Poems by Le Hung Tien from Vietnam

Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού

Bio of Poet Le Hung Tien
– Born on May 31, 1981, in Ninh Thuan.
– Member of Vietnamese Musicians Association since 2007
– Member of Vietnamese Writers’ Association since 2014
– Currently he is a lecturer at University of Danang

* Published literature works:
+ Forever green, the tree of life (music), 2002
+ Dedication to a dream (music), 2006
+ Virtual portrait (poetry), 2007.
+ Fantasy night (Epic), 2011
+ Many other literature works to be printed and many co-printed literature works

His poems:

A face mask of bread

Faces are framed
Facial expressions are at lowest level
The sound breaks into motionless blocks
The era is like the face mask of bread
Only eyes can be seen with a small hidden angle

Voice increases every time
The words also beautify with the moon
No one dares to ask the market to change creatively
Let be swung by the timelines

Every day, knowledge opens direction
The desire is given up with mountainous ideas
Improper worrying about face masks
Improper worrying about breads
In the convenient voice of students

Wild dream timelines
In the convenient voice of students
To be a reddish memory of the dawn
Huffing season

Huffing of masks
Huffing of breads
Hunger at noon when coming back
Sometimes hunger in the childhood

Visiting Nguyen Ba Thanh’s grave

Finding a little soul, putting me in the word jar
The day is not sunshine yet
Thinking fibers nurse to be fermented

Managing with tangled hair
The grass step refuses to proliferate
A heaven horse releases its hooves to beautiful immense spaces

Thoughtful sunshine
January and February still stay on wet eyes
Da Nang laughs, busy seasons back again

Don’t proliferate
Thinking along the lines of street eyes
Sharing happy and sad turns with smoke

When the word jar moving
The time of superiority in someone’s grave
Admiring an utopian garden

When the word jar moving
History turns the pages of the rustling street eyes
The city blooms the fragrance of the people land

Valentine Da Nang

Mild fingers are about to close January and February season
The deep moist sigh
The day when the sun does not bloom on streets
Da Nang is strange with weird sunshine

Listen to myself in a green fantasy
Stepping heavily at someone’s alley
Looking at old scenes and regretting the beauty of short human life
Da Nang is strange with a flying cool

The blooming season thought, the soul containing many words
And the moon shrinks in a bunch of light-flowers
Not only vaguely spreading to wet clothes
Da Nang is strange with day and night passing by so quick

Knowing that sadness does not hide in the memory hair
A dark look of brown eyes is nowhere to call seasons
Knowing that innocence sometimes is faded
Da Nang is strange with sound of deep breath of humanity

Da Nang is strange with street eyes
Someone just spreaded lightly the empty moments patching up the red lonely season
Thought that love backs to struggle a body hole without time
Let Valentine Day burn red and be faded by the season

Da Nang is strange with deep blue sky
Someone pretends to stare at the wistful streets
Waiting for the rhythm of poetry to be proliferated
The days of monologues bloom and bloom through the night

The ritual of street eyes    
The streets that can’t speak
I train the cloud to spell every grass step

When the streets grow bigger in thoughts
I train the land to know loving germs

The sun is about to rise quickly
Many big addresses add more street eyes

I train to awareness myself
Even though the streets don’t want to admit the voice of the earth

The sound of people breaths at dawn
I distill street patches without season

Distilling weird sunny rituals
Distilling imaginary praise and chants

Streets and poetry (in the age of digital transformation)

I want to identify for each street
Digital eyes cannot change the era
Every step makes no difference
Although the streets have changed many new floral dresses

I follow to search the light that blooms during the day
Thoughts fall on each face of people people people
But in deep eyes have opened secret ways
No poetry stays in the dark

Thousand years are inside a museum voice
Centuries are beyond many eras
Fates, lifetime and lifetime, renewal cycles
The streets have not yet awakened itself in every name

Heaven and earth every time comes to rise
Thinking until the mountains and forests are concreted
Every step breaks digital eyes
Streets without era. Poetry is not an era.