PLATFORM – A Bi-Lingual Magazine Based on Literature and Culture, ISSN 2347-5242
Tạp chí PLATFORM Ấn Độ vừa giới thiệu Inrasara & hai bài thơ: “Ngụ ngôn của Đất/ Allegory of the Land” và “Chân dung nàng/ Portrait of a Lady” từ trang 46-49.
INRASARA – PHÚ TRẠM BIOGRAPHY
20-9-1957: Born in Cham Hamlet, Ninh Thuận Province, Central Vietnam
1982: Researcher for the Cham Script Editing Committee – Ninh Thuận Province
1992: Researcher at the Center For Vietnamese & Southeast Asian Studies, University of Social Sciences & Humanities Ho Chi Minh City
1998: free writer. Currently living in Saigon – Ho Chi Minh City
As of today, Inrasara have published seven books of poetry, three novels, four books of literary criticism, and twelve books on Cham culture. He is the Editor-in-chief of Tagalau magazine, an annual selection of Cham creative fiction, criticism, and research
Major awards: CHCPI, Sorbonne University (France, 1995), – Vietnam Writers’ Association (1997 & 2003), – ASEAN Writers’ Award (2005), Phan Chau Trinh Cultural Awards (for academic research, 2009)…
Award titles: Culture Person of the Year, VTV3 National TV Broadcaster, 2005
NGỤ NGÔN CỦA ĐẤT
I
Không ít bạn trách tôi mất giờ cho thơ tiếng Chăm
có bao lăm kẻ đọc? Rồi sẽ còn ai nhớ?
nhưng tôi muốn lãng phí cả đời mình cho nó
dù chỉ còn dăm ba người
dù chỉ còn một người
hay ngay cả chẳng còn ai.
II
Một câu tục ngữ – một dòng ca dao
nửa bài đồng dao – một trang thơ cổ
tôi tìm và nhặt
như đứa trẻ tìm nhặt viên sỏi nhỏ
(những viên sỏi người lớn lơ đãng dẫm qua)
để xây lâu đài cho riêng mình tôi ở
lâu đài một ngày kia họ ghé đụt mưa – chắc thế.
III
Hoa tỏa mùi hương
không ai ngửi – hoa thả hương vào gió
chim cất tiếng hát
không ai nghe – nhạc bay khắp không gian
lòng anh mở trao
em không nhận – tình anh rồi tàn rữa.
IV
Bằng lăng nở tím đồi tuổi thơ
rừng đi mất rồi
đồi hoang trọc
có lẽ cho riêng tôi trong chiều cô độc
bằng lăng trụi nhánh tàn – vẫn gượng nở hoa.
V
Như cái ngoái nhìn của đứa con ra trận
khi cất song mái ấm cho mẹ già
như cái ngoái nhìn của kẻ chân tu
khi xây xong ngôi chùa cho người thiện tín.
anh nhà nông lãng tử
lên đường và nhìn ngoái lại đám ruộng lúa đang trổ đòng đòng.
VI
Đám cây non vội vươn lên khoảng xanh
mà rễ chưa cắm sâu vào đất
chỉ cần một cơn bão rớt
cũng đủ làm chúng run bấn lên.
VII
Có nước da hơi sáng – em chối mình là Chăm
mới ít tháng tha phương – anh không nhận Việt Nam
vì tự trọng – Karl Jaspers không cho mình người Đức
Henry Miller chối từ Mỹ – bởi chán ghét chiến tranh
giữa không nhận và chối từ kia cách nhau trời vực.
VIII
Một ánh nhìn của cha
nửa nụ cười của mẹ
và hai bàn tay diệu vợi của em
giữa mênh mông màu nắng quê hương
hỏi tôi còn tìm thiên đường đâu nữa?
ALLEGORY OF THE LAND
I
Not a few friends have scolded me for wasting time on Cham poetry
is there even a trifling scarcity of readers? Will there be anyone to remember?
yet I want to squander my entire life on it
though there may only be around a quarter dozen people
though there may only be one person
or even if there’s not a single living soul!
II
One line of proverb – one verse of folk song
half a child’s lullaby – one page of ancient poetry
I search and gather
like a child seeking a tiny pebble
(pebbles that adults carelessly step past)
to build a castle for only myself to live in
a castle one day they’ll use for shelter from the rain – it’s certain!
III
Flowers give off the ambrosial scent of perfume
no one smells – flowers throw their fragrance to the wind
birds lift their voices in song
no one hears – music flys scattered through space
my soul unfolds wide open
but you won’t accept it – my love wilts to ash.
IV
Tagalau flowers bloom purple on the knolls of childhood
the jungle has run off
bald and desolate hillocks
perhaps only for me in this solitary afternoon
the bare withered branches – still trying to bud.
V
Like the backward look of a son going to war
after building a snug roof for his aging mother
like the backward look of a devout ascetic
after building a temple for true believers.
an itinerant field worker
hit the road with a glance back at the fields of rice blooming tender ears.
VI
A grove of young trees urgently sprouting on the green expanse
but their roots have not yet reached deep in the earth
only one gust of wind
is enough to make them shiver in hysterics.
VII
Her complexion somewhat pale – she denied she was Cham
a few months overseas – he didn’t admit to being Vietnamese
out of self-respect – Karl Jaspers didn’t consider himself German
Henry Miller rejected America – because he hated war
there is a vast gulf between denial and rejection.
VIII
A flashing glimpse of father
half a smile of mother
and your two faraway onerous hands
among the vastness of our native sunshine
asking me where else can one find heaven?
PORTRAIT OF A LADY
•
Your flesh and skin flourish – your attire tight
mouths to feed multiply – housing always cramped
villages and hamlets ever expanding – farmland ever shrinking.
You are uprooted from the palei
hurled into the city streets.
You have no necklace / have no jeans
bearing the soul of hills
you are lost in strange boulevards.
You wash laundry in a strange apartment block
you work as gofer in a strange garment factory
you are struck by panic in a strange alleyway.
Bearing the soul of farmlands
you plummet into the strange night.
Oh mother!
Night without stars to show you the way home
without the monsoon for the day to tow along.
Your fingers have no rings
you still have melancholy eyes
your pockets hold no money
you still have sunny feet.
Where to return?
You vanish from the memory of your relatives
the memory of your lovers
the memory of your friends
mother is afar without a remaining trace
only the village memory preserves your name beneath its sedimentary depths
grown ancient.
Suddenly one day the hills witness your return
complete with the sorrow and joy of relatives neighbors
like a revised page stinging with pain.
•
Departing from the soul of farmlands
the soul of hills
she walks back towards the city
endless streets built up
intimidating wounded hearts.
She still goes back toward the immensity of the city
waving to siblings with eyes staring at the open door
waving to her lover now with wife children full house
waving to relatives forever staggering precarious through storms and floods.
It seems her doleful soul is clearing up
ready to sprout the fruits of dawn!
•
Suddenly one day the village receives you back
smashing the soul of hills and farmlands
like an inaugural line printed in bold.