Top 10 Literary Pieces About Bamboo: A Collection of Profound Essays

My village, nestled in Vũ Thư district, Thái Bình province, is embraced year-round by humble green bamboo groves. These bamboo clusters may lack the picturesque beauty seen in art or the elegance of those in Central Vietnam, yet their simplicity mirrors the modest, heartfelt nature of the villagers.

For generations, bamboo has stood as a loyal companion alongside rice, sheltering and supporting the community through trials and tranquility. Its shadows cast on the village pond are a symbol of timeless serenity, echoed by the graceful flight of storks above.

During wartime, bamboo transformed into a weapon of resilience: the steadfast spears of Saint Gióng, the sturdy bows of Kông-hoa, and the essential tools aiding countless struggles for independence. In daily life, bamboo crafts the everyday objects that shape our existence—from mats and baskets to the gentle rocking of cradles and the firm grip of walking sticks.

Through joys and hardships, bamboo is interwoven with the spirit of the village, an enduring emblem of protection and peace.

Pham Minh Giang

The dreary, gray, cold days of winter have passed. Spring, like a magic spell, summons golden warmth, breathing life into the earth, making plants flourish in green abundance. Seeds beneath the soil awaken, shedding their shells, sprouting, and bursting into vibrant life. The countryside transforms as if a village maiden, suddenly adorned in a fresh outfit, steps into town. The once melancholic bamboo paths, laden with drizzle and mud, adorned with withered leaves, are now replaced by elegant bamboo groves swaying in the breeze, accompanied by the morning melodies of birds. How deeply I cherish these steadfast bamboos, enduring through the hardships alongside our village folk.

Reflecting on bamboo, I am reminded of an essay by author Thep Moi, studied during my school days. This piece, part of a 1958 documentary highlighting Vietnamese culture through bamboo, crafted by Thep Moi and a Polish director, lingers in my mind with its vivid imagery and heartfelt words. The essay inspired profound feelings and optimism: "You, the future generation, will grow accustomed to steel and concrete. Yet, bamboo will always remain with you, enduring as a symbol of Vietnamese identity, sharing in the joys and hopes of brighter days. Though steel may outnumber bamboo in the years ahead, bamboo will forever provide shade along our journey, its music whispering tales of our heritage."

I recall the liberation of our hometown, marked by the scars of war—the bullet-ridden coconut trunks at my grandfather's house, charred wooden posts, and overgrown gardens. In those early days, we lay on makeshift wooden planks, with my father tirelessly planting bamboo to fortify the soil against erosion. True to its nature, bamboo became a sturdy barrier, a haven for birds, and an architectural marvel with its intricate nests swaying in the wind.

Childhood memories of chasing birds' nests beneath the scorching sun, and listening to the solitary sound of a distant cuckoo at night, remain etched in my mind. However, bamboo groves have dwindled over time, sacrificed for crops of higher economic value. As Thep Moi predicted, bamboo has given way to steel and cement, yet its bond with people persists. From cradles to final resting places, bamboo stands as a lifelong companion to the Vietnamese.

Among bamboo’s many uses, the traditional carrying pole is perhaps the most emblematic. My father’s skill in crafting these poles was renowned. He chose the perfect bamboo stems—neither too large nor termite-ridden—and shaped them into tools of balance and grace. Such poles even caught the poetic eye of a foreign writer, who marveled at their rhythmic sway and deemed them a symbol of Eastern romance.

"The carrying pole, worn smooth with use, whispers of a mother’s toil," an anonymous poet once wrote. Bamboo, in its humble transformation into a carrying pole, encapsulates the resilience and grace of Vietnamese character. In our village, nestled between mountain and river, young women mastered the art of balancing these poles, their shoulders bearing the wear of both burden and determination.

Bamboo also evokes nostalgia for simple joys: weaving bamboo mats for Lunar New Year, crafting toys, or creating bridges that united lovers under moonlit skies. From poetic exchanges beneath bamboo’s shadows to heartfelt confessions, bamboo is a silent witness to countless stories of love and tradition.

As poet Nguyen Duy eloquently expressed, "Bamboo has always stood steadfast through time." Its roots, steadfast and hardworking, mirror the spirit of the Vietnamese people, embracing hardship while reaching for the sun. Bamboo is not merely a plant—it is a cherished part of our lives, a bridge connecting generations, and a testament to the enduring soul of our nation.

The village bamboo has always stood quietly resilient, humble, and steadfast through generations. To me, a village without its lush bamboo groves feels like it has lost a part of its soul, a haven of serenity filled with birdsong that is now difficult to find. From a young age, my mother taught me to cherish and respect the bamboo as one would their homeland. In our modest home, brimming with warmth and love, I grew up surrounded by the rustic presence of bamboo. It was everywhere—its sturdy yet simple presence shaped my childhood, from the creaking bamboo bed that lulled me to sleep to the familiar chopsticks accompanying every warm meal. Even the beams and rafters of our house were crafted from bamboo, tied together with strong, flexible strips that reminded me of an old proverb: "Each binding on the roof beams holds as many memories of our ancestors as there are ties."

Bamboo evokes a deep yearning for my mother. I remember her curved carrying pole, worn smooth by years of weather and time, propped in a corner of the house. In the past, she carried heavy loads of fish and vegetables along the village paths to sell, with her bamboo baskets and woven hampers seemingly cradling her entire youth. They bore witness to the long, arduous days that left her shoulders sore, soothed only by the oil she rubbed on them each night.

Near my home, behind the village shrine, there stood a bamboo grove that swayed gently in the breeze all year round. My mother told me it was planted by my grandfather long ago. That grove, with its vibrant green shoots and gentle shade, stood as a cherished legacy from him. My father often cut the older stalks to craft fishing traps and baskets. His hands, skillful and patient, would whittle and weave with such care that I couldn’t help but admire him. Those seemingly fragile bamboo strips became sturdy and enduring tools under his guidance. Watching him, I learned the value of perseverance, attention to detail, and a quiet focus that has stayed with me since.

As time passes, life takes us away from the comforting embrace of our parents and the tranquil shade of the village bamboo groves. Yet, bamboo remains woven into our lives, steadfast and enduring, like the hardworking villagers who toil with the soil. It becomes a cradle of peaceful memories, a sanctuary of nostalgia for the warmth of home when one feels lost in a foreign land. Though bamboo groves are fading from our countryside, their memory persists, filling our hearts with an unshakable longing…

Trần Văn Thiên

You step off the bus, shielding your eyes from the blazing sun as you wait for your father. Crossing the road, you find shelter under a towering bamboo grove, its leafy canopy offering cool, dappled shade.

Sitting beneath the swaying branches, you gaze at the rustling bamboo and a wave of nostalgia sweeps over you, reminding you of the village bamboo groves from your childhood. Such sights are rare these days.

Your hometown was once abundant with bamboo. It was everywhere, but the grove at the village crossroads near the main road and endless rice fields stood out the most. This grove was a symbol of your village’s identity, a landmark everyone associated with your home. Villagers cherished it, finding respite beneath its shade during hot summer days. Farmers returning from the fields would rest there, sharing stories and enjoying a smoke. For you, growing up near this grove added color and joy to life.

You fondly remember the childhood games you played—mimicking market trade with bamboo leaves as currency, crafting staffs from young bamboo shoots, and creating delicate grasshoppers from their leaves. Afternoons by the peaceful riverside were marked by floating bamboo leaf boats on the gentle waters, while slender bamboo pieces became puppets and toys, sparking endless creativity.

Your family struggled financially, relying on small plots of farmland and a few livestock to make ends meet. Yet, bamboo became a lifeline. Your father’s skill in crafting and weaving brought in much-needed income. Using bamboo from the groves nearby, he crafted chopsticks, baskets, and carrying poles to sell at the market. Though the work was labor-intensive and profit was minimal, his dedication supported the family and funded your education.

Bamboo infused every corner of your life, from the fragrant bathwater your mother prepared, redolent with bamboo leaves, to the cool sensation of summer baths that lingered in your memory. The simple, earthy scent of bamboo leaves became an enduring emblem of your childhood, evoking love, warmth, and the essence of home.

But times have changed. Industrialization has crept into every village, replacing bamboo groves with concrete walls and roads. The once-thriving groves have diminished, cut down to make way for more profitable crops. Sitting under one of the rare remaining groves, you dream of the rustling leaves and chirping birds that once filled your world. You yearn for the carefree days of childhood, the games, and the bamboo-shaded walks.

Deep down, you wonder if one day, when the last grove is gone, will there still be a piece of your heart that remains at peace?

Mai Hoàng

Tet. By the time I arrived at the village outskirts, dusk had already settled, casting shadows over the village, now a hazy silhouette blending into the twilight. The soft curves of bamboo groves on the village's edge still stood distinct, their gentle arcs framing the scene.

My village—those green bamboo groves that have stood sentinel for generations, sheltering and embracing the community. Even after years away, my mind clings to the verdant image of those bamboo canopies, deeply etched with childhood memories. Outside my home, a dense line of bamboo stood guard. The village paths were shaded by bamboo arches. Encircling the village, the bamboo formed steadfast ramparts. Each morning, the first sight greeting my eyes was the sway of bamboo leaves; at night, the creaking whispers of bamboo swaying in the breeze conjured up vivid imaginations of ghostly tales shared by children.

Bamboo cradled my childhood dreams, soothing me to sleep with visions of white cranes crossing fields, the rumble of summer storms, and whimsical tales of mice on faraway errands spun by my grandmother and mother. Their words seeped into my young soul, instilling a sense of nostalgia. On full moon nights, the bamboo groves cast enchanting silhouettes against the glowing orb. The moon rose, fiery at first, then luminous, slipping behind bamboo tops to form picturesque village sceneries that rivaled ink wash paintings—ephemeral yet profound, a harmony of nature’s elegance and simplicity.

Bamboo leaves graced the conical hats my mother and grandmother wore to shield them from sun and rain. Those same hats symbolized new beginnings, exchanged during village weddings. The versatile bamboo, with its slender yet resilient stems, created kite frames that soared high on starlit nights, their flutes producing melodies as enchanting as my grandmother’s lullabies. Bamboo splinters, carefully crafted, became tools of rural life—baskets, sieves, and mats—quietly supporting simple, honest living. The water-lifting buckets made of sturdy bamboo wove themselves into the poetry of youth and love:

“Last night I fetched water at the well,
Forgot my robe on the lotus branch nearby.
Found it? Please return it, I pray,
Or keep it as a token of affection.”

Bamboo buckets aided drought-stricken farms, their effort immortalized in the verse of poet Tran Dang Khoa, as they contributed to the harvests that sustained lives during wartime:

“…Our village’s rice grains,
Harvested by these hands.
Fighting drought at dawn,
Dipping the bamboo bucket in hope.”

Bamboo, through its many forms, anchored village life. The sturdy bamboo yokes carried burdens on my father’s narrow shoulders, while its poles served as makeshift bridges across seasons of toil and joy. Beneath its shade, buffaloes rested, chewing cud lazily, as villagers sought refuge from the summer heat.

Even the silhouette of bamboo groves, their branches intertwining into intricate weaves, carried an artistry that transformed fields into vibrant canvases. As children, we crafted toys from bamboo—spinning tops, slingshots, and fishing rods—bringing the joy of simplicity to endless summer days. The roots of felled bamboo, carved by skilled hands, became playful figurines or fueled fires to cook festive treats during Tet. Bamboo was ever-present, from the ceremonial to the mundane, a steadfast companion in every facet of rural life.

In times of war, bamboo transformed into spears, defending the homeland with unyielding courage. In peace, it returned to its serene existence, hosting songbirds at dawn. Whenever the wistful cries of field birds echoed through spring mornings, they brought to mind the golden-hued bamboo leaves of my childhood and my parents’ weathered figures waiting for their faraway children. My heart yearns to be the bamboo staff steadying my father’s faltering steps, the bamboo pole supporting my mother’s journey to the riverbank. During storms, I wish to be the bamboo beam safeguarding the family home.

Even now, though paved roads have replaced dirt paths and bamboo groves have retreated to the village’s edges, their legacy persists. On festive nights, tall bamboo poles adorned with lanterns stand proudly at every doorway, casting flickering lights that bridge past and present. Returning to my village, I find the soul of the bamboo still alive—in the winding paths, in the distant groves, and in my heart, forever intertwined with the spirit of home.

HA KIM QUY

The opening lyrics of the famous song "My Village" by Văn Cao vividly depict the image of bamboo, a beloved symbol. In this song, he sings, "My village is shaded by bamboo, with the sound of church bells at dusk" while Hồ Bắc speaks of the "green bamboo hedges in my village, where love for the homeland is strong." These peaceful, beautiful depictions have stayed with me since childhood, especially in connection with the poetic writings of Thép Mới's "The Bamboo of Vietnam" and Nguyễn Duy's poem "Vietnamese Bamboo." Why did Nguyễn Duy choose the lục bát verse form to write about bamboo? Could it be that lục bát is a national treasure, and bamboo is one of the most familiar and intimate symbols for the Vietnamese people?

Through literature, music, and real life, the bamboo has left a mark on my soul. From my childhood by the bamboo hedges to now, when I am half rural, half urban. The sound of my mother and grandmother singing lullabies beside the bamboo cradle still echoes in my memory. The buffaloes grazing under the bamboo shade, the sound of the bamboo swaying in the summer breeze, and the flying kites at sunset — these moments remain vivid. The village, where the bamboo provided a natural refuge, has always held a deep place in my heart. Now, in the city, I recall the peaceful days, filled with the warm touch of bamboo in my memories.

As I grew older and moved away, I continued to dream of the bamboo hedges surrounding my village, and each time I returned home, I longed to rest on the bamboo bench by the entrance, listening to the bamboo flutes playing in the breeze. My village! The bamboo! How much I cherish these symbols of my heritage!

But now, when I return home, I no longer see the bamboo. The houses have replaced the open space, now built with concrete and high-rise structures. The village roads are paved with cement, and I feel a strange sadness for what has been lost. The bamboo, once so abundant, has been replaced by modern developments — buildings and walls, with sharp glass fragments protruding as barriers. There is no longer the sound of bamboo swaying in the wind, no more buffaloes lying lazily in its shade, and no more herons gathering on its branches. The bamboo has been sacrificed for the growth of urbanization, leaving behind only memories of its once-great presence.

The village, now filled with concrete structures, still carries the warmth of the past in my heart, but I can’t help but miss the bamboo. On hot summer days, the village feels like a huge block of cement, suffocating under the heat. And when storms rage through the village, I find myself longing for the protective shelter that the bamboo once provided. With the rapid urbanization, the once-lush hedges of bamboo have vanished, and I can’t help but ask: where has the bamboo gone?

In an attempt to soothe my nostalgia, I find myself reciting lines from "The Bamboo of Vietnam" and humming the melody of "My Village," remembering the bamboo’s song. Suddenly, the familiar tune of "My Village" is playing through the loudspeakers in the city. It doesn’t matter if it’s by Hồ Bắc or Văn Cao; all that matters is that the bamboo still lives on in my heart, an irreplaceable part of my soul.

Đỗ Xuân Thu

Bamboo green
Green from when
The old story... the green bamboo hedge was always there (*)

It’s unclear when the bamboo grove behind my house first appeared, but it became a place that holds countless memories of my childhood and those of the children of that era. It holds memories of the village that future generations will never experience. Whenever I recall the old house, the same one where my grandparents lived, the image of the bamboo hedges swaying in the breeze and cooling my soul comes to mind. The sound of bamboo creaking in the heat of noon, like the gentle lullaby of my mother, has stayed with me ever since.

My grandmother’s bamboo grove had about four or five clumps, each with large, towering bamboo stalks. The ground beneath the shade of the bamboo had been trodden for years, becoming firm like a floor, and after sweeping away the fallen leaves, there was a cool, peaceful courtyard. During my elementary school years, the bamboo grove behind the house was my paradise. Besides school hours, I spent my time playing under the shade of the bamboo until late in the evening. Children of my time had endless games to play. We would play house, using bamboo sticks as chopsticks and clay from under the bamboo to form pots, pans, and dishes. Under the bamboo shade, we created our own world. When we got tired of playing house, we played hide and seek or mock battles. Of course, we always hid behind the bamboo clumps or used bamboo branches as flags and weapons for our pretend battles.

Bamboo was also used to make many wonderful things. Every year, I would take bamboo branches to make toys or to fashion chopsticks. My older brother would use bamboo to make kites, or during the Mid-Autumn Festival, he would craft star-shaped lanterns. Back then, lanterns were not as common as they are now, and we didn’t have enough money to buy them, so we used the bamboo grove to its fullest. My brother was quite handy and would make wind chimes from bamboo, hanging them around the house. Whenever the wind passed by, the wind chimes would play a cheerful tune. I often pestered my brother to give me one, though once they were hung, they belonged to everyone.

But bamboo wasn’t just for toys. It was also used to make many useful tools in daily life. My mother used bamboo to make eating chopsticks or to split into strips for bundling rice seedlings during the planting season or wrapping cakes for holidays. My father used bamboo to carve fishing rods or make tools for catching fish. My grandmother would weave baskets, trays, and other items from bamboo. My grandfather made tables and chairs out of bamboo. When my grandparents wanted to build a quiet little hut, aside from the thatched roof and four main wooden beams, the rest of the structure was made entirely of bamboo. Additionally, bamboo shoots made a delicious dish, and combined with fish, the meals of my mother’s kitchen were enhanced by bamboo, allowing us to grow up strong.

We grew up with bamboo and also left it behind as we ventured into the city to pursue our dreams. There were nights when I was away from home, and I would long for the sound of the bamboo grove creaking, the peaceful sound that would lull me into sleep, making all my troubles fade away. In the past, my grandfather would lie in a hammock beneath the bamboo during the afternoon. As I grew older, I no longer played with toys, but I often went to the bamboo grove to study. The shade of the bamboo was cool, and I would often fall asleep while studying.

This morning, as I heard the birds singing in the garden, I thought of the bamboo grove from my childhood. A piece of my past, a time of innocence, lives on in the memory of those green bamboo hedges. So many peaceful memories of my village under the green bamboo. I remember my grandmother and mother in the morning, hunched over, sweeping the bamboo leaves. I remember my father sitting in the afternoon shade, smoking his tobacco pipe, and my mother singing lullabies to my siblings with the old folk song, “Oh, the moon rises over the bamboo grove...” I remember the evenings when we, the children (including me), played under the green bamboo, our laughter filling the air. I remember the nights when the moon rose above the bamboo tops, and my older siblings and their loved ones sat together, shy and quiet, with only the sound of the bamboo rustling to speak of love. The moon rose higher, and the bamboo continued to whisper with the wind.

Later on,
Later on,
Later on...
The land will remain green, and the bamboo will always be green (*)

This is a line from Nguyen Duy’s poem, but for me, it’s always the smell of the smoke from my grandmother’s bamboo leaves burning in the cold mornings, the bamboo bed where my grandfather would rest and recite the story of Luc Van Tien, or the bamboo that remains in my memory, always green, along with the lullaby my mother used to sing, “Oh, the green bamboo hedges, the wind from those days is still fresh.”

Kim Loan.

(*) excerpt from Tre Viet Nam - Nguyen Duy.

One late afternoon, while wandering through the mountain regions, I stumbled upon a golden bamboo grove. It wasn't the sleek bamboo often seen in other places, but wild bamboo, with sharp thorns and thick stalks, its leaves swaying in the wind like 'eyes of the sky,' creating a mesmerizing atmosphere at the base of the mountains. The golden bamboo glistened in the afternoon sunlight, casting long shadows over the ground.

I stood there, captivated by the sight of the grove, while behind me, my friend was lost in the moment, taking photos with wildflowers. I couldn’t help but reflect on my childhood—when I was just a barefoot country girl, making earrings out of bamboo leaves and dreaming of a day when I’d wear gold jewelry as a bride.

As I took my first steps down the narrow path, I saw bamboo shoots lining both sides, growing tall and sturdy. The bamboo roots and stalks formed a protective barrier that kept children from falling into the nearby pond. The young bamboo shoots, sharp and spiky, would often cause itching on the skin days after they were brushed against. Above, the bamboo grew intertwined, forming a lush canopy that shielded us from the spring sun and autumn rain. In the summer, the smooth bamboo edges became a favorite spot to gather and rest in the cool shade. Around the bamboo grove, adults would weave baskets and rakes, while children played games like 'hopscotch' in the dirt or ran through games of tag. The laughter of the children blended with the sound of traditional songs sung in the background, as the afternoon passed, bringing with it the aroma of freshly harvested crops.

Our village has been practicing handicrafts for generations. Various tools such as baskets, sieves, and large containers were traditionally woven from different materials. The baskets, used to sift rice, were woven from the slender stems of bamboo. However, to craft these baskets, the men in the village had to travel for days to the mountainous regions of Thanh Hoa and Hoa Binh to harvest the right bamboo. The journey was long, with food and supplies packed in baskets, and the bamboo would be brought back, ready to be processed into fine, flexible rattan. As machines and technology advanced, the traditional craft began to fade away. Today, it's easier to make baskets from readily available materials, but the legacy of bamboo weaving lingers in our community.

As a child, I was not skilled in weaving, so my mother would assign me the task of sweeping the fallen bamboo leaves. I would use a broom made of bamboo sticks, gathering the leaves into a pile in the corner of the yard. In that corner stood a small smokehouse, where the items made by my mother and sister were smoked to a beautiful golden hue, which not only polished the objects but also protected them from pests.

Growing up, bamboo was so close to my life that I never thought twice about its deep connection to our daily routines. But as I grew older and left for the city, I began to realize the significance of this bond with nature, and the sense of nostalgia I felt when I returned home, only to find the bamboo groves gone. The once strong thread that connected people to the earth had loosened, and now, when I return to my childhood home, I feel out of place, like a stranger.

Just like today, when I stumbled upon that golden bamboo grove again...

Collection

Behind the village's bamboo fence, many memories come flooding back. The image of mother carrying goods to the market, the bamboo's shade covering the paths...

Behind the bamboo fence, father carefully made a bamboo bed outside in the cool evening air. Our family sometimes has dinner on this simple bed, with a cup of green tea full of local warmth. Lying under the calm moonlight on that bamboo bed felt so peaceful.

Behind the bamboo fence, the neighbors helped uncle build the first bamboo house to shelter from storms. Aunt Kha grew a garden with bamboo trellises. Mother, after getting drenched in a rainstorm, prepared a herbal steam bath using bamboo leaves.

Behind the bamboo fence, the bamboo hedges marked boundaries between households in the countryside. On hot afternoons, children gathered under the bamboo's cool shade to play traditional games. Dragonflies hovered above the bamboo leaves, fluttering gracefully.

Behind the bamboo fence, the children of the countryside played freely in nature's embrace. They spent their mornings in the mist, herding cattle, and their afternoons flying kites, chasing dreams, and diving into the cool, green pond water.

Perhaps, children of the past couldn't count how many times they ran through the hot summer sun, chasing birds on the uneven soil, or how many times they tried to swim by pinching dragonflies and jumping into the water. They would climb trees to catch cicadas or dance in the summer rain. They exchanged tasks like catching snails, gathering herbs to sell, and trading for sweet treats like colorful ice pops or candies. They would find sugarcane to chew, tasting the natural sweetness and forgetting all about dinner. They shared stories of watching over cattle, harvesting rice, and working under the moonlight.

In those days, folk riddles and traditional songs were passed down, and everyone could sing along to their favorite tunes. Those carefree moments, laughing together after a day of chores, were filled with such joy. Even now, I find myself missing the scent of fresh hay that always brought warmth and comfort. I finally understand why a friend from the seaside would miss the smell of fresh fish every morning. It seems that the essence of our homeland is deeply embedded in each of us.

Back then, the children eagerly awaited the arrival of autumn, even though in the central region, autumn was just a figment of imagination. They excitedly anticipated the Mid-Autumn Festival, waiting for the announcement of the night’s events. They couldn't wait to receive small mooncakes and treats, running excitedly under the moonlight, with little lanterns flickering in the breeze.

Some years, the young ones would distribute treats gently, placing them in the children's hands, who eagerly awaited their turn, eyes full of anticipation. The candy was always sweet, and each bite brought back memories of those innocent times, when a small piece of candy felt like the greatest treasure. And even now, the sweetness of childhood still lingers in my mind, like a line of poetry by Hai-cu:

Old pond
The frog jumps in
The sound of water echoes

The memories of those simple days linger in the heart, and the longing for a return to childhood grows stronger with every passing moment.

Hoang Thuy