Top 20 Beautiful Poems by Poet Hoa Diên Vỹ

Turning against the lullaby, I search for the wings of my mother's stork.

It flutters over the village field.

Looking for carp and catfish to cook for the meal,

While I eat, mother works in the rice field, a lighter task.

Turning away from the soft bedding, I return to the haystack,

Where mother leaves a dry spot for me to sleep, while she rests on the wet ground.

On the eighth of March, with some rice gruel as our meal,

The wild vegetables help fill my bowl with sesame rice.

Turning away from the hustle and bustle, I find solace in the past,

By the end of the bamboo hedge, a shrill summer breeze calls out.

The sweat drips, the light glows softly on the bamboo carrier,

Soaked with father's effort, the thin shirt clings to his tired body.

The sorrowful banyan tree stands still in the silence of loneliness,

Its tears are absorbed by the sweet fruit hanging on its branches.

The old tree stump is now cut, made into beams to build a big house.

Taking the train home, I head toward the approaching cough,

At the kitchen corner, mother tends the glowing charcoal fire.

The smoke swirls and plays with the breeze,

Unintentionally adding to the hoarseness in mother's voice.

Sitting with father, the last drink of the night feels bitter,

Listening to the geckos on the roof making their clicking sounds.

The moonlight, thick and heavy, pours down like a laborer's care for the land.

In the dry season, we mourn for the rice fields we once had.

Turning amidst the turmoil, I get closer to my mother and father...

Half a lifetime wandering far from home,

I long to revisit the pond where the grass has grown.

To scoop the moon's reflection from the shimmering night,

And sip the cool water from the old well, so refreshing.

To fulfill my desires just once in my life,

To find joy in the small moments that pass so quickly.

But the years seem to come at a heavy cost,

As the hair on my head turns from black to white in equal measure.

I return to smell the sweet fragrance of betel leaves,

As birds call for ducks on the chilly evening breeze.

Mother struggles under the weight of the two baskets,

Exchanging youth for the laborious pursuit of food and clothing.

Father in the fields hides his concerns away,

Believing the harvest will be sweet after the straight furrows are plowed.

The first month of the year brings joy with rolling thunder,

The rice plants wave their flags, signaling abundance.

I return to settle my debt from March's past,

For I have missed countless seasons of the blooming red flowers.

The girl Bân still diligently sews clothes,

As mother hangs the thick blanket to dry in the sun.

I return to the lullaby sung in the quiet night,

To revive dreams still filled with the scent of sweet grass.

By the lantern light, I fall asleep reading books,

As father tucks me in under the thin blanket, pulling it over my shoulders.

I return hurriedly to dig up sweet potatoes,

The golden tubers are so tender and delicious.

Sister brings in two bunches of starfruit to share,

While we enjoy the sharp tang of salt and chili.

Mother goes to the garden to pick some leaves,

While father catches a fresh batch of river crabs.

The smoke rises in billows from the cooking pot,

And my heart is still lost in these memories, even now.

I return to gather the scattered days of my childhood...

It has been so long since I last visited

Does grandmother still rise early to fold the bedding and prepare the food?

Is the bamboo bed still set up in the yard?

On warm summer nights, does she sit waiting, gazing at the moonlight?

The poor street only has the light of the moon,

There’s no lullaby as mother sings to me at night.

All that remains are the glittering jewels of wealth,

Luxurious distractions that corrode the simplicity of home.

I long to wear that old woven hat,

With grandmother guiding me down the dike path from days gone by.

In my mismatched trousers, one leg high, the other low,

At the feast, everyone, even my sister, enjoys every bite.

When the rice grew plentiful, father collected several baskets,

Exchanging them for ice cream, just to see the joy in my laughter.

The village path was smooth, golden straw drying in the sun,

As the bamboo poles swayed, feeding us warmth and contentment.

The golden rice overflowed in the barn,

Several times a day, we’d spread it out to dry until it was crisp.

The fresh rice made every meal a delight,

With the fragrance of old seasons following me all the way to today...

The rice has been harvested, and the fields are left with bare stalks,

A season of golden abundance fills the barn.

I return to the old place, lost in thought,

The pipe lies quietly in the corner of the cupboard.

Oh, how I long for those days,

The teacher is gone, lost in the wind's adventures,

And I am left at home, lonely, just with my grandmother,

She waits by the porch every day, hoping for my return.

The well still holds its water, clear and deep,

The rope is broken, so the bucket needs a helping hand to pull.

I stand beneath the old tree, lost in thought,

The jackfruit hangs heavy, but no one climbs to pick it anymore.

The old cart is neatly put away,

In the side room with the plows and hoes.

The green conical hat and the old raincoat,

Sad and withered, sharing the same memories of the past.

The teacher has gone and will never return,

I wish I could go back to those days once more...

Mother gave birth to me when the cold winds blew,

Her worn shirt became the warm cloth of winter.

While I was still an infant, she was already in the rice fields,

Her hands covered in mud, working to earn a living.

She worked tirelessly like a mother hen,

Wading through both shallow and deep fields without hesitation.

She cleared the land, making room for new growth,

Planting seeds for the future that would eventually bloom.

With father working far away, mother carried on,

Bent over, her frail body bearing the weight of the world.

From dawn to dusk, her life was one of silent struggle,

Her hair turning white as she dreamed of a better life for her child.

She tirelessly worked to provide three meals a day,

Always ensuring we had enough to grow strong and healthy.

At New Year's, we would get new clothes and play happily,

Mother gave us everything she had, dedicating her whole life.

Her love was beyond measure, as vast as the ocean.

She became both mother and father,

Always there for us whenever we needed support.

Today, I return home and see her silver hair,

Her scent, the fragrance of herbal shampoo and citrus.

I long for those days of innocence and warmth,

When I would nestle in her arms, cherishing her affection.

I used to fight with my siblings over the smallest things,

And cried when they got the bigger share.

But how could I ever say thank you to her?

She never expected any thanks,

She gave without regret, full of love, hope, and a pure heart.

Now that we have all grown up and started our own families,

She still worries about us, bringing us food and supplies.

When we visit, her car is filled with bags of food,

She’s always afraid we will be lacking something for the meal.

Now that I’m grown, I beg you, mother, do not worry,

For I too am beginning to walk the same path you once did.

The words I wish to say are barely a whisper,

For all the burdens you carried, mother, we now bear them for you.

Poem by Hoa Diên Vỹ

Return to me the days of the past,

Where the water was clear and the palm-leaf hats sipped from the ditches.

The crickets sang, their pink clothes swaying in the breeze,

And the brown sparrows chirped sweetly, calling to the beloved fields.

Return to the days when the rice stalks were heavy with grain,

As my mother bent under the weight of the bamboo baskets in the evening.

The hay was braided together,

While the wind carried the kites soaring high above.

Return to the quiet of the pond's water,

Where memories stir beneath the October stars.

I reached out to catch a fallen moonbeam,

Searching in the depths for my father's loving smile.

Return to the lonely moments,

To quench the thirst for things long forgotten...

Return to the countryside one December day

The garden is heavy with fruit, the pond full of fish and shrimp.

The city life is hard, with worries over food and clothing,

Unlike the home where my mother's kitchen fills the air with fragrant smoke in the evening.

Come back to catch fish and make sour soup,

Grandmother's pickled cucumbers are always plentiful and delicious.

The ducks are waiting, as father calls out for the children,

And the wine has been stored for a year now.

Counting on my fingers, I realize how few visits I’ve made,

I feel embarrassed by the long years that have passed.

Grandmother’s back has been bent for so long,

And grandfather’s hair has turned white from the winds and rains.

Come back, end this life of wandering,

My heart has long been lost in the city, far from the village.

I return to apologize to my mother and teacher,

For I’ve forgotten the love that fills my heart with memories of home.

Where did the ginger-coated candy go?

Green and red bird eggs were once the dreams of every child,

My mother used to buy them when I was little,

As I waited by the door, eager for the treats.

The village market only meets a few times a month,

Rice, corn, and grain exchanged for the essentials of life.

The butcher sighs quietly,

Perhaps she will buy sweet potatoes to pass the time.

Mother sits from morning until noon,

The basket of vegetables is heavy, almost over her back.

The well-behaved girls admire the pair of sticky rice cakes,

While the fried foods from the stall fill the air with their delicious scent.

Mother smiles, waving her palm-leaf hat,

She hurries to buy something for me to enjoy.

Oh, how delicious those cakes are!

This one, part of it is still too hot for my sister’s hands.

The old man sits in the middle of the market,

Making intricate toys from clay all day long.

There, a calf is too big to handle,

And here, a rooster with proud legs stands tall.

The girl behind the counter blushes,

The rice seller just spoke a few words,

Smiling shyly as she turns away,

And waves, giving me a few glass marbles with a mischievous smile.

The marbles, red, green, and yellow, are perfectly clear,

My small heart beats with joy and excitement.

The market is winding down,

And I follow my mother, clinging to her side, as we head home.

Is it rain, or just tears, salty and bitter?

The entire day blurred, soaked in autumn’s touch.

I return, hoping to find your shadow,

But all that remains is the mist, thick and distant.

The fence is thin, the chrysanthemums bloom bright yellow,

Pear and pomelo, heavy with their ripe fruit.

You must have saved some for me,

In the garden where sweet fruits once hung, oh mother.

From the house next door, a lullaby floats through the air,

And I sit, counting the autumn drops by the porch.

The afternoon breeze softly brushes the fan,

And for a fleeting moment, I feel as if you just passed by.

How I wish to be three again,

So I could curl up in your arms, and act spoiled once more.

The sound of the hammock’s sway echoes gently,

Rocking me to sleep in the warm embrace of autumn’s golden sun.

The golden autumn, sweet with the gentle breeze,

Sitting by the empty porch, my eyes sting on this afternoon.

Smoke from someone’s house drifts, lonely and distant,

The old fire in the hearth calls me back to this beloved land.

A pot of green tea on the bamboo bench,

Father lights his pipe, the smoke curling in slow rings.

Mother sits weaving by the window,

The rhythmic sound of the shuttle weaving through the night’s cool air.

The rice is ripe, heavy on the stalks,

The fields are ready for harvest, the sickle gleams in the hands that toil.

Sister smiles, her shirt worn at the shoulders,

The basket clinks with every step, weary from the long road ahead.

This autumn, my eyes are blurry with tears,

Only I remain, with sorrow and longing in my heart.

Father and mother have disappeared beyond the horizon,

But the lingering scent of incense ties me to the memories that never fade.

I sit and arrange the broken mirror pieces,

Reflecting on the past, when love called me home...

The winter tightens upon your lips

Colder than the flame flickering by the doorstep yesterday

I search for a taste of warmth

To sow back the seeds of faded love at the end of the season.

Has the tender love truly withered?

Why does it linger, tangled in the vine of longing?

A rose in full bloom, untouched by time

You drift away, veiled in mist, as life’s illusions fade.

I gather the broken pieces of my heart

Lost from the deep recesses of a smile from long ago

The day you fled, escaping the rain

Someone stood beside, holding the umbrella, shy and hesitant.

I search for the winter once more

Hoping to buy back the coldness you brought

And perhaps untangle the endless knots

Binding your love with my lost, broken heart.

This morning, my hand feels cold

It seems winter has chased away the last trace of autumn

The clouds are sorrowful, drifting quietly by

But I remain, alone with my thoughts, in solitude.

Where did the autumn go? It has disappeared into the mist

A leaf falls on the porch, marking its entry into winter

The garden displays a single white rose

Delicate, I almost mistake it for you, lost in the fog.

I search for the lines of poetry I once wrote

Long ago, etched with love beside the shores of longing

I ask if winter has returned

But why does the chill already fill my heart?

It seems the Lunar New Year is drawing near

As I listen, the scent of incense drifts in the breeze

Spring rain lightly falls, scattering tiny droplets

Grandmother wraps the sticky rice cake, preparing it for the feast.

The old man tends the fire in the courtyard

As the flames warm his hands, slowly bringing comfort

The rice cakes are boiled until the water runs low

The fragrant smoke rises, mingling with the warmth, stirring the soul.

Spring arrives, embracing the earth and sky

Peach blossoms fall gently by the doorstep

Sticky rice with gac fruit is prepared for the ancestral offering

The rooster is boiled, awaiting the stroke of midnight.

Mother heads out with a basket to collect the spring rain

The smell of fresh herbs fills the air, just harvested by father

It floats upward, under the glow of the red firelight

The aroma of the countryside herbs blends with the scent of spring's breeze.

The distant sound of bells can be heard

The Dâu Pagoda just lit incense this afternoon

I approach the monk to ask

For a fortune reading this New Year, to seek love and destiny.

This year, I leave the bustling city to go back to the village,

So the children can welcome spring and join the festival?

So they can remember their roots and learn to love our homeland.

I’ll go to the garden to pick lots of flowers,

Violet, pink roses, and chrysanthemums.

Along with a bunch of lilies and a few carnations,

I’ll arrange them into a beautiful vase for our ancestors’ offering.

Mom will sit outside and wrap rice cakes,

The four-fold wrapping technique making the leaves neat and tight.

The square cakes, perfectly wrapped,

Smell like love, sweet like Grandma’s traditional recipe.

I’ll light the stove to simmer the fish stew with pepper,

The smoke from the coal fire stings my eyes as it lingers.

The youngest one coughs lightly in the background,

Probably not used to the village’s rustic flavors.

Meanwhile, Dad is chopping branches to set up the New Year’s tree,

Red couplets are pasted on both sides of the gate.

The peach blossom tree blossoms, its pink petals shining bright,

The whole world is filled with the joyful sounds of spring.

Then, we’ll visit relatives to wish them a happy New Year,

With the same excitement as when we were little.

The kids eagerly collect red envelopes from behind Mom,

Thanking everyone with joy that fills the house.

Let’s return to the village for Tet, my love!

The chrysanthemums outside the porch have begun to bloom with their first buds,

Bright red like velvet, glowing in various shades of crimson.

They resemble the warmth of the fire on New Year's Eve,

That still warms my heart to this day.

I wonder if Mom has fallen asleep tonight,

Or is she anxiously waiting for me to return for the New Year?

Every year, she makes the square cakes,

And eats them all by herself until after the New Year ends.

Each time, I unintentionally break my promise to return for spring.

People often joke, saying, "I’ll marry you off nearby,

Just make sure to bring me soup every day, dear."

A tear silently falls from my weary eyes,

As I break my word, far from the happiness she wished for me.

Uncle Tu Gu passed away just last night,

The house is quiet with only a few neighbors around.

The children from far away just arrived in the morning,

Only in time to say their last goodbye to Mom this afternoon.

I stand still, gazing at the far horizon,

Over the fields where Mom carried rice seedlings on her back,

The late winter rains are cold and biting,

With muddy feet and hands planting rice through the season.

Suddenly, a pang of longing hits, wishing for spring to come quickly,

For that moment when I can rush back to her side,

Holding a bouquet of flowers, planted by my own hands,

"Sorry, Mother, I owe you all the springtime."

To love is to never give up,

Just like the red flowering trees that bloom every March.

I wait alone on the same old path,

Underneath the road where promises once lived by the riverside.

The flowers bloom white, representing the dreams of a young girl,

Where are you, my love, so far away in some distant place?

The cold wind blows, tangling the strands of hair,

No matter how I comb it, the thread of longing remains tangled.

March brings tears, but not from my own sorrow,

A droplet of sadness touches the delicate petals,

A small bird startles, flying away in haste,

Leaving behind the season forgotten on the fluttering leaves.

I’ve called your name so many times in silence,

A name I thought was only mine,

Just like every March, when it arrives on time,

The flowers bloom white, bursting with a thousand beautiful buds.

Yesterday, you came to visit Mom,

Washing your hair with fragrant lime leaf water,

The white blossoms bloomed along the fence,

And memories of us came rushing back.

Back then, the village school was far away,

I walked across the Chuong field,

It was by chance that we made our promise,

Because you were too shy, we walked the same path.

For so many years of school,

You were like a bodyguard walking by my side,

Protecting me from all the flirtatious remarks,

And I never once returned a glance of affection.

You knew I loved white flowers,

So you picked one and gave it to me,

Mom said this type is very special,

It’s known to make your hair smooth and shiny.

Flustered, you went to the neighbor's house,

And somehow, my heart skipped a beat,

Suddenly, I saw you with someone else,

Riding past me, leaving without a word.

The lime tree is much taller now,

With lovely purple buds covering the garden,

That day, you returned and replanted it,

And the sadness on my lips lingered.

Whoever said love is silent,

But the flowers and fireworks spoke loudly one afternoon,

Your hair flowing in white veils,

And I silently kept my unspoken love.

Later, I overheard friends whispering,

"Beauty fades quickly, who knew?"

Now you are alone, raising your child,

And I feel the ache in my chest,

The wandering heart suddenly feels heavy,

The lime blossoms bloom at the gate,

Do you still want to wash your hair with them?

Tomorrow I'll return, has mother dried the betel leaves?

The well water is boiling, preparing for a wash

I will pick some pomelo leaves from the garden

My hair will flow smoothly, a fragrance of the fields will fill the air.

Tomorrow I will stop by the eastern rice paddies

Picking purple flowers for medicine to bring back to mother

The small five-colored flowers from the countryside

They quickly treat sinusitis, a miraculous remedy.

Tomorrow I will visit the chickens, remember the previous day

A bunch of chicks have just hatched

The corn and cassava mother grew are now strong and full

I’ll bring some wormwood for a delicious dish.

Tomorrow I will search for fragrant honeygrass

For my grandmother to enjoy its sweet and soft fragrance

Though I've been far away for many years

The corn fields by the banks still grow abundantly.

Tomorrow I will meet my sister to cook noodle soup

Father just called, the crabs are in season

The water spinach and herbs are thriving, green and lush

The fragrant herbs are growing all around the house.

Why did I marry so far away, causing mother's eyes to fill with tears

Hiding late-night sighs, watching the lone moon in the sky

Quietly holding back the heartache for my parents

May tomorrow be a fresh start for us all.

The rooster's call echoes through the window

A tall cart filled with vegetables rolls from the fields into the yard

Sweet potato greens, water spinach, and celery

The mustard greens are fresh, vibrant, and full of life.

The whole family gathers to sort the harvest

Mother swiftly works, no one can match her speed

She heads to the garden to gather a few more pumpkin vines

Father brings back a bundle of delicious fresh greens.

My brother just cut down a bunch of green bananas

The bunch is large, heavy with fruit, saved for the ancestor's ceremony

This cluster is unique—curved and uneven

Exactly nineteen fruits, the red bananas are beautiful and ripe.

A day away from the city, back to the village

I feel like the clumsy child I once was

My heart aches, longing for the hammock's gentle sway

As grandmother sings, lulling me to sleep on warm afternoons.

At the end of the village, a distant temple bell rings

It seems like the village below has lost a buffalo...

He disobeyed and set off to build a life far away

The bamboo whip that father used still bears the mark on the edge of the bed.

The sharp tip of the whip pierced deep into my heart

Mother quickly hid it, tucking it away in the back room.

Suddenly, you blink, and everything has changed

Not long after, you’ll marry and move to a distant land.

But the person remains as silent as a shadow

Mother's back is hunched, father’s hair turning gray, waiting for you.

So many more springs have passed in a flash

I long for Tet to come back, to be with mother again.

Father sits there, silent, tears long dried

His eyes blurred, staring far into the distance.

You return unexpectedly on the last day of the year

Your hands tremble as you light incense for the ancestors.

Behind the house, beneath a slumped back

Is the old bamboo whip, carefully hidden by mother.