Top 11 Remarkable Poems by Poet Nguyễn Duy

Đò Lèn

Poetry by Nguyễn Duy

As a child, I would go to the Na canal to fish
hold my grandmother's skirt while she went to the Bình Lâm market
catch sparrows near the Buddha's ear
and sometimes steal longan from the Trần Pagoda

As a child, I went to play at Cây Thị Temple
barefoot at night, watching the Sòng Temple ceremony
the fragrance of white lilies mixed with incense smoke
the dance of the medium swaying in a trance

I never knew how hard life was for my grandmother
who hunted crabs and gathered shrimp in the Quan fields
carried green tea to Ba Trại
and trudged through cold nights in Cháo and Đồng Giao markets

Back then, I was caught between two worlds—between the living and the spirit realm
between my grandmother and the gods, saints, and Buddha
during a year of hunger, when boiled cassava roots barely sufficed
the fragrance of lilies and incense would always linger

When American bombs fell, my grandmother’s house was destroyed
the Sòng Temple was gone, the entire pagoda disappeared
the saints and Buddha vanished somewhere
and my grandmother sold eggs at Lèn station

I went to war, stayed away from my hometown for a long time
but the old river still meanders, eroding one side, building up the other
by the time I realized how much I loved my grandmother, it was too late
she had become nothing more than a patch of grass.

September 1983

This poem has been included in the supplementary reading list for Literature 12 since 2007.

Source: Nguyễn Duy, Ánh trăng, Nxb Tác phẩm mới, 1984

Awaken the Potential Poem by Nguyễn Duy Bidding farewell to S.D. on his economic journey Wake up, earth! Let my sister's clothes no longer be torn, let every family have rice instead of corn, sweet potatoes, or cassava... Let us begin with full meals and warm clothes, then go farther - to beauty, wealth, and greater happiness. Minerals lie deep in the mountains, treasures are boundless beneath the ocean floor, the forests rich with silver and gold, fertile silt, like a mother's milk, rivers are abundant on the riverbanks, seas rich on the shores. But today, what do you think of the earth? The land is so rich, why is the surface so poor? *** Now, we write poems for each other, passing sweet words back and forth. We have sung too much about potential, yet the potential still sleeps... *** I grew up by the banks of the Red River, in the fertile silt, blood of the land. Wars were fought by grasshoppers and crickets. Dikes and canals were messily built as trenches. The history of the land twisted with the horrors of battle. Sweat was not a big deal, how many generations have suffered by the rivers? How many times have the dikes broken, the fields flooded, the boats fragile, and the folk songs carried like drifting debris? The rice was thin, the famine long-lasting, the dance slow and sorrowful like hunger... *** I’ve traveled through the burning, relentless Central region, with one side the green trees of the Annamite Range, the other side the white sands. The fields are thin and dry, typhoons haven't passed yet and the drought follows. Sharp grass turns to thorns, the cracked earth feels like human skin torn open. The hot winds, oh how they burn, my dear! Here, the seeds die and revive, rice grains are like salt, the rice plant stands, pushing through the earth, reaching for the sky. *** I return to your land, the bright river delta, the Mekong River spreads itself into the sea, the earth pulses with life and movement. The mangrove trees and nipa palms carve paths through the wilds. The new soil may seem sweet on the surface, but beneath it, bitterness and salinity remain. The soil is strong, and yet the people carry heavy hearts. Gone are the old myths, the ghost fields where no rice was sown but harvested, the fish ponds where fish were never raised but were always ready to be caught. The rough hands and bearded faces are now playfully working for real food. What food doesn’t carry tears and sweat? The endless rice fields, and yet the rice is dear. The soil craves chemical fertilizers, as if addicted to opium. The brown planthoppers destroy the crops, the rice left in the rain rots because there’s no fuel for transport, the ferries in Can Tho crawl slowly with beggars, the street musicians sing melancholic folk songs, the bars are full, trying to escape from the empty places. *** This is the country of three rice-growing regions, yet it is not enough to feed the entire land. We have sung too much about potential, but potential still sleeps... *** Now, I write this poem for you. Do you think of me as useless? Useless, taking from life without giving back. Do you think of me as a sparrow, pecking at the ground? Do you think I am a maker of counterfeit goods? Do you think I am a wordsmith, carving into the paper, pretending to be a master of the art of writing, while the truth is fragile? Do you think... but never mind! *** Look over there, the person who digs the earth (I, too, have worked with my hands in the soil). The hoe follows me, in this life, in the next, its small blade scrapes the earth, pushing forward. It raises itself high, pointing to the sky, then plunges deep into the soil. The shape of the hoe, so beautiful! Look over there, the one who carries manure and rice (I, too, have bent my back with this burden). The creaking of the shoulder carries the weight, like a rainbow bridge across the field. The shape of the shoulder, so strong! Such beauty... do you feel it? A beauty that takes you back to a time long gone, a rhythm that is slow and sorrowful. Do you feel it in your heart, even in the midst of this bustling city with endless bars, when a car suddenly passes, leaving black smoke on the streets? Do you feel it when the bicycle rickshaws seem to grow bolder, and the motorcycle rickshaws, puffing black smoke, weave through traffic, while people walk, thinking about potential, as the potential still sleeps... *** I was born in a poor village, used to talking about hardships, easy to be moved by sorrowful sights. In my village, houses were made of straw, the graveyard had no tombstones. The harvests were heavy with straw, but light on rice. We children played in the dirt every day. When we went to school, we went barefoot, with scribbled notes made from cassava leaves and sweet potato vines. The teacher told us our country is rich! We children memorized the lessons. *** Now, we are no longer children. We know how to be sad, so we can be optimistic, and to pass on our lessons to the next generation. Even if one day, oil gushes up, bauxite becomes pots and pans, or even spacecraft... even if that happens, we must still tell them: don’t forget that our country was once poor! Now, we are no longer children. Our youth was shaped by the tragedies of war, and behind us is the heavy memory of loss, while ahead of us is a difficult road, but we carry with us a sincere heart. Even if we make mistakes – who knows the future? But we must always be honest. Once, our mothers sang us to sleep, and we grew up singing songs to awaken the potential. Maybe the grown-ups will keep singing lullabies, letting the potential sleep within the flesh... *** The potential still sleeps In a heart that beats faintly. The potential still sleeps In a mind swollen with self-satisfaction. The potential still sleeps In eyes glazed with indifference. The potential still sleeps In ears hardened with stubbornness. The potential still sleeps In noses that can’t smell the beauty around. The potential still sleeps In skin that’s lazy to feel. Let’s awaken now, from every cell, every sense, and especially from our tongues. *** Let us be aware, that honesty may be punished, but flattery and lies can be rewarded. Let us be aware, that hypocrisy can spread like an epidemic, and naïve goodwill can lose its way. Let us be aware, that there are mouths that serve as traps, after the smile is the jagged teeth. Let us be aware, that sometimes it’s not the mouth, but the hands that steal trust and choke our brothers. Let us be aware, of strange professions that deceive and take lives, of words that kill trust. Such is the collection of misdeeds, casting spells to keep potential asleep. *** I want to be the voice that sings to you, a voice as pure as the sun and the wind, as sharp as machines and hammers, as enduring as the weight on a carrier's back, as simple as the hoe digging into the soil. I want to sing all over the country, singing the song: AWAKEN THE POTENTIAL... Hồ Chí Minh City, 1980-1982 This part of the poem was used in the National High School Graduation Exam in 2018. Source: Nguyễn Duy, Mother and You, Thanh Hoá Publishing House, 1987

The Warmth of the Straw Nest

Poem by Nguyễn Duy

I knocked on the door of a small thatched house by the rice field
The mother welcomed me in the night wind
- Our house is small, but I still love this sleeping spot
She only complained that the mats and blankets were not enough
Then she hugged straw to make a bed for me to lie on

The golden straw wrapped me like a silkworm cocoon
I tossed and turned in the honey-scented air of the rice field
In the warmth, much better than blankets and pillows
From those thin, frail strands of straw

The grain of rice nourishes all of us until we’re full
But the warmth, intense like fire
The simplicity, the fragrance of rice
Is not easily shared with everyone

Bình Lục - a night lost on the road

Source: Nguyễn Duy, White Sand, Military Publishing House, 1973

The Song of the Harvest Season

Poem by Nguyễn Duy

The rice ripens
The sun shines on the flooded fields
The herons guide the wind through the golden rice fields
The wind carries the sharp, clear sound of singing
The sickle’s glint cuts across the horizon

Harvesting rice
Be gentle, my friend
Watch the grains fall, it touches the heart
The first grain is easy to drop
But here is the labor of one day's work, of one full field

Threshing the rice
The moonlit yard fills with golden grain
The thumping sound of the threshing machine echoes
The straw bundles twist in tight knots
The straw is torn to reveal the precious rice, oh grain of life

Drying the rice
The young sun fades, and the sprouts will wither
For the rice’s life, it must be dried until it cracks
As the sun ages, the grains taste sweeter
Serving up white rice with a lingering fragrance of the sun

Winnowing the grains
Thanks to the wind that blows carelessly
The wind sweeps away the useless husks
The empty grains fly away
The wind clears the way for the rice to shine like the surface of a mirror!

Đông Vệ - The flood season of 1971

Source: Nguyễn Duy, White Sand, Military Publishing House, 1973

My Father's Garden

Poem by Nguyễn Duy

My mother plants the sweetest trees
Flowers, vegetables, and rice fields
But my father plants the most intimidating ones
Rough-skinned, spiky, and full of thorns

The thorn of the grapefruit cuts and bleeds
When the durian falls, it leaves a bruise
The sap from the cashew tree tears my clothes
The coconut trees stand so tall, high in the sky

The trees my father plants live for ages
The rain can’t beat them, the wind can’t knock them down
With their rough bark, they stand unmoved
Their branches spread with sharp thorns all around

Grapefruit, durian, coconut, cashew trees
Provide me with sweet fruits and fragrant aromas all year round
My father’s garden may be full of daunting plants
But each fruit is truly delightful.

This poem was later turned into a song with the same name, composed by Phan Nhân.

Da Lat, One Moonlit Night

Poem by Nguyễn Duy

The moon flickers through the white mist
A faint breeze stirs on the hillside
The sound of horses' hooves echoes on the empty road
I hear the soft fall of a pine needle

You gather wood, splitting it into smaller pieces
The fire fills the space between us, lighting up the silence
I absentmindedly watch you, as you absentmindedly watch me
The water for the tea boils gently, its bubbles barely rising

You know, no one is truly absent-minded
The glowing coal is burning with all its might
But the flame pretends to flicker faintly
The scent of pine resin drifts with the smoke, circling around...

Da Lat, 1984

Source: Nguyễn Duy, Moonlight, NXB Tác phẩm mới, 1984

To Be Loved Like a Folk Song

Poem by Nguyễn Duy

When will it be like the old days
To love as our ancestors did, fulfilling their hearts
Back when AIDS had not yet taken hold
Love without hesitation, with abandon, fully

To love as they did in the past
With the same moon and wind, the same heavy rain
To be loved like a folk song
Worn out by the earth, beaten by the sky

Whether it's the West or the East, it's the same
Sweet bitterness, joy, pain, all intertwined
Without areca or betel, still we kiss
Trying to deepen our love, however we can

(December 22, 1993)

Source: Nguyễn Duy, Coming Home, NXB Hội nhà văn, 1994

Vietnamese Bamboo

The bamboo is green
When did it first turn green?
The story of old... when the green bamboo first grew

The stalk is slender, the leaves delicate
How did it become the fortress, the symbol of strength?
Wherever it grows, bamboo is green
Even in poor, rocky or lime-filled soil

What’s so special about it, really?
It gathers little but with persistence becomes much
The roots, tireless, do not fear barren land
Bamboo grows as many roots as it needs to stay strong
It stretches in the wind, bending yet firm
The bamboo endures hardship, singing its song in the branches
It loves the sunshine and the blue sky
Bamboo never hides in the shade

Storms may strike, but it stands strong
Roots interlock, holding the bamboo close together
In love, bamboo does not stand alone
The fortress is built from this unity
Even when the stalks break and branches fall
The roots endure, passing life on to the new shoots
The bamboo’s breed never grows crooked
Before it rises, it’s sharp as a spear
Its bare back, exposed to the sun and rain
Wearing no coat, bamboo shelters its young

The young shoots are the buds of bamboo
Already bearing the upright shape of their ancestors
Year after year, bamboo matures, and new shoots sprout
Isn’t it the same every year?

In the future,
In the future,
In the future...
The earth will remain green, and bamboo will stay green forever

1970-1972

Source: Nguyen Duy, Cát Trắng, NXB Quân Đội Nhân Dân, 1973

Sitting Alone, Remembering My Mother...

Poem by Nguyễn Duy

The incense smells faintly at night
as the smoke rises, guiding the path to Nirvana
The ash-streaked incense stick still remains
and in the shadow, I see my mother's image from long ago.

My mother never wore a red scarf
nor a conical hat, but instead, a traditional headpiece
with hands busy, always sewing or weaving
her skirt stained with mud, her clothes humble through all seasons.

The heron, the sour fruits of the garden...
her lullaby carried on the wind, drifting to the sky
I journey through life, but never fully grasp
the meaning of her lullabies.

When will it be fall?
When the fruits ripen, swaying in the full moon's light.
When will it be May?
When mother lays out the mat, and I count the stars.

The Milky Way flows upward, higher
the fan sways, while the little boy sings a playful tune
by the pond, fireflies flicker
and the sound of distant joys and sorrows fills the air.

Mother sings the truths of life
milk nourishes the body, but songs nourish the soul
grandmother sang to mother... mother sang to me
and I wonder, will my children remember me one day?

I gaze towards my distant homeland
my heart at the place where my mother once rested at night
sitting here, I remember my mother
chewing rice, lips murmuring to deceive the fish bones...

Saigon, Fall 1986

Source: Nguyễn Duy, Mother and Me, Thanh Hoá Publishing, 1987

The Moonlight

Poem by Nguyễn Duy

When I was young, I lived with the fields,
with rivers, and then with the sea.
During the war, I stayed in the forest,
and the moon became my closest companion.

Exposed to nature,
innocent like the trees and grass,
I thought I would never forget
the moon's deep, meaningful light.

Since moving to the city,
I've grown accustomed to electric lights and mirrors,
and the moon that passes through the alley
seems like a stranger passing by.

Suddenly, the lights go out,
the room fills with darkness,
and I rush to open the window.
Then, the moon appears, full and bright.

I look up at its face,
and something stirs inside me,
as if it were the fields, the sea,
or the river, or the forest.

The moon remains full and round,
unconcerned by human indifference.
The moonlight stays silent,
enough to make me stop and reflect.

Ho Chi Minh City, 1978

Source: Nguyễn Duy, The Moonlight, New Works Publishing, 1984