1.
Initially, I felt quite nauseated whenever I heard “young poetry” mentioned, and those Northern literati, the critics wielding their pens, would drone on about Nguyễn Hữu Hồng Minh, Phan Huyền Thư, Văn Cầm Hải, Vi Thùy Linh… and at most, Nguyễn Quyến, Nguyễn Vĩnh Tiến. I (and even one or two of those praised) didn’t understand why, truly didn’t understand, because young Vietnamese poetry – the part that is moving, is so much more than that. And this existing part is not at all unfamiliar to the knowledge of those literati.
But when I took a moment to look back, I realized my nausea and surprise were indeed ill-mannered and unreasonable. Because familiar or unfamiliar, that doesn’t solve the problem. The problem of Vietnamese poetry in Saigon, for instance, is a different problem, a different phenomenon; therefore, it requires a different way of thinking. I invite you to try reading a poem by Bùi Chát:
Garish Red Flower Season
Under the flower color like a burning, thirsty-for-drink fire
I held your hand, walking along the deserted road
Only the buzzing cicadas wouldn’t let the summer noon be quiet
Wouldn’t let our hearts be at peace
I was engrossed in a distant cloud color
In a sail flying past a tiny window
In the miraculous beauty of days gone by
You sang an old, stale verse
The infatuation of a thieving maiden’s youth
Every red flower season returning home
Flowers falling like rain, dropping
Thin, fragile petals scattered, brightly beautiful
Like blood gushing from a youthful time
Flowers falling like rain, dropping
Like the foolish, naive days of yore
We looked deep into each other’s eyes, pig-like
And felt our hearts ache
In your little verse
I am not present, face-wise
The verse sings of a time of passionate, real love
I am not sad, only regretful
You didn’t live through all the intoxicating days
Flowers kept falling boisterously like young manhood
Not letting anyone feel cold and withered
Flowers placed a crimson streak in our hearts
Like a scratch on the liver-heart
After the song, you fell silent
That silence radiant with the garish red flower color
I knew I was meaningless walking beside you, youngest one
After the song, you were like exercise
You of the red flower season of yore
After the song, I was also the world
I of the young manhood of that past time
Clearly, this is “Thời hoa đỏ” (Red Flower Season) by the poet Thanh Tùng, a model of Vietnamese poetry of that era. Bùi Chát simply added a final word to each line in a colloquial manner. “Thời hoa đỏ lè” (Garish Red Flower Season) is a colloquial phrase: “đỏ lè” (garish red), “đỏ rực” (flaming red), “đỏ chót” (bright red), or “đỏ chói” (blinding red) are all similar. So, is this still Thanh Tùng’s poem? Certainly not, it is a mutated, distorted, altered, whatever-you-call-it poem, and the one responsible for this (many call it plagiarism) is Bùi Chát. This poet signed his name to it, openly plagiarizing, so the new poem must be his. Thanh Tùng surely no longer thinks the poem with the added final words is his own.
We (the young writers in Saigon) call this technique “pastiche” – parody, installation-assembly. Similar to the “collage” technique that Dada used with cut-and-torn paintings and synthetic paper art. Or it could also be called “coercion.” Thanh Tùng’s poem has been coerced by Bùi Chát. (Like how Postmodernism rapes Modernism). So, where is the creativity? Creativity lies precisely at the threshold of the action of the coercer and the coerced. One phenomenon coerces another but does not deny or replace it; after being born, both coexist in a winding way; birds of a feather, but they cannot stand each other, cannot share a boat, cannot swim in the same pond, even without enmity or competition.
From the perspective of those under the pressure of old concepts and aesthetic systems (specifically, those of Modernism or Romanticism), this is certainly not poetry. Because it lacks creativity – creativity as they understand it, which is to produce something (let’s say) relatively non-repetitive, to create something new, if possible: entirely new. But for heaven’s sake, what the hell is new? We don’t want to be dependent on the frame of reference of those concepts; poetry often ceases to be about creativity in the aforementioned sense. Poetry is often just about provocation, a bit of humor, a cognitive shock, even a joke at a drinking table, no less nonsensical.
Let’s briefly revisit history. Romanticism always sought to tell a story with a specific origin (characters, space, time very clear). This was the first requirement and also the dominant factor distinguishing Romanticism from other movements. Modernism often created a shock in reading, rarely conveyed experience, and tried to hide the story, the deeper the better. Surrealism or Avant-garde is a very specific example of trying to hide the story. What we might call Postmodernism, on the other hand, always tries to transform the story in a different direction, towards the storyteller, even if it’s a fairly common, one-sided story, but it creates a cognitive shock. “Thời hoa đỏ lè” is a way of transforming a story, and there has never been such a way of making poetry before. Many people are shocked when a poem (in their view) has been distorted. But in reality, there is no distortion; “Thời hoa đỏ” still sits and will sit where it has sat; history has/is delineating its story. Therefore, “Thời hoa đỏ lè” is a different kind, a different phenomenon. It requires a different understanding, stemming from itself.
We are not doing anything too sophisticated, too vulgar, or too eccentric, because we still believe that alongside the mainstream aesthetic current, another kind of poetry has/is existing – our poetry/our aesthetic, the aesthetic of those engrossed in making poetry, not of critics or moralists, ethicists, or sociologists. In the past, Hồ Xuân Hương, or much later, Trần Dần… also made a different kind of poetry (even Vũ Trọng Phụng made a different kind of novel), different from the common desire their era needed. They did not make poetry, in the eyes of their contemporaries. But it’s not certain that they wanted to create something for the future; they only created for themselves, to “satisfy” their own path. And you, our contemporaries, do not see us (whether we need you or not), because you keep thinking that we are not making poetry. That’s it, that’s enough to close off your perception forever, until you go to your grave. Compared to your aesthetic, within your aesthetic, we stopped making poetry long ago. But we are still doing it, and an increasing number of young writers are making poetry not as you wish; more accurately, they are no longer making poetry in the way of thinking that is old, rotten, and infantile, and often belongs to no one, even if you try desperately to cling to it. To put it simply, the young ones (as you call them) are making the “old enemies” wonder if they are going down the path they want. And if they happen to go wrong, who dies? Who can judge what is wrong in art?
People like Nguyễn Huy Thiệp (a writer and avid poetry reader) reading Phan Huyền Thư’s poetry would stick out their tongues and pee in their pants, not because they lacked enthusiasm to “support the new, the different, the young”; but because their aesthetic perception only reached that far, a threshold that knowledge and age are very reluctant, very difficult to cross; hitting a wall, and they dig in. They, like each of us (we will probably be the same later), are old, blind fortune-tellers examining an elephant; throughout the history of human perception and even in a diverse, colorful present, we only touch a part and we always believe the part we touch. As for Nguyễn Huy Thiệp (NHT) saying Vietnamese poets and writers are this and that, ignorant and somewhat anti-movement, it’s not entirely wrong; NHT’s only mistake and weakness is his lack of technical skill in speaking, a bit clumsy. In general, regarding his ability to write critical essays, Nguyễn Huy Thiệp appears quite clumsy, lacking skill, even if his way of posing problems is quite problematic, provoking general ego and potentially causing debate. And who knows, perhaps causing conflict is what Nguyễn Huy Thiệp wants. Vietnamese literature is often indifferent; everyone pretends to read this and that, now they have a chance to really read, and so they all speak up, boisterous and rambling; and there are always those who follow suit, their tongues so foul that one doesn’t even want to name them, for fear of having to cover one’s mouth, nose… and even one’s anus.
Opening one’s mouth to talk about young poetry this way, young poetry that way, and always including a list. A list that is often completely unrealistic because it’s incomplete and sycophantic. Minh, Thư, Hải, Linh (the names of the four poets mentioned at the beginning of the essay)… is a list of young poets that is always outdated in information, old in perception, and sycophantic; someone said so, so I say so too. There are two reasons: Firstly, even if they (readers like Dương Tường) are as brilliant as heaven, proficient in many foreign languages, they would still be helpless, because if they don’t read or read little Vietnamese, they won’t see anything; how many local Vietnamese poets write in foreign languages to be read? Not to mention reading vaguely, thinking one is reading poetry here but not living like the author, not understanding what the author is writing, because it belongs to a different system of perception – a different life. Therefore, after one or two readings, they immediately declare: it’s this and that. And this judgment is certainly utterly wrong. Secondly, because they think about their own achievements and positions (what they have created), there’s a bit of calculation, fearing that supporting something too different from themselves might eventually negate them. Therefore, they must entrench themselves, the longer the better, in the bunkers they’ve built around themselves. Nguyễn Huy Thiệp, Dương Tường, Hoàng Hưng, Nguyên Ngọc, Lê Đạt, Phan Đan… (the list is very long) have tried to entrench themselves in this way, even though some on this list don’t write poetry and others haven’t written poetry for a long time; so the list of young poets and the perception of young poetry just drags along like rusty steel wheels – anyone young like them, continuing their legacy, is OK; anyone different is ignored. Phan Huyền Thư is highly praised, mentioned the most, of course, because her poetry is good, but this is a goodness that continues, similar to those who praise her. I also praise Thư’s poetry, but I praise different aspects, aspects that those others don’t want to mention because they are too different from them; or they simply cannot see them. Nguyễn Hữu Hồng Minh, Vi Thùy Linh are similar cases. As for Văn Cầm Hải, I have no opinion, because he follows in the footsteps of those who are too excellent; I find Phan Huyền Thư’s line quite fitting for this case: a “flashy conformist.”
Therefore, Trần Wũ Khang’s reaction to the “four pillars” list is also normal; but he then presented a list that was both superfluous and lacking, and included some undeserving individuals. For example, to mention contemporary figures in the North and still list Nguyễn Quyến, Nguyễn Vĩnh Tiến… is truly unworthy, because for over a year now, they haven’t shown any “performance.” Regarding the overseas list contributing to the movement, Nguyễn Đăng Thường – an important poet and translator – is missing, while some mediocre individuals appear – making little impression beyond having been active for a long time. Tilling the soil for a long time makes one a farmer, but the seeds sown often fail to grow. Even one or two of the Southern figures are the same; their works are a clever compilation of so-called aesthetic beauty, somewhat romantic language, plus a bit of imitative surrealism… enough to intimidate people. I wonder if Trần Wũ Khang paid close attention to this?
To continue following this essay with its many disparate ideas, I invite you to read another poem by Phan Bá Thọ, titled “kafakacocain, những ý niệm ảo” (kafka cocaine, illusory notions):
k a f k a c o c a i n
- note: according to his rudimentary [then] understanding, there are 999… reasons
for a distorted face, for example [a few cases, scattered examples]:
- phan bá thọ’s face distorted because, his vehicle crashed
- poet nguyễn quốc chánh, because he forgot many things + his wife
- the fate of two small children, faces distorted by going out
opening their mouths to gasp a toxic wind…& because
the sun is hell or vice versa [upside down
perverse perverse abuse etc – etc however you like &] it knows that
because humans ( always moving, hence
it is always stuck to its own shadow
this is more beneficial than the many people’s delusion / association
1.5 / aus
looking straight [except when strolling, admiring staged scenes
because it has the right] it, always looks straight while moving
(this accuses its faithfulness, fear &
furtive decency towards many things …)
25 / pam
strictly obeying 112004 commandments
[among which: 2003 commandments for husband and wife, pillowing heart lungs &
dense ambiguous clauses
the remaining, obsolete & ineffective for the belly]
this also proves, its
innate natural rudeness & that of all those
who agree and are afflicted with it
33 / beer. froth
(…) in short. from the moment it discovered itself: human
it also discovered: it is worse than a worm
a worm doesn’t bother to know anything about human commandments
so / into it, there’s still a tiny bit of freedom
even if it’s the freedom to pee anywhere
hell glitters with light & this can also be reversed (
the worm is also watched by its own shadow
the complicated matter since, both worm & human no longer distinguish
where kafka is where cocaine is (
everything becomes dark, sinister, tangled & meaningless to explain like
these very lines, dear [dedicated to: 2 small children, open – mouth –
distorted – face*]
This is a concept, entirely a concept – it is complete or partially complete with the author’s own thoughts and life, and forces this author to write this way. It doesn’t entirely try to introduce something new, even though everything is inverted, a kind of decentering: center to periphery, periphery to center, refusing fixed-stable positioning, notes placed at the beginning, dedication at the end. The underlying idea and narrative are also quite complex. This poem, or the next poem by Khúc Duy, has a high consumptive quality, not aiming for high art; it is made not to astound the reader, to distance itself from the high altar in all its ideological propositions, or more seriously: for future reading – it is a part of the author’s life, the author’s response. In the past, long before Trần Dần, even before Hồ Xuân Hương, many poets had poems that were not what readers wanted; they made poems for themselves to laugh, to respond, to use immediately, and to parody playfully. Folk poetry, satirical poetry were also a kind of parody, a kind of play, a kind of life. But now, it’s the turn of a generation of different poets; they are completely free with their choices; play or truth, it doesn’t matter to them. It’s one and the same. No need to bathe, dress, light incense, or prepare offerings before writing poetry; poetry doesn’t have to be serious. Satirical poetry and satirical life. De-seriousifying, de-structuring to move towards structural dissemination… is a current concern. Not making poetry to innovate. Not making poetry to change guards. But truly comfortable: making poetry the way they have thought and are living.
Like a poem by Khúc Duy:
And Dipping in Shrimp Paste
Bùi “Chát” is a “braggart”
sometimes savory, sometimes bitter, bitter like a Buddha,
more like boiled figs. Figs
carefree, waiting for the day to be pricked with shrimp
paste. He makes love with anything
that has a hole or doesn’t have a hole. One
day “shrimp paste tofu” The itchy hole,
opening eyes, breathing on the older sister’s email
a whole flashlight into the fig’s crotch and then
going into a trance, stripping. Fig has the right to
pick its nose, poetry has the right to pick its nose: lying on its side,
lying on its stomach, lying back, crawling, kneeling, walking, standing,
spreading its legs, plowing over mountains, doggy style,
kitty style… the more pleasurable. Just pick its nose,
“shrimp paste tofu” Oh! Let’s plow
over mountains with Fig, huh.
Or Như Huy’s poem:
Hurrah for that Generation
Your knowledge and self-respect are only enough to nurture your persistent cowardice
Your skills are only enough to help you evade the obvious answer
Your hatred is merely a magic trick – just like a beggar’s staff
Your empty words, empty silences, empty songs, empty verses, your three-penny empty epitaphs
Your empty adjectives, empty ellipses, empty parentheses and quotation marks, your empty smudged ink drops
Your empty dialectics, empty single and double metaphors, your empty linking tricks
Your empty abbreviations, your empty rambling boastfulness, your utterly empty sly quotes…
*
You,
the – one – who – then – dared – not – choose – that.
Is this a poem (by Như Huy, a professional artist who rarely writes poetry)? I don’t want to be certain. But clearly, its author made a poem, this poem was made, simply to answer a poem written earlier, also on the Tiền Vệ forum. Perhaps it was a response to a disagreeable viewpoint. Or like Khúc Duy’s poem, it’s merely a back-and-forth with Bùi Chát’s poetry collection. Generally, these are argumentative poems, a kind of preface, or a verbal sparring. But these poetic words are an attitude, answering an attitude. They are interactive; one work born from another, Như Huy’s poem born from Trúc Quỳnh’s; Khúc Duy’s poem born from Bùi Chát’s collection. The work is written, from the perspective of a reader more than a creator, meaning it doesn’t aim for a final destination, but the public’s reading, external impacts, allow the work to be completed. At the same time, it is not born independently, but is often an association – a two-way interaction; meaning reading this work (like Như Huy’s, for example) can reveal its enemy (sometimes, friend). It is a tracing, helping readers string together works in an interactive relationship; this stringing helps the reader understand the work. Therefore, reading poetry by Nguyễn Quốc Chánh, Đỗ Kh., or more recently by Bùi Chát, Khúc Duy, Phan Bá Thọ… for example, must be done in an interactive context. This interactive quality makes the works of these authors vastly different from many authors – works in the narrative tradition (I am this way, I am that way) of Vietnamese poetry in general, and the poetry of young Northern authors in particular… And contemporary poetry (like many poems on Tiền Vệ, for example), to some extent, is merely an interactive attitude. Without viewing it correctly with such a concept, many people will strain their necks and shout, “Why is poetry so strange?”; and precisely because of this, many people, thinking poetry is something formidable, aiming for something formidable, will shout that this is “defiling literature.” And alas, with such thoughts and perspectives, how can one read contemporary poetry? How can poetry be read as it truly is?
The literati in particular, and most other readers, who refuse to mention anyone beyond the four poets listed above, have two main reasons: one, as readers, they have the right not to care; two, this reason is more important, they dare not look broadly, fearing it might affect their old and conservative judgments.
2.
Wandering through some current forums, I see many articles/issues truly worth noting. Like Trịnh Thanh Sơn’s article “Young Poetry… Insomnia,” widely published here and there, where he groups Joseph Huỳnh Văn with contemporary young poets like Nguyễn Quang Thiều, Phan Huyền Thư… even though Joseph Huỳnh Văn was a famous and respected poet in Saigon before 1975. This mistake doesn’t affect “the deceased,” but it proves two things: One, Trịnh Thanh Sơn’s understanding and perception of poetry history lacks what is called Saigon poetry before 1975, where the Sáng Tạo group appeared and profoundly influenced the innovation of Saigon poetry later. Secondly, it demonstrates a decline in his understanding of the issue; whenever “young poetry” is mentioned, it’s always the same four; without reading and evaluating for himself, to distinguish between real and fake, to know who young poets are, and where young poetry is going (or even drifting). And this decline is like a domino effect, leading to many other declines; as Nguyễn Ngọc, Dương Tường, Nguyễn Huy Thiệp… would say, it’s a decline due to ignorance. Frankly, few want to be innocent; everyone wants to jump into the domino wave, while even standing outside is difficult, so decline is certain.
Another article, by Nguyễn Hoàng Sơn, titled “Vietnamese Poetry on the Brink of a New Revolution,” published in Văn Nghệ newspaper, issue dated February 21, 2004, and elsewhere, also reveals a different way of thinking, which is very problematic. What is revolution? Roughly understood as a complete change or a change in some parts; and in what direction does this change occur? Certainly not in a stable direction. Stability, like peace, cannot be a revolution. Mainstream Vietnamese poetry is stable, has been and is so; there is no indication that a revolution is about to happen. Moreover, while things are peaceful and well (who dares say mainstream Vietnamese poetry is not peaceful and well!?), who will stand up to make a revolution? Certainly, no one wants to make a revolution yet. If so, then in recent years (during the Đổi Mới era, for example) there would have been a revolution already. Vietnamese poetry remains the same, still entrenched in a defensive stance for reasons unknown; there are only a few movements (movements that must be seen as inevitable) that some people say are changing, like applying different eyeliner and lipstick. Many say that revolution in poetry always belongs to the youth; oh, who are these mainstream youth? Who knows and where are they hidden? There are some prominent figures, maintaining their names at a few information hubs, but beyond the title of poet, where is their poetry? I mean, where is their poetry showing any sign of being powerful enough or about to make a revolution? So a key question arises: to whom does the revolution belong, and where is it? Certainly not to those Nguyễn Hoàng Sơn mentioned, nor to the Vietnamese New Formalism movement – because many believe it only produces old things, just with line-breaking techniques, and it’s in America; and certainly not to outsiders like us, whom those above, as well as those below, out there… don’t consider to be making poetry, only making nonsense. But if we don’t make poetry, how can there be a poetry revolution?
Moreover, we, who always respect our own concept of poetry and that of others, we don’t want any damn revolution; being peaceful and well like this is our way of mocking that idea. We do what we feel is necessary, what is lacking; it’s just what belongs to us – who would want to get involved in a revolution, which sounds so serious and pretentious? We believe that Nguyễn Hoàng Sơn’s view of a revolution is a form of self-hypnosis, stated to reassure oneself that: change is coming, just wait. Wait a little longer, at most wait for the end of life, that’s all. While poetry comes and goes daily, facing new situations, just like the people carrying it, why wait to live? Therefore, where the revolution is and to whom it belongs remains a distant question, without even rushing to assert: there is no revolution about to happen in Vietnamese poetry, because a poetry revolution is unnecessary.
3.
And finally, as those considered innocent, we do not make poetry in your perception. I invite you to read what we do; as I wish to illustrate for the essay: it still clings to reality.
Phan Bá Thọ:
iraq chicken flu nine 3 + years
your luck is too bad (the excuse of an old man who stole other people’s music after being exposed)
yeah, really too bad, truly bad, because the whole village stole but he was the only one slapped and grabbed by the throat.
couldn’t help but laugh but the shame shame shame was indescribable.
i like those who have never robbed or plundered, even if he is a pd oil, even if he has prostituted himself all over this globe
horse-dog whore, rare animal whore, white gold whore, colonial imperialist whore
but the coolest is still the one who dares to beat his chest and declare his name. i, a male whore in words & truth (though, he only ranks 85/ 93 from the bottom up, of what is coincidentally called)
list of poets against war
(updated april 14th, 2003 at 21:15, california time, usa):
away, hanoi, vietnam – exile, dili, east timor – bình minh, paris, france – chim hải, sydney, australia – cổ ngư, paris, france – đàm quang tùng, hanoi, vietnam – đào tuấn, brussels – đinh cường, virginia, usa – đinh linh, usa – đinh phạm quỳnh châu, hanoi, vietnam – đinh trường chinh, fairfax, virginia, usa – đỗ kh., yorba linda, california, usa – đỗ minh tuấn, hanoi, vietnam – đỗ quang nghĩa, limburg, germany – đỗ quyên, toronto, canada – hà duy hưng, hanoi, vietnam – hoa độ, paris, france – hoa thi, ammon, idaho, usa – hoàng hưng, hanoi, vietnam – hoàng ngọc tuấn, sydney, australia – hoàng quốc hải, hanoi, vietnam – hoàng xuân sơn, canada – kacheong, hongkong – khánh hà, oslo, norway – khế iêm, westminster, california, usa – khương hà, đồng nai, vietnam – kim anh, saigon, vietnam – kim yến, germany – lê an, berlin, germany – lê đạt, hanoi, vietnam – lê hân, ontario, canada – lê minh hà, limburg, germany – lê nghĩa quang tấn, san francisco, usa – lê thị thấm vân, los altos, california, usa – lê trọng phương, bonn, germany – luân hoán, montreal, canada – lưu hy lạc, usa – lưu linh, georgia, usa – mạch nha, paris, france – mai chi, wien, austria – mai ninh, caen, france – miêng, paris, france – ngô thanh nhàn, new york, usa – ngô thu hiền, taylor, los angeles, usa – ngô tự lập, hanoi, vietnam – nguyễn bình, hanoi, vietnam – nguyễn chi hoan, hanoi, vietnam – nguyễn đăng thường, london, england – nguyễn đăng tuấn, toronto, canada – nguyễn hoài phương, germany – nguyễn hoàng tranh, sydney, australia – nguyễn hưng quang, hanoi, vietnam – nguyễn hữu hồng minh, ho chi minh, vietnam – nguyễn hữu viện, paris, france – nguyễn quí đức, san francisco, california, usa – nguyễn tấn nghĩa, vietnam – nguyễn thị hồng, hanoi, vietnam – nancy, france – nguyễn thị ngọc nhung, orange, usa – nguyễn thị thanh bình, virginia, usa – phạm hải anh, amsterdam, holland – phạm miêng tưởng, sydney, australia – phạm quốc thăng, saigon, vietnam – phạm thị hoài, berlin, germany – phạm trần hải hà & nguyễn thu thủy, vietnam – phạm xuân nguyên, vietnam – poisson, cẩm thi đoàn, paris, france – poisson, emmanuel, paris, france – tạ duy bình, sydney, australia – tài lực, paris, france – thận nhiên, seattle, washington, usa – thơ thơ, westminster, california, usa – thường quán, melbourne, australia – trần mộng tú, seattle, washington, usa – trân sa, toronto, canada – trần thị trường, hanoi, vietnam – trần trọng hoàng bách, saigon, vietnam – tùng linh, paris, france – uyên nguyên, sydney, australia – vi hòa, sydney, australia – vũ quang huy, san jose, california, usa – vũ ngọc thăng, toronto, canada – y chi, sydney, australia – y nguyên, paris, france – ý nhi, toronto, canada
that’s the rambling story of, the story of today sleeping in the same bed with yesterday, or like the story of that day raping and tearing apart the afternoon of the other day. today:
- c is still interested in hunting w.bush or laden ping ping all the way to the central highlands
- d is happily smoking his lungs out cleaning up the old flu on evan express
- v makes big [small] profits from the business of chaotic scrap paper
- b buries his hands and feet in the practice called profession, stubbornly arguing with state monopoly
- t is diligently forgetting poetry & intoxicated with trivial love affairs.
so number 5 missed the boat, train, market, so
there’s also what’s called the list of poets supporting the war:
nguyễn quốc chánh, saigon, vietnam – vũ thị bình, phnom penh, cambodia – lý đợi, saigon, vietnam – bùi chát, saigon, vietnam – phan bá thọ, saigon, vietnam.
(updated april 8th, 2004 at 15:25 la hán phòng defensive time)
Lý Đợi:
Oresol for Acute Diarrhea
I have an oresol point right under my pants and not behind
What’s so great about you even if you’re in front…
Once you told me you liked diarrhea
Diarrhea in your pants for the wind to carry away…
But for years I’ve liked to treat [sorry tongue-tied: treat]
That diarrhea in the pants that turns to dust…
Someone said they returned from a late garden [not you] smelling of diarrhea
I hugged my heart* night diarrhea-constipation…
I’m sorry for my diarrhea poem
No hatred, why slander poetry…
I want to write poetry like treating diarrhea
Then insult you and leave on weary knees…
For years you’ve kept leaving
For years I’ve been treating acute diarrhea…
I’ve apologized to you, now you apologize to me
No poetic words, just obscenities…
Treating obscenities is like treating diarrhea
The doctor advises:
For adults, oresol with warm water
For children, oresol with warm water
For corpses, also oresol with warm water
BUT FOR ME AND YOU, ORESOL WITH ORESOL…
I don’t care, you write the prescription
Dear doctor: money and poetry are gone.
Note:
- Bùi Chát suggested “lồn” (vagina/cunt)
Blessed are those who do not see yet believe…!
Blessed is the lay Buddhist girl [Pang Yun: 740-808 or 811] famous in the Tang dynasty
who walked the path of Zen; praised by other young ones as precious
Vimalakirti of the East, with books recording stories called
Pang Layman’s Sayings, creating extreme material excitement
among those with Zen-language mouths, with earth-shattering verses
that said: if there’s a son, don’t marry him off [if there’s a son, don’t marry] asking anyone
if there’s a daughter, don’t give her away [if there’s a daughter, don’t marry her off] bartering
the whole family gathers [the whole family gathers] faces
together speaking of unborn talk [together discussing unborn talk] planned parenthood…
Blessed are the poets of Mở Miệng (Open Mouth) [2001-2004 or 200…] who trained wasps
to make honey of the Vehicle Sect
blessed are those who do not see [open mouth] but believe the radio monument
[not hearing but knowing/not pressing but hurting] painfully
blessed are those who do not eat but are full [not sleeping but happy/not in bed but comfortable]
blessed are those who play/eat/drink together… Open
Mouth’s advice, heed the rambling [righteous] words:
at La Hán Phòng there’s a group
called Mở Miệng making very nonsensical poetry
causing trouble, wanting nothing
more than to open their mouths.
Believe it or not…!
Blessed [crazy] are those who do not believe but see [their mother’s vagina].
When We Make Love
when we make love when the fire is out, rice boiling
when we make love when the pig squeals “kóc kóc”
when we make love when husband demands to poke
*
when we make love when the child is sound asleep
when we make love when the pig is full, rice cooked
when we make love when it’s time to poke, then poke!
*
when we make love until evening
when we make love three to five times a day
when we make love when you just keep poking.
*
when we make love when we’re tired of poking
when we make love when we see each other daily
when we make love when my face is a poke.
*
when we make love when the lights are out, dark
when we make love when you say “later tonight”
when we make love when it’s ready to be poked!
*
when we make love when the lights are bright
when we make love when you say “let’s wait till morning”
when we make love when poking is fun!
*
when we make love when the sun has risen
when we make love when you demand to poke
when we make love when we linger in bed.
*
when we make love when dinner is about to be served
when we make love when you say it’s hungry
when we make love when we eat later!
*
when we make love when watering the vegetable garden
when we make love when you demand to poke standing
when we make love when we embrace under the sky!
*
when we make love when sewing
when we make love when you say “let’s try”
when we make love when poking sitting down!
*
when we make love when fishing in the pond
when we make love when you demand to plant one
when we make love when the pole is under the moon.
**
when we make love when we can’t speak
when we make love when husband asks lovingly
when we make love when someone says “don’t listen”?
when we make love when water overflows
when we make love when [overflowing] all around
when we make love when the fire of passion burns hotter
when we make love when we are more infatuated.
when we make love when annoyed:
when we make love when rice boils, fire out
when we make love when the child is still crying loudly
when we make love when husband asks again
when we make love when your house is empty
when we make love when we try a little poke!
when we make love when the pig squeals, child cries
[my love]
when we make love when waiting for me to light the stove
when we make love… just a bit, then we’ll poke.
when we make love note my love:
when we make love this poem seen at
when we make love Giấy Vụn issue 3
when we make love this is the end.
Khúc Duy:
Decree 1/VN
Strictly enforce the law
cut dicks, plug assholes
comrades poets
must not swear, fuck, screw
may swear elegantly, beautifully, cockscomb flowers, stinky-cunt flowers…
eat (s)mell! no shitting or peeing (too dirty)
smell (s)mell! no farting (too stinky)
look (s)mell! no fucking (too pleasurable)
strictly enforce the law
from the belly button up
you guys fucking and screwing makes my balls… ears ache
…oh that guy… which chest pierced a hole…
my mouth like that.
Bitter Melon Soup
Lighting incense behind the nape of the neck, full moon without police,
eating dog meat hanging everywhere. Lately, craving
the mistress’s herbal stew. Yeah! Why doesn’t the tea
wash the dick. Because the sky is dark, performing
smelling socks, flies bathing in Western wine. Dollars exchanging
pig skin written online, you have no private place. 3 guys looking for documents for 3 months, not
daring to write, how can they endure. Gathered to mock
her cockscomb, pitying the crotch going back and forth
on the forum. Training the little girl with two dried stir-fried clams.
Who gave birth to her, in the middle of the night, aroused, poking a hand into the cave of philosophy, the hammer.
Got out, squeezed out. She only plays with a few
scraps of paper, what did she do. Horny is horny.
Culture full of pants, I want to smell. You guys
are doing business raw.
At night, afraid of coffee pho every morning,
afraid of constipated birds, afraid of wearing pants, the smell
of shoes never fading.
Bùi Chát:
Still the Same, Huh
My body is both white and round
Seven ups and three downs with mountains and waters
Whatever can be spared, that’s what it is
Having a husband who is indifferent is like having none
What Can Be Done
All year round trading at the river mouth
Raising five children with one husband
Motherfucker, life’s ways are so ungrateful
Yet I still keep a loyal heart
2000 Stories Told in 2000
The moon rises to the turtle’s hump
You let me fuck you, at the end of the season I’ll pay you back with sweet potatoes
Heard a rumor in Hố Nai*
Two thousand people died from horny vaginas
……
God laughed
Note:
- according to Phan Bá Thọ: Hố Nai, you know it!
Painful Change
Climbing the pomelo tree to pick flowers
Stepping down into the vegetable garden to pick spring buds
Spring buds blooming green
I have a husband now, I regret it so much
Three coins for a bunch of bitter betel
Why didn’t you come when you were free
Now I have a husband
Like a bird in a cage, like a fish caught on a hook
A fish caught on a hook, where to untangle?
A bird in a cage, when will it get out?
Oh ah…
Seeing the lamenting girl carrying water
Watering, watering the phoenix tree
She watered the phoenix tree…
So my golden liver writhed in pain
Oh ah…
Magical Reality – Or a Two-Finger Greeting
Also in 1974, something utterly strange happened when I first arrived in Paris. On my very first afternoon, I wandered down to St-Germain-des-Prés looking for Sartre and Simone’s bar. Just as I emerged from the subway tunnel onto the street, still disoriented, I saw a huge Western man, handsome like Christopher Reeves in the Superman movie. The big Western man in a big Western suit gave me a very suggestive glance, then walked straight into a small public urinal nearby. Curious, I followed. Oh, how astonished, how utterly astonished! Before me was a gigantic, smooth, angelic Michelangelo statue. But between the pinkish-white buttocks, like two mounds of breasts, of that beautiful, dream-like male body, there seemed to be a pig’s tail sticking out, though I wasn’t quite sure. Finally, I boldly approached the superman and asked: “Hello in Paris. What’s in front of the củ chi and what’s behind?”
And so, we recognized each other.
Logically, this article (the entire article, not just Bùi Chát’s poem) should have extensive footnotes for easy understanding, but I fear it would be too cluttered, so I’ll refrain.
La Hán Phòng 10.4.2004.
cnguye15 