by Ly Thai Phuong

Translated into English by Nguyen Thuy Hoa,
with revisions by John Liddy

Summer, keep burning more fire
To remind the day we fell in love
Don’t be blue when the sun burns red
Summon the sunlight to expose the pain…

Don’t blame the hot summer day
When the silent tree becomes still life at noon
Though I can’t hope to find what is lost
Let it be, the wind will change the season!

by Ngo Binh Anh Khoa

The full moon casts a web of silver
Below, where naked branches shiver,
And wind-stirred leaves all, murmuring, quiver
Amid the thickened mist; no sliver
Of warmth is present in the air;
Those spectral threads from heaven shed,
Like puppet strings, on tombstones spread
And raise the spirits of the dead
When comes the Ghosts’ Autumnal Fair.

The graveyard’s silence soon is broken
By utterances quietly spoken
Between the shades by moonbeams woken;
A whirlwind wild, their sights betoken.
They gracefully glide across the air;
Soft squeaks from out the swaying trees
And hoots midst rustling canopies
Join the nocturnal melodies
When comes the Ghosts’ Autumnal Fair.

Figures from eras past and present–
With royals, nobles, slaves and peasants–
There mingle midst the luminescence
Of moon and stars strewn on the Heavens
While distant wolf-songs fill the air–
A show of strange, breathtaking fashion;
If not for their complexion ashen,
Who’d think they’re specters with such passion
When comes the Ghosts’ Autumnal Fair.

Between the lofty and the lowly,
There’s no division; all are wholly
Equal; their every mortal folly,
And worldly want, and vice unholy
Have long dispersed like dust midair.
Once all their vital breaths were spent,
And bodies ‘neath the soil were sent,
All earthly ties they’d weaved were rent.
Only in Death are all things fair.

They dance on, fervently performing
From movements slow to paces storming
Throughout the night until the morning
In celebration–and in mourning;
Nostalgia haunts the silenced air.
The chill dissolves as light shines on
The graveyard at the break of dawn;
The trees are still, the dancers gone–
Until the next Autumnal Fair.

(Originally published in Spectral Realms No. 17: Summer 2022 by Hippocampus Press. Link: https://www.hippocampuspress.com/journals/spectral-realms/spectral-realms-no.-17)

by Ngo Binh Anh Khoa

The stray dogs are at it again,
Roaming the shadowed streets as
Their disjointed streams of
Howls and cries and wails and whines
Rip apart the silence of the night.

What conversations are they having?
What meanings can be gleaned from
Those voices that ring without words?
What topics can there be,
Among the tossed-away garbage and
Fly-infested bins overflowing with
The wasted and the discarded?

Are those the howls of victory in some contest,
In which the toughest of
The emaciated dogs have claimed their spoils,
Barking at the losers and
Being barked at in return?

Are those the howls of summoning when they,
By chance, have uncovered
Some hidden treasures
And are now calling out to their companions
To share the prizes?

Or are those, perhaps, the wails of despair
After hours upon hours of labor
Amounting to naught when
Nothing can be found in the dump,
Leaving them rejected
And empty-handed as they drag
Their wind-wrestled
And rain-beaten bodies
Back to their shabby shelters,
Back to the little ones waiting every second
For their return–
To the little ones that have learned to converse
In the same ways as they do,
With howls and cries and wails and whines
Choked with disappointment?

There they go again;
Another howl begins,
Leading to another,
And another,
And another
Till the veil of night is torn to shreds
By all the piercing sounds
Amid the biting winds that cut
Into the tender skin
Behind the mangled fur.

Now comes a moment of silence
Before another refrain
As the stray dogs cry
Their hearts and lungs out
Into the oppressive air,
Into the empty streets,
And into the ears of anyone
That perchance may heed
Their pleading.

They cry
Because nighttime is the only time
They may make themselves heard,
For during the busy daytime,
They
Are but peripheral existences–
Merely passing ghosts
Amid the cacophony
Of the cold and callous
Passers-by.

(Originally published in “Words of Legends.” Link: https://www.amazon.com/Words-Legends-Jael-Kemuma-Migiro/dp/9393695482)

by Ngo Binh Anh Khoa

Oh, see them now,
with their heads bowed and eyes peeled,
all submissive in posture,
their gazes ablaze with awe and focus
upon their gleaming smartphones–
the tiny temples of their worship
designed to fit in the palms of their hands,
their pupils burning with the hungry fire
to consume and devour
the rapid teachings of
their living idols on the other side
of the glaring screens.

Oh, see them now,
with their ears sealed shut by the words
taken as immutable truths,
propagated by those they consider
superior to themselves–
the lofty, untouchable monuments
at which they can only marvel from afar
but towards which they can never reach
willingly deaf to all else except for the creeds
expounded by those vocal manifestations
that they have chosen to worship, and
to whom they devote their time and faith.

Oh, see them now,
with their minds confounded and condemned
unto the spiraling abyss created to provoke
their own voracious pursuits of meaning–
the endless wanderings of the lost,
the hopeful, and the resigned,
all yearning for change and release
from the crushing clutches of the mundane,
which they, through repeated revelations,
have come to view as mediocre.
Oh, see how they yield the reigns of their lives
to their idols preaching from the other side.