The Viet Nam Literature Project - VNLP

Flowers of Hell By Nguyen Chi Thien Translated by Nguyen Ngoc Bich Here are one poem from each of the years represented in Flowers of Hell, the manuscript which brought Nguyen Chi Thien fame around the world.  They follow the poet from his early days in Hai Phong, through the few years of his first incarceration, out briefly into the prison-like ambience of Communist Viet Nam at war, and back into labor camp. Every Day I Would Go Every day I would go to the tea shop At a time when it is almost deserted I would pick a table in the innermost corner Where I could sit by myself reading the paper and brewing I don�t give too much attention to the news As I flip over the pages then leave the paper alone I would sit back almost as a manner of relaxation Not letting my mind be burdened by any thought Out of habit I would smoke but hardly feel the taste Only sighing quietly from time to time Or shaking my head in an attempt to shake away The images blurred and rather melancholic Of a meaningless life, almost thrown away. 1958 I Used To Go By I used to go by a street Where there used to be a blind man with holes for eyes He did not even wear glasses, and his deformed mouth Did its best to blow on a pipe, with veins showing on his neck His dying breath produced syncopated wails As he tried to play those nonsensical songs singing The Party for having brought Light and Happiness! One early morning, he seemed to have a spell of dizziness And fell to the ground, with his pipe flying to the side I rushed over to try to help him sit up He could only mouth softly: O God, I�m so hungry! 1959 If Tomorrow I Have to Die If tomorrow I have to die I still would not regret my springtime Life no doubt is lovely, inestimable But suffering has taken its toll � gone is the best part In the deserted night I look at the distant stars And let my soul drift into the past For a minute I am oblivious to the cruel reality And forget all about hunger, cold & bitterness� History takes me back in time To that golden age of sumptuous pavilions & palaces To scenes of success at the imperial exams with long chaise and parasols To scenes of poor scholars reading through the night Once again, I find Confucians of integrity Who choose poverty and stay away from the cities Then I see virginal and virtuous country lasses Weaving silk on their looms near a pool with water jets In dream I witness joyous festivals And paddy threshing on golden moonlit nights Images I tenderly nurture in my heart Where there still lingers the echo of immense river calls And the smooth clip of a shuttle going back & forth I love the forests dense and dark Full of dangers and secrets, exuding with life I love also and miss the gongs that give the alarm Sinister-looking thieves� dens & the path thereto Scenes of war with horses neighing & troops clamoring Also fascinate me, bewitch my soul! Why I do so, I know full well That in old days there were emperors & mandarins That life was riddled with injustice Why is it that I dream only of the better facets, That only glories of the past seep through to my poetry? That I am forgetting the seamier side? Can it be that life today Is filled with poison in its very innards Whereas the old society�s defects were mere pimples? 1960 The Sun is Up The Sun is up, and summer is here And a terminalia tree stands in the middle of the courtyard The prisoners bring out their blankets and clothes To dry them on the high wires strung all over the yard Their clothes and beddings are of course not new For the most part they are in tatters and faded colors But these people, in their condition Tenderly caress them, thinking of tomorrow Suddenly I feel an indescribable feeling As I think of the days and months that go by For all these things that are drying in the sun Only mean a sad winter is coming in my case. 1961 I Want to Live I want to live with Wu Sung the tiger-fighter With Guan Yunzhang � red face, black beard Become a musketeer and make friends with Athos And his buddies, d�Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis! I want to find Palestine where Christ was buried And go crusading together with Ivanhoe Live one thousand and one nights in the palace Built by the lamp genie so that Aladdin could get married Cross over to the American wildernesses And go treasure-hunting on a sled with Jack London I want to go to Russia and banquet with the tsar Converse with Andrei one evening on a river bank And walk with Pechorin in the Caucasus Have pistol & sword duels and dance to the last Meet with Dostoevsky in a sleepless night Sitting by a samovar and ignoring the snow Offering words of sympathy to the student murderer Raskolnikov And urging Filipovna to marry the nice idiot Continuing my travels, I reach Spain Where I follow Don Quixote on his chivalric missions After a full life abroad, I�ll come home to our ancestral land Go to Lam Son to seek an audience with the Le king Sit and fish by Nguyen Khuyen in a country pond Discuss with Nguyen Du the issue of talent and fate conflicting In the painful and suffering life of Kieu Then I�ll go to Khan Xuan District to laugh with Xuan Huong Visit with Truong�s faithful wife in Nam Xuong District Listen to the flute playing fellow, Truong Chi, Sing his pain and dreams Follow the North Pacifying King as he launches the campaign To go into Thang Long of the Nung Mountain and the Red River I want to live plentifully & exhaustively Going back in time and in ancient history So that I can satiate my love of life Which in the present is being trampled & crushed In this life where yam and manioc are coveted items. 1962 My Mother My mother on anniversaries or festival days Is wont to put her hands together and pray for a long time Her old saffron dress has somewhat faded But I would see her take it out for the occasion My life being full of suffering and injustice Mother always has to pray for me A son who has seen a number of jail terms Causing tears to flow in streams on Mother�s cheeks. Sitting next to her, I find myself so small Next to the great vast love of my mother. Mother, I only have one real wish And that is, never to be far away from you! Now each time that you sit in prayer For your sick prisoner son in the deep jungle The old, fading saffron dress you wear Must be soaked with tears unending! 1963 Today May 19th Today the 19th of May In bed I was about to write a poem to cuss Him out The poetry started to smell like him When I stopped. For I thought A shitty politician like him Does not deserve My sweating To write poetry about Even though it may be to cuss Him. Even Marx His fucking ancestor Never did get a few lines from me! So why bother? Let the hacks with their prostituted pens Comb his beard, pat his head, caress his arse! So I went on to other business The hell with Him! 1964 My Heart My heart, that endless story, is something That only a child will understand, love and like He will not fully grasp its profundity or richness But will instinctively share its marvelous quality. My heart? It�s the pen, inkstand and paper tube Of a gentleman-scholar unlucky at the exams Left in a corner to gather dust and dream Of a homecoming procession with chaise and pennants streaming like a river! My heart? It�s a red hot pepper That not many of those used to sweet stuff Dare out of curiosity come close to get a taste For as soon as they lick it they have to pull right back. My heart? It�s a poor roadside inn with winds coming through the cracks Where only lost travelers stop for the night In the thick darkness, in the cold settling dew Missing their way, they will go there to find shelter And a little warmth coming from a tiny oil lamp. My heart is at the bottom of a vale but grass-matted Always ready to help those fallen on bad days Who from their heights used to belittle others To find themselves toppled one day. My heart? It�s an ancient palace Quietly mirroring in the shimmering water A few passers by will understand and bow their heads But no one will actually want to buy it! My heart originally was a mulberry field Which changed itself into a roaring sea Now it is no more than a dune Where the sandcrab has long ceased its work My heart can now be likened to a deep wet field That awaits the floodwaters & rains of July-August So that it can overflow into a thousand waves White-crested ones that will sweep everything away! 1965 I Am Back Again I am back again In the midst of this memory-laden room The atmosphere surrounding me seems quite excited After ten years away, filled with Hope and Time. . . Here I am, back again but a broken man Life is still miserable, exactly as it was before The difference?� My life is going into its sunset Hungry, poor, diseased. . . After ten years, I still find my water pipe But having no tobacco to plug in I sit idle, swallowing empty, melancholic smoke The bamboo bed sways because one of its supports is broken O how many nights of barren thoughts Thinking about food and clothes, washed with tears and tragedies My wooden table has gone rotten, eaten by termites Its drawers are full, though, with poetry! Verses of frustration vented at the world Written on yellowed paper, cockroach-eaten, with faded ink I had wished to visit moth-eaten lives and stories But my own soul, dark, humid, and smoke-black Has no ferment left to leaven them up! Late afternoon, tired out, I fall into a slumber In the room where there is gathering darkness In my disillusion I flop down on a chair: �Ten years and it�s the same thing, or worse!� Hungry mosquitoes wildly search for game And on the cracked lacquer commode A dazzled looking house lizard creeps out I open the commode and find hidden under a layer of dust Piles and piles of old newspapers and magazines I close it right away, so distraught was I: �Seven dimes a kilo, that�s the price of old newsprint.� Ten years of regrets for all the things I have lost Have all but crushed these cheating illusions. . . And the land of fertility I knew when young Is now parched, cracked, abandoned I have wasted so much sweat irrigating this land An immensity now reduced to a mere square yard! A light drizzle falls on the range of trees That are shorn of leaves now that it�s winter But the public speaker is still Blaring away some of those nonsense tunes. . . 1966 I Am Friends I am friends to a prostitute Who for lack of patrons is catching up on her sleep in the park I have nothing to say to her, to console her Except this overflowing sympathy, not in the least mingled with contempt I am a big brother to tiny little kids Who have to pick pockets here and there to go on living Ending up as jail birds despite their young age They can swear like ruffians but their mind is a pure blank page I am son to an embittered beggar Homeless, handicapped, living hand to mouth I invite him to a drinking bout And he cries buckets over his long lost past Me, in sum, I am a despondent heart Always in communion with fates mired in mud For I myself have on more than one occasion Undergone hunger and imprisonment and humiliation. 1967 I Will Visit Your Home I will visit your home and say To your wife and children that you are hungry all year round That you have grown old, with most of your teeth gone, but that you are very industrious Working day and night to get your puny share of corn! That you eat rice that is almost as hard as rock, out of a stone bowl! You try to swallow it but then, excrete the whole thing almost as is Your wife & children, nephews, nieces & grandchildren Would be ecstatic learning That you have progressed way beyond your past Living under this regime, our Democratic Republic! 1968 Alone I Walk In the heavy night alone I walk All doors are shut tight on the now immense street Bordered on the two sides with straight up trees Hanging their heads, lost Alone I walk on, aimlessly The dust of a drizzle falls Tears solitary since the stars weep in the sky! The wind stands still Breathless are the trees I wonder if this time next year I would still be walking in the shade of these same trees? Some animal whisks across the street noiselessly A cat maybe or a gutter rat My eyes are no longer what they used to be. . . Years ago whenever I felt depressed I would wander about, dream and think Now I no longer dream But I still think For thinking is more fun than sleeping. A couple of lovers walking close and whispering Do they know � I shudder � that they are walking On a road that has been ploughed up by tanks! A stretch of road that wise men, ancient and modern Have endeavored to erase with all their faith, in vain! My spindly frame casts a shadow A bit hunchbacked with loss of hair and an uncertain gait And bitter thoughts that all start with If As if about to throw a net Which makes me laugh (A smile that looks more like a twisted face!) A security car suddenly flashes two beam lights Goes past, and disappears in the distance O beam lights Where are you searching, directing your barbaric beams? Do you know how many homes have suffered because you have blasted open their peace? A night-car clackety clangs by Causing a streetwalker slumped on a stone bench To drop a foul expression in the middle of flowers (The flower garden originally was a temple in the French occupation period) Oh, thinking about the French occupation period One feels even sorrier for the streetwalkers All their lives going barefoot! The customerless pho vendor, too All these years has been dreaming chin on knees Dreaming of big, fat-dripping drumstick! (Tomorrow we shall have rice to eat) These streets smell good like some flowers That release perfume only during the night But life only goes after the fruit And the perfume seems out of place in the night. . . A huddle of skeletal figures on a raised platform The shining black entrance to some building Is a perfect copy of our present life! I look up to the sky The sky is hazy in the drizzle I look down at the earth And the earth is tear-drenched A clear intimation that the winter will go on Plunging its devilish, frosty teeth Into the flesh of mankind Who are allowed to smile only, not to cry! Piles of bricks and mortar are thrown here & there, pell-mell Old homes that are being torn down Homes that contained all that was needed Homes that our descendants will go back to Somehow the pho vendor comes back With his big, fat-dripping drumsticks! (Sure, my grandchildren will also have limbs!) Look, whose picture is that with the bloated faces O that�s the picture of some contractors Lousy draughtsmen, too, Who specialize in the drawing of horrible paradises in construction! (A hangman�s noose is missing around their necks!) O but I have forgotten an important truth And that is, at night Everything must rest Every eye must get its sleep Dead sleep! Let�s go home to sleep, and we can get up when the sun is up! 1969 My Verses My verses are in fact no verses They are simply Life�s sobbings Dark prison cells opening and shutting The dry cough of two caving in lungs The sound of earth coming down to bury dreams The exhumation sound of hoes bringing up memories The chattering of teeth in cold and misery The aimless contractions of an empty stomach The hopeless beat of a dying heart Impotence�s voice in the midst of collapsing earth All the sounds of a life not deserving half its name Or even the name of death: No verses are they! 1970 The Truly Great The truly great among the boxers To train themselves do not mind the pain They turn themselves into unconscious sandbags So that one day they can become champs The profession of writer is not unlike the boxer's He must be able to endure pain if he is to succeed Punches in the heart, punches miraculous That would produce ideas, thoughts, emotions. 1971 They Exiled Me They exiled me to the heart of the jungle Wishing to fertilize the manioc with my remains I turned into an expert hunter And came out full of snake wisdom and rhino fierceness. They sank me in the ocean Wishing that I would remain in the depths I became a deep sea diver And came up covered with scintillating pearls. They squeezed me into the dirt Hoping that I would become mire I turned instead into a miner And brought up stores of the most precious metal No diamond or gold, though The kind to adorn women�s baubles But uranium with which to manufacture the atom bomb. 1972 Red Power Red Power: we must be of one mind to crush it For if we let it roam, catastrophes will follow But since we cannot use the A or the H bomb To destroy the planet just because of these crooks One must write, thousands of us must write up About its colossal crimes however subtly camouflaged Should everybody in the world come to realize Its crimes, Communism will disintegrate of its own Since it was a product of stupidity and infantilism: Knowledge then will be its destroyer, its grave. 1973 How Ironic How ironic all these dead end alleys That purport to be the roads to the Ultimate Truth? This way to the Soviet Union, to China, to the U.S.! So they all trample on people�s heads to get there And the twentieth century becomes the goodbye century Hungry of rice but full of mass-killing bombs and prison lots The fat ones are only a few shameless ones Who lord it over everyone, be they pro-Russian, pro- Chinese or pro-the U.S.! 1974 My Poetry

There is nothing beautiful about my poetry It’s like highway robbery, oppression, TB blood cough There is nothing noble about my poetry It’s like death, perspiration, and rifle butts My poetry is made up of horrible images Like the Party, the Youth Union, our leaders, the Central Committee My poetry is somewhat weak in imagination Being true like jail, hunger, suffering My poetry is simply for common folks To read and see through the red demons’ black hearts

1975 In The Night

In this stifling night There lies in wait a sun! Unspoken suffering Hides nothing but thunder and lightning! In the starved and shivering millions Are a thousand armies! When a new era comes All will go off like an atom bomb. 1976

A larger selection of the Flowers of Hell in English are in print in two collections.  The bilingual Flowers from Hell, translated by Huynh Sanh Thong, is available from the Yale University Council on Southeast Asia Studies at http://www.yale.edu/seas/Vietpubs.htm.  Here we are using the translations of Nguyen Ngoc Bich from Hoa Dia Nguc: The Flowers of Hell, also a bilingual edition, which is available from Canh Nam bookseller, 2607 Military Road, Arlington, Virginia, 22207 USA, tel. (703) 525-4538.