Terry Lee
Dreams on
the peaks of
the mountains
Poems by the Most Venerable Tuệ Sỹ
Translated and explained by Terry Lee
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
2
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
Poems by the Most Venerable Tuệ Sỹ | Translated and explained by Terry Lee
Second edition, January 2025
ISBN 978-0-6487506-3-5
This work is intended for free and open access. You are welcome
to use, share, and adapt this work for any purpose, without
seeking permission. However, we kindly request that you
attribute the work to Terry Lee when using it in any form.
You are welcome to download the free pdf version of this book
at advancedmathematics.com.au/Dreamson2
Contact Mr. Terry Lee at advancedmathematics@gmail.com.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
3
To my children, and to those who have yet to discover the
richness of our Vietnamese culture, and its painful history.
Terry Lee
一朝撒手懸崖下
始把真空對墜紅
Nhất triêu tán thủ huyền nhai hạ
Thủy bả chân không đối trụy hồng
Tuệ Sỹ
Một sáng thõng tay nơi vách núi,
Nhặt cánh hồng rơi giữa cõi không
Holding the emptiness while on a cliff one morning,
I picked up a falling rose petal amidst the sky of the void.
translated by Terry Lee
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
4
󺸏迟󴘋󴊓󱠞溪
󰝜󵖩鹤󶝗黄昏
Năm chầy đá ngủ lòng khe,
Lưng trời cánh hạc đi về hoàng hôn.
Tuệ Sỹ
Deep in the crevice, a stone slumbers through the year,
Against the vast sky, a crane sails towards the sunset.
translated by Terry Lee
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
5
Contents
The life of the Most Venerable Tuệ Sỹ 17
Prologue 19
Volume 1: Những phương trời viễn mộng | Celestial
realms of distant dreams 21
1. Cánh chim trời 23
A sky bird 23
2. Cung trời cũ 29
Celestial realm of a previous lifetime 29
3. Hận thu cao 39
Rising autumnal wrath 39
4. Hoài niệm 45
Nostalgia 45
5. Hương ngày cũ 51
Scent of old days 51
6. Kết từ 54
In conclusion 54
7. Mộng trường sinh 61
Eternal life’s dream 61
8. Mưa cao nguyên 65
Highland rain 66
9. Tóc huyền 71
Raven hair 71
Volume 2: Giấc mơ Trường Sơn | Dreams on the peak of
Trường Sơn 73
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1. Ác mộng 75
Nightmares 75
2. Anh sẽ về thăm phố cũ 84
I’ll return to this old town 84
3. Bài ca cô gái Trường Sơn 87
A song of the Trường Sơn girl 88
4. Bếp lửa giữa rừng khuya 93
Forest stove at night 93
5. Bóng cha già 95
Picturing my elderly father 95
6. Buổi sáng tập viết chữ thảo 97
Practicing cursive style in the morning 97
7. Cây khô 100
Withered tree 100
8. Cho ta chép nốt bài thơ ấy 103
Let me finish writing that poem on the walls 103
9. Cỏ dại ven bờ 105
Wild grass by the riverbank 105
10. Cuối năm 109
End of year 109
11. Dạ khúc 111
Serenade 111
12. Đêm dài 113
Long night 113
13. Đời nô lệ 116
Servitude 116
14. Hạ sơn 117
Mountain descending 117
15. Hoa rừng 120
Forest flower 120
16. Luống cải chân đồi 122
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Vegetable beds at the foothill 122
17. Một bóng trăng gầy 128
A slender moonbeam 128
18. Một thoáng chiêm bao 131
A dreamlike moment 131
19. Ngồi giữa bãi tha ma 142
Sitting in the middle of a graveyard 144
20. Nhớ con đường thơm ngọt môi em 150
Longing for the streets where her lips tasted sweet
and fragrant 150
21. Những năm anh đi 157
The long away years 157
22. Những phím dương cầm 163
The piano keys 163
23. Phố trưa 167
Midday streets 167
24. Quán trọ của ngàn sao 171
A starry inn 171
25. Ta biết 173
I know 173
26. Tiếng gà gáy trưa 175
The afternoon rooster’s crow 175
27. Tiếng nhạc vọng 176
The resonant sound of music 176
28. Tìm em trong giấc chiêm bao 179
Searching for you in my dreams 179
29. Tĩnh tọa 180
Meditation 180
30. Tôi vẫn đợi 182
I’ve been waiting 182
31. Tống biệt hành 187
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Farewell 187
32. Trầm mặc 190
Contemplation 190
33. Từ rừng sâu 192
From deep forests 192
34. Tự tình 193
Self-reflection 193
Volume 3: Ngục trung mị ngữ | Somniloquies in prison
195
1. Trách lung 197
Lồng hẹp 197
Narrow cage 197
2. Tảo thượng tẩy tịnh 205
Sáng sớm rửa mặt 205
Face washing in the early morning 205
3. Cúng dường 210
Cúng dường 210
Offerings 210
4. Biệt cấm phòng 220
Phòng biệt giam 220
Solitary confinement cell 220
5. Tác thi sự 231
Việc làm thơ 231
About poem writing 231
6. Thạch bích 235
Vách đá 235
Stone walls 235
7. Triết nhân tưởng 240
Suy nghĩ của triết gia 240
A philosopher’s pondering 240
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8. Ẩn giả tưởng 246
Nghĩ về kẻ ở ẩn 246
About the recluse 246
9. Lãn tiên xứ 251
Xứ tiên lười 251
Land of lazy fairies 251
10. Dạ tọa 254
Ngồi đêm 254
Midnight sitting 254
11. Mộng 259
Mộng 259
Daydream 259
12. Ngọ thụy 267
Ngủ trưa 267
Afternoon nap 267
13. Tự vấn 270
Tự hỏi 270
Self-reflection 270
14. Bán niên tù 273
Nửa năm tù 273
Half-year imprisonment 274
15. Mộng khứ mộng lai 280
Mộng đến mộng đi 280
Dream after dream 280
16. Tự thuật 285
Tự thuật 285
Autobiography 286
17. Nhất bôi thanh thủy 293
Một chén nước trong 293
A cup of clear water 293
18. Tự trào 299
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Tự diễu 299
Self-mockery 299
Volume 4: Tĩnh tọa | Meditation 305
1. Bài ca cuối cùng 307
The last song 308
2. Bình minh 312
Dawn 312
3. Bồi hồi 315
Fretfulness 315
4. Hạt cát 317
A grain of sand 317
5. Loạn thị 318
Astigmatism 318
6. Mộng ngày 321
Daydream 322
7. Trăng 329
The moon 329
8. Trúc và nhện 331
Bamboo and spider 332
9. Vết rạn 335
The rift 335
Volume 5: Tĩnh thất | Meditation room 337
1. Cho tôi một hạt muối tiêu 339
Give me a pinch of pepper salt 339
2. Đến đi vó ngựa mơ hồ 346
Do those fading hoofprints mark an arrival or a
departure 346
3. Nghìn năm trước lên núi 349
A thousand years ago, I climbed that mountain 349
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4. Ta không buồn 352
If I do not feel deep sorrow 352
5. Lon sữa bò nằm im bên chợ 358
An empty milk can lies still by the side of a street
market 358
6. Thuyền ra khơi có mấy tầng tâm sự 362
A ship sets sail, how many decks of feelings does it
have 362
7. Trời cuối thu se lạnh 364
In the chilly late autumn 364
8. Lời rao trong ngõ hẻm 365
The street cries resounded in the narrow alley 365
9. Nghe luyến tiếc như sao trời mơ ngủ 367
A lingering regret, like slumbering stars 367
10. Để trong góc tim một quả xoài 371
In a corner of my heart, I keep a mango 371
11. Lặng lẽ nằm im dưới đáy mồ 372
Quietly lying still at the bottom of a grave 372
12. Một hai ba 374
One, two, three 374
13. Bỏ mặc đàn bò đôi mắt tình diệu vợi 375
Abandoning the herd, their eyes filled with
profound tenderness 375
14. Giữa Thiên đường rong chơi lêu lỏng 376
I have roamed aimlessly through Paradise 376
15. Con trâu trắng thẫn thờ góc phố 377
A white buffalo, dazed on the street corner 377
16. Bứt cọng cỏ 378
I pluck a blade of grass 378
17. Cho xin chút hạt buồn thôi 384
Grant me a handful of sorrow’s rain 384
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18. Lão già trên góc phố 385
An elderly man on a street corner 385
19. Anh đi để trống cụm rừng 386
You leave behind a ravaged forest 386
20. Ôi nỗi buồn 389
Oh, sadness 389
21. Tiếng muỗi vo ve 390
By the sound of mosquitoes buzzing 390
22. Người hận ta 392
Hating me 392
23. Hoang vu 393
In this abandoning land 393
24. Người đi đâu bóng hình mòn mỏi 394
Where have you gone leaving me to wait in vain 394
25. Gió cao bong bóng vỡ 395
High winds burst the balloons 395
26. Đàn cò đứng gập ghềnh không ngủ 396
The storks shift and sway, unable to sleep 396
27. Chờ dứt cơn mưa ta vô rừng 397
When the rain subsides, I’ll enter the forest 397
28. Ơ kìa nắng đỏ hiên chùa 398
Oh, look at the blazing red sun on the pagoda’s
porch 398
29. Người không vui, ta đi về làm ruộng 399
If you are not happy, I’ll return to farming 399
30. Thao thức đêm khuya trộm bóng ma 400
Unable to sleep, the lodger steals glances at a
ghostly figure 400
31. Ơi người cắt cỏ ở bên sông 401
Hey, grass cutter by the river 401
32. Khói ơi bay thấp xuống đi 402
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Smoke, descend, drift lower 402
Volume 6: Những điệp khúc cho dương cầm | Refrains for
piano 403
1. Ta nhận chìm thời gian trong khóe mắt 405
I drown time in the depths of my eyes 405
2. Từ đó ta trở về Thiên giới 409
And so, I return to the heavenly realm 409
3. Trên dấu thăng âm đàn trĩu nặng 411
A sharp note heavily hangs in the air 411
4. Ta bay theo đốm lửa lập lòe 412
I fly after the flickering flame 412
5. Chiều tôi về 413
In the evening when I return 413
6. Màu tối mù lan vách đá 416
As darkness shrouds the cliff face 416
7. Chung trà đã lịm khói 417
The tea’s steam has dissipated 417
8. Công nương bỏ quên chút hờn trên dấu lặng 418
The princess leaves her resentment in rest notes 418
9. Đôi mắt cay phím đen phím trắng 420
My eyes sting, blurred by the dance of black and
white keys 420
10. Cửa kín chòm mây cuốn nẻo xa 421
Behind closed doors, distant swirling clouds 421
11. Ve mùa hạ chợt về thành phố 422
The city awakens to a chorus of cicadas 422
12. Đạo sĩ soi hình bên suối 425
A Taoist contemplates his image in the stream 425
13. Ô hay dây đàn chợt đứt 427
Alas! The piano string snaps 427
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14. Đêm sụp xuống 429
As night falls 429
15. Một ngày chơi vơi đỉnh thác 431
A day adrift on top of a waterfall 431
16. Phủi tay kinh nỗi đảo điên 433
Brushing my hands, shaking off the grip of a
dreadful madness 433
17. Hơi thở ngưng từ đáy biển sâu 436
My breath catches 436
18. Tiếng xe đùa ngoài ngõ 437
The rumble of a passing car 437
19. Bóng cỏ rơi giật mình sửng sốt 438
Startled by the shadows of falling grass 438
20. Theo chân kiến 439
Following the ants’ trail 439
21. Nỗi nhớ đó khát khao 441
A wave of yearning 441
22. Ta sống lại trên nỗi buồn ám khói 443
Reborn from the ashes of sorrow 443
23. Giăng mộ cổ mưa chiều hoen ngấn lệ 444
Soft afternoon rain weeps over ancient graves 444
Volume 7: Thiên lý độc hành | A thousand-mile solitary
journey 445
1. Ta về một cõi tâm không 447
I return to the realm of no-mind 447
2. Ta đi dẫm nắng bên đèo 451
Walking along a sunlit mountain pass 451
3. Bên đèo khuất miễu cô hồn 452
Beneath the pass, a hidden ghost shrine lurks 452
4. Đã mấy nghìn năm đợi mỏi mòn 453
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Waiting in vain through countless ages 453
5. Từ thuở hồng hoang ta ở đâu 456
Where was I in those primal times 456
6. Trên đỉnh đèo cao bát ngát trông 457
From this lofty peak, the world unfolds below 457
7. Khi về ngả nón chào nhau 459
Hat off when we say goodbye 459
8. Bóng tối sập mưa rừng tuôn thác đổ 460
Darkness falls, and a cascade of rain lashes the
forest 460
9. Gởi lại tình yêu ngọn cỏ rừng 462
A blade of forest grass 462
10. Một thời thân đá cuội 463
Once I was a pebble 463
11. Bước đi nghe cỏ động 464
With the first steps, you hear the grass rustle 464
12. Thân tiếp theo thân ngày tiếp ngày 466
Through countless lives, endless days 466
13. Khi về anh nhớ cài quai nón 468
Fasten your hat strap when you return 468
About the author 471
References 471
Bibliography 474
Index 475
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
17
The life of the Most
Venerable Tuệ Sỹ
A scholar, a poet, a prisoner of conscience, a champion of
religious freedom – the Most Venerable Tuệ Sỹ was born
Phạm Văn Thương on February 15, 1945, in Pakse, Laos.
He began his monastic life at the age of 7, returned to
Vietnam at 15, graduated from Vạn Hạnh University with
a degree in Buddhist Studies at 20, and received full
ordination at 28. At 25, he was appointed as a full professor
at Vạn Hạnh University and editor-in-chief of the journal
Tư Tưởng (Thought), thanks to his numerous renowned
research works and philosophical essays.
But his scholarly pursuits were soon disrupted. As Saigon
fell and a new era of oppression dawned, he retreated to the
fringes of the Vạn Giã forest, but his sanctuary was short-
lived. Accused of “illegal residence”, when he returned to
Saigon, he was imprisoned for three years. This was but the
first trial in a long battle against a regime determined to
crush religious freedom.
In 1984, he was arrested again, alongside Venerable Trí
Siêu and 17 other monks, nuns, and lay Buddhists. They
were the Unified Buddhist Church of Vietnam’s (UBCV)
last bastion of resistance against the government’s
relentless campaign to dismantle it. A sham trial ensued,
culminating in a death sentence for the two Venerables.
International outcry forced the regime to commute the
sentence to 20 years, but their ordeal was far from over.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Thầy Tuệ Sỹ, ever defiant, refused to be broken. When
offered a pardon in 1998, he responded with the searing
words, “As I do not recognize the value of the trial or the
legal validity of the judgment and as you have no right to
detain me, neither do you have the right to pardon me”. He
embarked on a hunger strike, as his body growing weaker
with each passing day, his spirit remaining unyielding.
After 10 days, on the brink of death, he was released.
Despite the hardships he endured, Thầy never wavered in
his dedication to his faith and his pursuit of knowledge.
Fluent in seven languages, including Pali, and Sanskrit, he
authored numerous essays, monographs, and translations,
enriching the world of Buddhist scholarship with his
profound insights. His works, including Su Dongpo:
Celestial realms of distant dreams, Somniloquies in prison,
and Dreams on the peak of Trường Sơn, stand as testaments
to his intellectual brilliance and unwavering spirit. His
meticulous translations, such as Essays in Zen Buddhism
and the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, revealed his deep understanding
of Buddhist texts and his commitment to accuracy.
In his twilight years, the UBCV looked to him for
leadership. Nominated as the head of the Sangha Council
in 2019, he humbly requested to serve only temporarily,
prioritizing unity and transparency within the Church.
His passing on November 24, 2023, at Phật Ân pagoda in
Đồng Nai province, Vietnam, left a void in the hearts of
countless followers. More than a monk, Tuệ Sỹ was a
beacon of hope, a symbol of resilience, and a voice for the
voiceless. His legacy lives on, inspiring all who seek truth,
justice, and religious freedom.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Prologue
In this second edition of my book Dreams on the peak of
the Mountain, I’ve changed the title to Dreams on the peaks
of the mountains.
The Mountain, in the title of the first edition of my book,
refers to the Trường Sơn mountain range, where Thầy Tuệ
Sỹ confided his dreams during his lifetime, but I believe,
his dreams should have materialized as clouds, dispersing
over every mountain in Vietnam, as he wished in his will.
The grandeur and uniqueness of Trường Sơn should have
become a symbol of aspiration and possibility for all the
mountains of Vietnam, echoing the boundless spirit of
Thầy’s vision.
Through the translation of his poems, I’ve been touched by
the profound impact he had on both Vietnamese culture and
Zen Buddhism. He wove Zen principles into his verses,
drawing inspiration from the simplicity of a stream, the
ordinariness of a mustard seed, and even the delicate traces
of moss lingering on eyelids.
This book presents his poems in both their original
Vietnamese and in English translation, offering readers a
window into his rich inner world. For the volume
Somniloquies in prison, I also add a poetic translation into
Vietnamese, attempting to capture the nuances of his style.
To illuminate the meaning of these poems, I’ve gathered a
selection of Thầy’s essays and translations, alongside
insightful commentaries from respected critics, poets, and
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writers. This collection reflects the breadth of his legacy,
which extends far beyond his poetry.
For these essays and commentaries, original English text
and my translations are visually distinguished by different
left border markings: a double line for the original and a
single line for my translated text.
I divide this book into 7 volumes:
Volume 1: Celestial realms of distant dreams: 9 poems,
written before April 30, 1975 (1969–April 30th, 1975).
Volume 2: Dreams on the peak of Trường Sơn: 34 poems,
mostly written in Vạn Giã forest (April 30th, 1975–1978).
Volume 3: Somniloquies in prison: 18 poems, written
during his first imprisonment (1978–1981).
Volume 4: Meditation: 9 poems, mostly written during his
second imprisonment (1984–2000).
Volume 5: Meditation room: 32 poems, filled with Zen
principles while in seclusion (2000–2001).
Volume 6: Refrains for piano: 23 poems, to which he
attached musical notes (2006).
Volume 7: A thousand-mile solitary journey: 13 poems,
about a solitary Zen master’s long journey (2011–2012).
Finally, I want to thank my wife for her unwavering and
invaluable support throughout this project, and express my
gratitude to my friends Phẻ Xuân Bạch and Huân Cung for
their help in proofreading the first edition of this book. I
would also like to thank the many online communities who
offered insightful commentaries to Thầy’s work as well as
to my translation. They are essential in shaping this book.
Terry Lee
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Volume 1:
Những phương trời viễn mộng | Celestial realms of distant dreams
Những phương trời
viễn mộng
| Celestial realms of
distant dreams
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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This volume contains 9 poems
Time of composition: 1969–April 30th,1975
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1. Cánh chim trời
Một ước hẹn đã chôn vùi tang tóc
Cánh chim trời xa mãi giữa lòng sâu
Nghe một nỗi hao mòn trong thoáng chốc
Một mùa thu một vạn tiếng kêu gào
Khuya còn lạnh sương mù và gió lốc
Thở hơi dài cát bụi cuốn chiêm bao.
Bên cửa sổ bên kia đồi sao mọc
Một lần đi là vĩnh viễn con tàu
Đi để nhớ những chiều pha tóc trắng
Mắt lưng chừng trông giọt máu phiêu lưu.
A sky bird
A promise buried, shrouded in deep grief,
A lone sky bird takes flight, lost in the vast sky,
In a fleeting moment, a feeling of erosion,
A thousand wails echo in the autumn wind.
The night, still chilling with fog and gale,
Sweeps away my dreams in a long sigh.
By the window, beyond the distant hill, stars arise,
On this side, a one-way endless journey,
Embark to cherish those afternoons that whiten my hair,
Eyes half-closed, I watch a drop of blood drifting away.
Explanation
The poem seems to express a deep sense of grief and regret
over a lost love or a missed opportunity. The author is
haunted by memories of the past and is struggling to come
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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to terms with the loss. What was his loss? He explained in
the last verse: Mắt lưng chừng trông giọt máu phiêu lưu
(Eyes half-closed, I watch a drop of blood drifting away).
He wants to embark on a one-way endless journey.
The tone of the poem is melancholic and reflective. The
images of the sky bird, the autumn season, and the stars all
contribute to the overall feeling of longing and isolation.
Dr. Đỗ Hồng Ngọc 1, in his essay Chén trà lão Triệu mà
chưng hoa ngàn (Old Zhao’s 2 teacup but filled with forest
1 In this book, the names of Vietnamese people are presented in the
standard Vietnamese order: Surname, Middle name (if applicable),
Given name. Therefore, Dr. Đỗ Hồng Ngọc appears as such, rather
than the standard Western order Dr. Ngoc Hong Do. However, if only
one name is used, the Surname is employed, such as Dr. Đỗ, instead
of Dr. Ngọc, as commonly referred to by Vietnamese acquaintances.
2 Old Zhao is Zen Master Zhaozhou Congshen (778–897) who was
often touted as the greatest Zen Master of the Tang Dynasty.
At the age of 18, he met Zen Master Nanquan Puyuan (748–835), and
received the way (dharma) from him.
The fortuitous encounter that led to his enlightenment is recorded in
The Recorded Sayings of Zen Master Joshua, compiled by Chaochou,
Chanshih and Yulu, translated to English by James Green, Alta Mira
published in 1998:
- What is the Way? Zhaozhou asked Nanquan Puyuan.
- Ordinary mind is the way, Nanquan replied.
- Can one seek to attain it?
- To seek is to deviate it.
- If one doesn’t seek, how can one understand it?
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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flowers), seeks to clarify Thầy’s viewpoint of how to
integrate poetry and Zen practices to attain the highest level
of poetic expression. He has managed to draw upon a
specific quotation from Thầy’s book Tô Đông Pha: Những
phương trời viễn mộng (Su Dongpo: Celestial realms of
distant dreams) to support his point:
To reach the supreme realm of poetry is like a Zen
practitioner attaining the state of nothingness. It’s both
difficult and easy. Practicing Zen for thirty years,
torturing body and mind for thirty years, yet without
success. Feeling resentful, I gave up; suddenly seeing a
flower falling, the state of nothingness was suddenly
revealed. This miraculous state is difficult to explain.
For a poem to be truly wonderful, it must not be forced,
it must be both nothing and still. Stillness to absorb all
distractions. Nothingness to encompass all phenomena.
Looking at the world, wandering through life, yet
feeling like one is on top of a cloud. Having experienced
all the flavors, bitter and sweet; within that, there is a
wonderful taste. Poetry and the dharma do not contradict
each other and do not harm each other.
Therefore, to understand why some of his poems appear so
romantic, despite being penned by a Zen monk, it’s crucial
to recall his abovementioned assertion that “To reach the
- The Way does not belong to understanding or not understanding.
Understanding is delusion, not understanding is ignorance. When
you have really reached the true Way beyond all doubt you will
find it as vast and boundless as outer space. How can it be talked
bout on a level of right or wrong?
Upon hearing these words, Zhaozhou immediately realized the
profound meaning of the way, i.e., dharma.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
26
supreme realm of poetry is like a Zen practitioner attaining
the state of nothingness where poetry and dharma do not
contradict each other and do not harm each other”.
And Dr. Đỗ comments:
The realm of poetry has its comings and goings, but
leaves no trace, like a swallow or an eagle beyond the
ten thousand miles of sky.
I think that this “traceless” realm of poetry has “saved”
Tuệ Sỹ, a swallow or an eagle beyond the ten thousand
miles of sky, so that he could return to his familiar
thatched hut and “raise Old Zhao’ s teacup”.
This poem was written while he was a professor at Vạn
Hạnh University. Professors Thích Trí Siêu and Thầy were
hailed as two of the most promising young scholars and
Buddhist monks in Vietnam. At the age of 26, Thầy
published the book Su Dongpo: Celestial realms of distant
dreams. In this work, he meticulously explored every
aspect of Su Dongpo’s life, revealing Su’s secret emotions
and distant dreams. So, what was the source of the sorrow
portrayed in this poem? Why did Dr. Đỗ think that Thầy’s
home is the thatched hut in the forest, rather than the
university lecture theater? The answer lies hidden within
his poems.
The teacup in the title of Dr. Đỗ’s essay Old Zhao’s teacup
but filled with wildflowers refers to the following anecdote.
One day, Zen Master Zhaozhou asked a new monk:
- Have you been here before?
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
27
- Yes, I have.
- Have some tea! Zhaozhou said.
Later, Zhaozhou asked another new monk:
- Have you been here before?
- No, I haven’t.
- Have some tea! Zhaozhou said.
The Abbot asked Zhaozhou:
- Why did you tell both the one who has been here and the
one who hasn’t been here to have tea?
- Abbot! Zhaozhou called out.
- Yes?
- You have some tea too!
The question Have you been here? might sound simple, but
it’s a koan. Huairang took eight years to answer Huineng’s
question: Where do you come from? (page 465).
What is a koan? Koan is a paradoxical statement or
question used as a meditation practice in Zen Buddhism. It
serves as a tool for seekers of enlightenment to challenge
their understanding of the true dharma. The seeker is
encouraged to contemplate the koan continuously, not just
during formal meditation but also in daily life, such as
while eating or cleaning. The koan is not meant to be solved
through logical reasoning, as true enlightenment
transcends the limitations of words and language.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
28
To enjoy Zhaozhou’s cup of tea, you must set your mind
empty and immerse yourself deeply in his koan, days and
nights. Only when illusory concepts and delusive thoughts
are dispelled, and inner and outer realms converge
spontaneously, you will become a new person who is able
to sit face to face with Zhaozhou to enjoy his cup of tea.
To fully grasp Thầy’s profound insights in his poems, it
may be helpful to familiarize yourself with these key
Buddhist concepts you’ll encounter in this book:
- Arhat (A-la-hán, in Vietnamese): one who has attained
nirvana. This spiritual attainment is a central goal in
Hīnayāna (small vehicle), a faction of Buddhism, known
for its adherence to the original teachings of the Buddha.
- Bodhisattva (Bồ-tát): one who has vowed to attain
Buddhahood and dedicate their enlightenment to the
liberation of all sentient beings. This concept is central to
Mahāyāna (great vehicle). Buddhism has two factions:
Hīnayāna and Mahāyāna. Zen is a school of Mahāyāna.
- Dharma (Đạo pháp): the underlying laws of nature, or the
teachings of the Buddha, also called the Way. Further
explanation can be found in the footnote No. 2 on page 24.
- Nirvana (Niết-bàn): a state of enlightenment, free from
suffering and samsāra.
- Saṃsāra (Luân hồi): the cycle of birth, death and rebirth.
- Śūnyatā (tánh Không): the fundamental core belief of Zen
Buddhism, often translated as nothingness. Explanations
are on pages 183, 191, 223, 228, 248–250 and 295.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
29
2. Cung trời cũ
Đôi mắt ướt tuổi vàng cung trời hội cũ,
Áo màu xanh không xanh mãi trên đồi hoang,
Phút vội vã bỗng thấy mình du thủ,
Thắp đèn khuya ngồi kể chuyện trăng tàn.
Từ núi lạnh đến biển im muôn thuở,
Đỉnh đá này và hạt muối đó chưa tan,
Cười với nắng một ngày sao chóng thế,
Nay mùa đông mai mùa hạ buồn chăng.
Đếm tóc bạc tuổi đời chưa đủ,
Bụi đường dài gót mỏi đi quanh,
Giờ ngó lại bốn vách tường ủ rũ,
Suối rừng xa ngược nước xuôi ngàn.
Celestial realm of a previous lifetime
Eyes wet with golden memories of our gathering in the
celestial realm of a previous lifetime,
The green shirt is no longer green on the barren hill,
In a hasty moment, I suddenly feel like a wanderer,
Lighting a lamp late at night, sitting and telling stories to
the waning moon.
From the cold mountains to the ever-silent sea,
This rock peak and that grain of salt remain undissolved.
Laughing with the sunlight in a day, how quickly it
passes.
Winter today, summer tomorrow, is there room for
sadness?
Counting gray hairs, not enough to be called old,
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
30
Dusty long roads, tired feet from walking around,
Now, I look back at these four gloomy walls,
The distant forest streams, their waters flowing endlessly,
upstream and downstream.
Explanation
The poem is a quest for the memory of a celestial gathering
from a previous lifetime. Áo màu xanh không xanh mãi
(The green shirt is no longer green) signifies the passage of
time, while ngồi kể chuyện trăng tàn (sitting and telling the
stories to the waning moon) indicates the author’s solitude
in the celestial realm. The stories that the author tells under
the soft glow of the waning moon possess a Zen-like
beauty. His comparison of a rock atop a cold mountain and
a grain of salt at the sea’s depths, both unchanged for
millennia, is particularly striking. Strange to us, not to him,
these vast stretches of time are akin to a single day spent
laughing with the sunlight. Through these stories, Thầy
conveys a nostalgic longing for earthly experiences.
The poem is a poignant meditation on the human condition,
exploring themes of loss, longing, and the search for the
memory of the last gathering in the celestial realm of his
previous lifetime. The imagery is evocative and the
language is beautifully crafted, making this a powerful and
moving piece of poetry. Despite its melancholic tone, the
poem also extols the Buddhist concept of nothingness
(Śūnyatā), when he compares the thousands of years of the
lives of the rock peak and the salt grain to the laugh with
the sunlight in a day of his life; the gray hairs with the tired
feet; and finally, the four glooming walls (of his small
meditation room or the larger Vạn Hạnh University lecture
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
31
theater?) with the forest streams that are flowing upstream
and downstream.
The following is poet Bùi Giáng’s critique, excerpted from
his book Đi vào cõi thơ (Entering the realm of poetry), Ca
Dao published in 1969:
Just hearing the first four lines, I felt a chill run through
my soul, a numbing coldness in my heart. …
Đôi mắt ướt
tuổi vàng
cung trời hội cũ
Eyes wet
with golden memories of our gathering
in the celestial realm of a previous lifetime
Let me write down these words so casually. Surely you
will see the extraordinary solemnity of nostalgia.
Nostalgia for what? – The celestial realm of a previous
lifetime, the last gathering. A spring outing? An exciting
gathering? – The excitement of a youthful time?
Eyes wet with golden memories of our gathering in the
celestial realm of a previous lifetime. …
From the opening words, the poetry flows directly into
the center of a contemplative dream. It has all the vast
elements: a vast, brilliant celestial realm of a previous
lifetime, an exciting gathering, a glittering golden
memory. …
A pair of eyes, wet with sorrow in the present. But the
poetic flow is underground. A subtle rhythm guides it.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
32
The poet doesn’t need any descriptive words, yet still
says everything that needs to be said to everyone who
wants to hear, and to himself without caring about what
is said.
Outstanding poets often have this extraordinary
demeanor. They say very little but say a lot. They say a
lot but ultimately, it seems like they say nothing at all.
They speak for themselves, but it’s as if they speak for
everyone. They speak for everyone but hardly care
whether people listen or not. Their joys and sorrows
seem to be nothing like ours. …
Đôi mắt ướt
tuổi vàng
cung trời hội cũ
Eyes wet
with golden memories
of our gathering in the celestial realm of a previous
lifetime
Eyes wet? Whose eyes? Why are they wet? Because of
tears, or because they are glittering? The poet doesn’t
say. That’s leaving a silent, empty space for the poetry.
We can freely think in two or three ways. Perhaps the
poet’s eyes are wet in the present because of longing for
an old gathering.
Or perhaps it’s the eyes of a beautiful woman, as
glistering and gentle as a flowing stream, reflecting an
immortal old gathering that I have lost today?
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
33
Phút vội vã bỗng thấy mình du thủ,
In a hasty moment, I suddenly feel like a wanderer?
He is a bodhisattva, year-round chanting sūtras and
fasting, so why in a sudden moment does he dare to be
a wanderer? Dare to abandon the sūtras? Dare to light a
lamp in the night and sit telling stories to the moon?
One must see the austere, devout face of Tuệ Sỹ, to be
terrified by these deep, simple words. The words seem
to resonate from the depths of the soul’s previous
lifetime, from a homeland in the upper reaches, vast with
forests, mountains, wind, dew, and the moon trembling
in the cold night. …
A love spread out across the silent, cold sea and
mountains. A grain of salt that has not yet dissolved. A
hidden crease in my heart, wandering and unwashed.
Từ núi lạnh đến biển im muôn thuở,
Đỉnh đá này và hạt muối đó chưa tan
From the cold mountains to the ever-silent sea,
This rock peak and that grain of salt remain undissolved.
I think I can hear the tragic grandeur of Orion (TN –
translator’s note: In Greek mythology, Orion was a giant
huntsman and a son of Poseidon. He was killed by his
lover Artemis in a tragic accident), Nerval (TN: Gerard
de Nerval, French poet, who composed some of his best
works during his dire financial and emotional straits. He
took his own life by hanging himself), the deepest
silence in the scale of Nietzsche (TN: Friedrich
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
34
Nietzsche, German philosopher, who declared that God
is dead. His aim was to free human beings from their
false consciousness about morality).
How many times has the poet sat looking at the fading
moon? Sitting on a stone peak? Surrounded by vast
sacred forests, with the blue moonlight reaching to the
distant horizon of the great sea?
The stone peak and the grain of salt are two places where
the crystals of the mountain and sea converge. The stone
peak gathers all the scents, colors of the sky, clouds,
forests, and howling winds. The grain of salt contains
the ocean’s salty essence. It’s the eternity of a heart
standing tall amidst the drifting snow and moon. …
Giờ ngó lại bốn vách tường ủ rũ,
Suối rừng xa
ngược nước
xuôi ngàn.
Now looking back at the four gloomy walls,
Missing the distant forest streams,
flowing endlessly,
upstream and downstream.
The poem ends. The endless aftertaste lingers in the
night of wandering, confined within four pale, dreary,
prison-like walls.
With just one poem, Tuệ Sỹ has covered everything
from the old and new horizons of Tang poetry in China
to Western Surrealism.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
35
This is more of an impression than an analysis, because the
poet Bùi Giáng (1926–1998) reads the poem with his own
emotions.
It is known that when Thầy showed this poem to Bùi
Giáng, he exclaimed: “Master, you should stop writing
prose. And write more poetry. Otherwise, Vietnamese
poetry will lose a great genius”.
This poem, Cung trời cũ, has two other more popular
names: Không đề and Khung trời cũ.
Không đề (Untitled) is the original name of the poem when
Thầy showed it to Bùi Giáng.
Khung trời cũ (Old sky frame) is probably due to a
miscopy. Below are three reasons I believe the term
“Khung” is incorrect.
(1) Cung trời is used in the first line of the poem: “đôi mắt
ướt tuổi vàng cung trời hội cũ”.
(2) Khung trời (sky frame) is much smaller than and
incompatible with Cung trời (celestial realm). If the title
was Khung trời cũ then cũ means old and probably rusty,
so, its English translation is an old and rusty sky frame.
The scene Thầy conjured in this poem must be so immense
to have given poet Bùi Giáng a chill through his soul, a
numbing coldness in his heart, as he claimed. Our great
poet Bùi Giáng would not have chilled to the core if the
poem only refers to an old sky frame.
(3) Cung trời (celestial realm) appears frequently in several
Vietnamese Buddhist scriptures, e.g., cung trời Đâu Suất
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
36
(Tusita deva), cung trời Đao Lợi (Tavatimsa deva or
Trayastrimsa deva), etc. According to the Ksitigarbha
Sūtra, there are 33 celestial realms, which are divided into
three worlds (Trailokya), from the lowest to the highest: the
Desire world with its nine celestial realms, the Form world
with its twenty celestial realms, and the Formless world
with its four celestial realms.
Given his profound knowledge of Buddhism, Thầy had
undoubtedly delved into the intricate details of these
celestial realms. It’s even conceivable that he was born into
one of these thirty-three celestial realms in his previous
lifetime, before incarnating in this human realm. Therefore,
this poem could be about a recollection of his gathering in
that celestial realm.
Poet Trần Trung Đạo, in his book Ra đi để lại nụ cười
(Departing, leaving behind a smile) concurs with this view
of mine:
The reading accumulated a few years before the age of
twenty did not make a professor Tuệ Sỹ. When coming
to this world, he already had a treasure trove of
knowledge brought from many previous lifetimes.
He also shared this idea in his letter introducing my book:
A few years of studying during the teenage years did not
make him a university professor. The knowledge Thầy
brought from many prior lives was already a treasure
trove when he came to this world. Thầy’s poetry is a
condensed contemplation from the highest level of
consciousness: the level of enlightenment. Not only did
he write poetry, but he also used it to express his
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
37
profound thoughts. They are verses. They are koans
also. They are like drops of water falling from the
infinite space into the ceaseless cycle of creation and
destruction. They are like orchids blooming in the deep
forest. The endless stream of compassion.
Going back to this poem’s title, Cung trời cũ, cũ implies a
connection to the past, indicating that the celestial realm
referred to is one from a previous lifetime.
Therefore, Cung trời cũ literally means a celestial realm of
a previous lifetime, and it should be the title of this poem.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
38
Không đề (Untitled), commonly believed to be penned by
Most Venerable Tuệ Sỹ
However, comparing the different handwriting styles in the
above two poems, I suspect that the first poem is not Thầy’s
original handwritten work.
Besides, the writing in the first poem has two spelling
errors (“đĩnh” đá and gót “mõi”, instead of đỉnh đá and gót
mỏi), so, definitely not his work.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
39
3. Hận thu cao
Quỳ xuống đó nghe hương trời cát bụi
Đôi chân trần xuôi ảo ảnh về đâu
Tay níu lại những lần khân chìm nổi
Hận thu cao mây trắng bỗng thay màu
Ta sẽ rủ gió lùa trên tóc rối
Giọng ân tình năn nỉ bước đi mau
Còi rộn rã bởi hoang đường đã đổi
Bởi phiêu lưu ngày tháng vẫn con tàu
Vẫn lăn lóc với đá mòn dứt nối
Đá mòn ơi cười một thuở chiêm bao
Quỳ xuống nữa ngủ vùi trong cát bụi
Nửa chừng say quán trọ khóc lao xao
Tay níu nữa gốc thông già trơ trọi
Đứng bên đường nghe mối hận lên cao
Nha Trang 1973
Rising autumnal wrath
Kneel there, breathe the celestial scent and hear the whisper
of sand and dust,
Barefoot, where can I go to chase your illusions,
While clutching at hesitant, rising and falling moments,
As white clouds abruptly change colors in rising autumnal
wrath?
I’ll beckon the wind to tousle my tangled hair,
While a pleading voice urges me to hurry on.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
40
The horn has rung out, the uncharted course has turned,
For the train to journey on, through days of adventure.
But I’m still grappling with the same old burdens, on and
off,
O, you, my old burdens, laugh at my dreaming lifetime.
Kneel down again, then slumber in the sand and dust,
Half-drunk in a roadside inn, sobbing uncontrollably.
Clutching to the old, bare pine stump,
Stand by the roadside, sensing the rising wrath.
Explanation
In the poem, the recurring images of dust, illusion, and bare
feet suggest a sense of isolation and detachment from the
world. The individual is depicted as a solitary figure,
wandering through a vast and indifferent universe. Imagery
such as clouds abruptly changing color, worn-out stones
(metaphorically representing old burdens), and an old, bare
pine stump (symbolizing the hesitant, rising and falling
moments he mentioned in the first stanza, hence, he uses
níu (clutching) in both stanzas) underscore the transitory
nature of life and the unpredictable adventure-filled days
ahead. I also wonder whether the inn in the last verse is the
same as the inn in Kết từ (In conclusion), page 54.
This poem is the voice of Thầy speaking to himself,
inviting him on a journey characterized by a profound
sense of loss, longing, solitude, and disappointment.
This poem was written in 1973, when he was a professor at
Vạn Hạnh University. Why did he leave his university post
to go to Nha Trang to vent his wrath?
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
41
I couldn’t fathom the source of Thầy’s wrath in this poem
until I read his essay Thuyền ngược bến không (The boat
drifting against the empty wharf) 3 that he composed in the
winter of 2004, after a death sentence and more than 17
years of imprisonment, narrowly escaping death on
multiple occasions.
War, hatred, and somewhere, deep within the yearning,
love and death are obsessions, and like material for the
consciousness of survival. There exists a separate realm
of poetry for such sensitive souls. Gazing at a dying bird
3 The title Thuyền ngược bến không (The boat drifting against the
empty wharf) of Thầy’s essay is derived from the last line of the poem
No. 3 in the poetry collection of 171 poems entitled Thủy Mộ Quan
(The underwater graveyard gate) by poet Viên Linh:
Nằm mộng đêm nay vào hỏa ngục
Trời mây vần vũ thủy mang mang
Dưới hiên mưa vắng, hồn khua nước
Thả chiếc thuyền con ngược bến không.
I dreamed of descending into hell tonight,
The sky clouds were swirling, the water boundless.
Beneath the porch, in the quiet rain, a soul disturbs the water,
Letting down a small boat to drift against the empty wharf.
Here is another poem (poem No. 78) in this collection that Thầy also
found notable:
Sinh ở đâu mà giạt bốn phương
Trăm con cười nói tiếng trăm giòng
Ngày mai nếu trở về quê cũ
Hy vọng ta còn tiếng khóc chung
Where were we born that now we’re drifted across the four corners
of the earth?
A hundred children, a hundred tongues.
If tomorrow we return to our old homeland,
Let’s hope our cries still sound the same.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
42
in a painting, one becomes dazed and bewildered. Yet,
its language transforms. Love, disappointment, passion,
like fervent waves on the water’s surface, but what lies
hidden deep below, who knows?
Nước xa cuồn cuộn ra khơi
Sâu trong tâm thể có đôi giọt gần
(Dư tập, Thủy mộ quan, thơ Viên Linh)
The distant water surges out to sea
Deep within the body, there are a few close drops
(Leftover collection, The underwater graveyard gate,
poetry by Viên Linh)
Such verses are rare for a busy life. How could one not
be busy, when one’s peers are constantly leaving.
Some cross rivers and enter forests, their hearts burning
with heroism, leaving behind the city as in the song
Người đã đi, đi trên non cao (They have gone, gone to
the mountains) 4.
4 From the song Người về thành phố (Urban homecoming), written by
songwriter Phạm Thế Mỹ, a North Vietnamese spy, assigned to South
Vietnam to work with student activists.
In this song, he praises and encourages students to go up the
mountains to join the communist military forces. It wasn’t until the
fall of Saigon that his true identity as a spy was unveiled.
An undercover communist agent within the South Vietnamese
regime, yet he achieved immense fame in South Vietnam thanks to
the freedom of speech and freedom of the press. After the fall of
Saigon, he was merely assigned a role as a cultural information officer
in District 4, Saigon, and later passed away in hardship and obscurity.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
43
Others leave, leaving behind choked, frenzied cries of
the young widows: Ngày mai đi nhận xác chồng, say đi
để thấy mình không là mình (Tomorrow I’ll go to claim
my husband’s body. Get drunk so I don’t feel like
myself) 5.
5 From the song Tưởng như còn người yêu (Feeling like my lover is
still here), commonly known as Ngày mai đi nhận xác chồng
(Tomorrow I’ll go to claim my husband’s body), written by
songwriter Phạm Duy.
He set the poet Lê Thị Ý’s poem Love Song No. 1 to music. The song’s
raw emotion and vivid imagery, depicting a widow’s journey to claim
her husband’s body after he was killed in war, make it a truly
unforgettable work. This song, filled with deep sorrow and longing,
became one of the most popular during the 70s war era.
The poem’s final lines resonate with me deeply, as I’ve witnessed
many widows, including my own half-sister, grieving at their
husbands’ grave sites:
Chao ơi thèm nụ hôn quen
Đêm đêm hẹn sẽ chong đèn chờ nhau
Chiếc quan tài phủ cờ màu
Hằn lên ba vạch đỏ au phũ phàng
Em không thấy được xác chàng
Ai thêm lon giữa hai hàng nến trong?
Mùi hương cứ tưởng hơi chồng
Nghĩa trang mà ngỡ như phòng riêng ta
Oh, I crave our familiar kiss
Night after night, we promised to wait for each other
Your coffin is draped in a colored flag
Etched with three cruel, bloody red stripes
Why can’t I see your body?
Who has had a higher rank between the two lines of candles?
The candlelight’s scent reminds me of your breath
Inside the graveyard, but I feel like we are in our private room.
In the song, the songwriter Phạm Duy drops the line:
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
44
Love and hate become dialectical contradictions.
So, we may surmise that as reflecting on the impact of war
on individuals and society, Thầy’s wrath was born out of
his deep-seated anxieties for his homeland. War wrought a
terrible toll on the populace, yet the dialectics also ignited
a fervent zeal for slaughter.
As he was struggling to calm his mind on the impact of the
war, I believe the đá mòn (worn-out stones) mentioned in
this poem metaphorically represents his burdens, therefore,
I translate the first verse of the third stanza, vẫn lăn lóc với
đá mòn dứt nối, to still grappling with the same old
burdens, on and off.
Hằn lên ba vạch đỏ au phũ phàng
Etched with three cruel, bloody red stripes.
The three red stripes in the poem allude to the flag of the Republic of
Vietnam, which features three red stripes on a yellow background.
He also changes the last line:
Nghĩa trang mà ngỡ như phòng riêng ta
Inside the graveyard, but I feel like we are in our private room
into:
Ôm mồ cứ tưởng ôm vòng người yêu
Hugging the grave, I feel like I am hugging my lover.
In essence, both lines express deep grief, loss, a sense of surreal
detachment and a profound emotional connection to the deceased. The
poem’s verse uses a metaphorical image of a private room to convey
a sense of intimacy and belonging, while the song’s verse uses an
image of grave hugging to express a longing for physical closeness.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
45
4. Hoài niệm
Một đêm thôi mắt trầm sâu đáy biển
Hai bàn tay vén lại tóc xa xưa
Miền đất đó trăng đã gầy vĩnh viễn
Từ vu vơ bên giấc ngủ mơ hồ.
Một lần định như sao ngàn đã định
Lại một lần nông nổi vết sa cơ.
Trời vẫn vậy vẫn mây chiều gió tĩnh
Vẫn một đời nghe kể chuyện không như
Vẫn sống chết với điêu tàn vờ vĩnh
Để mắt mù nhìn lại cõi không hư.
Một lần ngại trước thông già cung kỉnh
Chẳng một lần nhầm lẫn không ư?
Ngày mai nhé ta chờ mi một chuyến
Hai bàn tay vén lại tóc xa xưa.
Nostalgia
Just for one night, let my eyes plunge to the ocean floor,
With my two hands, I weave her hair back into time, as it
once was.
In her realm, the moon has eternally waned,
Lost in an aimless, hazy slumber.
Once resolved, I thought it fixed as the stars,
Yet again, rashness brought me down.
The sky remains, with evening clouds and a gentle wind,
Still a lifetime listening to frivolous tales,
Still living and dying in a perpetual pretense,
Blinded from reality by fabricated legends.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
46
Once I stood in awe before an ancient, sacred pine,
Surely, I’ve stumbled more than once.
Tomorrow, I anticipate a journey,
With my two hands, I’ll weave her hair back into time, as
it once was.
Explanation
In the poem’s opening, the author closes his eyes and,
thinking about his lover, he envisions reaching out to
weave her hair back into time, as it once was. In the realm
where she resides, the moon has perpetually waned.
In the second section, the author admits to having made
many mistakes, by not keeping his promises and by
spending his lifetime listening to frivolous tales, believing
in perpetual pretense and letting fabricated legends blind
his eyes. These frivolous tales, perpetual pretenses, and
fabricated legends could be interpreted as representing the
misinformation and manipulated narratives that are often
used by communist regimes to maintain control or
influence public opinion. This interpretation aligns with the
idea that the girl in the poem represents Thầy’s homeland
and her hair the people, as they could be seen as being
subjected to these misleading narratives.
In regards to the verse một lần ngại trước thông già cung
kỉnh, that I translate as “once I stood in awe before an
ancient, sacred pine”, Vietnamese folklore is rich with
stories of spirits and ghosts living on old trees. Children are
taught to respect them, as they are believed to be guardians
of the trees and the surrounding environment, so disturbing
them could bring bad luck or ill health.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
47
In the final section, the author makes a promise that, come
tomorrow, he will return to rebuild his homeland and,
ultimately, reach out to weave her hair back into time, as it
once was.
The line hai bàn tay vén lại tóc xa xưa occurs twice in the
poem. They are identical in Vietnamese due to the absence
of verb tenses. In English, however, the tense shifts to
reflect the present during the dream sequence, therefore, its
translation is with my two hands, I weave her hair back into
time, as it once was and the future when promising a future
encounter, with my two hands, I’ll weave her hair back into
time, as it once was.
This poem is analyzed by Professor Phạm Công Thiện in
his essay Một buổi sáng đọc thơ Tuệ Sỹ (A morning reading
Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry), written in 1988, as follows:
Perhaps the first characteristic of Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry is the
lack of personality. Contrary to the common critical
habit of finding the personality of each poet, I think that
demonstrating the lack of personality in poetry is the
most difficult thing for a poet. …
Một đêm thôi mắt trầm sâu đáy biển
Hai bàn tay vén lại tóc xa xưa.
Just for one night, let my eyes plunge to the ocean floor,
With my two hands, I weave her hair back into time, as
it once was.
Of course, I must pause in surprise: I have never seen
Tuệ Sỹ with hair. …
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
48
The last line repeats the second line like a decisive
chorus:
Ngày mai nhé ta chờ mi một chuyến
Hai bàn tay vén lại tóc xa xưa.
Tomorrow, I anticipate a journey,
With my two hands, I’ll weave her hair back into time,
as it once was.
The word xa xưa (past) can also be understood, opposite
of our ordinary concept, as the “past of the future”,
because the word ngày mai (tomorrow), in combination
with the word xa xưa (past), has expanded the horizon
like a seaport, or hidden the horizon and expanded time
like a forest glen. …
Now, rereading the entire poem (consisting of 14 lines,
each with 8 characters), we wonder what the poet wants
to say? When reading poetry and feeling that the author
wants to express something clearly, it is no longer
poetry.
I have a different opinion. I think it’s more enjoyable to
read poetry when you understand what the author is trying
to say, especially when you can empathize with them.
In my opinion, this poem is the confession of a person who
has spent his life chasing after vague dreams, allowing him
to listen to frivolous tales, believe in perpetual pretense and
let fabricated legends blind his eyes, neglecting his loved
one for a long time, perhaps too long, due to the word
“eternal” in this verse, in a homeland where the moon has
eternally waned. Now, after a night of deep meditation, he
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
49
regrets his actions and yearns for his loved one, wanting to
reach out and weave her hair back into time, as it once was.
So, he decides to embark on a journey back home
tomorrow, hoping to restore his homeland and make the
moon full again. Then, he can reach out to her and his two
hands will finally weave her hair back into time, as it once
was.
Thầy uses personification throughout his poetry to give life
and deeper meaning to inanimate objects and abstract
concepts. By recognizing the pattern of personification in
his work, for example, with her hair representing his
homeland in this poem, the streets in Nhớ con đường thơm
ngoọt môi em (Longing for the streets where her lips tasted
sweet and fragrant), page 150, a mustard seed in Nghìn năm
trước lên núi (A thousand years ago I climbed that
mountain), page 349, a stream in Anh đi để trống cụm rừng
(You leave behind a ravaged forest), page 386 and many
more that we will find in this book, we’ll gain a valuable
key to unlocking the hidden layers of meaning within his
poems.
Let’s continue reading the professor’s critique.
Perhaps the second characteristic of Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry is
the abstraction of the concrete and the abstraction of
personality. I use the word “abstraction” here in its most
beautiful and poetic sense … The poetic style of the
Tang and Song dynasties is also subtly hidden in Tuệ
Sỹ’s poetry, although Tuệ Sỹ had proven that he
memorized the entire poetry world of Tang and Song
dynasties. To say that Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry is good or bad is
ridiculous. We can only say that Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
50
deserves to be read and re-read many times, and to be
pondered over or felt intuitively. At least there is one
poet worth reading amidst the “feigned ruins”.
The concepts of a lack of personality (Thầy’s first
characteristic, according to professor Phạm) and the
abstraction of personality (Thầy’s second characteristic,
also according to professor Phạm) in poetry are often
intertwined and can be difficult to distinguish. However,
they represent distinct approaches to characterization and
the portrayal of human experience. A lack of personality in
a poem refers to the absence of a defined or individualized
character, while abstraction of personality in a poem occurs
when the character is presented in a more symbolic or
conceptual way, using metaphors, similes, etc.
Professor Phạm continues:
The third and final characteristic of Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry is
the changing voice of a bird from the ancient realm of
infinite lifetimes deep within the soul of the Homeland.
This third characteristic was derived from the poem Ngồi
giữa bãi tha ma (Sitting in the middle of a graveyard), page
142:
Một buổi sáng nghe chim trời đổi giọng
Người thấy ta xô dạt bóng thiên thần
One morning, the birdsong shifted,
I felt adrift, free from angelic illusions.
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51
5. Hương ngày cũ
Màu nắng xế ôi màu hương tóc cũ
Chiều trơ vơ chiều dạt mấy hồn tôi
Trời viễn mộng đọa đày đi mấy thuở
Mộng kiêu hùng hay muối mặn giữa trùng khơi
Scent of old days
The fading sunlight, oh, the scent of her hair, a fragrance
of days gone by,
Desolate afternoons have drifted my soul astray.
For many times, I’ve been tormented by dreams of distant
lands,
Were they dreams of heroism, or merely grains of salt
dissolving in the vast ocean?
Explanation
The images of the slanting sunlight, the fragrance of the
hair, and many lonely afternoons evoke feelings of
nostalgia, melancholy, and the passage of time. In these
dreams of distant lands, he kept asking himself whether
they were dreams of heroism, or merely grains of salt lost
in the vast ocean? The comparison of dreams of heroism to
grains of salt in the vast ocean suggests the smallness and
insignificance of human aspirations against the backdrop
of a vast and indifferent universe, or perhaps against the
backdrop of the ongoing war that has caused immense pain,
loss, and destruction over a period of two decades in the
author’s country, without seeing the end of the tunnel,
given that this poem was written before the war ended.
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In my translation, I added a question mark to the end of
Thầy’s final verse. Unexpectedly, Thầy included a question
mark there as well in his own book, Tô Đông Pha: Những
phương trời viễn mộng (Su Dongpo: Celestial realms of
distant dreams).
Below is an excerpt from his book that proves that the last
two lines of this poem exist in it and also end with a
question mark:
In the realm of poetry, the moon is as heroic as a
thousand miles of wind sweeping over mountain peaks.
From that perspective, looking at the moon as if it were
an eyebrow arched over a melancholy, thoughtful eye; a
solitary sliver of moon on a bare parasol tree: is poetry
a metaphor or not a metaphor? It is both a metaphor and
not a metaphor:
Trời viễn mộng đọa đày đi mấy thuở
Mộng kiêu hùng hay muối mặn giữa trùng khơi?
For many times, I’ve been tormented by dreams of
distant lands,
Were they dreams of heroism, or merely grains of salt
dissolving in the vast ocean?
The question mark added to the end of this verse, I believe,
reflects the dialectical contradictions explored in his poem
Hận thu cao (Rising autumnal wrath) that we have seen on
page 39.
The book continues to explore how Su Dongpo’s heroic
dreams were shattered by the harsh realities of life, much
like grains of salt dissolving in the vast ocean. Was this a
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
53
reflection of Su Dongpo’s personal torment, or did Thầy’s
own experiences resonate with Su’s struggles?
From the realm of simple dreams to the realm of
tormented distant dreams, there is an abyss, utterly dark
and bottomless. The two sides are connected by a
precarious, single-log bridge. How can one cross it, and
recross it, with the heavy feet of ordinary mortals? Such
a journey must endure countless hardships, even if the
destination is only a thought away. Is that what
tormented distant dreams are? But is it correct to call it
tormented distant dreams? Perhaps that term only began
to resonate when an old minister, accompanied by a
weary spouse, humbly endured exile to the farthest
reaches of South China, or ventured into the deepest,
most secluded mountains of life and death? Lost in a
foreign land, both the sorrow of homesickness and the
longing of being a stranger are intense. Yet, how can
one’s homeland not be one’s homeland, and where is
there a place that is not a foreign land? Standing on one
side, gazing toward the other, the eyes grow weary with
longing. This is mental anguish; this is physical torment.
In the gilded halls, the dream of a lifetime has reached
its peak. … And yet, the gilded halls echo with the cries
of heartbreak. A startled eagle takes flight. Where is
home, and where is foreign land, for the eagle to alight?
…
A foreign land that has eighteen terrifying rapids and
waterfalls. But that land tortures the body, not the distant
dreams. It is the homeland, with its deep affections, that
truly tortures the distant dreams.
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6. Kết từ
Ngược xuôi nhớ nửa cung đàn
Ai đem quán trọ mà ngăn nẻo về?
In conclusion
Back and forth I wander, remembering half a melody.
Who placed this inn here, obstructing my way home?
Explanation
Buddhists believe in reincarnation. Life is merely a short
journey. After death, it continues in another life, whether
as a human or not, depending on one’s karma.
Therefore, life is like an inn. Some people wander around
seeking fame and fortune. But Thầy wanders back and
forth, remembering half of a melody. Which half?
Either Thầy has already played half of the melody, and now
longs for the other half, metaphorically, an unfulfilled
desire. Or half of the melody he already played keeps
playing back in his thoughts, as he wanders back and forth.
The image of a half melody, therefore, evokes a sense of
incomplete music, mirroring his incomplete journey and
longing for a lost love.
The inn, on the other hand, can be seen as a metaphor for
obstacles or setbacks that prevent Thầy from reaching his
way home.
In his 1973 book Tô Đông Pha: Những phương trời viễn
mộng (Su Dongpo: Celestial realms of distant dreams),
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Thầy introduces the section The true face of Lushan with
these two verses. Excerpted from this book,
Ngược xuôi nhớ nửa cung đàn
Ai đem quán trọ mà ngăn nẻo về
Back and forth I wander, remembering half a melody.
Who placed this inn here, obstructing my way home?
Lushan is an extraordinary and magnificent natural
wonder. With its majestic mountains, somber scenery,
and year-round clouds and mist, this place has been the
hidden abode of enlightened sages for countless
generations. To seek out Lushan and gaze upon its true
face is to resolutely sever all attachments, distractions,
and entanglements from countless past lifetimes. To see
that place is to see the Mind of Zen. But the Mind of Zen
is silent and speaks not. Once one raises a razor to cut
off one’s hair and renounce the mundane world, the
realm of poetry will lose a shining star to guide ordinary
mortals who are still engrossed in poetry. A poet with a
great bodhisattva vow takes upon themselves countless
sufferings and heartbreaks. That vow will illuminate the
truth of Difference and Sameness. Difference and
Sameness are divergent paths; but upon reaching the
profound koan of life and death, the truth of Difference
and Sameness is obliterated. That is where the self and
others, subject and object, all become silent nothingness.
From there, the poet makes an appointment with Zen,
opens the northern gate, and looks up at the thirty-six
green mountain peaks.
The “long-winded, rambling words” (Thầy’s own words)
above are his elaboration from this poem of Su Dongpo:
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Vị văn Lô nhạc đa chân ẩn
Cố tựu cao nhân đoạn túc phan
Dĩ hỉ thiền tâm vô biệt ngữ
Thương hiềm thế phát hữu thi ban
Dị đồng mạc vấn nghi Tam ngữ
Vật ngã chung đương phó Bát hoàn
Đáo hậu dữ quân khai bắc hộ
Cử đầu tam thập lục thanh sơn
which he translates as follows:
I heard that there are many true hermits on Lushan.
Therefore, I sought out a master to sever the lingering
attachments of many lifetimes. I was happy that Zen
language is no different from ordinary language. But I
still fear that even after shaving my head, the love for
poetry might remain. Oh well, whether the way of Zen
and poetry are the same or different, one should not
doubt or question. Let’s forget the distinctions between
Self and Other. Finally, you and I opened the north door,
and looked up at the thirty-six green mountain peaks.
In another passage:
Huangzhou, Quzhou, Huizhou, and countless other
zhous 6; these were all paths of exile and days of
suffering. His life was like a boat adrift, letting the
current carry it away. But what about his poetry? Was it
suffering? Wandering? Torment? A distant dream?
6 Translated from Thầy’s strange original “Hoàng châu, Quế châu,
Huệ châu, vân vân châu”. Literally it means “Huangzhou, Quzhou,
Huizhou, and etcetera zhous”.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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What is the true nature, the true form, the true heart? The
true face of Lushan is not easy to see.
From Thầy’s explanation, we can conclude that quán trọ
(inn) represents one’s life, and nửa cung đàn (half-melody)
symbolizes the long and often arduous journey of suffering
and torment one endures throughout their lifetime. The
melody remains incomplete because we never fully
comprehend the totality of our lived experiences until
death, as expressed in this Su Dongpo’s famous poem
題西
林壁
(Đề Tây Lâm bích, Inscription on the wall of the West
Grove pagoda) 7:
7 Su Dongpo had two famous poems written about Lushan.
題西林壁
(Đề Tây Lâm bích, Inscription on the wall of the West Grove pagoda)
is one. The second one is as follows:
盧山湮鎖浙江潮
未到生平 恨不逍
到得還來無別事
盧山湮鎖浙江潮
Lô Sơn yên tỏa Triết Giang triều
Vị đáo bình sinh hận bất tiêu
Đáo đắc hoàn lai vô biệt dị
Lô Sơn yên tỏa Triết Giang triều.
Lushan shrouded in mist and Zhejiang tides
Before arriving, a lifetime of sorrows cannot be dispelled
Upon arrival and return, there is nothing else
Lushan shrouded in mist and Zhejiang tides.
Venerable Mật Thể (1912–1961) translated to Vietnamese:
Mù tỏa Lô Sơn sóng Triết Giang
Khi chưa đến đó hận muôn vàn
Đến rồi về lại không gì lạ
Mù tỏa Lô Sơn sóng Triết Giang.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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橫看成嶺惻成峰
遠近膏低各不同
不識廬山真面目
只緣身在此山中
Hoành khan thành lãnh trắc thành phong
Viễn cận cao đê các bất đồng
Bất thức Lô Sơn chân diện mục,
Chỉ duyên thân tại thử sơn trung.
Seen from the side, it’s a ridge; seen from the front, it’s a
peak,
From afar and near, high and low, each is different.
You cannot know the true face of Lushan,
Because you are in the middle of the mountain.
In his book, Thầy also compared Su Dongpo’s evocative
half-melodies to the tragic fate of Kiều, the protagonist of
This is a poem that carries a distinct Zen flavor. The majestic
mountains, only partially visible through the floating mist, become a
mere point of emphasis against the vast expanse of the sky. Below,
the river tide ebbs and flows.
What makes this poem particularly interesting is the first and last
lines, which are identical in words but carry different meanings.
The first line is simply a description of the scenery, as if heard from
someone else. The last line is a personal expression after witnessing
Lushan and Zhejiang firsthand. It reflects a personal experience.
The theme of this poem is in accord to this saying of Zen Master
Qingyuan Weixin (9th century): “Before a man studies Zen, to him
mountains are mountains and waters are waters; after he gets an
insight into the truth of Zen, mountains to him are not mountains and
waters are not waters; but when he really attains to the abode of rest,
mountains are mountains and waters are waters”.
Some Chinese critics claim that the poem on page 350 is the third’s
Zen-flavored poem Su Dongpo wrote about Lushan.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Nguyễn Du’s (1766‒1820) epic poem Truyện Kiều (The
Tale of Kiều) 8.
Thầy highlighted the similarities between their fates with
the following verses from The Tale of Kiều:
Mối tình đòi đoạn vò tơ
Giấc hương quan luống lần mơ canh dài
Song sa vò võ phương trời
Nay hoàng hôn đã lại mai hôn hoàng.
All her emotions tangled like sleave silk,
As dreams of home kept stirring sleep till dawn.
From her gauze-curtained window, at heaven’s edge,
Alone, forlorn, she’d watch dusk follow dusk.
(translated by Professor Huỳnh Sanh Thông, quoted from
his bilingual book The Tale of Kiều)
8 Truyện Kiều (The Tale of Kiều), original title Đoạn trường tân thanh
(A new cry from a broken heart), is an epic poem by Nguyễn Du,
consisting of 3254 verses in Nôm script, written by alternating lines
of six and eight syllables in the lục bát (six eight) style.
It tells the tragic story of Kiều, a beautiful and talented young woman
who is forced to sacrifice herself to save her family.
Nguyễn Du’s masterful use of language, classical Chinese allusions
and references, vivid imagery, and deep psychological insight,
capturing human emotion and exploring themes of love and loss,
elevates the poem to a work of art and a masterpiece of Vietnamese
literature.
Nôm is a logographic writing system, based on Chinese characters,
formerly used to write the Vietnamese language. For an example of
Nôm writing, see the footnote on pages 298–299.
In the 16th century, European missionaries, for the purpose of their
mission, introduced the Romanized Vietnamese script, which
gradually became today’s official writing system.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Most Venerable Nguyên Siêu connects the poem’s “half-
melody” to the life of Tuệ Sỹ, particularly after the fall of
Saigon, as described in his essay Tuệ Sỹ – Người gầy trên
quê hương (Tuệ Sỹ – The gaunt figure on his homeland).
He argues that even though this poem predates the fall of
Saigon, the image of the “half-melody” resonated with
Thầy and represented a sense of incompleteness that he
carried throughout his life.
Some people strive and struggle to seize power and
wealth, even if it means crawling on their bellies. They
do anything to fulfill their wicked ambitions, to acquire
unjust wealth and high positions, even if it means selling
their country to foreign powers, all for the sake of filling
their pockets with money and their homes with gold and
jewels, to cushion their seats and enjoy life on the blood
and bones of the common people. But here, there is
someone who “strives” only to remember half a melody
that has not yet been fully played. How simple! How
content! …
That half-melody is like the long, lingering sound of a
stringed instrument that is suddenly cut short. Like the
history of our homeland, plummeting into a deep, dark,
and hopeless abyss. Life is like an inn, and people come
and go. Birth and death are endless, vast, and profound.
People become so immersed in this inn that they create
all sorts of distractions to block the path to their distant
dreams. Thus, being blocked and unable to return, he
turned back to live with himself. He closed his doors,
avoid the outside world, and fast. Sometimes he fainted
at his desk from hunger.
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7. Mộng trường sinh
Đá mòn phơi nẻo tà dương
Nằm nghe nước lũ khóc chừng cuộc chơi
Ngàn năm vang một nỗi đời
Gió đưa cuộc lữ lên lời viễn phương
Đan sa rã mộng phi thường
Đào tiên trụi lá bên đường tử sinh
Đồng hoang mục tử chung tình
Đăm chiêu dư ảnh nóc đình hạc khô.
Eternal life’s dream
Worn stones bathed in the setting sun,
Listening to the floodwaters mourn lifelong dreams.
A thousand years echo a timeless hope,
As wind carries tales of futile journeys to distant lands.
Cinnabar’s allure shatters dreams of grandeur,
By the path of life and death, immortal peach trees stand
bare.
On the desolate plain, a lone, faithful shepherd stands,
Contemplating the fading image of the weathered crane
atop the temple roof.
Explanation
This poem was taken from his book Tô Đông Pha: Những
phương trời viễn mộng (Su Dongpo: Celestial realms of
distant dreams). Here’s the original passage:
The nostalgic sentiment of the traveler is undoubtedly a
sincere aspiration awakened by journeys against the
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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wind. The path of history, like a river flowing
downstream, or rushing like a flood, sweeps away all
lifelong dreams. This is the history of birth, death, and
long dreams. In that dreamlike realm, on the traveler’s
journey against the wind, the fading sunlight casts a
melancholy, contemplative hue over the ruins, decay,
and corruption; it is the ultimate end of everything in
passionate destruction. Breath fades away; the person
has completely wasted their essence, leaving nature to
express its indifferent affection, like a pebble by the
roadside exposed to the sun and wind. The sun rises with
signs of wear and tear and collapse. The wind carries
with it the echoes of eternal wishes beyond the vast and
silent universe. Dreams of grandeur are entrusted to
cinnabar, a symbol of immortality; yet, the path of life
and death within the vast and silent universe never stops
to let travelers’ dwell there. Life and death remain like
an illusory dream, as noisy as a game. In the vast, empty
expanse, the shepherd gazes thoughtfully at the
silhouette of a thin crane, pondering the ways of the
world and history; then he asks himself: “Where is the
realm of Eternal Dreams?”
His poem is inspired by this poem by Su Dongpo:
門前古碣臥斜陽
閲世如流事可傷
長有幽人悲晉惠
強修遺廟學秦皇
丹砂久窖井水赤
白朮誰燒廚灶香
聞道神仙亦相過
只疑田叟是庚桑
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63
Môn tiền cổ kiệt ngọa tà dương
Duyệt thế như lưu sự khả thương
Trường hữu u nhân bi Tấn Huệ
Cưỡng tu di miếu học Tần Hoàng
Đan sa cửu diếu tỉnh thủy xích
Bạch truật thùy triêu trù táo hương
Văn đạo thần tiên diệc tương quá
Chỉ nghi điền tẩu thị Canh Tang
In front of the inn, a stone lies exposed to the afternoon
sun,
Viewing the world like flowing water, passing by and
disappearing, matters can be painful.
Even today, there are still foolish people who mourn for
Emperor Hui of Jin,
There are also those who still imitate Qin Shi Huang,
trying to repair the ruined temple.
Cinnabar, once a key ingredient in the pursuit of eternal
life, is now abandoned and submerged in a well, turning
the water red,
Atractylodes root, used in the past for alchemist
purposes, is now seen being used as incense in the
kitchen.
I hear that immortals often interact with mortals,
Perhaps that old farmer is actually the immortal
Gengsang Chu.
The search for an elixir of immortality, or a substance that
could extend their life, has been a recurring theme in
Chinese culture and history for centuries. This quest was
often driven by a desire for power, wealth, and longevity,
and it was believed that such a potion could be found
through alchemy.
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The poem by Su Dongpo mentions three persons: Qin Shi
Huang, Hui of Jin and Gengsang Chu.
Qin Shi Huang (259–210 BC) was obsessed with finding
the elixir of immortality and sent numerous expeditions to
search for it. Unfortunately, his efforts were unsuccessful,
and he died at a relatively young age.
Hui of Jin (259–307), like many of his predecessors, was
captivated by the idea of eternal life and sought to prolong
his reign through the consumption of elixirs.
Unfortunately, his pursuit of immortality had tragic
consequences. He ingested a toxic elixir that ultimately led
to his demise.
Gengsang Chu was a disciple of the semi-legendary ancient
Chinese philosopher Laozi (6th century BC), who is
generally considered the founder of Taoism. When
Gengsang Chu took up his residence in the north at the hill
of Wei Lei, his servants left him and his concubines
distanced themselves from him, too. But by embracing
solitude and dedicating himself to self-cultivation, he
ultimately gained the respect and reverence of the people,
achieving a form of immortality through their memory and
the prosperity he brought to the land.
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8. Mưa cao nguyên
1
Một con én một đoạn đường lây lất
Một đêm dài nghe thác đổ trên cao
Ta bước vội qua dòng sông biền biệt
Đợi mưa dầm trong cánh bướm xôn xao
2
Bóng ma gọi tên người mỗi sáng
Từng ngày qua từng tiếng vu vơ
Mưa xanh lên tóc huyền sương nặng
Trong giấc mơ lá dạt xa bờ
3
Người đứng mãi giữa lòng sông nhuộm nắng
Kể chuyện gì nơi ngày cũ xa xưa
Con bướm nhỏ đi về trong cánh mỏng
Nhưng về đâu một chiếc lá xa mùa
4
Năm tháng vẫn như nụ cười trong mộng
Người mãi đi như nước chảy xa nguồn
Bờ bến lạ chút tự tình với bóng
Mây lạc loài ôi tóc cũ ngàn năm
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66
Highland rain
1
Like a swallow struggling on a stretch of a road,
A long night spent listening to the waterfall,
I hurry across the desolate river,
Awaiting the drenching rain amidst the bustling butterfly
wings.
2
A ghost calls your name each dawn, do you not hear?
Each passing day, each imperceptible sound.
Green rain falls on your black hair, heavy with dew,
In my dreams, leaves are swept far from the shore.
3
Standing forever in the sun-drenched riverbed,
I recount tales of bygone days.
The small butterfly flutters to and fro on fragile wings,
But where can I, an out-of-season leaf, find my way?
4
Days turn to months; time slips by like a smile in a dream,
While you, like a river, flow ever onward,
You confide in your shadow, on distant shores.
Oh, those stray clouds! You were my hair a thousand
years ago.
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Explanation
This first stanza paints a picture of solitude and waiting.
The swallow’s flight, the desolate river, and the persistent
rain all contribute to a sense of isolation. The bustling
butterfly’s wings, despite their activity, seem to offer no
solace. The author is waiting for the pouring rain, perhaps
it is a change or a resolution.
The theme of longing and loss deepens in the second
stanza. The ghost calling the person’s name suggests a
haunting presence from the past. The “green rain” and
“black hair” create a dreamlike, ethereal atmosphere, while
the image of leaves drifting away symbolizes the
impermanence of life and love.
In the third stanza, the word “người” in the first line could
represent the author or a lost love. The image of the person
standing in the river suggests a timeless quality, as if they
are trapped in the past.
The final stanza reinforces the themes of time, memory,
and loss.
The following verse,
Năm tháng vẫn như nụ cười trong mộng
Days turn to months; time slips by like a smile in a dream
suggests Thầy’s serene acceptance in the face of all storms,
by considering the passage of the time inside as well as
outside of the prison just like a smile in his dream.
This is the smile of a Bodhisattva!
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However, the poem will resonate deeper with you, if you
envision the first and third stanzas spoken by a wanderer
and the second and fourth by his beloved. If you’d agree,
then the poem becomes:
The wanderer whispers to his lover:
Like a lone swallow lingering on a stretch of a road,
A long night spent listening to the waterfall’s cascade,
I hasten across the river on a long voyage,
Awaiting the downpour amidst the bustling butterflies.
His lover whispers back:
A ghost calls your name each dawn, do you not hear?
Each passing day, each imperceptible sound.
Green rain falls on your black hair, heavy with dew,
In my dreams, leaves are swept far from the shore.
The wanderer confides in his lover:
Standing forever in the sun-drenched riverbed,
I recount tales of bygone days.
The small butterfly flutters to and fro on fragile wings,
But where can I, an out-of-season leaf, find my way?
His lover whispers back, but mainly to herself:
Days turn to months; time slips by like a smile worn in a
dream,
While you, like a river, flow ever onward,
You confide in your shadow, on distant shores.
Oh, those stray clouds! You were my hair a thousand
years ago.
You may notice the following three points that will make
the poem resonate deeper with you:
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(1) In the second stanza, when the girl says,
Trong giấc mơ lá dạt xa bờ,
In my dreams, leaves are swept far from the shore,
then she means that he, her lover, not the lost leaves, drifts
far away from her or their home.
(2) In the first line of the last stanza,
Năm tháng vẫn như nụ cười trong mộng,
Days turn to months; time slips by like a smile worn in a
dream.
I’ve changed “a smile in a dream” to “a smile worn in a
dream” to suggest a strained smile on his lover. In her
dreams, she would always put on a smiling, brave face for
him, even though she sadly yearned for a real-life
encounter.
(3) Finally, the last line,
Mây lạc loài ôi tóc cũ ngàn năm,
Oh, those stray clouds! You were my hair a thousand
years ago,
becomes her silent cry as the stray clouds were not the
wanderer’s hair, but her own hair, a thousand years ago.
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Poet Viên Linh 9 pointed out that this poem was originally
featured on the front page of the weekly magazine Khởi
Hành (Departure), issue 108, published in Saigon in June
1971.
In Tuệ Sỹ, tù đày và quê nhà (Tuệ Sỹ, prison and
homeland), poet Viên Linh describes Thầy’s poetry as
below:
To speak of Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry is to speak endlessly of a
vast, celestial source, where words are imbued with a
serene aura and meaning is deeply intertwined with the
human experience…
Tuệ Sỹ didn’t speak, didn’t use the conversational
language of speech, but instead described with gentle
imagery and colors, creating a unique rhythm for the
poem.
9 Poet Viên Linh (1938–2024) was the Editor-in-Chief of the weekly
magazine Khởi Hành (Departure) of the Republic of Vietnam’s
Military Artists Association from its first issue on May 1, 1969, until
the fall of Saigon on April 30, 1975.
Having resettled in the United States, he founded the overseas
monthly magazine Khởi Hành in November 1996 and served as its
Editor-in-Chief and Managing Editor until it was discontinued in
April 2018, due to his ill health.
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9. Tóc huyền
Tang thương một dải tóc huyền
Bãi dâu ngàn suối mấy miền hoang vu
Gởi thân gió cuốn xa mù
Áo xanh cát trắng trời thu muộn màng
Chênh vênh hoa đỏ nắng vàng
Gót xiêu dốc núi vai mang mây chiều
Tóc huyền loạn cả nguyên tiêu
Lãng du ai ngỡ cô liêu bạc đầu.
Raven hair
A strand of raven hair, a trail of sorrow,
Across mulberry fields and myriad streams, a desolate
expanse.
Entrusting her fate to the wind, she vanishes into the mist,
Beneath a somber, late autumn sky, green robes and white
sands.
Precariously, red flowers bloom under a golden sun,
Her feet teetered on the mountain’s edge; her shoulders
burdened by twilight clouds.
Her raven hair hangs in disarray even during the lantern
festival,
Who could have imagined that this wanderer destined for
such a solitary life until old age?
Explanation
Is this poem about the Vietnamese women who were forced
to work or marry abroad, following the tragic fall of Saigon
in April 1975? No, it’s not. The poem was composed
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before 1975, therefore, it’s reasonable to argue that Thầy
was giving voice to the country’s suffering during the war.
Alternatively, we may argue that this was his prediction for
our Vietnamese women’s fate after the war.
In Tuệ Sỹ, tù đày và quê nhà (Tuệ Sỹ, prison and
homeland), poet Viên Linh comments:
The human figure in Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry isn’t defined by
physical attributes like stature, appearance, lips, eyes,
laughter, or voice. In Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry, the human is
merely a strand of hair. But what does this hair
represent? Is it a maiden? A beauty? I cannot answer
these questions. All I know is that the hair in Tuệ Sỹ’s
poetry may or may not be real, yet it is; it may or may
not be absent, yet it remains. Perhaps this hair is a distant
dream, a noble fantasy of a courtier who delights in
gazing upon red earth, green robes, yellow grass, dark
nights, pink buds, and hair. Undoubtedly, this hair
represents a person, but who? Or perhaps it represents
no one at all, but rather the transformations of a journey,
from the green rain to the summer sun, from primordial
chaos to the fading of paradise?
The poem alludes to nguyên tiêu (元宵, also called thượng
nguyên or hội hoa đăng, lantern festival). This is a
traditional Chinese festival celebrated on the fifteenth day
of the first month of the lunar calendar.
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Volume 2:
Giấc mơ Trường Sơn | Dreams on the peak of Trường Sơn
Giấc mơ Trường Sơn
| Dreams on the peak
of Trường Sơn
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74
This volume contains 34 poems, mostly written during the
time of his retreat in Vạn Giã forest.
Time of composition: April 30, 1975–1978
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1. Ác mộng
Lại ác mộng bởi rừng khuya tàn bạo đấy,
Thịt xương người vung vãi lối anh đi.
Nhưng đáy mắt không căm thù đỏ cháy,
Vì yêu em trên lá đọng sương mai.
Anh chiến đấu nhọc nhằn như cỏ dại,
Thoảng trông em tà áo mỏng vai gầy,
Ôi hạnh phúc, anh thấy mình nhỏ bé,
Chép tình yêu trên trang giấy thơ ngây.
Đời khách lữ biết bao giờ yên nghỉ,
Giữa rừng khuya nằm đợi bóng sao mai.
Để một thoáng giấc mơ tàn kinh dị,
Dáng em buồn bên suối nhỏ mây bay
Nightmares
Haunted again by nightmares of brutal forest fires,
Where the bones and flesh scattered in my path.
Yet, the depths of my eyes hold no burning hatred,
For I love her, like dewdrops clinging to leaves at dawn.
I fight, relentlessly like a wild weed,
Catching glimpses of her slender shoulders, draped in a
thin dress.
Oh, happiness, I feel so humbled,
Scribbling my love on innocent pages.
When will this weary traveler find rest,
In the midnight forest, waiting for the morning star?
In a moment’s respite from a terrifying dream,
By a stream, beneath drifting clouds, her sorrowful form.
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Explanation
In this poem, when Thầy asserted that there was no burning
hatred in the depths of his eyes, the pronoun “em” (her) in
vì yêu em trên lá đọng sương mai (for I love her, like
dewdrops clinging to leaves at dawn) symbolized Thầy’s
homeland, personified as a suffering entity under the
oppressive regime. He yearned for his homeland’s
liberation, yet harbored no hatred towards the oppressive
regime. Thầy’s love for his homeland was as pure as
dewdrops glistening on leaves. Seeing human bones and
flesh scattered across his path, Thầy believed this is a war
he must fight tirelessly, like a weed, persistent but always
undervalued, fighting for survival and to liberate the
country from the Communists. He was ready to sacrifice
himself because he felt himself so small compared to his
love for his country.
The poem masterfully juxtaposes images of violence and
tenderness, creating a stark contrast that highlights the
emotional turmoil of the speaker. The gruesome scenes of
“bones and flesh scattered” are set against the delicate
image of “dewdrops clinging to leaves”, and the “terrifying
dream” is countered by the peaceful vision of “her
sorrowful form” by the stream. This juxtaposition creates a
sense of tension and complexity, reflecting the inner
conflict of the speaker.
The poem also employs powerful symbols to convey its
message. The “wild weed” symbolizes the speaker’s
resilience and determination to survive, while the
“innocent pages” represent hope and the enduring power of
love. The “morning star” can be interpreted as a symbol of
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hope and redemption, while the “sorrowful form” of the
beloved suggests the enduring pain of loss and longing.
The peaceful setting of the small stream and drifting clouds
offers a contrast to the nightmares. It might represent his
desire for peace and tranquility, or perhaps a sense of fear
of the unknown that is going to happen to “em” (his
country), represented by the transience of the clouds.
Waken up from his horrifying nightmare to see her
sorrowful form by the stream beneath drifting clouds,
Thầy’s anxieties are heightened, revealing a deep concern
for her well-being.
Overall, this poem is a moving testament to the human
capacity for love and resilience in the face of adversity. It
is deeply emotional and expresses a range of feelings, from
the horror of war to the tenderness of love, from despair to
hope.
The poet and poetic commentator Châu Thạch, in his
analysis of this poem, Đọc ‘Ác mộng’ thơ Tuệ Sỹ (Reading
Tuệ Sỹ’s poem ‘Nightmares’), writes:
A writer (TN: Vĩnh Hảo, quoted from his essay Thơ tình
Tuệ Sỹ (Tuệ Sỹ’s Romantic poetry)) once said of Tuệ
Sỹ:
“Among the works of Zen Master Thích Tuệ Sỹ, a large
number were composed during the year he retreated to
live in solitude, farming in the Vạn Giã forest from 1976
to 1977. These poems were collected in the volume Giấc
mơ Trường Sơn (Dreams on the peak of Trường Sơn).
Besides poems about mountains, forests, the universe,
and the human condition, there are also quite a few about
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love, which are very passionate and evocative, a rather
surprising fact considering the author is a Zen master.
He has a deep understanding of human psychology to be
able to convincingly describe the romantic paths of love,
the secret thoughts of the human heart, without
necessarily expressing his own personal feelings. On the
other hand, in poems about love, we think of romantic
love between men and women, but in fact, it could be an
expression in poetry of a broader love, that of
humanity”.
These observations are indeed very accurate. Tuệ Sỹ is
truly a scholar in the Eastern tradition. Zen Master Thích
Tuệ Sỹ demonstrated the spirit of uy vũ bất năng khuất
(Chinese philosopher Mencius’ quotation, which means
a righteous person does not submit to those with power),
the spirit of unyielding integrity of a scholar not only
through his actions but also through his works. Through
his writing, he created his work through self-sacrificing
devotion, to share the suffering with his homeland. One
such poem is Nightmares which he wrote in the Vạn Giã
forest in 1976, in a thatched hut that he built himself,
where at night, there was nothing but a flickering oil
lamp in the thatched hut and the endless darkness of the
mountains.
Now, I invite you to approach the poem Nightmares with
two different perspectives. Only then can we understand
some of the profound meaning in his poem. First, let’s
bring the perspective of romantic love to appreciate the
passionate love poem, then, depending on each person,
let’s try bringing a little or a lot of the perspective of a
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monk, a person who has distanced themselves from the
mundane world, to feel the mystery in Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry.
Let’s step into the first stanza:
Lại ác mộng bởi rừng khuya tàn bạo đấy,
Thịt xương người vung vãi lối anh đi.
Nhưng đáy mắt không căm thù đỏ cháy,
Vì yêu em trên lá đọng sương mai.
Haunted again by nightmares of brutal forest fires,
Where the bones and flesh scattered in my path.
Yet, the depths of my eyes hold no burning hatred,
For I love her, like dewdrops clinging to leaves at dawn.
Reading the first two lines, we immediately see the poet
dreaming a horrifying dream in the forest. The poet has
seen human remains scattered along his path. The
author’s phrase “haunted again by nightmares” means
there have been many nightmares in that forest. The
author further states that these forest fires are “cruel”.
So, in the first line of the poem, the author directly points
to the subject that causes the nightmares as the cruel
forest fires. What is the subject? A subject is an
individual, an organization that exists, and is identifiable
through actions. The forest cannot be a subject. Thus,
the forest in the poem is used to allude to a subject that
has caused a nightmare for the author.
Through the next two lines,
Nhưng đáy mắt không căm thù đỏ cháy,
Vì yêu em trên lá đọng sương mai,
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Yet, the depths of my eyes hold no burning hatred,
For I love her, like dewdrops clinging to leaves at dawn,
it’s a picture of leaves in the Vạn Giã forest. …
Through the first stanza, we can see that although the
poet writes about a nightmare, it’s not a dream while
sleeping but a nightmare while awake, because he still
clearly sees the red leaves with dew on them in front of
him.
In summary, the first stanza of Tuệ Sỹ’s poem depicts a
nightmare induced by society. He witnesses widespread
suffering and encounters a marginalized class as
innocent as leaves, devoid of hatred. Their souls are as
pure as the morning dew on those leaves, which he
cherishes. Thus, the leaves symbolize the oppressed,
whom the poet personifies as “her,” and the “morning
dew” represents their pure hearts.
Now, continue reading the second stanza:
Anh chiến đấu nhọc nhằn như cỏ dại,
Thoảng trông em tà áo mỏng vai gầy,
Ôi hạnh phúc, anh thấy mình nhỏ bé,
Chép tình yêu trên trang giấy thơ ngây.
I fight, relentlessly like a wild weed,
Catching glimpses of her slender shoulders, draped in a
thin dress.
Oh, happiness, I feel so humbled,
Scribbling my love on innocent pages.
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The first line, “I fight, relentlessly like a wild weed”
refers to Tuệ Sỹ’s power and his will.
The poet’s power is as weak as a weed, but his will is
always strong and fighting. Faced with violence, Tuệ Sỹ
is like a weed, but a weed still fights. Who does he fight
for, and why? The answer is very clear, fighting for “her
slender shoulders, draped in a thin dress” meaning
fighting for the weak and poor class. Understanding this,
we see that “her” here is not any girl, but “her” here
refers to the oppressed classes.
The next two lines talk about the poet’s satisfaction in
love and how the poet expresses his love. Of course, we
already know that this love is not romantic love, but a
higher love for others, for the weak, for those who suffer
from injustice and oppression:
Ôi hạnh phúc, anh thấy mình nhỏ bé,
Chép tình yêu trên trang giấy thơ ngây
Oh, happiness, I feel so humbled,
Scribbling my love on innocent pages.
“Oh, happiness, I feel so humbled”: Tuệ Sỹ is happy in
his humility, because it is precisely that humility that
makes him an eternal and undeniable monument in the
conscience of the times.
Scribbling my love on innocent pages. Indeed. Today,
although Tuệ Sỹ has passed away, his poetry, his prose,
his scriptures are unparalleled love left forever on paper,
very naïve but extremely valuable, a fragrant draft for
literary history, the teachings of a respected Zen master
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in Buddhism, and the writings of a wise man for
Vietnamese history.
Now, let’s read the final stanza of the poem:
Đời khách lữ biết bao giờ yên nghỉ,
Giữa rừng khuya nằm đợi bóng sao mai.
Để một thoáng giấc mơ tàn kinh dị,
Dáng em buồn bên suối nhỏ mây bay
When will this weary traveler find rest,
In the midnight forest, waiting for the morning star?
In a moment’s respite from a terrifying dream,
By a stream, beneath drifting clouds, her sorrowful
form.
This stanza is filled with hope and aspiration. Buddhism
views human life as a journey of a wanderer through
countless lifetimes.
Life is already sorrowful, but Tuệ Sỹ feels even more
sorrowful as he lives this life in a dark forest, uncertain
when dawn will break. Yet, the poet still harbors great
hope, waiting for the morning star to signal the sunrise
and the coming of light. At that moment, his horrific
dream ends, and he sees “a sorrowful form by a stream,
beneath drifting clouds” meaning she stands in a
peaceful scene. Of course, her figure is still sad because
he hasn’t yet realized that this day has come.
As we have discussed earlier, Tuệ Sỹ’s “her” is not a
woman. In his poetry, “her” represents a class of people
who suffer the consequences of life, those who endure
hardship and pain, those who are oppressed and suffer
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injustice, or perhaps he views “her” as all those who are
still far from Buddhism, the path he is cultivating.
Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry is not only like a flower blooming
before our eyes but also like a twinkling star in the sky.
Like a flower blooming before our eyes, it is because of
its beautiful colors and sweet fragrance that we can
immediately perceive. Like a twinkling star in the sky,
it is because of its sublime ideas and extraordinary
concepts that we can also see, depending on each
person’s perspective.
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2. Anh sẽ về thăm phố cũ
Mười năm sau anh sẽ về thăm phố cũ
Màu Trường sơn pha nắng rực trưa hè
Anh vẫn nhớ những con đường bụi đỏ
Và tình yêu trong ánh mắt rã rời.
I’ll return to this old town
Ten years from now, I’ll return to visit this old town,
Where Trường Sơn’s colors mingle with the fierce
midday sun.
I will always remember those dusty, red streets,
And the love that lingered in her languid eyes.
Explanation
This is the promise of a person leaving to pursue his dream.
He promises that in ten years, he will return when the old
streets are tinged with the colors of Trường Sơn under the
blazing summer sun. He also pledges that in those ten
years, he will always remember every dusty crimson road
and the tearful, expectant eyes of his “lover”.
Trường Sơn is a mountain range, extending 1100 km
through Laos, Vietnam and a small area in northeast
Cambodia.
During the Vietnam War, the North Vietnamese army
successfully constructed the Hồ Chí Minh trail along the
Trường Sơn mountain range, serving as a vital supply route
for troops, provisions, and weaponry to the Southern front.
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Initially, this route was merely an extension of the roads
built during the French colonial period, so the initial
transportation method relied on porters carrying supplies
on their backs and traveling on foot.
In 2002, the United States National Security Agency
(NSA) released a 500-page report titled Spartans in
darkness, which revealed secrets about the Indochina war
from 1954 to 1975. The report states,
The Ho Chi Minh trail was more than a simple pathway
from North to South Vietnam. It was a military
engineering project that the North Vietnamese
continually expanded and improved until it had become
a vast network which included, by 1974, all-weather
surfaced roads, footpaths, and a network of gasoline
pipelines that, over a period of about fifteen years,
allowed the movement south of as many as one million
soldiers and political cadre – almost a third of them to
their deaths – as well as supplies for the combat units
fighting the South Vietnamese and the Americans. In
this sense, the Ho Chi Minh Trail is one of the great
achievements in military engineering of the 20th
century.
However, the Ho Chi Minh trail was more than a supply
route cut through the heart of Indochina; it was, in
essence, the heart of the Vietnamese communist war
effort, encompassing the entire supply and
reinforcement network running from points in North
Vietnam down to a system of routes, trails, paths and
supply-heads in South Vietnam. It took on an existence
of its own and consumed the efforts of an enormous
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
86
number of people to keep it running, especially in the
face of the Allied air offensive determined to shut it
down.
According to the above report, one million soldiers have
been sent to South Vietnam via this trail, but the true figure
should be three or four times more. The report also says a
third of one million soldiers was estimated to be killed on
the Hồ Chí Minh trail. We now know that many of them
are “youth volunteer” girls and boys as young as 15 years
old. Some locations on the trail were named Cửa tử thần
(Death’s gate), Đèo lò lửa (Blazing furnace pass), Ngã tư
thịt chó (Dog meat crossroads), Đồi thịt băm (Hamburger
hill) and Thung lũng oan hồn (Valley of lost souls), served
as grim reminders of the dangers and hardships
encountered by these former soldiers and youth volunteers.
Could Trường Sơn become a catalyst for a different path?
Perhaps Thầy envisioned a future where the mountain
range would not only unify the nation geographically but
also spiritually, liberating the people from the oppressive
communist regime and fostering a democratic society that
upholds the fundamental human rights enshrined in the
United Nations Charter.
While the path to liberating a nation from communism is
complex and multifaceted, it’s worth recalling the
historical example of King Lê Lợi, who, from his base at
Mount Chí Linh, the northernmost peak of the Trường Sơn
mountain range, waged a ten-year resistance against the
Ming invaders. His eventual victory in 1428 restored
Vietnam’s independence, offering a testament to the power
of perseverance and strategic leadership.
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3. Bài ca cô gái Trường Sơn
Nàng lớn lên giữa quê hương đổ nát
Tay mẹ gầy mà đất sống hoang khô
Đàn em nhỏ áo chăn không sưởi ấm
Tuổi trăng tròn quanh má đọng sương thu
Những đêm lạnh tóc nàng hương khói nhạt
Bóng cha già thăm thẳm tận u linh
Tuổi hai mươi mà đêm dài sương phụ
Ngọn đèn tàn tang trắng phủ mênh mông.
Suốt mùa đông nàng ngồi may áo cưới
Đẹp duyên người mình vẫn phận rong rêu
Màu hoa đỏ tay ai nâng cánh bướm
Mà chân mình nghe cát bụi đìu hiu.
Vào buổi sớm sao mai mờ khói hận.
Nghe quanh mình lang sói gọi bình minh
Đàn trẻ nhỏ dắt nhau tìm xó chợ
Tìm tương lai tìm rác rưởi mưu sinh
Từ những ngày Thái Bình Dương dậy sóng.
Quê hương mình khô quạnh máu thù chung
Nàng không mơ buổi chiều phơi áo lụa
Mơ Trường Sơn vời vợi bóng anh hùng
Từ tuổi ấy nghe tim mình rộn rã
Nàng yêu người dâng trọn khối tình chung
Không áo cưới mà âm thầm chinh phụ
Không chờ mong mà ước nguyện muôn trùng.
Rồi từ đó tóc thề cao ước nguyện
Nên bàn chân mòn đá sỏi Trường Sơn
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Thân bé bỏng dập dìu theo nước lũ
Suối rừng sâu ánh mắt vọng hoa nguồn.
Trường Sơn ơi bóng tùng quân ngạo nghễ
Phận sắn bìm lây lất với hoàng hôn
Quê hương ơi mấy nghìn năm máu lệ
Đôi vai gầy dâng trọn cả mùa xuân.
A song of the Trường Sơn girl
She grew up in a ravaged land,
Her mother’s hands, bony and weary, worked the barren
land,
Her younger siblings, with threadbare clothes and
blankets, shivered in the cold,
At fifteen, autumn dew stagnated on her cheeks.
On cold nights, her hair carried the scent of smoke.
Her father’s spirit, a distant shadow.
At twenty, her nights stretched long and drenched,
widow-like,
The fading lamp cast a pale, mourning shroud.
All winter, she sewed wedding gowns,
Crafting joy for others, while her own fate lay desolate as
moss.
While other girls’ hands held red-flowered, butterfly
wings,
Her own feet knew only sand and dust.
One morning, in the early hours, the morning star dimmed
by the smoke of hate,
She heard wolves howling around her, heralding a new
dawn,
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Groups of children, hand in hand, searched flea market
corners,
Foraging from the garbage, seeking a future.
Since the days when the Pacific Ocean raged,
Her homeland parched, sharing the blood of common
foes.
She stopped dreaming of afternoons drying silk robes,
Her dreams now filled with heroic, awe-inspiring Trường
Sơn stories.
From that time, her heart beat with a fervent rhythm,
She loved the Trường Sơn heroes with all her heart.
Though without a wedding gown, she considered herself a
warrior’s wife.
Not waiting passively, she harbored thousands of hopes.
With a vow, she cut her hair short,
Her feet wore down the stony paths of Trường Sơn,
Her small body, tossed and turned by the surging floods,
Her eyes, a reflection of the wildflowers in the deep forest
streams.
“Oh, Trường Sơn, how majestic and proud you stand!
While the fate of these cassava vines lingers in the sunset.
Oh, homeland, for thousands of years, your tears have
been nothing but blood,
My slender shoulders readily bear the weight of
springtime.”
Explanation
The poem presents a sorrowful image of the poet’s
homeland.
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Let’s reread and slowly savor the fourth stanza of the
poem:
Vào buổi sớm sao mai mờ khói hận.
Nghe quanh mình lang sói gọi bình minh
Đàn trẻ nhỏ dắt nhau tìm xó chợ
Tìm tương lai tìm rác rưởi mưu sinh
One morning, in the early hours, the morning star dimmed
by the smoke of hate,
She heard wolves howling around her, heralding a new
dawn,
Groups of children, hand in hand, searched flea market
corners,
Foraging from the garbage, seeking a future.
Indeed, the first thing the new government did in the
aftermath of their victory was not to foster reconciliation to
heal the wound caused by the 20-year long war, but to rev
up their propaganda machine to herald what they called “a
new dawn”, and relentlessly denounce the “reactionary”
culture through daily broadcast and widespread book
burning on the streets. Books published before 1975 are
publicly incinerated and prisons were sprouting up like
mushrooms everywhere throughout the country, hence,
Thầy employs phrases khói hận (smoke of hate) and lang
sói (wolves).
Just a casual reading does not fully grasp the depth of
Thầy’s emotions in this poem. Although this is a poem
about a girl living on Trường Sơn, it should be noted that
Trường Sơn here is not just a mountain, but the dreams and
struggles of the Vietnamese people. The poem emphasizes
the sufferings of the poor, represented by the children
searching for their future by foraging from the garbage,
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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from the day the country fell to the communist rulers and
the glimmer of hope for a better future.
The last stanza is the girl’s promise, so I place it in
quotation marks. By addressing Trường Sơn as tùng quân
(which evokes the imagery of a pine tree and an old
bamboo to symbolize a strong, resilient person who can
protect others), the girl elevates it to a symbolic figure, like
a husband or a protector.
In Tuệ Sỹ Đạo sư
−
Thơ và phương trời mộng (Zen Master
Tuệ Sỹ − Poetry and Celestial realms of dreams), Volume
No. 1, Most Venerable Thích Nguyên Siêu writes about
this poem as follows:
Trường Sơn, since the founding of our nation, has
nurtured countless talented individuals and heroes.
Countless brave sons and daughters of our race have
risen and rebelled from Trường Sơn.
The wind howls, the trees bend in the storm, Trường Sơn
is enraged. Violent storms rage. The trails, forced upon
us by a bloodthirsty mob, have exploited countless
precious resources of our homeland, leading to countless
troops “born in the North, died in the South”!
Trường Sơn has become an unwilling host to the bodies
and blood of our nation’s youth, sacrificed for the insane
ideologies from the North.
That Trường Sơn, once so majestic and awe-inspiring, is
now merely a burial ground for the future of our nation,
all for the sake of an alien fanaticism.
That Trường Sơn is now nothing more than prisons by
those who harbor hatred for an unrealistic belief.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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That Trường Sơn, now burdened with more injustice and
wrongs.
That Trường Sơn, now bows its head in shame.
The prisoner author rekindles the fading flame, hoping
for a brighter future for Trường Sơn and the Vietnamese
people.
Just as Lushan was Su Dongpo’s confided dream haven
then Trường Sơn could be seen as where Thầy confided his
dreams and aspirations, too.
Quê nhà trên đỉnh Trường Sơn
Cho ta gởi một nỗi hờn thiên thu
(Tự tình, Self-reflection, page 193)
My homeland on the peak of Trường Sơn
Let me confide in you my thousand-year-long resentment.
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4. Bếp lửa giữa rừng khuya
Ai biết mình tóc trắng
Vì yêu ngọn nến tàn
Rừng khuya bên bếp lạnh
Ngồi đợi gió sang canh.
Forest stove at night
Who knows my hair turns white,
For love of dying candlelight?
In the deep forest, by the cold hearth,
I wait for the wind to change.
Explanation
Vì yêu ngọn nến tàn (for love of dying candlelight) signifies
Thầy’s deep dedication to his work, so much so that he
loses track of time and the changing environment around
him. The candle has burned out, the hearth is cold, yet he
remains steadfast.
The last word canh is a unit of nighttime, lasting two hours.
The first canh, 7 PM to 9 PM, is the hour of the Dog,
followed by the Pig, Rat, Ox, and Tiger. In ancient
Vietnam, and indeed in many cultures around the world,
the passage of time, especially at night, was often marked
by the rhythmic beating of drums. This wasn’t just a way
to keep track of the hours; it was a way to communicate
with the community, providing a sense of order and
security in the darkness. Đợi gió sang canh (waiting for the
wind to change) means waiting for the wind to carry the
sound of the drum announcing the next hour.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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The poem’s message is one of unwavering commitment
and hope. Thầy’s actions reveal a profound belief in the
eventual triumph of democracy and justice.
Thầy’s use of the word canh reminds me of a very popular
couplet in Vietnamese poetry:
Gió đưa cành trúc la đà
Tiếng chuông Thiên Mụ, canh gà Thọ Xương.
A gentle breeze sways the bamboo branches,
The bell of Thiên Mụ temple, the rooster’s crow at Thọ
Xương village.
Thiên Mụ is the name of a temple in Huế, constructed in
1601 by Lord Nguyễn Hoàng during his southward
migration, while Thọ Xương is the land opposite the
mountain where the temple was erected. The verse signifies
that the harmonious rhythm of the Thiên Mụ’s bell and the
Thọ Xương rooster’s crow served as a gentle morning
alarm, signaling the start of a new day for the people of
Huế.
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5. Bóng cha già
Mười lăm năm một bước đường
Đau lòng lữ thứ đoạn trường Cha ơi
Đêm dài tưởng tượng Cha ngồi
Gối cao tóc trắng rã rời thân con
Phù sinh một kiếp chưa tròn
Chiêm bao hạc trắng hãi hùng thiên cơ
Tuần trăng cữ nước tình cờ
Lạc loài du tử mắt mờ viễn phương
Tàn canh mộng đổ vô thường
Bơ vơ quán trọ khói sương đọa đày
Picturing my elderly father
Fifteen years, a journey of immense length,
Oh, father, how this traveler’s heart aches on this journey!
Through the long night, I imagine you, sitting,
With pillow held high, hair white and disheveled, my
body falls apart.
Your life, a cycle incomplete,
A white crane in my last dream, a foreboding omen,
Beneath a moonlit sky, a fateful turn of tide,
A lost wanderer, my vision is blurred by the distance
between us.
The night watch ends, dreams of impermanence fade,
Lost and alone in an inn, tormented by mists of sorrow.
Explanation
This poem conveys a deep sense of longing, regret, and the
hardships of a life lived far from home. The author
expresses his sorrow at being separated from his father.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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In Vietnamese culture, the white crane is revered as a
symbol of longevity, nobility, and spirituality. However, its
appearance in dreams can be interpreted as an omen for the
elderly of approaching end of life.
In the poem Tống biệt (Farewell) by poet Tản Đà (1889–
1939), these verses:
Đá mòn, rêu nhạt, nước chảy, hoa trôi,
Cái hạc bay lên vút tận trời,
Stones worn, moss faded, water flowed, flowers drifted,
The crane soars up into the sky,
imply that the deceased rides a crane to live in the heavenly
realm.
In a single line, the poet Tản Đà metaphorically described
both the aging process, via the worn stones and faded moss,
and the impermanence of human life, via the flowed water
and drifted flowers 10.
10 Vietnamese history has an intriguing literary anecdote.
During a diplomatic mission to China, which coincided with the
passing of the Yuan Emperor’s consort, our head envoy was handed
a pre-written eulogy to read. When he opened the paper, he found only
four characters “Nhất” (meaning “one”). It only took him a few
seconds to deliver the following eulogy:
Thanh thiên nhất đoá vân
Hồng lô nhất điểm tuyết
Thượng uyển nhất chi hoa
Dao trì nhất phiến nguyệt
Y! Vân tán, tuyết tiêu, hoa tàn, nguyệt khuyết.
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6. Buổi sáng tập viết chữ thảo
Sương mai lịm khói trà
Gió lạnh vuốt tờ hoa
Nhẹ nhẹ tay nâng bút
Nghe lòng rộn âm ba
Practicing cursive style in the morning
Morning dew blends with the tea’s aromas.
Cold wind strikes the floral paper.
As my hand gently lifts the brush,
My heart resonates the pounding melody with my soul.
Explanation
The poem captures the moment of inspiration and the quiet
focus required for writing. The imagery of the morning
dew, the wind, and the floral paper suggests a deep
connection between the writer and the natural world. The
overall tone of the poem is one of peace and tranquility,
offering a beautiful and evocative description of the writing
In the blue sky, one cloud,
In the red brazier, one snowflake,
In the imperial garden, one flower,
In the Jade Lake, one sliver of moon.
Alas! The cloud disperses, the snow melts, the flower wilts, the
moon wanes.
This unique eulogy deeply moved the Yuan Emperor and awakened
him to the impermanence of life as taught in Buddhism ‒ that
everything is subject to change and decay, sparing no one.
Note: While Mạc Đỉnh Chi (1272–1346) is often credited as the author
of this eulogy, confirming this attribution is challenging.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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process. Thầy seems to be in deep concentration and inner
calm.
This last line is the heart of the poem. It suggests that the
act of writing is deeply connected to the artist’s emotions
and inner spirit. The âm ba (pounding melody) represents
the passion and energy that fuels the creative process.
However, the scholar in this poem did not practice writing
Chinese, as he was proficient in seven foreign languages,
including Chinese, Sanskrit and Pali, therefore, perhaps he
practiced writing Wang Xizhi-style 11 cursive script.
His lecture on Western Philosophy at Vạn Hạnh
University, recorded by his student Most Venerable Thích
Nguyên Siêu, in Thượng tọa Tuệ Sỹ, Trí Siêu, những thiên
tài lỗi lạc (Most Venerables Tuệ Sỹ and Trí Siêu,
outstanding geniuses), as follows:
In his first philosophy class, he introduced us to Western
philosophy through the thoughts of Henry Miller, Jean
Paul Sartre, Engel, Plato, etc. It was incredibly difficult
to understand, but there was something unique and
captivating about his teaching style. He didn’t need any
textbooks; he simply talked and talked. He talked like a
waterfall cascading from above, because the source of
the waterfall is full of water, endlessly replenished.
11 Wang Xizhi (circa 303–361) was a Chinese writer from the Jin
dynasty. He was recognized by his contemporaries and posterity as
one of the most renowned calligraphers in China and was bestowed
the title of
書聖
(Thư thánh, Sage of Calligraphy), a title that is still
used to describe him in the present day.
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This poem reminds me of the well-known Vietnamese
poem Ông đồ (The calligrapher) 12 by Vũ Đình Liên.
Mỗi năm hoa đào nở
Lại thấy ông đồ già
Bày mực Tàu, giấy đỏ
Bên phố đông người qua …
Năm nay đào lại nở
Không thấy ông đồ xưa
Những người muôn năm cũ
Hồn ở đâu bây giờ?
Every year the peach blossoms bloom
Again, I see the aged calligrapher
Displaying Chinese ink and red paper
Beside the bustling street …
This year the peach blossoms bloom again
But the old calligrapher is nowhere to be seen
Those people of the past thousand years
Where are their souls now?
Both poems evoke nostalgia for a lost aspect of our
historical heritage.
12 Ông đồ was a term used for traditional Chinese character teachers
in Vietnam’s past, when Chinese and the Nôm script were the primary
writing systems.
During the Lunar New Year, many people would commission ông đồ
to write Chinese characters such as 福 (Happiness), 祿 (Wealth) or 壽
(Longevity), or couplets on red papers to adorn their homes. This
practice was seen as a way to invoke blessings and good fortune for
the coming year.
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7. Cây khô
Em xõa tóc cho cây khô sầu mộng
Để cây khô mạch suối khóc thương nhau
Ta cúi xuống trên nụ cười chín mọng
Cũng mơ màng như phố thị nhớ rừng sâu.
Withered tree
She loosens her hair, praying for the withered tree,
So the hidden stream might weep with the tree in grief,
I lower my head, a ripe smile blooming on my lips,
My feeling is akin to that of a bustling city longing for a
tranquil forest.
Explanation
The poem has two parts: The first two lines represent a
girl’s wish for the tree to come back to life by loosening
her hair, while the last two lines represent Thầy’s no-self
state. The image of ta cúi xuống trên nụ cười chín mọng, (I
lower my head, a ripe smile blooming on my lips) creates
a vivid picture of Thầy’s contentment and joy. This is the
smile of a Bodhisattva as it resonates with Nanquan’s
teaching: Ordinary mind is the Way, on page 24. To have
an ordinary mind is to be in harmony with the universe.
What is the significance of the girl loosening her hair? This
is a common Vietnamese practice: loosening one’s hair or
shearing it for parental bereavement or supplication.
A city was once a forest years ago. The comparison of the
author’s feeling to that of a bustling city longing for a
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tranquil forest is a powerful metaphor that conveys the
depth of the author’s desire for peace and tranquility.
In the eyes of ordinary people, a withered tree is dead, a
stream is alive, and hills, pits, thorns, rocks and mountains
are all dirty.
The following excerpt is taken, with minor modifications,
from Burton Watson’s Vimalakīrti Sūtra, published by
Columbia University Press in 1997.
At that time Śāriputra thought to himself:
- If the mind of the bodhisattva is pure, then his Buddha
land will be pure. Now when our World-Honored One
first determined to become a bodhisattva, surely his
intentions were pure. Why then is this Buddha land so
filled with impurities?
The Buddha, knowing his thought, said to him:
- What do you think? Are the sun and moon impure? Is
that why the blind man fails to see them?
- No, World-Honored One. That is the fault of the blind
man. The sun and moon are not to blame.
- Śāriputra, it is the failings of living beings that prevent
them from seeing the purity of the Buddha land.
At that time, the heavenly being Lokeśvara said to him:
- Do not think that this Śākyamuni’s Buddha land is
impure. Because to my eyes, it is as pure and spotless as
the palace of the heavenly being Great Freedom.
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- I see this land full of hills, pits, thorns, rocks and
mountains, which are all dirty.
- It is because your mind has highs and lows, and does
not rest on Buddha wisdom. Therefore, you see this land
as impure. Śāriputra, the bodhisattva treats all things and
beings with perfect equality. His mind is pure, and
because it rests on Buddha wisdom, it can see the purity
of this Buddha land.
The Buddha then pressed his toe against the earth.
Immediately the thousand-millionfold world was
adorned with hundreds and thousands of rare jewels, as
majestic as the Pure Land of the Buddha of Splendid
Adornment. All the members of the great assembly
sighed in wonder at what they had never seen before,
and all saw that they themselves were seated on jeweled
lotuses.
The Buddha said to Śāriputra:
- Observe the purity and majesty of this Buddha land.
- Yes, World-Honored One, these are things I have never
seen or heard of before.
- My Buddha land is always pure like this. But it
manifests countless impurities and defilements to guide
those who are lowly and inferior. It is like the heavenly
beings all eating from the same jeweled bowl, but the
color of the food differs, according to their merits and
virtues. Therefore, Śāriputra, those with pure minds will
see the wonderful blessings that adorn this land.
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8. Cho ta chép nốt bài thơ ấy
Ôi nhớ làm sao, em nhỏ ơi!
Từng đêm ngục tối mộng em cười
Ta hôn tay áo thay làn tóc
Nghe đắng môi hồng lạnh tím người
Đừng ghét mùa mưa, em nhỏ ơi!
Nằm ru vách đá chuyện lưu đày
Cho ta chút nắng bên song cửa
Để vẽ hình em theo bóng mây
Cho đến bao giờ, em nhỏ ơi!
Tường rêu chi chít đọng phương trời
Cho ta chép nốt bài thơ ấy
Để giết tình yêu cả mộng đời
Let me finish writing that poem on the walls
Oh, how I miss you, my little one!
Each night, within this darkened cell, I dream of your
smile,
I kiss my sleeve, thinking of your hair,
A bitter coldness grips my heart.
Don’t despise the rainy season, my little one!
When rain falls, I can lie and tell stories of exile to the
stony walls.
Grant me a sliver of sunlight through the window,
So I may sketch your image upon the clouds.
Until when will these moss-stained walls, my little one!
Be filled with prisoners’ wishes from four corners of the
earth,
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Let me finish writing that poem on the walls,
To extinguish the love that haunts my sleep.
Explanation
The moss-stained prison walls become a canvas in the
prisoners’ minds, a place where they inscribe their deepest
yearnings. These are invisible words, etched with hope and
longing, visible only to those who share the confines of this
prison. When those walls are filled with countless dreams
from every corner of the earth, Thầy wants to add his final
verse, the poem he has already begun.
He hopes this is his last poem. He won’t write anymore,
and perhaps then, the prisoners won’t need to either.
Perhaps then, the walls themselves will crumble, and
prisoners will all be free.
The poem is a poignant expression of longing, isolation,
and the hope for freedom. The rainy cell, the moss-stained
walls, and the imaginary writing of prisoners on the walls
create a powerful atmosphere of despair but resilience.
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9. Cỏ dại ven bờ
Không vì đời quẫn bức
Nhưng vì yêu rừng sâu
Bước đường vẫn tủi nhục
Biết mình đi về đâu
Ta muốn đi làm thuê
Ðời không thuê sức yếu
Ta mộng phương trời xa
Trời buồn mây nặng trĩu
Ven bờ thân cỏ dại
Sức sống thẹn vai gầy
Tóc trắng mờ biên ải
Nỗi hờn mây không bay
Mây không trôi về Bắc
Người mơ về Trường sơn
Nắng chiều rưng tủi nhục
Người trông trời viễn phương.
Wild grass by the riverbank
Not driven by life’s burdens,
But drawn by my deep forest’s love,
My path remains humiliating,
My future is uncertain.
I want to work for hire,
But life does not employ the weak,
I dream of distant lands,
The sky is gray, the clouds heavy.
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Along the shore, wild grass stands tall,
An embarrassing contrast to my frail form.
My white hair blurs the distant horizon,
My resentment holds the clouds captive.
Captive, the clouds don’t drift to the northern sky,
Where dreams of Trường Sơn’s miracles fill the air.
The evening sun casts a humiliating glow,
As everyone longs for a faraway land.
Explanation
After April 30, 1975, Thầy chose a simpler life, farming in
Vạn Giã forest, drawn by his love for nature, yet he felt
trapped by his circumstances.
Overall, this stanza conveys a powerful sense of
melancholy and introspection. The author’s isolation,
coupled with his deep connection to nature, creates a
poignant image of a person struggling to find his place in
the world.
In his essay Thơ Tuệ Sỹ – tiếng gọi của những đêm dài heo
hút (Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry – the call of long and desolate nights),
Most Venerable Phước An shared:
Every one or two weeks, I would travel from Nha Trang
to Vạn Giã to visit him. The road to his farm was
winding and bumpy, making it very difficult to navigate,
especially during the rainy season when it became
slippery. Sometimes, I would stay overnight with him in
the thatched hut he had built himself. During these
nights, I was even more impressed by his endurance.
There was nothing there at night except a flickering oil
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lamp in the hut and the endless darkness of the vast
mountains and forests.
Let’s compare Thầy’s experiences in exile in 1976 to those
of Su Dongpo, as described in his 1973 book, Tô Đông
Pha: Những phương trời viễn mộng (Su Dongpo: Celestial
realms of distant dreams).
During the winter solstice, his grandson Anjie came to
visit. He has been exiled to Hoàng Châu for nearly two
years now. The feelings of nostalgia for his hometown
and the bitterness of being a stranger in a strange land
are both intense. He was almost 46 years old at the time,
and his hair was already turning white. In autumn, with
white hair, the sounds of loneliness echoed everywhere.
An old man and a young boy, in the remote mountains,
life seemed like the endless waves of the Yangtze River;
September marked the beginning of the flood season;
and in late winter, the fog rolled in thick and heavy.
Where does the intense passion of the soul end? Hungry
rats scavenge in the quiet nights. Although nature is
indifferent, as the years pass and the clouds drift, even
on these steep mountains, one can sometimes hear the
faint echoes of the long, lonely nights.
When Su Dongpo was 59 years old, he was exiled again,
this time to Hainan.
It was a difficult and dangerous journey. Along the way,
his poetry echoed with strange reverberations. Extreme
pain mingled with an extraordinary spirit; yet it was
inspired with sincere and distant hopes.
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The journey to Hainan passed through Congzhou; the
Cong River flowed through 18 rapids. On the 7th day of
the 8th lunar month of that year, he entered Congzhou
and passed by a raging waterfall, known as Huangkung
(Terrifying) Waterfall. The name itself was enough to
suggest its turbulent power. Amidst the terror of that
foreign land, his poetry yearned for his hometown. In his
hometown, there was a marketplace called Xihuan
(Joyful). Xihuan and Huangkung, the emotions were the
same, but the scenes were different. On one side were
the wild and fierce features of a foreign land; on the
other side was the deep affection of his homeland.
山憶喜歡勞遠夢
地名惶恐泣孤臣
Sơn ức Hỉ hoan lao viễn mộng
Địa danh Hoàng khủng khấp cô thần
Remembering Joyful Mountain Pass, I was burdened by
distant dreams,
In the land of Terrifying Waterfall, the heavens and earth
wept for this lonesome and helpless public servant.
I translate into Vietnamese poetry:
Núi Hỉ Hoan, mộng đọa đày,
Thác cao Hoàng Khủng, trời mây khóc người.
These two excerpts draw a parallel between Thầy’s
experiences while living in exile in Vạn Giã and those of
the famous Chinese poet Su Dongpo. Both experienced
feelings of loneliness, nostalgia, and a deep connection to
nature.
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10. Cuối năm
Lận đận năm chầy 13 nữa
Sinh nhai ngọn gió rừng
Hàng cà phơi nắng lụa
Ngần ngại tiếng tha phương.
End of year
Another long year of hardship passing by,
Eking out a living amidst the forest winds,
Rows of eggplant bask in the golden sunlight,
I hesitate to call this life living in exile.
Explanation
This is the heartfelt confession of a person who, as the year
ends, is struck by the question: Am I truly living in exile?
At the end of the year of the water tiger 1062, Su Dongpo
wrote three poems to his brother, Su Zhe:
饋歲
(Kuìsuì, qũy
tuế, gifting the year, i.e., giving gifts at the year’ s end),
別
歲
(Biésuì, biệt tuế, sending off the year, i.e., inviting others
to feast together on the year’s end), and
守歲
(Shǒusuì, thủ
tuế, waiting for the year, i.e., staying awake through the
13 Although chầy means late, năm chầy means a slowly passing year,
because it’s uneventful or filled with hardship, e.g., in Truyện Kiều:
Thương nhau xin nhớ lời nhau,
Năm chầy cũng chẳng đi đâu mà chầy
If you love me, remember what we’ve said:
Even if the years crawl by, there’s no need to rush, never too late.
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night of the eve). Such are the customs in Western Shu,
Su’s homeland.
Below is the last verse of Su Dongpo’s Kuìsuì:
亦欲舉鄉風
;
獨倡無人和
Diệc dục cử hương phong; Độc xướng vô nhân họa
I too want to raise a cup in celebration of our hometown’s
customs; But drinking alone, there’s no one to harmonize.
However, in his book, Thầy chooses to share his personal
feelings with Su Dongpo by translating it as:
Quê cũ tình dẫu đượm; Tình riêng nói với ai?
Though hometown love runs deep; To whom can I confide
my heart?
And Thầy comments:
The old year is about to pass away, like a snake crawling
into a hole. How can we catch it? Grasping its tail is
useless. Days pass like a crawling snake; the longing
there is truly cruel and harmful.
The crawling snake Thầy mentioned above is the very
snake depicted in Su Dongpo’s poem Shǒusuì 14.
14
欲知垂盡歲, 有似赴壑蛇
修鱗半已沒, 去意誰能遮
Dục tri thùy tận tuế, Hữu tự phó hác xà
Tu lân bán dĩ một, Khứ ý thùy năng già
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11. Dạ khúc
Tiếng ai khóc trong đêm trường uất hận,
Lời ai ru trào máu lệ bi thương,
Hồn ai đó đôi tay gầy sờ soạng,
Là hồn tôi tìm dấu cũ quê hương.
Ai tóc trắng đìu hiu trên đỉnh tuyết
Bước chập chờn heo hút giữa màn sương
Viên đá cuội mấy nghìn năm cô quạnh
Hồn tôi đâu trong dấu tích hoang đường?
Serenade
Whose voice weeps in the long night, filled with bitter
resentment?
Whose words lull, filled with sorrowful tears?
Whose soul wanders, gaunt hands fumbling?
It is my soul, seeking traces of my lost homeland.
Whose white hair gleams, forlorn on the snowy peak,
With staggering steps, lost amidst the swirling mist?
A boulder, thousands of years alone, wonders,
Where is my soul, in this lost and desolate land?
Explanation
This poem explores themes of loss, longing, and isolation.
To know where the year’s end lies? It’s like a white snake slithering
into its hole.
Half its silvery scales have already disappeared inside, who could
possibly pull it back?
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In the first stanza, Thầy’s voice is filled with a deep sense
of sorrow and resentment, particularly toward the loss of
his homeland. The imagery is powerful, evoking a sense of
desolation and despair. The long night filled with bitterness
suggests a prolonged period of mourning and anguish. The
third line whose soul wanders, gaunt hands fumbling
conveys a sense of aimlessness and confusion.
In the second stanza, Thầy continues to explore the sorrow
and resentment of his lost and desolate homeland, but this
time through the lens of a boulder. The image of the white-
haired figure standing on the snowy peak and staggering in
the swirling mist is particularly poignant. This figure
represents Thầy, while his snowy and swirling background
symbolizes his lost homeland.
Could the millennia of solitude endured by this ancient
boulder mirror the four-thousand-year history of its
homeland? If so, it stands as a silent sentinel, a stone
witness to the nation’s rise and fall. Why, then, does this
once-proud land now lie lost and desolate? The boulder’s
enduring presence poses a poignant question, a silent cry
echoing through the ages.
The poem’s overall tone is one of melancholy and despair.
However, there is also a sense of hope and yearning, as
Thầy continues to search for traces of his lost homeland.
The poem’s final question of the boulder, where is my soul,
in this lost and desolate land? suggests a longing for
connection and belonging to his homeland.
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12. Đêm dài
Canh khuya tiếng trùng rủ rỉ
Đêm dài dế vọng huyên thiên
Tôi yêu bàn tay quỷ dị
Ấn sâu trên nỗi ưu phiền
Bàn tay ửng hồng nỗi chết
Áo cơm rữa nát tinh thần
Tan đi hình hài cát bụi
Tan đi khổ nhọc sinh tồn
Long night
In the dead of night, the crickets whisper,
Their mournful song echoes through the long hours.
I love this ghostly hand,
That presses deeply on my sorrows.
This demonic hand flushed with the color of death,
Clothes and food corrode my soul,
If my body crumbles, dissolving into dust,
The pain of living would fade away.
Explanation
The images of the dead of night and the long hours
emphasize the author’s isolation. The crickets, often
associated with loneliness, underscore this theme. The
ghostly hand and the color of death suggest a deep-seated
despair and a morbid fascination with mortality. The lines
about clothes and food corroding his soul conveys a sense
of physical and emotional exhaustion. The final lines seem
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to express a longing for an end to suffering and a morbid
fascination with death as a form of escape.
Given Thầy’s esteemed status as a Zen master and
Bodhisattva, the aforementioned observation may be a
misinterpretation. Perhaps a deeper understanding of his
philosophical outlook on life and death might be gleaned
from excerpts of these two essays, both written by him: the
first written before the tumultuous year of 1975, and the
second written in its aftermath:
(1) Sau lưng ngôn ngữ của thi ca (Behind the language
of poetry), excerpted from the Khởi Hành (Departure)
magazine, No. 104, 1971:
Two familiar images evoke the idea of transformation:
the flowing river and the fire blazing on a mountaintop.
Each image suggests a contrasting meaning: creation
and destruction. Heaven and earth seem to speak for
humanity, expressing the ultimate meaning of life in a
unique language: the language of silence, or the voice of
stillness.
(2) Ngày mai tìm bóng tử thần mà yêu (Seeking the
shadow of death to love tomorrow), excerpted from the
Overseas Khởi Hành magazine, No. 46, August 2000.
Haunted by darkness, involuntarily, one suddenly sees
the void taking shape through the summon of life and
death. It is necessary to die once within that summon, to
look up and see a bare hand outstretched. Is it the hand
of love, or the hand of death itself? And then,
unexpectedly out of nowhere, one lives again and sees a
world filled with the sound of singing.
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Through these excerpts, Thầy believes that although each
transformation image suggests a contrasting meaning:
creation and destruction, at the end, nature rejuvenates,
rebirth arrives and new life emerges. This is similar to a
very concise and profound saying that comes from the
Book of Changes (I-Ching): When it reaches an impasse, it
transforms; when it transforms, it flows freely.
Also, in Huyền thoại Duy-ma-cật (Legends of Vimalakīrti),
Thầy explains:
Even in suffering lies enlightenment, and even in the
terrifying dangers of birth and death lies the peaceful
nirvana. The rope that is mistaken for a snake is not
destroyed to eliminate the illusion that causes fear.
Beyond what is impermanent, perceived by our five
senses, there exists no other realm of eternal truth, great
bliss, or great self. This is the ultimate non-dual reality.
Therefore, in these verses,
Tan đi hình hài cát bụi
Tan đi khổ nhọc sinh tồn,
If my body crumbles, dissolving into dust,
The pain of living would fade away,
if we view this solely as a yearning for the dissolution of
the physical self as an end to suffering, we may overlook
the deeper philosophical and emotional complexities the
speaker is expressing.
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13. Đời nô lệ
Núi rừng những giấc mộng đen
Tóc em xõa thanh xuân còn bé bỏng
Trên đỉnh đá mây trời tơ lụa mỏng
Ta làm thân nô lệ nhọc nhằn
Servitude
Mountains and forests slumber in dark dreams,
Her hair, a once-youthful cascade,
Now fades and tangles in sunlit streams.
On the peak, where clouds drift like silken thread,
Beneath a heavy yoke I toil, a weary slave.
Explanation
Most Venerable Thích Phước An revealed that this poem
was composed by Most Venerable Tuệ Sỹ in the
mountainous region of Vạn Giã, while gazing at the white
clouds drifting across the rocks and mountain peaks.
The second verse, her hair, a once-youthful cascade, hints
at a sense of isolation or a longing for something more than
just the cascading hair of a girl in her youth. Could it be the
image of his country that Thầy has personified in this
poem? I add now fades and tangles in sunlit streams as I
believe it is.
The poem seems to contrast the past beauty of his country
with the present dark dreams. The dark dreams and the thin
silk clouds on the peak of the Trường Sơn mountain range
could suggest his spiritual or philosophical journeys.
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14. Hạ sơn
Ngày mai sư xuống núi
Áo mỏng sờn đôi vai
Chuỗi hạt mòn năm tháng
Hương trầm lỡ cuộc say
Bình minh sư xuống núi
Tóc trắng hờn sinh nhai
Phương đông mặt trời đỏ
Mùa hạ không mây bay
Ngày mai sư xuống núi
Phố thị bước đường cùng
Sư ho trong bóng tối
Điện Phật trầm mông lung
Bình minh sư xuống núi
Khóe mắt còn rưng rưng
Vì sư yêu bóng tối
Ác mộng giữa đường rừng
Mountain descending
Tomorrow, the monk will descend the mountain,
His worn-out robe frayed at the shoulders,
And his prayer beads bearing the marks of time.
Incense smoke will miss a rendezvous.
At dawn, the monk will descend the mountain,
With sulky gray hair, a life relinquished.
The eastern sky ablaze, a fiery red,
With no stray clouds marring the summer’s sky.
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Tomorrow, the monk will descend the mountain,
The city, his final hurdle.
As he coughs in the darkness,
Temple smoke drifts aimlessly.
At dawn, the monk descends the mountain,
With tears in the corners of his eyes,
Because he loves the darkness of the forests,
Where nightmares await him on his path.
Explanation
The monk’s internal struggle is evident in the first three
stanzas. He descends the mountain only in the last stanza.
In the first stanza, incense smoke will miss a rendezvous
because the monk will miss his morning ritual, failing to
light incense and recite scripture.
In the second stanza, the red sun in the east and the
cloudless summer sky are signs of the challenges the monk
will face when he descends the mountain.
In the third stanza, the incense smoke drifting aimlessly
means an uncertain future will greet the monk.
In the fourth stanza, despite loving the darkness and the
forest path, the monk still descends the mountain.
The repetition of the first verse in the first and the third
stanzas, Ngày mai sư xuống núi (Tomorrow, the monk will
descend the mountain), demonstrates that the monk is torn
between the peace at his mountain retreat and the
challenges of the world. Ultimately, his decision to descend
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the mountain demonstrates a willingness to engage with
life on a deeper level, even if it means facing uncertainty
and hardship.
Therefore, the repetition of the first verse in the second and
the fourth stanzas, Bình minh sư xuống núi, although
identical in Vietnamese, conveys different meanings in
English: In the second stanza, at dawn, the monk will
descend the mountain and in the final stanza, at dawn, the
monk descends the mountain.
This metaphor embodies the concept of Engaged Monks,
exemplified by these two monks: Khuông Việt, advisor to
King Đinh Tiên Hoàng (reign 968–979) and Vạn Hạnh,
teacher of King Lý Thái Tổ (reign 1009–1028).
The monk in the poem, with tears in his eyes, descends the
mountain, knowing nightmares await. He is Thầy himself.
In 1977, Thầy left his Vạn Giã retreat to descend the
mountain. His voice against the Communist party’s attempt
to force the Unified Buddhist Church of Vietnam to join
the Vietnamese Fatherland Front led to his arrest and being
sent to re-education camp (a disguised form of prison) until
1981.
From 1981, he taught at Quảng Hương Già Lam monastery
school in Saigon, but the school was forced to close down
and he was arrested again in 1984. In a kangaroo court held
in September 1988, he was sentenced to death. Due to
international pressure, Hanoi commuted his sentence to 20
years of hard labor. Read more on pages 256 and 354.
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15. Hoa rừng
Em trải áo trên hoa rừng man dại
Để hoa rừng nước cuộn biết yêu nhau
Nhưng nước cuộn xóa đời ta trên bãi
Để hoa rừng phong nhụy với ngàn lau.
Forest flower
She lays her dress upon the untamed forest flowers,
That the flowers and swirling waters might find love.
But swirling waters wash away my traces from the sands,
So that the forest flowers live in harmony with the reeds.
Explanation
The last verse has an unpopular word phong nhụy (phong
= close, nhụy = stigma), which literally translates to close
the stigma. Stigma is the part of a flower that receives the
pollen. So, phong nhụy means to close the female part of
the flower, preventing pollination.
Similar to the poem Cây khô (Withered tree), page 100, this
poem also has two parts: The first two lines represent the
action of a girl who wants to arrange nature’s way into her
own way, để hoa rừng nước cuộn biết yêu nhau (that the
flowers and swirling waters might find love); while the last
two lines represent Thầy’s state of no-self, i.e., a state of
profound peace and contentment, reminiscent of the
Buddhist concept of nirvana, where the illusion of self is
transcended (his traces are washed away) and
interconnectedness with all things, organized in nature’s
way, để hoa rừng phong nhụy với ngàn lau (so that the
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forest flowers live in harmony the reeds, as cross-
pollination between different species is unnatural), is
realized.
The word phong nhụy can be used to refer to a woman’s
virginity. In The Tale of Kiều, when Kiều laments about her
loss of purity, she feels her purity has been compromised
and can never be restored:
Nghĩ rằng trong đạo vợ chồng,
Hoa thơm phong nhụy, trăng vòng tròn gương.
I believe that to her man,
A bride should bring the scent of a close bud, the shape of
a full moon.
(translated by Professor Huỳnh Sanh Thông, quoted from
his bilingual book The Tale of Kiều)
Poet Bùi Giáng also had a poem employing the word phong
nhụy. It was the poem Impressions, which he wrote in the
appendix of the novel La porte étroite (The narrow gate)
by André Gide, a work that he translated into Vietnamese
as Khung cửa hẹp. Below are two verses of this poem:
Em về rủ 15 áo mù sa
Trút quần phong nhụy cho tà huy bay.
She returns, disrobing in the misty rain,
Shedding her skirt, letting her stigma fly in the setting
sun.
15 While other versions utilize the word rũ (to fall limp or to drop
dead) and giũ (to shake), Thầy Tuệ Sỹ uniquely employs rủ (to gently
drop down) to convey a sense of deliberate and gentle descent.
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16. Luống cải chân đồi
Vác cuốc xuống chân đồi
Nắng mai hồng đôi môi
Nghiêng vai hờn tuổi trẻ
Máu đỏ rợn bên trời
Sức yếu lòng đất cứng
Sinh nhai tủi nhục nhiều
Thân gầy tay cuốc nặng
Mắt lệ nóng tình yêu
Thầy tóc trắng bơ vơ
Con mắt xanh đợi chờ
Đèn khuya cùng lẻ bóng
Khúc ruột rối đường tơ
Tuổi Thầy trông cánh hạc
Cánh hạc vẫn chốc mòng
Mắt con mờ ráng đỏ
Ráng đỏ lệ lưng tròng
Chân đồi xanh luống cải
Đời ta xanh viễn phương
Sống chết một câu hỏi
Sinh nhai lỡ độ đường.
Vegetable beds at the foothill
With hoe upon my shoulders, I descend the hill,
The morning sun paints my lips a fiery red.
My shoulders slump, longing for my youthful days,
The sky bleeds crimson, a stark contrast overhead.
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Weak arms struggle against the earth’s hard soil,
My livelihood, a bitter struggle.
The slender body dwarfed by the hoe’s heavy weight,
Yet the love for this land warms my tear-filled eyes.
Father, with white hair, lost in thought,
Child, with bloodshot eyes, waiting in vain.
Midnight lamp, casting a solitary shadow,
Our broken hearts were tangled by twisted threads.
Father, lonely in his golden years,
Like a forgotten sack on the shelf.
My eyes grow dim, reflecting the red sunset’s glow,
The sunset’s red bleeds into my tears.
The foothill now adorned with vibrant green vegetable
beds,
But my life stretches far beyond this field,
My struggle for survival has overshadowed,
The weighty question of life and death.
Explanation
Thầy wrote this poem in late 1975, probably while he was
in Vạn Giã. Therefore, the context of this poem’s creation
is very likely a gentle voice for the fate of our country after
the fall of Saigon in 1975. Those who remained in Vietnam
at that time also had thin bodies and heavy hoes in the New
Economic Zones (NEZ), while their elderly parents had
white hair and were left alone in the city, clinging to life
there, ironically, to support those who were living in exile
at these NEZ.
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Understanding it this way, this poem is not written by Thầy
to lament about his own circumstances, but rather for us,
those whose voices were silenced after 1975, those who
were sent to the NEZ, leaving their elderly parents behind.
In the third stanza, my heart was broken by these verses:
Thầy, tóc trắng bơ vơ
Con, mắt xanh đợi chờ
I translate, keeping their mirrored chiastic structure,
Father, with white hair, lost in thought
Child, with bloodshot eyes, waiting in vain.
In the fourth stanza:
Tuổi Thầy trông cánh hạc
Cánh hạc vẫn chốc mòng,
the word cánh hạc is used to refer to elderly people 16.
16 In an essay titled Tuổi hạc (The golden age) published on the
website of poet Du Tử Lê, writer Duy Lam delves into the reasons
why a human’s old age is often likened to the crane.
Interestingly, cranes are not the longest-living birds. Compared to
the four sacred animals (TN: dragon, unicorn, turtle and phoenix),
the crane’s lifespan is relatively short. Turtles have been
scientifically documented to live nearly two centuries. But it
wouldn’t sound pleasant or poetic to compare a person’s lifespan to
that of a turtle. Cranes, with their various species and graceful
appearance, have captured the imagination of ancient people. Their
ability to soar high in the sky, their long necks and legs, and their
clear calls have made them symbols of elegance and freedom …
Perhaps, because humans are often confined to small spaces and
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The word tuổi hạc was also used by poet Nguyễn Đình
Chiểu (1822–1888) in his famous work Lục Vân Tiên:
Thương cha tuổi hạc đã cao
E khi ấm lạnh buổi nào biết đâu.
Loving my father, in his golden age,
I fear the cold and warmth, not knowing what the days
will bring.
And the word chốc mòng (chốc = impetiginous, mòng =
eye pouches) refers to sore, red eyes, implying waiting in
vain for a long time.
The word chốc mòng also appears in The Tale of Kiều:
Nước non cách mấy buồng thêu
Những là trộm nhớ thầm yêu chốc mòng.
But, as if hills and streams had barred the way,
He had long sighed and dreamt of them, in vain.
(translated by Professor Huỳnh Sanh Thông in The Tale of
Kiều)
dream of soaring to great heights, they have projected their
aspirations onto the crane.
Despite this, the direct connection between the crane and human’s
old age remains unclear … Perhaps the association between cranes
and old age stems from the white feathers on the heads of some crane
species, which may have reminded people of elderly individuals with
white hair. This image, combined with the crane’s ability to fly high,
may have led to the idea of elderly people ascending to heaven on
the backs of cranes. This poetic image was often used to depict the
peaceful passing of the elderly, who were highly respected in ancient
societies for their wisdom.
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In these two verses, Nguyễn Du painted a picture of Kim
Trọng’s secret but enduring and ceaseless love for the two
Kiều sisters that even the distance separating him from
them could not extinguish it.
To translate chốc mòng, I choose the English idiom “on the
shelf”, which Cambridge defines as “not noticed or not
used”.
The African American poet Maya Angelou, who was
invited by President Clinton to read her poetry at his
inauguration in 1993, in her poem On Aging, writes like a
sack left on the shelf 17 to refer to lonely, forgotten elderly
people.
17 On Aging, by Maya Angelou:
When you see me sitting quietly
Like a sack left on the shelf,
Don’t think I need your chattering.
I’m listening to myself.
Hold! Stop! Don’t pity me!
Hold! Stop your sympathy!
Understanding if you got it,
Otherwise, I’ll do without it!
When my bones are stiff and aching,
And my feet won’t climb the stair,
I will only ask one favor:
Don’t bring me no rocking chair.
When you see me walking, stumbling,
Don’t study and get it wrong.
’Cause tired don’t mean lazy
And every goodbye ain’t gone.
I’m the same person I was back then,
A little less hair, a little less chin,
A lot less lungs and much less wind.
But ain’t I lucky I can still breathe in.
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Going back to these two verses in Thầy’s poem:
Tuổi Thầy trông cánh hạc
Cánh hạc vẫn chốc mòng,
I translate as follows,
Father, lonely in his golden years,
Like a forgotten sack on the shelf.
But in Dreaming the Mountain, professor Nguyễn Bá
Chung and poet Martha Collins translate these verses as:
My father dreams a crane’s wings
The crane is dreaming too.
Crane’s wings for cánh hạc and dreaming for chốc mòng,
it’s like they translated with a potato!
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17. Một bóng trăng gầy
Nằm ôm một bóng trăng gầy
Vai nghiêng tủi nhục hờn lay mộng tàn
Rừng sâu mấy nhịp Trường sơn
Biển đông mấy độ triều dâng ráng hồng
Khóc tràn cuộc lữ long đong
Người đi còn một tấm lòng đơn sơ?
Máu người pha đỏ sắc cờ
Phương trời xẻ nửa giấc mơ dị thường
Quân hành đạp nát tà dương
Khúc ca du tử bẽ bàng trên môi
Tình chung không trả thù người
Khuất thân cho trọn một đời luân lưu
A slender moonbeam
I lie embracing a slender moonbeam,
Shoulders slumped, grief and resentment slay my dreams.
Deep forests roar with Trường Sơn’s thunderous beat,
Countless crimson tidal waves rise in the Eastern Sea.
While blood stains the flag a gruesome red,
And the dream of a distant realm is irrevocably severed,
As tears flood my long and lonely journey,
Can this traveler still possess a simple heart?
As the setting sun is crushed by the marching armies,
The wanderer’s song dies on my lips.
Unrequited love seeks no vengeance,
I’ll retreat away, to complete a life of endless wandering.
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Explanation
The poem evokes a powerful sense of loss and
disillusionment while simultaneously exploring the
enduring human capacity for hope and resilience. It raises
profound questions about the nature of war and its impact
on individuals. However, the flow of the poem’s themes of
grief is clearer by re-arranging the verses in the second
stanza this way:
Máu người pha đỏ sắc cờ
Phương trời xẻ nửa giấc mơ dị thường
Khóc tràn cuộc lữ long đong
Người đi còn một tấm lòng đơn sơ?
While blood stains the flag a gruesome red,
And the dream of a distant realm is irrevocably severed,
As tears flood my long and lonely journey,
Can this traveler still possess a simple heart?
In the essay Tuệ Sỹ, thái độ của nhà sư nhập thế (Tuệ Sỹ,
the attitude of an engaged monk), Most Venerable Thích
Nguyên Siêu writes:
Spiritual practice seeks liberation, but this liberation
does not mean abandoning the world. Spiritual practice
begins in the world, and it is also from the world that one
attains enlightenment. Thầy spreads the spirit of
enlightenment, nourishing and brightening the world.
This engaged attitude permeates all of Thầy’s poetry and
writings, as well as his daily life. He lived a simple life
in a small room, surrounded by bookshelves, spending
his days translating and writing. At night, he slept on his
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work chair, without a bed or hammock, not concerned
with material comforts. This was because he saw the
suffering and hardship of the impoverished people, and
he saw the poverty and backwardness of the country,
realizing that he too was living in this impoverished and
backward homeland.
But when the dream of the Trường Sơn failed, Thầy
retreated away, focusing on translating scriptures, placing
his hopes in future generations.
Most Venerable Thích Nguyên Siêu continued:
He translated the Aṅguttara Nikāya (kinh A-hàm, in
Vietnamese), which shows us that the Buddha’s
teachings build a life of true happiness in families,
nations, and societies. This is considered a positive
engaged spirit. It’s about the happy life of Buddhist lay
people in the present and future. A very humanistic and
progressive view based on compassion for fellow human
beings, and the interconnectedness of individuals and
the human community worldwide. It’s about the good
relationships between parents and children, teachers and
students, friends and neighbors, employers and
employees. …
The second engaged spirit is his translations of the
Vimalakīrti Sūtra and Śrīmālādevī Sūtra. These two
sūtras exemplify the lay Bodhisattva practices of
Vimalakīrti and Śrīmālā Siṃhanāda. Here, the engaged
spirit is expanded, completely selfless, breaking away
from delusions and attachments, to directly advance to
the realm of the Buddha nature.
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18. Một thoáng chiêm bao
Em mắt biếc ngây thơ ngày hội lớn
Khóe môi cười nắng quái cũng gầy hao
Như cò trắng giữa đồng xanh bất tận
Ta yêu người vì khoảnh khắc chiêm bao
A dreamlike moment
Your innocent green eyes, so captivating at the grand
festival,
Your smiling lips, soothing the summer’s blistering heat,
You were like a white egret amidst a vast green field.
I fell in love with you because of that dream-like fleeting
moment.
Explanation
In the essay Đọc thơ Tuệ Sỹ (Reading Tuệ Sỹ’s poems), the
poet Vĩnh Hảo comments on this poem:
Describing a beautiful woman with just a few words.
Bright eyes: the window to the soul. Naive: the soul. Just
by looking at the window, one can see what lies deep
within. The bright green window, as green as jade,
reveals a pure and innocent soul. Moreover, the naive
quality is further defined by the surrounding scene, by
the bustling crowd of a grand day; through this, the poet
sees “you” as strangely naive amidst the crowded
festivities. What kind of festival is it? It must be a great
festival at a pagoda for the bright eyes to connect with
the poet’s gaze. The Lantern Festival? Vesak? No. These
festivals are very joyful. The weather is warm, and
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people are excited and happy. It’s not suitable for one’s
heart to suddenly feel a vague sadness or to suddenly
love someone so deeply.
It must be the Ullambana Festival 18 (TN: Ullambana is
a Sanskrit word. Yulan in Chinese or Vu-Lan in
18 The Ullambana Festival, in essence, originated from the story of
Maudgalyāyana, a devout Buddhist monk who sought to rescue his
mother from hell.
According to the Ullambana Sūtra, also known as the Yulanpen Sūtra
or kinh Vu Lan Bồn in Vietnamese, during the time of the Buddha
Śākyamuni, Maudgalyāyana, one of the ten great disciples of the
Buddha, discovered through his meditative powers that his mother,
who had committed severe bad karma, had been reborn in hell,
enduring hunger and thirst. When he learnt that her spirit was being
subjected to hunger and misery, he decided to go to the netherworld
to relieve her of her suffering.
Once he went there, Maudgalyāyana offered her a bowl of rice. Due
to her greed, she was so afraid that others would steal her food that
she covered the bowl with her hand, preventing others from seeing it,
while using her other hand to scoop up the rice. However, the rice
turned to pieces of smoldering charcoal that she couldn’t eat.
Maudgalyāyana was distressed. He returned to the Buddha and sought
his advice. The Buddha told him that his mother’s offences were deep-
rooted and that he alone would not be able to ease her sufferings. He
should wait until the 15th day of the seventh lunar month, when the
monks complete their retreat, to seek the power of the monks and their
prayers.
Following the Buddha’s teachings, on the 15th day of the seventh
lunar month, Maudgalyāyana prepared offerings and food to present
to the monks and people in the ten directions, i.e., all the eight cardinal
and ordinal (N, S, E, W, NE, SE, NW, SW) directions plus the upward
(heavenly realms) and the downward (underworld realms) directions.
Not only did he help his mother escape from suffering, but many
others on that day were also freed from hell.
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Vietnamese, it’s a significant Buddhist holiday,
celebrated on the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar
month). Autumn. The wind is cool. It’s a bit sad.
Although it’s also a big festival, it’s not as lively and
joyful as spring or Vesak. On that day, children who are
far from home will miss their parents more; monks will
feel more sentimental.
In the temple courtyard, the sounds of drums, bells, and
wooden clappers mingled with the rhythmic chanting of
the monks, as thousands of people gathered around the
altar, waiting for the moment to scramble for the food
offerings to hungry ghosts. And amidst this bustling
festival, you stood out with your surprised eyes,
curiously observing the scene. And then, suddenly, you
caught sight of the poet-monk.
Khóe môi cười nắng quái cũng gầy hao
Your smiling lips, soothing the summer’s blistering
heat.
The corners of your mouth curved into a mischievous
smile, softening the harsh sunlight. The sun no longer
felt as intense. The sunlight suddenly softened. Softened
not because of the autumn sun, but because of a smiling
corner of a mouth. The smiling corner made the harsh
sunlight grow thin and less intense. In other words, the
scorching sun suddenly became gentle when you smiled.
The day on which Maudgalyāyana performed the act of
compassionate filial conduct and brought salvation to his foreparents
was celebrated as Ullambana. It is observed on the 15th day of the
seventh lunar month.
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What kind of smile was that? Were you smiling at
someone? At friends? At family? Or at the poet-monk?
Perhaps you were smiling at the monk. You smiled as a
greeting. But how could your smile make the harsh
sunlight grow thin? How could your smile make the
poet’s heart feel so wistful and gentle that he couldn’t
help but sing?
Em mắt biếc ngây thơ ngày hội lớn
Khóe môi cười nắng quái cũng gầy hao
Your innocent blue eyes, so captivating at the grand
festival,
Your smiling lips, soothing the summer’s blistering
heat.
It wasn’t over. At that very moment, in the midst of that
bustling festival, you suddenly transformed into a white
egret in a green field. Clearly, you were standing among
a crowd of people, yet the poet saw you differently. He
saw you stand out, not like a white egret among a flock
of black crows, nor like a white egret among a flock of
chickens and ducks, but standing in a vast green field.
All the people around you seemed to disappear, to
become non-existent. Only you, in your white dress,
innocent and with bright eyes, stood in the vast expanse
of heaven and earth.
Như cò trắng giữa đồng xanh bất tận
You were like a white egret amidst a vast green field.
With bright eyes, naive, in a white áo dài (another white
dress!), she stood silently, offering a smile amidst the
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bustling crowd. Oh, so beautiful, how could one’s heart
not be filled with longing and excitement; how could
this not become a poem? Therefore:
Ta yêu người
I fell in love with you.
Don’t rush, let’s stop there, just pause. Let’s not read the
last few words. Let’s leave the poem unfinished. Let’s
linger here for a moment. And let’s borrow the poet’s
words to express our ordinary way of loving:
Em mắt biếc ngây thơ ngày hội lớn
Khóe môi cười nắng quái cũng gầy hao
Như cò trắng giữa đồng xanh bất tận
Ta yêu người.
Your innocent blue eyes, so captivating at the grand
festival,
Your smiling lips, soothing the summer’s blistering
heat,
You were like a white egret amidst a vast green field.
I fell in love with you.
I fell in love with you. Full stop. Then we begin the
journey of conquest, of possession. Each person’s
journey is unique, there’s no need to say it. Just: I love
you, and that’s it.
The sequence of love for ordinary people would end like
that. Seeing you with bright eyes, pure, gentle, smiling
so charmingly, standing out among the other ordinary
people, … we must fall in love. Yes, I love you, I love
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her, he loves you. It must be like that. Our poem, no
matter the rhyme or form, we wouldn’t want to cut it off
there, it would be too abrupt; but in real life, we cut it
off abruptly, there’s no need to think about it anymore.
Beautiful, charming like that, then … love! The poem
ends with a very realistic, very common, very human
conclusion.
But the poet-monk’s poem continues:
Ta yêu người vì khoảnh khắc chiêm bao
I fell in love with you because of that dream-like fleeting
moment.
It’s still love, but the love has been elevated. From the
ordinary love of an artist for beauty, it transforms into
the love of a sage for the true nature of humanity and a
suffering world.
The reason for loving her is affirmed. It’s not because of
her beauty, her innocent purity, or the graceful
slenderness of a white-clad angel, but rather because of
the fragile, easily broken nature of that white color. All
beauty is merely illusory and transient. Yet, it is
precisely because of this illusory transience that
everything becomes beautiful.
It’s all contained within a dreamlike moment. This very
dreamlike moment upends everything that seemed so
identical to the worldly experiences that preceded it. The
first three lines describe the beauty of a muse in a white
dress. Exceedingly lovely. It perfectly aligns with our
emotions.
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But in the fourth line, the poet suddenly changes tone
and speaks with the awakened voice of a sage. This sage
doesn’t say “I love you” like we do, but says “I love
people”. It’s the pronunciation of someone who stands
outside, above, looking down on the temporary, illusory
world. In the first line, the sweet endearment “you” is
used in the style of a poet, but suddenly it changes to the
solemn, lofty tone of a master, a practitioner on the
precipice of life and death, addressing people as
“people”! And “people” here doesn’t necessarily refer
solely to “you.” It could refer to all suffering beings in
the world. In this way, by looking at “you,” he sees
everything. You are the embodiment of all sentient
beings, of dreams and illusions. Changing the pronoun,
changing the address, is to reverse one’s perspective and
stance towards the object of their existence.
A moment of passion, a glittering moment of
overflowing poetic love … suddenly turns into a dream.
Love is also a dream. Beauty is also a dream. Even the
most poetic, dreamlike moment is a dream. …
Therefore, don’t say that sages are heartless. Without a
heart, how can they save people, save the world? They
love and strive to elevate that love. They perceive beauty
not only through concrete forms but also perceive the
eternal beauty within each momentary dream. No one
can love and express it in such beautiful words and songs
as poets, but no one can love and perceive the object of
their love as deeply and fundamentally as sages. This
love is as fleeting as a dream but also immortal, because
it is awakened by a moment and fully experienced
within that very moment.
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The poem is unexpectedly beautiful. If you don’t know
love, you can’t write such a beautiful poem.
Poet Vĩnh Hảo believes that the grand festival Thầy
mentioned in this poem is the Ullambana festival, but
Doctor Đỗ Hồng Ngọc wonders whether it is the day the
Buddha attained enlightenment?
In his essay Chén trà lão Triệu mà chưng hoa ngàn (Old
Zhao’s teacup but filled with forest flowers), Doctor Đỗ
writes:
Reading Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry, I often ponder why his poems
frequently mention the great gathering day, namely the
grand festival in this poem and the gathering in the
celestial realm in the poem Cung trời cũ (Celestial realm
of a previous lifetime), page 29?
Đôi mắt ướt tuổi vàng cung trời hội cũ,
Áo màu xanh không xanh mãi trên đồi hoang
Eyes wet with golden memories of our gathering in the
celestial realm of a previous lifetime,
The green shirt is no longer green on the barren hill.
And in the poem Một thoáng chiêm bao (A dreamlike
moment)
Em mắt biếc ngây thơ ngày hội lớn
Khóe môi cười nắng quái cũng gầy hao
Your innocent green eyes, so captivating at the grand
festival,
Your smiling lips, soothing the summer’s blistering
heat,
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Where is that grand festival? Where is that gathering in
the celestial realm? It sounds so familiar!
Ah, could it be that day, under the Bodhi tree where the
Buddha attained enlightenment at the First Assembly of
the Avataṃsaka (TN: Avataṃsaka Sūtra or
Buddhāvataṃsaka Sūtra, kinh Hoa Nghiêm in
Vietnamese, has been described by the translator
Thomas Cleary as “the most grandiose, the most
comprehensive, and the most beautifully arrayed of the
Buddhist scriptures”. The Avataṃsaka Sūtra describes a
cosmos of infinite realms upon realms filled with an
immeasurable number of Buddhas), a vast flower world
opened up, the Tathāgata appeared as an innocent
Buddha with blue eyes, smiling faintly … like when he
was a 7 or 8-year-old boy watching the Royal Ploughing
Ceremony (TN: an ancient royal rite held in many Asian
countries to mark the traditional beginning of the rice
growing season) and entered a meditative state without
realizing it? And that gathering in the celestial realm
perhaps is the ninth assembly in the Jeda forest 19, when
19 According to the Great Master Zhiyi (538–597), after attaining the
supreme enlightenment of Buddhahood, Śākyamuni Buddha entered
the great meditative state of Śāgāramudrāsamādhi (the Ocean-seal
meditative state), where the Buddha’s mind is free from all arising
thoughts.
Śāgāramudrā literally means ocean-seal, which is a metaphorical term
used to describe the image of a perfectly still and peaceful ocean with
no waves or wind and expounded the Avataṃsaka Sūtra in his first 9
assemblies.
In the Buddha’s ninth assembly, which took place in the Jeda forest,
Sudhana recalled his long quest to enlightenment. His final encounter
is with Bodhisattva Samant Bhadra who instructs Sudhana that the
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people entered the dharma realm, embarked on a
journey, to see the dharma realm’s substantial nature and
casually entered the marketplace?
Reflecting on Buổi chiều nắng hạ đọc thơ Tuệ Sỹ (A
summer afternoon spent reading Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry),
professor Phạm Công Thiện believes that the dreamlike
moment suggests a Buddhist concept of the impermanent
nature of existence and this awakening leads to a selfless
desire to help others. It’s selfless, because love and
compassion are seen as intrinsic and pure, unaffected by
the transitory nature of existence.
Love is truly love, and human compassion is truly
human compassion, because of the direct realization that
all is but a dreamlike moment. Each time one directly
perceives that they themselves are also a dreamlike
moment, a sudden and complete awakening arises. From
that moment, Tuệ Sỹ rises and throws himself into the
pure action of a Bodhisattva to liberate people from all
the turmoil of life. Tuệ Sỹ was ready to go to prison to
transform his consciousness, potentially shattering all
the prisons of human existence.
When introducing his book Khoảnh khắc chiêm bao (A
moment of dream), Nguyên Giác (poet Phan Tấn Hải)
comments about this poem as follows:
only purpose of wisdom is that it should be practiced and shared for
the benefit of all sentient beings. The ultimate meaning of
enlightenment is not to seek enlightenment for himself, but to share it
with others, to make other people’s lives more meaningful. His story
appears in chapter 39, Entering the Dharma Realm, of the Sūtra.
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The past doesn’t exist, for it’s only a memory in the
mind. The future doesn’t exist, for it’s only a projection
of the mind. The present doesn’t exist, for it’s only a
moment between two non-existent times, and also
because no one can grasp it. But pain has manifested in
this realm, regardless of the true nature being selfless.
These words are written from those moments of dream.
However, some argue that the grand festival in this poem
refers to the fall of Saigon on April 30, 1975. This date
marks Victory Day for millions of Vietnamese people. This
interpretation is supported by the fleeting, short-lived,
dream-like moment of the poet’s love affair.
Ta yêu người vì khoảnh khắc chiêm bao.
I fell in love with you because of that dream-like fleeting
moment.
This ephemeral quality mirrors the quickly fading hopes
for a unified, independent, free, and happy Vietnam under
communist rule as symbolized by the white egret, often
associated with hope and freedom.
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19. Ngồi giữa bãi tha ma
I
Lửa đã tắt từ buổi đầu sáng thế
Một kiếp người ray rứt bụi tro bay
Tôi ngồi mãi giữa tha ma mộ địa
Lạnh trăng ngà lụa trắng trải ngàn cây
Khuya lành lạnh gió vào run bóng quỷ
Quỷ run run hôn mãi đống xương gầy
Khóc năn nỉ sao hình hài chưa rã
Để hồn tan theo đầu lửa ma trơi
Khi tâm tư chưa là gỗ mục
Lòng đất đen còn giọt máu xanh ngời.
II
Ta làm kẻ rong chơi từ hỗn độn
Treo gót hài trên mái tóc vào thu
Ngồi đếm mộng đi qua từng đọt lá
Rủ mi dài trên bến cỏ sương khô
Vì lêu lổng mười năm dài gối mộng
Ôm tình già quên bẵng tuổi hoàng hôn
Một buổi sáng nghe chim trời đổi giọng
Người thấy ta xô dạt bóng thiên thần
Ðất đỏ thắm nên lòng người hăm hở
Ðá chưa mòn nên lòng dạ trơ vơ
Thành phố nọ bởi mưa phùn nắng quái
Nên mười năm quên hết mộng đợi chờ.
III
Cầm lòng lại dấu chân ngày biệt xứ,
Cuộc buồn vui đâu hẹn giữa vô cùng.
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Bờ bến lạ biết đâu mòn cuộc lữ
Ðể ta về uống cạn nét thu phong
Như cánh hải âu cuối trời biển lộng
Bồng bềnh bay theo cánh mỏng ngàn đời
Chạnh nhớ người xưa miền nguyệt ẩn
Thôi một lần thương gởi giữa mênh mông
Chiều lắng đọng thênh thang ghềnh đá dựng
Những nỗi buồn nhân thế cũng phôi pha,
Mầu nhiệm nào đằng sau bao huỷ diệt
Mà nụ hồng vừa nở thắm ven khe.
Khắp cả chốn đâu chẳng là tịnh độ,
Vô sự một đời trắc trở gì đâu,
Không phiền trược mong cầu chi giải thoát,
Cứ thong dong như nước chảy qua cầu.
Từ độ biết buồn câu sinh tử,
Bỏ nhà đi một thoáng riêng mình,
Mẹ già thôi khóc cho thân phụ,
Lại khóc cho đời ta phiêu linh.
Nhớ mẹ một lần trong muôn một,
Thương em biết vậy chẳng gì hơn,
Suối trăng về tắm bên đồi lạ,
Chiều thu sang hải đảo xanh rờn.
IV
Một kiếp sống, một đoạn đường lây lất
Một đêm dài nghe thác đổ trên cao
Ta bước vội qua dòng sông biền biệt
Ðợi mưa dầm trong cánh bướm xôn xao
Một buổi sáng mắt bỗng đầy quá khứ
Ðường âm u nối lại mấy tiền thân
Ta đứng mãi trên suối ngàn vĩnh viễn
Mộng vô thường máu đỏ giữa hoàng hôn.
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144
Sitting in the middle of a graveyard
I
The primal flame has long been extinguished,
A human life, a lifetime of torment, turns to ashes.
I sit forever amidst the ghosts and graves,
Cold, ivory moonlight shrouds the forest.
The night wind shivers, trembling the ghosts,
Who endlessly kiss piles of thin bones.
They cry and plead for their bodies to disintegrate,
So that their souls can dissipate into will-of-the-wisps.
When the heart is not yet rotten wood,
A drop of green blood still gleams in the black earth.
II
I’ve been a wanderer since the dawn of time,
Hanging my shoes over my silvered head,
Sitting and counting my dreams among autumn leaves,
Drooping my long lashes on frosted grass.
For ten long years, I’ve wandered aimlessly,
Embracing past loves, forgetting my twilight years.
One morning, the birdsong shifted,
I felt adrift, free from angelic illusions.
Crimson earth stirs restless hearts,
Unworn stone, a mirror to empty souls.
This city of fickle rain and fading sun,
Has forgotten ten long years of yearning.
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III
I’ve kept my emotions since leaving home,
My joys and sorrows, endless and uncharted.
On foreign shores, who knows when the journey ends,
To return and savor the essence of autumn?
Like seagulls soaring on the ocean’s breast,
Floating on thin wings into eternity.
I suddenly remember my forgotten lovers in moonless
lands,
Stop! No more of that wistful boundless yearning.
As evening settles on the rugged shore,
Earthly sorrows begin to fade.
What miracles lie hidden in destruction’s wake,
As roses bloom anew on the creek?
As every place can be a Pure Land,
A worry-free life knows no crisis.
Why seek Enlightenment, when worry-free?
Just drift along like water flowing beneath the bridge.
Since I knew the sorrow of life and death,
I left my home to find my way.
My aging mother once wept for my father’s loss,
Now weeps for her wandering child.
Though far away, I still miss her,
And my sister, too, both hold a deep place in my heart.
I bathe in the moonlit stream by a foreign hill at night,
A green island beckons in the autumn light.
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IV
A lifetime struggling on a stretch of road,
A long night spent listening to the waterfall,
I hurry across the desolate river,
Awaiting the drenching rain amidst the bustling butterfly
wings.
One morning, my eyes are flooded with memories of the
past,
Shadows of former lives linger on hidden paths.
I stand forever by the eternal forest stream.
Impermanent dreams, stained with red blood at nightfall.
Explanation
In the context of the 50th anniversary of Tuệ Sỹ’s birthday,
reflecting on Buổi chiều nắng hạ đọc thơ Tuệ Sỹ (A
summer afternoon spent reading Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry),
professor Phạm Công Thiện writes about the first stanza:
Even in the face of immense suffering and deprivation
in prison, the brilliant Zen master Tuệ Sỹ remained
unwavering. His spirit soared as high and mighty as the
Trường Sơn mountains, a symbol of unwavering hope
that the poet Tuệ Sỹ had always revered. Through his
heroic efforts, he paved the way for the liberation of his
homeland from the communist regime, a regime he aptly
described as a graveyard of ghosts.
Let us now listen to Tuệ Sỹ’s poem Ngồi giữa bãi tha
ma (Sitting in the middle of a graveyard):
Lửa đã tắt từ buổi đầu sáng thế
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147
Một kiếp người ray rứt bụi tro bay
Tôi ngồi mãi giữa tha ma mộ địa
Lạnh trăng ngà lụa trắng trải ngàn cây
The primal flame has long been extinguished,
A human life, a lifetime of torment, turns to ashes.
I sit forever amidst the ghosts and graves,
Cold, ivory moonlight shrouds the forest.
These next four lines encapsulate the desolate world of
contemporary Communist Vietnam:
Khuya lành lạnh gió vào run bóng quỷ
Quỷ run run hôn mãi đống xương gầy
Khóc năn nỉ sao hình hài chưa rã
Để hồn tan theo đầu lửa ma trơi
The night wind shivers, trembling the ghosts,
Who endlessly kiss piles of thin bones.
They cry and plead for their bodies to disintegrate,
So that their souls can dissipate into will-of-the-wisps.
The final two lines reveal an unwavering will, a fiery
determination to burn away the rot of a degenerate
consciousness.
Khi tâm tư chưa là gỗ mục
Lòng đất đen còn giọt máu xanh ngời
When the heart is not yet rotten wood,
A drop of green blood still gleams in the black earth.
I believe that in these two aforementioned lines, regardless
of what he had been through, Thầy did not give up his hope
for a free and democratic Vietnam.
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In analyzing this poem, I find that it seems to explore
themes of existentialism, the fleeting nature of life, and the
human search for meaning and purpose. There is a strong
emphasis on isolation, loss, and the passage of time.
In the first stanza, Thầy seems to be haunted by the past
and the futility of existence. The imagery of the graveyard
and the crying ghosts is particularly evocative.
In the second stanza, the contrast between the crimson
earth and the unworn stone suggests a disconnect between
the natural world and human emotions. I wonder what
message Thầy has hidden in these verses:
Thành phố nọ bởi mưa phùn nắng quái
Nên mười năm quên hết mộng đợi chờ
This city of fickle rain and fading sun,
Has forgotten ten long years of yearning.
In the third stanza, Thầy’s experiences as an expatriate and
the longing for home are explored. The imagery of the
raging ocean and the floating clouds conveys a sense of
uncertainty and the passage of time.
In the final stanza, Thầy reflects on a lifetime of wandering
and the interconnectedness of past lives. The imagery of
the eternal forest stream and the red blood suggests a
cyclical nature to existence.
Overall, this poem explores themes of isolation, loss, and
the search for meaning in a world that is often chaotic and
unpredictable.
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In terms of Zen concepts contained in this poem, the
following two lines:
Không phiền trược mong cầu chi giải thoát,
Cứ thong dong như nước chảy qua cầu
Why seek Enlightenment, when worry-free?
Just drift along like water flowing beneath the bridge.
also agree with Zen Masters Baizhang Huaihai and
Zhaozhou Congshen’s instructions 20.
20 His disciples asked Master Baizhang Huaihai (720–814):
- How does one attain great nirvana?
- Don’t create the karma of birth and death, replied the Master.
- What creates the karma of birth and death?
- Seeking great nirvana, eliminating defilements, achieving purity,
believing in attainment and realization, not escaping conceptual
limitations, this is creating the karma of birth and death.
- How can one be liberated?
- If one is initially free from afflictions, what is there to seek liberation
from? Following one’s desires, going with one’s preferences, without
any mixed thoughts, this is the supreme path.
Zen Master Zhaozhou Congshen (778–897) also taught: “Bodhi and
nirvana are all like tight-fitting garments. They can also be considered
afflictions”.
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20. Nhớ con đường thơm ngọt môi
em
Tóc em tung bay sương chiều khói biếc
Dệt tơ trời thành khúc hát bâng khuâng
Tỉnh hay mộng khi Trường Sơn xa hút
Đến bao giờ mây trắng gởi tin sang
Hồn tôi đi trong rừng lang thang
Vọng lời ru từ ánh trăng tàn
Mắt em nhỏ ngại ngùng song cửa
Nghe tình ca trên giọt sương tan
Bóng tôi xa đêm dài phố thị
Nhớ con đường thơm ngọt môi em
Ơi là máu, tủi hờn nô lệ
Bóng tôi mờ suối nhỏ đêm đêm
Gót chân em nắng vàng xua viễn phố
Những ngón hồng ngơ ngác giữa đường chim
Ôi ta nhớ như đêm dài thượng cổ
Sợi tóc mềm lơi nhịp hát trong tim
Longing for the streets where her lips tasted
sweet and fragrant
Her hair, fluttering in afternoon mist and blue smoke,
Weaving heavenly threads into a pensive song,
As Trường Sơn is far away, is she awake or dreaming,
To receive the news brought in by the white cloud?
My soul wanders lost in the forest’s expanse,
Echoing lullabies from the fading moon’s glow,
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Her shy eyes peering through the windowpane,
Hearing love’s melody on melting dewdrops.
While my shadow fades in the city’s long night,
Longing for the streets where her lips tasted sweet and
fragrant,
Oh! now on these streets, blood, suffering, and slavery
bind,
My shadow fades away in the stream night after night.
As the yellow sunlight chased her heels to a distant place,
Her rosy toes, once innocent, now lost in the birds’ path.
Oh, I will never forget those immemorial long nights,
Her soft hair slowed the lingering melody in my heart.
Explanation
In Thơ tình Tuệ Sỹ (Tuệ Sỹ’s love poems), poet Vĩnh Đào
expresses his deep impressions about this poem:
Like other love poems in the collection Giấc mơ Trường
Sơn (Dreams on the peak of Trường Sơn), this poem
expresses the sentiments of an author who lived in the
forest, specifically the Trường Sơn mountains, for a
reason. He confides his feelings to a woman in a city or
town. The unnamed woman is likely his lover or
someone he admires.
In the poem, the author talks about himself, his
circumstances, and his surroundings, a remote and
desolate forest …
Regarding the man, in five lines, the author describes his
location and the surrounding landscape, a desolate forest
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in a remote place: hồn tôi đi trong rừng lang thang (my
soul wanders, lost in the forest’s expanse) and bóng tôi
xa đêm dài phố thị (my shadow fades in the city’s long
night).
Amidst this setting, there are poetic elements: vọng lời
ru từ ánh trăng tàn (echoing lullabies from the fading
moon’s glow).
However, more importantly, there are sad, tragic, and
somber tones, although the author does not elaborate on
the reasons.
Ơi là máu, tủi hờn nô lệ
Bóng tôi mờ suối nhỏ đêm đêm
Oh! now on these streets, blood, suffering, and slavery
bind,
My shadow fades away in the stream night after night.
Let’s imagine a gloomy, mysterious, and uncertain
scene. Despite the faint moonlight above, the ground is
shrouded in darkness, beneath thick leaves. A stream
flows through a desolate forest, and a solitary figure
stands there. The reader knows nothing more about this
character’s actions, and it seems he has no clear purpose,
for hồn tôi đi trong rừng lang thang (my soul wanders,
lost in the forest’s expanse).
In short, we don’t know much about the man in the
forest, only that he is haunted day and night by the image
of a woman in the city. Regarding the young woman, the
author begins the poem with two lines that evoke
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memories of the distant woman. The first image of the
woman in the poet’s memory is her hair:
Tóc em tung bay sương chiều khói biếc
Dệt tơ trời thành khúc hát bâng khuâng
Her hair, fluttering in afternoon mist and blue smoke,
Weaving threads of heaven into a pensive song.
The scene is painted with romantic colors: evening mist,
blue smoke. The image is not new, but it still holds a
high degree of suggestiveness. A departure, a farewell
that takes place on a misty evening always adds to the
sadness or tragedy of a parting, depending on the
circumstances.
Besides the evening mist, there is also blue smoke which
adds a sense of endless sorrow to the scene, as we recall
that the image of smoke and waves on the river at dusk
in classical works always evokes a pensive feeling.
Next is a very new image: her hair weaves heavenly
threads into a pensive song. The author presents here a
surreal image, a very new technique in poetry. Don’t
look for logical explanations in this image. Because
surreal poetry forces us to view reality from a
completely new angle, different from what our senses
perceive under normal conditions. But it’s not that you
can write anything to create a surreal image. We know
that the material of poetry is language. For surreal
poetry, this is even more important. A surreal image is
first and foremost a harmonious combination of
language, creating a chain of attractive sounds that gains
the reader’s approval. This is not easy at all. Here we can
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see the mark of a talented poet. In the hands of an
amateur, we would only have clumsy, naïve
combinations. …
After revealing about himself and painting a portrait of
the girl in his mind, the poet expresses his deep longing
in the following verses. Right from the beginning, the
author indicates the setting of his yearning:
Tỉnh hay mộng khi Trường Sơn xa hút
Đến bao giờ mây trắng gởi tin sang
As Trường Sơn is far away, is she awake or dreaming,
To receive the news brought in by the white cloud?
The poet and his muse are separated by a vast distance,
with no means of communication. If people in the past
relied on carrier pigeons, the poet can only look to the
clouds for a sign, but the clouds cannot carry messages,
and watching them only deepens his longing.
Nhớ con đường thơm ngọt môi em
Longing for the streets where her lips tasted sweet and
fragrant.
This is a typical way of expressing oneself in poetry. In
reality, no path can retain the sweet scent of a lover’s
lips. The poet can only remember the path of their
memories, the old path she walked, and from there
imagine her image and recall the sweet scent of her lips.
The words are very concise, allowing the reader’s
emotions and imagination to fill in the gaps with their
own memories.
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Ôi ta nhớ như đêm dài thượng cổ
Sợi tóc mềm lơi nhịp hát trong tim
Oh, I will never forget those ancient, immemorial long
nights,
Her soft hair slowed the lingering melody in my heart.
The poem ends with two lines expressing endless
longing. The poem ends, but the longing continues
endlessly. The word thượng cổ (ancient, immemorial)
here is not to be understood literally but with all its
implications. Antiquity is a long, primitive, and dark
period in human history. Immemorial refers to a time no
one can remember. The longing is also long, wild, and
primitive, originating from the deepest parts of the heart.
The poem began with a surreal image of hair and a song:
dệt tơ trời thành khúc hát bâng khuâng (weaving
heavenly threads into a pensive song) and now it ends
with a surreal image with the same elements, hair and a
song: sợi tóc mềm lơi nhịp hát trong tim (her soft hair
slowed the lingering melody in my heart). The author’s
thought returns to the starting point, forming a closed
circle. If we divide the number of lines equally between
what the author says about himself, about the distant
woman, and about his feelings of longing, we see that
what the author reveals about himself is very little, very
concise, and the author has dedicated the most evocative
and poetic images to the distant lover and his feelings of
longing.
Impressive commentaries!
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But poet Vĩnh Đào has only looked at the romantic side of
the poem. Indeed, in the two lines:
Nhớ con đường thơm ngọt môi em
Ơi là máu, tủi hờn nô lệ
Longing for the streets where her lips tasted sweet and
fragrant,
Oh! now on these streets, blood, suffering, and slavery
bind,
by understanding that “her lips” is our homeland, I believe
Thầy refers to the streets of his homeland, once sweet and
fragrant, but now filled with blood, suffering and slavery
bind. He was a great poet, but he was also a resilient great
fighter for a cause.
And in the final part:
Gót chân em nắng vàng xua viễn phố
Những ngón hồng ngơ ngác giữa đường chim
As the yellow sunlight chased her heels to a distant place,
Her rosy toes, once innocent, now lost in the birds’ path.
I believe that gót chân em nắng vàng xua viễn phố (the
yellow sunlight chased her heels to a distant place) refers
to those who were sent to the New Economic Zones after
1975, causing their once rosy toes to become withered and
lost in the birds’ path.
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21. Những năm anh đi
Ngọn gió đưa anh đi mười năm phiêu lãng,
Nhìn quê hương qua chứng tích điêu tàn,
Triều Đông hải vẫn thì thầm cát trắng,
Truyện tình người và nhịp thở Trường Sơn.
Mười năm nữa anh vẫn lầm lì phố thị,
Yêu rừng sâu nên khóe mắt rưng rưng,
Tay anh với trời cao chim chiều rủ rỉ,
Đời lênh đênh thu cánh nhỏ bên đường.
Mười năm sau anh băng rừng vượt suối,
Tìm quê hương trên vết máu đồng hoang,
Chiều khói nhạt như hồn ai còn hận tủi,
Từng con sông từng huyết lệ lan tràn.
Mười năm đó anh quên mình sậy yếu,
Đôi vai gầy từ thuở dựng quê hương,
Anh cúi xuống nghe núi rừng hợp tấu,
Bản tình ca vô tận của Đông phương.
Và ngày ấy anh trở về phố cũ,
Giữa con đường còn rợp khói tang thương,
Trong mắt biếc mang nỗi hờn thiên cổ,
Vẫn chân tình như mưa lũ biên cương.
The long away years
The wind carried him away for ten years of wandering,
He saw his homeland in ruins, desolate and bare,
The Eastern Sea’s tide still whispered to the white sand,
Tales of love and the Trường Sơn’s breath.
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For the next ten years, he lingered in the city,
Missing the deep forest, his eyes welled up with tears,
He reached for the sky, where birds chirped in grace,
Their small wings, tired of wandering, found solace in the
streets.
For ten more years, he crossed forests, traversed rivers,
Seeking his homeland on the barren, blood-stained land
Evening smoke drifted, like the sighs of suffering souls,
Each river, each flowed with blood and tears.
Through those ten years, he forgot his reed-like frailty,
His slender shoulders, bearing the weight of his dream,
He crouched down to listen to the symphony played by our
mountains and forests,
The Eastern World’s endless love song.
At long last, that day arrived,
He returned to his old town,
Amidst streets still shrouded in mourning smoke,
In his blue eyes, the grief’s ancient wound,
As real and heartfelt as the monsoon in our borderland.
Explanation
This poem has two lines that I’ve read in many
commentaries on Thầy’s poetry:
Anh cúi xuống nghe núi rừng hợp tấu,
Bản tình ca vô tận của Đông phương.
I pondered for a long time searching for words to translate
these lines. Translating cúi xuống as bending down is
grammatically correct, but it doesn’t convey the demeanor
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of the main character. And the main character in this poem
is probably Thầy because it fits him very well. In the end,
I decided to use crouch instead of bend. Crouch is a
position where the knees are bent and the upper body is
brought forward and down (Oxford dictionary). This is the
posture of a tiger ready to fight.
Therefore, here is my translation of these two lines:
Anh cúi xuống nghe núi rừng hợp tấu,
Bản tình ca vô tận của Đông phương
He crouched down to listen to the symphony played by our
mountains and forests,
The Eastern World’s endless love song.
The war must end and unfortunately it ended in tragedy,
but Thầy hopes that we will reclaim our homeland and all
that we have lost, and that we will rebuild our homeland
into a prosperous, thriving, and democratic nation because
we have the Eastern World’s endless love song.
In short, our homeland endures as long as the Eastern
World’s endless love song endures.
But the third stanza really moves me:
Mười năm sau anh băng rừng vượt suối,
Tìm quê hương trên vết máu đồng hoang,
Chiều khói nhạt như hồn ai còn hận tủi,
Từng con sông từng huyết lệ lan tràn
For ten more years, he crossed forests, traversed rivers,
Seeking his homeland on the barren, blood-stained land
Evening smoke drifted, like the sighs of suffering souls,
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Each river, each flowed with blood and tears.
The imagery in this stanza is powerful and evocative. The
barren, blood-stained land is a stark contrast to the implied
beauty and abundance of our homeland. The evening smoke
drifted, like the sighs of suffering souls is a particularly
striking metaphor, suggesting the collective grief and anger
of a people. The repetition of each river, each flowed with
blood and tears emphasizes the overwhelming nature of
the devastation. What a display of collective resilience and
suffering! Above all, what a profound loss and longing for
our homeland!
On October 28, 2003, in an open letter to young postulant
monks in Thừa Thiên - Huế, Thầy reminded them of his
past:
My generation, the youth of my age, were nurtured to be
sent to the battlefield of the ideological war, educated to
know class hatred. But fortunately, the Buddhist
Compassion stream continued to flow silently, to soothe
the pain and loss, to heal the broken and ruined of the
nation.
And Thầy encouraged them to be resilient:
Living or dying, honor or disgrace, do not disturb the
minds of those who know how to live and die worthily
of human dignity, and who are not ashamed of the noble
virtues of an ordained.
The last stanza paints a vivid picture of a return, marked by
deep-seated resentment and unwavering patriotism.
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Và ngày ấy anh trở về phố cũ,
Giữa con đường còn rợp khói tang thương,
Trong mắt biếc mang nỗi hờn thiên cổ,
Vẫn chân tình như mưa lũ biên cương.
At long last, that day arrived,
He returned to his old town,
Amidst streets still shrouded in mourning smoke,
In his blue eyes, the grief’s ancient wound,
As real and heartfelt as the monsoon in our borderland.
Most Venerable Nguyên Hiền (pen name Nhất Thanh)
writes about Thầy in his essay Giấc mơ Trường Sơn hay
những phương trời viễn mộng (Dreams on the peak of
Trường Sơn or realms of distant dreams), saying:
Reading many of his works, be it translations like Thiền
luận (Essays in Zen Buddhism), commentaries like
Thập mục ngưu đồ (Ten ox-herding pictures),
philosophical treatises like Triết học về tánh Không
(Philosophy of Nothingness), Thắng Man giảng luận
(Śrīmālā discourse), or simply introductions like those
to Vô Môn Quan (Wumen Guan) and Duy-ma-cật sở
thuyết (Vimalakīrti Sūtra), all exude an extraordinary
talent for poetry, deep and profound, like a hidden
waterfall at the bottom of the ocean. Only those who
know how to live and dare to live can compose for the
world a silent melody with the breath of heaven and
earth, and the breath of their own being. But literature is
merely ripples on the calm surface of the river of
consciousness. Only poetry is the true voice of silent
tones. And Giấc mơ Trường Sơn (Dreams on the peak
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of Trường Sơn) became perfect silent voices, a
foundation for a whole generation of poetry.
Similarly, Most Venerable Phước An writes in Thơ Tuệ Sỹ
– tiếng gọi của những đêm dài heo hút (Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry –
the call of long and desolate nights), saying:
At times of national turmoil and suffering, the most
beloved children of the nation always review the
glorious and shameful chapters of their nation’s history.
From this, they can draw historical lessons for
tomorrow, a tomorrow in which they firmly believe their
nation must be brighter.
Tuệ Sỹ is a scholar in the Eastern tradition. For over
twenty years, Tuệ Sỹ has demonstrated the spirit of uy
vũ bất năng khuất (Chinese philosopher Mencius’
quotation, which means a righteous person does not
submit to those with power) of a scholar, not through
written works, but he has written his work through self-
sacrifice, to share the suffering with his homeland.
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22. Những phím dương cầm
Tự hôm nào suối tóc ngọt lời ca
Tay em run trên những phím lụa ngà
Thôi huyền tượng xô người theo cát bụi
Vùng đất đỏ bàn chân ai bối rối
Đạp cung đàn sương ứa đọng vành môi
Đường xanh xanh phơn phớt nụ ai cười
Như tơ liễu ngại ngùng lau nắng nhạt.
Lời tiễn biệt nói gì sau tiếng hát
Hỏi phương nào cho nguyện ước Trường Sơn
Lời em ca phong kín nhụy hoa hờn
Anh trĩu nặng núi rừng trong đáy mắt.
Mờ phố thị những chiều hôn suối tóc
Bóng ai ngồi so phím lụa đàn xưa.
The piano keys
Her hair, a cascade of sweet melodies,
Her trembling fingers dancing across ivory piano keys,
My illusions shattered, swept away by sand and dust.
In this crimson land, whose footsteps faltered,
Bewilderingly pressing the piano pedals, dewdrops clung
to her lips?
Whose smile, framed by verdant blossoms,
Like silken willows, shyly held back the pale sunset?
What words remain when the song fades?
Where to go to fulfill my Trường Sơn’s yearning desire?
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
164
Her singing concealed the bud of resentment,
My eyes, heavily laden with mountains and forests.
Missing the afternoons I kissed her flowing hair,
Whose silhouette sits here now, playing the old ivory
keys?
Explanation
In regards to the excessive romanticism in this poem, in
Chén trà lão Triệu mà chưng hoa ngàn (Old Zhao’s teacup
but filled with forest flowers), Dr. Đỗ Hồng Ngọc recalled
that when he told Thầy that this was too lyrical and
sentimental a poem, Thầy replied, “Don’t doubt, don’t
question”.
Zen meditation has no language different from ordinary
language. But I worry that when one has shaved their
head, poetic feelings still remain. So, whether the path
of Zen and poetry are the same or different, let us not
doubt and question. Perhaps this poem is a very lyrical
and sentimental poem, with her trembling fingers on
ivory piano keys and mountains and forests weighing
heavy on his eyes, but he has already said, “Don’t doubt,
don’t question”.
In Phương nào cõi tịnh? (Which direction is the pure
realm?), Thầy recites the story of a musician of the
heavenly king Indra who fell in love with a celestial
maiden, so he sought out the Buddha and sang “A love
song to the Buddha”, with a passionate description: “I
love her as an Arhat loves the dharma”. Perhaps there is
no more sincere description of faithful love. The lyrics
were strange to the ears of those who read the Buddhist
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scriptures, and the Buddha’s answer was also strange
and difficult to understand: “Very good, the music
harmonizes with the words, and the words harmonize
with the music; within it there is desire and also
nirvana”. Desire is love that is attached to sensuality,
and nirvana is the state of being free from desire. Does
this mean that from desire, one can see nirvana, and from
nirvana, one can clearly see the nature of desire? More
simply, can one find a lotus flower in the stinking mud?
And Thầy gifted the doctor a two-line poem:
Nhà tranh mái cũ quen chừng
Chén trà lão Triệu mà chưng hoa ngàn.
Ancient house with thatched roof is familiar
(But what is not familiar is) Old Zhao’s teacup but filled
with wildflowers.
In Essays in Zen Buddhism, the first series, page 265, Dr.
Daisetz Suzuki explains the difference between our
“ordinary” way and the Zen way of tea drinking.
You and I sip a cup of tea. The act is apparently alike,
but who can tell what a wide gap there is subjectively
between you and me? In your drinking there may be no
Zen while mine is brimful of it. The reason is, the one
moves in the logical circle and the other is out of it; that
is to say, in one case rigid rules of intellection so called
are asserting themselves, and the actor even when acting
is unable to unfetter himself from these intellectual
bonds; while in the other case the subject has struck a
new path and is not at all conscious of the duality of his
act, in him life is not split into object and subject or into
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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acting and acted. The drinking at the moment to him
means the whole fact, the whole world. Zen lives and is
therefore free, whereas our “ordinary” life is in bondage;
satori (awakening, in Japanese) is the first step to
freedom.
We are supposedly living in the same world, but who
can tell the thing we popularly call a stone lying before
this window is the same thing to all of us? According to
the way we look at it, to some the stone ceases to be a
stone, while to others it forever remains a worthless
specimen of geological product. And this initial
divergence of views calls forth an endless series of
divergences later in our moral and spiritual lives. Just a
little twisting as it were in our modes of thinking and yet
what a world of difference will grow up eventually
between one another! So, with Zen, satori is this twisting
or rather screwing, not in the wrong way, but in a deeper
and fuller sense, and the result is the revelation of a
world of entirely new values. …
The subjective revolution that brings out this state of
things cannot be called abnormal. When life becomes
more enjoyable and its expanse is as broad as the
universe itself, there must be something in satori quite
healthy and worth one’s striving after its attainment.
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23. Phố trưa
Phố trưa nắng đỏ cờ hồng
Người yêu cát bụi đời không tự tình
Sầu trên thế kỷ điêu linh
Giấc mơ hoang đảo thu hình tịch liêu
Hận thù sôi giữa ráng chiều
Sông tràn núi lở nước triều mênh mông
Khói mù lấp kín trời đông
Trời ơi, tóc trắng rũ lòng quê cha
Con đi xào xạc tiếng gà
Ðêm đêm trông bóng thiên hà buồn tênh.
Ðời không cát bụi chung tình
Người yêu cát bụi quê mình là đâu?
Midday streets
Midday streets, red sun, crimson flags,
Lovers of sand and dust find no solace in this life.
Sorrow hangs over the crumbling century,
Dreams of desolate islands, a solitary retreat.
Hatred boils amidst the evening glow,
Overflowing rivers, crumbled mountains and vast tides.
Smoke is obscuring the eastern sky,
Oh heavens, my hair grows white with longing for my
homeland.
Since I left at the crackle of roosters,
Night after night, I gaze with sorrow at the vast galaxy.
In this life, what is such devotion as the sand and dust?
Where are those who love my homeland’s sand and dust?
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Explanation
The poem is imbued with a pervasive sense of transience,
loss, and the futility of human existence. Images of dust,
crumble and isolation underscore the ephemeral nature of
life and the inevitability of suffering for the people of his
homeland. Thầy’s lament over the destruction of his
homeland creates a melancholic tone that lingers
throughout the poem.
Beneath the surface of personal loss, there seems to be a
deeper layer of social and political commentary. The
references to hatred, overflowing rivers, crumbled
mountains, immense tides and smoke obscuring the eastern
sky suggest a world in turmoil.
Red sun and crimson flags in this poem remind me of these
lines from the famous poem Nhất định thắng (Victory
Certainty) by Trần Dần 21. This is his most representative
poem, written in 1955, depicted the state of starvation and
suppression, as the new government took control of Hanoi,
21 Trần Dần (1926–1997) was barely twenty years old when he joined
the Việt Minh force in 1946. Eight years later, he fell out of favor with
the party. In 1956, he was sentenced for 3 months for “losing his class
standpoint”.
On leaving prison, he joined Nhân văn - Giai phẩm affair, which took
its name from two journals respectively titled Nhân văn (Humanity)
and Giai phẩm (Masterpieces). This affair and the journals that lent
their names to it were led by a group of intellectuals and artists, many
of them Communist party sympathizers, who sought to condemn the
corruption and dogmatism of communist officialdom and advocate for
greater degree of intellectual and artistic freedom. While the journals
were completely shut down by December 1956, the affair continued
for several years with intensification of official crackdown and
condemnation, culminating in a landmark trial by 1960.
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following the 1954 Geneva agreement. This poem led to a
campaign of criticism against the author, causing him to
attempt suicide by cutting his throat:
Tôi bước đi
không thấy phố
không thấy nhà
Chỉ thấy mưa sa
trên màu cờ đỏ.
I was walking,
seeing no shops,
no houses,
Only rain falling
on the red flags.
His poem refers to red flag which is the national flag of the
Democratic Republic of Vietnam (in 1955), and the current
Socialist Republic of Vietnam. It has a small yellow star in
the middle of a dazzling red background.
Both poets were struck by the pervasive display of red
flags, which house owners were compelled to hang in front
of their homes.
The final two lines,
Ðời không cát bụi chung tình
Người yêu cát bụi quê mình là đâu?
In this life, what is such devotion as the sand and dust?
Where are those who love my homeland’s sand and dust?
raise existential questions about the meaning of life and the
nature of love. The emphasis on who are those who love
my homeland’s sand and dust adds a touch of poignant
symbolism. It suggests a connection to the homeland, to the
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
170
reality of daily life, and perhaps a sense of resilience or
resistance in the face of adversity.
Critic Nguyễn Mạnh Trinh, in Tuệ Sỹ, viễn mộng mấy
khung trời (Tuệ Sỹ, heavenly firmaments of distant
dreams) connects the poem to the fate of the nation:
The poem was written in April 1975 in Nha Trang, at a
time when the country was in turmoil. The poem is like
a marker for the unforgettable days in the hearts of the
Vietnamese people. …
Cát bụi (sand and dust) is repeated deliberately. Sand
and dust represent an image of chaos, of drifting days.
The poem expresses the feelings of a person lost in the
turmoil of time. … Days of April 1975 cannot be
forgotten. Even a monk trying to keep a calm mind, still
feels the overwhelming emotions.
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24. Quán trọ của ngàn sao
Mắt em quán trọ của ngàn sao
Ngọt ngất hoang sơ ánh rượu đào
Pha loãng nắng tà dâng cát bụi
Ấm lòng khách lữ bước lao đao.
Mắt huyền thăm thẳm mượt đêm nhung
Mưa hạt long lanh rọi nến hồng
Sương lạnh đưa người xanh khói biển
Bình minh quán trọ nắng rưng rưng.
A starry inn
Her eyes, a starry inn,
Sweet and wild, like peach wine,
Diluting the setting sun, diffusing the dust,
Warming weary travelers’ hearts.
Her deep, mysterious eyes, like velvet night,
Sparkling raindrops illuminating rosy candlelight,
A solace for people in cold mist and stormy seas.
At dawn, the inn is bathed in shimmering sunlight.
Explanation
In this poem, Thầy compares her eyes to a starry inn, where
weary travelers can blissfully drink sweet peach wine after
a long day under the scorching sun. Her eyes can also
provide comfort to the bride on her wedding night, and
solace to those adrift in cold mist and stormy seas.
I’m unable to determine what her eyes represent in Thầy’s
personification within this poem.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
172
Could it be the true dharma?
Thầy frequently personified our country and its people in
his poetry. In Ác mộng (Nightmares), page 75, “em” in the
verse “vì yêu em trên lá đọng sương mai” (For I love her as
pure as droplets of morning dew clinging to leaves) is
identified as his homeland. In Nhớ con đường thơm ngọt
môi em (Longing for the streets where her lips tasted sweet
and fragrant), page 150, “em” in the verse “gót chân em
nắng vàng xua viễn phố” (As the yellow sunlight chased
her heels to a distant place) likely represents the people
being sent away to the distant New Economic Zones.
However, these rich and powerfully evocative lyrics are
particularly striking when considered in the context of the
prison setting, as he wrote this poem while being detained
in Phan Đăng Lưu prison. By describing the eyes as a
source of comfort and a gateway to transport people to a
different world, the poem evokes a desire to escape.
In Tuệ Sỹ, viễn mộng mấy khung trời (Tuệ Sỹ, heavenly
firmaments of distant dreams), critic Nguyễn Mạnh Trinh
comments:
To write about a starry inn while confined in Phan Đăng
Lưu prison, perhaps only Tuệ Sỹ could have done so.
Such an imagination is like a sail carrying a ship out to
sea, toward a boundless horizon that only poets, with
their far-reaching souls, can reach. Poetry, fearless and
carefree. Poetry, as if climbing over the hill of reality to
reach a vast expanse.
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25. Ta biết
Ta biết mi bọ rùa
Gặm nhấm tàn dãy bí
Ta vì đời thiệt hơn
Khổ nhọc mòn tâm trí
Ta biết mi là dế
Cắn đứt chân cà non
Ta vì đời đổ lệ
Nên phong kín nỗi hờn
Ta biết mi là giun
Chui dưới tầng đất thẳm
Ta vì đời thiệt hơn
Đêm nằm mơ tóc trắng.
I know
You, squash bug,
Nibbling on my row of pumpkins.
Bearing life’s burdens,
My mind is worn out by hardship.
You, cricket,
Gnawing on my baby eggplants.
For life’s burdens, I shed tears,
To keep my resentment hidden.
You, earthworm,
Burrowing under the deep earth.
Bearing life’s burdens,
My hair grays out in my night dreams.
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Explanation
The poem uses vivid imagery of insects to symbolize
human suffering. The squash bug, cricket, and earthworm
represent different aspects of the natural world, and the
author compares their lives to his own.
Thầy’s worn-out mind, of course, is not because of his row
of pumpkins being nibbled on, and Thầy’s shedding tears,
of course, is not because of his baby eggplants being
gnawed. The remaining question is, whom does Thầy
imply in this poem has caused him to wear out his mind
and shed tears? He didn’t say it, but perhaps he didn’t need
to. And I don’t need to say it, either.
The repeated lines Ta vì đời thiệt hơn (Bearing life’s
burdens) and Ta vì đời đổ lệ (For life’s burdens, I shed
tears) emphasize the author’s sense of voluntary hardship,
and the final image of him waking up with gray hair
suggests the weight of his suffering.
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26. Tiếng gà gáy trưa
Gà xao xác gọi hồn ta từ quá khứ
Về nơi đây cùng khốn với điêu linh
Hương trái đắng mùa thu buồn bụi cỏ
Ôi ngọt ngào đâu mái tóc em xinh
Từng tiếng lẻ loi buồn thống thiết
Nghe rộn ràng từ vết lở con tim
Từ nơi đó ta ghi lời vĩnh biệt
Nắng buồn ơi là đôi mắt ân tình
Còi xa vắng giữa trưa nào lạc lõng
Môi em hồng ta ước một vì sao
Trưa dài lắm nhưng lòng tay bé bỏng
Để vươn dài trên vầng trán em cao.
The afternoon rooster’s crow
The rooster’s crow awakens my soul from the past,
To return here, sharing the misery of the ruins.
The bitter scent of autumn fruits saddens the withering
grass,
Oh, the sweetness of her flowing hair!
Each lonely sound echoes with sorrow,
Resounding from the wounds of my heart.
From these sounds, I record my farewell.
The sorrowful sun casts a gaze full of affection.
A distant whistle pierces the stillness of noon,
Remembering her rosy lips, I wish upon a star.
The day drags on, its noon’s long stretch,
My small hand yearns to caress her forehead.
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27. Tiếng nhạc vọng
Ta nhớ mãi ngày đông tràn rượu ngọt
Ngày hội mùa ma quỷ khóc chơi vơi
Trưa phố thị nhạc buồn loang nắng nhạt
Chìm hư vô đáy mắt đọng ngàn khơi
Đây khúc nhạc đưa hồn lên máu đỏ
Bước luân hồi chen chúc cọng lau xanh
Xô đẩy mãi sóng vàng không bến đỗ
Trôi lênh đênh ma quỷ rắc tro tàn.
Vẫn khúc điệu tự ngàn xưa ám khói
Ép thời gian thành rượu máu trong xanh
Rượu không nhạt mà thiên tài thêm cát bụi
Thì ân tình ngây ngất cõi mong manh
Ôi tiết nhịp thiên tài hay quỷ mị
Xô hồn ta lảo đảo giữa tường cao
Trưa dài lắm ta luân hồi vô thủy
Đổi hình hài con mắt vẫn đầy sao.
The resonant sound of music
A winter day brimming with sweet wine,
The festival of demons, their cries echoing in the void.
Melancholy music in pale light of noon spilled through
the city streets,
The vast ocean sank into the abyss of my eyes.
This music elevated my soul to red blood,
Jostling among the green reeds, through samsāra.
Pushing the golden waves, with no dock in sight,
Floating adrift, as demons sprinkle their ashes.
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177
The same tune, mothballed since eternity,
Compressed time into clear, blood-red wine,
The wine, not bland, but by genius demons infused with
dust,
It became an intoxicating love in this ephemeral realm.
Oh, the rhythm of genius or illusion,
Swaying my soul amidst towering walls.
Through endless noon, trapped in the cycle of samsāra,
Though forms may have changed, my eyes gleamed with
starlight.
Explanation
The line festival of demons, their cries echoing in the void
suggests a celebration with a dark undercurrent, potentially
alluding to the mass mobilizations and propaganda
campaigns often associated with communist regimes,
while their melancholy music could represent the somber
and oppressive atmosphere of a society under communist
rule. The idea of intoxicating love in the ephemeral realm
could be seen as a metaphor for the seductive allure of
communist ideology, which promises a utopian future but
ultimately leads to disillusionment and suffering.
If so, the demons’ dust, which the genius demons add to
their wine for added potency, refers to the Vietnamese
Communist party’s tactics used in the North to lure
millions of people to their deaths, such as their claims of
“liberation of the South” and “national unification”.
In the last two lines,
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178
Trưa dài lắm ta luân hồi vô thủy
Đổi hình hài con mắt vẫn đầy sao,
Through endless noon, trapped in the cycle of samsāra,
Though forms may have changed, my eyes gleamed with
starlight,
the phrase endless noon implies a timeless state, and my
eyes gleamed with starlight indicates that despite the
changing forms and the passage of time, Thầy’s soul and
consciousness remains intact.
Why? Thầy explains that a monk must cultivate bodhicitta,
the bodhisattva vow, to shoulder the sufferings and sorrows
of the world, as expressed in the following excerpt from his
book Thắng Man giảng luận (Śrīmālā discourse):
Bodhicitta is the burning aspiration of a being who
recognizes their own existence in the darkness of
suffering and seeks a path of light, not only to liberate
oneself from oppression and threats but also to liberate
all those who share the same plight.
Bodhicitta is the unwavering, indomitable will of a
person bound by the flames of passion, crushed under
the cruel forces of our own and others’ insatiable desires.
Without this determination, the Bodhisattva path is an
impossible, and mythical dream, and the Mahāyāna is no
more than only empty words of a daydreamer.
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179
28. Tìm em trong giấc chiêm bao
Ta tìm em trong giấc chiêm bao
Nỗi buồn thu nhỏ hàng cây cao
Cháy đỏ mùa đông ta vẫn lạnh
Bóng tối vương đầy đôi mắt sâu
Yêu em dâng cả ráng chiều thu
Em đốt tình yêu bằng hận thù
Cháy đỏ mùa đông ta vẫn lạnh
Giấc mơ không kín dãy song tù.
Searching for you in my dreams
While searching for you in my dreams,
My sorrow dwarfs the tallest trees.
This blazing winter chills me to the bone,
As darkness fills up the depths of my eyes.
I offer you the burning hues of autumn twilight,
But you ignite a flame of hate, burning my love.
This blazing winter chills me to the bone,
But no prison bars can confine my dream.
Explanation
Thầy wrote this poem in the X4 prison in 1979. I believe
that “em” in this poem represents the people of his country.
Therefore, translating “em” as “you”, instead of “her” as in
previous poems, establishes a direct communication
between the poet and the people of his country.
The theme of the poem is Thầy’s sorrow upon witnessing
the people of his country replacing love with hatred.
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29. Tĩnh tọa
Ôi nỗi buồn từ ngày ta lạc bước
Cố quên mình là thân phận thần tiên
Meditation
Oh sadness, since the day I lost my way,
I’ve striven to forget my divine identity.
Explanation
In Tuệ Sỹ trên ngõ về im lặng (Tuệ Sỹ on the quiet path
home), critic Tâm Nhiên writes:
Having witnessed countless grievances, cruelties, and
sufferings, the poet has deeply felt a timeless sorrow, a
profound compassion. A poet’s spirit is naturally free,
wild, and soaring, a celestial being of grandeur and
majesty. But he had to suppress these qualities, for the
demonic Asuras of greed, anger, and delusion had taken
human shape. With savage brutality, they unleashed a
torrent of greed, hatred, and obsession, inflicting terrible
calamities in a whirlwind of madness.
When did Thầy get lost? He gave the answer himself in his
essay Thuyền ngược bến không (The boat drifting against
the empty wharf):
Sitting on the hilltop of Trại Thủy in Nha Trang, looking
down at the village below, I watch a group of elementary
school children march out, chanting slogans in support
of the revolution and denouncing reactionary and
decadent culture. I know I am being rejected.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
181
But I believe that not only Thầy but millions of South
Vietnamese people were rejected, too. Slogans in support
of the so-called “revolution” and denouncing the
“reactionary” culture were broadcast daily throughout the
streets. Books were publicly incinerated. The relentless
hunt for “reactionary forces” amidst a deteriorating
economy led to a wave of house searching (without
warrant) and arrest. A network of thousands of prisons,
many masquerading as “re-education” facilities, sprouted
up like mushrooms.
The boat drifts upstream, leaving the wharf behind. And
as the nation heals, the people rise from the ashes of war,
transforming hatred into love. But it is also a time when
a generation of writers is rejected. For they cannot
accept a love defined by dialectics, a love that can only
blossom from hatred and destruction, a love that must
grow on human blood.
Most Venerable Thích Nguyên Siêu, in Tuệ Sỹ – người gầy
trên quê hương (Tuệ Sỹ – The gaunt figure on his
homeland), agrees:
Indeed, Tuệ Sỹ was a lost soul. For the past forty years,
he has lived among the grass, the mist, and the sunlight
… in the deep, quiet forests of Trường Sơn, nourishing
a frail body. Lost, he has lulled himself through the
nightmarish dreams of his homeland. Through the
suffering and misery of his people. For he has stumbled
into a desolate scene that has stirred the collective pain
of humanity. The resentment of the grass, the stones, and
the lives swept away by the dust of dark times.
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182
30. Tôi vẫn đợi
Tôi vẫn đợi những đêm dài khắc khoải,
Màu xanh xao trong tiếng khóc ven rừng,
Trong bóng tối hận thù, tha thiết mãi,
Một vì sao bên khóe miệng rưng rưng.
Tôi vẫn đợi những đêm đen lặng gió,
Màu đen tuyền ánh mắt tự ngàn xưa,
Nhìn hun hút cho dài thêm lịch sử,
Dài con sông tràn máu lệ quê cha.
Tôi vẫn đợi suốt đời quên sóng vỗ,
Quên những người xuôi ngược Thái Bình Dương,
Người ở lại giữa lòng tay bạo chúa,
Cọng lau gầy trĩu nặng ánh tà dương.
Rồi trước mắt ngục tù thân bé bỏng,
Ngón tay nào gõ nhịp xuống tường rêu,
Rồi nhắm mắt ta đi vào cõi mộng,
Như sương mai, như ánh chớp, mây chiều.
I’ve been waiting
Through endless nights of restless sleep, I’ve been
waiting,
For a pale cry from the forest’s edge,
In the darkness of ceaseless hatred,
For a star to appear at my tearful mouth’s corner.
In silent, windless nights, I’ve been waiting,
For two black eyes from our ancient times,
To pierce the depths of our history,
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183
Where rivers of our fatherland overflowed with blood and
tears.
I’ve waited all my life to forget the crashing waves,
To forget those who crossed the Pacific Ocean,
And those left behind in the hands of cruel tyrants.
I am a slender reed, weighed down by sunset rays.
Facing the truth that I’m a little prisoner,
My finger unconsciously taps a rhythm on the mossy
wall,
Closing my eyes, I dream to become,
A morning dew, a lightning flash, or some afternoon
clouds.
Explanation
In the third stanza, when Thầy said he waited to forget, it
does not mean that Thầy wants to forget them. They are
those who crossed the border, crossed the sea, both those
who lived and those who died, and also those who were left
behind at home, living under the tyrant’s rule. The fact that
these memories still linger highlights his deep empathy and
compassion for the suffering of others.
In the last line of the above poem, Thầy referred to these
four lines in the Diamond Sūtra (TN: kinh Kim Cương, in
Vietnamese. This is a foundational text in Mahāyāna
Buddhism and emphasizes the nothingness of all
phenomena):
Nhất thiết hữu vi pháp,
Như mộng ảo bào ảnh,
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
184
Như lộ diệc như điển,
Ưng tác như thị quán.
All conditioned dharmas
Are like dreams, illusions, bubbles, shadows,
Like dew drops and a lightning flash:
Contemplate them thus.
The Sūtra states that to attain Enlightenment, one must
contemplate that all conditioned dharmas (i.e., dharmas
arising from causes and conditions) are like dreams,
illusions, bubbles, shadows, dew drops, and lightning
flashes, i.e., unreal or impermanent. However, in this
poem, interestingly while Thầy acknowledges the
impermanence of all conditioned dharmas as dew drops,
lightning flashes, or clouds, he yearns to become a dew
drop, a lightning flash, or afternoon clouds himself.
Writer Nguyễn Mộng Giác criticizes this poem in Văn Học
(Literature) newspaper, issue 65, July 1991 as follows:
The first sentence speaks of the color of night. The
second sentence further explains a metaphor (a colorless
cry in the forest). This metaphor is seemingly explained
again in the third sentence (in the darkness of ceaseless
hatred) but it’s not. This is merely a false connection…
These last two lines soar to another universe, taking
flight from the worldly entanglements, the petty disputes
and hatred, to reach a higher, more sublime realm,
symbolized by a star, a smile. The four lines move
vertically, from the low level of petty, painful disputes
to the high level of awakening and enlightenment.
The second stanza inherits the essence of the first, so the
transformation is simpler, not as convoluted or
struggling to rise up as the first stanza. This stanza
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185
moves horizontally and also begins with a color: the
color of the dark night. …
From the deep darkness of night, the poet does not evoke
the gloomy darkness of birth, old age, sickness, and
death, but rather the darkness of an eye. That’s right, all
life begins with a glance, a way of looking. There are
gazes that are drowned and lost in the transient world,
and there are gazes that see through to the truth of
existence. The poem moves horizontally through time,
looking out at the unfolding of life from ancient times,
seeing the essence of all historical changes, and
understanding the reasons behind the mountains of
bones and rivers of blood in our beloved homeland. The
eyes of a condemned prisoner do not dwell on petty
resentments and vulgar desires. Those eyes transcend
everything, beyond all bars and prison walls, even the
bars and prison walls of delusion.
The transformative power of poetry, the sublimation of
thought to the end. The eighth line has thus reached its
peak. Ideally, after the eighth line, Tuệ Sỹ could have
stopped without needing to write anything more. In
prison, the poet lives with the pale color of the little light
that filters through the prison door and the vast darkness,
from which the raw materials of creation and thought are
born. But let us not forget that the condemned prisoner
can still feel the life of the world through the sounds
outside. The next two stanzas of Tuệ Sỹ are a different
journey, beginning not with color but with sound.
I have just written down the words “different journey”
Actually, writing it like that is not quite right, because
Tuệ Sỹ is not creating a different poem but simply
changing the way he uses images in the poem.
Therefore, the grammatical structure of the third stanza
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186
remains the same as that of the previous two stanzas,
while the poetic meaning also receives the sublimation
of the upper part to express a desire that, upon first
reading, we might think is paradoxical: the desire to
forget, to forget everything. Forget the crashing waves
of the stormy life outside, the violent waves that forced
the poet to roll up his brown sleeves and try to set sail,
leading to the current imprisonment and shackles.
Forget the pitiful fate of millions who have had to risk
their lives to cross the sea in search of freedom. Forget
even the thin reeds that bear the weight of the tyranny
for over seventy million people who remain.
Tuệ Sỹ explains all these seemingly paradoxical things
in the last stanza with a very representative image and
sound: the gentle tapping of a finger on the cold mossy
wall of the prison. It is representative because it is a quiet
sound, completely opposite to the raging roar of the
waves on the other side of the prison wall. The thin,
weak finger of a frail condemned prisoner tapping on a
mossy wall certainly cannot create a great resounding
sound. Not for his fellow prisoners in the same solitary
confinement. Not for the jailers. Much less for those
who are not in prison. It is not a sound for the ears, but
a sound for perception, for wisdom. That sound, that
rhythmic tapping, is not due to the strength of muscles,
of violence aimed at knocking down the mossy wall and
destroying the prison, but it has a great spiritual power
to lift people above all prisons: the power of
enlightenment, of awareness.
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31. Tống biệt hành
Một bước đường thôi nhưng núi cao
Trời ơi mây trắng đọng phương nào
Đò ngang neo bến đầy sương sớm
Cạn hết ân tình, nước lạnh sao?
Một bước đường xa, xa biển khơi
Mấy trùng sương mỏng nhuộm tơ trời
Thuyền chưa ra bến bình minh đỏ
Nhưng mấy nghìn năm tống biệt rồi.
Cho hết đêm hè trông bóng ma
Tàn thu khói mộng trắng Ngân hà
Trời không ngưng gió chờ sương đọng
Nhưng mấy nghìn sau ố nhạt nhòa
Cho hết mùa thu biệt lữ hành
Rừng thu mưa máu dạt lều tranh
Ta so phấn nhụy trên màu úa
Trên phím dương cầm, hay máu xanh
Farewell
Just one step, yet the mountain stands high,
Oh heavens, where do the white clouds stagnate?
Boats lie anchored, laden with morning fog,
Is the water icy cold, affection dried up?
A long journey, far from the open sea,
Layers of thin mist paint the sky’s silk,
The boat hasn’t left the dock, but the dawn sky starts to
bleed,
Thousands of years have passed since the last farewell.
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188
Let the summer night be spent in watching ghostly
shadows,
Late autumn’s dream smoke whitens the Milky Way,
While restless wind does not wait for the mist to gather,
After thousands of years, only faded stains remain.
An autumn has passed since the traveler’s farewell,
Blood-soaked autumn rain lashes against my thatched hut,
Should I compare the pollen on the dying blooms,
With the piano keys or the green blood?
Explanation
Just one step, yet the mountain stands high in the way, the
boats are laden with fog, the water is icy cold.
Just one step, but the open sea is a lifetime away.
Just one step, but for many Vietnamese people in those
years, 1975–1981, it was a desperate gamble, a flight from
death across mountains and oceans. After Saigon fell,
escape was the only thought – across borders, across the
sea. They said even electric poles would flee if they had
legs. Crossing the ocean in those tiny boats was a near
impossible feat. Hundreds of thousands – no one knows the
true number, but according to the United Nations High
Commission for Refugees, between 200,000 and 600,000
boat people died at sea – perished in those waters,
swallowed by the sea. A tragedy beyond measure! 22
22 On a sorrowful personal note, my youngest brother was one of these
unfortunates. His tragic death devastated my mother, who passed
away a few months later, unable to bear the grief.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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The fourth stanza reveals that an autumn has passed since
the traveler departed his thatched hut. But during that
autumn, his thatched hut in the forest was destroyed by the
blood-soaked rain.
In the last two verses,
Ta so phấn nhụy trên màu úa
Trên phím dương cầm, hay máu xanh
Should I compare the pollen on the dying blooms,
With the piano keys or the green blood?
he wants to know whether he should draw a parallel
between the dying flowers’ pollen to the piano keys,
pondering the contrast between black and white, i.e.,
between good and evil, light and darkness, or to the
enduring nature of hope in the green blood.
The green blood described in this poem represents his hope
for a better future for his homeland.
The staggering number of lives lost meant little to the communist
dictators. Mao Zedong himself, while in Moscow, infamously
declared his willingness to sacrifice over 300 million Chinese lives
for the cause of revolution. Yet, when his own son perished in the
Korean War, his callous facade cracked. As he received the news, he
sat motionless, his gaze fixed on a pack of cigarettes on the tea table.
He slowly picked up the pack and tried to take out a cigarette but he
couldn’t do it; he tried again, and again he failed. (Michael Lynch,
Mao, Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004)
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32. Trầm mặc
Anh ôm chồng sách cũ
Trầm mặc những đêm dài
Xót xa đời lữ khách
Mệnh yểu thế mà hay
Contemplation
He embraces a pile of old books,
Lost in thought through long, contemplative nights.
Grieving for the traveler’s fate,
So brief a life, yet better so.
Explanation
The old books symbolize accumulated wisdom and
experiences, perhaps prompting the subject to ponder life’s
deeper questions. The image of a solitary figure surrounded
by old books creates a mood of quiet contemplation and
introspection. The long, contemplative nights suggest a
prolonged period of introspection. Through several
contemplative nights, the scholar feels grieving for the
traveler’s fate. Given that the traveler’s life could be
metaphorical, referring to the journey of life itself, this line
hints at a sense of empathy for the transient nature of
human existence.
The final line suggests a paradoxical thought: life is
incredibly fragile, yet it’s better so. There seems to be a
certain kind of both meaninglessness and absurdity in this
verse; meaninglessness like life itself and absurdity like
such a thought itself. But this is Nāgārjuna’s viewing of
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life: A sense of vagueness and impossibility pervades, a
vagueness as broad as life and an impossibility as deep as
thought.
In Triết học về tánh Không (Philosophy of Nothingness),
Thầy writes:
There seems to be a certain kind of floating and
impossibility; floating like life itself and impossible like
thought itself. Nāgārjuna emerges from the mist of dawn
and late afternoon sunlight, then disappears into the mist
of dawn and late afternoon sunlight. Like sunlight, like
a dream, like a city in the desert: all arising, existing, and
ceasing are like this…
Since the advent of Nāgārjuna in South India, eighteen
centuries have passed. Throughout three-quarters of
Asia, the philosophy of nothingness (Śūnyatā) has
become an exceedingly sharp weapon, equipped for a
philosophy specialized in destruction. For its opponents,
destruction is destruction. But its proponents say that
destruction is actually construction. For both,
destruction is something to be feared and avoided. In
truth, what truth was Nāgārjuna intentionally defending
with the weapon of nothingness? People have long
thought that nothingness itself was that truth. For, with
very solid textual evidence, one can find that Nāgārjuna
himself considered means and ends to be one. In other
words, the truth of nothingness itself protects itself,
defends itself.
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33. Từ rừng sâu
Rừng sâu nọ vẫn mơ màng phố thị,
Tình yêu xa như khói thuốc trưa hè.
Trong quãng vắng khúc nhạc sầu tư lự,
Chợt căm thù dồn dập đuổi anh đi.
Em đứng đó hận Trường Sơn mưa lũ,
Một phương trời mây trắng nhuộm quanh đê
From deep forests
The deep forest dreams of the city’s bustle,
Its love is as distant as midsummer’ smoke.
A sorrowful tune fills the empty forest corner.
It suddenly shifts sharply, a hate-filled force, driving him
away.
She stands there, resentful of the Trường Sơn’s rains and
floods,
The sky, blanketed in white clouds, surrounds the dike.
Explanation
This poem is a query, questioning why when he (probably
Thầy) is chased away from his forest, but his lover
(probably his homeland’s people) only stands there,
resentful of the Trường Sơn’s rains and floods, instead of
actively seeking a solution.
The final image of the sky, blanketed in white clouds,
surrounds the dike provides a serene backdrop to the
emotional turmoil, creating a sense of contrast and irony.
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34. Tự tình
Còn nghe được tiếng ve sầu
Còn yêu đốm lửa đêm sâu bập bùng
Quê nhà trên đỉnh Trường Sơn
Cho ta gởi một nỗi hờn thiên thu.
Self-reflection
Still hearing the cicadas’ chants,
Still loving the flickering flames of the night,
My homeland on the peak of Trường Sơn,
To you, I confide my thousand-year-long resentment.
Explanation
Thầy’s sorrow still lingers on the peak of Trường Sơn. Yet,
he sowed the belief that the day our country will break free
from the shackles of Communism will come.
The distinguished scholar Phạm Quỳnh 23 had the immortal
but controversial saying:
Truyện Kiều còn, tiếng ta còn;
Tiếng ta còn, nước ta còn.
23 Phạm Quỳnh (1892–1945) was a cultural scholar, journalist, writer,
and high-ranking official in the Nguyễn dynasty (1802–1945,
although beginning in 1883, Vietnam gradually became a French
colony). He served as the longtime editor of Nam Phong (Southern
Wind) magazine, where he aimed to promote East-West cultural
exchange, and to enrich the Vietnamese language. He was a pioneer
in promoting the use of the Romanized Vietnamese language, in lieu
of the Nôm script. He was killed by the Communists in 1945.
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As long as The Tale of Kiều endures, our language endures.
As long as our language endures, our nation endures.
Thầy Tuệ Sỹ conveyed a similar concept but in a more
poetic sentiment:
Còn nghe được tiếng ve sầu
Còn yêu đốm lửa đêm sâu bập bùng.
Still hearing the cicadas’ chants,
Still loving the flickering flames of the night.
Or, in an attempt to remind us of our heroic anthem: the
Eastern World’s endless love song.
Anh cúi xuống nghe núi rừng hợp tấu,
Bản tình ca vô tận của Đông phương
He crouched down to listen to the symphony played by our
mountains and forests
The Eastern World’s endless love song.
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Volume 3:
Ngục trung mị ngữ | Somniloquies in prison
Ngục trung mị ngữ
| Somniloquies in
prison
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
196
Ngục trung mị ngữ (Những lời nói mê sảng trong tù,
Somniloquies in prison) is a collection of 18 poems, part of
a larger collection of 50 poems written during his first
imprisonment from 1978 to 1981. Unfortunately, the
remaining 32 poems have been lost. The Most Venerable
wrote these poems in Chinese characters with Vietnamese
phonetic transcriptions. I translate them into Vietnamese
poetry and English.
Time of composition: 1981–1984.
Reference: Ngục trung mị ngữ, published by Quảng Hương
tùng thư in 1988.
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1. Trách lung
窄籠
窄籠猶自在
散步若閑遊
笑話獨影響
空消永日囚
Trách lung
Trách lung do tự tại
Tán bộ nhược nhàn du
Tiếu thoại độc ảnh hưởng
Không tiêu vĩnh nhật tù.
Lồng hẹp
Thanh thản tự tại thong dong
Nhàn nhã tản bộ bên trong nhà tù
Một mình cười nói vô tư
Ngày trong lồng hẹp nhẹ như bên ngoài.
Narrow cage
Finding serenity in this narrow cage,
I paced a leisurely stroll.
Smiling and whispering to myself,
I transcended endless prison days.
Explanation
In the book Ngục trung mị ngữ (Somniloquies in prison)
published by Quảng Hương Tùng Thư in 1988, the last
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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character in the poem, in the Chinese character section,
Thầy writes
囚
, meaning tù (imprisonment). However, in
the Vietnamese phonetic section, Thầy writes sầu, meaning
sadness. The Chinese character for sầu is
愁
.
Based on the Chinese character in the original text and
considering his state of mind, nhật tù (daily imprisonment)
might be a possible reading 24.
Reading this poem, regardless of whether the last word is
sầu or tù, I don’t perceive any fear by the prisoner Tuệ Sỹ,
and strangely, I also don’t detect any resentment towards
those who imprisoned him.
The poem explores themes of confinement, freedom, and
the human spirit. Thầy is able to find peace and
contentment even within the confines of a “narrow cage”,
suggesting a deep inner strength and a capacity for
resilience.
His message is one of compassion, resilience, inner peace,
and the power of humor, but beneath it, I sense an
undercurrent, “when the opportunity arises, laughter and
shouts will erupt, turning everyday life upside down”, as
clearly as expressed in the Introduction section Thầy writes
for the book Vô Môn Quan (Wumen Guan, often known as
The Gateless Gate) translated to Vietnamese by Professor
24 This book Ngục trung mị ngữ (Somniloquies in prison) published
in 1988 by Quảng Hương Tùng Thư includes 18 poems of Ngục trung
mị ngữ and 31 poems of the volume Giấc mơ Trường Sơn (Dreams on
the peak of Trường Sơn). All of these poems are handwritten by Thầy,
rendering it an invaluable treasure.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Trần Tuấn Mẫn. This book was originally compiled by Zen
Master Wumen Huikai, and published in 1228 25.
Below is the moving Introduction by Thầy to Professor
Trần Tuấn Mẫn’s book Wumen Guan:
Once upon a time, in the halls of Zen monasteries, one
could hear the resounding sounds of laughter and shouts.
Countless intricate arguments were cast aside like grains
of sand on the vast Asian deserts, where countless souls
had endured arduous journeys in their quest for the
absolute. Here, the desert remained eternally solitary,
swept by the blistering winds of nothingness. The
meaning of life and death continued to drift aimlessly in
the void. Hearts burned with fervent passion, yet could
not consume the terrifying dreams of nothingness and
annihilation. And then, one day, when the time was
right, laughter and shouts would erupt, turning everyday
life upside down…
One morning, a visitor came to the temple and gave me
a Vietnamese manuscript of the book Vô Môn Quan
(Wumen Guan). It was as if a tiny ember, buried in the
25 Wumen Guan (Vô Môn Quan) is a collection of 48 Zen koans, each
accompanied by a commentary and a verse by Wumen Huikai (1183–
1260).
In Chinese, Wumen (
無門
) literally means no gate, and Guan (
關
)
means the checkpoint at the border, therefore, the title Wumen Guan
is more accurately translated as “The Gateless Barrier” or “The
Gateless Checkpoint”, rather than the popular name “The Gateless
Gate”. However, this paradoxical title seems fit to reflect the Zen
Buddhist idea that enlightenment cannot be attained through
conventional means or by seeking a specific entrance.
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200
cold ashes of the hearth, was rekindled. This happened
amidst the heavy weight of old age and the irreversible
decline of health, yet it was not enough to fully thaw the
frost within me. I hastily write these words to express
my gratitude to all beings for this accidental encounter
in a rare lifetime. And I am grateful for the drops of
Caoxi 26 blood that flow in the rich and strange melody
of the Vietnamese language, a gift brought to me as if
from a thousand generations.
Đá mòn nhưng dạ chẳng mòn
Tào khê nước chảy vẫn còn trơ trơ.
Though stones wear away, the heart does not
The water of Caoxi river still flows on.
(Vietnamese folk poem)
To provide a glimpse into the book’s worth, here’s an
excerpt from the fifth koan:
Xiangyan said:
- It is like a man over a precipice one thousand feet high,
he is hanging himself there with a branch of a tree
between his teeth, the feet are far off the ground, and his
hands are not taking hold of anything. Suppose another
man coming to him to propose a question, “What is the
meaning of the First Patriarch Bodhidharma’s coming
from the west?” If this man would open the mouth to
26 Caoxi (Tào khê) is the name of a small river located in Guangdong
Province, China. It’s home to the ancient Paolin Temple, which was
once the major spiritual center of Master Huineng (638–713), the sixth
patriarch of Chinese Zen Buddhism.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
201
answer, he is sure to fall and lose his life; but if he makes
no answer, he must be said to ignore the inquirer. At this
critical moment what should he do?”
Wumen commented:
Even if your eloquence flows like a river, it is of no use.
Even if you can expound the whole body of the sūtras, it
is of no avail. If you can respond to it fittingly, you will
give life to those who have been dead, and put to death
those who have been alive. If, however, you are unable
to do this, wait for Maitreya (TN: the future Buddha of
this world, commonly believed to be the direct successor
of Śākyamuni Buddha) to come and ask him.
Wumen’s verse:
Xiangyan is really outrageous,
His perversity knows no limits;
He silences the monk,
Turning his entire body into the glaring eyes of a demon.
(Excerpted with minor modification from The Story of Zen,
by Richard Bryan McDaniel, published by The Sumeru
Press, 2019)
This koan refers to Xiangyan’s quote or koan, but his
journey to enlightenment is extraordinarily noteworthy.
Xiangyan Zhixian (?–898) and Guishan Lingyou (771–
853) were both students of Baizhang Huaihai (720–814).
Before coming to Baizhang, Xiangyan had devoted himself
to the study of the Chinese classics as well as the traditional
Buddhist scriptures, and he acquired a reputation for
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
202
scholarship. He kept copious notes on his studies and was
known to have a ready answer to every question he was
asked.
After Baizhang died, Xiangyan presented himself to
Guishan, who had been declared the master’s dharma
successor, and, even though they were about the same age,
Xiangyan asked to be accepted as a disciple. Guishan,
however, was reluctant to grant the request.
“When we were both disciples of our late master”, Guishan
said, “you were said to be able to give ten answers to a
single question. This, however, isn’t the way of Zen. Such
intellectual attainments only result in an abstract or
analytical comprehension, which really isn’t of much use.
Still, perhaps you do have some insight into the truth of
Zen. So, tell me: what is your true self, your original self
before your mother gave birth to you, before you came to
know east from west?”
Xiangyan was unsure how to reply to this question but
ventured a number of attempts, each of which Guishan
dismissed. Finally, he said, “Please, then, teach me. Show
me this original self.”
“I’ve nothing to give you,” Guishan told him. “Even if I
tried to instruct you, that would only provide you an
opportunity to ridicule me later on. After all, whatever I
have is my own and can never be yours. How can that be
of any help to you?”
Xiangyan retired to his quarters, where he searched through
the books and notes he had collected over the years, but
nothing he found in them helped him understand what
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
203
Guishan was asking for when he demanded him to “show”
his original self.
“A picture of rice cakes will never satisfy hunger”, he
admitted to himself. Then he gathered all his papers
together, took them outside, and set fire to them. “What’s
the use of studying Buddhism, so difficult to comprehend
and too subtle to receive instruction from another?” he said
to himself. “I’ll become a simple monk, abiding by the
precepts, with no desire to try to master things too deep for
thought”.
He left Baizhang’s temple that day and traveled to a
mountain, where he built a grass hut to live in. One day, as
he was sweeping the grounds with a broom, a stone he
cleared away struck a bamboo stalk. The sound, sharp and
hollow, was clear in his attention, and the moment he heard
it, he came to a deep awakening. He was speechless for a
moment, then broke out laughing. He bowed in the
direction of Guishan’s temple. Then he traveled to see the
man who had refused to teach him. “Your kindness to me
was greater than even that of my parents,” Xiangyan told
Guishan. “Had you tried to explain this truth to me in
words, I would never be where I am now”.
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The handwriting of Thầy Tuệ Sỹ, copied from the book
Ngục trung mị ngữ, published by Quảng Hương Tùng Thư
in 1988, reveals that the final character in the Chinese
section is 囚, meaning imprisonment, whereas in the
Vietnamese section, it is sầu, meaning sadness.
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2. Tảo thượng tẩy tịnh
早上洗净
早起出洗净
從容立片蒔
自有神仙態
何湏山水為
Tảo thượng tẩy tịnh
Tảo khởi xuất tẩy tịnh
Thung dung lập phiến thì
Tư hữu thần tiên thái
Hà tu sơn thủy vi
Sáng sớm rửa mặt
Sáng sớm dậy ra ngoài rửa mặt,
Chút thời gian khoảnh khắc thanh nhàn.
Núi cao, biển rộng chẳng màng,
Thần tiên tự tại cao sang nơi này.
Face washing in the early morning
Washing my face in the early morning,
Such a peaceful moment!
It made me feel like a celestial being.
Who needs high mountains or vast seas?
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206
Explanation
We often assume that only gods and spirits dwell in
mountains or oceans, yet the history of Zen is filled with
stories of monks who retreated to these remote places for
their practice.
The Sixth Patriarch, Huineng, lived in seclusion in the
forest with a group of hunters after leaving Huangmei. He
lived in obscurity, unknown to anyone, for fifteen years.
The State Preceptor, Nanyue Huizhong, spent ten years in
seclusion. Word of his retreat spread far and wide, reaching
the ears of the king, who sent urgent envoys to invite him
back. Only then did he descend from the mountain.
Guishan Lingyou (refer to pages 201–203, 379 and 382–
383), a disciple of Baizhang Huaihai at age 23 and the
abbot of Baizhang’s temple at age 28 after his master’s
death, left Baizhang’s temple at age 34 to go on a spiritual
journey in a remote wilderness with monkeys and deer. But
eventually, his fame spread, people came seeking him out,
grand monasteries sprang up around him, and he became a
great master leading a sangha of 1,500 monks.
In the third series of Essays in Zen Buddhism, pages 277–
279, Professor Daisetz Suzuki explains the purpose of
spiritual practice, whether it’s done in the mountains or not.
The Bodhisattva’s desire is to benefit the world, to give
happiness to the world, to stir within himself a
compassionate heart for the world. Therefore, when he
realizes in himself the supreme enlightenment, he vows
to become the world’s great benefactor, protector,
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207
refuge, dwelling-house, ultimate path, isle of retreat,
illumination, leader, and passage-way.
Thus, the Bodhisattva is no retiring, negative soul
always wishing to flee from the world for his own
perfection and enlightenment: but he is a most
aggressive rescuer of the world; he positively works
upon it to yield the result he wishes from his active
contact with it. …
In the feeling of fellow-love there is no thought of
superiority, no thought of separation or of exclusiveness,
which keeps one from another as distinct in some
fundamental and irreconcilable manner.
The following dialogue between Purnamitrayasputra
and Śāriputra, quoted from the Mahaprajñāpāramitā
Sūtra, (Bát Nhã Ba-la-mật-đa Tâm kinh, but commonly
known as Tâm kinh in Vietnamese), gives us an idea as
to the reason why the Bodhisattva feels compassionate
towards his fellow-beings who are not fully enlightened.
Purnamitrayasputra asked Śāriputra: “Should the
Bodhisattva pay respect only to other Bodhisattvas and
not to all beings generally?”
Śāriputra replied: “The Bodhisattva should respect all
beings just as much as he does the Tathāgata.
The Bodhisattva is to think in this wise: When I attain
enlightenment, I will instruct all sentient beings in the
essence of the dharma in order to make them cut off their
evil passions and realize nirvana, or attain
enlightenment and rest in peace and happiness, or
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become fully emancipated from the pain of the evil
paths.
The Bodhisattva should thus awaken a great
compassionate feeling towards all beings and keep his
mind completely free from arrogance and self-conceit,
and let him feel in this wise: I will practice all the skillful
means in order to make all sentient beings realize that
which is the foremost in themselves, i.e., their Buddha-
nature”.
A Zen master may retreat to the mountains for spiritual
practice, but they must eventually descend and engage with
the world. They cannot evade their responsibility to the
world. They must engage with a compassionate heart for
all beings, free from arrogance, ego, and dogmatism.
This attitude of responsibility guided Thầy’s actions a few
days before April 1st, 1975. As Nha Trang was abandoned,
he went to the General Hospital with his monastic students.
They cared for the remaining patients since no doctors or
nurses were on duty. When someone suggested evacuation
amidst the chaos, Thầy resolutely said: “Our homeland and
our country need us more than ever. We cannot flee when
our nation and our religion are in such a state of ruin.”
Critic Nguyên Giác (poet Phan Tấn Hải), in his work
Khoảnh khắc chiêm bao (A dreamlike moment), positively
evaluates Thầy’s actions as follows:
This is the moment that marks Thầy’s firm decision to
stay on in his homeland. The nation and the dharma still
need Thầy’s presence. As long as the nation is suffering
and the homeland is in distress, there will always be
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209
hands and minds like Thầy’s to till the soil, sow seeds of
love, to lessen hatred, to show that on the homeland
there are still beautiful flowers blooming, adding
fragrance and color to the barren fields and withered
reeds. Thầy is the embodiment of the flower of love,
vowing to stay and share the suffering with the suffering
of the nation, vowing to enter the place of misery, of
storms and tempests, to bring the boat of the dharma to
a peaceful shore. Thầy’s staying has many meanings of
a Taoist, a poet, a scholar, and the heartfelt sentiment of
a Vietnamese citizen. It is the key, the golden highlight
of the historical journey of the nation and the dharma.
Thầy stayed because there are still millions of people
staying. …
That is the vow of a Bodhisattva: to enter hell with
sentient beings.
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3. Cúng dường
供養
奉此獄囚飯
供養最勝尊
世間長血恨
秉鉢淚無言
Cúng dường
Phụng thử ngục tù phạn
Cúng dường tối thắng tôn
Thế gian trường huyết hận
Bỉnh bát lệ vô ngôn.
Cúng dường
Hai tay nâng bát cao lương
Cúi đầu kính cẩn cúng dường Thế tôn
Thế gian máu hận thành sông
Ôm bát mà khóc nghẹn không ra lời.
Note: As Vietnam entered a new chapter in 1975, there was
no rice, only sorghum. But the new government
deceptively called it “cao lương” (高粱), which was a term
Southerners used for delicious and rare delicacies.
Offerings
Lifting a bowl of prison rice,
I made an offering to the Enlightened One.
The world, awash in hatred, burdened my heart,
I choked back tears as I held the bowl.
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211
Explanation
Critic Huỳnh Kim Quang, in Đọc thơ tù chữ Hán của Thầy
Tuệ Sỹ (Reading the Chinese prison poems by Thầy Tuệ
Sỹ), Chân Nguyên magazine, No. 30, writes:
This poem describes a sacred and moving image: a
monk in prison, at lunchtime, meticulously performing
the ritual of receiving his meal. He raises his bowl of
rice with both hands to make an offering to the Buddha
before eating. As he lifts the bowl, he contemplates the
suffering of all beings and his nation, feeling deep
compassion and sorrow. The monk’s own suffering will
only cease when the suffering of all beings ends. This
embodies the Bodhisattva’s spirit of compassion.
Critic Nguyên Giác (poet Phan Tấn Hải) adds the following
comment,
This isn’t merely a poem; it surpasses the limits of
human language. It’s like heavenly flowers raining onto
a prison, allowing a monk to gather words and offer
them to the Buddha. It’s not words but tears, the pain of
a body holding a bowl of rice, and the compassion felt
when witnessing a world steeped in hatred. This monk
then expresses gratitude to the Tathāgata.
What is the meaning and purpose of offerings in
Buddhism? According to the Tibetan Buddhist Meditation
Centre,
Offerings are the formal religious expression of the
fundamental Buddhist virtue of giving. The perfection of
giving, dana-paramita in Sanskrit, is the first of the six or
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212
ten perfections 27. It encompasses every kind of
generosity, whether it involves a gift to those higher than
ourselves, such as deities in the merit field, or the poor and
needy, who are worse off than we are. …
Whether the physical offerings benefit the recipient or not,
from a Buddhist practitioner’s point of view as a donor,
they are essential means of reducing our attachment to the
physical world. Attachment reinforces our notion of
ourselves as real, independent selves to be satisfied by
obtaining or clinging onto objects we desire. Making
offerings accustoms the mind to giving and letting go of
desirable objects. It serves to loosen our conception of a
real and independent self. In this way, it contributes to our
acquiring the essential wisdom realizing that all
phenomena as empty of intrinsic existence. Without such
realization we will not attain Buddhahood.
While the excerpt above describes various physical
offerings, the Buddha emphasized that the most profound
and beneficial offering is to the dharma itself. The Buddha
explained to heavenly king Lokeśvara, “O heavenly king,
know this: if a person were to hear this inconceivable Sūtra,
believe in it, uphold it, recite it, and practice accordingly,
his or her merit would surpass that of the former. To
believe, uphold, recite, and practice is to offer the dharma.
Heavenly king, understand this: offering the dharma is the
27 The six perfections in Mahāyāna tradition are (1) generosity, (2)
morality, (3) patience, (4) diligence, (5) concentration, and (6)
wisdom, and the ten perfections in the Theravāda tradition are (1)
generosity, (2) morality, (3) renunciation, (4) insight, (5) energy, (6)
patience, (7) truthfulness, (8) resolution, (9) kindness, and (10)
equanimity
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supreme, most honorable, and incomparable of all
offerings. Therefore, offer the dharma to the Buddhas.”
The Sūtra praised by the Buddha in the above paragraph is
the Vimalakīrti Sūtra. Who was Vimalakīrti?
The passage from the Sūtra describes Vimalakīrti as
follows:
In the city of Vaishali, there was a layman named
Vimalakīrti, who had offered to countless Buddhas and
planted deep roots of goodness, attained the
unconditioned state, had the ability to debate without
hindrance, displayed miraculous powers, mastered all
the concentrations, and achieved fearlessness; he
subdued all enemies and disturbances of Mara, had
entered the profound dharma gate, was skillful in
wisdom, proficient in various means, and had completed
his great vows. He knew well the tendencies of beings’
minds, and could distinguish between sharp and dull
roots. For a long time, his mind had matured in the
Buddha’s path, and he had decided on the Mahāyāna.
All his actions were based on correct thinking. Residing
in the majesty of the Buddha, his mind was as vast as the
ocean. He was praised by the Buddhas; the gods Indra
and Brahma, and the world rulers all respected him.
With his endless wealth, he protected the suffering. With
his pure precepts, he protected those who violated
precepts. With the softness of patience, he protected
those who were angry and fierce. With great diligence,
he protected the lazy. With one-pointedness, meditation,
and tranquility, he protected those with scattered minds.
With immaculate wisdom, he protected the ignorant.
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Although a layman, he followed all the pure rules of the
Śramaṇa (TN: one who renounces worldly possessions
and practices austerity). Although a white-robed (TN:
layman), he was free and unattached to the three realms.
Although he had a wife and children, he always lived a
pure life.
Chapter 5 of the sūtra tells the story of when the Manjusri
was sent by the Buddha to visit the sick Vimalakīrti, after
other great disciples such as Śāriputra, Maudgalyāyana,
Mahākāśyapa and Ananda refused to go because they all
were overwhelmed by Vimalakīrti’s spiritual stature.
Manjusri replied, “Lord, it is not easy to converse with such
a superior person. For he has deeply penetrated the true
nature of things, skillfully expounds the essential meanings
of the dharma. His debating skills are flawless, his wisdom
is unimpeded. He knows all the practices of bodhisattvas;
he has entered the mysterious treasury of the Buddhas; he
subdues all Mara with miraculous powers; his wisdom and
means are perfectly accomplished. Nevertheless, I will
obey your command and visit him.”
At that time, among the assembly, the bodhisattvas, the
great disciples of the Buddha, all thought to themselves,
“Now that the two great beings, Manjusri and Vimalakīrti,
are meeting, they will surely speak profound dharma”.
Therefore, they all wished to follow Manjusri.
In chapter 9 of the sūtra, Vimalakīrti asked the 32 present
Bodhisattvas to present their understanding of non-duality.
I encourage my readers to read the following dichotomy of
all of these 32 Bodhisattvas as each offers a unique
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perspective of their understanding and realizing on the non-
duality, based on their personal experience and insight,
emphasizing different aspects of realization.
1. Śikṣasamuccaya said: “Birth and death are two. To
comprehend that dharma is unborn, therefore, it cannot die,
is to enter the non-duality.”
2. Śrīgupta said: “Self and possessions are two. If there is
no self, there are no possessions. That is to enter the non-
duality.”
3. Animisa said: “Perception and non-perception are two.
If one does not perceive phenomena, then there is nothing
to be gained. That is to enter the non-duality.”
4. Srīkuṭa said: “Defilement and purity are two. Seeing the
nature of defilement, there is no longer the appearance of
purity. That is to enter the non-duality.”
5. Sunakṣatra said: “Movement and thought are two.
Without movement, there is no thought. To reach this point
is to enter the non-duality.”
6. Sunetra said: “Form and formlessness are two. To not
cling to formlessness but to abide in equality is to enter the
non-duality.”
7. Subāhu said: “The Bodhisattva mind and the Shravaka
(TN: not endowed with bodhicitta) mind are two. To
understand that there is no such thing as a Bodhisattva
mind or a Shravaka mind is to enter the non-duality.”
8. Pusya said: “Good and evil are two. If one does not give
rise to good or evil, one enters the non-duality.”
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9. Siṃha said: “Sin and virtue are two. Understanding the
nature of sin as not different from the nature of virtue, is to
enter the non-duality.”
10. Siṃhamati said: “Defilement and purity are two. If one
does not give rise to thoughts of defilement or purity, one
enters the non-duality.”
11. Sukhādhimukta said: “Form and formlessness are two.
If one leaves behind all distinctions, the mind is like empty
space; that is to enter the non-duality.”
12. Narayana said: “The world and the transcendent are
two, but understanding that the nature of the world and the
transcendent is empty is to enter the non-duality.”
13. Dāntamati said: “Birth and death are two. To
understand the nature of birth and death is to enter the non-
duality.”
14. Pratyakṣadarśī said: “Limited and unlimited are two. In
ultimate reality, both limited and unlimited are ultimately
formless. In formlessness, there is no limited or unlimited.
To enter this is to enter the non-duality.”
15. Samantagupta said: “Self and non-self are two. Seeing
the true nature of self, dualistic thinking does not arise.
That is to enter the non-duality.”
16. Vidyuddeva said: “Enlightenment and ignorance are
two. But the true nature of ignorance is enlightenment.
Abiding in this equality is to enter the non-duality.”
17. Priyadarāno said: “Form and formlessness are two.
Form itself is emptiness, because the nature of form is
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emptiness itself. To understand this is to enter the non-
duality.”
18. Prabhāketu said: “The four elements (TN: fire, water,
earth and air) and the absence of elements are two. The
nature of the four elements is the absence of elements. To
penetrate this nature of the four elements is to enter the
non-duality.”
19. Sumati said: “The eye and form are two. Likewise, the
ear and sound, the nose and smell, the tongue and taste, the
body and touch, and the mind and mental objects are two.
If one knows the true nature of the mind, there is no arising
of greed, hatred, or delusion. To abide in this is to enter the
non-duality.”
20. Akṣayamati said: “Alms and dedicating all good deeds
to the attainment of omniscience are two. But the nature of
alms is itself the dedication to omniscience. To penetrate
this single reality is to enter the non-duality.”
21. Gambīrabuddhi said: “Emptiness and actionlessness
are two. But understanding that emptiness and
actionlessness are without mind, without thought, and
without consciousness is to enter the non-duality.”
22. Śāntendriya said: “The Buddha is the dharma. The
dharma is the sangha. These three jewels, Buddha, dharma,
and sangha, are formless, and so are all phenomena. To
penetrate this is to enter the non-duality.”
23. Apraticakṣu said: “The body and the body’s cessation
are two. When one penetrates the true nature of the body,
there is no longer any arising of the concept of the body or
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the cessation of the body. To abide in this without fear is to
enter the non-duality.”
24. Suvinīta said: “The nature of body, speech, and mind is
actionlessness. The actionlessness of these three actions is
the actionlessness of all phenomena. If one can abide in
such actionless wisdom, one enters the non-duality.”
25. Puṇyakṣetra said: “The true nature of virtuous actions,
unvirtuous actions, and actions that are neither virtuous nor
unvirtuous is emptiness. To not give rise to these three
actions is to enter the non-duality.”
26. Padmavyūha said: “Duality arises from the self. When
one sees the true nature of the self, this duality does not
arise. When there is nothing to be cognized, one enters the
non-duality.”
27. Śrīgarbha said: “The nature of that which is obtained is
dualistic. If there is nothing to be obtained, then there is
neither grasping nor letting go. To not grasp and not let go
is to enter the non-duality.”
28. Candrottara said: “Darkness and light are two. When
one enters the cessation of feelings, perceptions, and
volitions, there is no more darkness or light. To abide in
this equality is to enter the non-duality.”
29. Ratnamudrāhasta said: “The joy of nirvana and the lack
of joy in the world are two. Without binding and without
release, there is neither liking nor disliking; that is to enter
the non-duality.”
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30. Maṇikūṭarāja said: “The right path and the wrong path
are two. One who abides in the right path does not
differentiate between the right and the wrong. To leave
behind these two extremes is to enter the non-duality.”
31. Satyanand said: “Truth and falsehood are two. One who
sees the truth does not even consider it to be true, much less
that is false. Why? It is something that the physical eye
cannot see, only the eye of wisdom can perceive. But when
the eye of wisdom does not see, nor does it not see, that is
to enter the non-duality.”
32. Manjusri said: “In my view, regarding all phenomena,
there is no speaking, no explaining, no pointing out, and no
cognizing; it transcends questioning. That is to enter the
non-duality.”
Then Manjusri asked Vimalakīrti, “We have each spoken.
Please, Sir, tell us what it is like for a Bodhisattva to enter
the non-duality?”
At that time, Vimalakīrti remained silent.
Manjusri praised, “Well said, well said! When there are no
more words or speech, that is truly to enter the non-
duality.”
This is referred to as Vimalakīrti’ s “thunderous silence”.
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4. Biệt cấm phòng
別禁房
我居空處一重天
我界虚無真個禅
無物無人無甚亊
坐覌天女散花綿
Biệt cấm phòng
Ngã cư không xứ nhất trùng thiên
Ngã giới hư vô chân cá thiền
Vô vật vô nhơn vô thậm sự
Tọa quan thiên nữ tán hoa miên.
Phòng biệt giam
Ta nhập thiền cõi trời cao
Chân thiền: cảnh giới không vào, không ra
Không người, không vật, không ta
Ngồi xem thiên nữ rắc hoa chúc mừng.
Solitary confinement cell
In this celestial realm, I reside.
My world is the void, the true essence of Zen,
Where objects, human beings, and essence are all but
empty.
I sit in stillness, watching celestial maidens scatter
flowers.
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Explanation
This poem paints a vivid picture of a bodhisattva’s mental
fortitude and detachment from worldly suffering. Even in
the confines of a solitary prison cell, a bodhisattva can find
inner peace and tranquility. The image of celestial maidens
scattering flowers symbolizes divine blessings or spiritual
enlightenment, which the bodhisattva is able to appreciate
regardless of their circumstances.
This is the hallmark of a Bodhisattva. How could one be
incarcerated and still find peace?
According to the shorter version, only 280 words including
the title, of the Heart Sūtra (Prajñā-pāramitā Sūtra in
Sanskrit, Bát-nhã Ba-la-mật-đa tâm kinh in Vietnamese),
Avalokiteshvara bodhisattva, when practicing deeply
the Prajñā-pāramitā, perceived that all five skandhas are
not real, therefore, was saved from all sufferings 28.
How can we perceive that all five skandhas (form, feeling,
perception, concept, and consciousness) are not real, just
illusions? Quoted from chapter 2 of the full version of the
sūtra:
At that time, the heavenly kings thought to themselves:
“Who can understand what Subhuti is saying?”
28 In Vietnamese, Quán Tự Tại Bồ Tát hành thâm Bát nhã Ba la mật
đa thời, chiếu kiến ngũ uẩn giai không, độ nhứt thiết khổ ách; Bồ-tát
Quán Tự Tại khi thực hành thâm sâu Bát-nhã Ba-la-mật-đa, soi thấy
năm uẩn đều là không, do đó thoát khỏi mọi khổ đau ách nạn.
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Subhuti, knowing their thoughts, said to them: “Those
who see all dharmas as not real can understand what I
am saying; the hearing itself is also not real, and the
attainment is also not real”.
The heavenly kings thought: “If the hearers are like
illusions, then sentient beings are also like illusions.
From the stage of stream-entry 29 up to the unsurpassed
Buddhahood, all are like illusions”.
Subhuti, knowing their thoughts, said to them: “I say
that sentient beings are like illusions, like dreams: The
stages of stream-entry, once-returner, non-returner,
arhat, and even unsurpassed Buddhahood are also like
illusions, like dreams. Nirvana is also like an illusion,
like a dream”.
The heavenly kings said: “Great Subhuti, are you saying
that the Buddha dharma is also like an illusion, like a
29 Four stages of awakening, according to Theravāda Buddhism:
- Stream-entry (Srotāpanna in Sanskrit, Tu-đà-hoàn in Vietnamese):
this person is free to be reborn in the lower realms.
- Once-returner (Sakadāgāmi in Sanskrit, Tư-đà-hàm in Vietnamese):
this person will be reborn once more to the human realm.
- Non-returner (Anāgāmi in Sanskrit, A-na-hàm in Vietnamese): this
person is not reborn into the human realm, but into the celestial
realms.
- Arhat (Arhat in Sanskrit, A-la-hán in Vietnamese): this person has
attained nirvana, thereby free from saṃsāra, the cycle of birth, death
and rebirth.
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dream, and nirvana is also like an illusion, like a
dream?”
Subhuti said: “O heavenly kings, even if there were a
dharma higher than nirvana, I would still say it is like an
illusion, like a dream. O heavenly kings, illusions and
nirvana are not two, not different”.
What do we see in this passage when Subhuti explains that
the hearing itself is not real, and the attainment is also not
real? Are we surprised to read that Subhuti defines sentient
beings as illusions, like dreams, that all stages of
enlightenment are like illusions, like dreams, and even
nirvana is like an illusion, like a dream? Yet, Subhuti goes
even further by asserting that if there were a dharma higher
than nirvana, it would also be like an illusion, like a dream.
700 years later, Nāgārjuna 30 also said, “There is no
difference between saṃsāra and nirvana”.
In the book Triết học về tánh Không (Philosophy of
Nothingness), Thầy Tuệ Sỹ explains:
The Middle Way states: “If one does not rely on
conventional truth, one cannot attain ultimate truth. If
one does not attain ultimate truth, one cannot understand
the dharma”. Within the realm of logic, conventional
truth here refers to language. The value of language does
30 Nāgārjuna (circa 150–250) was the 14th Patriarch of Indian
Buddhism. He developed the doctrine of the Middle Way
(Mādhyamakārikā), defeating all philosophical arguments of
Buddhism at that time. His contributions significantly developed
Buddhist thought, especially Zen Buddhism.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
224
not lie in its success, but in its failure to express the
absolute. It is precisely due to this failure that language
gives rise to the Middle Way. The non-verbal
philosophy of the Middle Way cannot be superficially
understood as a desire to move towards the absolute by
completely eliminating all forms of language.
Logicians, when seeking the success of language to
create a correspondence between the process of symbols
and the process of absolute reality, are essentially
adopting a naive realist attitude, overly trusting in
obvious experience.
Distinguishing between names and reality, on the basis
of both difference and non-difference, is the entry point
into the philosophy of the Middle Way. Because reality
only exists through conventional names, Nāgārjuna
often says that phenomena are like dreams or illusions.
So, what is nothingness after all?
When Jayatilleke, in his book Early Buddhist Theory of
Knowledge, used the tetralemma (A is B, A is not B, A is
both B and not B, A is neither B nor not B) to try to answer
the question of what nothingness is, Thầy said he was off
track from the start.
This is how Thầy beautifully addressed the question of
what nothingness is. He uses language in such a way that
the reader must leave language to understand:
Nothingness is when a summer butterfly lands on a
flower, folds its wings, and sways with the wind of the
grass and forest flowers.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
225
What a wonderful answer!
The following article, written by Professor Maria
Montenegro, brilliantly explains this famous statement of
Nāgārjuna that “If one does not rely on conventional truth,
one cannot attain ultimate truth”, excerpted from the book
The Joy of Living, Yale University published in 2009.
Suppose in the dream you’re driving along when
suddenly another car smashes into you. The front of your
car is completely ruined and you’ve broken one of your
legs. In the dream, your mood would probably shift
immediately from happiness to despair. Your car’s been
ruined, and your broken leg is causing tremendous pain.
You might even begin to cry in the dream, and when you
wake up your pillow might be wet with tears.
Now I’m going to ask a question, but not a difficult one:
Is the car in the dream real or not?
The answer, of course, is that it is not. No engineers
designed the car, and no factory built it. It isn’t made of
the various parts that constitute an actual car, or of the
molecules and atoms that make up each of the different
parts of a car. Yet, while dreaming, you experience the
car as something quite real. In fact, you relate to
everything in your dreams as real, and you respond to
your experiences with very real thoughts and emotions.
But, no matter how real your dream experiences may
seem, they can’t be said to exist inherently, can they?
When you wake up, the dream ceases and everything
you perceived in the dream dissolves into emptiness: the
infinite possibility for anything to occur.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
226
The Buddha taught that, in the same way, every form of
experience is an appearance arising from the infinite
possibility of emptiness. As stated in the Heart Sūtra,
one of the most famous of the Buddha’s teachings:
Form is emptiness.
Emptiness is form.
Emptiness is nothing other than form.
Form is nothing other than emptiness.
In modern terms, you might say:
A dream car is a not-inherently-real car.
A not-inherently-real car is a dream car.
A dream car is nothing other than a not-inherently-real
car.
A not-inherently-real car is nothing other than a dream
car.
Of course, it may be argued that the things you
experience in waking life and the events you experience
in a dream can’t logically be compared. After all, when
you wake from a dream, you don’t really have a broken
leg or a wrecked car in the driveway. If you got into an
accident in waking life, though, you might find yourself
in the hospital and facing thousands of dollars’ worth of
damage to your car.
Nevertheless, the basis of your experience is the same in
dreams and in waking life: thoughts, feelings, and
sensations that vary according to changing conditions. If
you bear this comparison in mind, whatever you
experience in waking life begins to lose its power to
affect you. Thoughts are just thoughts. Feelings are just
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
227
feelings. Sensations are just sensations. They come and
go in waking life as quickly and easily as they do in
dreams.
Everything you experience is subject to change
according to changing conditions. If even a single
condition is changed, the form of your experience will
change. Without a dreamer, there would be no dream.
Without the mind of the dreamer, there would be no
dream. If the dreamer were not sleeping, there would be
no dream. All these circumstances have to come
together in order for a dream to occur.
The concept of emptiness mentioned in the above article is
brilliantly explained by Most Venerable Thích Nhất Hạnh
(1926–2022) in his book Awakening of the Heart: Essential
Buddhist Sutras and Commentaries, quoted below.
If I am holding a cup of water and I ask you, “Is this cup
empty?”, you will say, “No, it is full of water.” But if I
pour out the water and ask you again, you may say,
“Yes, it is empty.” But empty of what? Empty means
empty of something. The cup cannot be empty of
nothing. “Empty” doesn’t mean anything unless you
know “empty of what?” My cup is empty of water, but
it is not empty of air. To be empty is to be empty of
something. This is quite a discovery. When Avalokita
(TN: also known as heavenly king Lokeśvara) says that
the five skandhas (TN: form, feeling, perception, mental
formations or concept, and consciousness) are equally
empty, to help him be precise we must ask, “Mr.
Avalokita, empty of what?”
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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The five skandhas, which may be translated into English
as five heaps, or five aggregates, are the five elements
that comprise a human being. These five elements flow
like a river in every one of us. In fact, these are really
five rivers flowing together in us: the river of form,
which means our bodies; the river of feelings; the river
of perceptions; the river of mental formations; and the
river of consciousness. They are always flowing in us.
So according to Avalokita, when he looked deeply into
the nature of these five rivers, he suddenly saw that all
five are empty.
If we ask, “empty of what?” he has to answer. And this
is what he said: “They are empty of a separate self.” That
means none of these five rivers can exist by itself alone.
Each of the five rivers has to be made by the other four.
It has to coexist; it has to inter-be with all the others…
Form is the wave and emptiness is the water. To
understand this, we have to think differently than many
of us who were raised in the West were trained to think.
In the West, when we draw a circle, we consider it to be
zero, nothingness. But in India and many other Asian
countries, a circle means totality, wholeness. The
meaning is the opposite. So “form is emptiness, and
emptiness is form” is like wave is water, water is wave.
“Form is not other than emptiness, emptiness is not other
than form. The same is true with feelings, perceptions,
mental formations, and consciousness,” because these
contain each other. Because one exists, everything
exists.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
229
In the Vietnamese literary canon, there are two lines of
poetry by a twelfth-century Zen master of the Lý
dynasty that say:
If the cosmos exists, then the smallest speck of dust
exists.
If the smallest speck of dust doesn’t exist, then the whole
cosmos doesn’t exist. 31
The poet means that the notions of existence and
nonexistence are just created by our minds. He also said
that “the entire cosmos can be put on the tip of a hair,”
31 It’s the poem
有空
(Hữu Không, Existence and Non-existence) by
Vietnamese Zen Master Từ Đạo Hạnh (1072–1116):
作有塵沙有
為空一切空
有空如水月
勿著有空空
Tác hữu trần sa hữu,
Vi không nhất thiết không.
Hữu, không như thuỷ nguyệt,
Vật trước hữu không không
If one sees that there is existence, then even dust and sand have
existence
If one sees that there is non-existence, then everything is non-
existent
Existence and non-existence are like the moon’s reflection in water
Do not cling to existence nor non-existence.
Translated into Vietnamese poem by Zen Master Huyền Quang
(1254–1334), the third patriarch of the Trúc Lâm Zen sect:
Có thì có tự mảy may
Không thì cả thế gian này cũng không
Kìa xem bóng nguyệt lòng sông
Ai hay không có, có không là gì
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
230
and “the sun and the moon can be seen in a mustard
seed”. These images show us that one contains
everything, and everything is just one.
Because form is emptiness, form is possible. In form, we
find everything else – feelings, perceptions, mental
formations, and consciousness. Emptiness means empty
of a separate self. But it is full of everything, full of life.
In short, emptiness is the ground from which all
phenomena arise. A flower, for example, is a flower
because we perceive it as such in relation to its stem, petals,
and most importantly, our concept of “flower”.
Nothingness, while often used interchangeably with
emptiness, implies a complete void or absence of anything.
Explanations are on pages 183, 191, 223, 228, 248–250 and
295.
Illusions refer to our misinterpretations of reality based on
the mistaken belief in inherent existence. In Zen Buddhism,
there are illusion of Self (pages 295–298), illusion of
Inherent Existence (refer to the footnote on page 229),
illusion of duality (pages 214–219) and illusion of
Permanence. When Vimalakīrti was asked by Manjusri
“How should a bodhisattva view the world?”, page 252, he
replied: “A bodhisattva views the world like a magician
views an illusion or a phantom that he has created”.
Dreams are used as a metaphor to illustrate the illusory
nature of reality. Just as dreams appear real while we’re in
them, but vanish upon waking, our waking life is also
impermanent and dreamlike.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
231
5. Tác thi sự
作詩亊
自心自境自成章
自对悲欢亦自賞
他日顏回坐葬偶
蠶絲割断散蒼蒼
Tác thi sự
Tự tâm tự cảnh tự thành chương
Tự đối bi hoan diệc tự thưởng
Tha nhật Nhan Hồi tọa táng ngẫu
Tàm ty cát đoạn tán thương thương.
Việc làm thơ
Thơ từ tâm, cảnh mà sinh,
Tự mình thưởng thức, tự mình buồn vui.
Có yểu mệnh như Nhan Hồi,
Tơ tằm cắt vụn mây trôi khắp trời.
About poem writing
Poetry: an interaction of heart and environment;
Sad or happy, regardless, I enjoy writing them myself.
Should I die suddenly, like Yan Hui of old 32
32 Yan Hui (513–481 BC) was one of the four outstanding disciples
of Confucius (the other three were Zengzi, Mengzi, and Confucius’
grandson, Zisi).
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
232
I’ll sever these silken threads, letting them scatter across
the boundless sky.
Explanation
Yan Hui died very young, at the age of 32. However, there
are also many documents stating that he was born in 521
BC, so he died at the age of 40, which could also be
considered a young death.
Thầy wrote this article while imprisoned for the first time
(1978–1981). Thầy was born in 1945, so at that time, he
was about 33-36 years old.
In the third verse, he compares himself to Yan Hui because
Yan Hui was a talented scholar but died young. Perhaps at
that time, he thought he would be killed in the re-education
camp.
I haven’t found any documents stating that Yan Hui died
sitting down. Therefore, in the third verse,
坐葬
(tọa táng,
sitting burial) can only mean that Thầy is implying he
would have done so if he had died young like Yan Hui. This
is because, in Zen history, many enlightened people died in
a seated position.
For example, Pang Yun (740–808), who was compared to
Vimalakīrti in his lifetime. He was an outstanding disciple
Once, Confucius asked his disciples about their goals in studying. Yan
Hui replied: “I want to teach the people the rules of propriety and
music, so that there will be no war, no worries about war, no widows,
and swords can be turned into farming tools and livestock can be used
in the fields.” Confucius praised: “Your virtue is truly admirable”.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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of Shitou Xiqian and Mazu Daoyi. When he was preparing
to die, he instructed his daughter Lingzhao to check if the
midday sun had passed overhead. She went to check and,
upon returning, falsely claimed there was a solar eclipse.
Believing her, he left his seat to see for himself. Lingzhao
immediately took his place and passed away. Upon
discovering this, he exclaimed, “Oh that girl! She was
always ahead of me!” He then had to wait another seven
days before passing away himself. Later, his wife informed
their son, who was working in the fields, of his father’s
death. Upon hearing the news, the son leaned on his hoe
and passed away. Witnessing this, his mother silently sat
down and also passed away. Amazingly, this entire family,
all laypeople, attained enlightenment. 33
This is a very special point of Buddhism: not only monks
can attain enlightenment. Laypeople who attained
enlightenment while the Buddha was still alive include
Vimalakīrti (page 213) and Śrīmālā Siṃhanāda (page 469),
and later there were the Sixth Patriarch Huineng (page
343), Pang Yun and his family (see above), Tuệ Trung
Thượng Sĩ (pages 242 and 271) and many others.
33 Enlightened people such as non-returners and Arhats fear not death.
After death, non-returners will be born to a heavenly realm, while
Arhats, having attained nirvana, thereby are free from saṃsāra (cycle
of birth, death and rebirth). Hīnayāna explains that nirvana is not a
place, like heavens, but rather a state of perfect peace, tranquility, and
freedom from all desires and attachments; while Mahāyāna suggests
that they may choose to remain in a subtle form of existence to help
others.
Refer to the footnote on page 222 for explanations of the four stages
of awakening.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
234
In the last verse, Thầy wants to sever these silken threads,
letting them scatter across the boundless sky. Silken
threads are drawn from the gut of a silkworm, and I believe
they allude to Thầy’s poetic legacy. While silken threads
can be physically cut, how can one cut poetry, especially
when it’s not merely words on paper? Thầy desires to
fragment his poetic legacy, scattering its essence across the
vast sky. But how can one shred the intangible essence of
poetry and scatter it across the blue sky?
Let’s recall his will: “Cremate my body and scatter the
ashes in the Pacific Ocean, so they may dissolve and
become part of the clouds that wander the vast expanse of
the void”.
He wrote the following verse when he was about 35 years
old:
蠶絲割断散蒼蒼
Tàm ty cát đoạn tán thương thương
I’ll sever these silken threads, letting them scatter across
the boundless sky.
Unexpectedly, he still remembered it 45 years later!
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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6. Thạch bích
石壁
石壁峥嶸遮暮雲
籠中難見日西沈
幽人空対幽光裏
千古文章千地心
Thạch bích
Thạch bích tranh vanh già mộ vân
Lung trung nan kiến nhật tây trầm
U nhân không đối u quang lý
Thiên cổ văn chương thiên địa tâm.
Vách đá
Trong lồng khó thấy mặt trời lặn
Mây chiều núp vách đá chênh vênh
Bóng người u uẩn trong u tối,
Văn chương tự cổ gốc tự tâm.
Stone walls
Towering stone walls, a stark barrier against the blushing
evening clouds,
Inside the cage, the sun’s setting is veiled from sight.
A somber soul dwells in somber light,
Ancient literature has always been the heart of the universe.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
236
Explanation
In this poem, in the penultimate line, Thầy repeats the word
幽
(u, somber) twice and, symmetrically, in the last line, he
also repeats the word
千
(thiên, thousand as in
千古
and
heaven as in
千地
) twice. This repetition is important in
Tang poetry, as it creates a certain rhythm and emphasis.
幽人空対幽光裏
千古文章千地心
U nhân không đối u quang lý
Thiên cổ văn chương thiên địa tâm
I maintain this repetitive rhythm in my translations:
Bóng người u uẩn trong u tối,
Văn chương tự cổ gốc tự tâm.
A somber soul dwells in somber light,
Ancient literature has always been the heart of the
universe.
The words
千古文章
(Thiên cổ văn chương, ancient
literature) in the last verse of this poem remind me of two
poems, one by Nguyễn Du, and one by Du Fu 34.
34 Du Fu (712–770) was a Chinese poet and politician during the Tang
dynasty. Together with his elder contemporary and friend Li Bai
(701–762), they were two of the most prominent figures in the
flourishing of Chinese poetry under the Tang dynasty, and are
considered the greatest Chinese poet duo. Du Fu is called
詩聖
(Shisheng, Thi Thánh, Poet Saint) and Li Bai is called
詩仙
(Shixian,
Thi Tiên, Poet God) by Chinese critics.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
237
During his diplomatic mission to China in February, 1813,
Nguyễn Du visited Du Fu’s tomb and composed two
poems, titled
耒陽杜少陵墓
(Lỗi Dương Đỗ Thiếu Lăng mộ,
visiting the tomb of Du Fu at Leiyang).
Below is the first poem:
天古文章天古師
平生佩服未常離
耒陽松柏不知處
秋浦魚龍有所思
異代相憐空灑淚
一窮至此豈工詩
掉頭舊症醫痊未
地下無令鬼輩嗤
Thiên cổ văn chương thiên cổ si,
Bình sinh bội phục vị thường ly
Lỗi Dương tùng bách bất tri xứ,
Thu phố ngư long hữu sở ti.
Dị đại tương liên không sái lệ,
Nhất cùng chí thử khởi công thi
Trạo đầu cựu chứng y thuyên vị?
Địa hạ vô linh quỷ bối xi
For ancient literature, you are an ancient master.
All my life, I have admired you immensely and never left
your poetry.
The pine and cypress trees of Leiyang are now nowhere to
be found (because Du Fu’s tomb was originally buried in
Leiyang County, Hunan province, but when Nguyễn Du
visited, the tomb had been moved to Henan).
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
238
Even in the midst of autumn, there is still a place for fish
and dragons to remember each other (meaning although I
cannot see his tomb, I still have a place to remember him).
Living in different times, we can only express our affection
through tears.
You suffered so much in your life simply because your
poetry was so good.
Has your old habit of shaking your head been cured? (In
his old age, Du Fu was deaf, so he would shake his head
whenever anyone asked him something),
Don’t let the underground ghosts laugh at you.
Poet Quách Tấn translates into Vietnamese:
Thơ thiên cổ cũng thầy thiên cổ,
Vốn một lòng ngưỡng mộ bấy nay.
Lỗi Dương tùng bá đâu đây?
Cá rồng thu lạnh sông đầy nhớ thương,
Há văn chương luỵ người đến thế?
Chạnh nghìn xưa dòng lệ khôn ngăn,
Lắc đầu bệnh cũ còn chăng?
Suối vàng chớ để mấy thằng quỷ trêu.
While the great poet Nguyễn Du and Thầy Tuệ Sỹ both
incorporate the words
天古文章
(Thiên cổ văn chương,
ancient literature) in their poems, Du Fu invokes the words
文章千古
(Văn chương thiên cổ, ancient literature) in his
poem
感作
(Cảm tác, susceptibility).
感作
文章千古事
得失寸心知
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
239
作者皆殊列
聲名豈浪垂
Cảm tác
Văn chương thiên cổ sự,
Đắc thất thốn tâm tri.
Tác giả giai thù liệt,
Thanh danh khởi lãng thùy.
Susceptibility
Literature is a matter of being passed down for eternity,
Success or failure, only one’s heart knows.
Each author has their own rank,
Reputation begins from the tip of the wave.
Below is my Vietnamese translation of this poem:
Văn chương: chuyện của muôn đời
Dở hay tự biết riêng nơi đáy lòng
Mỗi tác giả, một văn phong
Thanh danh: đầu sóng nơi dòng sông sâu.
The last line,
聲名豈浪垂
(Thanh danh khởi lãng
thùy,reputation begins from the tip of the wave) is a
metaphor that suggests the fragility of a writer’s reputation.
It implies that a single mistake or misstep can have a
significant impact on the writer’s career.
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7. Triết nhân tưởng
哲人想
哲人遯世隐嚴中
我也逃生坐底籠
籠裏煙花無路処
巖前依旧水浮空
Triết nhân tưởng
Triết nhân độn thế ẩn nham trung
Ngã dã đào sinh tọa để lung
Lung lý yên hoa vô lộ xứ
Nham tiền y cựu thủy phù không.
Suy nghĩ của triết gia
Triết gia hốc đá ẩn tu,
Còn ta ẩn chốn lao tù không ra.
Trong tù không khói, không hoa,
Trước hang, dòng nước vẫn sa lưng trời.
A philosopher’s pondering
Philosophers seek solace from life in grottoes,
I, too, find refuge at the bottom of this cage,
No rising smoke, nor sprinkled flowers,
Just the rhythmic drip of water, in front of the stone cave.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
241
Explanation
This quatrain expresses a sense of deep isolation and
confinement. The imagery of the philosopher withdrawing
to a secluded place contrasts with Thầy’s more restrictive
confinement in a cage. The final two lines evoke a sense of
Nothingness in Zen Buddhism.
These 18 poems in this volume Ngục trung mị ngữ
(Somniloquies in prison) are taken from the book of the
same name, published by Quảng Hương Tùng thư in 1988.
They are the handwritten poems that Thầy secretly brought
out of prison. Later, he revealed that he had written and sent
out 50 poems, but unfortunately 32 of them were lost.
In this book, this poem only has the Vietnamese phonetic
transcription and lacks the original Chinese characters. It
appears that this part has been lost. Based on the
Vietnamese phonetic transcription provided by Thầy, I
transcribe it into Chinese characters.
At the age of 26, Thầy analyzed Western philosophical
views on the Buddhist doctrine of nothingness in his
research paper Sự hủy diệt của một trào lưu tư tường (The
destruction of a philosophical trend), published in the
journal Tư tưởng (Thoughts) of Vạn Hạnh University in
1971, stating:
Since Europeans began studying Buddhism with
scientific and rigorous methods in the early 20th
century, after a hundred years, they have expressed
bewilderment and disappointment with a subject of
study that seems neither philosophy nor religion.
Despite expressing their deep sympathy, like Fyodor
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
242
Stcherbatsky (TN: 1866–1942, a Russian Indologist
who was responsible for laying the foundations in the
Western world for the study of Buddhism), or
maintaining the rigorous objectivity of a scholar, their
conclusions are truly heartbreaking.
Louis de la Vallée-Poussin, French scholar, facing the
strange theories of Mādhyamaka (Middle Way),
regardless of violations of the law of non-contradiction
(TN: Nothing can be both true and false in the same
time) or the law of excluded middle (TN: For any
proposition, either that proposition is true or its negation
is true; There is no third option), said in his 1917 work
The Way to Nirvana: “We are disappointed”. In 1927,
Stcherbatsky responding to Poussin’s interpretation of
nirvana from the Mādhyamaka perspective, also began
his work with the words: “Although a hundred years
have passed since the scientific study of Buddhism
began in Europe, we are still in the dark about the
fundamental doctrines of this religion and its
philosophy”.
Most Venerable Nguyên Siêu, in his essay Tuệ Sỹ - Thơ và
con đường Trung đạo (Tuệ Sỹ, Poetry, and the Middle
Path), asserts that the Middle Way doctrine is an essential
method to save one’s homeland and people, as follows:
In the past, Tuệ Trung Thượng Sĩ 35, while living an
ordinary life in the secular world with an appearance like
35 Tuệ Trung (1230–1291), birth name Trần Tung, was a prominent
figure in Vietnamese history. Alongside his younger brother Hưng
Đạo Vương, he led the Vietnamese forces in two successful
campaigns against the Mongol invasions. After the wars, he retired
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
243
everyone else, possessed a transcendent Zen mind. His
heart was unattached to worldly dust, calm and at ease,
as carefree as clouds in the sky, without distinctions or
grievances.
The path of cultivation is the journey from the ordinary
to the sacred. One’s mind should not be biased towards
the sacred or the ordinary but should stride freely along
the Middle Way, avoiding attachment at the end of
enlightenment. Tuệ Trung entered the world to elevate
the lives of his people and nation. He walked the path of
self-existence, independence, and firmly maintained the
connection between the Way and the world. He did not
leave his homeland because of a desire for cultivation,
nor did he neglect cultivation and liberation due to the
afflictions of his country. He opened up a vast and
mysterious horizon of living for the sake of values: “The
Ordinary Mind is the Way” or “The Profound is
from official duties and became a follower of the Zen Master Tiêu
Dao, though he did not become a monk.
The following verses demonstrate Tuệ Trung’s rejection of
attachment to concepts:
“Sắc tức thị không, không tức thị sắc”
Tam thế Như Lai phương tiện lực
Không bổn vô sắc, sắc vô không
Thể tính minh minh phi thất đắc.
“Form is nothingness, nothingness is form”
The Buddhas throughout the three cosmic ages made it up as
strategically skillful means
Originally, nothingness is formless, form is nothingless
The nature is clear and bright, neither gained nor lost.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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simultaneously Profound”. This is the fragrance of a
lotus flower burning brightly in a red furnace.
Tuệ Trung emphasized serving sentient beings in his
own homeland. He fully entered the world, bringing the
aspirations of a scholar to pacify the nation and save the
world, dedicating all his efforts to serving the country
and its mountains and rivers, and using Zen to transcend
ordinary minds. He was deeply imbued with the true
reality while living in the world of conventional reality,
transcending the world while living in the world.
Therefore, every place is the Buddha-land, and the path
of the Bodhisattva is the path of conduct.
No true Zen master, seeing their homeland and people
in suffering, would fail to lend a helping hand or to live
and die for their ancestors. The Middle Way is the
philosophy of self-liberation and liberating others, of
self-awakening and awakening others. It is a miraculous
way initiated with a heart dedicated to protecting the
country and ensuring peace for the people.
Most Venerable Khuông Việt expanded the Middle Way
to save the nation. He put aside his robes and bowl to
become a ferryman, welcoming an envoy from China 36.
Relying on this opportunity, he turned misfortune into
good fortune and defeat into victory, bringing peace and
36 In the year 987, the Song dynasty sent an envoy to Vietnam. King
Lê Đại Hành, in a display of clever diplomacy, had the monks Pháp
Thuận and Khuông Việt disguise themselves as ferrymen to welcome
the envoy. When the envoy was about to depart, Khuông Việt also
composed a piece of music to see them off.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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prosperity to the country. Perhaps this is the practice in
the midst of suffering and enlightenment in one’s
homeland, the miraculous nature of the Middle Way.
Under Tuệ Trung’s guidance, his nephew King Trần Nhân
Tông abdicated the throne to enter the monastic life,
practicing the rigorous 13 dhūtaguṇas austerities 37, and
later became the first patriarch of the Vietnamese Zen sect
Trúc Lâm.
37 The 13 dhūtaguṇas austerities are:
1. Paṃsukūlikānga: Wearing robes made from discarded cloth
2. Traicīvarikānga: Wearing only three robes
3. Piṇḍapātikānga: Eating only alms food
4. Sapadānikānga: Not omitting any house on the alms round
5. Ekāsanikānga: Eating only in one sitting
6. Pattapinḍikānga: Eating only food in the alms bowl
7. Kalu-pacchā-bhattikānga: Refusing more food after meal
8. Āraṇṇikānga: Dwelling in the forest
9. Rukkhamūlikānga: Dwelling at the root of a tree
10. Abbhokāsikānga: Dwelling in the open air
11. Śmāśānikānga: Dwelling in a graveyard
12. Yathāsaṃsthatikānga: Detaching from material comforts
13. Naiṣadyikānga: Sleeping only in a sitting position
Although Mahākāśyapa is often considered a model for ascetic
practices, according to the Vipassana Research Institute, there isn’t a
definite record confirming that he was the first Buddha’s disciple to
practice the dhūtaguṇas austerities.
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8. Ẩn giả tưởng
隱者想
小隱高山非可奇
大居鬧市也兮希
絕塵籠裏真甚事
無物無人無所為
Ẩn giả tưởng
Tiểu ẩn cao sơn phi khả kỳ
Đại cư náo thị dã hề hy
Tuyệt trần lung lý chân thậm sự
Vô vật vô nhân vô sở vi.
Nghĩ về kẻ ở ẩn
Tiểu ẩn núi cao, chưa là lạ
Đại ẩn chợ đông, vẫn thường tình
Tuyệt trần là chốn ngục hình
Không vật, không mình, không vướng mắc chi.
About the recluse
Secluding oneself in the forest is too easy;
Secluding oneself in the markets seems ordinary;
True seclusion from the world is in prison,
Nothing arises, nothing is not empty.
Explanation
The words
小隱
(tiểu ẩn) and
大隱
(đại ẩn) in the first two
lines come from these two lines of the poem
反思隱詩
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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(Phản chiêu ẩn thi), written by 王康居 (Vương Khang Cư),
who lived in the politically fragmented Eastern Jin dynasty.
小隱隱陵藪
大隱隱朝市
Tiểu ẩn ẩn lăng tẩu
Đại ẩn ẩn triều thị
Ordinary people hide in the wild mountains
Great hermits hide in the royal court or the marketplace
In the third line,
絕塵
(tuyệt trần) has two meanings:
(1) transcendence; to transcend the mortal world,
(2) perfection; the best, most beautiful in the mortal world;
showing that even in prison, Thầy did not lose his sense of
humor.
In the last line, I use a statement from Nāgārjuna’s
Mādhyamaka Śāstra (Treatise on the Middle Way):
“Nothing arises, nothing is not empty” to translate it.
In the Mādhyamaka Śāstra, Nāgārjuna presented the theory
of the Eight Negations that Kumārajīva (344–413)
translated to Chinese as:
不生亦不滅; 不常亦不斷; 不一亦不異; 不來亦不出
Neither born nor died; Neither eternal nor temporary;
Neither one nor different; Neither coming nor going.
According to his student Phẻ Xuân Bạch, Thầy Tuệ Sỹ said
he did not understand why Kumārajīva, when translating
into Chinese, inverted the text, differing from the original
Sanskrit meaning. Could it be that he intentionally
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translated in such a way for the Chinese people to
understand more easily, or perhaps he didn’t understand the
doctrine of Dependent Origination as propounded by
Nāgārjuna, thus causing a distortion of the entire
Mādhyamaka philosophy?
Thầy discovered the original Sanskrit text as follows:
Anirodham anutpādam; anucchedam aśāśvataṃ;
anekārtham anānārtham; anāgamam anirgamaṃ
Neither ceasing nor arising; Neither annihilation nor
eternal; Neither one nor many; Neither coming nor going.
From this standpoint, Nāgārjuna raised his argument to a
higher level by affirming “There is no difference between
saṃsāra and nirvana”.
In his book Triết học về tánh Không (Philosophy on
Nothingness), Thầy writes about Nāgārjuna as follows:
Great geniuses all appear in a state of fury. Heraclitus,
in the dawn of Greece, with fury like raging flames,
wanted to kick Homer out of the common games
because Homer prayed for the cessation of discord
between the gods and mankind. Zarathustra descended
from the mountain, along with the appearance of the
Superman, after being furious with the sun. The worms
sleep all winter, waiting for the first thunders of the
beginning of spring. But, “once born, they want to live
and then endure death, or to seek rest. And they leave
behind descendants to share the same fate” (Heraclitus).
The worms only turn in their eternal sleep, and must wait
until the grass cracks after the thunders and rains of the
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
249
beginning of spring before rising to “the time of
profound interconnectedness and cosmic harmony”.
This is according to I-Ching’s Thunder-Water
Hexagram (TN: This is I-Ching Hexagram No. 40,
Liberation, out of 64 hexagrams): “Thunder and rain are
a way for nature to release built-up tension and restore
balance. After the cleansing process, nature rejuvenates
and new life emerges. It is the time of profound
interconnectedness and cosmic harmony”.
Nāgārjuna appeared like a fierce elephant in the tradition
of Buddhist and Indian philosophy. At that time, for
Indian philosophers, Nāgārjuna was ranked among the
most outstanding Buddhist thinkers. But even within
this rank, Nāgārjuna was revered as a terrible destroyer.
The first person to be afraid was probably his senior
disciple, Aryadeva. Even in the name, there is a
contradiction. The name Nāgārjuna refers to a fierce
serpent. Because Naga means a fierce serpent. But
Aryadeva implies a holy angel. These two teachers, a
dinosaur and an angel, are perhaps two folds of thought:
mysterious but real? Many legends have been created to
prove that there have been many miracles to reduce
Nāgārjuna’s arrogance, when he decided to leave the
mountains, the forests, and the mainland to live in the
sea with the serpents. Thus, people had enough reason
to confirm that he was indeed a mainstream Buddhist
thinker - because mainstream also implies obedience,
when he followed the advice of the serpent king and
returned to the mainland. He was indeed a mainstream
Buddhist thinker, although his behavior sometimes
seemed arrogant. …
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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If there is absolutely nothingness, then there is no birth
and death. If so, what is cessation and what is
annihilation that is called nirvana? Only the conditioned
arising, that is, the nature of nothingness, can express a
notion of nirvana without confining nirvana to any
definition, as the Middle Way continues: “There is
neither enlightenment nor attainment, neither cessation
nor permanence, neither birth nor annihilation. That is
nirvana”. …
Nothingness is a form of negation, but its meaning, as
we have seen above, is very special. It is not only related
to the language used to negate, but also to the object of
negation. …
This issue was raised by Nāgārjuna himself in
Vigrahavyāvartanī (TN: translated into English by
Professor Jan Westerhoff as The Dispeller of Disputes,
published by Oxford University in 2010) as follows: “If
things do not have inherent existence, language will
have no object to negate. If there is no existence as an
object that language can negate, then there is no
negation”. This statement means that the premise “All
things are nothing” is not intended to negate anything,
because everything should not have an object to negate.
Such negation is no different from saying: fire is not
cold; water is not hard. Although these propositions are
true, they do not interfere with the obvious fact. That is,
even if the Mādhyamaka premise is established
correctly, it is redundant.
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9. Lãn tiên xứ
懒仙處
神仙到此煉金丹
無酒無花丹不成
推却紅炉我睡罢
此身非有豈曾生
Lãn tiên xứ
Thần tiên đáo thử luyện kim đan
Vô tửu vô hoa đan bất thành
Suy khước hồng lô ngã thụy bãi
Thử thân phi hữu khởi tằng sanh.
Xứ tiên lười
Thần tiên đến luyện kim đan
Thiếu hoa, thiếu rượu, khóc than không thành
Đập lò, ta ngủ yên lành
Thân còn không có, trường sanh chỗ nào?
Land of lazy fairies
Fairies gathered here, to brew cinnabar.
Missing wine and flowers, their elixir failed to form.
I kicked their cauldron and peacefully went to sleep.
Even our bodies are impermanent, what can be considered
eternal?
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Explanation
Thầy named this poem Lãn tiên xứ (Land of lazy fairies).
Why did he call those who dream of finding the elixir of
immortality lazy? Because they refuse to cultivate
themselves to attain liberation. Their path is to seek a
shortcut through the elixir of immortality.
Eternal life, or in other words, escaping the realm of death,
has always been a human desire. In the book Huyền thoại
Duy-ma-cật (Legends of Vimalakīrti), Thầy writes:
What is the end? All conditioned phenomena are subject
to decline, decay, and exhaustion. Either their lifespan is
exhausted, or their good fortune is exhausted, like
certain deities who, due to such exhaustion, die there and
are reborn here. Or a monk keeps practicing until he has
completely eliminated all defilements and impurities,
becoming pure, mentally liberated, and wisdom-
liberated, right in this life through victorious wisdom,
self-realization, and abiding. In short, to attain the realm
of formless nirvana, a monk must exhaust all craving
and aversion. Such a dharma is said to be supreme
among all conditioned and unconditioned dharmas. This
is the conventional meaning of end and endlessness.
When Vimalakīrti was asked by Manjusri “How should a
Bodhisattva view the world?”, he replied:
A Bodhisattva views the world like a magician views an
illusion or a phantom that he has created. Both
Shravakas (TN: a follower of Hīnayāna who strives to
attain the level of an Arhat) and Bodhisattvas start from
such a conventional world. Because this world is merely
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an illusion, not real, Bodhisattvas seek something that is
truly real and not false. Such a starting point is to reject
the existing world before their eyes. Like someone
searching for the core of a tree, peeling off the outer
layers until they find what the solid core of the tree is.
That is a cold, detached view of the world and human life.
Because, every phenomenon in this world, while having
the sweetness of form, also has the affliction of form.
Therefore, the Buddha taught: Know this body as a bubble,
all phenomena as a mirage, as an illusion; whoever
understands this clearly, escapes the realm of death.
Similarly, when Śāriputra asked Vimalakīrti where he had
died and been reborn, Vimalakīrti countered by asking if
the dharma that Śāriputra had realized could die and be
reborn. Vimalakīrti then explained that “death is the
cessation of actions, and birth is the continuation of
actions”. According to Thầy Tuệ Sỹ, this affirms that life
and death are like waves on an ocean.
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10. Dạ tọa
夜坐
逐日牢囚亊更茫
中霄独坐对寒灯
空門天遠犹懁夢
歸路無期任轉蓬
Dạ tọa
Trục nhật lao tù sự cánh mang
Trung tiêu độc tọa đối hàn đăng
Không môn thiên viễn do hoài mộng
Quy lộ vô kỳ nhiệm chuyển bồng
Ngồi đêm
Ngày tù dài, công chuyện nhiều
Đêm lo không ngủ liêu xiêu ánh đèn
Mái chùa, hồn nước, tối đen
Đường về vô hạn, lòng thêm rối bời
Midnight sitting
Days in prison are long, work is endless,
I sit alone at the midnight hour, under the cold light.
My distant pagoda, a haunting sight,
The path home is endless, my heart is even more troubled.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Explanation
To understand what worried Thầy Tuệ Sỹ enough to cause
him sleepless nights while imprisoned, one only needs to
look at his relentless efforts before and after his
imprisonment.
Following the 1975 event, he oversaw the educational
programs at the Hải Đức Buddhist Institute in Nha Trang
until its forced closure in 1977, when he returned to Saigon.
In 1978, he was arrested for illegal residence and sent to re-
education camp (a disguised form of prison) until 1981.
From 1981 to 1984, he taught at Quảng Hương Già Lam
monastery school in Saigon.
Most Venerable Nguyên Siêu, in Thượng tọa Tuệ Sỹ, Trí
Siêu, những thiên tài lỗi lạc (Most Venerables Tuệ Sỹ and
Trí Siêu, outstanding geniuses), recounts this period:
There were many sleepless nights for the entire
monastery as the police would conduct identity checks
at one or two o’clock in the morning, forcing the
monastic students to hide in the attic.
On April 1, 1984, he was arrested along with Venerable Trí
Siêu Lê Mạnh Thát and 17 other monks, nuns, and lay
people. While the Hanoi government claimed the
Venerables were plotting a coup, the primary reason for
their persecution was their opposition to the dissolution of
the Unified Buddhist Church of Vietnam. In a trial held in
September 1988, both Venerables were sentenced to death.
However, due to widespread international condemnation
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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and advocacy from Western governments and human rights
organizations, Hanoi commuted their sentences to 20 years
of hard labor. Venerable Thích Tuệ Sỹ was subsequently
transferred to Ba Sao prison in Nam Hà province, located
in the harsh, northernmost part of Vietnam.
On August 21, 1998, 14 years following his arrest, the
police persuaded him to sign a plea for pardon. “As I do
not recognize the legitimacy of this trial, you have no right
to judge me”, responded the Venerable, “And as you have
no right to detain me, you have no right to pardon me”.
Threatened with life imprisonment, he embarked on a
hunger strike. He was released after a 10-day hunger strike,
including the last 7 days of complete fasting.
In a state of near-death due to his 7-day complete fasting,
during the next 36 straight hours on a train returning from
Ba Sao prison, he fainted multiple times and had to be taken
to Hải Đức Buddhist Institute, Nha Trang.
In April 1999, he accepted the position of General
Secretary of the Institute of Dharma Propagation of the
Unified Buddhist Church of Vietnam.
On May 12, 2019, at Từ Hiếu Pagoda in Saigon, Most
Venerable Thích Quảng Độ issued a decree nominating
Most Venerable Thích Tuệ Sỹ to succeed him as the head
of the Sangha Council. However, Most Venerable Tuệ Sỹ,
prioritizing transparency and unity within the Church,
requested to assume the position temporarily, paving the
way for a formal election of the new Sixth Patriarch.
After the passing of Most Venerable Quảng Độ in February
2020, he was entrusted with the position of Acting Head of
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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the Sangha Council. In this role, he and other monks of the
Church tried to fight for religious freedom in Vietnam,
particularly the right to revive the Unified Buddhist Church
of Vietnam, but to no avail.
According to Chiến binh Tuệ Sỹ (The Warrior Tuệ Sỹ) by
his disciple Trần Bảo Toàn, in 2015, Thầy was diagnosed
with prostate cancer that had metastasized to his bones,
entering the final stage. Conventional treatments, like
surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy, were no longer
viable. His doctor predicted he had only months to live if
he did not seek treatment abroad. Initially, understanding
the natural cycle of life, aging, and illness, he accepted his
fate. Yet, after a tempestuous inner debate, he recognized
the value of his knowledge in translating Buddhist sutras
into Vietnamese. He ultimately decided to pursue treatment
in Japan. On December 12, 2019, he was admitted to the
Fujita Health University Hospital in Nagoya. However, in
July 2020, Dr. Takahara delivered the disheartening news
that all treatment options had been exhausted. He returned
to Vietnam on November 5, 2020.
Knowing that his time was limited due to his prostate
cancer, he devoted himself to translating Buddhist
scriptures, editing works, and organizing a catalog for the
translation project of the Tripitaka according to
international academic standards.
In November 2021, at the first congress of the Dharma
Propagation Council, he decided to establish the Tripitaka
Translation Council. He served as its chairman, with
Professor Trí Siêu Lê Mạnh Thát (Vietnam) as an advisor,
Most Venerable Thích Như Điển (Hannover, Germany) as
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the chief secretary, and Most Venerables Thích Nguyên
Siêu (San Diego, USA) and Thích Thái Hòa (Vietnam) as
deputy secretaries. In early 2023, the council released 29
volumes of the Tripitaka.
It should be noted that the number of his works exceeds
these 29 volumes, but some were not included in the
Tripitaka because they fall outside the scope of the
Hīnayāna.
Wikipedia 38 writes about Thầy’s version of the Vimalakīrti
Sūtra:
Among the Vietnamese translations, the version by
Most Venerable Thích Tuệ Sỹ is the most accurate. Most
Venerable Thích Tuệ Sỹ translated from the Kumārajīva
version; but, for accuracy, he compared it with the
Sanskrit version and two other Chinese versions, as well
as the commentaries by 窺基 (Kuiji, Khuy Cơ), 僧肇
(Sengzhao, Tăng Triệu), 吉藏 (Jizang, Cát Tạng), etc.
Refer to page 247 to read a mistake Thầy found in
Kumārajīva’s translation.
38 Duy-ma-cật sở thuyết kinh. Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 8
October 2024
https://vi.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duy-ma-cật_sở_thuyết_ kinh
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11. Mộng
夢
夜残蝴夢叩禅扃
両両松梢笑我逞
擬坐綠苔翻貝葉
空留枯樹対空庭
Mộng
Dạ tàn hồ mộng khấu thiền quynh
Lưỡng lưỡng tùng sao tiếu ngã trình
Nghỉ tọa lục đài phiên bối diệp
Không lưu khô thọ đối không đình.
Mộng
Đêm tàn, mộng tưởng về chùa,
Hai cội tùng bách cười đùa cùng ta.
Ngồi trên phiến đá rêu già,
Lật chiếc lá bối để mà đọc kinh,
Ơ kìa, chùa sao vắng tanh
Cây khô lạc lõng sân đình hoang vu
Daydream
I dreamt of returning to my pagoda at night’s end,
Hoping the twin pines would welcome my return with
laughter,
I’d sit on a green moss-covered rock, and read scriptures
made from talipot palms.
But there were only dead trees in that desolate shrine.
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Explanation
The word
貝葉
(bối diệp, lá bối) in the third line of the
poem refers to the talipot palm. The talipot palm tree has
the Latin scientific name Corypha umbraculifera.
Historically, the leaves were written upon in various South
and South-East Asian cultures, including India, to create
palm leaf manuscripts. When Buddhism was introduced to
China, scriptures were also written on talipot palms, so the
term
貝葉
(bối diệp, lá bối) also came to mean Buddhist
scriptures.
Before April 30th, 1975, there was a publishing house in
South Vietnam called Lá Bối that published many valuable
books. For example, in terms of research books, there were
Thiền học Việt Nam (Vietnamese Zen studies) published in
1966 by professor Nguyễn Đăng Thục and Xứ trầm hương
(The land of Agarwood) in 1973 by Quách Tấn; In terms
of translated works, there were Chiến tranh và Hòa bình
(War and Peace) in 1970 by scholar Nguyễn Hiến Lê and
Vô Môn Quan (Wumen Guan) in 1972 by professor Trần
Tuấn Mẫn; In terms of fiction, there were Hương rừng Cà
Mau (The Scent of the Cà Mau forest) in 1967 by Sơn Nam
and Đoạn đường chiến binh (The Soldier’s Journey) in
1971 by Thế Uyên.
The term lá bối is also used in Truyện Kiều (The Tale of
Kiều) when Nguyễn Du described Kiều’s situation while
studying at Chiêu Ân shrine with nun Giác Duyên:
Sớm khuya lá bối phiến mây,
Ngọn đèn khêu nguyệt, tiếng chày nện sương.
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Handle palm leaves, fly banners in the clouds 39,
Light lamps at moonrise, ring the bell at dawn.
(translated by Professor Huỳnh Sanh Thông in The Tale of
Kiều)
The word phiến mây is often mistakenly written as phướn
mây. Venerable Nun Thích Nữ Trí Hải 40, in the chapter
39 When translating as “fly banners in the clouds”, Professor Huỳnh
Sanh Thông translated the word phướn mây, not phiến mây, as
Venerable Nun Thích Nữ Trí Hải correctly explained in her book Đạo
và Thơ (Dharma and Poetry).
40 Venerable Nun Thích Nữ Trí Hải (1938–2003) was the director of
the Vạn Hạnh University library from 1968 until the University was
closed in 1975. As director of the Vạn Hạnh University library, the
Venerable Nun successfully made it comparable to renowned libraries
in Europe and America. The library held tens of thousands of
microfilm reels containing original copies of ancient books from
various civilizations throughout history. After 1975, these films were
discarded, and their canisters were used to raise fish.
When the Nun died in a tragic traffic accident in 2003, Thầy Tuệ Sỹ
wrote a very moving eulogy as follows:
Cánh chim đã vượt qua vũng lầy sinh tử
Bóng nắng rọi lên dòng huyễn hóa
Thân theo tro tàn bay
Hoa trắng vỡ trên đại dương sóng cả
Sao trời chợt tắt giữa lòng tay
Sương còn đọng trên đầu cây lá
Đến rồi đi nước lửng vơi đầy
Heo hút bờ hoang ảnh giả
Người sống mỏi mòn trong nhớ tiếc không khuây.
The bird has crossed the swamp of life and death,
Sunlight shines on the river of illusion,
The body follows the flying ashes,
White flowers shatter on the stormy, vast ocean,
The stars suddenly extinguish in her palm.
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Truyện Kiều với đạo Phật (The Tale of Kiều and
Buddhism) in her book Đạo và Thơ (Dharma and Poetry),
analyzed:
The two words phiến mây are often mistakenly written
as phướn mây. Phướn is explained as a banner hanging
in a Buddhist temple, while mây (cloud) is not
explained. In fact, phiến mây is correct. As we know,
Kiều at that time was a novice nun in a temple. The work
of a novice nun at night was to go to the temple to strike
the wooden block (often accompanied by a drum) to
wake up the others and ring the great bell. The order of
work of a novice nun is fully described in the above
poem: during the day (morning), she copied scriptures
on talipot leaves 41, at night she woke up to strike the
wooden fish (a wooden board made of jackfruit wood,
often carved with the image of a fish symbolizing
wakefulness, because fish sleep very little) as a signal to
wake up; next, she lit the and then rang the great bell.
No one would fiddle with the banners at that time!
Therefore, phiến mây can only be the wooden fish,
Although dew still lingers on the tips of leaves,
Coming and going, the water level rises and falls.
Desolate on an empty and illusory shore,
The living wearily persist in inconsolable grief.
41 As I explained above, lá bối has two meanings: (1) the leaf of the
talipot palm tree, which was used by Indians in ancient times to write
scriptures, and (2) Buddhist scriptures. In the verse sớm khuya lá bối
phiến mây, Venerable Nun Trí Hải thought that Kiều copied scriptures
onto talipot leaves, but if we understand lá bối as Buddhist scriptures,
then it means that Kiều chanted Buddhist scriptures.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
263
which is struck to wake everyone up in the middle of the
night.
The word mây (cloud) is derived from the preface of the
Kṣitigarbha Sūtra and many other sūtras. Bodhisattvas
gather as numerous as clouds, so there is the word vân
tập (cloud gathering) in Buddhist scriptures. The
wooden board is often called ngọc bảng (jade board,
referring to the bell and board in the temple). When used
to signal in the dining room, it is called phạn bảng (food
board), in the bathroom, it is called thủy bảng (water
board), and when hung in the main hall to summon the
sangha, it is called vân bảng (cloud board). The word
phiến mây originates from this vân bảng.
Below is a delightful poetic exchange that involves Thầy
Tuệ Sỹ, poet Bùi Giáng and Nun Trí Hải.
Around 1970, one day Thầy Tuệ Sỹ read two lines of
Chinese poetry to Bùi Giáng and asked him to complete it
into a quatrain.
Thâm dạ phong phiêu nghiệp ảnh tùy,
Hiện tiền vi liễu lạc hoa phi
Deep in the night, the wind flits about, playing with the
shadows of karma,
The willow flowers fall and drift in front of the face.
These two lines hold a profound meaning. While the night
wind stirs the leaves and plays with their shadows, Thầy
speaks of it playing with the shadows of karma. As for the
willow flowers, symbols of prosperity, Thầy portrays them
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
264
falling and drifting before our eyes, as if to ask, “Can
anyone grasp such fleeting things?”
I translated into Vietnamese poetry:
Gió đêm thổi, giỡn đùa bóng nghiệp,
Hoa liễu rơi, lạc trước lông mày
The night wind blows, playing with the shadows of karma,
Willow flowers fall, drifting before the eyes.
After hearing these two lines, Bùi Giáng teased him: “Why
don’t you ask Nun Trí Hải (who was then the Chief
Librarian of Vạn Hạnh University) to help you?”
Thầy bashfully said, “Don’t make fun like that” (quoted
from Bùi Giáng’s account).
Bùi Giáng then took a piece of paper and wrote:
Phiêu bồng tâm sự tân toan lệ,
Trí Hải đa tàm trúc loạn ty.
The first line of Bùi Giáng’s poem means that a person with
wandering thoughts shed bitter tears.
In the second line,
(1) if we understand tàm,
蠶
, as a silkworm, then here it
means eyebrows, đa tàm means thick eyebrows. Silkworm
eyebrows (mày ngài, in Vietnamese), are often used to
describe the beauty of a woman’s face, but the great poet
Nguyễn Du in The Tale of Kiều described both men and
women as having silkworm eyebrows (verse 927
describing a prostitute: bên thì mấy ả mày ngài and verse
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
265
1267 describing Từ Hải: râu hùm, hàm én, mày ngài). So,
this line means that looking at Nun Trí Hải’s thick
eyebrows, the zither strings are tangled and cannot be
played (trúc loạn ty = tangled bamboo strings, the poem
does not mention the zither, the reader must understand
implicitly). In his book Đi vào cõi thơ (Entering the realm
of poetry), Ca Dao published in 1969, Bùi Giáng confirms
that he wrote Trí Hải in capitals.
(2) If we understand tàm,
慙
, as shame, then the second line
has a different meaning, as trí hải means sea of wisdom:
Because of being ashamed of the vast sea of wisdom of the
world, the zither strings are tangled and cannot be played.
I choose the second meaning to translate because such a
playful story is interesting, but one must know when to
stop:
Tâm sự chơi vơi, cay nước mắt
Thẹn vì biển trí, trúc rối dây.
Wandering thoughts bring forth bitter tears,
As shame of the vast sea of wisdom fills my heart, the
zither strings are tangled.
So, this is the quatrain, composed by two young
Vietnamese great poets, at that time (1969) Thầy was 24
years old, and Bùi Giáng was 33 years old:
Thâm dạ phong phiêu nghiệp ảnh tùy,
Hiện tiền vi liễu lạc hoa phi.
Phiêu bồng tâm sự tân toan lệ,
Trí hải đa tàm trúc loạn ty.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
266
Let me rewrite this poem in Traditional Chinese:
深夜風飄業影隨
眼前为柳落花飛
飄蓬心事添愁淚
智海多慙竹亂絲
Below are my translations.
Gió đêm thổi, giỡn đùa bóng nghiệp,
Hoa liễu rơi, lạc trước lông mày.
Tâm sự chơi vơi, cay nước mắt,
Thẹn vì biển trí, trúc rối dây.
The night wind blows, playing with the shadows of karma,
Willow flowers fall, drifting before the eyes.
Wandering thoughts bring forth bitter tears,
As shame of the vast sea of wisdom fills my heart, the
zither strings are tangled.
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267
12. Ngọ thụy
午睡
睡回午雨思輊堙
想個寒風拂面前
庭樹黄花成幻事
曲肱安枕抱孤眠
Ngọ thụy
Thụy hồi ngọ vũ tứ khinh yên
Tưởng cá hàn phong phất diện tiền
Đình thọ hoàng hoa thành huyễn sự
Khúc quăng an chẩm bảo cô miên.
Ngủ trưa
Tỉnh giấc ngủ trưa, mưa như khói,
Tưởng như gió lạnh thổi phất phơ.
Hoa vàng sân trước huyễn mơ,
Gác tay làm gối, thẫn thờ cô miên.
Afternoon nap
A drizzle woke me from an afternoon nap,
A cool breeze lightly caressing my face.
The yellow plum blossoms in the front yard were nothing
but an illusion,
Resting my head on my elbow, I drifted back to slumber.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
268
Explanation
The words
孤眠
(cô miên) in the poem, according to the
New Sino-Vietnamese Dictionary by scholar Nguyễn Quốc
Hùng, published by Khai Trí in 1971, have two meanings:
(1) to sleep alone, and (2) the state of immobility of insects
during molting or of animals during hibernation. Both these
meanings are applicable to this poem, so I kept the original
cô miên in my Vietnamese translation. In the English
translation, instead of sleep, I choose slumber, as this word
also has two meanings: sleep and hibernation. Hibernation
is a way for many creatures like butterflies, bats, bears, etc.,
to survive the cold winter without needing to forage for
food or migrate to warmer places. Instead, when
hibernating, they reduce their metabolic rate to conserve
energy. Bears, in particular, don’t sleep for the entire six or
seven months of winter, but they still conserve energy by
lying still, not eating or drinking, and rarely urinating or
defecating.
The third line
庭樹黄花成幻事
(Đình thọ hoàng hoa thành
huyễn sự, the yellow plum blossoms in the front yard are
nothing but an illusion) reminds me of the last line of a very
famous poem, and also the only one, by the Vietnamese
Zen Master Mãn Giác (1052–1096). He once served as a
high-ranking official under Kings Lý Thánh Tông and Lý
Nhân Tông but later resigned to become a monk. On
October 17, 1096, at the age of only 45, he sat in the lotus
position, called the congregation together, recited the
following poem, and then passed away.
Xuân khứ bách hoa lạc
Xuân đáo bách hoa khai
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
269
Sự trục nhãn tiên quá
Lão tòng đầu thượng lai
Mạc vị xuân tàn hoa lạc tận
Đình tiền tạc dạ nhất chi mai
Spring passes, a hundred flowers fall
Spring comes, a hundred flowers smile
Before our eyes, tasks go on endlessly
Above our heads, old age arrives
Don’t think that when spring ends, all flowers fall
Last night, a yellow plum blossom bloomed in the front
yard.
Poet Ngô Tất Tố (1893–1954) translated to Vietnamese:
Xuân qua trăm hoa rụng
Xuân tới trăm hoa cười
Trước mắt việc đi mãi
Trên đầu già đến rồi
Đừng tưởng xuân tàn hoa rụng hết
Đêm qua sân trước nở nhành mai.
The first four lines depict the cyclical nature of life and the
impermanence of all things. Just as the seasons change and
flowers bloom and wither, so too do our lives. The last two
lines introduce a contrasting idea: amidst this constant
change and decay, there is an underlying unchanging truth
– the nothingness (Śūnyatā) as taught in Buddhism.
In the fourth line of Thầy’s poem,
曲肱安枕
(khúc quăng an
chẩm, resting my head on my elbow) refers to the sleeping
posture of the Buddha: lying on his right side, with his left
arm extended alongside his body and his right arm serving
as a pillow for his head.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
270
13. Tự vấn
自問
問余何故坐牢籠
余指輕煙絆獄穹
心境相持驚旅梦
故敎珈鎖面虚隅
Tự vấn
Vấn dư hà cố tọa lao lung
Dư chỉ khinh yên bán ngục khung
Tâm cảnh tương trì kinh lữ mộng
Cố giao già tỏa diện hư ngung.
Tự hỏi
Nhà tù hay cõi âm ty?
Tường cao, xích sắt làm gì được mây?
Cảnh, tâm: ác mộng đêm ngày
Gông xiềng như ảo, lời thầy không quên.
Self-reflection
On self-reflection, I asked: “Am I in jail?”,
Can prison bars confine a thin veil of smoke on the window
frame?
Mind and scene intertwine, resulting in terrifying travel
dreams,
But drawing on ancient teachings, these shackles are mere
illusion.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
271
Explanation
The second verse,
余指輕煙絆獄穹
(Dư chỉ khinh yên bán
ngục khung, who can detain a thin veil of smoke on the
prison window frame?), is a bold and unwavering
declaration by Thầy, equivalent to his saying “You have no
right to detain me, neither do you have the right to pardon
me” when the communist prison officers wanted him to
sign the plea for pardon.
The third line of the poem,
心境相持驚旅梦
(Tâm cảnh
tương trì kinh lữ mộng, mind and scene intertwine,
resulting in terrifying travel dreams) paints a picture of a
human facing the harsh realities of confinement, and
unimaginably inhuman tortures in a communist prison.
Even though the poem expresses distress, it also indirectly
reveals his resilience. This verse refers to mind and scene
in ancient teachings, as in the following verse by Tuệ Trung
Thượng Sĩ.
無常諸法行
心疑罪便生
本來無一物
非種亦非萌
日日薱境時
景景從心出
心境本來無
處處巴羅密
Vô thường chư pháp hành
Tâm nghi tội tiện sinh
Bản lai vô nhất vật
Phi chủng diệc phi manh
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
272
Nhật nhật đối cảnh thời
Cảnh cảnh tòng tâm xuất
Tâm cảnh bản lai vô
Xứ xứ ba la mật.
All dharmas are impermanent.
Doubtful minds give rise to sin.
There has never been a single thing:
Neither seed nor sprout.
Daily, when facing a scene,
The scene is born from the mind.
Mind and scene are originally nothing.
Everywhere, nirvana is spontaneously completed.
According to the poem above, when facing a scene, we
should understand that the scene is born from the mind and
our experiences are a reflection of our minds. When we
realize the true nature of reality, which is devoid of inherent
existence, we achieve enlightenment. In this enlightened
state, all suffering, including our deepest fears and the
constraints we feel, is seen as illusory. Therefore, we can
strive towards nirvana, or the ultimate goal. At that point,
not only nightmares are unreal, but also shackles are unreal.
In Thầy’s poem, in the last two words
虚隅
(hư ngung),
虚
(hư) means empty or void, like an illusion or nothingness;
while
隅
(ngung) means corner or angle. Therefore,
虚隅
(hư ngung) can be understood as an empty corner of a
prison or, more metaphorically, as a void aspect, similar to
nothingness. The latter interpretation might be more fitting,
considering that shackles are worn on a prisoner’s hands
and feet, not placed in a corner.
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273
14. Bán niên tù
半年囚
別世封関近半年
丹砂現鬼誤神仙
青鬚
42
不断磨紅掌
傾倒南山怪老夫
Bán niên tù
Biệt thế phong quan cận bán niên
Đan sa hiện quỷ ngộ thần tiên
Thanh tu bất đoạn ma hồng chưởng
Khuynh đảo nam sơn quái lão thiên.
Nửa năm tù
Nửa năm đóng cửa lánh đời
Đan sa hóa quỷ hại người cõi tiên
Nắm râu xanh kéo liên miên
Núi nam sụp đổ, lão thiên kinh hoàng.
42
鬚
(beard, râu cằm), containing
毛
(hair) and
多
(many), suggests
abundance of hair. Beards were seen as a symbol of personal integrity
and honor in ancient Chinese culture. To have one’s beard pulled was
a grave humiliation and to have it cut off was a grave punishment.
In mythology, mountains are believed to be inhabited by gods and
spirits. These beings are often depicted with beards, linking facial hair
to the mountainous realm. Therefore, when the fairies had their beards
pulled, hen the fairies had their beards pulled, the southern peak
crumbled and the old God plunged into despair.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
274
Half-year imprisonment
Half a year waned from life, behind closed doors,
Cinnabar-turned fiends taunted the helpless fairies:
Their red hands relentlessly tore the fairies’ azure beards,
Crumbling the southern peak, to the old God’s despair.
Explanation
Cinnabar is a mineral. In traditional Chinese medicine, it
was believed to have cooling and sedative properties, used
to treat insomnia, sore throat, and mouth ulcers. It was also
applied topically to treat skin infections. The ancient
Chinese believed that cinnabar was the primary ingredient
in an elixir of immortality. However, the main components
of cinnabar are mercury and sulfur, which can be fatal if
consumed over a long period. Many Chinese emperors,
seeking eternal life, consumed large amounts of cinnabar
and died from mercury poisoning.
This poem was written after the author had spent six
months in prison, at the end of 1981. In this short time, he
observed that outside the prison walls, cinnabar had
transformed into a demon, harming deities and causing
great upheaval. Therefore, in this poem, cinnabar simply is
a metaphorical representation as a destructive evil force.
Thầy had a treatise on demons. The following excerpt from
his work Một tấm lòng của Kinh Kha (A heart as resolute
as Jing Ke) reveals his views on the use of poetry as a form
of magic. He wrote:
Using poetry as a magical technique is not merely a skill.
Behind the illusion of words, there lies a hidden world
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
275
of dreams and solitude. To truly understand the depths
of this world, we cannot rely solely on curiosity; we
must approach it with a deep-seated yearning, driven by
the very essence of human existence. For instance, when
Nguyễn Du wrote Văn tế thập loại chúng sinh (Lament
for ten types of beings), could we not perceive his
profound sorrow? Or perhaps, discern the societal
context that gave rise to such sorrow?
Trong trường dạ tối tăm trời đất
Xót khôn thiêng phảng phất u minh
Thương thay thập loại chúng sinh
Phách đơn hồn chiếc lênh đênh quê người
Hương khói đã không nơi nương tựa
Phận mồ côi lần lữa đêm đêm
Còn chi ai khá ai hèn
Còn chi mà nói ai hiền ai ngu
In the immense darkness of the universe,
Sacred souls wander aimlessly in the netherworld.
Pity all ten types of beings,
Adrift and alone in the foreign land.
Finding no solace without incense and prayers,
Orphaned spirits roam night after night.
Does it matter who is noble or lowly,
Wise or foolish, in this world of suffering?
Certainly, those words are not the self-confessions of a
ghost. They are, in fact, the sorrowful laments of a
human being, facing the harsh reality of exile, a journey
limited to the span between life and death. Living and
dying in absolute and eternal solitude; with one’s
homeland echoing mournfully in the underworld, in the
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
276
long, dark night. So, what kind of words could truly be
called the words of a ghost?
A story told by Su Dongpo: the son of Li Dao, the
prefect of Xuzhou, at the age of 17 or 18, originally did
not know how to write poetry. Suddenly, he composed
a poem about falling flowers, saying:
流水難窮目
斜陽易斷腸
誰同砑光帽
一曲舞山香
Lưu thủy nan cùng mục
Tà dương dị đoạn trường
Thùy đồng nha quang mạo
Nhất khúc “Vũ sơn hương”.
Nước cuộn mòn con mắt
Tà dương lắm đọa đày
Chao ôi hương phấn rã
Chưa dứt một bài ca
Swirling water erodes the eyes
The setting sun, a tormenting flight
Alas, the make-up has worn out
When the song is not yet finished
The story goes that after hearing his son read this poem,
the father was startled and asked where it came from.
And thus, he learned this story:
In a banquet hosted by the Queen Mother of the
Heavenly West, a dancer sang and danced wearing a hat,
with flowers pinned to the hat. But before the song
舞山
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277
香
(Vũ Sơn Hương, mountain fragrance dance) was
finished, all the flowers had fallen.
The inspiration of a person who does not know how to
write poetry, or does not care for poetry, but who
expresses a deeply sorrowful and passionate mood; that
alone is perhaps enough to say that these are truly the
words of a ghost. If so, the torment of the ghost is also
the torment of a human; it is the suffering before the
sight of flowing water and the setting sun…
Human life, viewed through a certain realistic lens, can
be a romantic and tragic image, like a traveler walking
in the autumn wind; of a passionate flame that burns
forever and fades forever into voidness. The same life,
in the eyes of dark mystery, can be the innocent songs
of an ethnic woman on vast, desolate mountains, amidst
a vast expanse of green wilderness dotted with blood-
red flowers as bright as tears. Blood of hatred and tears
of love; these are the crystals of a demon. That hatred is
truly meaningless and illogical. Because dreams are too
far away, unrealistic, and it is difficult to hide what
people call boundless, unforgivable arrogance.
Therefore, those tears are also just a sign of meaningless
torment. People choose their destiny with their dreams.
When destiny comes knocking, blood is not enough to
wash away hatred and tears are not enough to sweeten
the essence of love:
秋雨晴時淚不晴
(Su Dongpo)
Thu vũ tình thời lệ bất tình
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
278
The autumn rain has stopped, but the tears do not dry up.
The sound of a ghost is like that.
Or differently, like Nguyễn Du’s lament in Văn tế thập
loại chúng sinh (Lament for ten types of beings):
Giàu sang càng nặng oán thù
Máu tươi lai láng xương khô rã rời
Đoàn vô tự lạc loài nheo nhóc
Quỉ không đầu kêu khóc đêm mưa
Đã hay thành bại là cơ
Mà u hồn biết bao giờ cho tan?
Wealth and power only increase resentment,
Fresh blood flows profusely, and dry bones fall apart.
Heirless souls wander aimlessly,
Headless ghosts cry in the night rain.
It is known that success and failure are fate,
But how long will the ghosts wander?
The soul does not dissipate, because resentment is
buried deep in a dark tomb; because the blood has not
yet dried to become dust. Li He’s 43 ghost poetry
sometimes echoes with a fishy smell.
43 Li He (790–816) was a Chinese poet in the Tang dynasty. His
poems famously explored ghostly, supernatural and fantastic themes.
Among Thầy’s posthumous works, there is an incomplete book titled
Lý Hẹ: Bàn tay của quỷ (Li He: The devil’s hand), found at the Hải
Đức Buddhist Institute. In one chapter, he writes: “Perhaps, this
devilish talent can be understood as a bizarre genius whose language
is used at a level of magic and deceit. It’s an innate quality, filled with
surreal imaginations. Using poetry as a magical technique is not
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
279
It is the drop of hatred’s blood from a soul torn apart in
the autumn wind, withered by the aimlessly drifting
yellow leaves. The autumn wind blows through the
Chinese parasol tree, the young man is startled and
bitter. The gentle, desolate autumn wind is not strong
enough to create storms and landslides; but it consumes
the mind, turns the hair of youth gray, amidst the cold
chirping of crickets and the flickering light of a lamp. A
head of green hair bows over the book, allowing
bookworms to draw ephemeral flowers of dreams and
heartbreak. In the dim light, dreams flutter, stretching
the intestines. Cold rain, the ghost weeps for the literary
guest. On the autumn mound, the golden leaves pile up
into the tomb of autumn, the ghost sings a poem in a
fishy voice. Thousands of years of hatred become jade
beads in the earth.
Is this a ghost poem with the wild emotions of a ghost?
No! That’s an autumn of Li He.
A Bodhisattva’s heart is needed to declare that, not only
human beings, ghosts also suffer. It implies that true
understanding and compassion can extend beyond human
limitations and encompass all beings, regardless of their
form or existence.
merely a skill. Behind the illusory words and phrases lies an illusory
world; a world of dreams and solitude, perhaps. What lies at the very
depths of that world? We may not be able to reach it merely out of
curiosity, but only through the heartfelt calls of human destiny”.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
280
15. Mộng khứ mộng lai
夢去夢来
半年禁固夢烕絲
踏遍江湖放任煽
夢去夢来身外物
夢残呆坐撥長眉
Mộng khứ mộng lai
Bán niên cấm cố mộng thành ty
Đạp biến giang hồ phóng nhiệm qui
Mộng khứ mộng lai thân ngoại vật
Mộng tàn ngốc tọa bát trường mi.
Mộng đến mộng đi
Nửa năm tù mộng như tơ,
Giang hồ dẫm khắp, cõi mơ mặc lòng.
Trong mộng, thân ở ngoài song,
Tỉnh mộng, ngồi vuốt mày cong thẫn thờ.
Dream after dream
Half a year in solitary confinement spun my dreams into
intricate webs,
Where I had reached far and wide, crisscrossing the land,
unrestrained and carefree.
Dream after dream, my spirit soared beyond these prison
walls,
Awakened, I sat in stunned silence, stroking my long
brows.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
281
Explanation
Thầy’s dreamscape reflects the celestial realms of distant
dreams he penned in his 1973 work, Tô Đông Pha: Những
phương trời viễn mộng (Su Dongpo: Celestial realms of
distant dreams).
Su Dongpo’s life bears striking similarities to Thầy’s as
both were renowned scholars, both staunchly opposed
tyranny, and both faced imprisonment.
What’s truly remarkable is that the distant celestial realms
Thầy depicted in Su Dongpo’s life are, in essence,
reflections of his own experiences. To demonstrate this,
let’s explore five key periods in Su Dongpo’s life, drawing
from excerpts of Thầy’s work:
(1) When Su Dongpo was an official in Fuxian County,
Henan Province:
In a foreign land, one always senses the presence of their
homeland; the sky of one’s homeland echoes with
history. Homesickness and the feelings of a stranger are
but the long notes of history … The hidden and the
revealed emotions in each poem share a common
sorrow. This sorrow is temporarily wrapped up in the
misty, dreamlike skies of one’s homeland.
This is the feelings Thầy described in Hận thu cao (Rising
autumnal sorrow, page 39) when he left Vạn Hạnh
University to go to Nha Trang.
(2) When Su nearly faced execution, he was merely exiled
to Huangzhou:
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282
Even in autumn, there are rain and wind, and floods. So,
the tranquil sadness of the sky is also the tumultuous
sadness of the earth.
Thầy also escaped execution and was exiled to Ba Sao
prison in Nam Hà province, northernmost point of
Vietnam. Although Su was free while Thầy was
incarcerated, their sentiments share a striking resemblance.
(3) When Su lived in poverty in Huangzhou:
On one hand, Lushan is hidden amidst clouds and mist,
harboring mankind’s deepest aspirations. On the other
hand, the floodwaters of a ruined nation, carrying the
once-mighty heroes, are swept away into the vast,
unknowable ocean.
Similarly, Thầy spent three years living in Vạn Giã forest
in a thatched hut he built himself. “There was nothing there
at night except a flickering oil lamp in the hut and the
endless darkness of the vast mountains and forests”.
(4) When Su was appointed as a Hanlin Academician:
Whether one rises or falls in life, it does not create
poetry, nor does it build a poetic realm. It is not through
the descent from the pinnacle of power to the depths of
poverty that the poetic sky expands. Poetry is like a lost
wild goose seeking its homeland across mountains and
rivers, and that homeland continues to echo in a silent,
spaceless melody.
Similarly, Thầy was appointed professor at Vạn Hạnh
University when he was only 25 years old. His book Tô
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283
Đông Pha: Những phương trời viễn mộng (Su Dongpo:
Celestial realms of distant dreams), despite being written
in prose, is fundamentally a poetry collection.
(5) When Su was exiled to Hainan Island:
Wulao Peak had once welcomed him in his time of
wealth and fame, and the cascading waterfalls had once
proudly served his talents. Now, from afar, Lushan
appears as a distorted, tormented vision … The azure of
Mount Emei, the color of the sky that echoed the
homeland of old. In those days, the azure Mount Emei
against the sky was the warm affection of home. But
now, a mere glimpse of that color in a dream is enough
to cause countless heartbreaks.
Similarly, Thầy regarded his time after the release from Ba
Sao prison is a form of exile in his homeland. This final
excerpt reveals a profound sense of nostalgia and loss
shared by both Su Dongpo and Thầy.
Importantly, although their circumstances were similar, Su
Dongpo’s sentiments differed markedly from Thầy’s.
When he was imprisoned in 1080, Su Dongpo sent two
poems to his brother Su Zhe. This is the first poem:
聖主如天萬物春
小臣愚暗自亡身
百年未滿先償債
十口無歸更累人
是處青山可埋骨
他年夜雨獨傷神
與君世世為兄弟
又結來生未了因
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Thánh chủ như thiên vạn vật xuân
Tiểu thần ngu ám tự vong thân
Bách niên vị mãn tiên thường trái
Thập khẩu vô quy cánh lũy nhân
Thị xứ thanh sơn khả mai cốt
Tha niên dạ vũ độc thương thần
Dữ quân thế thế vi huynh đệ
Hựu kết lai sinh vị liễu nhân.
The benevolent king is like heaven and earth, bringing
spring to all things
The petty officials, ignorant and blind, harm themselves
Not yet a hundred years old, I already repay my life’s debt
Leaving behind ten mouths to feed, without a home to
return to, making their lives even harder
This green mountain may be my burial place
Next year, in night rains, my lonely soul will feel the cold
I vow to be brothers with you in life after life
May this bond continue in the next life.
The poem is filled with sorrow and resentment. The
sentiments are complex, criticizing the officials but
praising the benevolent king, even though Chancellor
Wang Anshi was appointed by Emperor Shenzong of Song.
The poem’s poignancy is heightened by the heart-
wrenching fear of dying young and leaving ten dependents
with no means of support. But the part where he wishes to
be brothers with Su Zhe in life after life is really moving.
Unlike Su Dongpo, through all 18 poems in this
Somniloquies in prison volume, Thầy was full of
compassion, harboring no resentment towards those who
imprisoned him, nor was he filled with fear.
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16. Tự thuật
自述
三十年前學苦空
經函堆絫暗西窗
春花不顧春光老
翠竹斜飛翠夢魂
荏苒長眉垂壞案
蹉跎素髮絆殘風
一朝撒手懸崖下
始把真空對墜紅
Tự thuật
Tam thập niên tiền học khổ không
Kinh hàm đôi lũy ám tây song
Xuân hoa bất cố xuân quang lão
Thúy trúc tà phi thúy mộng hồn
Nhẫm nhiễm trường mi thùy hoại án
Sa đà tố phát bạn tàn phong
Nhất triêu tán thủ huyền nhai hạ
Thủy bả chân không đối trụy hồng.
Tự thuật
Đời là bể khổ, pháp là không
Ba mươi năm học, sách chất chồng
Hoa xuân chẳng ngó, xuân tàn úa
Trúc biếc bay ngang, biếc mộng lòng
Mày dài thấm thoát rủ án hỏng
Tóc bạc dần dà vướng gió rung
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286
Một sáng thõng tay nơi vách núi,
Nhặt cánh hồng rơi giữa cõi không. 44
Autobiography
I’ve embarked on the study in the last thirty years that life
is a sea of suffering, and all dharma are empty,
Stacks of sutra books piled up by the west window.
The spring, saddened by its unnoticed blossoming spring
flowers, withers.
My verdant spirit, burdened by the verdant, swaying
bamboo leaves, suffers.
My eyebrows have quickly grown long, drooping over the
wrecked bench.
44 In my first edition of this book, the Sino-Vietnamese transcription
of this poem was Thầy’s original work that he created in prison, but
the Chinese transcription was the updated version he modified himself
after his release. For consistency, this edition only utilizes the
modified version.
The last word
紅
(hồng, red) in this poem means a rose in this version.
The falling rose here could be the falling flower Thầy refers to in his
Su Dongpo book: “Practicing Zen for thirty years, torturing body and
mind for thirty years, yet without success. Feeling resentful, I gave
up; suddenly seeing a flower falling, the state of nothingness was
suddenly revealed”.
But in the original version, it refers to the Communists. Below are its
last two verses:
一朝撒手懸崖下
始把真空對墜紅
Nhất triêu cước lạc huyền nhai hạ
Thủy bả chân không đối tịch hồng.
Một sáng hụt chân nơi vách đá
Nhờ nắm Chân Không thoát đêm hồng
Having misstepped on the cliff’s edge one morning,
Clinging to emptiness, I escaped the nights living beneath the red flag.
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287
My hair has slowly turned gray, entangled with the
withering winds.
Holding the emptiness while on a cliff one morning,
I picked up a falling rose petal amidst the sky of the void.
Explanation
The first line,
三十年前學苦空
(Tam thập niên tiền học khổ
không) literally means in the last thirty years I’ve studied
suffering and emptiness (ba mươi năm trước học khổ
không), but I believe such a translation fails to help readers
understand what suffering (khổ) and emptiness (không)
mean. Suffering (khổ) comes from the phrase life is a sea
of suffering (đời là bể khổ) and emptiness (không) from all
dharma are empty (vạn pháp giai không). So,
I’ve embarked on the study in the last thirty years that life
is a sea of suffering, and all dharma are empty,
Stacks of sutra books piled up by the west window.
Đời là bể khổ, pháp là không
Ba mươi năm học, sách chất chồng
In the third line, Thầy twice repeats the word
春
(xuân,
spring) and also
翠
(biếc, verdant) twice in the fourth line.
春花不顧春光老
翠竹斜飛翠夢魂
Xuân hoa bất cố xuân quang lão
Thúy trúc tà phi thúy mộng hồn
Hoa xuân chẳng ngó, xuân tàn úa
Trúc biếc bay ngang, biếc mộng lòng
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288
The spring withers, saddened by its unnoticed blossoming
spring flowers.
My verdant spirit suffers, intoxicated by the verdant,
swaying bamboo leaves.
As you may have observed, both my Vietnamese and
English translations maintain the symmetrical and
recurrent hallmarks of Tang poetry.
In the last line, a falling rose petal represents the
impermanence in contrast with the poet’s no-mind state,
represented by the sky of the void.
Naturally, eight lines of Tang poetry, with only 56 words,
cannot fully encapsulate Thầy’s life and experiences.
Therefore, let us turn to the accounts of those who were
fortunate enough to have known him personally.
The following is excerpted from the essay Thượng tọa Tuệ
Sỹ, Trí Siêu, những thiên tài lỗi lạc (Most Venerables Tuệ
Sỹ, Trí Siêu, outstanding geniuses), written by his former
student Most Venerable Thích Nguyên Siêu:
Thầy single-handedly shattered the foundations of the
philosophy of Śūnyatā, unearthing and presenting the
deepest values of Mādhyamaka (Middle Way) thought.
For all the works composed and translated by these
ancestors were like bedside books to Thầy, and as for
the Tripitaka and the Great Collection, there was no
volume he had not perused.
Having studied under Thầy and subsequently worked
with him on translating the Mādhyama Agama, the
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289
Dhammapada, and collections of Nikāya Agamas, from
1975–1977 at the Hải Đức College in Nha Trang and
from 1980–1984 at the Quảng Hương Già Lam
Monastery, which also housed the Vạn Hạnh Library, I
was able to witness firsthand Thầy’s extraordinary
abilities and memory. Of the Sūtras, Vinaya,
Abhidharma, and the entire Tripitaka, he seemed to
know by heart from some past life. Perhaps in countless
lives of endless birth and death, he had been a Zen
master, dharma master, and Abhidharma master, for
whenever I asked about numerical formulas, sūtra
meanings, or Abhidharma interpretations in the Great
Collection, he could immediately turn to the correct
page, volume, and line. Working alongside Thầy, I came
to understand his diligence, unwavering determination,
and self-reliance in building himself up.
At almost any given moment, Thầy was studying,
researching, pondering, reading scriptures, poetry, the
Classic of Poetry, the Classic of Changes, philosophy,
and literature. He also taught himself music: the piano
and violin. He practiced writing Chinese characters,
particularly the cursive script of Wang Xizhi, and read
the poetry of Li Bai, Du Fu, and Su Shi. Thầy lived a
simple, pure life, spending his days and nights immersed
in the worlds of spirituality, thought, philosophy, poetry,
language, and had no time to consider the clothing or
appearance of others. Thus, he was always dressed in a
simple, four-flap, faded robe that reached below the
knees, whether teaching or going out. Though small in
stature, his mind was vast and brilliantly gifted.
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The following excerpt is from an essay by professor Phạm
Công Thiện, a fellow faculty member with Thầy at Vạn
Hạnh University, entitled Buổi chiều nắng hạ đọc thơ Tuệ
Sỹ (A summer afternoon reading Tuệ Sỹ’s poetry):
All ordinary political actions are biased; a
comprehensive political consciousness is only expressed
in a person who is both a poet, a Zen master, and a
worldly activist with the “skillful means” spirit of a
Bodhisattva. Such a person engages in vigorous and
thorough actions while maintaining a sense of
detachment and idealism. It is because of their lack of
selfish and blind ambitions that they cultivate a sense of
detachment, and because they are not trapped by the
worldly desires, anger, and ignorance that they cultivate
idealism. To engage in politics while knowing how to
dream and live poetically, and to maintain detachment
and idealism, is very rare in the harsh reality of our
homeland today.
From Most Venerable Thích Phước An, who has lived with
Thầy Tuệ Sỹ in his thatched hut, nestled deep within the
Vạn Giã forest, the following excerpt is from Theo Quách
Tấn 45 tìm về núi cũ xem mai nở (Following Quách Tấn to
return to the old mountain to see the plum blossoms):
In the final months of 1975, and continuing through
1976 and 1977, as far as I know, those were the saddest
45 Quách Tấn (1910–1992) was a distinguished poet whose poetic
journey began in 1939 with his Tang-style masterpiece Một tấm lòng
(A heartfelt sentiment). Known for his meticulous craftsmanship,
Quách Tấn produced a limited yet highly refined body of work.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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years of Quách Tấn’ s life. Old friends, some had passed
away, while others who remained were afraid of “walls
have ears” and few dared to visit to chat or confide, even
though there was so much to talk about.
At that time, Tuệ Sỹ was still in Nha Trang, and the
temple had nothing much to do, so Tuệ Sỹ and I often
went down to visit Quách Tấn, and occasionally he
would also come up to the temple to visit us. Even
though Tuệ Sỹ was much younger than Quách Tấn,
Quách Tấn always had a deep respect for Tuệ Sỹ’s
abilities and, above all, his integrity.
When discussing the two works written about Su
Dongpo, one by Nguyễn Hiến Lê 46 and the other by
46 Professor Nguyễn Hiến Lê (1912–1984) was a scholar, writer,
translator and educator. He published 120 works across various
genres, the vast majority of which were before the fall of Saigon.
Below is an excerpt he writes in the updated Introduction section to
his book Tô Đông Pha (Su Dongpo):
Just a few days ago, due to the sudden change in weather, as soon
as I turned on the light to eat dinner, a swarm of termites flew in. I
had to turn off the light and go outside to eat dinner in the dark (in
Long Xuyên). Then, late at night, the frogs croaked loudly outside
my room, so I had to get up, find a sleeping pill, and think back to
the time when he was exiled to Hainan Island. Despite living in
extreme poverty, he was still cheerful and full of humor. In every
aspect, he deserved to be my teacher…
In 1974, I revised my book Su Dongpo, adding a few sections
(including one about the West Lake scene). Before Cảo Thơm
Publishing could reprint it, Saigon was liberated, and the press had
to close. Some resistance fighter friends really enjoyed that book.
The way professor Nguyễn Hiến Lê uses language in this updated
Introduction clearly reflects his political views.
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292
Thầy Tuệ Sỹ, poet Quách Tấn said, “Nguyễn Hiến Lê
has only looked at Lushan from a distance, while Tuệ Sỹ
has truly entered its depths” …
Perhaps unable to bear the stifling atmosphere of the
city, Tuệ Sỹ went to work on a farm in a remote forest
in Vạn Giã town, about sixty kilometers from Nha
Trang. Most of the poems expressing his own
melancholy and concerns for his homeland were written
in this secluded mountainous area.
- Sài Gòn được giải phóng (Saigon was liberated): Using “liberated”
in this context can be interpreted as adopting the regime’s own
language and potentially downplaying the violence and upheaval
experienced by many during this period.
- Bạn kháng chiến (Resistance fighter friends): This term means he
called those who participated in the war against the South Vietnam
government as his friends. It shows his respect and empathy for them.
While Thầy Tuệ Sỹ and millions of others suffered persecution,
professor Nguyễn sought collaboration with the communist regime.
He was evidently ignorant of the lies and fundamental flaws of
Communism.
It wasn’t until five years later that he admitted in his memoirs the
failure of the ruling regime. He considered the regime’s biggest failure
to be its inability to unite the nation. The second point was that society
had become more unjust than before. Third, there was a lack of
responsibility and excessive factionalism, leading to a lack of
discipline, disobedience, and chaos. Fourth was the collapse of the
economy. Finally, society had become degenerate: Cadres were
corrupt and engaged in theft. In such a society, he admitted, people
easily lose their humanity, becoming vile, greedy, immoral, and
deceitful, devoid of any human compassion.
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17. Nhất bôi thanh thủy
一杯清水
自隱孤峰不味茶
清心清水玩空花
希夷人影風塵外
托夢蒼蒼望紫霞
Nhất bôi thanh thủy
Tự ẩn cô phong bất vị trà
Thanh tâm thanh thủy ngoạn không hoa
Hi di nhân ảnh phong trần ngoại
Thác mộng thương thương vọng tử hà.
Một chén nước trong
Không trà, khi ở trên non,
Lòng trong, chỉ uống nước trong như lòng.
Thưởng ngoạn hoa đốm hư không,
Xa xa thấp thoáng ngoài song bóng người.
Vén mây gởi mộng lên trời,
Trời xanh, ngóng đợi ráng chiều tím than.
A cup of clear water
Not a drop of tea taken since seeking refuge on this lonely
mountain,
With a heart serene and water clear, I watched flowers in
the void.
As a looming shadow appeared in the dusty distance,
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Entrusting dreams to the vast azure sky, yearning for a
glimpse of violet clouds.
Explanation
In the second verse, Thầy uses the term
空花
(không hoa).
These are the flashes of light or other visual sensations,
such as either black and white or colorful dancing patterns,
that occur without external light stimulation we see when
we press on our eyes. Buddhism likens these fleeting,
illusory phenomena to “flowers in the void”, emphasizing
their impermanence and lack of inherent substance.
The Diamond Sūtra (kinh Kim Cương, in Vietnamese)
further elaborates on this concept, urging us to view all
conditioned phenomena – everything that arises due to
causes and conditions – as illusory as dreams, bubbles,
shadows or flowers in the void. They are merely temporary
manifestations and lack any enduring, substantial self.
Nhất thiết hữu vi pháp,
Như mộng ảo bào ảnh,
Như lộ diệc như điển,
Ưng tác như thị quán.
All conditioned dharmas
Are like dreams, illusions, bubbles, shadows,
Like dew drops and a lightning flash:
Contemplate them thus.
In the final verse, the violet clouds Thầy wishes to see can
symbolize his spiritual aspirations, dreams, or the divine.
The author, living in the prison cell, consigns his dreams in
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the sky as he is relying on dreams to connect with the world
beyond the prison wall.
In the essay Truy tìm tự ngã (Searching for the Self) in the
Pháp luân (Dharma wheel) magazine, issue 60, Thầy
explains why the self does not exist. The beauty of this
essay is that Thầy begins by assuming that everything has
a self, then explains the common perception of why this
self seems to exist, and then refutes it by arguing that it is
a construct, shaped by experiences, language, and cultural
conditioning, proving that it ultimately does not exist.
The scripture says: “All conditioned phenomena are like
dreams, illusions, etc.”. This is to say about the doctrine
of nothingness and no-Self through direct experience or
realization. …
Buddhism teaches that there are good and bad actions,
and corresponding good and bad results, but there is no
doer and since there is no doer, there is no person to
receive the consequences of their actions. This is very
difficult to understand.
We should start with the easy and move on to the
difficult. The easy thing to understand is that everything
has a self: I walk, I stand, I eat, I sleep, etc. But when a
person sleeps without dreaming, it seems that this self
disappears. Or like a person who has an accident and
loses their memory, they no longer remember who they
are. If they are treated and their memory recovers, then
it is still the same self as before. And when a person dies,
does that self still exist? To admit that it does is to admit
that there is an unchanging soul that exists both when
awake and asleep, both when alive and after death.
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This is the everyday experience of a self. This
experience is the accumulation in a lifetime of
memories, sufferings, happiness, fame, and misery.
From these accumulated experiences, the idea of a
permanent self is formed. At the lowest level, this self is
identified with the physical body and possessions. A
great emperor has an entire empire: me and my empire.
But once this body decays, and it certainly will, who am
I, and what is this empire? Those emperors, like Qin Shi
Huang, Han Wudi, and Genghis Khan, believed in a self
and their physical body that could exist for a long time,
because they did not want to lose their fame and power;
they sought out Taoist priests and searched for the elixir
of life. Where are those who sought immortality? …
Suppose a man bought a dog and named it Lucky. At
first, when called, Lucky was indifferent and
unresponsive. Gradually, upon hearing the name Lucky,
it would wag its tail happily. It had come to understand
what Lucky meant, and in doing so, it had also developed
a sense of self. It formed a new ego through this new
name. Before it had a name, it still existed and protected
itself. It sought food, found a place to sleep, and would
bite anyone who came too close as a threat. After being
given a name, its entire existence was now encapsulated
in the name Lucky. However, if someone insulted the
name Lucky, it wouldn’t react. But with humans, when
a name or title is insulted, beware. Of course, humans
don’t know their names until a certain age, just like
Lucky. Clearly, the name that carries the connotation of
self is merely a false name, yet humans suffer or rejoice
because of this very false name. …
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This means that this body, with these sensations,
thoughts, and perceptions, is a collection of accumulated
experiences as vast as the universe. This mass solidifies
into a thick hard shell. It can only be shattered by the
Diamond Sūtra pestle.
In short, the teachings in the Diamond Sūtra begin with
the negation of self: no-self view, no-person view … In
various religions and philosophical systems, there are
different concepts of self. In many religions, the self is a
soul given by God. The goal of human life is to keep the
soul from being lost, so that one can enjoy the blessings
of God later. …
In Buddhism, whether it’s a small self or a great self,
they are merely nominal concepts. But this nominal
concept is solidified by the accumulation of countless
delusions. The self is formed in this life, influenced by
tradition, religion, thought, and society, and from this, a
personality and a soul are formed, and then one clings
tightly to it in order to exist. This is called the view of a
separate self.
The self, formed from the accumulation of delusions
over many lifetimes, creates the instinctual desire for
survival even in the smallest creatures; this is called the
birth of self-grasping.
Therefore, there is no need to search for a small self or
a great self, but to eliminate the false concept created by
delusions.
In essence, this essay argues that our sense of self is a
socially constructed illusion and that true liberation comes
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from recognizing this. Finally, Thầy explains that the
ultimate goal of Buddhism is to break free from the illusion
of self and realize the interconnectedness of all things.
On a separate note, the essay sparks a personal reflection.
Naming an imaginary dog Lucky to explain the concept of
nothingness and naming his real room in Già Lam pagoda
Thị Ngạn am (Thị Ngạn hermitage) 47 to guide his visitors
makes me wonder: What truly distinguishes imagination
from reality, when both shape our perceptions and
experiences? In short, what is imagination and what is
reality?
47 Thị Ngạn is an abbreviation of the Chinese idiom
回頭是岸
(hồi đầu
thị ngạn, turn your head around to see the shore). In Buddhism, it’s a
call to abandon worldly attachments and illusions to attain nirvana.
Thị Ngạn am was the name Thầy gave to his room at Già Lam pagoda.
The following writer Nguyễn Đạt’s tale of Thầy’s Thị Ngạn am paints
such a compelling portrait of Thầy that I feel a deep connection to his
story.
The first room, on the left, right after ascending the steps to the upper
floor of a series of rooms in Già Lam Pagoda, was the meditation
room of Venerable Tuệ Sỹ, named Thị Ngạn am.
This morning, looking up at the wall of Thị Ngạn am, there was a
beautifully handwritten poem in Nôm script by Tuệ Sỹ. I asked Tuệ
Sỹ for a copy to bring home. He happily agreed. Spreading the paper
with header Thị Ngạn am on the tiled floor, he hunched over like an
old calligrapher, carefully writing this poem in Nôm script:
󺸏迟󴘋󴊓󱠞溪
󰝜󵖩鹤󶝗黄昏
Năm chầy đá ngủ lòng khe,
Lưng trời cánh hạc đi về hoàng hôn.
Deep in the crevice, a stone slumbers through the year,
Against the vast sky, a crane sails towards the sunset.
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18. Tự trào
自嘲
山中懶卧一残僧
夢寐喧譁党更謊
独对青松誇所悟
百余年後史傳灯
Tự trào
Sơn trung ẩn ngọa nhất tàn tăng
Mộng mị huyên hoa giác cánh hoang
Độc đối thanh tùng khoa sở ngộ
Bách dư niên hậu sử truyền đăng.
Tự diễu
Núi kia ẩn một ông tăng,
Ngủ thì huyên náo, thức càng huyênh hoang,
Gốc tùng xanh, tự khoe khoang:
Trăm năm sau nữa danh vang sử Thiền.
Self-mockery
A ludicrous monk, secluded on a mountain,
Chattered nonsense in his sleep, but his ramblings became
wilder when awake.
He bragged about his enlightenment to a stoic green pine,
Boasting that his name will enshrine in the list of Zen
masters for centuries.
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Explanation
In the last sentence, Thầy uses the term
傳灯
(truyền đăng,
transmission of the lamp). The transmission of the lamp
means the passing of the torch. The first person to receive
the torch from the Buddha was Mahākāśyapa, based on the
story of the Flower Sermon, or
拈花微笑
(Niệm hoa vi tiếu,
the Buddha picking up a flower, Mahākāśyapa smiling):
Śākyamuni was once engaged at the Mount of the Holy
Vulture in preaching to a congregation of his disciples.
He did not resort to any lengthy verbal discourse to
explain his point, but simply lifted a bouquet of flowers
before the assemblage, which was presented to him by
one of his lay-disciples. Not a word came out of his
mouth. Nobody understood the meaning of this except
the old Venerable Mahākāśyapa, who quietly smiled at
the Master, as if he fully comprehended the purport of
this silent but eloquent teaching on the part of the
Enlightened One. The latter perceiving this opened his
golden-tongued mouth and proclaimed solemnly: “I
have the most precious treasure, spiritual and
transcendental, which this moment I hand over to you,
O Venerable Mahākāśyapa!”
(quoted from Dr. Daisetz Suzuki’s Essays in Zen
Buddhism, the first series, page 167)
The poem is titled Tự trào (Self-mockery), but the speech
Thầy wrote in 2000, which he intended to read before the
Dutch Parliament when the Dutch government and
parliament invited him to visit, but he was not allowed to
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go abroad by the Hanoi government, is not sarcastic at all.
The main part is as follows:
People only need to look at the garbage and waste
dumped in the backyard to know what has been
consumed in the front yard. We, some people who have
long been accustomed to thinking about the fate of the
nation from piles of garbage, have asked ourselves many
questions about the human conscience, the meaning of
social progress, and above all a historical question: How
much blood and bones of generations of ancestors and
friends has the country absorbed to become such piles of
garbage, piles of garbage that are growing larger and
larger in a terrifying way.
Vietnam is becoming a huge garbage dump. That is not
my personal opinion, but the observation of the highest-
ranking officials of the Vietnamese Communist Party.
This is not just an economic issue. It encompasses all
aspects of life: culture, politics, and even religion. So, a
question needs to be asked to those who still have a bit
of national pride: Why would a nation that has always
been proud of its 4,000-year-old civilization suddenly
let its country become a garbage dump, a repository for
all the worst things of civilized humanity. …
Despite significant changes from certain perspectives, I
know for sure that one thing hasn’t changed. That is: the
Communist Party still considers itself the benefactor of
the nation and therefore has the exclusive right to decide
the nation’s fate (whether it is a benefactor or a criminal,
the masses and history will judge). This is different from
other famous authoritarian regimes in history. This is
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also the reason for one of the things that conservative
party members consider “capitalist garbage”. That is
corruption. Because bureaucracy, arrogance, and the
attitude of a benefactor are both the nature and the
nutrient of corruption in Vietnam today.
All crimes involve a perpetrator and a victim. In
corruption, at first glance, no one is clearly harmed.
Initially, both the bribe-giver and the bribe-taker receive
certain benefits. Thus, the real victims are the masses
who do not have enough privilege to participate in order
to benefit directly from corruption. That means those
who are equally miserable in society have nothing to
give, so they receive nothing, and therefore they become
victims. The unique nature of corruption victims in
Vietnam today is due to the patronizing attitude of those
in power towards the “subjects” under their rule.
Corruption in Vietnam is not just a bilateral agreement
to secure lucrative economic contracts. It sucks the
marrow out of the people; those who are equally
miserable have to work hard to pay taxes.
Corruption is the root of other social evils. Because it
organizes, protects, and nourishes them all. It erodes all
traditional moral values. Protecting or promoting
national culture on this basis is merely a shield for
rampant corruption.
I say, corruption is the backyard of power. Because it is
the impoverished people, whose voices are always
suppressed by intimidation, who are suppressed by the
most brutal authoritarian regime, but who also endure
silently. They are the witnesses to the dark side of
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corruption and power; the direct victims of all its
suppression of human dignity.
Nowadays, many people want to evaluate Thầy as a poet, a
writer who has made great contributions to Vietnamese
culture, or as an outstanding monk of Vietnamese
Buddhism. According to them, Thầy should not engage in
political activities. In the last paragraph of the above
speech, I think Thầy writes for them:
I don’t know what my tomorrow will be like when the
things I say don’t please the party and the state. The
situation in Vietnam is such that our people have to
suffer too much pain and humiliation. For the
intelligentsia in particular, whom traditional Vietnamese
society respects very much, the greatest humiliation is
that they cannot honestly speak on behalf of the common
people about all the resentment and suffering they
endure. Because, in Vietnam today, those who can speak
have their pens bent; those who want to speak have their
pens broken.
In conclusion of this volume, I want to quote Most
Venerable Nguyên Siêu’s comment in Tuệ Sỹ – Thơ và tư
tưởng Triết học (Tuệ Sỹ – Poetry and Philosophical
Thought), which is as follows:
The poems in Ngục trung mị ngữ (Somniloquies in
prison) are written during his time in prison, it is said
that there are quite a lot, but only about twenty poems
have reached the readers. In those twenty poems, we see
a peaceful, carefree, and transcendent soul, in the spirit
of a prisoner who is not confined by imprisonment.
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This is the mind of a practitioner, a prisoner in body but
not in mind. Even within the four walls of a prison, he is
still at ease, wandering freely, talking and laughing with
his own shadow, seen as an old friend who is always
there to talk, to share. This mind, wherever it is, is not
bound by worldly ties, not influenced by external
circumstances and causes, because it has mastered itself
and is not affected by the wrongs, rights, commonality
and differences of the world, once the mind is at peace,
the three realms are also at peace. …
Indeed, the mind is not bound by the three thousand
great worlds. If the mind is free, who can imprison it? If
the clouds are light and float freely, what prison bars can
hold them?
Thầy is like a cloud floating in the boundless sky!
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Volume 4:
Tĩnh tọa | Meditation
Tĩnh tọa
| Meditation
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This volume, Tĩnh tọa (Meditation, ngồi thiền), containing
9 poems, is mostly written during his second imprisonment
in North Vietnam (1984–1998).
Time of composition: 1984–2000.
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1. Bài ca cuối cùng
Chim trời xếp cánh
Hát vu vơ mấy tiếng trong lồng;
Nhớ mãi rừng cây thăm thẳm
Ủ tâm tư cho hạt thóc cay nồng
Rát bỏng với nỗi hờn khổ nhục
Nó nhịn ăn
Rồi chết gục.
Ta đã hát những bài ca phố chợ:
Người ăn mày kêu lịch sử đi lui;
Chàng tuổi trẻ cụt chân từ chiến địa
Vỗ lề đường đoán mộng tương lai.
Lộng lẫy chiếc lồng son
Hạt thóc căng nỗi hờn
Giữa tường cao bóng mát
Âm u lời ca khổ nhục
Nó nhịn ăn
Và chết.
Ta đã hát bài ca của suối:
Gã anh hùng bẻ vụn mặt trời,
Gọi quỷ sứ từ âm ty kéo dậy,
Ngập rừng xanh lấp lánh ma trơi.
Đêm qua chiêm bao ta thấy máu,
Từ sông Ngân đổ xuống cõi người
Bà mẹ xoi tim con thành lỗ,
Móc bên trong hạt ngọc sáng ngời.
Lồng son hạt cơm trắng
Cánh nhỏ run uất hận
Tiếng hát lịm tắt dần
Nó đi về vô tận
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The last song
The sky bird folded his wings,
Singing a few words in vain within the bars of the cage.
Missing the vast, deep forest,
Nurturing bitterness in its heart, like searing spicy grains,
Burning with resentment and humiliation,
The bird fast,
Then died.
I sang these songs in the markets:
The beggar begging history to turn back,
The young man with a war-amputated leg,
Tapping the curb, predicting future by interpreting his
dreams.
But in this beautiful red cage,
The rice grains swelled with resentment.
Amidst the tall and shady walls,
Echoing mournful and despairing songs,
The bird fast,
And died.
I sang these songs of the stream:
The brash hero shattering the sun,
Summoning the demons from the underworld,
Flooding the forest with will-of-the-wisps.
Last night I dreamed of blood,
Pouring down from the Milky Way into the human realm,
Where a mother gouged out her child’s heart,
Pulling out a shining pearl.
The gilded cage, the pearly grain,
The little wings trembled with resentment,
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Its song a whisper, fading fast,
It flew towards the endless void.
Explanation
His point in the first stanza is that no songs can compare to
the final song of a bird trapped in a cage, preferring death
to a life of shame.
In the second stanza, Thầy echoes the crying voices of the
market, capturing the cul-de-sac of its inhabitants: the
beggar begged history to turn back, and the legless soldier
patted the roadside predicting future by interpreting his
clients’ dreams.
In the third stanza, Thầy channels the ethereal melody of a
stream, mirroring the aspirations of the people. A brash
hero’s defiance against demons only serves to unleash their
menacing presence upon the forest (here, gã in the phrase
gã anh hùng is used with a contemptuous undertone, hence,
I translate it as brash hero). But the following four lines,
where a mother gouged out her child’s heart to get a pearl,
are deeply moving and bring me to tears:
Đêm qua chiêm bao ta thấy máu,
Từ sông Ngân đổ xuống cõi người
Bà mẹ xoi tim con thành lỗ,
Móc bên trong hạt ngọc sáng ngời
Last night I dreamed of blood,
Pouring down from the Milky Way into the human realm,
Where a mother gouged out her child’s heart,
Pulling out a shining pearl.
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This isn’t just his imagination. Stories of parents selling
their children to survive aren’t uncommon in the so-called
“land of heroes”, according to communist propaganda. It’s
heartbreaking to see a nation so deceived that there’s no
humanly way out.
The image of a bird preferring death to a life of shame in a
cage is a reflection of Thầy’s stance through the following
statement:
If my words mean digging my own grave, I am willing
to bury myself, rather than accepting that. And if you say
it’s the law, yes, I respect the law, but if the law violates
my ideals, I don’t accept that law. Don’t use the word
“law” with me. It’s true that in any country, one must
respect the law, but if one creates a law to use it to
violate the values, the ideals of others, then I don’t
accept that law, I’m ready to die. I’ve already faced a
death sentence, I’m not afraid, I accept it. This is not a
challenge, but a matter of my ideals.
(Copied from his article Định hướng tương lai với thế hệ
tăng sỹ trẻ ngày nay (Orientation for the future with the
younger generation of monks today).
Nothing is clearer than his statement: If my words mean
digging my own grave, I am willing to bury myself, rather
than accepting that.
The words Thầy mentioned in this statement is Thầy’s
stance when the Vietnamese Communist Party wanted to
dissolve the Unified Buddhist Church of Vietnam.
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He dedicated his life to advocating for a strict separation of
religion and politics. While his efforts were unsuccessful
during his lifetime, he remained steadfast in his belief that
they would ultimately prevail. His key arguments can be
summarized in the following four points:
(1) Separation of religion and politics: Thầy firmly
believed that religion, particularly Buddhism, should be
separate from politics. The Unified Buddhist Church of
Vietnam should not be affiliated with any political
organization.
(2) Respect for religious freedom: Thầy demanded that the
government should respect religious freedom and not use
religion as a tool for political gain.
(3) Preservation of Buddhist traditions: Thầy rejected any
attempt to use Buddhism as a tool for political purposes, as
he believed it would compromise the integrity of the
religion.
(4) Historical perspective: Thầy believed that the traditions
of Buddhism are timeless against the fragility of political
regimes.
Considering the themes of imprisonment and the poet’s
personal experiences, it’s likely that this poem was written
during his period of confinement in prison. Such
circumstances would provide a poignant backdrop for the
emotional intensity and the symbolic resonance of the
caged bird.
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2. Bình minh
Tiếng trẻ khóc ngân vang lời vĩnh cửu
Từ nguyên sơ sông máu thắm đồng xanh
Tôi là cỏ trôi theo dòng thiên cổ
Nghe lời ru nhớ mãi buổi bình minh.
Buổi vô thủy hồn tôi từ đáy mộ
Uống sương khuya tìm sinh lộ viễn trình
Khi nắng sớm hôn nồng lên nụ nhỏ
Tôi yêu ai, trời rực sáng bình minh?
Đôi cò trắng yêu nhau còn bỡ ngỡ
Sao mặt trời thù ghét tóc nàng xinh?
Tôi lên núi tìm nỗi buồn đâu đó
Sao tuổi thơ không khóc buổi bình minh?
Dawn
The infant’s cries echo endlessly,
A timeless echo of the fields stained with blood of fallen
heroes.
A blade of grass, adrift on the river of time,
Upon hearing a lullaby of past ages, I deeply remember
the nation’s dawn.
In the beginning, my soul emerged from the grave,
Drinking midnight dew, seeking a path for my long
journey.
When the morning sun kisses tiny flower buds,
Who do I love that makes the sky glow bright at dawn?
Two white storks, in love yet still bashful,
Why does the sun envy their graceful plumes?
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313
I climb the mountain, seeking the cause of my sorrow,
Why don’t our youth cry for their nation’s dawn?
Explanation
Given that the dawn here alludes to the nation’s emergence,
I replaced it with nation’s dawn in my translation.
A timeless echo of the fields stained with blood of fallen
heroes is a haunting reminder of our ancestors’ sacrifice,
who shed their blood so that these fields could be green and
fertile.
The blade of grass, rooted in the earth, serves as a witness
to the history of its country. It has heard the cries of infants
and their mothers’ lullaby and witnessed the fields stained
with blood since the nation’s dawn. This imagery positions
the blade of grass as a silent observer and a living testament
to the nation’s past:
Tiếng trẻ khóc ngân vang lời vĩnh cửu
Từ nguyên sơ sông máu thắm đồng xanh
Tôi là cỏ trôi theo dòng thiên cổ
Nghe lời ru nhớ mãi buổi bình minh
The infant’s cries echo endlessly,
A timeless echo of the fields stained with blood of fallen
heroes.
A blade of grass, adrift on the river of time,
Upon hearing a lullaby of past ages, I deeply remember
the nation’s dawn.
In my translation, I seek to establish a connection between
the poem’s allusions to infants’ cries, maternal lullabies,
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and the nation’s dawn. This also is the reason that in the
last sentence, I write their nation, the youth’s nation,
instead of our nation, as their nation might not be ours:
Why don’t our youth cry for their nation’s dawn?
I believe that this is the message Thầy placed in this poem.
This poem poses three interesting questions, inviting the
reader to consider the complexities of history, the enduring
nature of love, and the challenges of remembering and
honoring the nation’s past:
(1) Khi nắng sớm hôn nồng lên nụ nhỏ
Tôi yêu ai, trời rực sáng bình minh?
When the morning sun kisses tiny flower buds,
Who do I love that makes the sky glow bright at dawn?
(2) Đôi cò trắng yêu nhau còn bỡ ngỡ
Sao mặt trời thù ghét tóc nàng xinh?
Two white storks, in love yet still bashful,
Why does the sun envy their graceful plumes?
(3) Tôi lên núi tìm nỗi buồn đâu đó
Sao tuổi thơ không khóc buổi bình minh?
I climb the mountain, seeking the cause of my sorrow,
Why don’t our youth cry for their nation’s dawn?
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315
3. Bồi hồi
Thời gian đi khấp khiễng
Để rụng phấn rơi hồng
Tơ nắng dài tâm sự
Bồi hồi mộng vẫn không.
Fretfulness
Time stumbles with a limp,
Scattering its pollen and scent.
Sunlight thread is burdened with thoughts,
Fretfully, my dreams remain unfulfilled.
Explanation
Bồi hồi mộng vẫn không (Fretfully, my dreams remain
unfulfilled). What are his dreams?
After assuming the position of General Secretary of the
Unified Buddhist Church of Vietnam, he affirmed that “the
Church does not place itself under the direction of any
secular power; is not a tool to protect the existence of any
political trend, of any secular organization; does not
practice, propagate according to any ideological
orientation; the only orientation is the Ten Directions of the
Buddha; the only ultimate goal is liberation”.
In the article Định hướng tương lai với thế hệ Tăng sỹ trẻ
ngày nay (Orientation for the future with the younger
generation of monks today), he further explains:
The issue of the Unified Buddhist Church of Vietnam
being a member of the government’s Fatherland Front, I
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316
do not accept. The unification between the two churches
is another issue. I say our position is that there is no
unification. The Vietnam Buddhist Sangha 48 is a
member of the Fatherland Front, which is a political
organization; we do not do politics, we do not unite with
any political organization. Then people say that in the
regulations, in our constitution, the party leads
everything. I say I know that point. I also know that
Lenin said “the party must go through religion to gather
the mass”. Lenin said, any communist cadre who
suppresses religion is reactionary. Lenin did not accept
the suppression of religion; in communism, there is no
suppression of religion, that is what Lenin instructed.
“The party must go through religion to gather the mass”
means that religion is a political tool of the party.
Because the party is not capable enough to gather, it
must borrow the hand of religion to gather. But I will
never let Buddhism be a tool for any political party. Like
the Soviet Union, a political party, collapsed after 70
years. Even if the Communist Party of Vietnam exists
for another 1000 years, I will never use 2500 years of
Buddhist heritage as a tool for any party. I also said: “If
my words mean digging my own grave, I am still willing
to bury myself, rather than accepting that”.
48 In Buddhism, Sangha refers to the monastic communities.
Therefore, to call a Church a Sangha is a deceptive use of language, a
sleigh of hand. As this Church is affiliated with the Communist
party’s Vietnamese Fatherland Front, Thầy referred to it as giáo hội
mặt trận (the Front Church).
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4. Hạt cát
Nữ vương ngự huy hoàng trong ráng đỏ
Cài sao hôm lấp lánh tóc mai
Bà cúi xuống cho đẹp lòng thần tử
Kìa, khách lạ, ngươi là ai?
Tôi sứ giả Hư vô
Xin gởi trong đôi mắt Bà
Một hạt cát.
A grain of sand
The Queen gloriously sits in her crimson glow,
Adorned with a sparkling Hesperus hairband.
With a tilt of her head, she inquires:
“Stranger, who are you?”
“I am the messenger of the Void,
I’d like to place this in your eyes, the Majesty,
A grain of sand.”
Explanation
Was it this grain of sand that made the Queen so furious
that she wanted to execute this brave stranger?
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5. Loạn thị
Cắt gân máu chiêm bao quỉ hiện
Ai làm gì bên chiếc ghế mây
Vách tường trắng bàn tay năm ngón
Một bông hồng năm cánh đang xoay.
Chồng gối cao không thấy mặt trời
Trên khung cửa con chim thắt cổ
Đàn kiến bò hạt cát đang rơi
Tôi nhắm mắt trầm ngâm ánh lửa.
Astigmatism
Once a blood vessel was cut, ghosts emerged,
The bamboo chair was moving, yet no one was near,
A five-fingered hand imprinted on the white wall,
A five-petal rose was twirling in the air,
A high stack of pillows blocked the sun,
On the window frame, a bird hung its neck,
And a colony of ants crawled over a falling grain of sand.
I closed my eyes, contemplating the fire.
Explanation
Thầy would not harm himself by cutting his blood vessel
to experience the things described in the poem. It’s
common for meditators during retreats to experience vivid
and sometimes bizarre dreams, which can occasionally
serve as omens of future events.
In the Aṅguttara Nikāya, it is recorded that before his
enlightenment under the bodhi tree, Prince Siddhartha had
five strange dreams that he could explain only after
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319
attaining Enlightenment and becoming the Śākyamuni
Buddha.
First vision: The Prince dreamed that he suddenly became
enormous and was sleeping on the surface of the earth, his
head resting on the peak of the Himalayas, his left hand on
the eastern sea, his right hand on the western sea, and his
feet on the southern sea. This vision indicated that he would
attain Enlightenment and become the teacher of gods and
humans.
Second vision: The Prince dreamed of a red Tiriya grass
growing from his navel. It grew taller and taller, piercing
the sky and stopping there. This was an omen that he would
find Enlightenment and spread his teachings throughout the
heavens and realms of human existence.
Third vision: The Prince dreamed of four types of birds,
green, red, gray, and yellow, flying from the four
directions. When they landed on his feet, they all turned
white. This vision foretold that the four classes of kings,
monks, merchants, and common people would all convert
to his teachings, become monks, and attain enlightenment.
Fourth vision: The Prince dreamed of white worms
crawling up his legs and covering his knees. This was an
omen of the appearance of a large number of white-robed
lay people who would follow him.
Fifth vision: The Prince dreamed that he was walking on a
large, filthy mountain but his feet were not soiled in the
slightest. This was an omen that he would receive the
respect and offerings of all beings in the heavens and
human realms with a pure heart.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
320
Trần Nhân Tông 49, a renowned Vietnamese king who
ruled from 1278 to 1293 before abdicating to become a
monk, also had a profound dream.
While visiting Từ Phước pagoda, in his afternoon nap, he
dreamt of a golden lotus, as vast as a wheel, unfurling from
his navel with a radiant golden Buddha enthroned upon it.
This dream foreshadowed his role as the First Patriarch of
the Trúc Lâm Zen Buddhist sect, which he founded and
now has branches worldwide.
Refer to page 245, for his rigorous 12 dhūtaguṇas
austerities.
49 Although king Trần Nhân Tông was not the primary military leader (the
credit goes to General Trần Hưng Đạo, his uncle), he played a crucial role in
maintaining national unity to defeat both Mongol invasions.
In December 1284, Kublai Khan, having conquered Song China, ordered a
two-pronged attack: a land invasion from the north through Đại Việt
(present-day northern Vietnam) and a naval invasion from the south via
Champa (present-day southern Vietnam). The Trần dynasty employed a
strategy of “scorched earth” and guerilla warfare. They evacuated the capital,
Thăng Long (Hanoi), and retreated south, drawing the Mongols deeper into
their territory while denying them supplies and disrupting their supply lines.
The battles of Hàm Tử in April and Chương Dương in May 1285 weakened
the invasion, and the Mongols were eventually forced to retreat.
In March 1287, Kublai Khan, enraged by the previous defeat, launched a
larger and better-organized invasion. This time, the Mongol army was led by
Prince Toghan, Kublai Khan’s son. But the invasion ended after a disastrous
defeat of their navy in the battle of Bạch Đằng on April 8th, 1288, when
General Trần Hưng Đạo, first lured the Mongol fleet into the Bạch Đằng
river, then unleashed a devastating ambush, using a hidden field of stakes to
trap and destroy the Mongol ships.
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6. Mộng ngày
Ta cỡi kiến đi tìm tiên động,
Cõi trường sinh đàn bướm dật dờ,
Cóc và nhái lang thang tìm sống,
Trong hang sâu con rắn nằm mơ
Đầu cửa động đàn ong luân vũ,
Chị hoa rừng son phấn lẳng lơ.
Thẹn hương sắc lau già vươn dậy,
Làm tiên ông tóc trắng phất phơ.
Kiến bò quanh nhọc nhằn kiếm sống,
Ta trên lưng món nợ ân tình.
Cũng định mệnh lạc loài Tổ quốc,
Cũng tình chung tơ nắng mong manh.
Ta hỏi kiến nơi nào cõi tịnh,
Ngoài hư không có dấu chim bay.
Từ tiếng gọi màu đen đất khổ,
Thắp tâm tư thay ánh mặt trời?
Ta gọi kiến, ngập ngừng mây bạc,
Đường ta đi, non nước bồi hồi.
Bóc quá khứ, thiên thần kinh ngạc,
Cắn vô biên trái mộng vỡ đôi.
Non nước ấy trầm ngâm từ độ,
Lửa rừng khuya yêu xác lá khô.
Ta đi tìm trái tim đã vỡ,
Đói thời gian ta gặm hư vô.
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Daydream
On the back of an ant, searching for a sanctuary,
Where death does not exist, I find a herd of butterflies
fluttering,
Toads and frogs wander around, looking for food,
Deep in its cave, a snake lies daydreaming.
At the entrance, a swarm of bees dances around the forest
flowers,
Which proudly show off their beautiful colors and
attractive perfume.
Ashamed of their inferior colors and fragrance, the
flowers of the reeds reach upwards,
Looking like old angels’ white hair, wavering in the wind.
Here, too, are some ants running around, searching for
their homeland.
With a heavy debt of love that I carry on my back,
I, too, find myself homeless, sharing the ants’ fate,
That the love for our homeland is as fragile as sunlight
threads.
I ask my ant where the tranquil world beyond the void is,
Where traces of bird flights linger forever,
And from the darkness of this suffering Earth,
Rises the light of hope, in lieu of sunlight?
I call the ants, but silver clouds hesitantly arrive instead.
My homeland trembles following my path.
The angels are utterly shocked when I unveil my
country’s past,
That her dream fruit broke in half when I bit into the
limitlessness.
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323
My country has been in a stalemate,
Since the day her forests were furiously burnt down.
In search of her broken heart,
I’ll bite the emptiness when I’m hungry for time.
Explanation
When I read the line:
Ta gọi kiến, ngập ngừng mây bạc
I call the ants, but silver clouds hesitantly arrive instead,
I feel as if I’m reading the poetry of the Chinese Zen master
Fudaishi (497–569). His poem has four lines:
空手把鋤頭
步行騎水牛
人從橋上過
橋流水不流
Không thủ bả sừ đầu,
Bộ hành kỵ thuỷ ngưu.
Nhân tùng kiều thượng quá,
Kiều lưu thuỷ bất lưu
Tay không: nắm cán mai
Đi bộ: lưng trâu ngồi
Trên cầu người qua lại
Cầu trôi, nước chẳng trôi.
Hand does not hold anything at all, but it is like holding
the handle of a hoe.
Walking on the ground, as if riding on the back of a water
buffalo.
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324
People on the bridge passing back and forth,
The bridge flows, but water does not flow.
Back to the poem, these verses,
Ta hỏi kiến nơi nào cõi tịnh
Ngoài hư không có dấu chim bay
I ask my ant where the tranquil world beyond the void is,
Where traces of bird flights linger forever,
remind me of the story of Zen Master Mazu Daoyi (709–
788) and his disciple Baizhang Huaihai (720–814).
While they were walking, they saw a flock of birds flying
by. Mazu asked Baizhang, “Where do the birds go?”
Baizhang replied, “They have flown away”. Immediately,
Mazu twisted Baizhang’s nose so hard and asked: “
何曽飛
去
?” (Hà tằng phi khứ?, from the beginningless time, have
they ever really flown away?), causing Baizhang to
suddenly realize the true dharma in the midst of pain.
Therefore, I translate his verse ngoài hư không có dấu chim
bay as where traces of bird flights linger forever.
The poem has 6 sections:
In the first section, I use the phrase where death does not
exist to describe the realm of perpetual being, instead of the
word “eternal”, to underscore Thầy’s intention that this
place transcends birth and death.
Every action here is depicted in the present moment, not
the past. The whole poem unfolds in the present tense, as
though events are occurring right now. Since the
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Vietnamese language doesn’t have the same nuanced tense
system as English, I believe conveying Thầy’s meaning by
using the present tense is the better choice.
In the second section, Thầy continues to paint a picture of
superficial tranquility in the celestial realm. He suggests
that even in a place beyond birth and death, petty ambitions
and envy still exist. Therefore, I translate the three words
“thẹn hương sắc” as ashamed of their inferior colors and
fragrance. Thầy is merely using the celestial realm as a
metaphor to express his feelings about his homeland, a
place where ambition and envy also prevail, as he will
elaborate in the following sections.
In the third section, Thầy reveals that he carries a heavy
burden. It is the debt he owes his homeland, one of the
fourfold graces 50 in Buddhism. His verse ta trên lưng món
50 The fourfold graces in Buddhism include grace of parents, grace of
the Triple Gem, grace of nation and society and grace of all sentient
beings.
Grace of parents: Parents give birth to us and raise us. Their kindness
and dedication are immeasurable. We must repay our parents’
kindness. According to Buddhism, being born into a particular family
is not by chance but due to past karmic connections.
Grace of the Triple Gem: In Buddhism, the Triple Gem represents the
Buddha (the enlightened one), the dharma (the teachings), and the
sangha (the community of monks and nuns). By acknowledging this
grace, individuals express gratitude for the teachings and guidance
that have helped them on their spiritual journey. It is a way of
recognizing the importance of these elements in their lives.
Grace of nation and society: This refers to the benefits and
opportunities provided by one’s nation and society, such as education,
infrastructure, and social support. Citizens have the duty to comply
with their nation’s laws and protect the sovereignty of their nation.
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nợ ân tình can be interpreted as I carry the debt of gratitude
on my back. While some translations suggest Thầy places
this debt on the back of an ant, I believe it refers to Thầy
himself carrying this burden on his back while he is riding
on an ant’s back. He would not put his debt on anyone’s
back.
The repeated use of “tổ quốc” (homeland) in the following
lines emphasizes his sense of belonging and loss. His love
for his country is as delicate as a sunbeam, yet it is strong
and enduring.
In the fourth section, on the journey to find the realm of
serenity, where birds have flown but their traces remain,
guiding his path. This is the realm of enlightenment that
Zen Master Baizhang discovered upon seeing the traces of
birds in flight. With a deep love for his homeland, Thầy’s
realm of serenity is our homeland, where our minds
illuminate, replacing the sunlight:
Từ tiếng gọi màu đen đất khổ,
Thắp tâm tư thay ánh mặt trời
And from the darkness of this suffering Earth,
Rises the light of hope, in lieu of sunlight.
In the fifth section, Thầy expresses his intense love for his
homeland, a love so profound that it moves even the
heavens and the earth: Ta gọi kiến, ngập ngừng mây bạc (I
Grace of all sentient beings: This encompasses gratitude for all living
beings, recognizing that one’s existence is intertwined with the
existence of others.
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call the ants, but silver clouds hesitantly arrive instead).
Nothing can hinder his path.
Bóc quá khứ, thiên thần kinh ngạc,
Cắn vô biên trái mộng vỡ đôi.
The angels are utterly shocked when I unveil my country’s
past,
And her dream fruit broke in half when I bit into the
limitlessness.
Why are the angels utterly shocked when Thầy unveils his
country’s past? Thầy didn’t say.
The Black Book of Communism: Crimes, Terror,
Repression is a 1997 book by Stéphane Courtois and
several other European academics documenting a history
of political repression by communist states, including
genocides, extrajudicial executions, deportations, and
deaths in labor camps and allegedly artificially created
famines. According to the introduction of the book, the
number of people killed by the Communist governments
amounts to more than 94 million. But this is only an
estimation. The truth should be much worse than that. The
book, although having many limitations, contradictions,
and inconsistencies, estimated 1 million deaths caused by
the Vietnamese Communists.
The next verse, cắn vô biên trái mộng vỡ đôi (her dream
fruit broke in half when I bit into the limitlessness),
represents his desire to grasp something beyond his reach
(the limitlessness), only to find his cherished hope or
aspiration for the nation has been shattered.
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328
In the final section, “trầm ngâm” means a stalemate or a
state of being stuck, paralysis, and lửa rừng khuya yêu xác
lá khô literally means that forest fire at night loves dead dry
leaves, as a metaphor for a raging fire. Specifically, it
describes a profound sense of stagnation, comparing the
situation to a raging wildfire consuming everything in its
path. This clearly is a reference to the tumultuous event of
April 30th, 1975.
Since the nation was in a state of paralysis, Thầy
relentlessly sought to mend her broken heart, undeterred by
adversity. In the last verse đói thời gian ta gặm hư vô, I
translate “hư vô” as emptiness rather than nothingness to
convey a sense of void or vacancy without completely
negating existence. Emptiness suggests a state of mind free
from distractions, while nothingness implies a complete
absence of everything.
Dreams, while intangible, aren’t nonexistent. They are
vivid mental experiences that can feel incredibly real,
complete with physical manifestations like shouting or
sweating.
Finally, I have opted for the title of this poem as Daydream
rather than Day Dream (a literal translation of the
Vietnamese title Mộng Ngày) to indicate that the dreams
referred to in the poem are imaginative thoughts that occur
while one is conscious, as opposed to the nighttime dreams
that occur during sleep.
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329
7. Trăng
1
Nhà đạo nguyên không khách
Quanh năm bạn ánh đèn
Thẹn tình Trăng liếc trộm
Bẽn lẽn núp sau rèm.
2
Yêu nhau từ vạn kiếp
Nhìn nhau một thoáng qua
Nhà đạo nguyên không nói
Trăng buồn trăng đi xa.
The moon
1
Not a visitor disturbs the hermit’s solitude.
Year in and year out, his friend, the lamplight.
Blushing with affection, the moon steals glances,
Shyly concealing behind the curtains.
2
Bound by love through countless lifetimes,
Yet all they share is a fleeting glance.
As the hermit keeps his love unspoken,
The moon, heartbroken, flees away.
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Explanation
In the artist’s perception, the moon is not merely a source
of light in the night or a measure of time, but has become
an art form. There, it has become a polyphonic harmony,
carrying many emotions about war and peace, happiness
and suffering, homeland and family, love and despair.
However, it is only Thầy who sees the moon’s coy glances:
Thẹn tình Trăng liếc trộm
Bẽn lẽn núp sau rèm
Blushing with affection, the moon steals glances,
Shyly concealing behind the curtains.
In the poem, the hermit is depicted as a solitary figure,
seeking solace in nature and the company of the moon. But
there is a sense of unfulfilled longing, as the hermit and the
moon are drawn to each other but unable to fully connect.
Is it possible that the unspoken love of the hermit is actually
Thầy’s unspoken love in Ta sống lại trên nỗi buồn ám khói
(Reborn from the ashes of sorrow), page 443?
Vẫn yêu người từng khoảnh khắc chiêm bao
Từ nguyên sơ đã một lời không nói
Như trùng dương ngưng tụ ánh hoa đào
My love for you endures, even in fleeting dreams
A word unspoken, from the very beginning,
Like a vast ocean gathering the glow of peach blossoms.
The moon’s departure at the end underscores the theme of
unfulfilled longing and the bittersweet nature of their
relationship, from the joys of love to the pains of loss.
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8. Trúc và nhện
1
Nắng sớm in tường bạc
Trúc gầy ngả bóng xanh
Tâm tư lắng tĩnh mặc
Tơ nhện buông xuôi cành
2
Trúc biếc che ngày nắng
Hương chiều đuổi mộng xa
Phương trời nhuộm ráng đỏ
Tóc trắng nhện tơ lòa
3
Gió khẽ lay cành trúc
Hương vàng ánh nhện tơ
Buông rời giấc tịnh tọa
Nghe động phương trời xa
4
Ngõ vào qua khóm trúc
Cửa khép vượt đường mây
Tá túc trăng hờn nhện
Nghiêng nghiêng áo lụa dài.
5
Trúc già ngọn phơi phới
Trời hận tuôn mưa rào
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Nặng trĩu tình tơ nước
Trúc già lặng cúi đầu.
Bamboo and spider
1
Early sunlight paints the wall silver,
Slender bamboo casts a green shadow.
Peacefully settled in stillness,
Spider’s silken web drapes the branches.
2
Green bamboo guards against the sun’s glare,
Afternoon fragrance chases lingering dreams.
As twilight paints the sky with red hues,
Spider web, a wisp of white hair.
3
A gentle breeze shakes the bamboo,
The silken threads shimmer with golden hues.
From meditative depths, I gently rise,
Drawn to distant echoes from the sky.
4
The entrance is veiled by the bamboo grove,
Its gate hidden beyond the clouds,
The moon, envious of the spider’s shelter,
Tilts her silk gown áo dài.
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5
The old bamboo vigorously stands tall,
But angry heavens unleash a downpour.
Laden with his love of rain-soaked web,
The old bamboo silently bows its head.
Explanation
The poem paints a beautiful and delicate picture of love
between a bamboo tree and a spider. The imagery used is
colorful, rich and evocative, with elements of nature like
sunlight, wind, and moon contributing to the overall theme
of love and connection.
Nắng sớm in tường bạc
Trúc gầy ngả bóng xanh
Early sunlight paints the wall silver,
Slender bamboo casts a green shadow.
Phương trời nhuộm ráng đỏ
Tóc trắng nhện tơ lòa
As twilight paints the sky with red hues,
Spider web, a wisp of white hair.
Gió khẽ lay cành trúc
Hương vàng ánh nhện tơ
A gentle breeze shakes the bamboo,
The silken threads shimmer with golden hues
Tá túc trăng hờn nhện
Nghiêng nghiêng áo lụa dài
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The moon, envious of the spider’s shelter,
Tilts her silk gown áo dài.
These lines suggest that the moon desires to dwell upon the
bamboo branch, but finding the spider already there, it casts
a jealous glance, draping its silvery gown over the bamboo
in a fit of pique.
As Thầy emerges from meditation, a distant rumble heralds
an impending storm. The bamboo, fearing the rain would
sever the delicate web, a symbol of the spider’s love, bows
its head in silent worry.
The poem explores a unique form of love, not between
humans, but between a spider and a bamboo tree. The
bamboo recognizes the significance of the web and worries
for its safety during the impending storm.
The poem thus conveys a sense of empathy and
compassion, even towards a seemingly insignificant
creature. It highlights the interconnectedness of all beings
and the importance of protecting the delicate balance of
nature.
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9. Vết rạn
Áo lụa mỏng đẹp bờ vai thiếu phụ
Tóc nàng xanh chỉ nói một tình riêng
Tôi nhạc sĩ, nhưng âm đàn ngược gió
Nàng yêu chồng cho giấc ngủ bình yên.
Nắng lụa đỏ phủ tường rêu xám bạc
Lá cây xanh nghiêng xuống mắt mơ màng
Người có biết mặt trời kia sẽ tắt?
Tôi yêu người từ vết rạn thời gian.
The rift
A silken dress adorns the young woman’s shoulder,
Her emerald hair, a reserved love story.
She loves her husband, giving him peaceful sleep,
A musician I am, but my melodies lost against the current.
Crimson silky sunlight drapes the gray mossy walls,
Green leaves lean towards dreaming eyes.
Do you not know the sun will one day die?
But my love for you endures through the rift of time.
Explanation
In the first stanza, the term “nàng” refers to a woman, but
in this context, it seems to represent Thầy’s homeland, so I
translate it as “her”, in the third person.
She is Thầy’s homeland. Her beauty takes his breath away.
All she desires is tranquility with her husband, which could
be a metaphor for her people.
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The original verse is rich in imagery, using elements like
silk, hair, wind, and sun to convey emotions and ideas. The
translation attempts to preserve these images while
adapting them to English. For instance, “tóc nàng xanh” is
translated as her emerald hair and “âm đàn ngược gió”
literally means tunes against the wind, but I choose to
translate it as melodies lost against the current to give it a
more poetic and evocative quality. He loves her (his
homeland), but the winds of time muffle his voice, having
sent him to prison and exiled him in his homeland.
In the second stanza, the term “nàng” is changed to “người”
(a specific person or people). While “người” can also be
used in the third person, I choose to use it in the second
person, you, to represent the love Thầy has dedicated to his
homeland:
Người có biết mặt trời kia sẽ tắt?
Tôi yêu người từ vết rạn thời gian.
Do you not know the sun will one day die?
But my love for you endures through the rift of time.
This dedication becomes his vow. Therefore, this choice of
you, instead of him, her, or them, in my translation is to
create a direct and personal connection between Thầy and
you, my reader.
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Volume 5:
Tĩnh thất | Meditation room
Tĩnh thất
| Meditation room
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338
These are 32 short poems named Tĩnh thất (Meditation
room, thiền phòng). All of these poems do not only contain
more or less Zen thoughts, but also reveal Thầy’s deep
feelings for his homeland.
Time of composition: 2000–2001
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1. Cho tôi một hạt muối tiêu
Cho tôi một hạt muối tiêu
Bờ môi em nhạt nắng chiều lân la
Tôi đi chấn chỉnh sơn hà
Hồng rơi vách đá mù sa thị thành
Give me a pinch of pepper salt
Give me a pinch of pepper salt,
To season your lips, faded in the evening light.
I will go to reform my homeland,
To cast the red demons into the abyss and to let dews fall
upon my cities.
Explanation
I’ve changed một hạt muối tiêu (a grain of salt and pepper)
to một nhúm muối tiêu (a pinch of salt and pepper) in my
translation because salt and pepper are mixed together,
there can’t be just one grain.
Don’t think that the first two lines and the next two lines
are unrelated. In the first two lines, because her lips are
bland, he’ll use salt and pepper to season them. In the next
two lines, driven by his homeland’s turmoil, he seeks to
purge the red demons and restore the dews. They are
connected by similarity. We will discuss this and other
relationships in detail on page 366.
Using salt and pepper to season one’s lips so they won’t be
bland is a strange idea, but full of Zen meaning! Many
people think Zen is something abstract and hard to
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understand. Zen is eating when hungry, sleeping when
tired. The difference is, according to Zen master Baizhang
Huaihai (720–814), a Zen master knows when they’re
eating or sleeping, while ordinary people think about all
sorts of other things while eating or sleeping.
How to obtain the true Zen spirit? Ordinary people often
associate Zen with meditative sitting. The following story
shows that meditative sitting does not help to obtain the
true Zen spirit.
Mazu Daoyi (709–788) was a renowned Zen master during
the Tang dynasty of China. He was the most outstanding
disciple of Zen Master Nanyue Huairang (677–744) who
himself was a major disciple of the Sixth Patriarch
Huineng. The following is the first lesson that Huairang
taught Mazu:
In the year 713 of the Tang Dynasty, Master Huairang
arrived at the Baoya Temple on Mount Heng. There was a
monk named Mazu Daoyi at the monastery who sat in
meditation every day. Huairang approached him and asked:
- Why do you sit in meditation?
- To become a Buddha.
Huairang took a brick and began to grind it in front of
Mazu. Seeing this, Mazu asked in surprise:
- Master, what are you doing with that brick?
- I’m making a mirror.
- How can you make a mirror by grinding a brick?
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- If you can’t make a mirror by grinding a brick, how can
you become a Buddha by sitting in meditation?
- Then how does one become a Buddha?
- This principle is like an ox pulling a cart. If the cart
doesn’t move, do you beat the cart or the ox?
Mazu was speechless. Huairang continued:
- Are you learning to sit in meditation or to sit as a Buddha?
If you are learning to sit in meditation, then meditation is
not about sitting or lying down. If you are learning to sit as
a Buddha, then a Buddha does not have a fixed form. The
dharma has nowhere to abide, so when seeking the dharma,
one should not cling, reject, or be attached. Like clouds
drifting in the sky, no one can use force to nail them in
place. Since the dharma has no fixed abode, one should not
cling to it or reject it. If you learn to sit as a Buddha, you
are killing the Buddha. If you cling to the form of sitting,
you will never see the dharma.
Upon hearing these words, Mazu felt as if a thirsty person
had just drunk a cupful of cold water. He immediately
bowed to Huairang and became Huairang’s disciple. More
fascinating stories about Zen Master Mazu Daoyi can be
read in pages 324, 383 and 466.
Nanyue Huairang’s teacher was Dajian Huineng (638–713)
who is a semi-legendary but central figure in the history of
Chinese Zen Buddhism. According to the Platform Sūtra,
Huineng was a poor, illiterate young man from southern
China who was selling firewood. When he heard someone
reciting the Diamond Sūtra (kinh Kim Cương, in
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Vietnamese), he had an awakening experience. Huineng
learned that the man reciting the sūtra had come from
Daman Hongren’s monastery, in Huangmei (Yellow plum)
Mountain, so he traveled to Huangmei to meet Hongren.
Hongren saw that this uneducated youth from South China
had a rare understanding. But to protect Huineng from
jealous rivals, he put Huineng to work doing chores instead
of inviting him into the Buddha Hall for teaching.
One day Hongren challenged his disciples to compose a
verse that expressed their understanding of the dharma. If
any verse reflects the truth, Hongren said, the monk who
composed it will receive the robe and bowl passing to him
from the First Patriarch Bodhidharma and become the
Sixth Patriarch.
Yuquan Shenxiu, the most senior monk, accepted this
challenge and wrote this verse on a monastery wall:
身是菩提樹
心如明鏡臺
時時勤拂拭
勿使惹塵埃
Thân thị bồ-đề thọ
Tâm như minh kính đài
Thời thời cần phất thức
Vật sử nhạ trần ai
Thân là cây bồ-đề
Tâm như đài gương sáng
Phải luôn lau chùi sạch
Chớ để bụi trần bám
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The body is the bodhi tree.
The mind is like a bright mirror platform.
Moment by moment wipe and polish it,
Not allowing dust to collect.
When someone read the verse to the illiterate Huineng, the
future Sixth Patriarch knew Shenxiu had missed it.
Huineng dictated this verse for another to write for him:
菩提本無樹
明鏡亦非臺
本來無一物
何處惹塵埃
Bồ-đề bổn vô thọ
Minh kính diệc phi đài
Bổn lai vô nhất vật
Hà xứ nhạ trần ai?
Bồ-đề vốn chẳng cây
Gương sáng cũng không đài
Xưa nay không một vật
Bụi trần bám vào đâu?
Bodhi originally isn’t a tree,
The mirror has no platform.
Nothing has ever existed,
Where might dust collect?
Hongren recognized Huineng’s understanding and gave
him the robe and bowl, as insignia of his authority and
in acknowledgment of his unsurpassed spiritual
attainment. The patriarch then advised him that it would
be wise for him to hide his own light under a bushel until
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344
the proper time arrived for his public appearance and
active propaganda, and also that the robe which was
handed down from Bodhidharma as the sign of faith
should no more be given up to Huineng’s successors,
because Zen was now fully recognized by the outside
world in general and there was no more necessity to
symbolize the faith by the transference of the robe. That
night Huineng left the monastery.
Three days after the flight of Huineng from the Yellow
Plum Mountain, the news of what had happened in
secret became noised abroad throughout the monastery,
and a party of indignant monks, headed by one named
Ming, pursued the fugitive, Huineng. When Huineng
was overtaken by the pursuers, he laid down his robe on
a rock nearby and said to Ming:
- This robe symbolizes our patriarchal faith and is not to
be carried away by force. Take this along with you,
however, if you so desire.
Ming tried to lift it, but it was as heavy as a mountain.
He halted, hesitated, and trembled with awe.
- I come here to obtain the faith and not the robe.
- If you come for the faith, stop all your hankerings.
Think not of good, think not of evil, but see what at this
moment your own original face looks like, which you
had even prior to your own birth.
Ming felt as if he had taken a cupful of cold water and
tasted it to his own satisfaction. Approaching the
Patriarch, he bowed and asked,
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
345
- Besides this hidden sense as is embodied in these
significant words, is there anything which is secret?
- In what I have shown to you, there is nothing hidden.
If you reflect within yourself and recognize your own
face, which was before the world, secrecy is in yourself.
Whatever historical circumstances surrounded Huineng
in those remote days, it is certain that in this statement,
“to see one’s own face even before one was born”, we
find the first proclamation of the new message, which
was destined to unroll a long history of Zen and to make
Huineng really worthy of the patriarchal robe. We can
see here what a new outlook Huineng has succeeded in
opening to the traditional Indian Zen. In him, we do not
recognize anything of Buddhism as far as phraseology
goes, which means that he opened up his own way of
presenting the truth of Zen after his original and creative
experience. Prior to him, the Zen experience only had
some borrowings, either in wording or in method, to
express itself. To say “You are the Buddha”, or “The
Buddha is living in you”, is too stale, too flat, because
too abstract and too conceptual. They contain deep truth
but are not concrete nor vivifying enough to rouse our
dormant souls from insensibility.
Hence his unusual freshness in the way he handled the
problem.
(Copied, with minor modifications, from Dr. Suzuki’s
Essays in Zen Buddhism, the first series, pages 207–211)
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2. Đến đi vó ngựa mơ hồ
Đến đi vó ngựa mơ hồ
Dấu rêu còn đọng trên bờ mi xanh
Do those fading hoofprints mark an arrival
or a departure
Do those fading hoofprints mark an arrival or a departure,
When traces of moss still linger on her green eyelids?
Explanation
I had to think really hard to understand these two lines. It
was all because the poem lacked a question mark.
Literally, these two verses are translated as,
Coming, going, vague hoofprints
Traces of moss still linger on green eyelids.
With the question mark added, the first line becomes: “Can
you tell whether the horseman is coming or going, just by
looking at the fading hoofprints on the ground?” Of course,
without more details, the answer would be a 50/50 guess.
The second line says: “(When) the traces of moss
(representing tears of longing that have accumulated over
time) still linger on green eyelids”. From this, it’s clear that
the horseman has left, leaving behind feelings of longing
for the one who stayed.
In Dreaming the Mountain, professor Nguyễn Bá Chung
and poet Martha Collins translate this poem as:
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
347
Coming and going muffled horse hooves
Traces of moss gather on green eyelashes
Their translation mistakenly assumes that the very act of
coming and going muffles horse hooves, but this muffling
is actually the work of time. Furthermore, the translators
failed to show the cause-and-effect relationship between
the two verses, leaving readers to wonder what the author
intended to convey. In my opinion, a translator should not
only understand the words but also the author’s intent and
convey that meaning to the reader.
On December 2, 2015, on the 250th anniversary of Nguyễn
Du’s birth, the World Record Union declared Truyện Kiều
(The Tale of Kiều) a literary masterpiece. If The Tale of
Kiều is only translated literally and not accurately in terms
of meaning, how can its true beauty be appreciated?
In a speech commemorating the 104th death anniversary of
Nguyễn Du on December 8, 1924, scholar Phạm Quỳnh
declared, “A nation cannot be without a national flower,
and The Tale of Kiều is our national flower; a nation cannot
be without a national treasure, and The Tale of Kiều is our
national treasure; a nation cannot be without a national
soul, and The Tale of Kiều is our national soul”.
There’s a particularly beautiful verse in Truyện Kiều (The
Tale of Kiều) that I admire Nguyễn Du for writing. It’s the
line 2242:
Dẫu lìa ngó ý, còn vương tơ lòng.
We know that when a lotus stem is broken, it doesn’t
always break completely. The fibers within the stem often
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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remain attached. Nguyễn Du used the image of the lotus
stem to describe the longing of Kiều. As for who she is
longing for, some say it’s Kim Trọng, while others argue
it’s Thúc Sinh or Từ Hải. But that’s not the point here.
Yale University Professor Huỳnh Sanh Thông, in his book
The Tale of Kiều, translates this verse
Dẫu lìa ngó ý, còn vương tơ lòng
as:
Cut from her mind, it clung on to her heart.
This translation is accurate in terms of meaning but it omits
the words ngó (lotus stem) and tơ (filaments). So, if I were
to translate this verse, I would say,
Although the lotus stem of her mind was cut, its filaments
of love clung on to her heart.
Certainly, the professor omits the lotus stem and its
filaments for the sake of brevity, as the meaning of the
poem is more important.
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349
3. Nghìn năm trước lên núi
Nghìn năm trước lên núi
Nghìn năm sau xuống lầu
Hạt cải tròn con mắt
Dấu chân người ở đâu?
A thousand years ago, I climbed that
mountain
A thousand years ago, I climbed that mountain.
A thousand years later, I descended these stairs.
The mustard seed’s eyes were wide opened:
“Where are your footprints?”
Explanation
Arriving and departing, leaving no footprint.
In the Avataṃsaka Sūtra (kinh Hoa Nghiêm in
Vietnamese), book 39, when Sudhana asked the
Bodhisattva Maitreya where he came from, the
Bodhisattva’s response was “The Bodhisattvas neither
come nor go; thus, they arrive. Without a place, without
attachment, without loss, without birth, without abiding,
without moving, without arising, without clinging, without
defilement, without karma, without retribution, without
arising, without ceasing, without being cut off, without
being permanent, thus, they arrive”.
Similarly, in the Diamond Sūtra (kinh Kim Cương, in
Vietnamese), the Buddha told Subhuti: “O Subhuti, if
anyone says that the Tathāgata (i.e., the World-Honored
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One) comes or goes, sits or lies down, that person does not
understand the meaning of my words. Why is that? The
Tathāgata does not come from anywhere and does not go
anywhere; that is why he is called Tathāgata”.
As explained above that the Boddhisattva arrives without
arriving, and departs without departing, how can there be
footprints left behind? Therefore, Thầy gives eyes to a
mustard seed, making the mustard seed round its eyes in
wonder and ask Thầy, “Where are your footprints?”
After an all-night discussion with Zen Master Zhaojue
Chanshi at Donglin Temple (on Lushan), Su Dongpo,
believing that he understood this “arrival without arriving,
and departure without departing” concept, wrote this poem
to boast about his “realization”:
溪聲便是廣長舌
山色豈非清淨身
夜來八萬四千偈
他日何如舉似人
Khê thanh tiện thị quảng trường thiệt,
Sơn sắc khởi phi thanh tịnh thân.
Dạ lai bát vạn tứ thiên kệ,
Tha nhật hà như cử tự nhân
The sound of the stream is the wide and long tongue of the
dharma.
The color of the mountain is the pure color of the body of
the Tathāgata.
Last night, I recited eighty-four thousand verses.
How will I ever explain (my realization) to others
tomorrow?
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In Tô Đông Pha: Những phương trời viễn mộng (Su
Dongpo: Celestial realms of distant dreams), Thầy
translates this poem into Vietnamese:
Suối reo vẫn Pháp âm bất tuyệt
Màu non kia Chân thể Như Lai
Đêm đó tám vạn bốn nghìn kệ
Ngày sau nói lại làm sao đây?
After that, he went around challenging monks to debate
Zen with him. Drawn by rumors of profound wisdom of
Zen Master Chenghao in Yuquan Temple in Jingnan, Su
Dongpo disguised and sought him out. When the Master
asked for his name, Su Dongpo replied:
- My name is Steelyard, the steelyard to weigh all Buddhist
elders in the world.
The Master shouted at the top of his lungs, then asked:
- How much does this shout weigh?
Unable to answer, Su Dongpo was deeply impressed and
realized that his “realization” was far from complete.
In their translation of this poem by Thầy, professor Nguyễn
Bá Chung and poet Martha Collins, in Dreaming the
Mountain, not only failed to see the Zen concept of arrival
without arriving, and departure without departing, but they
also ridiculously allowed the mustard seed to have a
footprint, and worse, let Thầy wonder about his own
footprint:
Like mustard seeds, my eyes round with wonder
Where is the trace of our footprints?
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4. Ta không buồn
Ta không buồn
có ai buồn hơn nữa?
Người không đi
sông núi có buồn đi?
Tia nắng mỏng soi mòn khung cửa
Để ưu phiền nhuộm trắng hàng mi
Ta lên bờ
nắng vỗ bờ róc rách
Gió ở đâu mà sông núi thì thầm?
Kìa bóng cỏ nghiêng mình che hạt cát
Ráng chiều xa, ai thấy mộ sương dầm?
If I do not feel deep sorrow
If I do not feel deep sorrow,
Whose sorrow surpasses mine?
If no one steps forward,
Will mountains and rivers be sorrowful?
A ray of sunlight creeps in, wearing away the window
frame,
Letting sorrow through, whitening my eyebrows.
I step ashore,
Sunlight gently taps the shore.
There’s no wind, yet I hear the whispers of mountains and
rivers.
And look, blades of grass bend down, shielding grains of
sand.
In the fading light, does anyone see the dew-soaked
grave?
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
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Explanation
When Thầy leaves the temple and steps ashore, he hears
the mountains and rivers whisper. Gió ở đâu mà sông núi
thì thầm? literally means “Why is there no wind but I can
hear the mountains and rivers whisper?”, but I translate,
omitting the question mark: “There’s no wind, yet I hear
the whispers of mountains and rivers”.
He also sees blades of grass bend down, shielding grains of
sand: Kìa bóng cỏ nghiêng mình che hạt cát. The phrase
“grains of sand” in this line alludes to people living under
the communist regime. In the last verse, Ráng chiều xa, ai
thấy mộ sương dầm? (In the fading light, does anyone see
the dew-soaked grave?), the dew-soaked grave represents
the people who have lost their lives due to the communist
ambition to unite the country under their control.
On June 3, 2001, the citizen monk Thích Tuệ Sỹ sent a
protest letter to the government. Here is a portion of it:
I am well aware that in the administrative procedures of
a bureaucratic apparatus made up of a large number of
officials who specialize in harassing and suppressing the
people, full of corruption, … the protest letter will have
to go through many levels before reaching the gate of
the highest leaders, who always seek to evade their
responsibilities, only accepting what is praised as
glorious and great.
The poem ends with a question,
Ráng chiều xa, ai thấy mộ sương đầm?
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In the fading light, does anyone see the dew-soaked grave?
As no one saw that dew-soaked grave, at the end of August
2022, Thầy officially stepped out to assume the position of
Chief Secretary – Permanent Executive of the Supreme
Patriarch, Unified Buddhist Church of Vietnam.
Poet Tuấn Khanh explains in his essay Thầy Tuệ Sỹ trong
vận mệnh Phật giáo Việt Nam (Venerable Tuệ Sỹ’s place
in the history of Vietnamese Buddhism) as follows:
In late August 2022, Vietnam was abuzz with news
about the appearance of Most Venerable Thích Tuệ Sỹ,
officially taking the position of Chief Secretary -
Permanent Executive of the Supreme Patriarch. This
long-hidden enlightened master suddenly appeared at
the ceremony to receive the will, seal and inauguration
from the Fifth Patriarch Thích Quảng Độ, bringing joy
to those who truly love and are devoted to the freedom
of Buddhism in Vietnam.
However, many people mistakenly believe that Most
Venerable Thích Tuệ Sỹ’s current position is that of the
new Patriarch, which is the position of the overall leader
of the Unified Buddhist Church of Vietnam (UBCV). In
reality, when he accepted the will of Most Venerable
Thích Quảng Độ in 2020, Most Venerable Tuệ Sỹ
announced that after reorganizing the personnel and
leadership of the UBCV, when “conditions are
favorable”, he and the Church would hold a congress to
elect the Sixth Patriarch, the highest successor leader of
the Church. Currently, in layman’s terms, Most
Venerable Thích Tuệ Sỹ has the role of interim leader.
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Anyone who has followed the struggle for the existence
of the UBCV since 1975 knows what the phrase
“favorable conditions” means. Even Most Venerable
Thích Tuệ Sỹ’s ceremonies to receive the position of
Chief Secretary – Permanent Executive of the Supreme
Patriarch and to receive the Will, seal, and inauguration,
etc., had to be carried out quietly and announced only
after a week. The purpose of this quiet and unexpected
announcement was to avoid the familiar disturbances
that have been happening for many years.
In his final days of illness, Most Venerable Thích Quảng
Độ realized the internal disorder caused by the various
branches of the UBCV having different agendas. Two
main branches caused internal disagreements: one was
to use the Church’s manpower for political struggle; the
other was to compromise with the government through
certain corrupt individuals within the Church. Taking
advantage of Most Venerable Thích Quảng Độ’s illness,
those who wanted to manipulate the UBCV forged and
issued Edicts, causing much conflict among the leaders
of the Sangha Council, both domestic and foreign.
Initially, Most Venerable Thích Quảng Độ’s intention
was to pass on the position of Sixth Patriarch to the Most
Venerable Tuệ Sỹ, but because he wanted everything to
be transparent and create internal unity, Most Venerable
Thích Tuệ Sỹ requested only to temporarily take over
the position, waiting for the time to elect the new Sixth
Patriarch.
The passing of the Most Venerable Thích Quảng Độ in
February 2020 created a series of undercurrents. Those
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who wanted to eliminate the UBCV saw this as an
opportunity to finish off the thorn in their eye. At the
funeral of the Most Venerable Thích Quảng Độ, people
witnessed monks from the government side trying to
steal his ashes to bring them back to the government’s
temple to preserve and worship, as a tactic to unify all
Vietnamese Buddhism under the control of the state.
Immediately after that, there was also a hasty election of
the Sixth Patriarch in Bình Định province, aiming to
seize leadership. Fortunately, despite the UBCV being
tortured from all directions, the monks and disciples still
maintained their steadfast loyalty to the Will. All these
plots quickly faded away. Regarding these
abnormalities, Most Venerable Thích Không Tánh once
summarized with the phrase “The government wants to
nationalize the funeral of the Most Venerable Thích
Quảng Độ”.
It must be told like this to see that the UBCV, despite
being erased and denied, when its highest leader passed
away, most of the major state newspapers still received
orders to hastily publish defamatory and slanderous.
Excerpt from the September 2022 announcement of the
Central Sangha Council of the Unified Buddhist Church of
Vietnam - the Supreme Patriarch:
Never before has Buddhism, under the guidance of
monks and nuns, with pagodas under state control, failed
to lead sentient beings towards peace but instead pushed
them into darkness, traps, and manipulation to serve
worldly power. The presence of the Most Venerable
Thích Tuệ Sỹ and the Unified Buddhist Church of
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357
Vietnam is like a bell awakening people, reminding us
of the profound value of those who follow the Buddha:
“The Unified Buddhist Church of Vietnam is not a
secular association; therefore, it does not place itself
under the direction of any secular power, nor is it a tool
to protect the existence of any political trend or any
secular organization; it does not practice or propagate
the dharma according to any ideological orientation; it
has only one single orientation: the Tathāgata (TN: the
World-Honored One) of ten directions (TN: N, S, E, W,
NE, SE, SW, NW, upwards and downwards) and one
vehicle of nirvana; its only ultimate goal is liberation”.
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5. Lon sữa bò nằm im bên chợ
Lon sữa bò nằm im bên chợ
Con chó lạc
đến vỗ nhịp
trời mưa
Tôi lang thang
đi tìm cọng cỏ
Nó nhìn tôi
vô tư
An empty milk can lies still by the side of a
street market
An empty milk can lies still by the side of a street market.
A stray dog
Taps the can
In rhythm with the rain.
I wander,
Searching for a blade of grass.
The dog looks at me
With innocent eyes.
Explanation
A stray dog comes tapping the can to the rhythm with the
rain and looks at me with innocent eyes. Tapping the can
to the rhythm of the rain simply means that the dog enjoys
the rain. But does the dog’s innocent look convey any
meaning? Does the dog know why I am searching for a
blade of grass?
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The answer to these questions is the answer to this famous
koan given by Zen Master Zhaozhou Congshen (778–897).
A monk asked the master, “Does a dog have Buddha-
nature?” The master replied, Wú! (
無
, vô, nothing).
His “nothing” is not about denying the reality of the world
around us but seeing beyond the limitations of our usual
conceptual frameworks. This koan is placed at the
beginning of the Wumen Guan, compiled and commentated
by Zen Master Wumen Huikai (1183–1260) who attained
enlightenment after studying this koan of “nothing” for six
consecutive years.
In the first case of his collection of 48 koan cases in Wumen
Guan, Wumen Huikai encourages his disciples to study this
koan, drawing on his own experience of attaining
enlightenment through its contemplation:
Arouse your entire body with its three hundred and sixty
bones and joints and its eighty-four thousand pores of
the skin; summon up a spirit of great doubt and
concentrate on this word Wú! (
無
, vô, nothing).
Carry it continuously day and night. Do not form a
nihilistic conception of vacancy, or a relative conception
of “has” or “has not.”
It will be just as if you swallow a red-hot iron ball, which
you cannot spit out even if you try.
All the illusory ideas and delusive thoughts accumulated
up to the present will be exterminated, and when the
time comes, internal and external will be spontaneously
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united. You will know this, but for yourself only, like a
dumb man who has had a dream.
Then all of a sudden, an explosive conversion will occur,
and you will astonish the heavens and shake the earth.
It will be as if you snatch away a great warrior’s sword
and hold it in your hand. Meeting the Buddhas, you kill
the Buddhas; meeting the Patriarchs, you kill the
Patriarchs. On the brink of life and death, you command
perfect freedom; among the six realms of existence 51
and four modes of birth 52, you enjoy a merry and playful
samadhi.
Now, I want to ask you again, “How will you carry it
out?”
Employ every ounce of your energy to work on this koan
Wú! (
無
, vô, nothing). If you hold on without
51 Six Realms of Existence:
- Deva Realm: Heavenly beings, gods.
- Asura Realm: Titans, demigods.
- Human Realm: Humans.
- Animal Realm: Animals.
- Preta Realm: Hungry ghosts.
- Naraka Realm: Hell realms.
52 Four modes of birth:
- Jalābuja: Born from a womb, such as humans.
- Aṇḍaja: Born from an egg, such as birds and reptiles.
- Saṃsedaja: Born from moisture, or required moisture for their
reproduction, such as insects.
- Opapātika: Spontaneous appearance, without a birth process, such
as deities and ghosts.
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interruption, behold; a single spark and the holy candle
is illuminated!
Excerpted from Wumen Guan – The Barrier that has no
Gate, compiled and edited by Paul Lynch, 6th Edition,
published by Before Thought Publications, 2010.
The specific Zen Master Zhaozhou’s koan about the dog
and Buddha-nature is a classic example of how Zen masters
use seemingly simple questions to probe the depths of
consciousness.
Nāgārjuna explains the term “Śūnyatā” (nothingness) in
essence as follows: “All phenomena and dharmas are
formed through dependent origination, they do not exist
independently, or have substantial self-nature. Therefore,
all phenomena and dharmas are ultimately nothing or, in
other words, are merely nominal”.
In simpler term, Nāgārjuna is saying that everything we
perceive is like a wave in the ocean. Waves appear to be
solid, but they are really just temporary formations of
water. Similarly, all things in the universe are temporary
formations that arise from a combination of causes and
conditions. They don’t have a permanent, unchanging
essence. This concept of nothingness is a central tenet of
Mahāyāna Buddhism.
The poem connects a personal observation (a dog enjoying
the rain by tapping to the rhythm of the rain) to a profound
Zen concept (the dog looks at me with such innocence, i.e.,
the nature of existence and enlightenment). It highlights the
use of koans in Zen practice to challenge conventional
thinking and facilitate a deeper understanding of reality.
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6. Thuyền ra khơi có mấy tầng
tâm sự
Thuyền ra khơi, có mấy tầng tâm sự?
Nắng long lanh, bóng nước vọt đầu ghềnh
A ship sets sail, how many decks of feelings
does it have
A ship sets sail, how many decks of feelings does it have?
The sun sparkles, water shadows leap over the rapids.
Explanation
Only Thầy could think of transforming the ship’s deck into
a space for profound conversation. The “decks of feelings”
suggest the layered emotions and memories that make up
our inner worlds. The question posed implies that the
depths of human emotion are vast and intricate, much like
the many levels of a ship.
The “rapids” could signify challenges or obstacles that life
presents. The poem suggests that just as the water shadows
can leap over the rapids, even though the water cannot, our
emotions can be guided and controlled.
Let’s read Thầy’s profound and heartfelt conversation in
the article Thuyền ngược bến không (The boat drifting
against the empty wharf):
During the war, a group of friends went to the
mountains. In peacetime, another group went to the sea.
The nation suddenly returned to the myth of opening up
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363
the country 53. The children who followed their mother,
had once despised their siblings, and left for the
mountains. After a while, the children who had followed
their mother to the mountains now returned to the city.
And other siblings, frightened, hurriedly fled, seeking
the sea.
53 Thầy alludes to the Vietnamese myth that 50 sons followed their
mother Âu Cơ to the mountains and the other 50 sons followed their
father Lạc Long Quân to the sea:
Âu Cơ was a beautiful young immortal who lived high in the snow-
capped mountains. She traveled to help those who suffered from
illnesses since she was very skillful in medicine and had a
sympathetic heart. One day, a monster suddenly appeared before her
while she was on her travels. It frightened her, so she transformed
into a crane to fly away. Lạc Long Quân, the dragon king from the
sea, passed by and saw the crane in danger. He grabbed a nearby
rock and killed the monster with it. When Âu Cơ stopped flying to
see the very person that saved her, she turned back into an immortal
and instantly fell in love with her savior. She soon bore an egg sac,
from which hatched a hundred children. However, despite their love
for each other, Âu Cơ had always desired to be in the mountains
again and Lạc Long Quân, too, yearned for the sea. They separated,
each taking 50 children. Âu Cơ settled in the snow-covered
mountains, which is now the northern part of Vietnam.
Âu Cơ. Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 8 September 2024
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Âu_Cơ
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7. Trời cuối thu se lạnh
Trời cuối thu se lạnh
Chó giỡn nắng bên hè
Nắng chợt tắt
Buồn lê thê
In the chilly late autumn
In the chilly late autumn,
A dog plays with its shadow on the terrace.
Suddenly, the sunlight disappears,
The dog’s sorrow lengthens.
Explanation
The unique aspect of this poem lies in the juxtaposition of
the long shadow cast by the sun, which provides
amusement for the dog, and the subsequent long, lingering
sadness when the shadow abruptly disappears. The poet has
effectively substituted the long shadow with the long
sadness.
However, it’s important to note that the shadow is merely
an illusion, not a tangible entity. The dog, believing it to be
real, becomes deeply saddened by its disappearance.
The poem may be seen as a reflection of the human
condition, where we often find ourselves attached to things
that are ultimately impermanent.
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8. Lời rao trong ngõ hẻm
Lời rao trong ngõ hẻm:
Đồng hồ điện!
Cầu dao!
Công tắc!
Những lời rao chợt đến chợt đi
Một trăm năm mưa nắng ra gì
Cánh phượng đỏ đầu hè, ai nhặt?
The street cries resounded in the narrow
alley
The street cries resounded in the narrow alley,
Electric meter!
Circuit breaker!
Light switch!
The vendors’ cries fill the air, coming and going.
Where are these cries in a century of rain and sunshine?
Who will pick up the fallen scarlet poinciana petal at the
beginning of the sidewalk?
Explanation
Referring to the final verse of this poem, Cánh phượng đỏ
đầu hè, ai nhặt? the phrase “đầu hè” means either the
beginning of the sidewalk or early summer.
In Dreaming the Mountain, professor Nguyễn Bá Chung
and poet Martha Collins interpret it as early summer:
Who picks the poinciana in early summer?
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However, based on the verb “nhặt” (to pick up from the
ground), I believe it refers to the beginning of a sidewalk,
or terrace. Thus, I translate:
Who will pick up the fallen scarlet poinciana petal at the
beginning of the sidewalk?
Where do these cries go after a hundred years of rain and
sunshine? Like fallen poinciana flowers: once vibrant and
noticeable, they are eventually forgotten and discarded.
The image of the fallen poinciana petal lying on the terrace,
being picked up or not, symbolizes the impermanence and
eventual fading of these cries.
I notice that when two things are mentioned in a poem by
Thầy, there’s always a connection, be it through similarity,
cause and effect, or contrast.
In this poem, the similarity lies in the fact that both the
street cries and the fallen poinciana petal will go unnoticed.
Similarly, in the first poem of this volume, Cho tôi một hạt
muối tiêu (Give me a pinch of pepper salt), page 339, the
similarity is that both her bland lips and his homeland in
turmoil need help. In Đến đi vó ngưa mơ hồ (Arrival or
departure from vague hoofprints), page 346, the connection
lies in the cause-and-effect relationship between the
eyelashes and the hoofprints. In Cây khô (Withered tree),
page 100 and Hoa rừng (Forest flowers), page 120, the
connection is the contrast between the girl who wants to
change the nature to her way and Thầy’s state of no-mind,
with a ripe smile blooming on his lips.
This interconnectedness sets Thầy’s poetry apart from
others.
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9. Nghe luyến tiếc như sao trời mơ
ngủ
Nghe luyến tiếc như sao trời mơ ngủ
Đêm mênh mông để lạc lối phù sinh
Ánh điện đường vẫn nhìn trơ cửa sổ
Ngày mai đi ta vẽ lại bình minh
A lingering regret, like slumbering stars
A lingering regret, like slumbering stars,
In the boundless night, where fleeting lives wander astray.
As the streetlights gaze blankly through the windows,
I set out tomorrow to paint anew the dawn.
Explanation
The streetlights are personified as passive observers,
staring blankly at the windows. This imagery suggests a
sense of detachment and indifference to the human society.
It’s as if the streetlights, though illuminating the night, are
oblivious to the emotions and experiences of the people
they illuminate.
This contrast between the active, emotional state of the
people and the passive, mechanical nature of the
streetlights emphasizes the loneliness and isolation often
felt in a bustling, impersonal world.
Comparing the poet’s feeling to distant, slumbering stars,
and the image of the streetlights staring at the window
suggests a sense of isolation and the transience of life.
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In spite of this deep nostalgia, the final line introduces a
hopeful note, suggesting a desire for a fresh start and a new
beginning for his country. The poem clearly expresses
Thầy’s love for his homeland.
Let’s read a passage that Thầy writes in the preface for his
book, Huyền thoại Duy-ma-cật (The Legend of
Vimalakīrti):
Even on peaceful days, the temple remains quiet.
Whether in war or peace, life is like waves rising and
falling in a dreamlike ocean. The humble, solitary, and
serene atmosphere of the temple is like withered grass,
a witness to the impermanence of the world.
Whenever I saw the flag flying on trains traveling
between the North and South, or the South and Central
regions, whether in wartime or peacetime, my feelings
about the temple remained the same. Suddenly, I felt
inspired to write a couplet for the temple, although I
knew the temple would be hesitant to display it for
visitors:
Vượt Trường Sơn nghìn dặm Bắc Nam, nhìn nắng đọng
sân chùa, khách có biết mấy lần dâu biển?
Ngắm sông bạc một màu chung thủy, lắng chuông ngân
đầu cỏ, người không hay một thoáng Vô vi?
Crossing the Trường Sơn mountains, a thousand miles
between North and South, looking at the sunlight
settling on the temple courtyard, do visitors know how
intangible this world changes?
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Gazing at the silver river, a constant color from
beginning to end, listening to the bell’s chime
reverberating over the grass leaves, don’t people realize
how frivolous this fleeting life is?
Rereading my own couplet, I suddenly remembered a
poem by the Tang Dynasty poet Li Shangyin titled
登山
(Đăng sơn, climbing the mountain):
終日昏昏醉夢間
忽聞春盡強登山
因過竹院逢僧話
偷得浮生半日閒
Chung nhật hôn hôn túy mộng gian,
Hốt văn xuân tận cưỡng đăng sơn.
Nhân quá trúc viện phùng tăng thoại;
Thâu đắc phù sinh bán nhật nhân.
All day long, I’ve been as hazy and indistinct as a
drunkard in a dream,
Suddenly realizing that spring is almost over, I force
myself to go mountain climbing.
Passing by the bamboo grove of a temple, I meet a monk
and we chat.
Then I realize I’ve stolen half a day in this fleeting life!
The poet’s inspiration often arises from the mundane
aspects of daily life, amidst the hustle and bustle; living
in that world, he feels as if he’s drifting in a drunken
dream. When he realizes that spring is ending or about
to end, he hastily seeks out a patch of green in the
mountains, meaning he seeks a bit of tranquility and
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release for his mind to compensate for the days spent
tirelessly striving for fame and fortune:
Mùi phú quý nhữ làng xa mã;
Bã vinh hoa lừa gã công khanh.
Giấc Nam kha khéo bất bình
Bừng con mắt dậy thấy mình tay không.
(Cung oán ngâm khúc) 54
The scene of wealth tempts noble society people;
The dregs of glory deceive government bureaucrats.
Illusory dreams cause resentment,
Awakening only to find oneself empty-handed.
(The lament of a concubine)
Passing by the bamboo grove, he happens to meet a
monk; they stop and chat. After a while, the poet
suddenly feels like he has gained half a day of leisure in
his turbulent life. There is a realm called “beyond the
world”, where Taoist priests, Zen masters, and hermits
live carefree, forgetting about time and all the busy
struggles of the world.
54 Cung oán ngâm khúc (The lament of a concubine) is a poem by
Nguyễn Gia Thiều (1741–1798), written in Nôm script, consisting of
356 verses. It’s written in “song thất lục bát”, a traditional Vietnamese
verse form with alternating lines of two seven followed by one six and
one eight syllables.
The poem offers a glimpse into the inner world of a concubine who
yearns for the emperor’s affection, which she briefly experienced but
ultimately lost. Therefore, she feels imprisoned within the gilded cage
of the palace.
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10. Để trong góc tim một quả xoài
Để trong góc tim một quả xoài
Khi buồn vớ vẩn lấy ra nhai
Hỏi người năm cũ đi đâu hết?
Còn lại mình ta trên cõi này
Anh vẽ hình tôi, quên nửa hình
Nửa nằm quán trọ, nửa linh đinh
Nửa trên thiên giới, quần tiên hội
Nửa thức đêm dài, ôi u minh
In a corner of my heart, I keep a mango
In a corner of my heart, I keep a mango.
In moments of gloom, a sweet memory to chew.
Where are they now, those friends of a bygone era?
In this world, I’m left alone.
You drew my portrait, but you forgot the other half,
Half of me lingers in a tavern, the other half drown in
despair,
Or half of me soars in celestial realms, where fairies
convene,
While the other half remains trapped in sleepless, long
nights, oh, so dark and drear.
Explanation
In the first stanza, when feeling aimlessly sad, the poet
takes out a mango to chew, probably because mangoes are
sweet, symbolizing a comforting memory, as he feels he is
left alone by his friends.
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11. Lặng lẽ nằm im dưới đáy mồ
Lặng lẽ nằm im dưới đáy mồ
Không trăng không sao mộng vẩn vơ
Tại sao người chết, tình không chết?
Quay mấy vòng đời, môi vẫn khô
Quietly lying still at the bottom of a grave
Quietly lying still at the bottom of a grave,
No moon, no stars, only futile wondering:
Why does love endure when life succumbs to death?
Having gone through several turns of life, my lips remain
dry.
Explanation
The first two lines create a vivid image of a person lying in
a grave, surrounded by darkness and solitude, no longer
able to see the moon or stars. Yet, a profound question
lingers: why does love endure when life succumbs to
death?
The phrase through several turns of life alludes to
traversing multiple lifetimes, while lips remain dry
suggests a persistent thirst, or in other words, an enduring
love. How profound!
Why does love endure when life succumbs to death? Of
course, no one can answer this question. Nonetheless, the
word “love” here, for us, might signify romantic love; but
for Thầy, it could be a love for his homeland – a love akin
to patriotism? This love compelled him to stay in Vietnam
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in the war’s aftermath, to face imprisonment, and
ultimately, the death penalty. This love compelled him to
return to Vietnam, even though the Japanese doctor warned
him that, by refusing cancer treatment in Japan, he might
have only months to live.
But perhaps Thầy isn’t speaking solely of his own
experience. Perhaps he’s addressing love in a more
universal sense, encompassing romantic love as well. After
all, how many people find peace in death? Most linger,
filled with attachment and regret.
The poem, therefore, I believe, conveys both the personal
experience of Thầy and the universal human experience of
love, loss, and the afterlife.
But sharing the themes of love, loss, and the afterlife with
more profound and eloquent exploration, particularly for
Vietnamese people enduring the hardships of the
communist regime, are these verses in Thủy mộ quan (The
underwater graveyard gate) by poet Viên Linh,
Trinh nữ trầm oan nổi giữa dòng
Thân băng ngàn hải lý về sông
Xung quanh không một người than khóc
Chỉ cá trùng dương theo hộ tang.
A virgin, drown in a sea of grievance, floats on the current,
Her icy body travels thousands of miles back to the river.
Surrounded by no one to mourn,
Only Ocean fish accompany her funeral.
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12. Một hai ba
Một hai ba
những ngày quên lãng
Tôi vùi đầu trong lớp khói mù
Khói và bụi
chen nhau thành tư tưởng
Nhưng bụi đường lêu lỏng bến thâm u
One, two, or three
One, two, or three
Forgotten days.
When I buried my head in a haze of smoke,
Smoke and dust
Wrestled in my mind,
The road dust settled on a dark, foreboding pier.
Explanation
The first two lines immediately establish a sense of time
passing without meaning or purpose. The image of
“burying my head in a haze of smoke” suggests a deliberate
attempt to escape reality, perhaps through substance use or
simply by withdrawing into oneself. The final image of
“road dust settled on a dark, foreboding pier” shifts the
focus to the external world. The pier, often a symbol of
departure, takes on a sinister quality. It represents a
deadlock, or a sense of isolation.
In this poem, Thầy criticizes those lacking ambition.
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13. Bỏ mặc đàn bò đôi mắt tình
diệu vợi
Bỏ mặc đàn bò đôi mắt tình diệu vợi
Ta lên trời, làm Chúa Cả Hư Vô
Nhìn xuống dưới mặt đất dày khói thuốc
Loài người buồn cho chút nắng hong khô
Abandoning the herd, their eyes filled with
profound tenderness
Abandoning the herd, their eyes filled with profound
tenderness,
I ascend to the heavens, becoming the Lord of the Void.
Gazing down upon the smoke-laden Earth,
Humanity yearns for a sliver of sunlight.
Explanation
Thầy laments, highlighting the irony:
Even the cow can convey affection, though it has no words.
But humans, selfish and destructive, consume cigarettes,
pollute the Earth with smoke. Then, they refuse to accept
the consequences, complaining that they can’t find a sunny
spot.
The smoke symbolizes the negative impact of human
activity and the sliver of sunlight represents a small ray of
hope in an otherwise bleak landscape.
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14. Giữa Thiên đường rong chơi lêu
lỏng
Giữa Thiên đường rong chơi lêu lổng
Cõi vĩnh hằng mờ nhạt rong rêu
Ta đi xuống quậy trần hoàn nổi sóng
Đốt mặt trời vô hạn cô liêu
I have roamed aimlessly through Paradise
I have roamed aimlessly through Paradise.
This eternal realm, a fuzzy, mossy place for me.
I descend, to stir the world of mortals into tumultuous
waves,
And I will set the sun ablaze in boundless solitude.
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15. Con trâu trắng thẫn thờ góc
phố
Con trâu trắng thẫn thờ góc phố
Nỗi hoài hương nhơi mãi nhúm trăng mòn
Đám sẻ lạnh gật gù trên mái đỏ
Sương chiều rơi có thấy lạnh nhiều hơn?
Một chuỗi rắn rình mò trong hẻm nhỏ
Không bụi đường đâu có chỗ đi hoang?
A white buffalo, dazed on the street corner
A white buffalo, dazed on the street corner,
Chews on the nostalgia of the fading moon.
A huddle of sparrows, shivering on the red roof,
Does the falling evening mist deepen the cold?
A den of snakes lurks in the narrow alleyway,
Without the dusty road, where can they wander?
Explanation
The underlying message seems to be a reflection on the
Vietnamese people’s attitude, after the significant political
change of April 30th, 1975, longing for democracy, but
doing nothing.
They chew grass on homesickness, like the cow, stand in
the cold and perch rather than actively find a warmer place,
like the sparrows, or pray for dust on the road before daring
to go, like the snakes in the poem.
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16. Bứt cọng cỏ
Bứt cọng cỏ
Đo bóng thời gian
Dài mênh mang
I pluck a blade of grass
I pluck a blade of grass,
To measure its shadow over time.
How immensely long it grows!
Explanation
Here’s a paradox in this poem: a blade of grass should be
very short, yet when measuring its shadow over time, Thầy
finds it incredibly long. Herein lies the Zen meaning of the
poem.
The difference between form (the physical body of the
grass, which is short) and function (measuring its shadow
over time, which is long) is wonderfully expressed by Thầy
through a single blade of grass.
However, how can one differentiate between form and
function when the deep understanding of Zen is wordless
and Zen enlightenment completely transcends form?
The following story taken from Dr. Daisetz Suzuki’s
Essays in Zen Buddhism, the first series, pages 305–306,
with minor modifications, explores the duality of form and
function, and the ultimate beyond-word realization of non-
duality through the silent dialogue.
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Yangshan was the chief disciple of Guishan, and one of
the peculiar features of this school was to demonstrate
the truth of Zen concordantly both by the master and
disciple. They once went out picking tea-leaves.
- Picking tea-leaves all day, I hear only your voice and
do not see your body; manifest your original form and
let me see it, Guishan said to Yangshan.
Yangshan shook the tea-plant, without saying.
- You have only got its function, you have not got the
form, said Guishan.
- Master, how with you then? Yangshan said.
The master kept quiet for a while, whereupon the
disciple said:
- O master, you have got only the form, you have not got
the function.
- You will be spared of my twenty blows, concluded the
master.
In Buddhist ontology three conceptions are
distinguished, as was referred to previously: form,
appearance, and function. Form corresponds to the idea
of mass or being, appearance to that of form, and
function to that of force. Every reality is regarded by
Buddhist philosophers as analyzable into these three
notions. Sometimes, however, the second conception,
appearance, is absorbed in that of form. Without
functioning no objects exist, but functioning cannot take
place without something functioning. The two ideas,
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according to Buddhist philosophers, are thus inseparable
for our understanding of the universe. But Guishan and
Yangshan were not metaphysicians and would not argue
on the subject. The one shook the tree and the other
stood still.
Yangshan shook the tree-plant to allow the function to
speak for itself, then Guishan only saw the function in his
disciple’s action, not the form, while Guishan kept quiet to
allow the form to speak for itself, then Yangshan only saw
the form, not the function, in his non-action.
But did Yangshan keep quiet when shaking the tree?
Surely, he did. If so, when the master kept quiet, did he
only repeat a part of his disciple’s answer? No, because the
master didn’t just keep quiet, he stood still. Therefore, the
correct response to Guishan’s question probably is to stand
still (to show the form) and to silently shake the tree (to
show the function) simultaneously! Even if you are the
Monkey King Sun Wukong, it’s of no use. Not only
language is transcended, but action is transcended, too.
There is no difference between the original form referred
in this story by Guishan, the original face before birth that
was asked by the Sixth Patriarch Huineng (pages 341–343
and 465) and the meaning of the First Patriarch
Bodhidharma’s coming from the West in the fifth case in
Wumen Guan (page 200).
In Wumen Guan, Wumen’s following comment is the reply
to those seeking the answer to Guishan’s question, “Even
if your eloquence flows like a river, it is of no use. Even if
you can expound the whole body of the sūtras, it is of no
avail. If you can respond to it fittingly, you will give life to
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those who have been dead, and put to death those who have
been alive”.
Dr. Daisetz Suzuki, in Essays in Zen Buddhism, the second
series, page 211, alludes that
This question points directly to the presence of some
truth innerly and mystically lying in the system of
Buddhism. It amounts to this: “What is the essence of
Buddhism as understood by the First Patriarch of Zen
Buddhism?”
Below is a collection of famous answers to the above
question. These answers, while seemingly unrelated or
even nonsensical, are designed to provoke thought and
challenge the seeker to find their own answers. They are
often used in Zen practice to help students break through
their conceptual understanding and experience a direct
realization of reality. In short, each one is a koan.
Zhaozhou Congshen: “The oak tree in the front yard”.
Another time, Zhaozhou said: “It is the leg of the chair”.
When asked “That is what it is, isn’t it?”, Zhaozhou
replied: “If that is what it is, you may remove it and take it
with you”.
Xianglin Chengyuan: “Sitting for a long time becomes
tiring”.
Damei Fachang: “There is no meaning at all”.
Lyangsan Yongwan: “Don’t talk nonsense”.
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Chiupheng Puman: “What’s the point of asking someone
else?”
Paoning Jenyang: “Like adding frost to snow”.
Tianhuang Daowu: “Your question is not to the point”.
When asked: “How shall I get it to the point?”, “I will tell
you when I am dead” was the master’s answer.
Shitou Xiqian: “Ask the pillar standing there”.
Linji Yixuan: “If there’s an intention, it cannot be saved”.
Xuefeng Yicun: When asked this question while fixing a
fence, he shook the fence without saying anything.
Guishan Lingyou 55 raised his whisk, without saying
anything.
Shishuang Qingzhu: “If there was someone who fell to the
bottom of a thousand-foot well, and you could pull them up
without a single inch of rope, then I would answer you”.
55 Guishan Lingyou raised his whisk in response to the question,
“What is the essence of the Buddha’s Way, as understood through the
First Patriarch Bodhidharma’s Western journey?”. This action
mirrored his disciple Yangshan Huiji’s gesture of shaking the tea
plant, page 379, yet Guishan criticized Yangshan for demonstrating
function rather than form.
Given the “nonsensical” koan-like responses, silent or not, of the Zen
Masters in this compilation, it’s evident that true understanding of the
original form, the original face before birth, the meaning of
Bodhidharma’s coming from the West or in short, the true dharma
cannot be conveyed through words, neither action. Indeed, the
moment your mind churns in the attempt to understand these koans,
you throw yourself into the shadow world.
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The monk did not evidently take this very seriously, for he
said, “Lately, the venerable Chang of Hu-nan was given a
monastery to preside over, and he is also giving us all kinds
of instruction on the subject”. Shishuang called a boy-
attendant and ordered him: “Take this corpse out”.
The boy-attendant, who later came to be known as
Yangshan Huiji, one of the most masterful minds in Zen,
afterwards asked Master Danyuan Yingzhen how to pull
someone up. The master replied, “You fool, who is down
the well?” Yangshan didn’t understand, so he went to ask
Guishan Lingyou. Guishan called, “Huiji”. Huiji replied,
“Yes, Master”. “There, he is out!”, Guishan said.
When Shuiliao asked Mazu Daoyi about the meaning of the
First Patriarch coming from the West, Mazu said: “Show
reverence”. Thinking Mazu expected him to pay homage,
Shuiliao bowed down, Mazu immediately kicked him over
the chest, sending him to the ground. This, however,
awakened Shuiliao to the realization of the truth of
Buddhism, for when he stood up on his feet, he declared
this, while clapping his hands and laughing loudly: “How
wonderful! How wonderful! A hundred thousand samadhis
and the most mysterious teachings – I know them all now
through and through as they are revealed at the tip of one
single hair”. Later, he said to his disciples, “Ever since I
took that kick from Master Ma, I haven’t stopped
laughing”.
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17. Cho xin chút hạt buồn thôi
Cho xin chút hạt buồn thôi
Để cho ngọn gió lên đồi rắc mưa
Gió qua ngõ phố mập mờ
Mưa rơi đâu đó mấy bờ cỏ lau
Nắng trưa phố cổ úa màu
Tôi đi qua mộng đồi cao giật mình
Grant me a touch of sorrow’s rain
Grant me a touch of sorrow’s rain,
For the wind to sprinkle upon the hill.
But the wind strays through dim-lit alleys,
Sprinkling the rain among the reeds.
As the old town’s colors fade in midday’s glare,
I climb the hill, lost in a dream, then wake up, startled.
Explanation
Thầy requests a touch of sorrow’s rain to be sprinkled upon
the hill, desiring that those dwelling there recognize the
society’s suffering. However, the wind, instead of
delivering the rain to the hill, strays through dim-lit alleys,
scattering it among the reeds, highlighting Thầy's
disappointment.
The poem concludes with the word “giật mình” (startled).
Perhaps, upon reaching the hill, Thầy is startled by an
unexpected discovery – a touch of hope to end the poem.
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18. Lão già trên góc phố
Lão già trên góc phố
Quằn quại trời mưa dông
Áo lụa gầy hoa đỏ
Phù du rụng xuống dòng
An elderly man on a street corner
An elderly man on a street corner,
Writhing in the stormy downpour,
Wearing a thin silk shirt, flower-red,
Stumbles and falls into the river.
His life, ephemeral as a mayfly’s.
Explanation
This moving poem contemplates the fragility of life, the
harsh realities of aging and poverty, and the inevitability of
death. It invites us to appreciate the beauty of existence,
even as we confront life’s challenges.
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19. Anh đi để trống cụm rừng
Anh đi để trống cụm rừng
Có con suối nhỏ canh chừng sao Mai
Bóng anh dẫm nát điện đài
You leave behind a ravaged forest
You leave behind a ravaged forest,
Where a small stream, guarding the Morning Star,
Detected your shadow trampling on the radio tower.
Explanation
In the poem Nghìn năm trước lên núi (A thousand years
ago I climbed that mountain), page 349, Thầy gives eyes to
the mustard seed; in this one, Thầy gives eyes to the stream.
The underlying meaning of this poem is the law of karma
in Buddhism: whatever seed you sow, you reap. No one
escapes this law.
Below is a Zen story, demonstrating that no one escapes
this law of karma.
Whenever Zen Master Baizhang Huaihai (720–814)
delivered a sermon, an old man was always there listening
with the monks. When they left, he left too. One day,
however, he remained behind. The Master asked.
- Who are you?
- I am not a man. In the past, in the time of Kashyapa
Buddha, I lived on this mountain (as a Zen priest). On one
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occasion, a monk asked me, “Does a perfectly enlightened
person fall under the law of cause and effect?”, I answered,
“He does not”. Because of this answer, I fell into the state
of a fox for 500 lives. Now, I beg you, Master, please say
a turning word to release me from the body of a fox. Does
a perfectly enlightened person fall under the law of cause
and effect?
- The law of cause and effect cannot be mistaken, the
Master answered.
Upon hearing this, the old man immediately became deeply
enlightened.
- I have now been released from the body of the fox and
will be behind the mountain. I dare to make a request of the
Master. Please perform my funeral as you would for a
deceased priest, he said, making his bows.
The Master ordered the monastic administrator to strike the
wooden fish to announce to the congregation that after the
meal there would be a funeral service for a deceased priest.
The monks wondered, saying, “All are healthy. No one is
sick in the infirmary. What’s this all about?”
After the meal, Baizhang led the monks to the foot of a rock
behind the mountain and with his staff poked out the dead
body of a fox. He then performed the ceremony of
cremation. That evening Baizhang ascended the rostrum in
the hall and told the monks the whole story.
Wumen Huikai (1183–1260) comments in his book
Wumen Guan (commonly known as The Gateless Gate,
refer to pages 199 and 359):
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If one doesn’t fall into karma, why was one condemned to
be a fox? If one doesn’t mistake karma, why was one able
to escape the fate of being a fox?
If such a commentary does not confuse the reader enough,
he adds this verse:
Not falling, not obscuring,
Two faces, one die.
Not obscuring, not falling,
A thousand mistakes, ten thousand mistakes.
In The Gateless Gate, Japanese Zen Master Koun Yamada
explains:
As you know, a die has six faces and when you throw it,
sometimes a one appears, sometimes a four. Each time a
different face may appear, but the die is at all times one
and the same. Similarly, sometimes the form of a fox
appears, sometimes the form of a man, but the essential
nature is always one.
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20. Ôi nỗi buồn
Ôi nỗi buồn
Thần tiên vĩnh cửu
Nhớ luân hồi
cát bụi đỏ mắt ai
Oh, sadness
Oh, sadness,
You’re an eternal immortal.
Missing saṃsāra,
Will sand and dust redden your eyes?
Explanation
Thầy’s assertion that sadness is an everlasting fairy,
transcend the saṃsāra (the cycle of birth, death and
rebirth), is both intriguing and perplexing.
The poem’s last verse, Nhớ luân hồi, cát bụi đỏ mắt ai
literally mean missing saṃsāra, whose eyes are reddened
by sand and dust, indicating that fairies also possess
emotions. Therefore, I believe the poem will be clearer by
translating as:
Missing saṃsāra,
Will sand and dust redden your eyes?
The poem’s structure is also noteworthy, with the first two
lines establishing the overarching theme of sadness and the
final two lines exploring a specific manifestation of this
emotion in the context of saṃsāra. This creates a sense of
unity and coherence within the poem.
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21. Tiếng muỗi vo ve
Tiếng muỗi vo ve
Người giật mình tỉnh giấc
Ngoài xa kia
Ai đang đi?
Nước lũ tràn
Em nhỏ chết đuối
Tôi ngồi trên bờ
Vuốt ngọn cỏ mơ
By the sound of mosquitoes buzzing
By the sound of mosquitoes buzzing,
The sleeper is startled awake.
Out there,
Who is going?
The floodwaters rise,
The little child drowns.
I sit on the bank,
Stroking a calea leaf, and pray
Explanation
In the last line, the plant “cỏ mơ” has the scientific name
calea zacatechichi, or simply calea. However, in
Vietnamese, “mơ” also means wishing or dreaming, so I
add “and pray” to capture this dual meaning.
The first stanza effectively sets a scene of tranquility
disrupted by a sudden disturbance. The buzzing of
mosquitoes is used to evoke a sense of peacefulness that is
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abruptly shattered. The verse người giật mình tỉnh giấc (the
sleeper is startled awake) conveys the suddenness and
intensity of the disruption, suggesting a sense of
vulnerability and helplessness. The lines, ngoài xa kia ai
đang đi? (Out there, who is going?) add a layer of mystery
and intrigue, inviting the reader to ponder the identity of
the person on the move as well as his/her intention. This
line also creates a sense of anticipation and suspense.
The second stanza of the poem paints a harrowing scene of
a child drowning in a flood. The imagery of the rising
floodwaters and the tragic fate of the child is emotionally
impactful and evokes a sense of sympathy and sorrow.
The final two lines,
Tôi ngồi trên bờ
Vuốt ngọn cỏ mơ
I sit on the bank,
Stroking a calea leaf, and pray,
create a stark contrast between the serenity of the natural
world and the tragedy that has occurred. The image of Thầy
stroking a “cỏ mơ” (calea leaf, but literally it means
wishing grass) suggests a sense of peace and
contemplation, while the word “pray”, added to capture the
dual meaning of the word “cỏ mơ”, implies a longing or
desire for something better.
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22. Người hận ta
Người hận ta
Bỏ đi trong thiên hà mộng du
Bóng thiên nga bơ vơ
Nghìn năm sau
Trong lòng đất sâu
Thắm hạt mưa rào
Giọt máu đổi màu
Hating me
Hating me,
You’ve moved to your sleepwalking galaxy,
Leaving behind this lonely swan.
But a thousand years later,
Deep within the earth,
Having absorbed raindrops,
Your blood will turn a different color.
Explanation
Driven by your hatred, you’ve retreated into a self-created
fantasy. But time will prove, comprehension will draw, and
your essence will undergo a profound shift.
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23. Hoang vu
Hoang vu
Cồn cát cháy
Trăng mù
Hoang vu
Cồn cát
Trăng mù
Cỏ cây mộng mị
Cơ đồ nước non
In this abandoning land
In this abandoning land,
The sand dunes were burning,
The moon was obscuring.
In this abandoned land,
Burnt sand dunes,
Obscured moon.
Plants can only dream
Of the nation’s past.
Explanation
Before things become irrevocably late, if we do nothing to
save it, plants (grasses, flowers and trees) will only be able
to dream of the past glories of our nation.
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24. Người đi đâu bóng hình mòn
mỏi
Người đi đâu bóng hình mòn mỏi
Nẻo tới lui còn dấu nhạt mờ
Đường lịch sử
Bốn nghìn năm dợn sóng
Để người đi không hẹn bến bờ
Where have you gone leaving me to wait in
vain
Where have you gone leaving me to wait in vain?
The path you walked now bears only the faintest trace.
Despite our historical path
Of four thousand years of rippling waves,
You have gone with no promise to return.
Explanation
Despite our historical path
Of four thousand years of rippling waves,
You have gone with no promise to return.
In the above lines, Thầy criticizes those who have
abandoned their country in its time of need, choosing
personal comfort over national duty.
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25. Gió cao bong bóng vỡ
Gió cao bong bóng vỡ
Mây sương rải kín đồng
Thành phố không buồn ngủ
Khói vỗ bờ hư không
High winds burst the balloons
High winds burst the balloons,
Mist and clouds cloak the fields,
In the city that never sleeps,
Smoke laps at the shores of the void.
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26. Đàn cò đứng gập ghềnh không
ngủ
Đàn cò đứng gập ghềnh không ngủ
Ngóng chân trời con mắt u linh
Chân trời sụp ngàn cây bóng rủ
Cổng luân hồi mở rộng bình minh
The storks shift and sway, unable to sleep
The storks shift and sway, unable to sleep,
Gazing at the horizon with their pale, ghostly eyes.
The horizon collapses, and trees cast long, creeping
shadows,
The gate of reincarnation creaks open, welcoming the new
dawn.
Explanation
The poem’s overall tone is one of mystery and
contemplation. The reader is left to ponder the deeper
meanings of the images and symbols presented.
The storks, unable to sleep and with their “ghostly eyes”,
could symbolize souls in a liminal state, awaiting rebirth or
passage into the afterlife. Their restlessness suggests a
sense of anticipation and uncertainty. The collapsing
horizon could represent the arrival of death. The new dawn
suggests that death is not an end but a passage to a new
beginning.
Ultimately, the poem’s meaning is open to interpretation.
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27. Chờ dứt cơn mưa ta vô rừng
Chờ dứt cơn mưa ta vô rừng
Bồi hồi nghe khói lạnh rưng rưng
Ngàn lau quét nắng lùa lên tóc
Ảo ảnh vô thường, một thoáng chưng?
When the rain subsides, I’ll enter the forest
When the rain subsides, I’ll enter the forest,
Shivering with cold, I watch the smoke curl and rise.
Forest reeds brush sunlight through my hair,
Are illusions, though fleeting, but a momentary gleam?
Explanation
The image of the rain falling and stopping, the reeds
swaying in the wind, and the illusions that come and go all
serve to remind us about the fleeting nature of existence.
The poem also includes some thought-provoking
philosophical musings on the nature of reality and the
meaning of life. The question of whether illusions can last
a fleeting moment is a particularly intriguing one, as we all
know that a fleeting moment can sometimes last forever in
our memory, and it invites the reader to consider the nature
of perception and the limits of human knowledge.
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28. Ơ kìa nắng đỏ hiên chùa
Ơ kìa, nắng đỏ hiên chùa
Trăng non rỏ máu qua mùa mãn tang
Áo thầy bạc thếch bụi đường
Khói rêu ố nhạt vách tường dựng kinh
Oh, look at the blazing red sun on the
pagoda’s porch
Oh, look at the blazing red sun on the pagoda’s porch,
Where a young moon bleeds through the mourning
season.
The monk’s robe, faded and dust-kissed, a testament to
time,
Against the smoky, mossy walls, he stands firm,
upholding the scriptures.
Explanation
Ms. Hà Nguyễn, on my Facebook page, analyzes: When
we think of a pagoda, we usually imagine a serene, cool,
and tranquil place, not one with a blazing red sun on the
pagoda’s porch, because blazing red sun evokes a sense of
oppression and discomfort for the pagoda setting. One
would think that after the war, there would be peace, but
that’s not the case at all. The young, fresh moon, which
should only be white, is now bleeds, further emphasizing
the sorrow of this unusual space. The monk is like a
seasoned warrior, though solitary, his clothes faded and
dusty from the road, yet his will to uphold the scriptures
remains steadfast and brave, alongside the tragic history of
the suffering Vietnamese nation.
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29. Người không vui, ta đi về làm
ruộng
Người không vui, ta đi về làm ruộng
Gieo gió xuân chờ đợi mưa hè
Nghe cóc nhái gọi dồn khe suối
Biết khi nào phố chợ chắn bờ đê
If you are not happy, I’ll return to farming
If you are not happy, I’ll return to farming,
Sowing winds of spring, and waiting for rains of summer.
When frogs and toads sing their chorus from the streams,
I’ll know the market’s crowd has filled the dike.
Explanation
The opening line, “If you are not happy, I’ll return to
farming”, suggests a sense of disillusionment with the
“you” addressed in the poem. This “you” could represent
the communist regime. Farming becomes a retreat. But his
farming is basic: sow winds of spring, and wait for rains of
summer, i.e., the cycles of nature.
The contrast between the peaceful sounds of “frogs and
toads singing their chorus from the streams” and the
disruptive, bustling “market’s crowd” highlights the
tension between rural tranquility and the intrusions of a
bustling society.
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30. Thao thức đêm khuya trộm
bóng ma
Thao thức đêm khuya trộm bóng ma
Ẩn tình khách trọ, nến đâm hoa
Chồi mai trẩy lá, mùa xuân đợi
Đã quá mùa xuân ánh điện nhòa
Unable to sleep, the lodger steals glances at
a ghostly figure
Unable to sleep, the lodger steals glances at a ghostly
figure,
Mirroring his secret emotions, the candle’s flame flickers.
An apricot bud unfurls, awaiting spring time,
But spring has long passed, and the streetlight dimmed.
Explanation
The lodger was so troubled that they couldn’t sleep and
began to hallucinate, seeing ghostly figures. The image of
the candle flickering is used as a metaphor for the lodger’s
troubled mind, where even simple things can take on a
more sinister appearance. The passage also includes a
reference to the disappointment of waiting for spring and
seeing no results, further emphasizing the theme of
unfulfilled expectations.
Candle flickering is a phenomenon where the candle flame
flares up. This phenomenon mostly occurs when a firefly
flies into the flame, causing its body to burn. Until now,
entomologists have not been able to explain why fireflies
fly into the fire and self-immolate.
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31. Ơi người cắt cỏ ở bên sông
Ơi người cắt cỏ ở bên sông
Nước cuộn ngoài khơi có bận lòng?
Phấn liễu một thời run khóe mọng
Hương rừng mờ nhạt rải tầng không
Hey, grass cutter by the river
Hey, grass cutter by the river,
Have you ever worried about the swirling water offshore?
Willow pollens, once quivering at the plump flower,
Now barely fill the forest air.
Explanation
The poem silently poses two open-ended questions.
The first is clearly stated: “The grass cutter, have you ever
worried about the swirling water offshore?” While the
“swirling water offshore” could symbolize unknown
dangers, the answer is not a definite yes or no.
The second is hidden: “Are the willow pollens sad that they
now barely fill the air?” The answer is definitely no.
The contrast between the grass cutter and the willow
pollens highlights different approaches to life’s
uncertainties. The grass cutter represents the human
tendency to worry and contemplate the future, while the
willow pollens embody a natural acceptance of change and
impermanence.
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32. Khói ơi bay thấp xuống đi
Khói ơi bay thấp xuống đi
Cho ta nắm lại chút gì thanh xuân
Ta đi trong cõi vĩnh hằng
Nhớ tàn cây nhỏ mấy lần rụng hoa
Smoke, descend, drift lower
Smoke, descend, drift lower.
Let me recapture a glimpse of my youth.
Here, in this timeless realm,
I remember the many times the blossoms fell from the
small tree’s foliage.
Explanation
Smoke, drift lower so I may grasp you. But as no one can
grasp smoke, no one can grasp back the days of youth.
Thầy remembers the many times the blossoms fell from the
small tree’s foliage, but composer Lê Mộng Nguyên,
author of the famous song Trăng mờ bên suối (Dim moon
by the stream), could not forget the April thirtieth, 1975:
Ngày ba mươi như cuộc thế thăng trầm
Muôn đời hận như dân Chàm đã chết
April thirtieth, like the ebb and flow of life,
The enduring hatred, as profound as the dead Champa.
Loyal to the covenant I have made with my conscience, I
shall share to the end of my exiled life: The day freedom
is restored, that day I will return to my homeland.
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Volume 6:
Những điệp khúc cho dương cầm | Refrains for piano
Những điệp khúc cho
dương cầm
| Refrains for piano
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These are 23 short poems, named Những điệp khúc cho
dương cầm (Refrains for piano), that Thầy transformed into
23 piano refrains by infusing them with music and Zen.
Time of composition: 2006
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1. Ta nhận chìm thời gian trong
khóe mắt
Ta nhận chìm thời gian trong khóe mắt
Rồi thời gian ửng đỏ đêm thiêng
Đêm chợt thành mùa đông huyễn hoặc
Cánh chim bạt ngàn từ quãng vô biên.
I drown time in the depths of my eyes
I drown time in the depths of my eyes,
Then time bleeds red into the sacred night.
Suddenly, night transforms into a winter of illusion,
A bird soars between two musical notes into the endless
expanse.
Explanation
The word “quãng” in the final verse of the poem is the key
word of the poem, in order to convert a poem to a refrain
for piano. It’s not a physical space, but the interval between
two musical notes, i.e., it’s a time interval. Therefore,
Cánh chim bạt ngàn từ quãng vô biên
A bird soars between two musical notes into the endless
expanse.
In this volume, Thầy also uses the word “quãng” in poem
number 15 (quãng im lặng thời gian nặng hạt, in the
downpours of rain, for a fleeting moment between two rest
notes) and poem number 20 (quãng im lặng nghe mùi đất
thở, in silent moments between rest notes, the earth’s
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breath fills the space). In these poems, “quãng im lặng”
means the interval between two rest notes. In this poem,
although Thầy did not specify, it could also be the interval
between two rest notes because it aligns with the musical
metaphor and the passage of time from the night into winter
myths, suggesting a sense of both nothingness and
endlessness. It’s the sound of silence, or the soundless
sound, as discovered by Toyo 56.
56 This story is recounted, with minor modifications, in the book 101
Zen stories, written by Zen master Mujū in the 13th century, and
compiled by Nyogen Senzaki in 1919.
The master of Kennin temple was Takeda Mokurai (1854-1930).
He had a little protégé named Toyo who was only twelve years
old. Toyo saw the older disciples visit the master’s room each
morning and evening to receive instruction in sanzen (TN: a
private interview between student and Zen master). Toyo wished
to do sanzen also.
- Wait a while. You are too young. Mokurai said.
But the child insisted, so the master finally consented.
In the evening, little Toyo went at the proper time to the threshold
of Mokurai’s sanzen room. He struck the gong to announce his
presence, bowed respectfully three times outside the door, and
went to sit before the master in respectful silence.
- You can hear the sound of two hands when they clap together.
Now show me the sound of one hand, Mokurai said.
Toyo bowed and went back to his room.
From his window he could hear a geisha singing. “Ah, I have it!”
he proclaimed. He came immediately. When Mokurai asked him
to illustrate the sound of one hand, Toyo sang the song of the
geisha. “No. That is not the sound of one hand”, said Mokurai.
Thinking that such music might interrupt, Toyo moved his abode
to a quiet place. He meditated again. He happened to hear the
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In Refrains pour piano, Mrs. Dominique de Miscault,
translates this poem into French as follows:
J’ai tenté de noyer le temps tout au fond de mon oeil
La nuit sacrée en a rougi
Aussitôt la nuit se métamorphose
En hiver de tous les mythes
sound of water dripping. “I have it”, imagined Toyo. When he next
appeared before his master, he imitated dripping water.
- That is the sound of dripping water, but not the sound of one
hand. Meditate again”, Mokurai said.
In vain, Toyo meditated, trying to hear the sound of one hand. He
heard the sighing of the wind. But the sound was rejected.
For more than ten times, Toyo visited Mokurai with different
sounds. All were wrong.
One year passed.
Mokurai became anxious, “What happened to the boy? He has not
come for a year”.
So, he went to his room and found him outside it, sitting under a
tree, silent, his body vibrating with some unknown sound. Mokurai
sat there waiting. Hours and hours passed.
Finally, when the sun was setting, he called:
- Toyo?
The boy opened his eyes and said:
- I have transcended all sounds until I could collect no more. So,
this is it.
- Yes, you have got it! Mokurai confirmed.
Conclusively, what is the sound of one-hand clapping? It cannot
be described in words because it is the soundless sound of the true
dharma, that you hear with your pure heart and no-mind, not your
ears.
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Au-delà des sommets, un oiseau plane
Entre deux notes, l’intervalle est infini
I sink time deep into the eyes
The sacred night blushes red
Immediately, the night screen transforms
Into the winter of legend
Outside the high mountain peak, a bird flies
Between two musical notes, the distance is endless.
In the last line, “between two musical notes, the distance is
endless”, the distance between two musical notes is the
distance of time, correct with the meaning of the poem.
In Dreaming the Mountain, professor Nguyễn Bá Chung
and poet Martha Collins translate this poem as follows:
I sink time in the corners of my time
Time reddens the sacred night
Suddenly night is a winter myth
Immense wings from endless space.
Endless space or boundless space, a Zen context, refers to
a limitless, empty space that is not merely physical but also
metaphysical, but it is not a time interval. The translators
do not only miss the mark, the time interval, but also the
musical notes in the poem.
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2. Từ đó ta trở về Thiên giới
Từ đó ta trở về Thiên giới
Một màu xanh mù tỏa Vô biên
Bóng sao đêm dài vời vợi
Thật hay hư, chiều nhỏ ưu phiền.
Chiều như thế, cung trầm khắc khoải
Rát đầu tay nốt nhạc triền miên
Ôm dấu lặng, nhịp đàn đứt vội
Anh ở đâu, khói lụa ngoài hiên?
And so, I return to the heavenly realm
And so, I return to the heavenly realm,
Where boundless blue stretches into eternity,
Starlight spills across the endless night.
Is this twilight real, or a veil of sorrow?
Such an afternoon, with a deep and yearning melody,
The endless strain burns my fingertips,
Embracing a rest note, the rhythm breaks.
Where are you, amidst the silken smoke on the balcony?
Explanation
In this poem, Thầy describes how a pianist with a sorrowful
heart, no matter how splendid the heavenly realm might be,
can only experience the pain of their fingertips.
When the rest note sounds, the rhythm of the music
abruptly stops. At that moment, the heart becomes calm,
allowing us to see the source of the pianist’s sorrow:
“Where are you?”.
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A rest (or rest note) is a moment of silence. It is just as
necessary as any other musical note.
Sometimes, rests are more necessary and carry a more
profound meaning than other notes, as in the Vietnamese
song Hồn tử sĩ (Souls of the Dead Soldiers), the American
Taps, or the British The Last Post.
Hồn tử sĩ (originally titled Hát giang trường hận, Forever
Resentment of River Hát) was composed by Lưu Hữu
Phước around 1942–1943 when he visited the Hát River,
where the Trưng sisters drowned themselves in 43 AD. The
bugle call for this song was used by the South Vietnamese
government for military funerals and memorial services for
fallen soldiers. After the reunification of Vietnam, it was
officially used nationwide.
There are several legends concerning the origin of Taps,
but the most widely circulated one states that a Union
Army infantry officer, whose name often is given as
Captain Robert Ellicombe, first ordered Taps performed at
the funeral of his son, a Confederate soldier killed during
the Peninsula Campaign. This apocryphal story claims that
Ellicombe found the tune in the pocket of his son’s clothing
and performed it to honor his memory.
The Last Post, composed around the 1790s, is one of about
20 songs that the British military would sing and play at the
end of the day before soldiers went to sleep. The song was
adapted and used in military funerals and memorial
services around the 1850s.
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3. Trên dấu thăng âm đàn trĩu
nặng
Trên dấu thăng âm đàn trĩu nặng
Khóe môi in dấu hận nghìn trùng
Âm đàn đó chìm sâu ảo vọng
Nhịp tim ngừng trống trải thời gian.
Thời gian ngưng mặt trời vết bỏng
Vẫn thời gian sợi khói buông chùng
Anh đi mãi thềm rêu vơi mỏng
Bởi nắng mòn cỏ dại ven sông.
A sharp note heavily hangs in the air
A sharp note heavily hangs in the air,
A thousand layers of sorrow etched upon my lips.
The piano tune, lost in illusion’s depths,
Stills my heartbeat in the vast emptiness of time.
Time pauses, the sun reveals a burning scar,
Time hangs, like wisps of smoke, fading away.
Your prolonged absence has thinned the moss on the
steps,
Like wild grass withered by sunlight on the riverside.
Explanation
In this piece, Thầy uses the sharp note to portray a moment
in music when time stands still, and the color of time
becomes like languid smoke.
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4. Ta bay theo đốm lửa lập lòe
Ta bay theo đốm lửa lập lòe
Chập chờn trên hoang mạc mùa hè
Khung trời nghiêng xuống nửa
Bên rèm nhung đôi mắt đỏ hoe
Thăm thẳm chòm sao Chức nữ
Heo hút đường về.
I fly after the flickering flame
I fly after the flickering flame,
Over the shimmering heat of the summer desert.
The heavens tilt, cleaved in two,
Behind a velvet curtain, two bloodshot eyes peer out.
The Lyra constellation, so deep and far,
Oh, how abysmal is the way back!
Explanation
The poem evokes a sense of isolation, loss, and yearning.
- Isolation: The character is alone in a vast and desolate
landscape, physically and emotionally.
- Loss: The imagery of the flickering flame suggests a loss
of direction, rather than a guiding light, while the tilting sky
creates a sense of disorientation.
- Yearning: The reference to the Lyra constellation, so deep
and far, an unreachable goal, and his desire to return to the
Lyra, both evoke a sense of yearning, desperate and
powerless.
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5. Chiều tôi về
Chiều tôi về
Em tô màu vàng ố
Màu bụi đường khô quạnh bóng trăng
Đường ngã màu bóng trăng vò võ
Em có chờ rêu sạm trong đêm?
In the evening when I return
In the evening when I return,
You paint your face ochre,
The road dust shimmers, a desolate moonscape,
Drenched in the lonely moonlight.
Will you wait for me in the mossy shadows of the night?
Explanation
Returning to the old city where all the roads turn a
yellowish hue, and even his lover has an ochre face, then
he’d probably already know the answer to the question Em
có chờ rêu sạm trong đêm? (Will you wait for me in the
mossy shadows of the night?).
Thầy’s “lover” is his homeland. So why does his homeland
turn its back like this? Because “the young generation is
educated to forget the past”, as in the letter Thầy wrote to
young postulant monks in Thừa Thiên - Huế on October
28, 2003:
You grow up in a peaceful era, but you are thrown into
a directionless society. Homeland and religion are
beloved terms but have become empty. The highly
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revered Buddhist monks, who once awakened the
conscience of humanity before the brutal war, who held
firm to the ship of religion in the hearts of the people;
now only shadows remain, and oblivion.
The young generation is educated to forget the past.
Many of you do not know what the Unified Buddhist
Church of Vietnam is; what it has done and contributed
to the cause of culture, education, and national peace, in
the most difficult periods of the nation’s history and
religion. A past that is only like yesterday, whose legacy
still exists but has been hastily rejected. A legacy
accumulated over centuries, with countless thoughts
through countless sorrows and sufferings, with the blood
and tears of countless monks and Buddhists; those who
built that legacy with their vows and strength, some were
executed by tyranny, some endured years of
imprisonment and humiliation.
Living or dying, honor or disgrace, do not disturb the
minds of those who know how to live and die worthily
of human dignity, and who are not ashamed of the noble
virtues of an ordained.
An ordained person, with each step, ascends towards a
sublime and expansive realm. Their mind and body
remain detached from the mundane world, unyielding to
its false values, and unbowed to any force or coercion.
A little bit of fame, a little bit of worldly gain, a little bit
of peace of mind; these are only small, trivial, and
deceptive values, which even many worldly people
willingly discard to preserve their honor. Do not
boastfully protect the dharma, but in reality, only hold
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onto temples and pagodas as a hiding place for the
devils, as a gathering place for the dregs of society. Do
not loudly call for the transmission of the dharma and
the explanation of the sūtras, but in reality, borrow the
words of the Buddha to flatter kings and officials, to beg
for a little leftover favor from the secular world, to buy
fame and sell rank.
In the past, when kings and lords forced monks to bow
their heads and accept the titles of the court to become
their servants, the ancestors were ready to place their
heads before sharp swords, upholding the integrity of the
ordained, following in the footsteps of the fearless and
selfless Noble Disciples. …
Endure the world but do not let the dark power of the
world command you. Conform to the world but do not
drown yourself in the whirlpool of the world’s filth. You
must cultivate for yourselves an unshakeable faith; a
courageous and fearless virtue; strive to cultivate
wisdom through study, thought, and practice to see
clearly the true and false appearances, to see and know
clearly where you are and where you are going; do not
close your eyes and recklessly follow the magnificent
but inwardly fragile carriage that is rushing down a long,
directionless slope. …
I pray that you have enough courage to walk on your
own feet, to see with your own eyes; to self-determine
your own direction.
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6. Màu tối mù lan vách đá
Màu tối mù lan vách đá
Nhớ mênh mông đôi mắt giã từ
Rồi đi biệt
Để hờn trên đỉnh gió
Ta ở đâu?
Cánh mỏng phù du.
As darkness shrouds the cliff face
As darkness shrouds the cliff face,
I’m lost in endless memories of our farewell glances.
And so I was gone,
Leaving my bitterness on the wind’s crest.
Where am I now,
With paper-thin wings of a mayfly?
Explanation
A mayfly is a small insect with delicate wings that often
rests on the surface of water and only lives for a few hours.
The passage compares the poet’s ability to leave to that of
a mayfly. Both are limited in their ability to travel far due
to their fragile nature.
The final line Where am I now, with paper-thin wings of a
mayfly? suggests a simile for greater emphasis on the
speaker’s vulnerability.
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7. Chung trà đã lịm khói
Chung trà đã lịm khói
Hàng chữ vẫn nối dài
Thế sự chùm hoa dại
Ủ mờ con mắt cay.
The tea’s steam has dissipated
The tea’s steam has dissipated,
But the lines keep stretching on.
World’s current affairs, a tangle of wildflowers,
Bring tears to my weary eyes.
Explanation
Thế sự chùm hoa dại, ủ mờ con mắt cay,
World’s current affairs, a tangle of wildflowers, bring tears
to my weary eyes,
are such heartfelt words.
On June 3rd, 2001, the citizen Phạm Văn Thương writes to
the Supreme People’s Procuracy of Vietnam:
The arbitrary and selective application of the law, by law
enforcement agencies, not only adversely affects the
lives of individuals but also creates a power base for
bureaucratic evils, corruption, and abuse of power,
which our people have had to endure for half a century.
Therefore, with the conscience of a human being, with
the duty of a citizen in a country, I feel it is necessary to
point out these evils.
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8. Công nương bỏ quên chút hờn
trên dấu lặng
Công nương bỏ quên chút hờn trên dấu lặng
Chuỗi cadence ray rứt ngón tay
Ấn sâu xuống ưu phiền trên phím trắng
Nửa phím cung chõi nhịp lưu đày.
The princess leaves her resentment in rest
notes
The princess leaves her resentment in rest notes.
The cadences, a rhythmic sequence, strains her fingers.
She pours her grief into the white keys,
A half-step offbeat, echoing the rhythm of exile.
Explanation
Again, another interesting point in Thầy’s poetry: To
abandon resentment in rest notes.
In this poem, Thầy uses a musical term, “nửa phím cung
đàn”, which I translate as half-step, following the advice of
my musician friend Huân Cung. In music, a half-step is the
smallest interval between two adjacent notes, such as E and
F or A sharp and B. These notes are so close together that
there are no other notes between them on a piano keyboard.
Thầy also uses a French word, cadence. Cadence comes
from the Latin word “cadere”, meaning to fall. Initially,
cadence referred to falling tones, often at the end of a
musical phrase, but now it means a rhythmic flow of
sounds.
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In his essay, Theo dấu lặng nghe điệp khúc dương cầm của
thầy Tuệ Sỹ (Following the rest note to listen to Thầy Tuệ
Sỹ’s refrains for piano), writer Huỳnh Kim Quang
comments:
In everyday life, with the continuous actions of the
stream of thoughts passing through body, speech, and
mind, people are swept up in the whirlwind of delusional
dreams. Therefore, moments of pause, release, and
stillness are extremely necessary and beneficial. These
are the silences in the music of life.
Indeed, have you ever taken the time to savor the
moments of absolute silence that occur so unexpectedly
amidst the tumultuous torrents of sound and melody? If
you have ever experienced this incredibly magical
moment, you probably feel like you are swimming in an
infinite space where there is only mysterious joy in the
absence of all human suffering and defilement.
The life of a Zen master is an endless moment of
peaceful, carefree, and transcendent silences amidst a
life of suffering and pain. Thầy Thích Tuệ Sỹ was such
a Zen master.
In Thầy’s pair of bright eyes, the endless stream of birth
and death is merely a faint shadow behind the flickering
flame of awakened wisdom, allowing one to look deeply
into it and realize that it is nothing but an illusion.
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9. Đôi mắt cay phím đen phím
trắng
Đôi mắt cay phím đen phím trắng
Đen trắng đuổi nhau thành ảo tượng
Trên tận cùng điểm lặng tròn xoe
Ta gửi đó ưu phiền năm tháng.
My eyes sting, blurred by the dance of black
and white keys
My eyes sting, blurred by the dance of black and white
keys,
Black and white, an endless chase, a mirage.
On the topmost key, a round rest note,
In it, I confide my year-after-year melancholy.
Explanation
Thầy deposits his sorrow in a rest note.
Poet Phùng Quán, renowned for his poem Lời mẹ dặn
(Motherly advice), expressed a similar sentiment:
Có những phút ngã lòng
Tôi vịn câu thơ mà đứng dậy
In moments of despair,
I find solace in the lines of my poem to stand up.
The poet suggests that poetry serves as a lifeline, a means
to rise above sorrow. By crafting verses, one can alleviate
the weight of despair.
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10. Cửa kín chòm mây cuốn nẻo xa
Cửa kín, chòm mây cuốn nẻo xa
Ngu ngơ đếm chữ, mắt hoa nhòa
Tay buồn vuốt mãi tờ hương rã
Phảng phất mưa qua mấy cụm nhà.
Behind closed doors, distant swirling clouds
Behind closed doors, distant swirling clouds,
With blurry eyes, I struggle to count the words.
And with grieving fingers, I caress the crumbling incense
paper,
While a hint of rain falls softly over the clustered houses.
Explanation
Reading this poem is like viewing a Chinese ink wash
painting. The simple touches, like the distant swirling
clouds and the gentle rain whispering over a few houses,
depict a melancholic scene. However, a painting cannot
fully capture the beauty of the poem, especially with the
repeated use of the words ngu ngơ (vaguely) and phảng
phất (gently). No translations can describe such beauty
when it creates a soft flowing rhythm in the repetition of
the [ng] sound in ngu ngơ and the [f] sound in phảng phất.
On the background of this ink wash painting is an old fairy
sitting and reading a book, leisurely turning each frail leaf.
This suggests a deep connection to nature and a desire for
peace and tranquility.
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11. Ve mùa hạ chợt về thành phố
Ve mùa hạ chợt về thành phố
Khóm cây già che nắng hoang lương
Đám bụi trắng cuốn lên đầu ngõ
Trên phím đàn lặng lẽ tàn hương
Tiếng ve dội lăn tăn nốt nhỏ
Khóc mùa hè mà khô cả đại dương.
The city awakens to a chorus of cicadas
The city awakens to a chorus of cicadas,
A grove of ancient trees offers a cool sanctuary frrom the
blazing sun,
White dust whirlwinds at the alley’s entrance,
The lingering scent of incense quietly fades on the piano.
The cicada melody echoes, rippling like cue notes.
Their summer song weeps, drying up the ocean.
Explanation
The second last verse, Tiếng ve dội lăn tăn nốt nhỏ, literally
means “the cicadas’ sound ripples in tiny notes”, but the
term “nốt nhỏ” is a musical term (cue note), so, I translate
it as “the cicada melody echoes, rippling like cue notes”.
Thầy transforms the cicadas’ song into a mournful cry.
Although it’s just a gentle ripple of tiny notes, or cue notes,
it can dry up the entire ocean.
How heartbreaking!
In Refrains pour piano, Mrs. Dominique de Miscault
translates:
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Soudain l’été a surgi
Les cigales chantent sur la ville
Un bouquet de vieux arbres
Protège du soleil torride
La poussière blanche s’enroule au bout de la ruelle
Le “silence” est parfumé
Le chant des cigales ondule légèrement
Je pleure l’été qui assèche l’océan.
Suddenly, summer has arrived
The cicada’s song resounds through the city
A cluster of ancient trees
Provides shade from the scorching sun
White dust swirls at the alley’s end
A “silent” note emits a fragrant scent
The cicadas’ sound vibrates gently
I weep for the summer that dries up the ocean.
The translator’s choice, le “silence” est parfumé, to put
silence in quotation marks and connect it to a fragrant scent
is a very clever detail. I did not see that the word “lặng lẽ”
(quietly or silently) in the poem can be connected to the
musical silent note. It shows the translator’s subtlety in
conveying the deep meaning of the poem.
However, there are three translation errors:
Tiếng ve dội lăn tăn nốt nhỏ is translated as Le chant des
cigales ondule légèrement (The cicadas’ sound vibrates
gently): this translation omits the crucial element of “nốt
nhỏ” (cue notes), losing the musical subtlety of the poem.
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Tiếng ve … khóc is translated as Je pleure (I cry): This is a
rather serious error, completely changing the subject of the
poem from the cicadas’ cry to the poet’s cry.
Khóc mùa hè mà khô cả đại dương is translated as Je pleure
l’été qui assèche l’océan (I cry for the summer that dries
up the ocean): This translation changes the subject
performing the action from the cicadas’ cries drying up the
ocean into the summer’s heat drying up the ocean, losing
the profound symbolic meaning of the original poem.
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12. Đạo sĩ soi hình bên suối
Đạo sĩ soi hình bên suối
Quên đâu con mắt giữa đêm
Vội bước gập ghềnh khe núi
Vơi mòn triền đá chân chim.
A Taoist contemplates his image in the
stream
A Taoist contemplates his image in the stream,
Losing sight of his inner vision.
He stumbles through rugged mountain clefts,
Seeking to wear down the rocky cliff with his frail bird-
like steps.
Explanation
A Taoist contemplates his image in the stream, trying to
see his true self. However, by losing sight of his inner
vision, he doesn’t see it. What he might see in the stream is
only a perception of himself, but that is not his true self. He
does not see the natural scene and he does not hear the call
of nature. Therefore, he hurries onward, stumbling through
rugged mountain clefts, with his frail bird-like steps.
This poem draws upon the Buddhist concept woven in con
mắt giữa đêm (inner vision) in the second verse: The inner
vision refers to one’s true self; the ability to see beyond the
surface of things. The rugged mountain clefts symbolize
the arduous path of spiritual cultivation. The frail bird-like
steps highlight the fragility and limitations of one’s
physical body.
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In the book Tô Đông Pha: Những phương trời viễn mộng
(Su Dongpo: Celestial realms of distant dreams), Thầy uses
his spiritual eye to look at Lushan:
Lushan is majestic, floating, but mysterious. The heart
of the mountain hides thousands of years of unspoken
stories; the heart of the mountain harbors silent lives;
bodies as thin as cranes and bamboo, souls as cold as
winter ashes. The mountain is silent, allowing the wind
to howl, the clouds to swirl, and waterfalls to cascade
from the highest peaks.
Lushan resonates with a vast realm of poetry. The realm
of poetry is filled with layers of miraculous metaphors.
Ordinary travelers, whose boats dock at Poyang or
Xunyang, only see it as a beautiful land covered in mist
and fog; they only see it as a sky in the twilight, then the
strange sun, then the twilight. How can they see and hear
the melancholic feelings within? Whether melancholic
or furious, Lushan has countless forms. The imperial
hats of Taoist priests, the tattered robes of monks; here,
the Taoist temples chant the Huang-t’ing Sūtra, there,
the pagodas’ morning bell sounds. These images and
sounds, from century to century, have fallen into the
long dream of human history; there are competitions of
courage against time that take place in coldness and
solitude. Day and night, torturing body and mind,
standing alone, terrified, on a solitary bridge, crossing
the abyss of life and death.
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13. Ô hay dây đàn chợt đứt
Ô hay, dây đàn chợt đứt
Bóng ma đêm như thật
Cắn đầu ngón tay giá băng
Điệp khúc lắng trầm trong mắt
Rồi phím đàn lơi lỏng
Chùm âm thanh rời, ngón tay rát bỏng
Chợt nghe nguyệt quế thoảng hương
Điệp khúc chậm dần theo dấu lặng
Alas! The piano string snaps
Alas! The piano string snaps,
The night’s phantom seems so real.
I bite my ice-cold fingertip,
A haunting melody echoes in my eyes.
Then the keys turn slack,
The notes fall apart, my fingertips burn.
A sudden and sweet laurel fragrance fills the room,
The melody fades on the final rest notes.
Explanation
The poem’s beauty lies in its ability to capture the complex
emotions following a moment of musical loss.
In this poem, the musician undergoes two extraordinary
experiences:
(1) Điệp khúc lắng trầm trong mắt
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428
A haunting melody echoes in my eyes.
It’s extraordinary that the melody echoes in his eyes, rather
than his ears;
(2) Chợt nghe nguyệt quế thoảng hương
literally means the musician hears, instead of smells, the
fragrance of the laurel. I choose to translate this verse as:
A sudden and sweet laurel fragrance fills the room.
Sweetness is one of at least five basic tastes detected by the
tongue’s taste buds. Humans cannot directly smell
sweetness, as our olfactory receptors are not designed to
detect sugar molecules. However, certain scents can be
associated with sweetness, such as the aroma of ripe fruits
or baked goods. This association is learned through
experience and can contribute to our perception of
sweetness. In another word, it’s olfactory hallucinations.
Given that the slack keys, fallen apart notes, and burning
fingertips are only illusory perceptions experienced by the
musician in this soundless world, the laurel fragrance could
be a tangible scent that wafts through the air.
Fantasy and reality become indistinguishable.
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14. Đêm sụp xuống
Đêm sụp xuống
Bóng dồn một phương
Lạnh toát âm đàn xao động
Trái tim vỗ nhịp dị thường.
Ngoài biên cương
Cây cao chói đỏ
Chiến binh già cổ mộ
Nắng tắt chiến trường
Giọt máu quạnh hơi sương.
As night falls
As night falls,
Shadows gather in one direction,
To play a chilling, restless melody,
Stirring an irregular rhythm in my heart.
Beyond the frontier,
Beneath towering, dazzling crimson trees,
An aged warrior sits by an ancient grave,
Watching the last rays of sunlight on the battlefield,
Where fog carries the scent of blood.
Explanation
The poem paints two distinct yet interconnected scenes,
both imbued with a sense of unease and the passage of time.
The first scene sets a somber tone with the approaching
night and the chilling, restless melody that seems to
emanate from the deepening shadows. This evokes a
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feeling of inner turmoil, mirroring the speaker’s irregular
rhythm of the heart. It’s a scene of introspection and
growing anxiety as darkness closes in.
The second scene shifts to a broader perspective, beyond
the frontier. Here, we encounter an aged warrior by an
ancient grave, likely contemplating past battles and losses
as the sunlight bleeds from the battlefield. This scene is
steeped in a sense of history and the lingering impact of
conflict. The fog carrying the scent of blood adds a
haunting, ghostly element, suggesting that the past is not
entirely gone.
The connection between these two scenes lies in their
shared sense of unease and the passage of time. The falling
night in the first scene mirrors the fading sunlight in the
second. Both scenes evoke a feeling of reflection, with the
speaker’s internal anxieties in the first scene mirroring the
warrior’s contemplation of past struggles in the second.
The chilling melody and the lingering scent of blood also
contribute to an overall atmosphere of melancholy.
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15. Một ngày chơi vơi đỉnh thác
Một ngày chơi vơi đỉnh thác
Nghe bồn chồn tiếng gọi hư không
Giai điệu nhỏ dồn lên đôi mắt
Mặt hồ im ánh nước chập chờn
Mặt hồ im, tảng màu man mác
Ảnh tượng mờ, một chút sương trong
Quãng im lặng thời gian nặng hạt
Tôi nghe đời trong tấu khúc Thiên hoang
A day adrift on top of a waterfall
A day adrift on top of a waterfall,
Listening to the void’s beckoning call,
A subtle melody rises to my eyes.
The lake lies still, its surface flickering,
The lake lies still, a canvas of vague hues,
A shimmering image, veiled in mist.
In the downpours of rest notes,
I hear the voice of life in this wild symphony.
Explanation
We have seen that “quãng” in the first poem represents the
time interval between two musical notes, therefore, “quãng
im lặng” in this poem represents the time interval between
two rest notes.
How can the poet hear these moments of silence when he
is atop a noisy waterfall? It’s even stranger when he hears
this melody filling up his eyes, instead of his ears, giai điệu
nhỏ dồn lên đôi mắt (a subtle melody rises to my eyes).
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Thầy explains in Tô Đông Pha: Những phương trời viễn
mộng (Su Dongpo: Celestial realms of distant dreams):
Those who study Zen, learn from suffering, from
illusion; they learn so that body and mind become like
cold, lifeless ashes. To learn like that is to learn to torture
oneself. The achievement of that learning is to let go, to
transform into nothingness and become stillness. Letting
go means not grasping, not being bound. It’s also as
carefree as a liberated and romantic poetic soul. A still
mind is as calm as a still surface of water, reflecting the
entire external scene. An empty mind, containing
nothing, is as vast as the ocean, containing all the stars
and galaxies. Those who study Zen torture their bodies
to become thin, their minds to become cold, and within
that is an extraordinary efficacy. Those who write
poetry, whose lives are full of trials and tribulations, also
find a magical bitterness and saltiness within. A lifetime
of studying Zen is a lifetime of torturing body and mind,
of torturing oneself in nothingness and stillness. That
torture is, in fact, not torture. Similarly, a lifetime of
writing poetry is a lifetime of suffering and turmoil, but
it is not suffering and turmoil. That magic, not having
reached the highest realm of poetry, how can one
understand? …
So, that place of dreamy torture seems like it should be
terrifying, it makes even the land become a desert, with
scorching heat and chilling winds. And yet it’s
completely different. It is the nothingness of
nothingness and the stillness of stillness.
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16. Phủi tay kinh nỗi đảo điên
Phủi tay kinh nỗi đảo điên
Tôi theo con kiến quanh triền đỉnh hoang.
Brushing my hands, shaking off the grip of
a dreadful madness
Brushing my hands, shaking off the grip of a dreadful
madness,
I follow an ant’s winding path around a deserted peak.
Explanation
Just like an ant that flees when it senses danger, so did
Thầy, fearing the upheaval, abandon everything and went
to cultivate the land in Vạn Giã (1975–1977).
Most Venerable Nguyên Siêu writes about this period in
his essay Thượng tọa Tuệ Sỹ, Trí Siêu, những thiên tài lỗi
lạc (Most Venerables Tuệ Sỹ, Trí Siêu, outstanding
geniuses), as follows:
From Nha Trang to Vạn Giã, a distance of about 60
kilometers, Thầy traveled on nighttime trains,
immersing himself in quiet contemplation. He became
less talkative than before. Sometimes, he would shut
himself in his room for a whole week without eating or
drinking. He would only consume sugar-lemon water or
plain water. Occasionally, he would be seen walking
outside. He had noticeably lost weight, but his face
always bore a quiet, sacred sorrow that was evident in
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his eyes. It was as if he carried a secret, a deep-seated
sorrow that he couldn’t share with anyone.
But following an ant round a peak will eventually return to
the same place, Thầy returned to Saigon in 1977.
In 1978, he was arrested for illegal residence, but in reality,
for his resistance to the government’s decision to dissolve
the Unified Buddhist Church of Vietnam (UBCV), and
subsequently imprisoned in a re-education camp, a thinly
veiled prison, until 1981.
His unwavering opposition to the regime’s attempts to
coerce the UBCV into joining the Fatherland Front
ultimately led to his arrest again in 1984. In a sham trial
held in September 1988, he was sentenced to death
alongside Venerable Thích Trí Siêu, also known as
Professor Lê Mạnh Thát.
Most Venerable Nguyên Siêu provides a powerful
indictment of the communist regime in Vietnam about this
sentence in the abovementioned essay as follows:
Even faced with death, their unwavering faith in the
impermanence of all things remained unshaken. The
communist regime, however, failed to recognize the true
nature of the Vietnamese people. The blood of the
martyrs had nourished the land, and the ideals of selfless
service would continue to inspire future generations.
The communist regime’s obsession with power and
control led them to commit atrocities, such as the
execution of these two monks. By silencing its critics
and destroying cultural heritage, the regime created a
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society devoid of intellectual and spiritual growth. The
death sentences of 1988 stand as a testament to the
Communist regime’s crimes against humanity and its
disregard for the Buddhist faith.
Throughout the history of our nation and our religion,
through periods of both prosperity and decline, it can be
said that the era of Vietnam under the communist rule is
the first time in thousands of years that Buddhist monks
have faced death sentences. This death sentence reveals
a harsh truth: under a socialist regime, Buddhism cannot
exist, or if it does, it is merely for show. The
Communists do not realize that from the very beginning,
our ancestors have partaken of the fruit of liberation
offered by Buddhism and have drunk from the pure
stream of compassion that is Buddhism. Yet today, their
descendants are uprooting the tree, digging out the roots,
and draining the spring, causing great turmoil…
Vietnam is truly unfortunate, for the Communist Party
of Vietnam has overturned all social order, morality, and
rituals. They have destroyed the foundations of our
rituals, our dignity, and our culture through oppression,
terror, inhumanity, and the destruction of all books from
the South. The Communist Party of Vietnam has stained
the pages of Vietnamese history.
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17. Hơi thở ngưng từ đáy biển sâu
Hơi thở ngưng từ đáy biển sâu
Mênh mông sắc ảo dậy muôn màu
Một trời sao nhỏ xoay khung cửa
Khoảnh khắc Thiên hà ánh hỏa châu.
My breath catches
My breath is held captive by the ocean’s depths,
Where a kaleidoscope of light unfolds,
In the moment the starry sky pirouettes around the
window frame:
A galaxy of fireworks.
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18. Tiếng xe đùa ngoài ngõ
Tiếng xe đùa qua ngõ
Cành nguyệt quế rùng mình
Hương tan trên dấu lặng
Giai điệu tròn lung linh.
The rumble of a passing car
Upon the rumble of a passing car in the alley,
The laurel branch trembles.
Its fragrance disperses on the rest note,
A sparkling, harmonious rondo.
Explanation
A rondo is a structure of music that uses a recurring theme,
called a refrain. The refrain is interspersed with sections of
music called episodes. If the refrain is referred to as A, and
each episode is labeled B, C, and so forth, then a rondo
traditionally follows either a 5-part pattern (ABACA) or a
7-part pattern (ABACABA).
The passage is a poetic exploration of music and
symbolism. It suggests that the music is not just a series of
notes, but a complete and meaningful entity. The image of
the laurel branch shivering in response to the sound of a car
is evocative and suggests a deep connection between
nature, music, and human experiences.
The reference to the laurel wreath, associated with victory
and underscoring darkness and destruction, serves as a
counterpoint to the beauty and harmony of the music.
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19. Bóng cỏ rơi giật mình sửng sốt
Bóng cỏ rơi, giật mình sửng sốt
Mặt đất rung, Ma Quỷ rộn phương trời
Chút hơi thở mong manh trên dấu lặng
Đêm huyền vi, giai điệu không lời
Startled by the shadows of falling grass
Startled by the shadows of falling grass,
The earth shudders, demons rage across the sky,
My breath, a fragile wisp, fades on rest notes,
In this enchanted night, a silent symphony unfolds.
Explanation
The phrase “giai điệu không lời” (a silent symphony) in the
last verse is often understood as instrumental music,
without vocals, but here there are neither vocals nor
instruments. It’s the sound of silence.
In Zen koans related to the sound of silence, the sound of
one hand clapping on page 406 is one.
Here is another koan, a young monk asking Zen master
Shoushan Xingnian (926–993) to play a stringless tune.
The master was silent for a long time, then asked:
- Do you hear it?
- No, sir, replied the young monk.
- Why didn’t you ask it to play louder? scolded the master.
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20. Theo chân kiến
Theo chân kiến
luồn qua cụm cỏ
Bóng âm u
thế giới chập chùng
Quãng im lặng
nghe mùi đất thở
Following the ants’ trail
Following the ants’ trail,
I crept through the grass,
Darkness shrouds the world,
Its shadows undulating.
In silent moments between rest notes,
The earth’s breath fills the space.
Explanation
Just like in poem number 15, “quãng im lặng” represents
the distance between two rest notes, making the poem a
silent piece of music. Can you hear a silent piece of music?
Yes, if you hear it with other senses, instead of your ears,
such as your touch or your heart. Many talented musicians
were born with hearing loss. Thầy, as explained in the
excerpt from his book (pages 431–432), can hear the sound
of silence even when he is atop a noisy waterfall because
he hears with his mind, or precisely, no-mind.
Similarly, in the poem number 13, with his no-mind, he
experiences the scent of the laurel, and in this poem, he
hears the experiences of the earth breathing.
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The following is an excerpt from The Blue Cliff Record 57,
demonstrates how silence can be a powerful means of
communication:
As Subhuti was sitting in silent meditation in a cliffside
cave, flowers were showered down.
- Flowers are showering down from the sky in praise;
who is doing this? Subhuti asked.
- I am Indra, king of the gods.
- Why are you offering praise?
- I esteem your skill in expounding the transcendence of
wisdom.
- I have never spoken a single word about wisdom; Why
are you offering praise?
- You have not spoken and I have not heard. No
speaking, no hearing, this is true wisdom, Indra said.
57 The Blue Cliff Record is a collection of one hundred koans, with his
additional verses, compiled by Zen master Xuedou Chongxian (980–
1052). About sixty years after Xuedou’s death, Yuanwu Keqin (1063–
1135) gave a series of talks elucidating the original anecdotes and the
verses of Xuedou’s collection. The anecdotes, Xuedou’s verses, and
Yuanwu’s introductions, remarks, and commentaries all together
form The Blue Cliff Record.
The Blue Cliff Record gained great popularity, so much so that Dahui
Zonggao (1089–1163), a disciple of Yuanwu, destroyed the printing
blocks because he observed that enthusiasm for eloquence was
hindering people from experiencing enlightenment on their own.
The text was reconstituted in 1302 by Zhang Mingyuan.
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21. Nỗi nhớ đó khát khao
Nỗi nhớ đó khát khao
luồn sợi tóc
Vòng tay ôm cuộn khói
bâng khuâng
Uống chưa cạn chén trà
sương móc
Trên đài cao
Em ngự mây tầng
Lên cao mãi đường mây
khép chặt
Để soi mòn ảo tượng
thiên chân.
Ồ, nguyệt quế!
trắng mờ đôi mắt
Ồ, sao Em?
sao ấn mãi cung đàn?
Giai điệu cổ
thoáng buồn
u uất
Xưa yêu Em
xao động trăng ngàn
A wave of yearning
A wave of yearning
Weaves its way through strands of my hair.
Embracing a wisp of smoke,
Lost in wistful contemplation.
Though my cup of dew-kissed tea
Remains unfinished,
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On a high dais,
You reign among the clouds.
As you ascend,
The clouds close the path behind you,
To erode the façade
Of innocence.
Oh, laurel, your whiteness blinds my eyes.
Oh, my love,
Why do you persist with that mournful melody?
The ancient melody,
Tinged with sorrow and despair,
In days gone by,
Your love stirred the forest moons.
Explanation
They have showered you with praise, elevating you to
extraordinary heights. Yet, the illusions they weave may
eventually unravel, leaving you exposed. I see the
accolades they bestow upon you, but their dazzling
brilliance blinds me to the underlying realities that may lie
beneath.
This poem might be the voice Thầy wrote for the veterans
who, once lauded as heroes, end up living in poverty and
neglect.
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22. Ta sống lại trên nỗi buồn ám
khói
Ta sống lại trên nỗi buồn ám khói
Vẫn yêu người từng khoảnh khắc chiêm bao
Từ nguyên sơ đã một lời không nói
Như trùng dương ngưng tụ ánh hoa đào
Nghe khúc điệu rộn ràng đôi cánh mỏi
Vì yêu người, ta vói bắt ngàn sao.
Reborn from the ashes of sorrow
Reborn from the ashes of sorrow,
My love for you endures through each fleeting dream.
A love unspoken, from the very beginning,
Like a vast ocean, gathering peach blossoms’ blush.
The vibrant symphony overwhelms my weary wings,
Yet for your love, I’ll strive to catch the stars.
Explanation
Thầy expressed his hope of catching a star or the moon in
at least two poems, as in this poem, vì yêu người ta vói bắt
ngàn sao (for your love, I’ll strive to catch the stars), and
in the Dedication he wrote for the book Ngục trung mị ngữ
(Somniloquies in prison):
Anh ôm giấc mộng đi hoang
Biết đâu mà kiếm trăng ngàn cho em
Embracing a dream of wandering,
How can I capture the silvery moon for you?
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23. Giăng mộ cổ mưa chiều hoen
ngấn lệ
Giăng mộ cổ mưa chiều hoen ngấn lệ
Bóng điêu tàn huyền sử đứng trơ vơ
Sương thấm lạnh làn vai hờn nguyệt quế
Ôm tượng đài yêu suốt cõi hoang sơ.
Soft afternoon rain weeps over ancient
graves
Soft afternoon rain weeps over ancient graves,
Where ruined remnants of legend stand forlorn.
As cold mist seeps into my shoulders, I taste the bitterness
of the laurels;
Embracing these monuments, I love this untamed
universe.
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Volume 7:
Thiên lý độc hành | A thousand-mile solitary journey
Thiên lý độc hành
| A thousand-mile
solitary journey
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These 13 poems, named Thiên lý độc hành (A thousand-
mile solitary journey, chuyến đi vạn dặm trong đơn độc)
are written about a Zen master’s solitary journey of ten
thousand miles, but this journey has no departing, only
returning. Why?
Time of composition: 2011–2012
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1. Ta về một cõi tâm không
Ta về một cõi tâm không
Vẫn nghe quá khứ ngập trong nắng tàn
Còn yêu một thuở đi hoang
Thu trong đáy mắt sao ngàn nửa khuya
I return to the realm of no-mind
I return to the realm of no-mind,
But memories of the past overflow in the twilight.
I still cherish the time I wandered,
When autumn settled deep within my eyes, and forest
stars shone at midnight.
Explanation
What realm is the realm of no-mind? If it’s called no-mind,
why does the heart still hold onto memories, as shown in
the verse Vẫn nghe quá khứ ngập trong nắng tàn (But
memories of the past overflow in the twilight)?
Furthermore, the 13 poems of A thousand-mile solitary
journey describe a solitary traveler’s journey of ten
thousand miles, yet they begin with “Ta về” (I return),
instead of “I depart”. Why does this journey have no
departing? How can one start a journey without departing?
Perhaps we can find the answers in the paintings of Thập
mục ngưu đồ (Ten ox-herding pictures) 58 which portray
58 The Ten Ox-Herding pictures describe the Zen training path to
enlightenment using folk images, accompanied by poems and
commentaries. They depict a child whose quest leads him to find,
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the journey of a child searching for his ox. These ten steps
of ox herding, explained by Thầy in Thiền qua tranh chăn
trâu (Zen in the ox-herding pictures), represent three stages
in Zen practice: ordering mind to find mind (in the first six
pictures), reaching the no-mind (pictures No. 7 and 8), and
attaining the ordinary mind (pictures No. 9 and 10). The
last stage, Entering the marketplace, with bliss-bestowing
hands, involves reaching a state of ultimate freedom.
In the beginning of this explanation, I pose four questions.
The following answers would help you understand the Zen
wisdom Thầy has woven into this volume.
(1) What is the realm of no-mind?
The realm of no-mind isn’t a physical place but a state of
consciousness. It’s a state of being free from the constraints
of conceptual thinking, where one transcends the duality of
train, and transform his mind, a process that is represented by
subduing the ox. Even though these images are presented in a
sequence, self-development and Zen practice do not go in a straight
line. It is more like a spiral, and one goes back to different previous
stages but with more understanding. You can see these pictures
adorning the walls of Zen temples in China, Korea, Japan and
Vietnam.
1) Searching for the ox
2) Seeing the footprints of the ox
3) Seeing the ox
4) Catching the ox
5) Herding the ox
6) Riding the ox home
7) The ox transcended
8) Both the ox and the child transcended
9) Returning to the origin, back to the source
10) Entering the marketplace, with bliss-bestowing hands
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self and other, subject and object. It’s a state of pure
awareness, where the mind is still and clear, like a mirror
reflecting reality without distortion.
(2) Why does the heart hold onto memories in the realm of
no-mind?
This is where the paradox lies. While no-mind implies a
state of emptiness and non-attachment, it doesn’t mean the
complete eradication of memories. Memories exist, but
they don’t have the same power to bind or afflict the
individual. In the realm of no-mind, one can observe
memories without judgment or attachment, like clouds
passing across the sky. The verse Vẫn nghe quá khứ ngập
trong nắng tàn (But memories of the past overflow in the
twilight) acknowledges the presence of memories, but they
are bathed in the soft light of acceptance, not the harsh glare
of clinging.
(3) Why does the journey have no departing?
The journey in A thousand-mile solitary journey is not a
physical journey but a spiritual one. It’s a journey to return
to one’s true nature, to the realm of no-mind. This “return”
signifies a homecoming, a rediscovery of something that
was always there but obscured by the illusions of the ego.
In this sense, there is no departing because one is not truly
leaving anything behind; rather, one is shedding layers of
delusion to reveal the true self.
(4) How can one start a journey without departing?
This is another paradox that points to the non-dualistic
nature of reality. In the realm of no-mind, there is no
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separation between self and other, beginning and end,
departing and arriving. The journey is not a linear
progression from one point to another but a circular
movement, a continuous return to the present moment. The
starting point is therefore also the destination.
The poems in this volume invite us to contemplate these
paradoxes and challenge our conventional understanding
of reality. They offer a glimpse into the profound wisdom
of Zen Buddhism, where the journey is not about escaping
the world but about awakening to its true nature.
In Zen Buddhism, complete enlightenment is often
described as a state of freedom where existence and non-
existence themselves become indistinguishable – arrival
without arriving and departure without departing, as in the
poem Nghìn năm trước lên núi (A thousand years ago I
climbed that mountain), page 350.
A monk asked Zen Master Dongshan Liangjie (807–869):
- What is a Buddha?
- Three pounds of thorns, the Master replied.
The monk was confused. The Master explained:
- Language is only a tool to express things, don’t cling to
the words and cause confusion and delusion. For example,
if you throw a stone at a dog, the dog will chase the stone;
but if you throw a stone at a lion, the lion will chase the
person who threw it. When engaging in Zen dialogue, you
should be like a lion, not like a dog.
Three pounds of thorns is a stone. Are you a dog or a lion?
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2. Ta đi dẫm nắng bên đèo
Ta đi dẫm nắng bên đèo
Nghe đau hồn cỏ rủ theo bóng chiều
Nguyên sơ là dáng yêu kiều
Bỗng đâu đảo lộn tịch liêu bến bờ
Còn đây góc núi trơ vơ
Nghìn năm ta mãi đứng chờ đỉnh cao.
Walking along a sunlit mountain pass
Walking along a sunlit mountain pass,
I feel the pain of the wilting grass, as twilight falls.
Once pristine, the graceful mountain now lies desolate,
Its beauty marred.
Standing at a solitary corner of the mountain, I’ll wait
forever —
For the peak to arrive.
Explanation
This solitary journey of a thousand miles grows stranger
still, for he is prepared to wait for a thousand years for the
peak to come to him, rather than going to it. This attitude
echoes the no-mind perspective expressed in Fudaishi’s
poem (page 323).
In my translation, I add the em dash (—) to create a pause,
as he is prepared to wait forever for the mountain peak to
arrive, emphasizing the timelessness of his devotion.
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3. Bên đèo khuất miễu cô hồn
Bên đèo khuất miễu cô hồn
Lưng trời ảo ảnh chập chờn hoa đăng 59
Cây già bóng tối bò lan
Tôi ôm cỏ dại mơ màng chiêm bao.
Beneath the pass, a hidden ghost shrine
lurks
Beneath the pass, a hidden ghost shrine lurks,
Above the sky, a phantom of flower lanterns shimmers.
At the foot of the ancient trees, their shadows creep and
crawl,
While I embrace the wild grass, lost in a dreamy reverie.
59 Hoa đăng (flower lanterns) are small, floating lanterns made from
multi-colored paper and bamboo. Often in a lotus shape, they are
traditionally released on waterways during festivals in Vietnam.
These beautiful and symbolic lanterns represent hope, peace, and
good luck.
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4. Đã mấy nghìn năm đợi mỏi mòn
Đã mấy nghìn năm đợi mỏi mòn
Bóng người cô độc dẫm hoàng hôn
Bởi ta hồn đá phơi màu nắng
Ôm trọn bờ lau kín nỗi buồn.
Waiting in vain through countless ages
Waiting in vain through countless ages,
For a solitary silhouette emerging from the twilight,
A soul of stone, weathered and worn, yet enduring still,
Embraces the reeds, filled with sorrow.
Explanation
Let’s review the monk’s journey through the first four
poems: Initially, he returns to his no-mind. Then, he walks
by the pass, waiting for the peak to arrive. At the pass, he
encounters a hidden ghost shrine, where he dreams of
shimmering lanterns in the sky and crawling shadows on
the ground. Here, a reed-embraced stone tells him that it
has been waiting for him for countless ages.
It is common for reeds to embrace stones. But here, the
stone embraces the reeds. Such paradoxical situations
abound in Zen stories.
Vimalakīrti (refer to page 213), the man renowned for his
thunderous silence, once said he was ill because all beings
were ill.
According to the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, when Manjusri,
obeying the Buddha, visited the ill Vimalakīrti, he asked:
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- The World-Honored One countless times has made
solicitous inquiries concerning you. Layman, what is the
cause of this illness? Has it been with you long? And
how can it be cured?
- This illness of mine is born of ignorance and feelings
of attachment. Because all living beings are sick,
therefore I am sick. If all living beings are relieved of
sickness, then my illness will be mended. Why? Because
the bodhisattva, for the sake of living beings, enters the
realm of birth and death, and because he is in the realm
of birth and death, he suffers illness. If living beings can
gain release from illness, then the bodhisattva will no
longer be ill.
It’s hard to accept Vimalakīrti’s argument that he was ill
because all beings were ill, but it’s harder to step into his
realm.
Su Dongpo stepped into Vimalakīrti’s realm with this
poem dedicated to his third wife, Wang Zhaoyun. She was
a woman of both beauty and talent who accompanied him
for 23 years, never leaving his side, even during times of
slander, misfortune, and exile.
白髮蒼顏
正是維摩境界
空方丈散花何礙
朱唇箸點
更髻還生彩
Bạch phát thương nhan
Chính thị Duy Ma cảnh giới
Không phương trượng tán hoa hà ngại
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Chu thần trợ điểm
Cánh kế hoàn sinh thái
White hair and a wrinkled face
Precisely this is the realm of Vimalakīrti.
In the empty room, flowers scatter without hindrance.
Lips painted red,
The hairdo becomes even more vibrant.
Su Dongpo compares her aging appearance to the realm of
Vimalakīrti, suggesting that true beauty comes from within
and is not diminished by physical aging. The imagery of
flowers scattering in an empty room suggests that beauty
can arise from emptiness.
In Tô Đông Pha: Những phương trời viễn mộng (Su
Dongpo: Celestial realms of distant dreams), Thầy explains
this poem as follows:
Grey hair and wrinkled skin are the realm of Vimalakīrti.
It is the realm of the most profound dialogue, a realm of
vast, silent, and wordless stillness of the layman
Vimalakīrti. It is also the realm of quiet yet magnificent
poetry. Vimalakīrti’s house is a square space of one
zhang (TN: 3.2 meters or 3.5 yards) each side; it is an
empty room, yet it contains three thousand lion thrones;
guests from three thousand worlds gather to listen to
Vimalakīrti’s unspoken word.
And there, a celestial maiden scattered heavenly
flowers, applauding the unspoken words. Was this
celestial maiden Zhaoyun? And was the realm of the
unspoken words the realm of his poetry?
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
456
5. Từ thuở hồng hoang ta ở đâu
Từ thuở hồng hoang ta ở đâu
Quanh ta cây lá đã thay màu
Chợt nghe xao xuyến từng hơi thở
Thấp thoáng hồn ai trong khóm lau.
Where was I in those primal times
Where was I in those primal times?
Around me, trees and leaves transformed colors,
I suddenly feel my breath quicken,
Catching a glimpse of a soul within the reed bush.
Explanation
I sense a deep love for his country in Thầy’s words here:
Quanh ta cây lá đã thay màu (Around me, trees and leaves
transformed colors) is a metaphor comparing the changing
of seasons to the changing of times.
Chợt nghe xao xuyến từng hơi thở (I suddenly feel my
breath quicken) aims to convey the emotional intensity of
coming unexpected events.
Thấp thoáng hồn ai trong khóm lau (Catching a glimpse of
a soul within the reed bush) suggests a spark of hope even
in challenging times. Is this his hope for a miracle to unfold
in his country?
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
457
6. Trên đỉnh đèo cao bát ngát
trông
Trên đỉnh đèo cao bát ngát trông
Rừng, mây, xanh, ngất tạnh, vô cùng,
Từ ta trải áo đường mưa bụi
Tưởng thấy tiền thân trên bến không
From this lofty peak, the world unfolds
below
From this lofty peak, the world unfolds below,
Emerald forests, towering clouds, a clear blue sky
reaching to the horizon.
Since I began my life as a wandering monk,
I have sought glimpses of my previous lives on the
enlightenment wharf.
Explanation
In this poem, Thầy uses the word “ngất tạnh” that very few
people know. This word was used by Nguyễn Du in The
Tale of Kiều to describe the moonlit night when Kiều was
taken away by Mã Giám Sinh to Lâm Tri, and she
remembered the night she had sworn eternal love to Kim
Trọng under the moon:
Dặm khuya ngất tạnh mù khơi
Thấy trăng mà thẹn những lời non sông
A road that stretched far off in hushed, still night:
She saw the moon, felt shame at her love vows.
(translated by Professor Huỳnh Sanh Thông)
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
458
Scholar Đào Duy Anh, in Tự điển Truyện Kiều (Dictionary
of the Tale of Kiều), explains that ngất tạnh means a clear,
vast sky, suggesting a clear and bright night.
The term “mưa bụi” means drizzle or fine rain, with a small
size of raindrops, but in the verses
Từ ta trải áo đường mưa bụi
Tưởng thấy tiền thân trên bến không,
drizzle or fine rain could not be used as a cause-and-effect
relationship to explain the second line, tưởng thấy tiền thân
trên bến không (I have sought glimpses of my previous
lives on the enlightenment wharf). The path to
enlightenment, as Wumen Huikai poignantly describes in
Wumen Guan, is not a leisurely stroll. It’s akin to
“swallowing a red-hot iron ball, which you cannot spit out
even if you try”. This evocative image depicts the life of a
wandering monk, facing challenges and uncertainties.
Từ ta trải áo đường mưa bụi
Tưởng thấy tiền thân trên bến không
Since I began my life as a wandering monk,
I have sought glimpses of my previous lives on the
enlightenment wharf.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
459
7. Khi về ngả nón chào nhau
Khi về ngả nón chào nhau
Bên đèo còn hẹn rừng lau đợi chờ
Trầm luân từ buổi ban sơ
Thân sau ta vẫn bơ vơ bụi đường
Hat off when we say goodbye
Hat off when we say goodbye,
Let’s make our next rendezvous at the reed forest.
Though I’ve wandered through countless lives in sorrow,
Still I yearn, in the next life, to wander lost and alone.
Explanation
Most Venerable Hạnh Viên shared that on a late autumn
day in 2011, probably around the same time Thầy Tuệ Sỹ
wrote this poem, he received this email message from
Thầy:
I wander aimlessly following the drifting clouds towards
an uncertain realm. Riverbanks, mountain caves,
everywhere is a place of burial. If fate still binds us
together, we’ll meet again, in this life or the next.
And he signed his name as Thị Ngạn Am vô trụ xứ (A
person without a fixed abode at Thị Ngạn hermitage). Refer
to page 298, for an explanation of the name “Thị Ngạn
Am”.
Could this be the awaited rendezvous at the reed forest that
Thầy was referring to in this poem?
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
460
8. Bóng tối sập mưa rừng tuôn
thác đổ
Bóng tối sập, mưa rừng tuôn thác đổ
Đường chênh vênh vách đá dọa nghiêng trời
Ta lầm lũi bóng ma tròn thế kỷ
Rủ nhau đi cùng tận cõi luân hồi
Khắp phố thị ngày xưa ta ruổi ngựa
Ngang qua đây ma quỷ khóc thành bầy
Lên hay xuống mắt mù theo nước lũ
Dẫm bàn chân lên cát sỏi cùng trôi
Rồi ngã xuống nghe suối tràn ngập máu
Thân là thân cỏ lá gập ghềnh xuôi
Chờ mưa tạnh ta trải trăng làm chiếu
Nghìn năm sau hoa trắng trổ trên đồi.
Darkness falls, and a cascade of rain lashes
the forest
Darkness falls, and a cascade of rain lashes the forest,
The cliff’s precarious path, threatening to tilt the sky.
Trudging alongside the ghosts of centuries past,
Together we journey toward the end of reincarnation’s
realm.
Once, on horseback, I rode through this city,
Amidst the cries of wandering ghosts,
Blinded, tossed and turned,
Treading on shifting sands, swept away by the torrent.
Then they fell, their blood inundating the stream.
Like broken leaves, they were carried away.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
461
Waiting for the rain to subside, I spread the moonlight for
my sleeping mat.
A thousand years later, when I wake, white flowers will
be blooming on this hill.
Explanation
Dear Thầy, we too yearn to witness this: The wailing
ghosts’ bodies are swept away by the flood.
In my translation, I’ve combined the first two lines of the
third stanza with the second stanza, allowing the story of
Thầy witnessing the wailing ghosts to conclude with their
bodies being tossed and turned in the flood.
The remaining two verses form the final stanza to express
Thầy’s desire for peace in the world. These verses have
been widely quoted and admired by our critics, seen as
reflecting Thầy’s divine nature:
Chờ mưa tạnh ta trải trăng làm chiếu
Nghìn năm sau hoa trắng trổ trên đồi
Waiting for the rain to subside, I spread the moonlight for
my sleeping mat
A thousand years later, when I wake, white flowers will
bloom on this hill
But for this wish to become reality, there is another wish:
that the ghosts’ bodies will be swept away by the flood.
Why do our critics ignore this?
In my translation, I add “when I wake”, as I believe Thầy
wants to see white flowers blooming on the hill, too.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
462
9. Gởi lại tình yêu ngọn cỏ rừng
Gởi lại tình yêu ngọn cỏ rừng
Tôi về phố thị bởi tình chung
Trao đời hương nhụy phơi hồn đá
Thăm thẳm mù khơi sương mấy từng
A blade of forest grass
Leaving behind a blade of forest grass, a token of my
love.
I return to my city, to fulfill my duty.
I bare my heart, offering my essence to the world,
Facing the unknown depths, veiled in layers of mist.
Explanation
Although bound by a deep connection to the mountains and
rivers, he must return to the city, leaving behind a blade of
forest grass as a token of his love. It is a sacrifice made for
a higher purpose.
Returning to the city, he vows to dedicate his life to making
a difference in the world. He knows this journey will be
arduous, as he ventures into layers of mist.
Only by understanding the depth of his poetry can one truly
appreciate his compassion.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
463
10. Một thời thân đá cuội
Một thời thân đá cuội
Nắng chảy dọc theo suối
Cọng lau già trầm ngâm
Hỏi người bao nhiêu tuổi
Once I was a pebble
Once I was as a pebble,
Basked in the sunlight along streams.
An old reed pensively asked,
“How old are you?”
Explanation
“Once I was a pebble” is often used to convey a sense of
humility, but in this poem, Thầy might intend it to represent
one of his previous lives, although it seems impossible. The
old reed, upon seeing this, asked in surprise: “How old are
you?”
In Thơ Tuệ Sỹ – Tiếng gọi của những đêm dài heo hút (Tuệ
Sỹ’s poetry – the call of long and desolate nights), Most
Venerable Phước An supports Thầy’s position:
Some people argue that Tuệ Sỹ should have spent his
time on his professional pursuits, such as writing
literature, poetry, or translations, instead of wasting over
twenty years on endeavors that yielded no personal
benefit. I believe this argument is entirely incorrect. In
fact, those who make such claims are merely trying to
protect their own weaknesses.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
464
11. Bước đi nghe cỏ động
Bước đi nghe cỏ động
Đi mãi thành tâm không
Hun hút rừng như mộng
Tồn sinh rụng cánh hồng.
With the first steps, you hear the grass
rustle
With the first steps, you hear the grass rustle,
But if you keep walking on, the rustling fades unheard.
Deep in the forest, a dreamscape unfolds,
To survive its depths, you must shed your eagle’s wings.
Explanation
The word “cánh hồng” here does not mean a rose petal. It
means eagle’s wings, as in Truyện Kiều (The Tale of Kiều):
Cánh hồng bay bổng tuyệt vời
Đã mòn con mắt phương trời đăm đăm
After the eagle vanished into space,
She kept her eyes fast set on heaven’s edge.
(Translated by Professor Huỳnh Sanh Thông)
Cánh hồng (eagle’s wings) in these verses in The Tale of
Kiều refers to Từ Hải, a nonconformist who chafes against
societal norms and the oppressive rule of the authorities.
The poem’s mention of stirring grass reminds me of the
following story about a flapping flag.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
465
The Sixth Patriarch Huineng (638–713), after leaving the
Hongren (refer to pages 341–345 for more details about his
time studying under Hongren), lived a secluded life with
hunters in the mountains. One day he thought that it was
time for him to go out in the world. He was now thirty-nine
years old. He came to Fahsing temple in Guangzhou and
happened to hear some monks arguing about the flapping
flag; one of them said, “The flag is flapping”. Against this,
it was remarked by another monk that “The flag is an
inanimate object; therefore, it is the wind that is moving”.
The discussion grew quite animated when Huineng
interrupted with the remark, “It is neither wind nor flag but
your own mind that flaps”. This at once put a stop to the
heated argument. Abbot Yintsung, surprised by the
encounter, invited him in and discovered that he was the
Sixth Patriarch who had been in hiding for 15 years.
This was the beginning of Huineng’s career as a Zen
master. His teachings were direct and profound, conclusive
and authoritative 60, attracting thousands of devoted
followers. Unlike many religious leaders, he didn’t actively
seek converts. His influence was centered on his home
province in the south, with the Paolin monastery at Caoxi
serving as his headquarters.
60 One example of his teachings: When Nanyue Huairang visited
Huineng, he was asked, “Where do you come from?”, followed by
“But what is it that shows up here?”. Huairang took eight years to
answer satisfactorily.
The famous story of Huairang taking eight years to answer these
questions illustrates the depth and complexity of this seemingly
simple inquiry. It’s not about providing a factual answer but
demonstrating a deep understanding of Zen principles.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
466
12. Thân tiếp theo thân ngày tiếp
ngày
Thân tiếp theo thân ngày tiếp ngày
Mù trông dư ảnh lá rừng bay
Dõi theo lối cũ bên triền đá
Sao vẫn còn in dấu lạc loài
Through countless lives, endless days
Through countless lives, endless days,
Yearning for the afterimage of leaves dancing in the forest
wind.
Along the worn path by the rocky slope,
Why do the lost imprints of my past journeys still remain?
Explanation
There’s only one more poem left in the collection of A
thousand-mile solitary journey, yet why does the traveler
feel lost? Why do the lost imprints of his past journeys still
remain along the old path? The old path is where the
traveler traversed in his previous life, isn’t it? Could it be
that A thousand-mile solitary journey is just wandering in
a maze, with no way out? One is able to get out of it only
if one knows how to transcend beyond the physical realm.
What is transcending beyond the physical realm? One
evening, Zen master Mazu Daoyi and his three disciples,
Xitang Zhizang, Baizhang Huaihai, and Nanquan Puyuan,
all great Zen Masters, were enjoying the moonlight.
- What should we do now? Mazu asked.
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467
- This is the time for offerings, Zhizang replied.
- This is the time to cultivate, Huaihai answered.
Nanquan waved his sleeve and left.
- The teachings go to Zhizang, meditation goes to Huaihai,
only Nanquan transcends all things, Mazu said.
“What should we do now?” is not a koan, however, even a
straightforward question can be an opportunity for Zen
practice. Recall that Xiangyan Zhixian was speechless for
a moment, then broke out laughing when he heard the
sound of a stone striking a bamboo stalk, page 203,
Baizhang Huaihai realized the true dharma in the midst of
pain on hearing the question “
何曽飛去
?”, page 324, and
Shuiliao could not stop laughing when being kicked in the
chest by Mazu Daoyi, page 383.
Below is another story about transcending beyond the
physical realm.
On another day, Nanquan and the monks were working
outside. Zhaozhou stayed behind in the temple to watch the
fire. Zhaozhou suddenly shouted, “Fire! Fire!” Everyone
rushed back and ran into the meditation hall. Seeing this,
Zhaozhou slammed the door shut and said:
- Say it correctly, I’ll open the door.
No one knew what to say. Nanquan threw the key through
the window into the room for Zhaozhou. Zhaozhou then
opened the door.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
468
13. Khi về anh nhớ cài quai nón
Khi về anh nhớ cài quai nón
Mưa lạnh đèo cao không cõi người.
Fasten your hat strap when you return
Fasten your hat strap when you return,
For cold rains on high passes are harsh for humans.
Explanation
The collection of A thousand-mile solitary journey begins
with the words “I return” (I return to the realm of no-mind)
and ends with “you return” (Fasten your hat strap when you
return). A peculiar journey as there is only returning, no
departing! Why is there only returning and no departing?
Because this collection of poems describes a journey to
find enlightenment.
In the Śūraṅgama Sūtra (kinh Lăng Nghiêm in
Vietnamese), Ananda asked the Buddha,
- What is the root of suffering?
- It is your six senses, the Buddha replied.
- What is the root of enlightenment? Ananda asked again.
- It is also your six senses, the Buddha replied.
These six senses are the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and
mind. It is precisely from these six senses that both
suffering and enlightenment arise. As these six senses
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
469
reside within our body – our home – this journey is about
returning home, not departing.
On November 24, 2023, Thầy passed away. In his will,
besides his wish for a simple funeral, the cremation of his
body, and the scattering of his ashes in the Pacific Ocean,
he also left behind these eight words:
Hư không hữu tận, Ngã nguyện vô cùng.
The void has its limits, (but) my vows are limitless.
This is an excerpt from the Ten Directions Prayer:
Hư không hữu tận
Ngã nguyện vô cùng
Tình dữ vô tình
Đồng viên chủng trí
The void has its limits,
My vows are limitless
I pray for all sentient and insentient beings,
That they may all attain enlightenment.
In these eight words, Thầy did not explicitly state his vows.
Perhaps this is his secret second will.
In Śrīmālādevī Sūtra, Mrs. Śrīmālā made three great vows:
(1) To help all sentient beings attain everlasting peace.
(2) To tirelessly teach the dharma to all sentient beings.
(3) To sacrifice her life to protect the true dharma.
Just like Mrs. Śrīmālā’s second vow, Thầy tirelessly taught
the dharma and translated scriptures.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
470
And like Mrs. Śrīmālā’s third vow, Thầy accepted
execution, resolutely protecting the Unified Buddhist
Church of Vietnam, and refusing its merger with the so-
called Vietnam Buddhist Sangha 61.
Compared to Mrs. Śrīmālā’s three great vows, Thầy was
unable to fulfill her first vow in this lifetime, as Vietnamese
people continue to suffer under the inhumane communist
regime. Often, what one cannot accomplish in their
lifetime, they vow to accomplish in the next. Therefore, I
believe these are Thầy’s three great vows – his secret
second will.
61 Writer Trần Trung Đạo offers the following description of this
Sangha in Kỷ yếu tri ân Hòa thượng Thích Tuệ Sỹ (Commemorative
Volume Honoring the Most Venerable Thích Tuệ Sỹ):
The Vietnam Buddhist Sangha (VBS) has the motto Dharma,
Nation, and Socialism. With this dependent status, VBS is entirely
subordinate to the Communist party. To put it simply, if the
Communist party exists, the VBS exists; if the Communist party
falls, the VBS falls.
History has shown that in any era and any place, when Buddhist
monks and nuns, the leaders of Buddhism, compromise with the
ruling class, become entangled in the pursuit of fame, fortune, and
power, and exploit the suffering and misfortune of people, that
Buddhist church no longer represents the compassionate teachings
of the Buddha. Instead, it has been corrupted into a tool of the ruling
regime.
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
471
About the author
Mr. TERRY LEE is a former senior Mathematics teacher
in New Zealand and Australia. He is the author of 6
Mathematics textbooks for year 11 and 12 students,
including the best-seller seventh edition book “Advanced
Mathematics – A complete HSC Mathematics Extension 2
course.”
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Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
475
Index
Ananda, 468
Angelou, Maya, 126
Avataṃsaka Sūtra, 139, 349
Baizhang Huaihai, 149, 201,
324, 326, 340, 386, 387, 466
Blue Cliff Record, 440
Bodhidharma, 200, 342, 344, 380
Bùi Giáng, 31, 35, 121, 263, 264,
265
Caoxi, 200, 465
Châu Thạch, 77
Collins, Martha. See Nguyễn Bá
Chung
Cung oán ngâm khúc, 370
Dajian Huineng, 206, 341, 342,
343, 344, 345, 380, 465
Daman Hongren, 342, 343, 465
Diamond Sūtra, 183, 297, 342,
349
Đỗ Hồng Ngọc, 24, 138, 164
Dongshan Liangjie, 450
Du Fu, 237, 238, 289
Duy Lam, 124
Fudaishi, 323, 451
Già Lam, 119, 255, 289
Guishan Lingyou, 206, 379, 380,
382, 383
Hà Nguyễn, 398
Hạnh Viên, 459
Heart Sūtra, 221, 226
Hồ Chí Minh trail, 84, 86
Huân Cung, 20, 418
Huyền Quang, 229
Huỳnh Kim Quang, 211, 419
Huỳnh Sanh Thông, 59, 121, 125,
261, 348, 457, 464
Khuông Việt, 119, 244
Kiều, 121, 125, 126, 193, 260,
261, 262, 264, 323, 347, 348,
457, 458, 464
Kumārajīva, 247, 258
Lá bối, 259, 260, 262
Lê Lợi, 86
Lê Mộng Nguyên, 402
Lê Thị Ý, 43
Li Bai, 289
Li Shangyin, 369
Lokeśvara, 101, 212, 227
Lục Vân Tiên, 125
Mạc Đỉnh Chi, 97
Mahākāśyapa, 245, 300
Maitreya, 201, 349
Mãn Giác, 268
Manjusri, 214, 219, 453
Mao Zedong, 189
Mật Thể, 57
Mazu Daoyi, 233, 324, 340, 341,
383, 466, 467
Middle Way, 223, 224, 242, 244,
247, 250, 288
Miscault, Dominique, 407, 422
Mokurai, Takeda, 406, 407
Montenegro, Maria, 225, 227
Nāgārjuna, 191, 223, 225, 247,
248, 249, 250
Nanquan Puyuan, 466, 467
Nanyue Huairang, 340, 341, 465
Nanyue Huizhong, 206
New Economic Zones, 123, 156
Ngô Tất Tố, 269
Nguyễn Bá Chung, 127, 346,
351, 365, 408
Dreams on the peaks of the mountains
476
Nguyễn Đạt, 298
Nguyễn Đình Chiểu, 125
Nguyễn Du, 126, 237, 260, 264,
275, 278, 347, 348, 457
Nguyễn Gia Thiều, 370
Nguyên Giác, 140, 208, 211
Nguyên Hiền, 161
Nguyễn Hiến Lê, 291
Nguyễn Mạnh Trinh, 170, 172
Nguyễn Mộng Giác, 184
Nguyên Siêu, 60, 91, 98, 129,
130, 181, 242, 255, 258, 288,
303, 433, 434
Nhất Hạnh, 227
Phạm Công Thiện, 47, 140, 146,
290
Phạm Duy, 43
Phạm Quỳnh, 193, 347
Phạm Thế Mỹ, 42
Phẻ Xuân Bạch, 20, 247
Phùng Quán, 420
Phước An, 106, 116, 162, 290,
463
Qingyuan Weixin, 58
Quách Tấn, 238, 290, 291, 292
Quảng Độ, 256, 354, 355
Śāriputra, 101, 207, 253
Shishuang Qingzhu, 382, 383
Shoushan Xingnian, 438
Shuiliao, 383
Śrīmālā, 130, 161, 178, 469
Subhuti, 222, 223, 349, 440
Sudhana, 139, 349
Śūraṅgama Sūtra, 468
Suzuki, Daisetz, 165, 206, 300,
345, 378, 381
Tâm Nhiên, 180
Tản Đà, 96
Ten Ox-Herding, 161, 447
Thị Ngạn am, 298, 459
Toyo, 406, 407
Trần Bảo Toàn, 257
Trần Dần, 168
Trần Nhân Tông, 245, 320
Trần Trung Đạo, 36, 470
Trần Tuấn Mẫn, 199
Trí Hải, 261, 263, 264, 265
Trí Siêu, 26, 98, 255, 257, 433,
434
Trúc Lâm, 245, 320
Tuấn Khanh, 354
Tuệ Trung, 242, 243, 245, 271
Unified Buddhist Church of
Vietnam, 119, 255, 256, 310,
311, 315, 354, 356, 414, 470
Vạn Giã, 77, 80, 106, 108, 116,
119, 123, 282, 290, 292, 433
Vạn Hạnh, 119
Viên Linh, 41, 42, 70, 72, 373
Vietnam Buddhist Sangha, 316,
470
Vietnamese Fatherland Front,
119, 315, 316, 434
Vimalakīrti, 101, 115, 130, 161,
213, 214, 219, 230, 232, 252,
253, 258, 368, 453, 454, 455
Vĩnh Hảo, 77, 131, 138, 151, 156
Vũ Đình Liên, 99
Wang Xizhi, 98, 289
Wikipedia, 258, 363
Wumen Guan, 161, 199, 359,
361, 380, 387, 474
Wumen Huikai, 199, 359, 387
Xiangyan Zhixian, 200, 201, 202,
203
Xitang Zhizang, 466
Xuedou Chongxian, 440
Yangshan Huiji, 379, 380, 383
Yuquan Chenghao, 351
Zhaozhou Congshen, 24, 149,
359, 361, 381, 467