Một bài thơ: Recent Episodes
Một bài thơ
Chào bạn, thính giả của Một bài thơ.
Cám ơn bạn đã nghe nhiều bài thơ được đọc lên trong năm 2022 của Bơ và Hải.
Podcast này xem thử Anchor x Spotify đã thu thập được gì từ người nghe suốt năm qua. Hai host lí giải sự ra đời và mong muốn ban đầu của Một bài thơ.
Tên bài thơ hot nhất trong năm trên podcast này được tiết lộ.
Và cuối cùng, Bơ đã đọc một bài thơ mới để xông đất cho podcast này.
Hẹn gặp lại thính giả qua nhiều bài thơ nữa.
Do not try to serve
the whole world
or do anything grandiose. Instead, create
a clearing
in the dense forest
of your life
and wait there
patiently,
until the song
that is yours alone to sing
falls into your open cupped hands and you recognize and greet it. Only then will you know
how to give yourself
to the world
so worthy of rescue.
Out Beyond Ideas by Rumi Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase ‘each other’
doesn’t make any sense.
Music: All in a Garden Green (String Trio Version) by Axletree
This poem is an excerpt from the book Nonviolent Communication: A Language of Life by Marshall B. Rosenberg.
I never feel more given to
than when you take from me –
when you understand the joy I feel
giving to you.
And you know my giving isn’t done
to put you in my debt,
but because I want to live the love
I feel for you.
To receive with grace
may be the greatest giving.
There’s no way I can separate
the two.
When you give to me,
I give you my receiving.
When you take from me, I feel so
given to.
thức dậy vào ngày đầu tháng một /
Thức dậy vào ngày đầu tháng một
Thì có gì khác với tháng mười hai?
Có giống như Chủ nhật được nghỉ
Và mình đi học vào thứ Hai?
Thức dậy vào ngày đầu tháng một
Thì năm cũ mới là hôm qua
Và hôm qua của hôm qua nữa
Sao không đếm tiếp tháng mười ba?
Thức dậy vào ngày đầu tháng một
Tờ lịch bảo là năm mới rồi
Tất cả mọi người đều đồng ý
Mười ba đành đổi thành một thôi
Vậy đếm lại bắt đầu từ một
Giống như chơi ván mới đó mà
Giờ tớ chơi giỏi hơn rồi nhá
Vì tớ lớn thêm một tuổi mà.
CONVERSATION
This conversation is like a long walk
together in the autumn woods.
Mossy silence of shadow, eloquent longing
of birds, thunder softened by distance.
A stag crosses the trail up ahead,
wildness we had thought extinct.
Leaves, the shades of earth, fall at our feet,
gifts from the wind we have to accept.
And now, just at goodbye, where the trail
divides,
sudden pathos of sweet rain.
When you are
a scientist,
ask what
and when
and how
and where
and why, why, why.
When you are
a scientist
read,
and watch,
and think,
and write,
and try, try, try.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
My daughter
wouldn’t hurt a spider
That had nested
Between her bicycle handles
For two weeks
She waited
Until it left of its own accord
If you tear down the web I said
It will simply know
This isn’t a place to call home
And you’d get to go biking
She said that’s how others
Become refugees isn’t it?
A poem from a cool friend I met on the road. H.
Dawn, a new day,
Looking at the mirror reflecting myself,
some things,
Just be confused,
Day by day.
At the end of the day, the heavens left our line of intersection,
I don't hate it, I like you a lot,
Nodded and smiled,
Playing around,
Fireworks burst up,
Fleeting,
There is separation again,
There is always a bottom to the matter,
The brain is overloaded with memories,
The heart can't calm down.
Still tell yourself,
tell myself,
It's a passerby who blinks and rubs shoulders on the road,
Strangers waiting for the bus together under the stop sign,
It's the stranger who is napping next door in the cabin,
Nothing more,
meet by chance,
Leaning to see off the guests.
Small again and again,
Not invisible,
Just make an appointment again,
Destiny entangles itself,
Float back with the edge.
Sleepy, sleepy,
It was dark, dry in the tawny halo from the night light,
Listen to the clock ticking ticking...ticking
I just kind of care about not having you by my side.
Lord, who am I to teach the way
To little children day by day,
So prone myself to go astray?
I teach them KNOWLEDGE, but I know
How faint they flicker and how low
The candles of my knowledge glow.
I teach them POWER to will and do,
But only now to learn anew
My own great weakness through and through.
I teach them LOVE for all mankind
And all God’s creatures, but I find
My love comes lagging far behind.
Lord, if their guide I still must be,
Oh let the little children see
The teacher leaning hard on Thee.
Happy Teacher Day!
B.
Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—
the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,
the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me
and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.
The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,
and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.
Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk
Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts
but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;
I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,
I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back
and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorrieslike wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.
Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?
You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.
I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:
trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.
In out-of-the-way places of the heart,
Where your thoughts never think to wander,
This beginning has been quietly forming,
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.
For a long time it has watched your desire,
Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,
Noticing how you willed yourself on,
Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.
It watched you play with the seduction of safety
And the gray promises that sameness whispered,
Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,
Wondered would you always live like this.
Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And out you stepped onto new ground,
Your eyes young again with energy and dream,
A path of plenitude opening before you.
Though your destination is not yet clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is at one with your life’s desire.
Awaken your spirit to adventure;
Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;
Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,
For your soul senses the world that awaits you.
Cuộc sống có nghĩa gì
Khi bầy cá dạy nhau cách sống chan hoà
trong vũng nước đọng
Cuộc sống có ý nghĩa gì
Nếu thời gian phân ra làm dành cho người ta - của riêng mình
Cuộc sống có ý nghĩa gì
Khi nói mình không có thời gian
Mình đã bao giờ có
Giống như người chèo thuyền
Chưa từng có dòng sông
Giống như người bộ hành
Chưa từng có mặt đất.
Một người đang sống
Không có thời gian
Chỉ nồng ấm đi và mát mẻ chèo
Thế đấy
Nếu cuộc sống có nghĩa, là có gì trên đoạn thời gian của một đời người
Hẳn nó có nghĩa là hoa trên đường đi với người bộ hành
Là bầy cá dưới dòng nước với người chèo thuyền
Là tất cả những gì xảy đến
Được nhìn với ánh mắt đẹp tươi
Là tất cả những gì xảy ra
Khi ta không chèo thuyền xoay vòng và đi quanh gốc cây.
Rồi cũng mất đi
bởi Nguyễn Phong Việt
Rồi cũng mất đi
những năm tháng từng nghĩ chẳng cần gì
Một con người để mình vui hay không buồn dù có lắm hoài nghi
về yêu thương như thế nào là bền chặt
có đêm nằm im nghe ngoài kia những hội hè thức trắng
pha cho mình một tách café đắng
rồi lại ngủ quên
Những năm tháng vẫn hay nói với mọi người rằng đang rất chênh vênh
nhưng thật ra cuộc đời chỉ toàn là ảo tưởng
không cố gắng ước mơ điều mà trái tim mong muốn
chỉ cố gắng làm điều mọi người thích
để tìm sự sẻ chia
Hết bình minh và hết những ngày gió lùa
vẫn cứ thấy mình nằm yên trong chăn gối
ngại thứ gì đó có thể đánh đổi
như ngại một tiếng nói
- mình có đang sống hay không?
Những năm tháng mơ mộng được thấy chỉ mùa đông
được khăn áo giống con người sâu sắc
đến cuối cùng nhìn mình trong một bức hình đơn giản
với một nụ cười trong đáy mắt
lại bình yên
Rồi cũng mất đi
những năm tháng mình nhìn đâu cũng thấy ưu phiền.
không cần biết mình là ai, để sống
viết bởi Nhược Lạc
không cần biết mình là ai, để sống
tôi đã được thương từ trước khi chào đời
tôi nối dài lòng mẹ tới muôn khơi
dưới trời sáng, tôi vươn mình lớn bổng
chân tôi dán vết mộc trên đường mới
tay hái rau, tắm chó và ôm mèo
hàng cây luôn ở đó đợi tôi leo
không cần thiết xuất trình lời triết lý
Chúa cho phép tôi sống đời vô vị
và mọi người ai cũng được phép cho
khi trời rét tôi nằm lại co ro
tôi được phép buồn dù không hiểu rõ
và em được phép ra câu hỏi khó
mãi mãi sau này tôi có giải được đâu
tôi chậm rãi đi trên những cây cầu
chưa hiểu hết,
những phố dài đã mất
chỉ còn lá trên đoạn ngày trước mắt
tất bật xanh, đâu biết mình là ai.
Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.”
Poem Without an End
by Yehuda Amichai
translated by Chana Bloch
Inside the brand-new museum
there’s an old synagogue.
Inside the synagogue
is me.
Inside me
my heart.
Inside my heart
a museum.
Inside the museum
a synagogue,
inside it
me,
inside me
my heart,
inside my heart
a museum
Oh, the coming-out-of-nowhere moment
when, nothing
happens
no what-have-I-to-do-today-list
maybe half a moment
the rush of traffic stops.
The whir of I should be, I should be, I should be
slows to silence,
the white cotton curtains hanging still.
Flour on the floor makes my sandals
slip and I tumble into your arms.
Too hot to bake this morning but
blueberries begged me to fold them
into moist muffins. Sticks of rhubarb
plotted a whole pie. The windows
are blown open and a thickfruit tang
sneaks through the wire screen
and into the home of the scowly lady
who lives next door. Yesterday, a man
in the city was rescued from his apartment
which was filled with a thousand rats.
Something about being angry because
his pet python refused to eat. He let the bloom
of fur rise, rise over the little gnarly blue rug,
over the coffee table, the kitchen countertops
and pip through each cabinet, snip
at the stumpy bags of sugar,
the cylinders of salt. Our kitchen is a riot
of pots, wooden spoons, melted butter.
So be it. Maybe all this baking will quiet
the angry voices next door, if only
for a brief whiff. I want our summers
to always be like this—a kitchen wrecked
with love, a table overflowing with baked goods
warming the already warm air. After all the pots
are stacked, the goodies cooled, and all the counters
wiped clean—let us never be rescued from this mess.
Anxiety: A Ghost Story by Brenna Twohy
We have got to talk about the kids
in all those Goosebumps books.
For example,
if your family vacation
is to an amusement park
called HORRORLAND,
and your station wagon explodes
in the parking lot upon arrival,
maybe
shrugging it off,
buying an extra large popcorn,
and heading straight for
The Deadly Doom Slide
is not your best possible
course of action.
Or,
if you steal a weird camera
from your creepy neighbor’s basement
and every picture you take
shows bad things happening,
like decapitation
and Tofurkey,
and then all the bad things
from the pictures
start happening,
Stop Taking Pictures.
Or,
if you move into your new house
and there are a bunch of small children already living in your bedroom
that your parents cannot see,
maybe,
don’t just grab a juice box
and go play in the cemetery
that
is
in
your
backyard.
Or,
when I tell you of the ghosts
that live inside my body;
When I tell you
I have a cemetery in my backyard
and in my front yard
and in my bedroom;
When I tell you
trauma is a steep slide
you cannot see the bottom of,
that my anxiety is a camera
that shows everyone I love as bones,
when I tell you
panic is a stubborn phantom,
she will grab hold of me
and not let go for months–
this is the part of the story
when everyone is telling you to run.
To love me
is to love a haunted house–
it’s fun to visit once a year,
but no one wants to live there,
and when you say,
“Tell me about the bad days,”
it sounds like all the neighborhood kids daring each other to ring the doorbell,
you love me
like the family walking through Horrorland holding hands–
You are not stupid,
or careless,
or even brave,
you’ve just never seen
the close-up of a haunting.
Darling,
this love will not cure me.
And this love will not scrape
the blood from the baseboards,
but it will turn all the lights on,
it will bring basil
back from the farmer’s market
and it will plant it in every windowsill,
it is the kind of love
that gives me goosebumps,
when you say to the ghosts,
“If you’re staying,
then you better make room,”
and we kiss against the walls
that tonight are not shaking,
so we turn the music up
and we dance to Miles Davis,
and you say,
“My god,
this house.
The way that it stands
even on the months
that no one goes into
or comes out of it.”
How reckless, the way that I love
like the first chapter of a ghost story.
Like the gentlest hand
reaching out of a grave.
You work with what you are given,
the red clay of grief,
the black clay of stubbornness going on after.
Clay that tastes of care or carelessness,
clay that smells of the bottoms of rivers or dust.
Each thought is a life you have lived or failed to live,
each word is a dish you have eaten or left on the table.
There are honeys so bitter
no one would willingly choose to take them.
The clay takes them: honey of weariness, honey of vanity,
honey of cruelty, fear.
This rebus—slip and stubbornness,
bottom of river, my own consumed life—
when will I learn to read it
plainly, slowly, uncolored by hope or desire?
Not to understand it, only to see.
As water given sugar sweetens, given salt grows salty,
we become our choices.
Each yes, each no continues,
this one a ladder, that one an anvil or cup.
The ladder leans into its darkness.
The anvil leans into its silence.
The cup sits empty.
How can I enter this question the clay has asked?
Go gently.
B.
butterfly
life is like
when you're
a little kid
and you
discover that
there is more
than twenty-four
crayons in the box
that there is
the possibility
of forty-eight colors
of sixty-four
of one-hundred and twenty
that there are
so many shades
of love and anger
and peace and despair
and absolute bliss
and the ability
to express them all
are now
in the palm
of your hand
life is
colorful
beautiful
thought-provoking
lovely
soulful
heartbreaking
inspiring
and absolutely wonderful
every day is
a new sunrise
a new chance
to transform into
the butterfly you
want to be
go out there
and change the world, kid
Thank You
by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
It’s not as if the door can decide:
Open. Closed. Locked. Unhinged.
The door is ever at the mercy
of the hand on the knob,
the shoulder that smashes it,
the wind that abruptly slams it shut,
the smile that swings it wide as noon.
Long ago, I learned every moment
has a door, and that those doors
never open themselves. That is why,
standing here, I am astonished
to see, through no effort of my own,
a door swings open. And how sweet
the surprise when I see
on the other side of the knob,
your hand.
First forget what time it is
for an hour
do it regularly every day
then forget what day of the week it is
do this regularly for a week
then forget what country you are in
and practice doing it in company
for a week
then do them together
for a week
with as few breaks as possible
follow these by forgetting how to add
or to subtract
it makes no difference
you can change them around
after a week
both will help you later
to forget how to count
forget how to count
starting with your own age
starting with how to count backward
starting with even numbers
starting with Roman numerals
starting with fractions of Roman numerals
starting with the old calendar
going on to the old alphabet
going on to the alphabet
until everything is continuous again
go on to forgetting elements
starting with water
proceeding to earth
rising in fire
forget fire
For What Binds Us
by Jane Hirshfield
There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they've been set down—
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.
And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There's a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,
as all flesh,
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest—
And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend.
The artwork is inspired by the orbital sunrise drawing of cosmonaut Alexei Leonov. Interestingly, blue and orange create a dark line in between. With that and the poem in mind, my hope for us all is to be authentic in who we are, and to allow old scars from clashes with life bind us, rather than keep us apart.
B.
copyright ©Alice Oswald 2016
It is the story of the falling rain
to turn into a leaf and fall again
it is the secret of a summer shower
to steal the light and hide it in a flower
and every flower a tiny tributary
that from the ground flows green and momentary
is one of water’s wishes and this tale
hangs in a seed-head smaller than my thumbnail
if only I a passerby could pass
as clear as water through a plume of grass
to find the sunlight hidden at the tip
turning to seed a kind of lifting rain drip
then I might know like water how to balance
the weight of hope against the light of patience
water which is so raw so earthy-strong
and lurks in cast-iron tanks and leaks along
drawn under gravity towards my tongue
to cool and fill the pipe-work of this song
which is the story of the falling rain
that rises to the light and falls again
Famous
by Naomi Shihab Nye
The river is famous to the fish
The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.
The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.
The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.
The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.
The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.
The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.
I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.
I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.
--
May you be famous to the ones you hold dear.
B.
One Feature (Hands) by Carol Shlyakhova
“My friend once told me
she liked this guy because of his hands
And I found it absurd that anyone
would develop feelings over one feature,
and not care about the rest
It wasn’t until you used your hands
to cup the back of my neck the first time we kissed
and I could feel your firm grasp pull me closer,
and my insides exploded
and my head buzzed with bliss.
And the first night you slept over,
you fell asleep with your hand
laid over my stomach
and your fingers felt like a fire
that I didn’t mind burning my skin.
The first time we got drunk,
was the first time you played with my hair,
and my god I was hooked,
I’d drink forever if it meant you’d never stop.
And in public you’d hold my hand,
and rub your thumb in little circles
that left me wanting you more,
no matter what you would never let me go,
I was glued to you,
and I honestly didn’t mind
When we talked about breaking up,
you saw my lips quiver with fear,
and you brushed over my lips with your fingers
before pulling me into your lap
and you kissed me like never before.
With your hands on my hips
pulling me so close to you,
leaving no space in between us.
It was then I realized I never wanted you to go
It's now that,
I finally understand why hands
were the only feature that mattered.”
Giai đoạn Một B. dịch từ bản gốc tiếng anh Phase One viết bởi Dilruma Ahmed
Khi em để cửa tủ lạnh mở đêm qua, tôi tha thứ cho em. Khi em khẩn khoản cầu xin những tấm màn trắng thay vì sống cuộc đời của em.
Khi em gieo hạt cây con, nay đã nảy mầm trong những chiếc chậu bé tí xíu. Tôi tha thứ cho em. Khi em nói 'Không' rôi đổi thành 'Có' sau một chút nghĩ suy.
Tôi tha thứ cho những viễn cảnh khủng khiếp em vẽ sau khi sinh con, vì quá nhiều đêm mất ngủ. Và khi bé con thức giấc liên tục, lời khiển trách âm thầm của em
trong bóng tối: 'Cái quái gì với con vậy?' Tôi tha thứ cho em. Khi em để dây leo chiếm cứ hết khu vườn. Khi em sợ hãi thiêng hướng yên thương của chính mình.
Khi em lại làm mất túi xách trên đường về từ San Francisco; Khi em, cũng với bấy nhiêu đó lơ đễnh, lái chuyến xe quay lại chạy hoàn toàn bằng caffeine.
Tôi tha thứ cho em khi em để cửa sổ mở toang, trong mưa, và làm ướt sũng mấy cuốn sách thư viện, lại một lần nữa. Khi em
chỉ đưa ra những suy xét cũ xì đã được kiểm duyệt gắt gao thay vì những sự thật rối rắm. Tôi tha thứ cho em. Khi em chỉ thường hát
lúc tiếng vòi hoa sen nhận chìm giọng hát em. Khi em mê mẩn người chơi trống mà không hề nghe thấy điệu trống. Trong những chiếc lon thiếc bị lãng quên
mong sự tha thứ đong đầy. Chảy theo đường máng xối. Phun ra từ ống nước. Một cơn mưa trái olives đều đều từ những cành nhánh, nhẹ nhõm
khỏi những tàn nhẫn và nhỏ nhen. Cùng với nó, xôn xao đập cánh, mười ba con bồ câu xám. Thuốc mỡ để dành cho những người lành lặn và các nhà tiên tri. Tôi tha thứ cho em.
Tôi tha thứ cho em. Khi em thấy ngại ngùng và căng thẳng không vì một lý do gì. Khi em cam chịu "chiếc bình rỗng của Keats" bình tĩnh đến mức làm em lo lắng
liệu rằng, mình có chút tiêu chuẩn đạo đức nào không. Khi em quẳng cho mẹ sự khinh thường, trong khi bà đáng nhận lòng trắc ẩn. Tôi tha thứ cho em. Tôi tha thứ
cho em. Tôi tha thứ cho em. Khi em nuôi một tình yêu lớn mà có lẽ, tương xứng vô cùng với nỗi cô đơn trong em. Khi em không thể
tha thứ cho chính mình trước tiên để em có thể tha thứ cho người khác sau đó và cuối cùng là tìm cách để trở thành tình yêu mà em hằng mong nơi thế giới này.
-- Tôi tha thứ cho em, cho tôi, và cho phần tôi hay tự khiển trách mình. B.
-- *'Chiếc bình rỗng của Keats' là hình ảnh trong bài thơ Ode on a Grecian Urn của John Keats - một phép ẩn dụ khả dĩ cho cái đẹp (beauty), sự thật (truth) và bản chất hữu hạn của mọi điều, bao gồm cả cuộc đời con người.
(Pieces from the interview of the Fresh Air show on December 29, 2011 by NPR were put together. H.)
I'm not unhappy becoming old But it makes me cry when I see my friends go before me It's harder for us non-believers But you know, something I'm finding out as I'm aging that I am in love with the world.
As right now looking out from my window from my studio, I see my trees my beautiful hundreds of years old trees. They're beautiful. I can take time to see how beautiful they are It is a blessing to get old It is a blessing to find the time to do the thing to read the book to observe the beauty.
I'm not unhappy But I cry a lot because I miss people I cry a lot because they die and I can't stop them They leave me and I love them more
There are so many beautiful things in the world which I will have to leave when I die, but I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready.
I'm an happy old man but I will cry all the way to my grave. I wish you all the good things.
Live your life. Live your life. Live your life.
If you've got an hour,
Now's the time to share it.
If you've got a flower,
Wear it.
This is just the day.
If you've got a plan,
Now's the time to try it.
If you've got an airplane,
Fly it.
This is just the day.
It's the day for seeing all there is to see.
It's the day for being just you, just me.
If you've got a smile,
Now's the time to show it.
If you've got a horn,
Then blow it.
It's the minute to begin it.
This is just the day.
This is Just the Day! If you don't feel like it, that's alright. Tomorrow then.
B.
It's You I Like by Mr. Rogers
It's you I like.
It's not the things you wear
It's the way you do your hair
But it's you I like.
The way you are right now
The way down deep inside you
Not the things that hide you
Not your toys
They are just beside you.
But it's you I like.
Every part of you
Your skin, your eyes, your feelings
Whether old or new.
I hope that you'll remember
Even when you're feeling blue
That it's you I like
It's you yourself
It's you -
It's you I like.
H: Mừng ngày Esther's Day 3/8, ngày Non-Romantic Loves.
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
Singularity
by Marie Howe - Điểm kì dị
Do you sometimes want to wake up to the singularity
we once were?
so compact nobody
needed a bed, or food or money —
nobody hiding in the school bathroom
or home alone
pulling open the drawer
where the pills are kept.
*For every atom belonging to me as good
Belongs to you.* Remember?
There was no Nature. No
them. No tests
to determine if the elephant
grieves her calf or if
the coral reef feels pain. Trashed
oceans don’t speak English or Farsi or French;
would that we could wake up to what we were
— when we were ocean and before that
to when earth was sky, and animal was energy, and rock was liquid and stars were space and space was not
at all — nothing
before we came to believe humans were so important
before this awful loneliness.
Can molecules recall it?
what once was? before anything happened?
No I, no We, no one. No was
No verb no noun yet
only a tiny tiny dot brimming with
is is is is is
All everything home
Trong giấc mơ em nằm nghiêng
Cùng đàn sẻ tóc nâu
Và em nghiêng chút nữa
Bầu trời đi lộn đầu.
Trong giấc mơ em thích buồn
Vừa buồn lệ vừa dài
Nỗi buồn em sẽ chảy
Hai dòng dài rất dài.
Trong giấc mơ em làm anh
Một ông anh tay to
Nắm một đàn em nhỏ
Vừa nắm vừa than thở
Ôi đàn em dại khờ
Khuôn mặt đầy giấc mơ
(Ngu si mà thấy ghét...)
Bây giờ em vẫn nằm
Vừa nằm em vừa mơ
Em muốn nghiêng xuống nữa...
Em thích mình đau khổ
Đau khổ và nằm nghiêng
Khi nằm nghiêng em thấy
Đau khổ nhiều quá chừng..
Hôm qua em thức dậy
Đau khổ đã hết rồi
Buồn sao lại thế nhỉ
Không kéo dài hết đêm.
Trong mơ em thích cười
Nụ cười dài hai giây
Và một nụ đau khổ
Kéo dài hơn ban ngày.
Mẹ gọi em hai lần
Em trốn vào giấc mơ
Em đi đường cửa sổ
Em đi đường chim bay
Một con chim thật lớn
Lạc đường trong ban ngày.
Poem of the One World BY MARY OLIVER
This morning
the beautiful white heron
was floating along above the water
and then into the sky of this
the one world
we all belong to
where everything
sooner or later
is part of everything else
which thought made me feel
for a little while
quite beautiful myself.
Whenever you’re called on to make up your mind And you’re hampered by not having any, The best way to solve the dilemma, you’ll find, Is simply by flipping a penny.
No, not so that chance shall decide the affair While you’re passively standing there moping; But the moment the penny is up in the air You suddenly know what you’re hoping.
this poem was written by a polymath for when we cannot decide. B.
ở Saigon 24, bởi Mai Hà
https://maihabiham.wordpress.com/2017/03/24/o-saigon-24/
bài thơ này từng mang mình qua rất nhiều đoạn khó.
H
Out of every hundred people
those who always know better: fifty-two.
Unsure of every step: almost all the rest.
Ready to help, if it doesn't take long: forty-nine.
Always good, because they cannot be otherwise: four—well, maybe five.
Able to admire without envy: eighteen.
Led to error by youth (which passes): sixty, plus or minus.
Those not to be messed with: forty and four.
Living in constant fear of someone or something: seventy-seven.
Capable of happiness: twenty-some-odd at most.
Harmless alone, turning savage in crowds: more than half, for sure.
Cruel when forced by circumstances: it's better not to know, not even approximately.
Wise in hindsight: not many more than wise in foresight.
Getting nothing out of life except things: thirty (though I would like to be wrong).
Doubled over in pain and without a flashlight in the dark: eighty-three, sooner or later.
Those who are just: quite a few at thirty-five.
But if it takes effort to understand: three.
Worthy of empathy: ninety-nine.
Mortal: one hundred out of one hundred— a figure that has never varied yet.
On the Train, a Man Snatches My Book, Reads by Paige Lewis
On the train, a man snatches my book, reads the last line, and says I completely get you,
you're not that complex. He could be right--lately all my what ifs are about breath: what if
a glass-blower inhales at the wrong moment? What if I'm drifting on a sailboat
and the wind stops? If he'd ask me how I'm feeling, I'd give him the long version--I feel
as if I'm on the moon listening to the air hiss out of my spacesuit, and I can't find the rip. I'm
the vice president of panic and the president is missing. Most nights, I calm myself by listing
animals still on the least concern end of the extinction spectrum: aardvarks and blackbirds
are fine. Minnows thrive--though this brings me no relief--they can swim through sludge
if they have to. I don't think I've ever written the word doom, but nothing else fits.
Every experience seems both urgent and unnatural--like right now, this train
is approaching the station where my lover is waiting to take me to the orchard so we can
pay for the memory of having once, at dusk,
plucked real apples from real trees.
I asked the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of
thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though
I was trying to fool with them
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along
the Desplaines river
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with
their women and children and a keg of beer and an
accordion.
First Fig by Edna St. Vincent Millay
My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends⎯ It gives a lovely light!