Top 10 Notable Poems by Poet Bang Viet

Reflecting on Pustovsky

Poem by Bang Viet

1

The hills in the midlands cast the shadows of old pines,
The evacuation school, its soul in the still wind of dusk,
The pages of books that stay with you forever,
Like a multicolored cloud resting in the mind!

"The Pinecone Basket" in a stream of magical music,
Or "The Night Bus" whispering with intoxicating charm,
The smell of wild grass on the distant field,
A sky forever scented with flowers...

Perhaps tomorrow, we'll walk through
A door that stirs the heart in the story 'Snow,'
With the sound of a bell and Akhip's cat,
Dim candlelight like the happiness once dreamed...

So far away... Childhood is left behind!

2

But that's not how it is, no, that's not how it is,
Life is not like that!
The water reflected on my hand doesn't match the sea's waves,
The salty sea, boiling with infinite passion,
When you came to me before the rising tide...

We drew all the distant horizons into our youthful hearts,
Daring to face every worry to leave our mark on the sky,
The deep green when dawn breaks,
The black shadow when the night deepens...

And happiness explodes like a taut musical note,
A high note too piercing, too unsettling in life,
Happiness that surpasses every description,
Sweet, strange, vast...

I have crossed through every storm,
The trees swaying in the most tranquil evening,
I passed even the intoxicated hues of space,
A soft whisper in the new sunlight...

You came and went like a fleeting dream!

3

Now, what more can I say?
Maybe, tomorrow... Maybe...
"Oh, the flower of the morning! Youth and the dawn..."
Flipping through the diary only adds to the sorrow!
Pustovsky is the past in you,
Becoming the past for both of us. Now I turn back:
But that's not how it is, no, that's not how it is,
I understand that it's not the same,
Like childhood, so near yet so far!

Take me with you... It's all over now...
We've grown up. And Pustovsky has died!
I still cry when I think of 'Snow,'
Although I no longer hope for it, my dear...



1969

Konstantin Pustovsky (1892–1968): A Russian writer, once an idol of youth, famous for short stories like: 'The Pinecone Basket,' 'The Night Bus,' 'Snow,' and many other works. His style is elevated romanticism, with a free-flowing writing technique full of empathy and respect for humanity, as well as burning desires for human happiness.

Source: Bang Viet, Selected Works, Vietnam Writers' Association Publishing House, 2010

Going to the New Year's Market

Poem by Bang Viet

The village of San Diu, with a slight mist rising,
The dew blankets the spring branches, the earth soft and damp.
Today, going to the market feels like a festival,
As my sister fastens flowers onto my dress!

The village of San Diu shoots down enemy planes!
Today, I forgot the way to the market!
Everyone ties purple sashes,
And everyone shares in my joy...

A flash of the dragon soaring up the mountain, silently,
Rolling and charging, aiming high,
The mission to hunt the enemy feels like hunting wild game,
Before shooting, my heart is filled with excitement!

The village of San Diu celebrates victory, so youthful!
The golden cabbage blooms, bright and fresh!
I descend the mountain slope, a little dizzy,
The scent of chrysanthemums fills the air, unnoticed.

I turn to see the Tam Dao mountains in the distance,
Knowing my sister is guarding her shift.
Today, she went to the market to buy so much,
She's been waiting so long, it makes me jealous!

But I’m too joyful, so carefree!
Oh sister, please don’t be angry.
Today, I forgot the way to the market!
We've defeated the enemy, but I’m still a child!



1967

Source: Bang Viet, Selected Works, Vietnam Writers' Association Publishing House, 2010

You and I

Poem by Bang Viet

1
You have a deep sadness like the wind,
Wandering through the years, leaving behind weariness,
I have a slight sorrow, far away like a patch of grass,
Hidden beneath the scorching sand, reaching the edge of the sky...

When we turn to look at each other in a moment,
The wind sweeps across the barren field, burning the grass at the horizon,
Only you know, the grass will soon turn green at the horizon,
Only you know – the grass is me!

2
You might have something so distant,
Unspoken burdens that you’ve never shared with me,
The rain from behind the mountains stretching endlessly,
The path you walk, its footprints erased by the fog...

But the face emerges from the mist, renewed,
Fresh as dew, yet as fleeting as the mist...
Perhaps you could transform into the fox of a fairy tale,
Or become a fairy in everyday life.

I blink... waiting for that moment of illusion!?!
You remain indifferent, silent as meditation...
If you were water, you would surely be pure spring,
Only I would know – that is you!



1999

Source: Bang Viet, Selected Works, Vietnam Writers' Association Publishing House, 2010

The Distance Between Words

Poem by Bang Viet

How can we explain! We have too many words,
Even in moments when brevity is needed!

How many times you've stayed silent,
Enough to leave me stunned!

When speech overtakes the space to truly live,
Overtakes all the hidden meanings between words,
Then a thousand poems lose their value,
What will remain to echo between us?...

1983

Source: Bang Viet, Selected Works, Vietnam Writers' Association Publishing House, 2010

The Wild Herb Garden

Poem by Bang Viet

The wild herb garden, ancient in spirit,
The park has grown too old,
What flowers remain to be seen,
Dry leaves cover the path ahead!

The elephants return to Lang village,
The mossy mountain stands alone,
Vendors in the quiet afternoon,
Flickering green lamps shining faintly.

But isn’t it true, my love,
That once upon a time, there was a place...
Once there was a season, the moonlight...
Once there was an afternoon, our childhood...

That was enough, that was all,
Even though the park has aged,
Even though the trees are leafless now,
Even though the grass no longer blooms!

1989

Source: Bang Viet, Selected Works, Vietnam Writers' Association Publishing House, 2010

Don’t Be Jealous of the Past

Poem by Bằng Việt

Don’t be jealous of those fleeting moments of passion
In the dreams of youth, fleeting like the wind!
A gentle breeze in the autumn afternoon,
The leaves by the roadside awakening to love!
And summer fills the air with the sound of cicadas,
The lotus blossoms of sweet sixteen,
And the hasty glances
Throughout the moonlit nights, the moon, the moon…

Don’t be jealous of the past in me
The faces that passed by, the smiles, and tears,
Youth whispered through sleepless nights
When love was like wind with no end!

But today, more than ever, it feels deeper
For only now, it’s just you, my real life,
Why be jealous of what’s already gone
Like the rainbow’s light, like the bubbles in a storm!

*

You once lit the wick of the oil lamp, in the difficult years
Not to read poetry, but to sew clothes,
You once carried a crooked backpack in the storm,
To catch the midnight bus for a business trip…

When we parted, you only knew to look silently
At the red horizon, the harsh headlights...
Eyes deep and timeless,
Brave yet fragile, innocent yet so wise…
How sacred were those moments back then!

The past never troubled us,
It’s only today that we live truly,
When we are just ourselves, after many struggles,
The harder life gets, the more we must cherish it!

The past has long become a luxury
My soul is not bound there, it never stops!
All of it gathers in you, every joy, sorrow, and pain…
Don’t be jealous of the past in me!

1971

Source: Bằng Việt, Selected Works, NXB Hội Nhà Văn, 2010

Rainy Season

Poem by Bằng Việt

In March, the leaves of the eucalyptus trees sprout,
The forest is enveloped in rain... The water rises!
The roads are slippery, the bike skids,
Your clothes are soaked, my friend!

The storage shed is high, reaching the roof,
Ants march out in a continuous line,
Clusters of white mold blow in the wind,
The flood subsides but then surges again.

There is no sound from people near the forest entrance,
The mountain is shrouded in mist, cold to the bone,
The trees grow tall, blocking your view,
The flood continues through day and night, muddying your feet!

You are still the same, quietly present,
Among the eucalyptus trees, sap flowing...
The white flowers bloom like youth,
You and the deep forest, for eight long years!

Post station 12, Spring 1973

Source: Bằng Việt, Selected Works, Publisher: Hội Nhà Văn, 2010

The Firewood
Poem by Bằng Việt

A flickering fire, surrounded by morning mist,
A fire that warms with tender affection.
How much I love my grandmother, braving the sun and rain!

At four years old, I became familiar with the scent of smoke,
That year was filled with hunger and hardship,
Father went to work with horses, so frail,
Only the smoke blurring my eyes,
Thinking of it still stings my nose!

For eight long years, I helped my grandmother tend the fire,
The cuckoo called across distant fields,
When the cuckoo calls, do you still remember, Grandma?
She often shared stories of her days in Hue.
The cuckoo’s cry is so heartfelt!
Mother and father were busy with their work and couldn't return,
I stayed with Grandma, who taught me well,
She taught me to work, took care of my studies,
We lit the fire, feeling sympathy for her struggles.
Cuckoo, oh cuckoo! You didn’t stay with Grandma,
Why do you keep calling over the distant fields?

When the invaders set the village aflame,
The neighbors returned, lost and weary,
Helping Grandma rebuild the thatched hut,
With determination, Grandma told me firmly:
“Father is in the war zone, he has his work,
If you write letters, don’t mention this or that,
Just say the house is still peaceful!”

And so, morning and evening, the fire continued to burn,
A flame that always kept her heart warm,
A fire full of unshakable belief...

Grandma’s life, full of hardships, sun and rain,
Decades have passed, yet even now,
She still wakes early,
Lights the fire with tenderness and warmth,
Igniting love, sweet potatoes, and cassava,
Lighting up the fresh rice, sharing joy,
Lighting up the hearts of young souls...
Oh, what a sacred and magical thing – the firewood!

Now I am far away. There are hundreds of smoke trails,
Fire in a hundred homes, joy in every direction,
But there is never a moment I forget to ask:
- Tomorrow morning, has Grandma lit the fire yet?...

Kiev, 1963

Source:
1. Hương cây – The Firewood, NXB Văn học, 1968
2. The Firewood, NXB Văn học, 2005
3. Bằng Việt, Selected Works, NXB Hội Nhà văn, 2010

Mother

Poem by Bằng Việt

Wounded, I stayed behind in a rainy season
Remembering my mother's caring yet silent presence
The house was quiet, her steps were soft,
The wind blew gently on the thatched roof.

Remembering the garden behind the house
Fruits fell during autumn with a soft thud
Rows of grapefruit trees, sweet tamarind lines,
Longan in season, birds fluttering around...

I felt a pang, as mother picked the grapefruit
Feeling faint, yet there was sour soup with tamarind
Roasted sweet potatoes, corn bursting, so sweet
Every morning, warm smoke filled the house.

Father was far away fighting in the war
Mother's blood, her love, she gave it all to me,
Speaking of distant mountains and strange lands
Then realizing, with mother, I was home!

"He passed away long ago..." – mother told me
About life's struggles and endless hardships,
Her eyes blurred, her hair silvered
Her whole life spent battling the tides...

On rare moments, when the rain stops and the moon is bright,
Mother would smile, seeing my glowing face
I stepped outside, the mountains were lush and green
And I paused, speaking of the day I left.

Mother laughed, tears welling up in her eyes:
- "When I went to fight the Americans, I wasn’t scared!
Those rifles, that backpack, still hanging there,
Are you strong enough to wear them now?"

...Oh, my aging mother in the far-off village
I've gone, how often do I return?
The endless Trường Sơn, with seasons of strong winds
And rainy seasons turning the forest white!

Wherever I go, I see the thatched roofs and the garden,
Still the same land, but my mother’s hair turns grey...
Every drop of blood in me beats softly,
And my blood is no longer mine alone.




1972

Source: Bằng Việt, Selected Works, NXB Hội Nhà văn, 2010

Thơ tình ngày biển động

Thơ Bằng Việt

"Giọt nước soi trên tay không cùng màu sóng bể"
(Nghĩ lại về Pauxtôpxky, 1969)


Chưa bao giờ anh ước đâu em
Một ngôi nhà, bão dừng sau cánh cửa...

Trời ơi! Buổi sớm quá chừng thơm!
Anh hít thở mùa sen, năm anh mười tám tuổi,
Một ánh vui táo tợn của mùa hè
Khi những vệt ong hôn vào nhuỵ hoa cháy bừng
như vệt lửa,
Những trận lốc, những cơn mưa trước hồn anh bỏ ngỏ...

Và ngôi nhà, bão dừng sau cánh cửa,
Đã bao giờ anh ước đâu em?

*

Rất nhiều chuyện qua rồi. Rất nhiều chuyện
giống như quên,
Sau tuổi hai mươi, ngỡ không cần đến nữa:
Chút xôn xao trong hàng cây nắng nhỏ,
Giọt nước tròn rung rinh trong lá sen
Cả gợn sóng mơ hồ trong ánh mắt riêng em
Màu trời xám mênh mông ngày động biển
Cánh bướm mai hồng, cơn mưa chiều tím,
Một cửa sổ lặng thầm chi chút đếm sao rơi...

Hạnh phúc ta cần, thực cũng giản đơn thôi
Như chỉ ở trước ta trên một tầm tay với
Ngỡ rảo bước là sớm chiều sẽ tới
Suốt một đời, sao vẫn giục mình đi?

Em có thể là gì sau trang sách Pauxtốpxky?
Là một ánh bình minh xanh mờ không thể tắt,
Hay hương mát rừng thông cao ẩm ướt,
Một bóng mây khắc khoải cả mùa hè?

Anh không biết dãy phố ta đi hôm ấy gọi là gì?
Không biết lá cây trên đầu sao buổi chiều phát sáng?
Giọt nước mắt khác xưa giữa tình yêu, tình bạn,
Những kỷ niệm nơi này xáo trộn với nơi kia...

Anh và em (chỉ thế thôi). Mà không có Pauxtôpxky,
"Ta đã lớn. Và Pauxtốpxky đã chết!"
Chỉ còn lại cuối cùng những cảm thông da diết
Của tất cả những gì vừa có lại vừa không!

*

Tất cả có vậy thôi! Em – màu trong suốt của trời xanh
trên phố thợ,
Chỗ mặn nhất của đầu bọt sóng tự khơi xa...


Lại cũng là vết thương của anh, tuổi thơ của anh,
nơi ẩn kín của hồn anh bão tố,
Lá cỏ bồng gió ru trên bãi cát khô cằn,
Đốm lửa nhỏ bất ngờ trong một đêm ngủ rừng,
hai bàn tay lạnh cóng,
Hay màu ngói đỏ đầu tiên, sau cả cuộc chiến tranh dài!

Em thao thức mãi trong anh Tình Yêu lớn –
Yêu Người,
Yêu những thứ bị tàn phá đi, bây giờ cần dựng lại,
Yêu một cái cây, tự lúc gây mầm cho đến khi ra trái,
Yêu mọi nét đẹp của Đời,
để bồi đắp, sản sinh thêm...

*

Chưa bao giờ anh ước đâu em
Một ngôi nhà, bão dừng sau cánh cửa!




Hải Phòng, 1975

Nguồn: Bằng Việt, Tác phẩm chọn lọc, NXB Hội Nhà văn, 2010