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[Doi Dien] Memories
Okay, here's a selection of mine, the only one among my original
"creative" works, that has appeared in Doi Dien. It's not one
of my better efforts, and though I'm grateful that it's published
I wasn't too happy to see it take precedence over my Vietnamese
poems. Perhaps my Vietnamese poems (a whole collection of thirty
something of them too!) weren't deemed good enough to be selected,
and so by default this experimental oddity might have won out as
a token selection to beef up the meager English offerings in Doi
Dien. Isn't it depressing, if not indeed traumatic, to witness
(subjectively speaking) first-rate attempts in one's first language
passed over in favor of a third-rate one in one's third language?
No wonder I've decided to close shop on my own "creative" writing
and content myself instead with vicarious second-hand "recreation"
of other people's Vietnamese originals. Oh well, so much for the
writerly/poetic aspirations of this translator/hack malgre' lui.
And how much more parasitical is the making of a literary critic,
never mind a scholar!
Enough of my gripe, here's your last "poetic" seletion du jour.
Au revoir!
Vinh
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MEMORIES
Nguyen Quoc Vinh
Late on a rainy day:
Awaiting execution,
I don't know what to do,
so I sit down -- and write.
(. . . .)
I am here now, by myself,
in this ever familiar room,
a room no more vacuous
than the old solitary fortress,
now a void and haunting prison
garrisoned by memories.
Memories that are too dear to forget,
too sad to remember.
Memories of a secret battle,
once lost, forever mourned.
These four rough walls,
stone-faced enemies,
hostile and insidious,
close in, minute by minute,
at a crushing, heavy pace,
ready to strike the hour, to tick away
that last faint sound.
(. . . .)
Shattering raindrops bombard the window panes
in frenzy rhythm with my pulsating brain.
Words have deserted me,
this lone, battered soldier
fighting in vain to hold back
the advancing tide.
Having pierced the line open with a bleeding pen,
eyes bursting red, teeth clenched on tongue,
the martyr marches forth amidst roaring canons,
defiantly towards the chosen final consecration
before ecstatic waves of ravenous worshipers.
I throw my arms wide open
to receive the robe of scarlet.
(. . . .)
The tribunal of high-priests ascends:
Memories parading, one by one,
through the swirling hallucinations
of a convict before guillotine.
My head sinks,
my body squirms,
my knees crumble.
Upon the last roll of drums:
My eyes drop.
I feel a piercing bullet.
The crooked pen
lies abandoned
on the pages of
bitter memories.
I collapse in guilt.
Seized by cowardice,
I sell my soul to fear.
I want to cry. I want to scream.
There is only the echo of silence.
I am here. Alone. [A(t)las(t)].
[Doi Dien/Face to Face #2 (Spring-Summer 1994), pp. 50-53]
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