April 14th, 2013
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Le Pham Le
RESETTLEMENT
Young couple with small child,
we arrive in San Francisco
one July afternoon,
summer grasses waving on the hills.
Why then do we feel
such a chill autumn wind?
Carrying one suitcase,
one affidavit of refugee status,
one outfit each
bought with money
loaned by a friend in the Malaysian camp,
at the end of the tunnel
of wasted youth, of obstacle after obstacle,
we arrive in America.
Our ragged clothes give us away
and our sponsors welcome us,
laughing, “You do look like refugees!”
At journey’s end,
uncertain, hesitant, we begin.
—from Rattle #21, Summer 2004
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April 13th, 2013
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Du Thi Hoan
BROKEN
Whenever you pull out the desk drawer, you leave it open
Whenever you write, you never cap the pen
Oh my darling, you’re so absent-minded
My wild forest deer
Everything should have happened smoothly
We should have become husband and wife
If we hadn’t taken a chance
A chance like we took tonight
When after a peaceful time
Enjoying ourselves on a stone bench at the park
You didn’t button my shirt over my breasts
—Translated by Ho Anh Thai & Wayne Karlin
—from Rattle #21, Summer 2004
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April 12th, 2013
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Lam Thi My Da
THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS AND I
Why only one
Why not two
One moon, one bloom in the sky
One elusive cereus
Exiled to earth
The moon, the bereft sky
Oh cereus, I sit and watch
One silent bloom
One yearning self
Do you know me
Noble one?
Come, let’s lift our glasses
Our wine is the moon
What we have, what we don’t—
Just this wine intoxicates
Here, cherished flower
Are two full glasses
I am alone tonight
With one lone cereus, one bloom
We reflect each other’s faces
Their sorrow and joy
Why only one
Why not two
Feeling seeps up
Through your deep roots
For a moment I wish to be
A night-blooming cereus
To mate with solitude
And make two
—Translated by Martha Collins and Thuy Dinh
—from Rattle #21, Summer 2004
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April 11th, 2013
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Phan Tien Duat
THE CHESS PLAYER
You were our village master at Vietnamese chess.
Now you play it Western style.
Rooks and knights and pawns look all the same,
Yet you lose at every try.
Somehow the bishop is not a bishop
And the king over there by the queen
calls up rules you should remember
and rules you should forget
on this odd board of strange moves.
So you lose but keep on playing
at Vietnamese and Western chess.
Look! Over in the garden a yellow butterfly
flaps along in unpredictable paths.
—Translated by John Balaban
—from Rattle #21, Summer 2004
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March 26th, 2013
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William Walsh
THE OLD ME
Tuesday there was a knock on the front door
that broke up my marriage with the mattress.
I felt compelled to answer
and there I was standing on the other side
of the door
through expensive cut glass
but thirty years younger.
Stepping outside to welcome
my 20/20 vision back where it belonged,
the younger me
threw a pie in my old face
then ran down the street
hooting and hollering
shedding articles
of clothing
until all I saw
was a firm
naked butt of a guy
I hardly remember.
He was much faster
but still, I ran after him
with chunks of pie falling
off my face (at least he remembered
peach) and I yelled out to him, “Wait!
There’s so much I need to tell you
about what to expect, especially
that girl from New Mexico.”
But he did not stop
and I don’t think he was listening.
Down the street
there was a beautiful young girl
running naked toward him,
her light brown hair
flowing everywhere.
And running behind her, an old bag
of a woman I slightly recognized.
The younger me drove off
with the younger her
in a yellow Volkswagen
convertible, Night Ranger
blaring out “Sister Christian”
from a pair of new speakers.
“Take me
with you,” I yelled.
Her hand gripped the knob
of the stick shift
and as he clutched,
she shifted gears
for him in perfect
automotive harmony.
They were laughing
—not at me—
but for the future.
—from Rattle #37, Summer 2012
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