Phan Hoang poetry: Memory of the rose

Poet Phan Hoang was born on 10.10.1967 in Phu Yen, the South Central coastal region of Vietnam. He is a visiting journalist, journalism and literature lecturer at several universities.

Poet Phan Hoang is one of the important authors of modern Vietnamese poetry. He used to be Vice President of Ho Chi Minh City Writers Association, Chairman of Poetry Council VII (2015-2020), Member of the Executive Committee of Vietnam Writers Association X (2020-2025), Director – Editor of Vanvn.vn.

Phan Hoang is the author of more than 15 books, including 4 books of poetry. His poetry has been translated into more than 10 foreign languages and awarded a number of domestic and international poetry awards such as: Ho Chi Minh City Writers Association Award, Vietnam Writers Association Award, Hungarian Danube Art Award.

Phan Hoang poet

Mother carrying dreams

(Celebrating my mom’s 80th birthday)

 

Mother carried things, mother run everywhere

The bombs exploded here and there

Some felt behind

But some felt in front

 

My childhood on the evacuation basket

Mother carried the dream, run through the chaotic season

The sound of baby cried

Stronger

The sound of cannon roared

 

The streets were mottled with black holes

Floated rivers and streams, covered with red blood

The sea screamed, layers of waves broke away from motherly love

 

Mother’s step against the hot wind

Passed through the rocks on the mountain slope

Detoxed the forest contaminated by Agent Orange

Comforted the fields overgrown with weeds

Saw the blood on that dried bare feet

The wind blew the basket, out of breath

Mother hid me under the burnt-out bomb crater

Looked back at the ruined village and grandparents’ graves

 

Took off the hat full of bomb smell

Mother’s shadow covered the bullets’ range

Cuddled a crying baby

Mother babbled, the baby smiled

The baby laughing

Stronger

The sound of cannon roared

A smile that planted in the mother’s heart the seed of hope

A peaceful village reaped the following seasons…

 

The sun in the familiar home

 

1.

The house was filled with the sound of the wind all year round

Crispy and sweet liked a mermaid’s lips

Bitter liked a flood

Sometimes it looked like the sun

Grew

In the Western

Sometimes

Thought

In the North

 

Couldn’t sleep because of the sound of waves tonight

The wind comforted and caressed

The sky was blinking with changing stars

The sound of roosters in the fishing village crowed was better than before

The sound of baby crying

I knew the sun was rising in my familiar home

 

2.

Constantly fighting with hurricanes

Greedy giant pirates

Sometimes the habit of falling asleep made us forget

From thousands of generations

When mother worked in the fields, father took me home to take care of the sea

The sun still rose in the house filled with the sound of waves

Filled with wind sound

The sun was brighter every day

From the source of my Mom’s milk, from her lullaby of loving all around persons

The trembled voice of grandmother when she told the fairy tale “The golden star fruit tree”

The legend of a man used bamboo to fight the enemies, the late nights of the sea

The sun was brighter every day

From the mighty echo of a warship, kept the wrap of rice and guarded the island

The pain of survival in a house that carried the gene of Giao Chỉ*

3.

Not from the West

Not from the North

Through rivers filled with tears

The burned forest had nothing left

The sun was still rising

In my familiar home of thought

The house was filled with the sound of the waves and the wind all year round

The secret of transmitting the strange light

Photosynthesized the power of the dragon and fairy

Inheritance of mountain bravery

Gathered the heart of the sea

Generously regenerating the energy

For me

For my child

And

For h… me

 

August, 31st 2007

_______________________

* Giao Chỉ was originally the name of one of the 15 counties of the ancient Van Lang country. The county of Giao Chỉ in the Hung Kings period was equivalent to nowadays Hanoi and the right bank of the Red River

 

Goodbye to the scent of the wind

 

Freeway

Built

Concrete wall

Empty field

The local wind made an affair and lost all the green season

 

The land was separated from the land

People was separated from their homeland

The wind was separated from the scent of itself

I separated from myself

 

People with scratches

I took the wound

The frivolity wind blew

The heart filled with sadness

 

In the afternoon, the smell of baked sweet potatoes covered the street

The howling wind reminded me of the old homeland

 

May, 15th 2005

 

Memory of the rose

(To a Russian girl)

 

You sang for me a million red roses (*)

You read for me history and human destiny (**)

Roses still bloomed even though the weather and life change

No one was higher than anyone when you still cried in the cradle

 

And history had brought change to each destiny

Change the sky inspiration

Change the mind of every mountain and river

But there was one thing I wanted to tell you:

Does history and time change

Love memories in every rose?

________

(*) Russian song

(**) Evtushenco Poem – translated by Bang Viet

 

Drinking the shadow

I sat down and drank the shadow

The night chased away the thought of making a poor living

Each bone sounded crunchy of the fire forest

 

I sat down and drank the shadow

Listened to the rain at night, choked sobbing

The thunder sound seemed angrily

 

I sat down and drank the shadow

Turned each page of the ancient bibliography at night

Too cold sword cut for the hidden wound

 

How many dynasties have gone

The lying cold soul of word

The graves faded away

The benevolent grass could save us?

 

October, 10th 2002

 

The word market

 

Tried to throw letters horizontal vertical

Bird stock hunting

Sold weed shares

Limited liability person shared

Auction poetry came to life

 

Who invested in a close relationship shares

Volunteered literature with soulmate joint venture

The word market ebb and flow

 

Word market

Hot

 

Word market

Cold

 

Word market

Bland

 

Many nights rested my head on piles of books

Listened to the empty heart

Confused

 

February, 2nd 2002

Poet Phan Hoang painted by artist Le Sa Long

Whisper

 

In the midst of steam and cold clouds

I heard whispers

The sound between pleasure and fertilization

 

In the midst of thunder and rain

I heard whispers

The sound between labor and birth

 

In the midst of low pressure and storm

I heard whispers

The sound between moribund and deaths

 

Whispered endless symphony

The circulation through the oceans of the human’s life wandered around

Sailed my sails floating in the sad ocean

Felt so hurt for the horizon with the crippled thought

Poem anchored in tears

 

October, 10th 2004

 

New character storm

 

Wandered around like an invisible wind

In the virtual world

A lot of empty characters

Panicked houses

Characters lost the thought of fate

I suddenly swayed

Flew

Flew

Up

From all the underground waves

Sunk in an unexpected storm

 

The storm took me into the upper atmosphere

Drunken of the swan dance

The forest leaves turned to dust, flew back to be green leaves, new branches and buds

The secret stone gradually opened up the volcanic characters

The clock on the sea’s chest reversed the time

Freckles disappeared from the darkness

 

The storm was getting stronger

New character world opened

Each deep breath was full of signals

Wished you have a sweet dream in the middle of the chrysanthemum season

The sound of glass from the storm connected the intense characters

 

December 9th 2010

 

Unfinished text

(To NQ)

 

1.

When I felt at the bottom of pain, I could see myself

Felt so innocent in mother’s peaceful ocean

Rode the silent flood

Removed wrinkles, old thought

Deep in the pitted face of the earth

Those wrinkled created creative prodigy

When I flew at the top of sublimation

I could see myself

A generous guy monopolized the primeval forest

Girly fragrance

Threw away the lust skill, rotten costume

Flickered flames of pleasure

Each wave of mysterious signals overflowed

Nine-dimensional collision of memories

Awaken the forgotten gold dust

 

2.

All civilizations seemed to have evolved from unconscious light dream pleasure against conscious darkness skill habits

Skills in the name of progress ate every natural moment of life

 

3.

Overcame pain and sublimation

I was in my dream

The morning rain quietly rang the bell to call the soul of the end of the world

Those words looked like warriors who translated poetic text that forever unfinished

Wordless text

Quintessential text

Magical text

Pleasure signal epicenter

 

4.

Immersed myself in the dream of pleasure

Immersed in unfinished text

I discovered me

Gradually different

Faded away

Intensive farming field, the buffalo’s emotion

Blue smoke and gray clouds surrounded mother’s kitchen

The neoclassical lip-syncing choirs gave each other theirs love and clothes

The flood of pleasure quietly rose up

The skill of lust with rotten fine word cover was sink

Wave after wave of golden dust signal overflowing memories

 

5.

Amidst the waves of signals

I found my floating face

It was me

Hurt me

Sublimate me

In unfinished texts

Wordless text

Unframed text

Text not text

 

6.

Life was only a span of time

Why did we have to tie ourselves up in long chains that worth like gravestones?

 

How to flare up many floods

Climax signal wave

Swept away the late-sleeping dreams corpus

Old childish corpus

Fictitious corpus

A terror of free flow of words

Assassination the desire green bud ideas

Threatened the primeval forest that full of young girl fragrance overflowing with future vital text

 

July, 2nd 2011

 

Flowers of stone

 

From ancient folk intelligent stone sprouts

Grew up

Grew up

The tree of love bloomed with kindness

Painful glamor sky, artist soul

 

When the pure curve of the stone gave off fragrance

When the wild curve of the rock sublimed

Humanity was in a hurry to find the truth

 

The beauty born of silent movement

Truth came from an unexpected paradox

 

October, 10th 2011

PHAN HOÀNG

(Excerpt from poet Phan Hoang’s poetry collection “Questioning the habits”)

 

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