Poem
Nguyễn Tiên Hoàng
In Memoriam Bruce Keller
A city is a citadel, a citadel is a soul [ancient], a soula theatre [rock].
Dreams invade and do what dreams do: the unexpected.
You once made school kids wait for Waiting for Godot
and now I wait for you
from an oval door cut through its crumpy, water-stained, old red velvet curtain.
What would appear: a little dog, or the master of “winged-rats”?
All the pigeons in Potts Point know that you’ve only joked in naming them so:
you loved them, substantially, like you do all residents of Potts Point, and the waters
and the watermarks.
One person etched into your childhood is your grandpa, you once said.
He had fished in his lone boat in the misty bay of Sydney while you sang with the avant-gardes.
Yes, water, more water, ever-more water
the dance of water on many rooftops.
After years of crappy weather
our landing in Hanoi was a welcome draught.
So we went (pilgrims, or beggars?)
The luggage is light. A respectable coat?
One would finally find it
at a secondhand or what the locals call “SIDA” shop.
You are too big for all coats.
Bruce! Bruce! They called your name
from many corners cut into cơm bụi (“hah! Rice & Dust”) street
as if annoucing a new theatre,
where props were lamps, echoes and fragments
of our meals half-eaten. Yes, they called,
as if you were one of the La Hán
who had skipped the permanent sit-in performance in a mountain pagoda
for a now promised new, more challenging act
acts that befit tigers and lions
& puppies and children (i.e. huge and small cuts!)
The street sweepers next to us were no strangers.
These latenight comers, post-history, re-enactors,
like leper-poets: the whole history of a city
is in their raised dust-calligraphy-strokes.
We watched and meditated on the clean streets
and jotted down: After all, it's in the hands.
*
That year, 1995, near Tran Hung Dao Street
when the city was offering its coffee like the last meal
you had already become one with the large trees,
a little fey rain, volumes of nocturnal mass,
the gig-lamps, dark water, ghosts, Molière’s and Chekov’s,
and the abandoned theatre (to this, we came a bit too late,
knocking at its door, only to realise the Apologies sign, the list of actors
and the writ-large “UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE”).
© Translation: 2005, Nguyễn Tiên Hoàng (Thường Quán)
From: Heat 10 New Series
Publisher: Giramondo Publishing, Sydney, 2005
From: Heat 10 New Series
Publisher: Giramondo Publishing, Sydney, 2005
Tưởng niệm Bruce Keller
Tưởng niệm Bruce Keller
Một thành phố là một cấm thành, một cấm thành là một linh hồn [sơ cổ], mộtlinh hồn là một hí viện [rốc].
Những giấc mộng xâm chiếm và làm điều bất ngờ.
Anh từng bắt đám học trò chờ ở vở Trong Khi Chờ Godot
Bây giờ tới phiên ta chờ anh.
Từ một chiếc cửa hình thoan cắt xuyên qua tấm màn nhung nhàu đỏ cũ, hoen, loang lỗ nước
Sẽ xuất hiện thứ gì: một gã chó con, hay một gã gia trưởng của bầy chuột có cánh?
Tất cả đám bồ câu ở Potts Point biết anh chỉ trêu khi xướng danh chúng như thế đấy:
anh bồ bịch cùng chúng, tới nơi tới chốn, như anh quen biết toàn thể cư dân
phố cổ này
yêu những hải phận
và những cột đo mực sâu hải cảng
khắc sâu vào thơ thiếu của anh, anh từng kể lại, là hình ảnh một người ông, một ngư phủ
môt mình một con thuyền giữa Sydney vịnh cảng sương mù, trong khi anh ca hát cùng đám avant-gardes.
Đúng vậy, nước, nước nữa, nước mãi mãi
điệu múa của nước trên bao nhiêu mái.
Sau những năm thời tiết nhớp nháp chẳng ra hồn
cú đáp xuống Hà Nội của chúng ta là một cơn hạn hán mong đợi.
Như thế chúng ta đã đi (khách hành hương, hay đại giả hành khất?)
Hành lý thì khơi khơi nhẹ. Một cái áo vét cho đứng đắn?
Rồi sau cùng cũng tìm ra
ở một sạp bán áo quân cũ mà dân địa phương gọi là hàng si-đa.
Anh quả là quá khổ cho mọi cỡ áo.
Bruce ! Bruce ! Họ réo tên anh
từ nhiều góc cắt vào phố Cơm Bụi (ha! Cơm và Bụi)
làm như họ đang công bố một sân khấu mới
mà đạo cụ là đèn đường vọng âm hàng phố và mảnh vỡ
của mấy bữa cơm đang ăn nửa chừng. Đúng thế, họ xướng danh anh
như thể anh đã được kếp nạp vào hàng ngũ La Hán
những bậc tài tử đã bỏ ngang cuộc trình diễn biểu tình ngồi bất động thiên thu
ở một chái chùa ẩn trong núi
để bắt đầu một hồi kịch hứa hẹn mới, có tính thách thức cao hơn
những hồi kịch xứng với cọp & sư tử
& chó con và trẻ nhỏ ( nghĩa là những vết xước và những vết cắt không nhỏ)
Những công nhân quét đường sát cạnh chúng ta thực ra không xa lạ .
Những người xắn tay áo vào đêm muộn, hậu lịch sử, những người tái hiện
như những thi sĩ hủi : toàn bộ lịch sử một thành phố
nằm trong những đường quyền phác chữ thảo dấy lên bụi của họ.
Chúng ta nhìn họ và quán tưởng những con đường làu sạch
và ghi xuống sổ tay: Sau rốt, tất cả là ở đôi tay.
*
Năm ấy, 1995, một chỗ ở góc phố Trần Hưng Đạo
khi thành phố rót cà phê cho khách như là bữa ăn cuối
anh đã là một với hàng kiền đại lộ
với mưa rây, với khối khối đêm cùng
đèn múa, nước tối, ma mùa cũ, hồn Molière và thần Chekov
và những sân khấu đóng cửa ngang xương (khi chúng ta tìm tới mua vé
chỉ có một báng Cáo Lỗi, cạnh một danh sách diễn viên
và lớn đập vào mắt là mấy chữ ĐÓNG CHƯA BIẾT KHI NÀO SẼ)
© 2011, Nguyễn Tiên Hoàng (Thường Quán)
Translated from English into Vietnamese by the poet.
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In Memoriam Bruce Keller
A city is a citadel, a citadel is a soul [ancient], a soula theatre [rock].
Dreams invade and do what dreams do: the unexpected.
You once made school kids wait for Waiting for Godot
and now I wait for you
from an oval door cut through its crumpy, water-stained, old red velvet curtain.
What would appear: a little dog, or the master of “winged-rats”?
All the pigeons in Potts Point know that you’ve only joked in naming them so:
you loved them, substantially, like you do all residents of Potts Point, and the waters
and the watermarks.
One person etched into your childhood is your grandpa, you once said.
He had fished in his lone boat in the misty bay of Sydney while you sang with the avant-gardes.
Yes, water, more water, ever-more water
the dance of water on many rooftops.
After years of crappy weather
our landing in Hanoi was a welcome draught.
So we went (pilgrims, or beggars?)
The luggage is light. A respectable coat?
One would finally find it
at a secondhand or what the locals call “SIDA” shop.
You are too big for all coats.
Bruce! Bruce! They called your name
from many corners cut into cơm bụi (“hah! Rice & Dust”) street
as if annoucing a new theatre,
where props were lamps, echoes and fragments
of our meals half-eaten. Yes, they called,
as if you were one of the La Hán
who had skipped the permanent sit-in performance in a mountain pagoda
for a now promised new, more challenging act
acts that befit tigers and lions
& puppies and children (i.e. huge and small cuts!)
The street sweepers next to us were no strangers.
These latenight comers, post-history, re-enactors,
like leper-poets: the whole history of a city
is in their raised dust-calligraphy-strokes.
We watched and meditated on the clean streets
and jotted down: After all, it's in the hands.
*
That year, 1995, near Tran Hung Dao Street
when the city was offering its coffee like the last meal
you had already become one with the large trees,
a little fey rain, volumes of nocturnal mass,
the gig-lamps, dark water, ghosts, Molière’s and Chekov’s,
and the abandoned theatre (to this, we came a bit too late,
knocking at its door, only to realise the Apologies sign, the list of actors
and the writ-large “UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE”).
© 2005, Nguyễn Tiên Hoàng (Thường Quán)
From: Heat 10 New Series
Publisher: 2005, Giramondo Publishing, Sydney
Translated from English into Vietnamese by the poet.
From: Heat 10 New Series
Publisher: 2005, Giramondo Publishing, Sydney
In Memoriam Bruce Keller
A city is a citadel, a citadel is a soul [ancient], a soula theatre [rock].
Dreams invade and do what dreams do: the unexpected.
You once made school kids wait for Waiting for Godot
and now I wait for you
from an oval door cut through its crumpy, water-stained, old red velvet curtain.
What would appear: a little dog, or the master of “winged-rats”?
All the pigeons in Potts Point know that you’ve only joked in naming them so:
you loved them, substantially, like you do all residents of Potts Point, and the waters
and the watermarks.
One person etched into your childhood is your grandpa, you once said.
He had fished in his lone boat in the misty bay of Sydney while you sang with the avant-gardes.
Yes, water, more water, ever-more water
the dance of water on many rooftops.
After years of crappy weather
our landing in Hanoi was a welcome draught.
So we went (pilgrims, or beggars?)
The luggage is light. A respectable coat?
One would finally find it
at a secondhand or what the locals call “SIDA” shop.
You are too big for all coats.
Bruce! Bruce! They called your name
from many corners cut into cơm bụi (“hah! Rice & Dust”) street
as if annoucing a new theatre,
where props were lamps, echoes and fragments
of our meals half-eaten. Yes, they called,
as if you were one of the La Hán
who had skipped the permanent sit-in performance in a mountain pagoda
for a now promised new, more challenging act
acts that befit tigers and lions
& puppies and children (i.e. huge and small cuts!)
The street sweepers next to us were no strangers.
These latenight comers, post-history, re-enactors,
like leper-poets: the whole history of a city
is in their raised dust-calligraphy-strokes.
We watched and meditated on the clean streets
and jotted down: After all, it's in the hands.
*
That year, 1995, near Tran Hung Dao Street
when the city was offering its coffee like the last meal
you had already become one with the large trees,
a little fey rain, volumes of nocturnal mass,
the gig-lamps, dark water, ghosts, Molière’s and Chekov’s,
and the abandoned theatre (to this, we came a bit too late,
knocking at its door, only to realise the Apologies sign, the list of actors
and the writ-large “UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE”).
© 2005, Nguyễn Tiên Hoàng (Thường Quán)
From: Heat 10 New Series
Publisher: 2005, Giramondo Publishing, Sydney
From: Heat 10 New Series
Publisher: 2005, Giramondo Publishing, Sydney
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