learning to laugh, practicing to sing...
III.
The pigeon was back,
Bringing along even the
afternoon
Clasped in its wings:
An afternoon dressed in grey
plumage,
With a white compartment at its
neck and crown,
With very tiny toenails, and it
steps up to the moon.
The day, dazzling and radiant
Droops on the virgin flower
Tenderly shutting it down:
This is the time to make love,
To light up the dark territory;
The ancient season of pollen
and birth, the seeds’ combining,
Slumberous passion in the late
night moon.
Clasping the knees of the old
stumps,
Closing their eyes on the windy
hill,
The seeds fall in the mud,
fermenting, loosed.
Tomorrow this earth
And the whole world will
change.
III - Figure a Patch of Grass
Together in silence listening to the white lotuses
emerging bright,
rise up into the Cintamaya-panna(4)
MVP.
Cadence I
*
The chamois footstep knocks on
the earth
From now on the world can’t
sleep
Everything’s busy, stirring in
the dew of night
grassblades, treeleaves, a
brand-new mountaintop
shining in the sun,
birds flying above the crags
The swift river rolling on, the
rutting fish flashing in the water.
The sun shines on the other
side of the wall
Under this vault of leaves,
birdnests, the breath of dawn.
*
In this daybreak only I can see
the rose;
the sound of birdsong wakens
thanks to the road that leads
me on.
The high clouds overhead,
the falling leaf--
these least things yet the very
being of being.
The corner of this quiet lane
nestles, holding its breath.
The earth has changed its
season.
Flowers have grown up before
the posts of the handrail, their petals soft and crimson.
The stump of this ancient tree
seems transparent.
It’s time for Holy Mass,
to bless the Holy Body, to ring
the bell.
Tomorrow in the early morning
you’ll change into the new clothes,
the tint of the velvety roses
reflected in your face
Hypnotized as a gust of wind
suddenly blows through.
*
The bird’s note pierces the
crown of my head,
enters my body as I pass on
into sukhavati (5)
Quietly dispels from the soul
any way back from the empty
mind.
The birdcall, shadowy,
flickering,
lights up each part of the
body,
So it seems to me I’m flying
with the whole flock of birds
my chest stretched out, choking
the sound of singing.
Which bird has been hurt?
The whole forest margin beats
its wings--
Where are you
The sound cuts off the rushing
wind,
my mouth obeys the shape of the
call.
*
Near dawn I awaken
The bell of night covers the
land
Fumbling I try to push up.
There’s no place for the huge
night to hang on,
I don’t know where it turns
into a bell.
Melting,
Slippery
your body’s highlights kindle
the candle,
you are vaguely throughout my
body.
Open the eyes, the color of the
black-bell
raising the siege of the light
You’re far away from the bell
Boong....
Boong...
A chrysanthemum in mid-air.
*
Go towards the end of the road
to where the storm begins
to clean the heart into purity
Only the dusty canopy
and the dry ragged leaves can
know it
Can’t wait for the rain
Can’t yet see the end of the
road
The wind is already floating
- Are those
drops of water to baptize me?
- No, it’s
the rain in the vault of leaves left stagnant from yesterday.
*
The cat so sleepy in the
sunshine
yawning with half-closed eyes;
Life has inundated all
intending.
I’m tired at work:
I did try out the predefined
plan;
I also didn’t finish it.
Should I blame the cat
for drawing my mind into its sunny
daydream?
Wake up, quick, I’ll plunge
into you
and I’ll become that cat with
half-closed eyes.
*
The winds are gently shaking
the yellow flowers, the flower color that I like.
Sometimes there’s confusion
among the wild sunflowers,
heathbell, musk-mallow, fibrous
melon blossom…
Hurriedly I sketch some
flowers,
the wind’s caress fluttering my
hair.
I add a pair, boy and girl,
each upon a tiny equal half of the peduncle;
integrating the faces, sharing
a pair of sandals
It’s not clear which side the wind
is pushing them.
A giant petal swings above my
head
the wind softly makes the two
merge into one
the tinier one trembling as in
a storm.
*
The stars rise behind the sun
shinine
in the window of the house
The clouds of stormnews coming
Light flashes far away
Only to think it or say it also
eases the fatigue
Just now, peaceful and quiet
I was one minute to annulling
the self’s hearing of itself,
looking into life relaxed and
blind.
On the ethereal sky each flock
of fireflies
those closer stars, will draw
your eyes
(love each other, often don’t
remember the face).
The work’s in a muddle again,
I’m short of breath.
I linger beside the narrow door
looking at the sparkling
ripples on the swift-flowing river.
Cadence II
*
Posted messages
brighten the small doorway
The blue sky beyond, rainy,
sunny
the worry and calculation
cannot see.
The moment begins the day
draw a fan-shaped horizon
Every bright streak memorizing
some thing
you hiding behind a giant
fanning
Dry leaves are falling;
by late afternoon the
thunderstorm comes rushing in
opening up the bird’s flight
path.
*
The echo of your voice, as if
someone wrapped a light
warm scarf warm scarf around my
shoulder
touched me with the old foolish
time of youth.
Pick a flower, clamp it between
the pages of a book.
Young birds rise up in the
mouth of the nest
the leaf canopy tottery hanging
in the rain.
You laughed and talked,
innocent as a small child
The rain sprinkles, I’m haggard
with distress.
*
Quiet, alone I knitting my
fingers
don’t allow the light to pass
through
don’t allow the wind to go
through.
Here no sun shines, no wind
blows
The more terrible when nestled
into quietness
I become the pea, the point of
a needle,
a lone chopstick.
Up there might the sky still be
high
a sunny cloud drifting swiftly
by,
a scarf tantalizingly floating
by chance from a window of the
house
birds fly past flock by flock.
Calling your name, I gently
call
the smoke going up from a roof
in the midle of the forest,
silent and no wind.
*
The pen’s on
the table. Cleaning up I still want to leave it there. Holding the pen I relax,
also strange and familiar at once. The penholder smooth, the fingers holding.
Sometime I unscrew the pen to see inside (must do it sneakily because this is a
bizarre behavior). I undo the cap of the pen as one would burst open a door,
pry open the hatch of a dark cellar... Feeling suddenly awake, I suddenly pened my eyes. I want to remove the pen cap
somewhere. Place the pen cap above, the pen to the right or below. Even vice
versa.
Undoing ...
Screwing back ...
Screwing ... undoing ...
Screwing again ...
The pen well-balanced and
unharmed.
*
I lean on the railings of the
imagine ship
together with you flying very
close
your soft waist with the tossed
hair throw back
Reminded, in the small bag that
I carry
there is food and a bottle of
drinking water.
The ship glides on the waves
I want you to fly higher yet,
While very far away as a bird
I calmly peck a small sip of
water.
The sea wider,
you’re wavering far away
very tiny, making me squint.
The waves roll in under the
bows of my ship, one column of
water after another.
*
Relaxing, I drink tea
sunny bright, the russet color
of the flower in your lapel,
your legs folded and splayed on
the square tiled floor.
the fragrant tea flavor opens
the space
between your arm, the fold of
your neck,
your toenails painted that dark
tea color
Remind me to sip...
Slowly at each gulp
I see a flap of tea land rising
up green in the early morning,
the buds of the tea leaves
shrinking
every roof, every mountain,
lifting up the dew,
white clouds coming up to wrap
around the thought.
I’ve nearly finished drinking
the cup of tea
aimlessly imagining only white
clouds,
your face appearing and
disappearing,
brilliant, anxious,
happiness and you…
This delicious cup of tea make
me more lucid,
though I also have to drink the
white cloud,
the toenails still, with their
tea color, appearing and
disappearing as they fly past.
*
You whispered those meaningless
words
that I lways understand, hear
so clearly
blue sky, feet on the grasses,
the richness of the land,
you darkness,
tracking out each of my toes.
*
My breath
warmed up the phone in a jiffy, and you asked me “have breakfast yet?”, “what
are you doing?”,” remember to sit up straight” I answered vaguely, putting my
hand on the desk. Your voice murmured. The electric-fan at low speed blew wind across
the room. The wide desk. The narrow door. If I stretch out my hand I can touch
anything. Vases of flowers this morning are fresh back. Your voice echoes from
the violet flowers, surrounded by tiny foliage. I listen to you, put away the
book.
The pen and clock drift by
themselves...
*
I want to stop on the roadside,
lie down on the grass
the sky high over me; I want to
climb up on the tree;
looking down, I regret the
sand,
crave to mix into the sand.
An irresolute moment: I’m
motionless.
I ignore the the morning dew
that swarms toward
the salty waves and sun, that
rushes to
pull me, stretched out, like a
chariot to tear my body into pieces
Before I put the book down,
It’s like trying to calm down
to wait for the command of the butcher
The sad water-drop flying up to
the cloud
listen to the warm-hot egg
rolling over my body,
a pair of brown sparrows
hurrying to mate in a wink.
Cadence III
*
Dawn grows animals, fruit
trees, the noise;
fuchsia, impatiens freshness
and purity.
The dawn color sinks into the
ground,
melting in a great wave,
reflecting the green arched
leaves.
The silvereye preens (5).
The chest of chamois opens wide
behind the back of dawn.
*
Everyday jobs are boring.
The body worn out,
the mind unfounded,
the joints exhausted on a
chair.
This hand, the left hand to be
exact,
wearily opens the gate I left
in the early morning;
I gently brandish it when
birdshit chances to fall on it.
And the remaining hand
rose up an hour ago
when everybody voted,
There is some thing must record
in the report.
And the legs, don’t remember
which was which,
strode along while the sun
still slanted;
in front of me just a lot of
strangers,
behind my back, the voives of
other strangers.
I hear just half of a sentence
over the phone;
already I know I went astray
somewhere.
The sound of water from the
crest of the quiet cascade
you’re connecting two peaks of
the world.
*
A photograph of forest’s edge
above a coverlet of grass;
Clouds in crossed directions,
stormy and sunny at once,
almost rainless, a little cold.
Mark each blade of grass
ten years...
thirty years...
ask the grass for reprint a
photo.
I’m taking the picture now, ok?
The holding hand has waited too
long.
*
I’m embracing your shoulder
like a necklace
you told me: don’t ever let go;
suddenly impulsive, you laugh
and talk.
You’re like a gemstone
iridescent to the light,
or a piece of wood carved with
the figure of a sacred beast, your own icon.
I worry that you must carrying
too much:
I run after you
When you tiptoe, or gently
indifferent cling with your hand,
your skirt flies up in the
early sun,
the pattern faded on your brown
leather bag.
But anywhere else I’m also
embracing your shoulder
a silence necklace waiting for
you to sleep;
again disproportion clack to
rotating.
*
The body consecrates itself
with a sweet and savory
fragrance.
You are the bulbul bird;
my broached lips empty out,
and flapping wings
hold me in your mouth and set
to sowing the seeds.
*
This cup of coffee makes
everything duskier;
the voices of birds make
harmony,
coffee soaking into my skin, my
flesh;
Chip chiu
Chip chiu
I fold my arms, relax.
Suddenly the birdsong hangs me
up
by the bird’s nest
of dry straw stems
in that crack in the tottery
stone
under the roof-tiles.
Suddenly your voice,
in the still time of
imagination
after the chip chiu, a mother
bird
- suddenly - is flying out of
my body.
*
On your desk everything is
displayed;
briefcase , a newspapers,
keychain,
cell phone.
Hastily looking at the clock,
eating sweet cakes you lean
back,
a glass of water in your hand.
Those familiar belongings
are silent like a train pausing
in the station
before its shuddering plunge
along the rails
briefcase, newspapers, the
keychain, cell phone..
coupled like train cars
running monotonously
till, urgently, they brake.
Cadence IV
*
Often I waken wondering if I’ve
come home on leave,
like a pupil in the summer
holidays
far away from the worries of
yesterday.
We slept as deeply as two
bottles tightly corked,
two matchsticks jostling in a
matchbox.
two pictures in one frame
two bits of memorabilia kept in
the dark chest,
two rivets smashed deep into on
the wall.
I find your hand and gently
hold it
Suddenly the crest of the hill,
astonished, touchs the new day
an unbudded bough,
a boat loosed from a rope
untied.
Like nets that have dived deep
into the water
each knot drying out now under
the dawn.
*
Today I
still haven’t got your message yet. I’m getting lost in the leaves, the
laughter, the salty wind... Open the door, I look out. No one clinging to the
path drifting in the afternoon. No one holding back the train-whistle that
spreads across the land. The whistling only touches me, and does not pass me. Behind
me only silence. Everything drifting like it’s still drifting.
But when you
rise your voice, the whistle starts again, drifting faster, though the train is
already too far away.
*
July is busy
You wake up in a red blaze of
dawn
Tear off the calendar sheet
with its important dates
(except you, are not important)
The warble of a bird behind the
red wall
flare up like aa streak of oil
a streak of sunshine flashing
across my message.
Hard at work knitting each
mesh,
a small fish passes through my
words...
... calm down,
don’t boil over with anger...
*
Lying side by side, we fall
asleep
dreaming a field with deep well
our hands continuously drawing
up each bucket of water
the resonance of the land
tree roots softly stretching,
a flower blooming where we
freshly watered it.
For a very long time we are
watering, through the whole field,
thinking and pulling, faster
and tirelessly,
the spring’s cascade unblocked,
dripping wet
it finds its way throughout the
rows of paddy laden with grain.
*
You also told me about your
dream
not just of wells but of a
canal full of water
you piling up each bundle of
golden rice
pushing me away like a small
boat
Holding hands asleep
we dream of holding the oar,
leaning close against the gunwale.
*
A small umbrella capsizing in
the wind,
reeds flowers lying down to the
endless pasture.
thin fabric leaping up and
disappearing --
the wind’s struggle flaps the
umbrella canopy
Who’s this stranger who wants
to drag you away?
*
Like a little ant in your world
I could be crushed beneath a
broken rock
under a shoe heel.
pierced by a drill tip, a hoe
blade,
scorched by a soldering stick,
dragged by the screech of the
iron wheel,
burned in a forest fire,
turn to ash in the center of
the thunderstroke.
Knowing so ...
because of knowing so
whether upon the hilltop
or at the end of the deepest
cave,
I’m incarnated into myriad
species of ants
proudly swarming over your
body.
*
From above, you’re a fish
stabbed through with fish spear, a bird shot by a bullet
the slow-motion rhythmical
dance of ablooming flower
the warm water that opens the
ritual of purification,
rolling me slippery, the
necklace falling to pieces
arch bosom dropping fruit that
almost to falls,
flood swept, collapsing rock, a
tumbled hill,
A beast that snatches to pieces
the rope that binds it,
space crushed into aromatic
milk, sweet nutrient,
erect breasts succulent tense,
rearing all the babies of the
world.
*
My fingers paddle in the water;
there’s such space around here,
lakes everywhere,
tumultuous palisades, gateways,
clouds shading
those hidden houses far away.
The water border spreads out
into memory.
The words you speak are
sometimes far away, sometimes nearby,
my hand swimming across the
current.
My lips glide softly past
the teal, the ducks on the lake
kissing deep... kissing deep
...
... the circles of ripples,
chasing one another forever far away.
And the water turning over
in lapping cadence,
slosh-slodh, slosh-slosh
Together
in silence listening to the white lotuses
emerging
bright,
rise
up into Cintamaya-panna (6).
Cadence V
*
You advise me, though wherever
I rest
imagine that I’m lying on a
water hammock
eyes closed, the waves rushing
on,
creeping down from the top of a
blurry mountain
the crown of a coconut tree
suddenly greener
a flap of sunlight slanting
away.
Under my back flat ground,
hardwood,
sharp thorns, pointed rock.
Imagine that by accident you
drop your hand
my hammock would break off, I’d
be a sinking wreck
leaving on the sky a swirling
abyss of clouds.
*
The dream stretches out on
those soft grasses
the arch of my brawny breast,
An ardent breath, the smell of
the land.
Touching each other, we listen
to the land retreating far away
The road, with its trees and
leaves peacefully asleep,
wakes and protects,
holding tight to my heel.
*
The rain glitters on your body
flowers and plants euphoria
with the dance
freely shout to the wide high
blue sky
their silent imaginings.
The boiling water screams, the
bear scorches, flames,
secretes bile and honeycomb
every tapering toe
crumpled, squeezed dry,
the fragments trickling down.
Raining with sweat, our hair
sticks together in endless green,
our smooth skin sprouting fur.
*
Your shoulders are those of an
antique sculpture.
I hide the secret in a
bookshelf
The haughty hill
lift me up in the gale,
The bridge over the months and
days
where the children keep so many
enigmas.
The flutter of soft grasses,
the tender dream
swaddles me as the warm blanket
around a newborn.
*
I have crept into the dark
entrails of the earth,
into that serene underground
circuit.
It was hoe, plow, germination,
nesting...
I am patient as a cricket
burrowing,
A night heron digging into the
fog in search for prey;
I am the echoing cry of the
water hen looking for its
companion in the summer noon.
*
Sliding our bodies into each
other,
throwing on each new stick of
fire-wood,
you and I together light up the
dark.
Waves of hair, shoulders, arch
of breast--
the tongue twists in its final
extermination.
Molten iron and steel pour into
the molds
thrusting down in water,
reverberating, exploding.
The tinkling sound plowing on
the ground.
*
Kiss me and
hold my hand!
The sound of wind chimes covers
everything.
The leaves can’t stop,
the wind blows the thatched
roofs inside out, just mounds of rice straw,
snatching my hair, tearing my
shirt.
I leaning my
head on you, cradle you up!
Waves push against the slender
dam
the target flyies out at once
to catch the range of the stray bullet,
the light is choked, seeping
around the vent
and gouts of fire plunge upward
to the summit in the moment of rebirth.
*
The dewy lips holding the flap
of wet grass
Fly quick to follow the tower
wall.
I break you, braided you into a
rope,
a tongue I swallowing deep into
my chest
to the spine
till it touches my heel.
*
Breath, space, heat
cuddle the bird wings;
each fragile egg
swells out and hatches,
rebelling,
overthrowing.
I hiding in you, groaning,
yowling
Rummaging, throwing up sharp
waves,
flooding deep, crushing the
sweet fruit,
sucking and slowly chewing the
freezing popsicle;
A large teapot poured into
small cups.
An almond chewed delicious in
the stumpy teeth.
Cadence VI
*
I kissing you as if sucking out
all the shadows of the night
freshly cracking the over-ripe
fruit;
The dwarf bamboo puts forth
more joints
fire stoked up by the poker,
the blue crab who changes his
shell before dawn.
Inside of you is me
a muntjac
fawn newborn on the wet grass
a bowl of
water evaporating, the steam curling upward
a world
hastening to perfect itself.
*
Erecting itself
the tree canopy
photosynthesizes the sun,
leaf joyfully overlapping with
leaf,
springing up, breathing
together a stream of sap,
blood from the land running up
through its feet.
Stretching deep
The treeshade extrudes to the
tip of the leaf-vein.
*
You cling to me, floundering,
gaze at me
where the burning pain blooming
burst the buds,
raindrops sprinkling the grass,
the young bamboo shoot
stretching the soft surface of the earth.
Your hips are a half of a
newly-cut cake,
a spoon lifting you up from the
plate,
the deep lips quivering, the
abyss
I mouth, teeth clasping,
the eagle seizing with its
talon,
the tiger, the panther twisting
its awesome flanks, rebounding,
a poisonous snake that sucking
delivers the venom,
the great tree uprooted in the
flood, tossing against the sandbank.
*
the light carefully turned off,
the dark
immeasurably high, now it’s the
vitality of the sail
crossing the giant stormy
the fungus softly unfolding
the tongue of fire swiftly and
frenziedly burning
ever withstanding the wind,
lips wavering and shaking,
mouths holding the immense
fragrance of night
bearing me away to the infinite
shore
to return upside down
the boat shudders, creaking.
covered with grassblades,
the sea wind has the strong
fragrance of the mother’s womb
navel-string sucking each sweet
fibre
strangled, sinking deep,
drowning,
the shores quickly grabbing
your foot.
I’m a naivety, knowing that I
have lived.
*
and then clasped you motionless
in my arms you sing
... the sunbeam has drifted from the riverbank into the marsh, guiding
the grasses and trees, flowing among the glory of the cornhusks, the velvety
yellow, the young rice seedlings in their solid green, the pines cheering in
the sweet wind...
Your finger motionless in my
hair
you asked me what I’m remembering,
what I’m thinking
... the little children in the nursery, the leaves falling very
lightly, separating as if it’s the money, the wise obliquely crossing the foolish,
going along, the sincere voice making us burst out crying...
And you’re kissing me and
singing
... the tiny buds sprouting in moist soil, the bees returning to make
honey, together in a tremulous voice, the pubescent Moon, the cycle of the
river rushing into the choppy sea, the dream of wandering aimlessly... Uh oh...
*
Diving into the water seeing
the birds hustling,
flapping wings and screaming,
I hang in a fragrance,
a bird’s rustle,
a feather
The sea is in labor,
the squid, a star drifting into
another incarnation,
reversing the currents of the
sea
flattening the water surface
I stood at the cracked sandy
edge,
a pair of brown stockings no
longer rolled in those shoes,
sunglasses located far away
from the hat.
I hold my breath because I know
the treasure is nearby;
I keep looking, try to turn
each water door.
Cadence VII
*
You Wake me up by the familiar
words
It’s days
already!
Throw aside pillow and blanket
for another dawn:
this is the honest meaning of
the everyday sentence.
A cup of aromatic tea to dispel
the drowsiness;
the puppet newly tied
stretching the wire
Open the door, take a deep
breath;
kick-start the motorcycle
the engine sounds softer today.
Are you pulling the strings
somewhere to speed up every
motion?
Wind chimes vibrating though
there’s no wind
ripe fruit self-peeling tidyly
on the plate,
the panicky sound of a
kingfisher struggling violently in its dream-sleep
I alone in the desolate alley,
waving my hand to salute the
difference from yesterday
It’s day
already!
I’m in motion
And you’re dubbing.
*
The crowd wearing my face
suddenly rushes up to
suddenly stand transfixed
in the light that specifies the
face,
and the music
At the moment when the crater
is about to erupt,
the shotgun pumped and ready to
pull the trigger,
the quarry escapes, turning
intoto the another path.
And the midnight moonlight
falls swiftly sparkling
into the cups of salvation for
the multitude.
A mother gibbon giving birth to
its baby in the time of childbearing
one hand hanging, and swings on
the deep abyss
The world is silent
but for the gentle sound of a
flute
that comes rom you.
*
Multi-personalities divide in
the dance --
I, I and I...
I see you throw down a hat,
... poison
grass sprouts up in the holy land
... defying
its place of birth and growing up
...
interference: an electronic wave, hunch, clairvoyance
I, I and I ...
You’re silent innocently
judging.
... I’m a
sharp knife, sneaky, bristling,
... slowly,
heavily, flying back to you
... knowing
I will get you in the end
Also ...
... don’t focus any more light
on this
(someone
from backstage is picking up the hat).
*
When alone I thought:
I’m half of a fruit
half of a singing bird
half of a deep cave
a part of the noise
half of a fish
a corner of the hull
half of the silent connection
of a plane surface…
*
... I step
on the edge of a ditch full of water a row of trees called riot picking up the
seed of northeast wind unceasingly pressing on the white canvas sketching your
portrait the colors still not yet dry, paint then erase, the sketch not yet
finished, revolving in every direction still feeling the cold wind blowing in slanting
me back...
*
A tumbler on the desk
whenever get tired I look at
the water surface
Flicking gently on the brim of
the tumbler make it rouse;
I suddently remember that I’m
moping in a narrow room.
Outside, the hubbub of the early
sun,
the wind spreading through a
further wasteland
and further away still...
Far away...
Like a Russian Matroska
Open to see the smaller
Smaller, and more smaller...
In a game
you come to open the door of my
room
and see a Matroska sitting
reading a book.
*
- Let’s watch through the
night!
- ............
- To see what?
- ............
- The skirts of late summer
- ............
- Stirring the stem and bough
- ............
- Your arm balancing the
scenery
- ............
- Open the thorny fence
- ............
- You don’t see the star
- ............
- Vaguely trembling
- ............
- You’re incubating that
handful of sand on your chest!
- ............
- The crystal light
- ............
- In the giant black shadow of
the furnace
- we’re copeting, throwing
handful of sand into the dark of night.
*
Lay your hand on me
a soft root in moist soil,
the face of naive leaf.
Teach me how to spell things:
this is a bowl and chopsticks
this is the floor, shoes sandals
the sun
too many sound of water
water dripping dripping...
surging tide... water swiftly flowing...
My body is a country of
waterfalls and rapids
the whirling heart clanging
away.
Soaked in water the sun has
cooled down,
bursting out the suds of the
phosphorescent waves
floating, drifting, bobbing
following the current of the water.
Cadence VIII
*
Last night I had a dream again:
you pulling me as if windsurfing.
the shadow of your feet
slender, elongated on the surface of water
Waves swerving aside,
I’m clinging tightly your hand,
your face fluttering.
You call out in the contrary
wind:
- you have already got enough inertia, let’s have you fly by
yourself,
I somersault through wind and
water
Shrimp,
fish, and the sun
Seaweed,
moss, and white clouds
memories and
fantastic illusions.
Tilting to the left
I close my eyes, spin to the
right, turn on a roundabout;
I’m a veteran athlete
the number One seed.
Applause
Idol of the audience’s heart,
a circus on the water.
I calm down and recall
That all the spectators have
your face.
*
I wake up among the blossoms of
the Box Fruit tree, still half asleep
the sea outside still sleeping,
the sand shore stretching to
the foot of the clouds
Your breathing monotonous like
the sound of the wave
release the soft mesh that
sinks down to the bottom of the dawn.
A row of trees buryies its
roots down in my daydream,
their shade wandering,
overlapping.
The clumsy fish wake up early
Swim gently
gently waving their tails
dropping themselves into the
net of daybreak.
*
Strong winds inflamed your
throat
the sound on the phone doesn’t
come through clearly
it’s just a whispering,
whispering...
I met that noise by a rock on
the shore,
the waves were whispering,
whispering too...
This hand-shaped cloud wants to
grab me.
I don’t know where to escape,
there’s the strong wind and the huge sea
I cling to the rock.
This seascape fade me out;
only the waves know how to
speak,
keep whispering, whispering...
The vague sound frightens me
when with the sea and the dear
hand-shaped cloud
you too convey that lost voice
in the wrong season.
The sea gets back to
whispering, whispering.
*
The lampshade in gray
the lamp stand in brown
you far away from the lamp
light, I do not see.
Just like a telepath losing his
ability
despite being kindled I must
add a flame.
The hairpin transient the
dome-port
throws a coin into the mouth of
a deep wishing-well
The bee fills up the pistil,
the fish pulling the float has
disappeared.
Where are you now? Please light
up a lamp so I can see.
*
At noon I lie face down in the
lake
drop floating,
let the waves sharpen on my
body,
grabbing my back, squeezing and
raking my shoulders
The scepter hard as iron rises
to usurp;
the ground here is moving
mountain and hill, the surface
of the water undulating.
The land resound, rumbling,
cracks wide open, each seam of
ore opencast
a dog howls, in a thick hoarse
voice.
Still understand each other,
although forgotten the voices.
that we loved. Consecrated.
Lived.
*
The new sun, peaceful;
the areca leaf softly falling
the cooling wind
the corn being pollinated
Closing eyes, towering temples
, lofty mountains;
the sound of a hammer
pile-driving on concrete deep down into the ground;
a champagne cork suddently
flying up to the ceiling
the fragrant wine spilling on
the floor
the glasses so limpidly clear.
Crushed into powder in a stone
mortar
a chunk of bones yell in the
stew pot.
Gentle beside you
the tower,
the imposing stone mountain.
Breath like the fluttering rain
of yellow powder from the pine
trees lightly covering me a warming wind rustles in my mouth.
The rice grain buckles its
body.
*
Beside you I perform the
ceremony for the sun
for the waterfall, the great
river,
my shadow on the water’s
flowing sound.
The calf rubs in his mother’s
lap
The puppy comes close, then
runs zigzag around your legs
The glittering sword thrusts
down into the ground,
craving the sound of a massive
explosion, the nap
of high tension cables broken,
the levee shattered, the flood
overflowing the plains.
*
The worm buckles its body down
into the moist soil,
the kestrel somersaults in
mid-air.
I’m blinded with passion, I
can’t distinguish your hand from my legs,
my breath gets lost in your
disheveled hair,
I’m thrown up on the foam of a
whirlpool,
a giant python swallowing its
helpless little prey.
My chest swelling up brimful
with milk
longing to be caressed,
cherished, nursed;
my body slowly cools down,
hair flowing,
the lake of virginal waters
opening.
*
Together we become a trunk
our vitality rolled up into one
body.
Wood-grain hatched out over so
many rings;
I hold tight the creek flowing
from its source
stretching far away under the
high boughs, under the lowhanging boughs.
The tall trees stand
transfixed,
open out their buds, sprout on
their eyes, their lips
in a question “Do you love me
or not?”
Suddenly the wind is violently
blowing up everywhere,
our bodies swaying, our hair
rustling flying.
Be quiet for the flock of
perched brown sparrow--
but the wind startles them,
they suddenly fly up high.
Cadence IX
*
On the immense surface of the
earth, the tongue of the wind presses
its body chaotic—the crown of
my head the center of the whirlwind.
The tighter I grasp, the
stronger the shaking and jerking, the hoarse
howling and screaming,
vacillating, urging, keeping the dried leaf tight in your mouth.
the more we strive, the more we
talk nonsense--in the anxious nightmare,
the path of passionate kissing,
the more we stretch in this freshness,
leading me by the hand to the
mouth of the abyss,
mumbling how we can’t ever part
from each other,
because we’re both so afraid of
the deep, which leaves us in a cold sweat.
We turn upside down sticking
tight together,
the flowers blooming and
bearing buds, the leaves hanging down,
protecting the dry branches,
dangling, tantalizing,
thunder, lightning for eyes
seeing out through the pouring rain.
Calmly I lead you by the hand
in breathing, panting in and outsuddently
the bell rings, bringing
together every sound
sound of the wind bell.
*
Slip away through the stylized
fence,
the pointed paling that divides
the world into two equal sides.
In front is another dimension.
The coiling body in the green
light,
slowly dropping down, is a
wild-beast symbol
of the passionate flesh
(Lights off.
Applause)
Running through a bright circle
of lights,
those creatures are
apprehensive about gestation,
suckling, being fed through
mother’s mouth, trying to find the way to cry
(Knocking
resounds backstage).
I sneak in from the other side
of the fence,
A colorless light streak
slitting under my feet.
plant a warning sign, plant a
milestone.
All I have is the image of your
hand, dangling a drop of dew,
your eyes so expressive, the
trace of water on the ground.
*
I want to write verses as
natural
as the way you walk on the
ground.
So look at me
Imitating a fashion model, a
Miss...
The word “One” (7) * falls down too easily --
how about the word “Eight”(8)?
I walk to the words out, they
look terrible, you disparage them,
desire being naturally not
easy.
Don’t think about the footstep,
you say.
Just rely on me, and then step.
“I’m right here... I’m right
here...” you say.
Like a toddler I’m following
along with you step by step.
*
I cover my eyes
on the long
kilometers of the road,
till the joy
of dewfall and the closing of the door
many ideas
swiftly pass by.
I still see you
in the
narrow space between two houses--
you go
faster than I imagined
and the
sun’s not yet burning hot.
Your hand reaches through the
narrow slit of sunset,
hurrying to hand me a very
bright gift.
I’m so happy to open up,
meet the thought that I already
forgot in the past.
*
I kiss you once, light up one
more candle,
put them together.
I’m like the wick, the filament
at the heart of a candle
a bright flap of hair--
the idea is to make a fire that
spreads through
the foundation of the house drifting
in the night of garlands and coloured lanterns
I’m the one who, luckily, just
dropped the wishes by
in the early morning.
The sound of children shouting,
competing with each other to
drop many more candles into our room.
“Please kiss
me again!” You said
*
I drink all the fragrance --
you’re so tiny in the sharp
fang and claw,
calling for help, calling my
name
a wild beast hungry and thirsty
The open pincer grip tightly
tear off a finger. The
mouth-chewing
lips of this dangerous animal
compete with its fangs,
counting in rhythmic jerks with
frequent jolts
One... Two... Three...
Confusing and dulling...
And the number Five resounding
from endless
a seed breaking off in the
moist soil,
a trunk just sawed through.
a sharp ax splitting the wood’s
thick body,
calling each other name, like
the first time we knew each other.
*
The chamois stampede down to
the plain
throwing up dust behind them,
avalanching rocks
flying swift as an arrow
in the instant it naps from the
bowstring.
Here are grassy skies
a grassy ocean,
softly stirring with the words
of rivers and lakes.
The arrow flies downwind to
reach the target,
the flaps of grass trimmed,
flattened, bent,
crushed in these sharp teeth.
The broken sky sounds the call
to the flock, to the pleasure of the black night
step by step, the chamois
The grass sprays ardour
everywhere,
the thrill of the time of
creating heaven and earth
the new season waiting for the
reaping, of the green grass close to the root.
Those claws shear up through
the grasses’ roots, taut, bouncing,
the tender grass is shaking
with more buds yet to reopen wide those horizons.
__________________________
(1) Mothergate - Mother in this
poem does not mean “mother” as normal. It carries the meaning of “the Way”, the
“philosophy of belief.”. As: “The Way that can be told of is not an unvarying
way; The names that can be named are not unvarying names. It was from the
Nameless that Heaven and Earth sprang; The named is but the mother that rears the ten thousand creatures,
each after its kind” (Lao-tzu).
(2) A kind of
gibbon (vọoc chà vá chân xám or ‘vọoc Java (?) chân xám’) Scientific name:
Pygathrix cinerea.
(3) Cốm: green
rice flakes, green rice; grilled rice. A Vietnamese special traditional snack
make from young sweet rice. Rice growing farmers are the only ones who truly
understand when it is time to gather young grains to make Cốm. Then young rice
grains are harvested, roasted and ground down to become Cốm. They are put into
a large firing pan under small flames and stirred slowly for a specific period of
time. They are then poured into a rice mortar and slightly pounded with a
wooden pestle, rhythmic pounding and at quick intervals until the husk is
removed. Following this, the young rice is removed from the mortar and winnowed
before being poured again into the mortar and the process repeated. This is
then repeated exactly seven times so that all the husk is removed from the
young sticky grains. If the pounding is done irregularly and in haste, or it is
not repeated for the prescribed seven times, the green colour of the grains
will disappear and be replaced by an unexpected brown colour. Cốm is regarded
as a purely pastoral gift. To enjoy Cốm, it is advisable to chew it slowly so
that one can feel the stickiness of the young rice and at the same time enjoy
its sweet, fragrant taste. Visitors to Vong village (about five km from Hanoi)
during the Cốm making season will have a chance to listen to the special
rhythmic pounding of wooden pestles against mortars filled with young rice and
see women shifting and winnowing the pounded young rice.
(4) According to the
Theravadan Buddhism, there are three modes of attaining moral wisdom:
Attaining moral wisdom from reading, hearing and instruction—Attuning
wisdom based on learning.
Cintamaya-panna: Attaining moral wisdom from reflection—Attaining wisdom
based on thinking.
Attuning moral wisdom from practice of abstract meditation (attuning
wisdom based on mental development).
(5) Sukhavati (Sankrit): The central doctrine of the Pure Land sects is that
all who evoke the name of Amitabha with sincerity and faith in the saving grace
of his vow will be reborn in his Pure Land of peace and bliss. Thus, the most important practice of contemplation in
the Pure Land sects is the constant voicing of the words “Namo Amitabha Buddha”
or “I surrender myself to Amitabha Buddha.”
(6) A kind of
bird, also call White-eyes or Silvereye (Zosterops lateralis).
(7) According to the Theravadan Buddhism, there are
three modes of attaining moral wisdom:
Attaining moral wisdom from reading, hearing and instruction—Attuning
wisdom based on learning.
Cintamaya-panna: Attaining moral wisdom from reflection—Attaining wisdom
based on thinking.
Attuning moral wisdom from practice of abstract meditation (attuning
wisdom based on mental development).
(8) and (9) : “Nhất”: mean number (1) One in Vietnamese, in
Chinese: - ;“Bát”: number (8) eight in Vietnamese, in Chinese.
Biography
of Trần Nghi Hoàng
Writer, poet, translator, literary studies. Trần Nghi
Hoàng lived in America for over 30 years, returning to reside provisionally in
Hội An from 2008. Author of 17 books and nearly 10 works in completed work yet
published... Latest book: Thầy Vua (Lao Động publishing 2010, with co writer
Nguyễn Thụy Kha). He translated William Faulkner, Oscar Wilde, Pablo Neruda,
Garcia Lorca…
Biography
of Frederick Turner
Frederick Turner, Founders Professor of Arts and
Humanities at the University of Texas at Dallas, was educated at
Oxford University. A poet, critic, translator, philosopher, and former editor
of The Kenyon Review, he has authored 30 books, including Natural Classicism, The
Culture of Hope, Genesis: An Epic Poem, April Wind, Hadean Eclogues, The New World, Shakespeare's Twenty-First
Century Economics, Paradise, Natural Religion, and Two Ghost Poems. With
his colleague Zsuzsanna Ozsváth he won Hungary’s highest literary honor for
their translations of Miklós Radnóti’s poetry. He has been nominated for the
Nobel Prize for Literature internationally over 40 times.
