The forest trees are entwined,
Leaves catch the rhythm of the bells on the church roof,
They sing all night with the pure, linguistic breath of poetry.
Tran Thanh Binh, an eminent poet from Vietnam, shares her poetry
Tran Thanh Binh, a poet from Vietnam, currently resides in Ho Chi Minh City, and is a Member of Ho Chi Minh City Writers’ Association and the Vietnam Writers’ Association. She has published eight poetry collections: Season coming, Rain in the Heart, Winter in Me, Then you arrive, Many – One, Programming the Morning Sunray, Singing a Nursery Rhyme, and Nine. Tran Thanh Binh’s poems have been featured in national and local newspapers and magazines. Her notable awards include: One of the 10 best poems on the occasion of the first full moon of 2021, organized by Ho Chi Minh City Writers’ Association. First prize in the “Writing about Mother” contest, a collaboration between “Dream House” and Ho Chi Minh City Writers’ Association. Her poetry was selected for the “Great Poems” feature in Ho Chi Minh City Literature and Arts Magazine in 2023. Fourth prize at the second “Humanity and Righteousness of the Southern Land” competition, organized by Ho Chi Minh City Writers’ Association in 2024.
WHEN THE LEAVES SING
Grief sealed in the net’s eye,
At a crossroads of light and dark, tiny dust gets stuck.
One day the wind lost its breath,
The forest trees had hoarse leaves.
The ground was crisscrossed with scars of a sunken world.
The sky, dark and uneven, buried the stars.
In the city,
White walls seized power, rich and corrupt.
A ruler can’t measure the heart’s depth,
Sprouting with depravity.
Under the sea, gaping jaws of ships swallow civilization.
A flock of vultures dances a waltz, joyfully picking at their prey.
In this material world, the rich reign.
Is it possible
They’ve abandoned the path to the spiritual world?!
A brave bird of the night takes flight,
Leaving behind a restless sound.
I slip through the early morning mist,
A satchel on my shoulder, filled with the ringing of bells.
Quietly contemplating with every step,
To where I’m headed:
A poor neighborhood on the outskirts,
Hoping for a toothless smile.
In a hospital, hoping wounds will soon grow new skin.
Stepping into an orphanage, I dream I’m a botanist
Experimenting with seeds in my hand.
I return to the old path.
A pair of sparrows chirps, tapping their pretty beaks on a branch of fragrant sun.
The forest trees are entwined,
Leaves catch the rhythm of the bells on the church roof,
They sing all night with the pure, linguistic breath of poetry.
***
HE DREAM OF A CHILD
(For the children of Palestine)
Your mother’s words you quickly hid inside the house.
A few short steps,
You touched the green sunlight breaking through the leaves.
You touched the butterfly fluttering by.
A few long steps,
To the garden heavy with fruit.
The fragrant mango mixed with gentle golden moonlight.
The orange was a model for the full moon.
Short and long steps imprinted on the memory of a five-year-old.
“I won’t get lost,
Mom, you can believe me.”
Because tomorrow you’ll turn seven.
Tomorrow you’ll carry your books to school.
“But, Mom, my short and long steps never seem to get me there…!”
You didn’t know the grown-ups had built a barbed wire wall blocking the path.
You didn’t know the grown-ups had invented a game of bombs and bullets…
When you was five, a terrible pain came.
Mom hugged you, sobbing, whispering,
“The smoke of bombs and bullets stole the light from my child.”
“From now on, don’t go outside to pick flowers or catch butterflies.”
“But, Mom, the little birds and butterflies are my friends, I must go find them.”
“They have wings to fly over the wall, and I bet there are lots of fun things to do over there.”
“I wish my hands would grow wings.”
“I wish the sun would give me light…”
You flew into a dream on your final breath.
Three days later,
Mom found your body floating in a bomb crater
At the edge of the line.
***
PAST – PRESENCE – TOMORROW ON A RIVER
The river of my childhood now I return
We haven’t lost anything, have we?
It’s just that the river and I want to see ourselves again through a child’s eyes…
Today’s reality, we look at each other with somber eyes.
I calm my mind.
Observing the ferry,
The paddle churns the waves, exposing a white path.
Far away on the other bank, the sound of artillery shells splinters a drop of moonlight.
The sail is crisscrossed with tears.
War and conflict.
Hatred.
Blood and tears stained with sin.
The smell of decay floods the river…
But only this night will be recorded in history.
The gift of repentance is opened.
Arms embrace both banks.
The sacred river returns, clear in a child’s eyes.
A silt blossom blooms with a dream.
The river arches its maiden form,
Its fairy hair enchanting the waves.
The moon releases a dream.
Tomorrow, the secret will reveal itself.
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