Trần Minh Hiền Orlando ngày 31 tháng 3 năm 2016
Boey Kim Cheng sinh năm 1965 là nhà thơ, giáo sư Úc gốc Singapore. Anh là giáo sư của Đại Học  University of Newcastle , nhận được nhiều giải thưởng thơ quan trọng trong đó có:  National University of Singapore Poetry Writing/Creative Prose Competition và the National Arts Council’s Young Artist Award (1996). Thơ của Cheng là nỗi khắc khoải, sự tìm kiếm chính mình và tìm kiếm chân thiện mỹ, sự hoà hợp của con người và thiên nhiên vũ trụ.
Hãy đọc bài thơ sau:

for Maria Freij
For years you hugged the coast, steering close
to the sense of loss, sounding out the landfalls, the echoes
of inlets, beaches lapped by memory’s tides,
the vanished coves and mangroves, measuring
the geography of absence, erasing the cluttered skyline,
restoring the lost margins to the coast, to what
it might have been, as if mapping the meridian
of yourself, the routes that led you from the coast of forgetting
to this coast of remembering.

* * *

You have been coasting through the archipelago,
counting the islands over and over, feeling
you miss one each time or count the same island twice.
Dot joining emerald dot, you motor from link to link
along memory’s reefs, rounding them up, as though you could
someday round the cape of yourself, pin
the archipelago from coast to coast in a name
that will echo like home.

* * *

From coast to coast the lines of your life stretch
as between two poles, the one that repels you
and one that draws you, what has been and what is still possible,
two hands that gather, weave, braid, the strands
pulled taut, stretched to make a cat’s cradle
where lines of the past cross lines of the present, a ghostly
music in the wind, in the spectral gusts
that haunt the waters between two coasts.

* * *

Like rune stones, like beads of a rosary, you recite
the islands’ names, like shells you collect, conches
you hold to the present tense, to fetch the shapes
of sounds, the murmur of waves tracing the shapes
of vanished coasts, kampongs and palm-lined beaches
where morning and evening footprints tell a different story
that the tides commit to their heart over and over.

* * *

From coast to coast the song lives
on the waveband of memory, riding past the stations
of your life, the faces and places translated
in an afterlife, like a song becoming something else
in a jazz set, taken as far as the chords can go, then
coming home, the melody arriving, the way
an old hit finds new life in a different voice.

* * *

Coast to coast the top-forty hits chart
the story of your life, one end to the other,
the island traversed in an hour’s songs on the radio,
climbing in and out of love, bodies given
in music to what lives between song and song,
till what drives the music becomes what the music
drives, and you forget, you remember, you lose
and love, all stations travelled between coast and coast.

* * *

Coast-commuting you forget which coast
you are looking at and which one you are on,
the distance between stretching like a lens
that refracts what there was into what will be,
the translation turning the present tense
into the past, your life into something lived,
and you are a long reverberation in between.

* * *

Coast of the living and coast of the dead,
you never know which is which, the ocean
dreams between mixing up the voices, so that
you forget the passage, the crossing over,
where you started out from, which coast
wavered on the horizon of your leaving
and which rose to meet you in the dawn
that looked like ending.

* * *

Between coast and coast a life of crossings,
writing, erasing, rewriting, palimpsest
of passages that cancels or renews, echoes trapped
between walls, and you never know the source
of the voice; or two opposing mirrors, as
in the barber-shop, when your face diminishes,
multiplied, and you lose sight of the boy
on the barber-chair, and forget the man he has become.

* * *

On the coast where you start to say the foreign
names, the old ones start up in your head
and recite their chant, the coastal road
sewing the names together in one long curve
and the islands rise from the lightening waters and assemble
into the archipelago of clouds tracing the line
of the coast, past the beach where you stand and wave
hello or goodbye”
Bài thơ thật sâu sắc, thật đẹp cho một người mà cũng là cho tất cả mọi người.
Có một bài thơ khác Boey Kim Cheng đã viết năm 1992 mà tôi rất thích:
Another Place
Another place, another life, another book,
we go on without a return ticket, on the trail
of the vanished song, the elusive lines unlocking
a whole library of meaning, our lives shelved
in comprehensive order, for us who will arrive
clothed in dust and dusk, to sit at the appointed desks
and pore over the pages, search out the thread
stringing together all arrivals and departures
which our hands will tell, over and over,
as if in prayer, as if in peace.:
Một nơi chốn nào đó, một cõi khác mà chúng ta vẫn tưởng tượng.
Thơ của thi sĩ Boey Kim Cheng là nỗi niềm u uẩn, sự dằn vặt, sự tuyệt vọng và hy vọng.
The house and yard dressed in a skin of ash.
It was raining embers, the night air thronged
with giddy petals that swirled
on the updraft, flared
to incandescence before curling into papery
ash, as we fled around midnight, my son
bewildered in my arms, his sister bright-eyed,
exclaiming, It’s snowing, Christmas just weeks away.

We sweep the aftermath like penitents, the air
acrid, shriven, ashen, as it was on the day
of Qing Ming, Clear Brightness, in another life,
when families filed to the tombs with broom,
rice wine, boiled whole chicken and fruits, and stacks
of paper money, gold and silver currency
valid only in afterlife. The dead were fed,
their abodes swept, and the filial queue
of joss offered. Then the money was given
in fanned reams to the flames, transferred
to replenish the ancestors’ underworld credit.
Once Grandma brought us to the cemetery,
dragging us in tow with armfuls of offerings,
filing up and down the crowded ranks
for the right address. I don’t remember whose grave
it was we were tending, or Grandma telling us
to pray. Only a blurred oval photo of a man
on the worn headstone, and the hundreds of fires
around us, the air swimming
with ash-drifts, the sun eclipsed in the smoke
but its heat made more palpable by the pall
that hung over the day. I imagined the ancestors
catching the burned money like willow catkins, turning
them into real millions that they could send back
to us to bail my father out of bankruptcy.

Now grave news from the living I have left;
the cemeteries are dug up, razed, the dead
expelled, their bones unhoused, ashed
and relocated to columbaria to make
room for progress. No more tomb-sweeping
and picnicking with the dead.
No such unrest for Grandma and Dad
who went straight into the fire.
Anyway they turned Catholic
and have no use for paper money
or earthly feasts.

Here the bush is charred, the trees
splintered, pulverised like Dad’s bones
after the fire. The ash taste clings
to the house, even after hosing and sweeping.
It seeps into my dreams, into the new life
I have made, and on my sleep it is still raining
ash, flakes falling like memory, on my dead settling
like a snowdrift of forgetting.”
Từng câu chữ chọn lọc để diễn đạt ý tưởng của nhà thơ về cuộc nhân sinh.
Trần Minh Hiền Orlando ngày 31 tháng 3 năm 2016

THUYẾT DUNG HÒA http://hientran1970.blogspot.com/2014/01/thuyet-dung-hoa.html
THUYẾT DUNG HÒA https://hientrankhanhdo.wordpress.com/2014/01/15/thuyet-dung-hoa/
TƯƠNG LAI VIỆT NAM http://hientran1970.blogspot.com/2014/01/tuong-lai-viet-nam.html
TƯƠNG LAI VIỆT NAM https://hientrankhanhdo.wordpress.com/2014/01/15/tuong-lai-viet-nam/
SÁCH DẠY CON THẾ KỶ 21 http://hientran1970.blogspot.com/2015/09/sach-day-con-ky-21.html
SÁCH DẠY CON THẾ KỶ 21 https://hientrankhanhdo.wordpress.com/2015/09/03/sach-day-con-the-ky-21/

About hientrankhanhdo

writer, teacher
Bài này đã được đăng trong Uncategorized. Đánh dấu đường dẫn tĩnh.

Trả lời

Mời bạn điền thông tin vào ô dưới đây hoặc kích vào một biểu tượng để đăng nhập:

WordPress.com Logo

Bạn đang bình luận bằng tài khoản WordPress.com Đăng xuất /  Thay đổi )

Google photo

Bạn đang bình luận bằng tài khoản Google Đăng xuất /  Thay đổi )

Twitter picture

Bạn đang bình luận bằng tài khoản Twitter Đăng xuất /  Thay đổi )

Facebook photo

Bạn đang bình luận bằng tài khoản Facebook Đăng xuất /  Thay đổi )

Connecting to %s