Mai Văn Phấn (Vietnam)

 1.

Wish of Resurrection

The inner sea brightens sings in its desolate, straying, disintegrating state tree sap clots bodies with no antigens silently die

All do not fear death

Pollens are scattered with insect bodies Eyeballs explode outside eyeglasses A girl’s tongue sleeps inside a fake denture A kiss comes back to track down the void A dry, bitter mouth laughs out loud in a water-choked voice

Beginning to get distressed Beginning to forget I turn back to bow at the shirt I have just hung on the rack

So tranquil yet regions are engulfed

Someone lays a hand on my forehead in cool water

As to drop off unintentionally or to break off intentionally

2.

The Voice

When waking up I believe I hear a voice I don’t yet know from where it comes Or goes

Perhaps the stream outside is about to flow in torrents

Flower stamens can now bind the bee’s feet Lips desire to be legs to run over skin A covetous tongue of fire lunges for the hay

Is this all it takes To give birth to a voice To contradict topics and definitions I have heard or understood?

When I wander and get lost in an old place The land there still eats silence with every meal The silence that is torn by my teeth startles me When I turn and run There is no sound made by my feet.

 3.

Photos, Fruit and Dreams

Under-exposed photos, speed-ripened fruit and dreams that lose their wings before the rain, flow slowly against the current of memories.

A wind blows open morning fields, rushes into rooms full of blended dust and light, wipes sweat off freshly bathed dreams.

The origins are within the span of a hand, when you come back you have gone through your entire life, or you wait to reincarnate into the next life.

Those souls that have yet to reincarnate, visit worshipping places, fly aimlessly, then shelter in fixed idolatry.

Someone runs across the dreams, the fruit and photos, to recover what he lost, to feel each tear choke back and see the amalgam of each shadow.

Origins have renewed space, and a generation of young grass is spreading over old ground.

Souls stand at new angles opening to different lights, and in the moan of fresh dew, they pause and knock on each vowel.

Everywhere new streams are beginning to pour into memories, taking the photos, the fruit, the dreams, to turn everything into a voice last night.

Sincerely Thanks