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văn học
Hometown at dawn & the fire from those eternal regions
 
I. Hometown
(syntax & punctuation)
 
I locked myself within a full stop
it had yet to dry and looked funny in a structure of
an awkward punctuation
the invisible tone and the desire of syntax were hanged
or committed mass suicide
there was no sign of touching
 
returning from a hometown
where all definitions were meaningless
two spaces
two climates
and a yearning soul in overcast sky I fled
to another nightmare
like an innate rhythm from a nonsensical alliteration
freedom was sometimes as vague as air
 
at this juncture
while I was busy burying a story
a song knocked on my door with the lyrics
of an aimless journey
in the arms of the quotes
wakefulness has turned into a fairytale
 
I often felt empty after returning from
the space of the past
it had no shape and was as unruly as the sense of freedom
I have had more than a hometown and
a timeline
perhaps, this was another clumsy syntax
 
 
II. At dawn
 
The sun came
in an unmatched strange excitement
I was mesmerized by a stringent gaze with
a bit of naughtiness
perhaps
its jocoseness has given me peace of mind
I often forgot all rough ideas: the gift of time
from which I have deduced overnight
 
at dawn
when the sun reclaimed the borrowed ideas
through the window of January
I threw away the rotting corpse of humanity
from a mysterious horror
it splashed out
an abstract concept
 
the death of definition might start in every moment
as the death of words in poetry
I've never argued about the meaning of the corpse
even the corpse of thought
but the annoying cackle from the wind about the truth
made me feel agitated
 
with a little lack of vigilance
I was almost convinced by the blatant sophistry of the white clouds that
poetry is just a detention centre
and a poet is not a dictator
though
poets are still imprisoned in their poems
 
dawn would always burn the passion of prosody
every moment of extreme loneliness
each of poetic shadows and grotesque
I know
the word’s spaces would reappear in all tenses
 
 
III. & the fire from those eternal regions
(to Lê Nguyên Tịnh)
 
No need to close your eyes
to see roots and flowers of Spring incarnating
as an elusive movement
an underground stream
sneaked into the middle of an urge, the bridge unwittingly connected
the joints of the imaginary time
and linguistics
I called it poetry
 
I translated the bridge by metaphor, a discomforting confusion
caused by invisible music
the shadow of the trains in shallow streams, the mayhem of semantics,
and the whistles screaming on departure
in the waiting night
the moment I knocked on the door of prosody
all accents detonated
 
This was a poem I wrote
in another language which was abandoned
in virtual space with conflicting objects
the topsy-turvy was sometimes necessary for grotesque ideas and
the self-destructive structure
 
The spring is not in dramatic weathers, twilight flames, fluctuations
or something travelling like wind
in the sun’s expression
the preconceived mould betrayed the creativity of language and tone
poetry
would never be the fire
from those eternal regions
I started to disassemble
the details of my poem
and threw the bridge into the word’s soul
abyss
 
Jan 2015
 
 
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