Poem by Ma Giang Lan
Professor Ma Giang Lan, a researcher and lecturer in modern Vietnamese literature and poetry, is also known as the winner of the 1969 Literature and Arts Newspaper Poetry Prize. He has remained deeply committed to poetry, publishing numerous acclaimed poetry collections, describing it as "a poetic soul deeply immersed in life and humanity, gathering personal emotions to transform them into philosophical reflections on worldly affairs," and "a process of continuous experimentation and creation" (Dr. Nguyen Thi Nam Hoang)...
Poet Bui Sy Hoa selected and introduced
Think about the people
The people are the land.
In the beginning, it was an infinite, boundless land.
Wherever we go, we will always remember
The place where our home stands firmly.
The placenta is preserved by the earth.
The small ceramic urns that were left behind
Ancestor's will
The blades of grass rise from the green soil.
Rice and corn plants are flowering and bearing grain.
Once again, I entrust myself to the earth.
Under the shade of the garden trees
A thousand years of intoxicating fragrance
We lie and listen to the earth breathe.
Listen to the land tell its stories of joy and sorrow.
But above all, it's land that nourishes plants and grasses.
We raise corn and rice to eat.
The land belongs to the people.
A kind and steadfast mother
Years of incessant warfare
Land pirates, air pirates, and now sea pirates too!
The land silently provides shelter.
The children lie buried in a hundred different lands.
Cherishing the children who are scattered and displaced.
A place of rolling hills and deep forests
As long as the people have land, they have it.
The blood and bones of our ancestors are recorded.
The plowman reaps the harvest.
Land seekers and pioneers
Living in the village but possessing the spirit of the nation.
Preserve every inch of land, the rice plant, the banyan tree.
When the enemy comes, we will not retreat a single step.
The clouds dispersed, and the moon shone brightly before the house.
The people are the land.
What belongs to the people is immortal.
Look up at the blue sky
The dream is sparsely fruited.
March, the green season
When will it be sour?
April, golden eyes
The rain of the yellow apricot blossoms is heavy and sour.
Look up at the blue sky
The red fabric has faded along the roadside, hills, and valleys.
Only bare branches remain.
The pain of the cuckoo's call
The sky is blindingly blue.
Not a single breeze
A person with thin, uneven shoulders.
In July, the starfruit blossoms fall in abundance.
Is there anyone who is a parasite?
But the bitterness of longing remains.
The traveler
In Autumn
It's only the beginning of autumn now.
The sky is so clear and bright, yet it seems so gloomy and sad.
As for me, everything is unpredictable.
A single body and a single image still connect in the evening.
My lonely soul has been wandering ever since.
Existentialism is just beginning to see surrealism in the 20th dimension.
Measured, counted, and dosed.
Let go and abandon the steering wheel, letting things drift aimlessly.
Neither wise nor foolish.
Drifting aimlessly, one eventually reaches the shore of nothingness.
As the sun sets and the stars fade, I depart.
Returning to relive a ruined childhood.
One glass, two farewells, three partings.
Looking at the reeds shedding their golden leaves in autumn
The little buffalo herder
The golden afternoon glows on the windy embankment.
The buffaloes were engrossed in grazing.
The baby was silent.
In my hands, the book is open.
It was so quiet that the magpie kept hopping around.
on the buffalo's head like a friend
Unlike the afternoons in folk songs
There was the gentle sound of a kite flute.
An afternoon that few people cared about.
Even the buffalo-herding boy didn't care.
And I don't mind having dirty feet either.
The back of my shirt is stiff with dried sweat.
Where are these pages drawing you?
And the wide-brimmed straw hat on her head
Fluttering like a kite full of wind.
As if wanting to fly
Central region
Central Vietnam's scorching sun bathes temples and pagodas.
Wind blows through the tombs of the emperors.
The grandparents walked hand in hand for several seasons.
Overcoming the ramparts, the teacher endured hardships and broke through the land.
Still, the sand dunes stretch endlessly, turning hair white.
The waves still roared.
Still dense forests and jungles
You have to die a few times to live.
My parents have loved each other for a long time.
The Hien Luong River route
The children grew up chasing after thorny grass.
Hiding behind a cactus to go to school.
She wore a faded shirt and walked barefoot on quicksand.
Even clinging to the blue sky, the plants remain barren.
The moon remains thin all year round.
Central Vietnam is battered by storms and heavy rain.
Water pours from the sky, water rises from the fields and rice paddies.
Water fills the holes, mice crawl out.
Water fills the area, ants crawl up.
A few palm leaves fluttering in the breeze.
The rooftops are barely standing.
Yet, the harvests were still bountiful.
Central Vietnam spirit
Trapped between the sea and the forest.
Central Vietnam is forced to remain rooted to the spot in order to survive.
Central Vietnam must fly to survive.
