Top 10 Best Poems by Poet Đỗ Trung Quân

What is homeland, dear mother?
That the teacher teaches us to love
What is homeland, dear mother?
Those who go far remember much

Homeland is the sweet cluster of loquats
For the child to climb and pick every day
Homeland is the path to school
The child returns covered in golden butterflies

Homeland is the blue kite
The child's age soaring in the fields
Homeland is the small boat
Gently drifting by the riverbank

Homeland is the small bamboo bridge
Mother returning with a tilted conical hat
It's the scent of wildflowers in the backyard
Floating in the summer night's sleep

Homeland is the yellow squash flower
The purple morning glory on bamboo fences
It's the red on both sides of the dam
The white of pure lotus flowers

Each person has only one homeland
Just like having only one mother
If anyone does not remember the homeland...

The poem was initially created as a gift for baby Quỳnh Anh (daughter of writer Nguyễn Nhật Ánh, then only one year old), first published in 1986 in the Khăn quàng đỏ newspaper. When this poem was published, the editor (Việt Nga, daughter of poet Lê Giang) omitted some paragraphs and added a sentence 'Will not grow up to be a person' at the end.

In the poetry collection 'Cỏ hoa cần gặp' (1991), the author reprinted the original version as published here. However, the song 'Quê hương' by musician Giáp Văn Thạch was set to music based on the 1986 publication.

'Dedicated to those who are blessed with a mother'

I will not wait for a day
When mother is gone to startle and weep
Do the flowing rivers ever return?
I panic before the harsh time
Madly rushing through the aged days of mother
Every passing day, I feel more desolate
Who can grasp time?
Who can?

Every day, I grow a little older
Mother ages a little more
The silent journey towards dusk

I will not wait for a day
When someone pins a rose on me
Only then do I realize I've lost my mother
Every day passing is pinning a rose on me
Beautiful flowers - why this sudden fear?
For ten years, I've been away from mother's embrace
Living freely like a bird
I compose poems for life, countless women I know
Have I ever written a poem for my mother?
Poems overflowing with soul
Pain - separation - sorrow - joy - happiness
Some feet have cruelly stepped on my heart
Yet, every night, the urge to write poetry returns
I forget the old threshold, where mother used to wait
The tears of aging, unable to hold back
I wander on wandering feet
Mother's old eyes silently watching from behind
When life's thorns pierce, bleeding on the feet
How many pass by?
How many stop?
Why is mother so far away?
Anxiety has urged my heart to seek
I remain indifferent
I remain calm?

Today...
how many times have I stopped on familiar streets
Tipping my hat as a funeral procession passes by
Who lost their mother?
Why is my heart so frightened?
How long will that crying last?
For myself?
This poem lights a dawn
On my mother's life, dark for so many years
The poem is like a rose
I've already pinned for the days
to come!

1986

Baskets of bikes filled with flamboyant flowers
She carries my summer away, where to?
A bunch of royal poinciana she holds, at eighteen, my age
Back when silently, no one knew - the first love

What is my first love?
Just a rainstorm outside the classroom
The white-shirted figure, all of a sudden, in a mesmerizing sleep
The poem's leaf still lingering in the bag

In the midst of play, it returns... comes back again.

My first love is a pitiful lad
Summer climbs the school gate, carving longing into the tree
The girl of the next season knows if we'll meet again

On the school opening day, silk dresses flutter in the autumn wind...
What is my first love?
Just a small guitar
Quite wistful with the song explaining

Everyone understands - only one person doesn't
So there's a foolish lad stuttering forever... turning mute.

Baskets of bikes today carry flamboyant flowers
She picks summer from the tree

Taking memories home
She carries summer away, but I stand still
Lost in thought, the silk dress from afar.

1984

This poem has been set to music by composer Vu Hoang, becoming the song Flamboyant.

In the forest, there's no mirror to reflect
How can you see the bruise on your cheek?
Trading scars for love, how many times have you slipped?
Because the rainy season here hasn't ceased.

A wounded soldier just woke up this morning
Asked about you, the bearer of wounds the day before
'She fell several times, I counted
But why no tears, that's strange!'

Surely he understands, you reside in a compassionate heart
Tears are reserved for those who fall
So even if you fall, painful with thorns piercing cold feet
Where is the wound bleeding twice for him?

You, the youth volunteer
No gun, only shoulders carrying wounds, loading ammunition
Amidst enemy bullets, a courageous heart
You cross the long road, igniting the fire of advancement

I've seen you, oh, in the midst of marching
Pride in your eyes strangely
In the silver-toned shirt, with two patched pieces
A Vietnamese girl, beautifully peculiar

Oh! The flowers blooming on the battlefield

This poem has been set to music by composer Nguyen Cuu Dung, becoming the song Flowers Along the Railway.

The most fragile isn't the silk sky
Not the rose
Not the morning dew
Not the dream just stirring from sleep
I've learned the most fragile thing
Is love
Yes, love, my dear!
Love,
As the morning sun rises,
Already casting shadows of the intense afternoon rain
We were running towards each other...
You rushed into me...
... Like a storm approaching
Like waves crashing on the shore, then receding.
It's not here, my love - not the silk sky
Not the sunset clouds
Suddenly pink... suddenly purple...
I hold love like a child holding a crystal cup
Gently clumsy... and that's it... fading away

I pray - not now
But when hair has silvered
When the head has bowed with age
When we've weathered storms - tempests - seas - shores
Still feeling leaning on our shoulder
A love that never got lost...

This poem has been set to music, becoming the song Fragile Love.

'Where you are, there is the paradise.'
Mark Twain

If tonight I sit alone on guard
Just me and the stars that stay awake
I'll choose the most beautiful star
To say - that's you

If on any noon, I stroll a gentle path
With only the sun and my feet brushing leaves
The city sky closing softly
I walk with the shadow of mine

I'll choose a cool shade
To say - that's you

If some night I enter the night shift
The sweet hours of you in sleep

I'll call the scent of orchids at the end of the street
Along the road and say - that's you

Wherever I am without you
Sometimes walking down the street alone

Walking with me, only leaves and the wind
Then leaves and wind are you

I bow in gratitude to Mark Twain
Who spoke wonderfully about couples

Who opened doors to paradises
Everywhere in my life

Wherever I am without you
Sometimes sleeping is when I'm awake

I reach out and touch happiness
A pink apple hanging on gentle branches
You are the morning, the fading evening, the night...

Grateful for the coastal paths
Leading many couples on their way
Thanks to the waves speaking in place of poetic words
The ocean's maidens expressing silent whispers

You are like a mountain standing a lifetime, gazing at the sea
A love reaching out to touch the sky
You are the wave, but please don't be like the wave
Don't rush in; please, don't retreat to the open sea

You are like a mountain standing for a thousand faithful years
Not lifting your head even when touching the flying clouds
Love the sea lapping at your feet passionately
Although sometimes, the mountain's strength is worn by the waves...

Thank you for gently walking beside me
The sea out there is too blue, no need for many words
The mountain is too near - waves and you are too close
I have enough words to express a love.

This poem has been set to music by composer Nguyễn Bòn with the same title.

Then one day when you came to visit
everything had changed
the clouds on the roof had grown
the conversations on the tiles had aged
only the green moss remains young forever
oh! yesterday...
Then one day when you dropped by
it seemed like the first time
almost like meeting a stranger
the trees in the garden seemed unfamiliar
the young girl is still you
but not really...
the one knocking on the door is still you
but not really
oh! yesterday...
Then one day when you came to visit
unfinished stories are still there
the listener is still the same person
the storyteller is still someone familiar
only the innocent laughter has gone
oh! yesterday...
Then one day when you came to visit
looking for a piece of used candle that was once lit
if you still have it, please share
when sitting in sadness, I still have a distant light
the kind of light only your eyes had back then
eyes not like now
childhood has died
oh! yesterday...
then one day, a visit, to realize it's too late
the clouds have grown
the sparrows have aged
only the green moss remains young forever
oh! yesterday...

April 1991

From the collection 'Grass and Flowers Need to Meet.'

The yellow robe like a dream at the alley's entrance

Which temple ceremony is tonight
Outside, the robes and towels are ready
A stream of incense smoke rises on the hands

The thin fragrance ascends to the sky gently
The night is cold, yet the heart suddenly warms
The yellow robe or a dream at the alley's entrance
The scent drops in the silent space.

That night, our hearts were ageless
Celebrating amidst the red fireworks at home
The yellow robe or a dream at the alley's entrance
Did you pass by on New Year's Eve?

Is it the yellow robe - is it you?
Tomorrow, standing in the empty alley, lost in thought
Or will tomorrow burst into full bloom?
I search tirelessly for footprints.

Source: 'Contemporary Knowledge' magazine, Spring 1992

Sometimes, a sudden yearning for some place
Every day on the bustling streets, craning the neck
Skyscrapers towering high
Returning home at noon, eyes sparkling
Then, we recall a certain place
Where everything is soft like leaves high above

Sometimes, we suddenly remember something
Tired of the green and red traffic lights
Tired of the air-conditioned room, avoiding the sun
Fearful of the wind
Pale faces
Faded colors
Then, we remember that place
Where at night, someone's hair faintly scents of wildflowers

Sometimes, we suddenly remember something
Tired of the civilized supermarket
Tired of the crowded freezer with sour soup
Then, we remember the smoky kitchen corner
Grandma's clay pot
Sister's woven basket
And we – the soul of wild grass wandering

Sometimes, we suddenly remember some place
Remember vaguely, as if not remembering anyone
Like when we ascend the fragrance to build and paint the house
Suddenly, we're confused by the mossy color of the street

Lost in thought...

Source: Under the Clouds, poetry by Đỗ Trung Quân, Hoàng Ngọc Biên, artwork by Nguyễn Quỳnh, 2003