Poetry - Stories
A collection of poems by Nguyen Truong Tho
Poet Tùng Bách selected and introduced
The six-eight verse form is the forte and strength of poet Nguyen Truong Tho. He is a member of the Vietnam Writers Association and currently lives in Vinh city. He has published four poetry collections:The silt settles, the love is quiet, placing my hand on the bronze drum's chest, on this side of autumn.It seems that Nguyen Truong Tho's poems written in the lục bát (six-eight) meter are considered his most successful.
The themes in Nguyen Truong Tho's poetry are broad, rich, and diverse. His poems always focus on origins, the country, the homeland, and the human condition.
Nghe An Weekend proudly presents a collection of representative lục bát poems by him.
Place your hand on the chest of the bronze drum.
Place your hand on the chest of the bronze drum.
To hear the echoes of a thousand years of Lac Hong
The tears that were streaming down my face subsided.
The bruised, purple bloodstain on My Chau's body has calmed down.
The goose feather trail still hurts.
Pure white, rising and falling amidst the vicissitudes of human life.
One hundred drums from my village
Fifty went to the sea, fifty went to the forest.
Hands clenched, eyes welling up with tears.
Promises of eternal love were made right here.
The country was impoverished in those times.
The children and grandchildren nurture and complete everything everywhere.
The oil ran out at night, the lamp flickered on during the day.
The king's decree unites his subjects in loyalty.
The rise and fall of a nation and its people.
Place your hand on the bronze drum's chest and listen!
People
It is a bamboo forest, a bamboo hedge.
The fresh green of young rice grains blends with the fragrance of lotus.
Like a drop of wick, like a flame
Poverty illuminates the struggle for food and clothing.
It is bitter, it is fragrant.
The distant fields, the shadows of straw, the shadows of the village
To be poor is to be rich
Muddy feet and dirty hands, yet glorious and prosperous.
It is the mother stream, it is the father mountain.
Our origins are our ancestors.
A dutiful daughter-in-law and a good son-in-law.
As children and grandchildren, we are the continuation of the world.
White clouds, blue smoke
Diving into the rain and sunshine, dissolving into the crystal clear
Danger when the nation needs it
United in purpose, we will not hesitate to shed our blood and sacrifice our lives.
A remote island border region
Everywhere feels like home.
Humbly using the word "people"
May the nation's path remain steadfast for generations to come.
Smoke rising from burning fields
Waving as if with hands
Drive away all the carefree autumn breeze.
Pull the vastness down so close.
The stubble was burning fiercely, the unfinished parts still smoldering.
The field was a vibrant charcoal color.
The wind carried the smoke, dissolving it into the sky.
Mun's ashes remained with the people.
The season reminds us to cling tightly to the brown earth and never leave it.
New straw
The folds of the season remain smooth and flat.
After threshing the plump grains, then weed away the shriveled ones.
Sift more wheat grains daily.
The gentle breeze awakens the delicate clouds, signaling the arrival of autumn.
It feels ticklish and rough on the hands.
In the windy fields, straw is spun quickly.
The fragrant herbs settle gently.
Filled with golden sun-drenched tubes on an autumn day.
The crane's shadow rises high
(Offering incense to pay respects to Mr. Nguyen Cong Tru)
Autumn brings a gentle breeze.
The season brings a touch of cold, held in hand, weaving and weaving.
At noon, there was the sound of someone joking.
The sun and clouds come to embroider and then go.
Even mossy palms migrate.
The wind howled through the pine trees, carrying the sound of a storm.
The sea is calm and less turbulent.
Rich or poor, the country roads are paved smoothly and abundantly.
The crane's shadow soars high above the clouds.
Before the temple, the midday sun casts its light, marking the day.
Reclaiming land for cultivation.
The upright, honest, and arrogant Cung* is here.
______________________
(*Củng: The nickname of Mr. Nguyễn Công Trứ)
Quyet Mountain
Scatter tiny rays of sunlight
The pine forest on the mountain shines brightly in the morning light.
Passing through the vast expanse of green
The wind whispers, its gentle melodies echoing.
Having gone through so many ups and downs.
Mountains forge mountains, people wield unwavering courage.
The sounds of bombs and gunfire are old and familiar.
The gentle, warm Lao wind and warm sunshine create a tranquil atmosphere.
The Quang Trung Temple commemorates the lineage.
For a thousand years, Mount Quyet has remained glorious in our hearts.
Sailboat
The deep blue silk ribbon drifts away
The alluvial soil has enriched the cradle, and the seasons have arrived.
The pig spreads its talisman wide.
Let Thu slowly embroider with longing and affection.
Coming here, one might think impermanence has ended.
The storm also blocked roads, causing torrential rain.
The shimmering river carries a veil of sadness.
My heart still longs for the sails of days gone by.
Place your hand on the chest of the bronze drum.
To hear the echoes of a thousand years of Lac Hong
The tears that were streaming down my face subsided.
The bruised, purple bloodstain on My Chau's body has calmed down.
The goose feather trail still hurts.
Pure white, rising and falling amidst the vicissitudes of human life.
One hundred drums from my village
Fifty went to the sea, fifty went to the forest.
Hands clenched, eyes welling up with tears.
Promises of eternal love were made right here.
The country was impoverished in those times.
The children and grandchildren nurture and complete everything everywhere.
The oil ran out at night, the lamp flickered on during the day.
The king's decree unites his subjects in loyalty.
The rise and fall of a nation and its people.
Place your hand on the bronze drum's chest and listen!
People
It is a bamboo forest, a bamboo hedge.
The fresh green of young rice grains blends with the fragrance of lotus.
Like a drop of wick, like a flame
Poverty illuminates the struggle for food and clothing.
It is bitter, it is fragrant.
The distant fields, the shadows of straw, the shadows of the village
To be poor is to be rich
Muddy feet and dirty hands, yet glorious and prosperous.
It is the mother stream, it is the father mountain.
Our origins are our ancestors.
A dutiful daughter-in-law and a good son-in-law.
As children and grandchildren, we are the continuation of the world.
White clouds, blue smoke
Diving into the rain and sunshine, dissolving into the crystal clear
Danger when the nation needs it
United in purpose, we will not hesitate to shed our blood and sacrifice our lives.
A remote island border region
Everywhere feels like home.
Humbly using the word "people"
May the nation's path remain steadfast for generations to come.
Smoke rising from burning fields
Waving as if with hands
Drive away all the carefree autumn breeze.
Pull the vastness down so close.
The stubble was burning fiercely, the unfinished parts still smoldering.
The field was a vibrant charcoal color.
The wind carried the smoke, dissolving it into the sky.
Mun's ashes remained with the people.
The season reminds us to cling tightly to the brown earth and never leave it.
New straw
The folds of the season remain smooth and flat.
After threshing the plump grains, then weed away the shriveled ones.
Sift more wheat grains daily.
The gentle breeze awakens the delicate clouds, signaling the arrival of autumn.
It feels ticklish and rough on the hands.
In the windy fields, straw is spun quickly.
The fragrant herbs settle gently.
Filled with golden sun-drenched tubes on an autumn day.
The crane's shadow rises high
(Offering incense to pay respects to Mr. Nguyen Cong Tru)
Autumn brings a gentle breeze.
The season brings a touch of cold, held in hand, weaving and weaving.
At noon, there was the sound of someone joking.
The sun and clouds come to embroider and then go.
Even mossy palms migrate.
The wind howled through the pine trees, carrying the sound of a storm.
The sea is calm and less turbulent.
Rich or poor, the country roads are paved smoothly and abundantly.
The crane's shadow soars high above the clouds.
Before the temple, the midday sun casts its light, marking the day.
Reclaiming land for cultivation.
The upright, honest, and arrogant Cung* is here.
______________________
(*Củng: The nickname of Mr. Nguyễn Công Trứ)
Quyet Mountain
Scatter tiny rays of sunlight
The pine forest on the mountain shines brightly in the morning light.
Passing through the vast expanse of green
The wind whispers, its gentle melodies echoing.
Having gone through so many ups and downs.
Mountains forge mountains, people wield unwavering courage.
The sounds of bombs and gunfire are old and familiar.
The gentle, warm Lao wind and warm sunshine create a tranquil atmosphere.
The Quang Trung Temple commemorates the lineage.
For a thousand years, Mount Quyet has remained glorious in our hearts.
Sailboat
The deep blue silk ribbon drifts away
The alluvial soil has enriched the cradle, and the seasons have arrived.
The pig spreads its talisman wide.
Let Thu slowly embroider with longing and affection.
Coming here, one might think impermanence has ended.
The storm also blocked roads, causing torrential rain.
The shimmering river carries a veil of sadness.
My heart still longs for the sails of days gone by.
