Top 10 Best Poems by Poet Nguyễn Thế Hoàng Linh

I asked with no intention, no answer
What color is longing, sister?
The soft-spoken operator replied,
Oh, there are many colors, though they fade away.
Is it true that you’re in love?
No, I’m just asking innocent questions.
Could it be that you’ve lost your mind?
Yes, only crazy people waste money on these things.

...

And that was the end of my 49,000 VND call.

Thank you for the impulsive tremors
that never chased me away from myself.
Misunderstandings often soften poetry.

Life is the process of peeling away misconceptions,
misconceptions are the eternal layers that regenerate.

Misunderstandings bring you sorrow,
but who can blame anyone for that?
The storm falls outside my window.
A child draws a bird urinating on the street.
Who knows, that’s not rain,
but someone inhaling it like a fragrance.

Who will help me break my addiction to language,
besides your bare voice?
The days stretch on, like the length of a dot,
and sadness?
The final misunderstanding,
and the sweetness when I hear you cry
are hard to understand, like the ocean in my eyes.

I tattoo my longing into the darkness,
while dawn calmly strips away the layers.
Perhaps your gentle, mysterious cloak
will cover you, the past and the future.

I silence the chaos by closing the streets,
and return to being a simple soul,
unable to understand what chills me
when I casually watch the sun die over the fields.
No,
just broken bones,
gasping for air, as grasshoppers spread their wings.

05.03.04

Holding money to redeem more money,
holding love to redeem kindness for whom?
Holding today to redeem tomorrow,
holding a short dream to redeem a long dream.
Holding loneliness to redeem a poem,
holding the night to redeem a thread of dawn.
Holding misfortune to redeem fortune,
holding success to redeem failure, leaving me empty-handed and heartbroken.

Holding dirty tears to redeem clear waters,
holding resurrection to redeem strange death.
Holding what to redeem what?
But I cannot hold the blood that softly drips in my heart.
Holding humanity, burning it to search for another humanity,
one that drowns silently in the mind.

Holding silence on my lips,
only to let it drip and turn the verse purple with grief.
How long will we be wary of each other?
Holding what to redeem our foolishness?
Holding what to redeem the pain,
that will follow us forever?
If life is but a game,
who will redeem the blood, the tears of anger?
If the children are left alone,
who could suffer more than mankind?

The sweet rain is so gentle, so refreshing,
playing music on countless silver leaves.
It’s rare for such vibrant showers to fall,
like the fresh spirit of the people.

I drink the tears of rain, wanting to cry,
I love life,
yes, it’s true,
I love those who love life.

Those who live to love me.

I want to tell you, my dear,
that I am truly alive,
and I live as a Human,
not cowardly, nor cruel.

Do you need me to bite to draw fresh blood?

Hold my hand, dear,
never make me lie to myself,
and you too, my love,
never let your eyes grow dim and pure.

And my friends, oh my friends,
don’t be consumed by life’s hardships.
If I still live, I will come,
to places where there are people still hoping.

Though I am not a weapon,
if you are hurt by the lash of a whip,
I will rise like a lion,
roaring to scatter the hunters.

My dear, don’t hold grudges against life,
your wounds will begin to heal.
Please bear a little more pain,
for each of us has a green hand to lend...

(2002)

Those are the moments
when I stand between two rows of trees.
The storm rages all night, scratching at everything.
I am afraid, like a child in the middle of a bomb attack.
No,
how could I be afraid like a child in a bombing raid?
Just stand between two rows of trees
on a cold night, with rain softly falling.
War tortures three billion times more than that.

04.05.07

There are times when I suddenly forget,
she’s behind me in the car.
Lost in endless thoughts,
wandering along the sidewalk.
Then it hits me. I slam on the brakes,
her head resting on my shoulder.
She gently scolds me
before she can even sigh,
anchoring a moment of warmth
in a world cold and barren of people.
You’ve always been my haven.
Sorry, my dear.
But the weight of life's endless cycle,
keeps hanging over me,
haunting my eyes.
How long can purity last?
Or is it because we’re too greedy?
Always trying to gather more,
hurting you and myself,
watching a love wither slowly.
Maybe I should just live recklessly,
lower my pride a few times.
It’s too painful. This inner conflict,
does it really matter, dear life?
I remember, forget, remember,
I’m writing a love poem,
and once again, I slam on the brakes
just to look
into your eyes
in complete silence.

There’s still at least one color left in the Creator's palette,
black.
It’s been overused,
because the Creator has been generous,
sharing it with mankind.
We paint your eyes
with dark circles,
like an owl’s gaze.

I open my own palette
and find a lot of red.
The red in the Creator’s palette has worn thin,
the Creator painted sunsets,
falling leaves,
and lips stained by the sun.
He stored the red in white wine,
and it appears on the faces of the drunk.
But He forgot to forbid mankind
from using the blood of others as paint.
The red in my palette will fade
when I paint this scene,
of leaves falling,
sunsets,
and the color of blood in our veins, offered as gifts.

I like to use the color blue most,
even when it symbolizes nothing.
I like to paint with blue to create new colors,
just like how we use love to redefine everything,
or loneliness,
my Creator.

17.11.05

If only I could die for a moment,
it would be more peaceful than a long sleep.
If I could go to hell, that would be fine,
but heaven might be empty.

If only I could die for a moment,
wake up to see if people are crying or smiling,
and see if I would laugh or cry.
Would being a ghost be better than being human?

If only I could die for a moment,
lying still as life flows around me.
If they throw me into the morgue,
I wouldn’t mind dying in the cold.

Source: Tuổi trẻ Newspaper

Have you ever served time,
seeing the emptiness of a day?
Then you write in your journal,
... tomorrow will be like today...

Have you ever felt panic,
helpless before yourself?
And did you see something
brimming in your eyes,
invisible?

If it happens, don’t be afraid,
it’s actually quite normal.
We all feel this way
whenever we long for love.

(2001)

If only love could be saved

If there’s an error, just reload it, no worries.
If only love could be deleted
when bored,
just sneeze and it’s gone.
I only want to tell a small story:
once, I wrote a poem on my computer
and named the file ‘tinhyeu’ (love).
When I wasn’t satisfied, I thought about deleting it,
but the computer, that cold machine,
asked me:
“Are you sure you want to delete
‘tinhyeu’?”
I shuddered,
my friend.