Shorts

Epitaph for a Tyrant

He could have killed more than he could have fed
but he chose to do neither. By falling dead
he leaves a vacuum and the black Rolls-Royce
to one of the boys who will make the choice.

Bia mộ cho Bác Hồ

Bác có thể giết nhiều hơn là Bác có thể nuôi
Nhưng Bác đếch chọn thứ nào cả.
Ngỏm, Bác để lại 1 chỗ trống, và một chiếc xe nhà đòn, màu đen
Một trong lũ Cháu Ngoan Bác Hồ sẽ chọn nó.

To a Fellow Poet

Sir, you are tough, and I am tough.
But who will write whose epitaph?

Abroad

Tickets are expensive. So are the hotels.
Names range from Rita to Juanita.
In walks a policeman and what he tells
is "You are persona non grata in terra incognita?

Future

High stratosphere winds with their juvenile whistle.
A thought-like white cloud, in search of mankind.
"O where are you flying" said missile to missile.
"There is nothing ahead and nothing behind."

Epitaph to a Tyrant

He was in charge of something large.
Some call it Hell; some Paradise.
Now that he's gone, let's drop the grudge:
We are still alive. Surprise! Surprise!

Bia mộ cho Bác Hồ

Bác Hồ phụ trách một cái gì to tổ bố
Có người gọi là Địa Ngục; người khác, Thiên Đàng
Nhưng Bác ngỏm rồi, thôi kệ cha Bác.
Chúng mình vưỡn còn sống, Lạ quá!, Ngạc nhiên quá!

*****

I sit at my desk
My life's grotesque.

Tớ ngồi nơi bàn viết
Đời tớ mới kệch cỡm làm sao

A Postcard from France

Now that I am in Paris
I wish I were where my car is.

Bưu thiếp từ Paris

Thế là tớ bây giờ đang ở Paris
Giá mình đang đứng ở chỗ đậu xe thì đỡ khổ làm sao!      

*****

Hail the vagina
that peopled China!

****

I went to a museum,
saw art ad nauseam.

Oysters

Oysters, like girls, like pearls.
Pearls like darkness and moisture.
With pearls round her neck or amidst her curls,
my girl makes my world my oyster.

Hến

Hến như gái mê ngọc trai
Ngọc trai mê bóng tối, ẩm, tèm nhẹp.
Với chuỗi ngọc trai nơi cổ nả, tóc tai
Em của tớ biến thế giới của tớ thành hến của tớ

A Valentine

You are too young, and I am scared to touch you
'cause that means trouble.
Let's discover an island and build a statue
of puberty in the harbor.
An island won't know how to spell the word "daughter,"
itself an orphan.
And you will be, if you don't mind, the water
and I, your dolphin.
And all day long we will keep our eyes on each other
instead of the police-blue horizon
marred by your father.

Bosnia Tune

As you sip your brand of scotch,
crush a roach, or scratch your crotch,
as your hand adjusts your tie,
people die.

In the towns with funny names,
hit by bullets, caught in flames,
by and large not knowing why,
people die.

In small places you don't know
of, yet big for having no
chance to scream or say goodbye,
people die.

People die as you elect
brand-new dudes who preach neglect,
self-restraint, etc.-whereby
people die.

Too far off to practice love
for thy neighbor/brother Slav,
where your cherubs dread to fly,
people die.

While the statues disagree,
Cain's version, history
for its fuel tends to buy
those who die.

As you watch the athletes score,
check your latest statement, or
sing your child a lullaby,
people die.

Time, whose sharp bloodthirsty quill
parts the killed from those who kill,
will pronounce the latter band
as your brand.
                [1992]

Achilles. Penthesilea

by Zbigniew Herbert

When Achilles with his short sword pierced the breast of Penthesilea
and as usual twisted the blade thrice in the wound, he noticed
that the queen of the Amazons was lovely.
He laid her carefully on the sand, took offher heavy helmet, unclasped her
                                                                                                            hair,
and gendy arranged her hands on her bosom. He lacked, however, the
                                                                                                      courage
to shut her eyes.
He gave her one more, last, farewell look and, as though suddenly
                                                                                                   overpowered
by an outer force, cried-the way neither he nor other
heroes of that great war ever cried-in a quiet, mesmeric, dawdling,
aimless voice, ebbing with grief and with
rue, whose cadence was new to the offspring of Thetis. The cry's lengthy
                                                                                                        vowels, like
leaves, were falling upon the neck, breasts, knees ofPenthesilea,
wrapping the length of her grown-cold body.
She herself was preparing for Eternal Hunts in the fathomless forests.
Her still-open eyes stared from afar at the victor
with azure, steady hatred.

                                                        [late 1980s]