Tiếng Anh

The night we make offerings

I don't know what dad's dead cousin's name was.
The night we make the offerings for him,
winter rain is gloomily pattering down
and the younger relations, having nothing else to do,
gather in a side room where the floor's been heated
to gamble at cards or play chess.
From the lamplit verandah rises the sound
of a hand-mill churning out a slurry of green beans.
When our uncles arrive from their distant home,
their greatcoats full of the stink of grass,
we go out with lanterns and delve
into the roof-thatch after nestling sparrows.
Tonight's dad's cousin's offerings; winter rain
patters down in my heavy heart.
Dad's cousin spent a miserable short life
and I don't even know what his name was.

Party Day

Dad's cousin's been drunk and rowdy since daybreak.
Cheerless leaves are falling on the awning.
Women clustered in the back yard are making a fuss,
the excited bride's boasting about her new husband.
Have you forgotten? Dad's cousin's drunk and rowdy.
Have you forgotten the day your father died?

No point in listening to his stupid voice.
Finally a proper party comes alive beneath the marquee,
the excited bride's boasting about her in-laws.
Even though the truck's arrived, drawn up in front:
Have you forgotten? Dad's cousin's drunk and rowdy.
Have you forgotten how your father died?

Shadows of Flowers

Apricot blossom shadows fall
across the old wooden planks of the co-op porch
where a bottle of soju and some dried squid lie.
The breeze lifting our coat-collars
is still pretty chilly and I only wish
that the laughter of us poor folks,
laughing to read "Plant rice in dry fields"
and "One percent off the farmland tax"
as we browse through the newspapers,
would grow as bright as those flowers up there.
One apricot petal
falls into the glass.
The union cart's on its way to market.

The river

The raindrops sob and weep.
Weeping, they pierce the muddy ground.
The children are avoiding the raindrops.
Weeping, they roam about in the river.
Could the river forget that sound of weeping?
Could it forget the sound of guns and cries?
Could it forget those tiny fists and little bare feet?
The wind sobs and weeps.
Weeping, it goes swirling over the river.
The children go wandering after the wind.
Weeping, they wander in the falling rain.

A legend

He was always drinking,
he went mad, grew rowdy,
then finally the rascal died.
Up the mountain road running past
the village where I was born and bred
is an old tree that's a spirit shrine
with red and yellow strips of rag
hanging.
He became a ghost, squatting there cross-legged.
On summer nights all thick with mist
in bitterness, in bitterness
that rascal weeps.
In bitterness, in bitterness,
the old tree also weeps. That rascal
has come to life again, squatting there cross-legged.

Someone

Someone is observing me.
As I clench my fists, resolved not to be afraid
in the steep alley frozen icy white
behind my back someone is mocking me. That evening
I was drunk on the smell of a girl's face-powder
but I just talked on about what Blanquist did in 1871,
talked about a hometown friend who'd died wretchedly.
Someone is rebuking me.
Yes, indeed,
rebuking me behind my back as I shudder
at the sound of the wind sweeping through that alley,
as I lie tossing beside the sleeping kids.
Is snow falling tonight upon that tomb?
Someone is observing me.

Morning on earth, light snow, and just when
It was so warm, practically spring.
But the thermometer in the kitchen window
says seven degrees,
and pretty sunny.
        Here's
The electric company guy I like,
And no sign of the gas guy
I can't stand.
And all of a sudden two Misters M.—
One I've fallen for, the other
A bit of a hotshot—
Coming back, both nine years old,
Just passing the jasmine bush,
A huge bouquet of sticks.
   Behind the door
The dog's excited, nothing's
At odds with anything.

Don't sleep, take notes

"At four in the morning
the milkwoman was knocking
in plain clothes, threatening
she wouldn't leave us anything,
at most remove the empties,
if I didn't produce the receipt.
It was somewhere in my jacket,
but in any case I knew
what the outcome would be:
she'd take away yesterday's curds,
she'd take the cheese and eggs,
she'd take our flat away,
she'd take away the child.

If I don't produce the receipt,
if I don't find the receipt,
the milkwoman will cut our throats."

"Days of the week"

Tomorrow is Thursday.
If the world meets its obligations,
the following day will be Friday.
If it doesn’t, it could even be Sunday,
and no one will ever guess
where our life got mislaid.

In the provinces

The Municipal Office of Housing Development in Otwock
GREETS THE BROTHERLY PEOPLES OF SOCIALIST NATIONS
with each of forty-three letters mounted on a separate stake;
only the spaces between words don’t have poles.
It’s May eleventh, 1979.
The poles stuck in the grass make a pier.
The Municipal Office has been greeting the brotherly peoples for over
three weeks
but the peoples still don’t know a thing about it.