Tran Da Tu, Tran Vang Sao and Nguyen Quoc Chanh,

as translated into English by me. This selection was prepared for CP's Poets' Basement, slated for next Friday, as its regular editor, Marc Beaudin, is on vacation. I will not send it there, however, as I have a clearer understanding of CP now, and of how I am perceived by it. In any case, I have chosen these poems to give English readers a brief sampling of dissident poetry in Vietnam. Though Tran Da Tu, Tran Vang Sao and Nguyen Quoc Chanh come from varied political backgrounds, and have different political allegiances, they have all taken tremendous risks to write a ruthlessly clear-eyed poetry of conscience that bears witness to the injustices, horrors and outrages of their times. With their courage and rigor, they remind us all of what poetry can be. If we were a healthy society, poetry would not be so marginalized or in a "basement," but front and center, since it is language at its most sublime, inspiring, brutal and /or devastating. Though we are a very long way from that, it doesn't mean we can't eventually regain that capacity.




Love Tokens
by TRAN DA TU

I’ll give you a roll of barbwire
A vine for this modern epoch
Climbing all over our souls
That’s our love, take it, don’t ask

I’ll give you a car bomb
A car bomb exploding on a crowded street
On a crowded street exploding flesh and bones
That’s our festival, don’t you understand

I’ll give you a savage war
In the land of so many mothers
Where our people eat bullets and bombs instead of rice
Where there aren’t enough banana leaves to string together
To replace mourning cloths for the heads of children

I’ll give you twenty endless years
Twenty years seven thousand nights of artillery
Seven thousand nights of artillery lulling you to sleep
Are you sleeping yet or are you still awake

On a hammock swinging between two smashed poles*
White hair and whisker covering up fifteen years**
A river stinking of blood drowning the full moon
Where no sun could ever hope to rise

I’m still here, sweetie, so many love tokens
Metal handcuffs to wear, sacks of sand for pillows
Punji sticks to scratch your back, fire hoses to wash your face
How do we know which gift to send each other
And for how long until we get sated

Lastly, I’ll give you a tear gas grenade
A tear gland for this modern epoch
A type of tear neither sad nor happy
Drenching my face as I wait.


Saigon, 1964


Translator’s notes:
*An allusion to the shape of Vietnam
**The age when he started publishing poetry




Tran Da Tu was born in 1940 in Hai Duong, northern Vietnam, went to Saigon in 1954 during the partition of the country, where he later became a journalist and prominent poet. During 1963, he was imprisoned by the Ngo Dinh Diem government for his dissident views. After 1975, he was imprisoned for 12 years by the Communists. His wife, the famous novelist and poet Nha Ca, was also imprisoned from 1976-1977. In 1989, a year after Tran Da Tu was released from prison, the couple and their children received political asylum from the Swedish government, but later moved to the US and now live in Southern California. English translations of his poems can be found in The Deluge (Chax 2013).


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Night
by TRAN VANG SAO


night of screams flowing through the brain stabbed suddenly
in the throat
rain streams down
then silence
no winds
no sounds of dripping water
emptied out thwarted

night sneaking behind back in front of face left right over
head below feet
eyes
hats worn snugly
outside windows
in corners of rooms
behind a rotting bamboo partition
shhh!

night oozing blood from fingertips
clawing through garbage
a plastic bag
a torn rag
lumps of rice
pieces of bone
broken bottles rusty cans copper wire

nights of rats and men burrowing inside sewers
under a bridge
in the middle of a market
on a sidewalk
mud
water
sweat
dirt
trash
and
shit

night of flares in the sky men holding flags
running over blood
teeth grinding
faces green with fright
assault slogans
arms thrusting skyward
K57 DKB F105 B40 AR15 AK M113 T54
people dying
people living
people laughing
people crying

1975

night of demonstrations on the streets
tanks hand grenades concertina barb wires
masks and hunting dogs

night during war staying up to watch a corpse

night of B52 vomiting chemicals

night in 1968
night of espionage
night of conspiracies
night of assassinations
night of suicides
night of kidnappings
night of executions
night of hurrahs
night of denouncements
night of prison
night of blood
night of hunger
night of escaping overseas
night gouges the eyes of a mute man
night of Satan chewing the Eucharist
face turned skyward laughing absolving sins

night of a number eight storm
night of hands clasped together in prayer
night of escaping overseas

night and morning after misty rain over a pile of human shit
night of getting up in the middle of sleep to watch night
night with last night's ghosts hovering before door
night of mice squeaking in someone else's house
night of cats fighting on roof
night of male grasshopper having head bitten off
night of whores chasing bad luck
in front of the Teacher's College
burning raw salt glue and a stub broom
obscure night of adultery
night of you fragrant and intoxicating
night of one who has lost his mind wearing a mask of a saint
hiding in the dark to scare children just for fun
night calm without winds
night and me alone in night
night not yet over
already the sounds of children banging on drums
the unicorn dance



October 17, 1990





Tran Vang Sao, real name Nguyen Dinh, was born in Hue in 1942, where he now lives. His father was killed by the French during the First Indochina War. During the Vietnam War, Vang Sao was a contributor to the underground newspaper "Youths Against America." He joined the National Liberation Front in 1965, lived in areas under its control, broadcasting propaganda until 1969, when he was injured and removed to the North. In spite of his allegiance to the Communist cause during the war--his pen name, "Vang Sao," means "Yellow Star," a reference to the national flag--he has been blacklisted since 1972 for his candid depictions of social conditions inside Vietnam. He’s been harassed constantly, even imprisoned, his manuscripts confiscated. English translations of his poems can be found in The Deluge (Chax 2013).


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Chopping Down Trees to Plant Humans
by NGUYEN QUOC CHANH

Punished, a student must fill two sheets: I won’t stir.
Punished, a student must slap himself: 56 times.
Punished, a student is forbidden to fart: for a month.
Punished, a student is banned from bleeding: during her period.
Punished, a student must drink salt water: for being rude during morality class.
Punished, a student must swallow his report card: grades below average.
Punished, a student must sit in the toilet and sing the national anthem: for buckling his knees during the national anthem.
Punished, a student must yank a thousand itchy hairs from the Principal’s head: for scratching his head, yawning and not being able to distinguish between dinosaurs and reptiles.
Punished, a student must smear soot on his classmate’s forehead: for not helping his friend keep quiet.
Punished, a student must suck an eraser during history class: for not remembering all 800 names of our heroes.
Punished, a student must shut his eyes for a week for not memorizing the poem: Tonight Uncle Ho Doesn’t Sleep.

12 years later there’s a student who goes limp down there.
12 years later there’s a student with his left cheek puffier than his right.
12 years later there’s a student addicted to foul smells.
12 years later there’s a student with an ovariectomy.
12 years later there’s a student with a broken larynx.
12 years later there’s a student who tears each piece of paper he sees.
12 years later there’s a student who doesn’t dare to shit in a toilet.
12 years later there’s a student who yanks everyone’s hair.
12 years later there’s a student who often grabs rice from other people’s bowls.
12 years later there’s a student who must piss at the sight of a statue.
12 years later there’s a student who converts to islam to look for Saddam’s bones.

More than 20 years ago I was a student who could never stand straight.
Now I own a utility pole 25 meter-high though I can’t steer my bladder.


2006




Nguyen Quoc Chanh was born in 1958 in Bac Lieu, and now lives in Ho Chi Minh City. Chanh’s poems are raw, wild, deft and bitterly funny. Though banned from publishing inside Vietnam, Chanh is the backbone of the Saigon scene and is widely admired for his fearless political stance. In 2005, Chanh was invited by the Haus der Kulturen der Welt to give a reading in Berlin, and English translations of his poems can be found in The Deluge (Chax 2013). Thanks to the mass media, pop music and internet, poetry has paled in Vietnam, as it has everywhere else, so Chanh has not been jailed by his government, though every now and then, they’ll bring him in for questioning, just to remind him that he’s being closely watched.






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