Thanh tuyen han mac tu

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Your reader barcode: Your last name: Cite this Email this Add to favourites Print this page. Catalogue Persistent Identifier https: You must be logged in to Tag Records. Influenced by the French Romanticists and Symbolists taught in colonial schools and available in translation, and spurred by the Romanized, national script of quoc ngu coming into widespread use, they set out to adapt Western ideas for the modernization of Vietnamese literature, culture, and society.

No longer bound strictly to the values of Confucian society, this New Poetry turned inward to express, in lyrics of gentle rhythms and memorable lines, individual experiences of love, suffering, and loss. Popular and readable, this was the kind of poetry young Vietnamese would commit to memory, copy down into private notebooks, or set to music.


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By the August Revolution of , however, many poets formerly associated with the New Poetry movement, Xuan Dieu and Che Lan Vien most notably among them, rejected their so-called reactionary, decadent, and bourgeois poetic selves, and embraced the cause of revolutionary struggle by taking up the new standard of socialist realism. Not everyone marched in lock-step. Harder to find were poets belonging to the infamous and influential Nhan Van Giai Pham , an outspoken group of artists and intellectuals active in the North during the s.

They demanded greater political and creative freedoms, and critiqued the abuses of the Vietnamese Communist Party. In one particularly good used bookstore, I discovered beaten-up copies of the three-volume collected poetry and prose of Hoang Cam, a key member of Nhan Van Giai Pham. In March , Hoang Cam was one of four poets associated with the dissident group—the other three being Le Dat, Phung Quan, and Tran Dan—that were awarded Vietnam's highest literary prize, fifty years after they were detained, denounced, and disciplined by the Party for the oppositional politics expressed in their poetry and prose.

As for poetry in translation, I was thrilled to find a copy of a selection of Brecht's poetry in Vietnamese, its English counterpart virtually impossible to find in the States. There was hardly a trace of the once-flourishing poetic culture of South Vietnam before , save one strange exception. Nearly every bookstore carried copies of reissued editions of poetry by Bui Giang, known for his vagrant life, unconventional poems, and copious translations.

He was perhaps the closest thing Vietnam has ever produced to a beatnik poet. My father, long an admirer of Bui Giang's poetry, shrugged off the revival as a literary fad. Still, he scooped up a handful of copies to add to his private library at home. For many writers of former South Vietnam, it evokes not just the fall of a country but also the fall of a literature. Saigon would be officially renamed Ho Chi Minh City, its boulevards, avenues, and streets also renamed to commemorate revolutionary figures, events, and slogans.

So too Vietnamese literary history would be eventually dismantled, systematically re-written, or outright erased; books would be banned, confiscated, and burned; writers silenced, censored, and imprisoned. Just up in the morning, we heard on the radio that it had become illegal in Vietnam to sell reading matter published under the old regime and that as of the previous Thursday, all Saigon bookshops had been closed down.

We writer-refugees shook our heads: They are part of a lost generation whose works have all but literally vanished in Vietnam, where official versions of the national literature erase the literary heritage of the South between The anthology appropriately begins with Thanh Tam Tuyen, one of the most influential poets writing in South Vietnam before In , he helped establish the influential literary journal Sang Tao or Creativity. A central figure in a Saigon literary scene bustling with artistic and intellectual energy, he called upon poets to abandon the rhyming forms and romantic content that dominated the literary landscape, and also to resist the injunction that poetry should serve politics.

Instead, he theorized and experimented with a form of free verse in which what he referred to as the 'rhythm of images' and the 'rhythm of thoughts' combined to form the 'expressions of the rhythm of consciousness,' as electrifyingly realized in what is perhaps his most famous poem, "Resurrection": Clean, stark, and spare, not a syllable wasted here. Though his poems may cry of urban alienation, their song is also pitched in exalted and ecstatic tones.

In this poem and elsewhere, his sources of creative influence and inspiration include existentialist philosophy, Buddhism, French Surrealism, and American jazz. His brilliance is to channel these alternating currents towards the creation of singular, jolting, often prophetic forms of perception and consciousness. Like many of the poets in this anthology, Tuyen was both a participant and witness to the war. He served two stints in the Army Republic of Vietnam, first from to , then from until the end of the war in In "Three-Quarter Time," he addresses a fallen friend: In his poem "Night", a single evening in becomes the reservoir for an endless catalogue of individual and collective trauma: Poems such as, "Love Tokens," "Toy for Future Children," and "Fragmented War," all written during the mids, ought to be considered as vital contributions to the unfortunately vast archive of twentieth-century poetry of witness.

In "Love Tokens," Tu draws on the conceits of conventional love poetry to speak to the aftermath of war: Written by a dissident poet who during the war lived in the South, where much of the bloodiest fighting took place, Tu's poetry documents the human cost of that inhumane war from a perspective too often neglected in Vietnam and the US, and with an arresting style seldom seen anywhere. Poets like Thanh Tam Tuyen and Tran Da Tu represent just two entries in the archive of poetry of South Vietnam that have remained submerged by literary forgetfulness.

As a recovery project, this anthology hopes to create an opening for a chorus of other poets from Vietnam still waiting to be heard in future collections: After , Vietnam emerged from the dark time of war only to plunge into the shadows of peacetime, with wars in Cambodia and against the Chinese, policy-driven poverty and food shortages, an already stagnant economy further strangled by a US trade embargo, scores of its citizenry thrown into 're-education' camps, widespread corruption among party officials, and waves of its population pouring overseas.

Almost half of the poets gathered here either grew up or were born during this prolonged aftermath: Nguyen Quoc Chanh b. Ai Van Quoc b. Judging from the poems in this anthology, the sensory organs of this postwar generation of poets evolved to survive the times, the light meter of their poetic vision recalibrated to different tonalities of dark.

This would at least partly explain the prevalence of night and its boundary-blurring logic in so many of their poems. Hoang's playful and precocious poems were spoken by her when she was between the ages of 3 and 5, and recorded by her mother, the well-known poet Lam Thi My Da. Here's all four lines of the poem "Star Buttons": Her sky looks and sounds nothing like her mother's, whose poem "A Sky in a Bomb Crater" commemorates the death of a female comrade: Our country is so kind: As someone also born after , whose parents and immediate family experienced the war in Vietnam as combatants and civilians, I wonder what Hoang Da Thi's poems written in adulthood look like, whether and how she inherited her mother's dark skies.


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The predicament of the second generation, writes Eva Hoffman, is that we inherit "not experience, but its shadows. In the spoken and unspoken idiom of familial communication, in the ghostly gaze of old photos from another time and country, in the violent eruption of dormant emotions, in the fragmentariness of stories more mythic than real: His provocative poem of the same name leaves behind distinctions between public and private as the poet takes the reader on a grand tour of his country by way of his own body.

Opening with the lines, Often he sees his male member in Saigon, His head in Hanoi His arms and legs abandoned somewhere in Soc Trang Morning in the Central, afternoon in the South, Evening in the North, night in the West Nguyen Huu Hong Minh ultimately finds not progress and development, but inertia and degradation; no revolutionaries and acts of heroism, but hedonists and plenty of sex. The body politic in his poem becomes an increasingly solipsistic, sexual, violent, and scatological one.

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Nguyen Huu Hong Minh also suggests that there is an important connection to be made between the presence of social disarray in postwar Vietnam and the absence of genuine historical knowledge, the latter of which causes the protagonist to "cut out each slice of life to hide in his creative work. In the photo his watch showed As the light flashed from the darkness of the camera lens the war could just make out a young person to lay waste.

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Hao's concluding lines give little closure and less consolation. In reopening the wounds of the past, his poems may often achieve a unity of thought and emotion, but are still unreconciled, uncertain, and ambiguous in their shifts in image and metaphor, their breaks in line and syntax, and their juxtaposition of real and surreal elements. In the name of difficult truths and repressed histories, Hao ultimately refuses, in concert with many other poets in this anthology, the balm and sutures of reconciliation.

In poetry of diverse forms of attention, perception, and feeling, this postwar generation of poets explores what it means to inherit competing and often contradictory versions of the past, and forge a future out of that work of inheritance. But nothing of my melancholy has lifted. In the cultural sphere, the state loosened its grip on artists and writers, allowing for a greater degree of creative freedom and even encouraging social criticism. No longer officially bound to the aesthetic doctrines of socialist realism, more poets and writers felt safe and free to explore forms and themes once set aside as irrelevant or attacked as illegitimate: Indeed, it must be admitted that poets currently living in Vietnam write about these and other private and public matters with a frequency, intensity, and audaciousness difficult to imagine before or without the cultural impact of the renovation years.

However, it must also be admitted that " privatization in the field of culture and communication," as writer Pham Thi Hoai has skeptically observed, ultimately "has not advanced as far or as radically as the privatization of toilet paper, dish detergent, liquid soap, shampoo, bath soap, toothpaste, and tampons.

Almost everywhere you go in Vietnam today, bright billboards and colorful street signs celebrate unprecedented growth and development, commemorate national unity and liberation, promote necessary policies to help curb societal problems, and cast Vietnam as the Asian tourist destination of the future. Not celebratory but critical, many of the poets in this anthology sully the disinfected portrayals of post-Renovation Vietnam.

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Their poems overflow with disgust, disillusionment, angst, and alienation, tottering dangerously on the edge of violence. In other words, they form distress signals of a collective unconscious in a moment of cultural crisis. One of the strongest distress signals has been sent by Saigon poet Nguyen Quoc Chanh. Despite signs of regeneration during the Renovation years, Chanh's receptive poems detect, as in the following title and lines of one poem, the "Low Pressure System" affecting Vietnamese society: Ever since his emergence during the Renovation years, Chanh has been fearless in his criticism of the government and unapologetic in his experimentation with poetic form.

In effect, he has found himself and his work slandered and shut out of mainstream literary magazines and state-run publishing houses. Like many poets writing in Vietnamese, Chanh now publishes his work almost exclusively in online literary journals. Such a stifling atmosphere gives further credence to Pham Thi Hoai's critical assessment of the impact of Renovation on the Vietnamese literary landscape during the mids until today.

According to Hoai, The post-Renovation period is indeed one of strange empty spaces, of absent authority, of a train without an engine or an engineer. The old prestige of ideology, of systems of thought and of certain spiritual values, have been abandoned, but the empty spaces have been sealed shut, leaving no opportunity for new sources of prestige or value to take their place. These are precisely the "strange empty spaces" Nguyen Quoc Chanh's poetry seems to evoke and manifest in its complex system of images, allusions, and syntax.

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Unlike Hoai, Chanh doesn't see the total absence of authority in post-war, post-Renovation Vietnam. Rather, part of Chanh's poetic project is to reveal the places where power and authority still reside and hide—in our language, in our bodies and minds, in our relations to others and ourselves—as he provocatively suggests in a more recent poem aptly titled, "Post, Post, but not Post Straight on: Below or above: Next to a Cambodian: I'm gloriously yellow Next to a Westerner: I flatten myself in panic.

Next to a Chinese.



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