Top 10 Outstanding Poems by Poet Hoang Trung Thong

The Headmaster

The late afternoon sun gently kisses the bamboo trees
The rice waves roll endlessly toward us
You and I stroll on the small dyke
With your brownish-gray shirt fluttering in the wind
You raise your hand to sketch amidst the green field
Sketching tomorrow's painting
There flows a canal, a northward bridge
Brick kilns rise tall, straight roads
Here is the rice barn, livestock farming
The money matters are settled, the land is marked
Your steps remain steady, your words flow
Your heart spreads like the wind blows

You've been the headmaster for three years
Three years of struggling through difficulties
There are seasons of scorched fields and droughts
Ten levels of water rising to the fields
There are seasons of ripe rice overflowing
And we have to lean over to drain the water
More people, fewer fields, fewer cattle
Running back and forth in confusion
Over thirty years old, your blood still boils
You won't just stand and watch the sky
Changing seasons, changing crops, increasing productivity
Not enough land, up the mountains, land breaks
Still many old habits, western habits
A hundred mouths, a hundred people, a hundred problems
Eyes peer through the night worrying about communal matters
The cold wind, slippery roads, stumbling feet
The village, the fields, it's time to go home
Mouths speak, hands work, ears listen
With so many comrades, you lead the way
Standing firm against the headwind
There are nights lying awake thinking about farming
Wife frail, children many, poverty not over
But then seeing the path forward
The water rises, worrying is futile
Back to the work with passionate heart
All morning, then afternoon sun, rain again
'Oh headmaster!'
Many endearing words, expressions of affection
Your hand firmly holds the village officer's hand
Stirring up the movement, advancing steadfastly

You and I stroll on the small dyke
With your brownish-gray shirt fluttering in the wind
My eyes embrace the entire green field
Your figure becomes the painting itself

4-1962

Sails

Two figures stride along the sandy shore
The sun's glow over the azure sea
The father's shadow stretches long and sways
The child's shadow round and firm,

After the night's rain pours and pours
The sand smoother, the sea clearer
The father leads the child under the rosy dawn
Hearing the child's steps, joy fills his heart.

The child suddenly grabs the father's hand and asks softly:
'Father, why in the distance do we see only water and sky,
No houses, no trees, no people there?'

The father smiles, patting the small child's head:
'Follow the sails to distant lands,
There will be trees, doors, houses
Still our homeland
Where I've never been.'

The father then leads the child on the smooth sand,
Sunlight streaming over their shoulders
The father pensively gazes to the end of the horizon
The child points to the distant sails and softly asks:
'Father, lend me your white sails,
Let me go!'

The child's words or the murmuring waves
Or the father's heart's voice from a distant time
For the first time before the boundless sea
The father meets himself in the child's dream.

The Broken Land Anthem

We, clad in cloth,
Have lived a life among the hills and woods.
Our green fields lack cultivated land.
Hearing the forests, we rise with them.
Days and months we share collective effort.
Each plot of land nurtured, each tree seedling planted.

The distant path we've come upon
Amidst sun-parched hills of trees.
Between two silent streams
Our group joyously tills and sows.

Laboring hands
We sow life
On each parched piece of land.
Diligent hands.
Despite scorching sun,
Potatoes grow in lush fields,
Rice sprouts in forest green.
Once potatoes are harvested, we sow sesame.
Never letting the land rest, our hands ceaselessly toil.

Streams flow around us,
The sound of streams echoing.
Harmonizing with the mountain breeze,
We dig ditches to open springs.
Our youth are years of struggle,
Even in farmer's attire,
The land still breaks for green fields amidst mountains and passes.

Birds chirp amidst leaves.
Rocky cliffs ascend steeply.
We're a layer of the impoverished.
Amidst the sunny afternoon breeze,
We dig, hoe, plant potatoes.
Our days are long,
Our youth enduring.
The stronger the hoe, the deeper we plow,
Singing aloud! We work swiftly,
Swiftly our hands hoe, dig the land.
Our hands make everything possible,
With the strength of people, even stones and rocks become meals.

We rejoice in the fragrant rice season.
We celebrate the ripe fruit days.
We send to the front lines
To destroy the enemy, kneel on the dewy ground.

Whose blood stains the golden stars?
Our sweat pours onto rows of fresh greens.

The green forest tinged with human blood.
The rice still good, the attire still fresh and bright.

1948

Excerpt from this poem has been used in textbook reading materials for many years.

Reading Bác's Poetry

In the dark cell, the heart burns brighter
Unlocked chains can't silence the song
A hundred rivers, a thousand mountains, standing tall
Love for the country, love for the people, love for the grass and flowers.

Reading Bác's verses, Bác's soul
A mirror pristine, untouched by dust
The canopy of mighty trees, cool and green
The broad wings of birds soaring freely.

Freedom! No sword or gun can deter
The vast sea, the long rivers, the lofty spirit
Body in prison, heart in the Motherland
Circling around dreams amidst golden starlight.

When the jungle birds sing amidst the mountains
When the moonlight illuminates the banana grove
Still, there's calm in the wandering
Firmly holding the entirety of life.

I read a hundred verses, a hundred beautiful thoughts
The light shining on the green head
Bác's verses, verses of steel
Yet vast and boundless in love.

5-1960
Source: The Paths We Walk, Publisher Văn Học, 1960

When Will We Return?

They went away,
Long ago.
My village still remembers.
When will they return?
We're waiting, young and old.
My village, poor,
By the river, small and humble.
The biting northern wind
Blows over our thatched roofs.
My village, poor,
The rain dampens everything.
Boys and girls toil hard in the village.
When they come back to their warm homes,
Laughter and songs fill the air.
Our little village is lively.
They return, cheerful,
The younger ones following behind.
Old mothers, in brown ao dais,
Watch their children with joy.
From the back of the mountains,
Through the misty slopes,
They return,
And our tiny village buzzes with excitement.
Simple leaf-roofed houses,
But hearts wide open.
Rice cooked in incomplete pots,
Bowls of green tea.
Sitting together, sharing stories and emotions.
Where are they fighting now?
In Chieng Vang, Vu Ban, or on Trị Thiên?
Our village wins the battle.
The rice grows greener, the sweet potatoes redder.
We reduce rice cultivation to two crops.
Every night, the glow of communal torches lights the way.
Even though the mountains are misty,
What is a little blood compared to your bravery?

We count the days since you left,
Mother always asks: When will you come back?
The rice fields green by the riverbank.
You went to protect our homeland.
The banyan trees, the riverbanks, the communal yards,
We remember the oath-taking before you left.
The fragrance of areca flowers at the edge of the fields.
You left to preserve our overflowing love.

They went away.
When will they return?
My village
Awaits, still.

Excerpt from this poem has been used in elementary school textbooks for many years.

The Flute's Melody

A child on a water buffalo's back
Sits, playing the bamboo flute
The flute's melody echoes far and wide
The buffalo moves slowly, bowing its head...

The buffalo grazes on the green grass
A few birds hop on the branches
The sun rises behind the bamboo forest, dew sparkling
The flute's melody awakens the dawn.

The flute's sound: a song calling the calves
The flute's sound: a tune calling the cattle
Calves and calves follow their mothers
The flute's sound: the breath of the countryside.

I want to exchange those dreamy days
For a moment when you sit playing the flute on the buffalo's back
Sweat drops on your dark forehead
I can see every single drop of sweat.

In the morning breeze, your flute's sound lingers
Like a heron flying over the green fields and rippling waves
Sweat drops from your forehead
The flute's sound leads the buffalo to the pasture.

1962

Source: Kim Dong Publishing House

Over Lake Ba Be

For Nong Quoc Chan

Our boat gently enters Ba Be
Mountains rise steep, the lake serene
Forest leaves rustle with a soft breeze
Harmony of our hearts and birds' song keen.
Our boat lightly glides upon Ba Be
Above the sky, above the verdant hills
White clouds drift gently, quietly
Oars dip, shadows on mountains quiver and spill.

Our boat circles endlessly on Ba Be
Trees chase, waving as we pass by
We must surpass earthly realms
To the midst of the mystical, where wonders lie.

Legend says there's a deity of Ba Be
Angered by humans who killed their cows
At midnight, thunderstorms rage
Submerging villages, joy drowned beneath lake's jaws.

Our boat sails again on Ba Be
Old tales dissolve like morning mist
We push the oars, silently urging
The water's surface gleams with the sun's twist.

How beautiful is the resistance on Ba Be
Nhat's steadfastness, battling once more
Tay Re steps lightly, slashing through clouds
Striking enemies down like felling trees' core.

Our boat leisurely travels on Ba Be
Red lychee orchards, golden cornfields glow
Bustling with returning buffaloes, children's laughter
No longer do fierce storms and ancient spirits show.

Boat, wait patiently for us
Birds sing above our heads, we listen
Once we've arrived, oh Ba Be
We want to stay here, not return again.

Pac Ngoc Village, January 1, 1961

If I Die

If I die
Let no one
Weep or cry
That's the end
Let no one mourn

Lying beneath the grave
I feel embarrassed
Only remember love's tune
If I die
Build my tomb
And you or they will write
In a heart forever bright

Over seventy years
I've only laughed
Do Phu once said
Human life's but dust

I've lived longer than he
What's there to dream
I've written too little
So it's time to depart, it seems

That's the debt of life
Borrowed, must be repaid
My life's journey done
My mind's made

If I die
Will anyone
Lay a wreath upon my grave?
Then let's not regret anymore.

Source: Kim Dong Publishing House

Sea Breeze

The salty wind beckons me to the sea
Like spring calls swallows back to me
Pine trees, waves crashing. Stirring!
I stand in awe, wind all around.

Wind, wind! The sun stretches its red glow
Sails stretched, chest thrust out to sea
The ocean's surface full, waves rolling
Blood surges amidst my heart's plea

Long covered in dust in my small room
Using the ceiling fan as wind's costume
Now the sea blows with vast winds
My boat's heart rocks, close to rupture.

Long gazing at the beautiful lake's reflection
A bit of rolling waves can also make one shiver
Now the eight directions of the sky send waves
Like rolling humans turned satellites

I bathe in wind, sky, and waves
Oh sea! Blustery wind envelops
My flesh and skin soak with salty air
Like brown sails soak in intense wind.

1960

Source: The Road We Travel, Publishing House of Literature, 1960

Evening at Binh Ca

At Binh Ca in the evening, no singing heard
Only the sound of the Lô River flowing
The river runs, the sky turns dark
A ferry crosses amidst the waves hitting the shore.

Perhaps it's you, the ferryman from years past
The night lights reflecting on the rippling water.
The old ferry once carried our vehicles to battle,
Now laden with tractors and rolling machines.

I stand by the river in the chilly evening breeze
As if still calling for the ferry in the night.
The towering mountains gaze at the white clouds
Boats head downstream, barges upstream.

Perhaps it's you, the ferryman from years past
Waiting all night, connecting one vehicle to another...

4 - 1961