Born on August 20, 1944 in Hai Duong province, Tran Nhuan Minh currently lives in Quang Ninh province, Vietnam. He graduated from the Faculty of Literature of Hanoi University and has published 63 books in Vietnam and abroad, including 36 volumes of poems. His prose works have been translated into 7 languages, published and released in 7 countries, and his poetry has been translated into 16 languages, published and released in 19 countries around the world. He has 11 poetry collections published in English, including “Flared up subconscious” published in Canada in 2022, and “The day I live” published in the United States in 2023. He got many literature awards including the State Award for Literature and Arts, granted by the President in 2007, and 3 Labor Medals, Third Class, Second Class and First Class.

Four Seasons

Now, I’m even weary of spring

Of the distressing torrential rains

Of clouds that don’t look like clouds, dull as a rat’s fur

Oh summer, hurry up and come

I only like summer when sunlight whitens my hair and beard

So hot that I even fear my former lover

Till a brutal rain like a waterfall suddenly descends

Oh, autumn! Quickly come…

Oh, how exasperating autumn is

The heart grows restless against the sorrow of desolation

Trees wither and then die in silence

Oh, winter! Do come to me

Dust dims the sky. The cold claws at the flesh.

The crows hiss. What’s left to revel in?

I yearn to open wide the innumerable doors

To chase winter away and eagerly welcome spring

Like so, the four seasons long to succeed one another

I hate them all. I then love them all

Like so

Carrying the worries and hardships

The Earth rotates in hope untold.

___________

(Translated into English by Ngo Binh Anh Khoa)

The post Four Seasons – A Poem from Vietnam first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Let me register my feelings of as the new season dawns – spring is the fountain of love for thirsty winter. Like summer I can be hot; Like winter I can be cold; Like spring I can be warm; Like autumn I can be cool; Like the four seasons, I can change.

By Nazarul Islam

Can spring be far behind? If winter comes can spring be far behind. The old order changeth, giving place to new. After all tomorrow is another day.

Thus proclaimed the poets in the past have been giving hope to future.

Covid-19, the deadly virus has destroyed the world as we knew it leaving behind fear and uncertainty across humanity. Loss of home and livelihood for the poor, overall loss of lives because of the pandemic have turned life topsy turvy, for some beyond recovery.

The middle class, ever the backbone of any society has lost its verve for life, missing their celebrations of family reunions, festivals, resulting in stories of depression and mental stress as a result of loneliness with the curbs and protocols cutting into their resilient zest for life.

Many old habits like visiting friends, shopping for the pleasure of it, visiting movies have been banned and instead, social distancing, stay at home, have come to replace them. When the pandemic was at its worst, there was loss of the more vulnerable population and survival of the fittest seemed to be the scary writing on the wall. It was reported that in many countries the seniors succumbed to the virus because of age-related issues.

If winter comes can spring be far behind? The earth despite the pandemic renews itself with new life, the sky goes from dark to cerulean blue, the birds and butterflies fill the air, new red leaves burst on trees and the old sap zings forth.   Smitten, perhaps with spring fever one leader, opined the other day that a new world order is emerging, giving hope to the pandemic stricken earth.

A young protégé of mine emailed me urging me to shake off the blues and to embrace the new normal, to become creative and productive, enriched by the churning of the old order. “Being old is not to put yourself on a shelf, Sir….she tries to inspire me via internet.

Don’t forget the poet’s words, ‘Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be; the last of life for which the first was made.’ Picasso Sophocles, Shaw—all of them produced their best work when they were ninety, the innocent points out.

True, my dear girl, the pandemic has been a real churner, an extraordinary game changer.  But all that I am able to produce is this piece which you are reading now.

Let me register my feelings of as the new season dawns – spring is the fountain of love for thirsty winter.

Like summer I can be hot.

Like winter I can be cold.

Like spring I can be warm

Like autumn I can be cool.

Like the four seasons, I can change.

_____________________

About the Author

The Bengal-born writer is a senior educationist based in USA. He writes for Sindh Courier, and the newspapers of Bangladesh, India and America.

The post The winter is softening…. first appeared on Sindh Courier.