Nguyễn Quốc Trụ


Vít M̃i Ngày



 VÍT M̃I NGÀY / MAR. 25, 2018




Lay back, tn bi thơ cũng l tn của cả tập thơ của Edward Hirsch, nh thơ Mẽo. Cuốn tiểu luận Lm sao đọc 1 bi thơ m tương tư thơ thật l tuyệt.


About Lay Back the Darkness
Edward Hirschs sixth collection is a descent into the darkness of middle age, narrated with exacting tenderness. He explores the boundaries of human fallibility both in candid personal poems, such as the title piecea plea for his father, a victim of Alzheimers wandering the hallway at nightand in his passionate encounters with classic poetic texts, as when Dantes Inferno enters his bedroom:

When you read Canto Five aloud last night
in your naked, singsong, fractured Italian,
my sweet compulsion, my carnal appetite,
I suspected we shall never be forgiven
for devouring each other body and soul . . .

From the lighting of a Yahrzeit candle to the drawings by the children of Terezin, Hirsch longs for transcendence in art and in the troubled history of his faith. In The Hades Sonnets, the ravishing series that crowns the collection, the poet awakens full of grief in his wifes arms, but here as throughout, there is a luminous forgiveness in his examination of our sorrows. Taken together, these poems offer a profound engagement with our need to capture what is passing (and past) in the incandescence of language.

Bi viết về thơ Ba Lan, qu đỗi thần sầu. Trn Tin Văn đ giới thiệu, v nhn tiện, cảnh bo Mt: Mt phải lm thơ Mt, đọc thơ Mt, như Mt đ bị huỷ diệt chnh n, do chnh n, do ci c của chnh n: Ci c Bắc Kt.

R rng l xứ Mt by l ở Tận Cng của Thế Giới, hoặc, nhẹ nhng hơn, bị Tẫu đ hộ rồi!


Poetry and History: Polish Poetry after the End of the World

In 1973, when I was twenty-three years old, I decided to stop in Warsaw during a year I was traveling in Europe. From that trip I remember one chilly gray dusk in particular when I walked through the neighborhood that had once been the Warsaw Ghetto. People were bustling home from work, but their activity only seemed to accentuate the eerie and even ghostly absence of all those missing persons, an annihilated people. One didn't need to travel to Auschwitz to feel guilty absence and palpable vacancy. That night I reread Czeslaw Milosz's poems "A Poor Christian Looks at the Ghetto," "A Song on the End of the World," and "Dedication." This last poem was addressed to "You whom I could not save," and dated Warsaw, 1945. Its key stanza has thereafter set a standard of moral seriousness in poetry:

What is poetry which does not save
Nations or people?
A connivance with official lies,
A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment,
Readings for sophomore girls.
That I wanted good poetry without knowing it,
That I discovered, late, its salutary aim,
In this and only this I find salvation.

Milosz's early poems are all haunted by survivor's guilt, the poignancy of living after what was, for so many, the world's end. Poetry here becomes an offering to the dead, a form of expiation, a hope for redemption.

Reading the work of Zbigniew Herbert, Tadeusz Rzewicz, and Wislawa Szymborska-the half-generation after Milosz-I soon discovered that all of postwar Polish poetry was similarly haunted by guilt, initiated in the apocalyptic fires of history. These writers shared an important collective experience, and the formative nature of that experience helped shape the spirit of their work. Born in the early 1920s, they grew up during one of the few periods of independence in Polish history, but they came of age during the terrible years of World War II. Poland lost six million people during the war, nearly one-fifth of its population, and the young writers felt the almost crushing burden of speaking for those who did not survive the German occupation. "I am twenty-four / led to slaughter / I survived," Rozewicz wrote in "The Survivor." It was no boast. No wonder, then, that at the conclusion of "Dedication"
Milosz asks for the dead to free him:

They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds
To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds.
I put this book here for you, who once lived
So that you should visit us no more.

Edward Hirsch: How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry

Năm 1973, 23 tuổi, ti quyết định ngừng ở Warsaw 1 năm, trong chuyến đi u Chu. Kỷ niệm xm xịt, nhất l khi loanh quanh ở ci khu Ghetto. Phố phường bận rộn, nhưng hnh như cng lm nặng thm sự vắng mặt u uẩn của những người đ mất. Bạn chẳng cần phải tới L Thiu lm khỉ g, chỉ ở đy thi m đ cảm thấy ci sự trống vắng tội lỗi, mn m, sờ xoạng được!

Tối hm đ, ti đi 1 đường đọc thơ Milosz. Ui chao, những bi thơ đầu đời thơ của ng, m ảnh lm sao, l ci mặc cảm sống st, ci nỗi thống khổ, sống, sau những ci đ, ci tận cng thế giới đ.

Thơ như thế, l 1 dng tặng cho người chết, một hnh thức cứu chuộc.

Đọc Zbigniew Herbert, Tadeusz Rzewicz, and Wislawa Szymborska- nửa thế hệ sau Milosz ti liền khm ph ra l, tất cả thơ ca hậu chiến Ba Lan th đng l bị m ảnh bởi tội lỗi, bật ra từ những ngọn lửa tận thế của lịch sử....





Lay Back the Darkness
Edward Hirsch: The Living Fire

Đẩy li bng tối

ng tớ lần m suốt đm, nơi hnh lang, từ phng ny qua phng khc
Như thể ng c 1 mission u m no đ

Hỡi các linh h̀n,

hy gip tớ, thằng Cu ln của ng,
nhập vo cơn mơ của ng tớ
V lm ng hết cn lục đục

Đẩy li bng tối cho 1 anh mại bản
Kẻ c thể m hoặc mọi thứ, trừ những ci bng

Một tn di dn
đứng ở bậc thềm
của một đm bao la

Khng xe ch́ng, hay gậy ch́ng
V khng thể nhớ điều ng muốn ni

Tay phải giơ ln, như tnh tin tri
Trong khi tri th vung vẩy, vẫy vẫy 1 cch v ch,
Như tnh bo động, hay cảnh bo

ng tớ lần m suốt đm, hết phng ny qua phng khc
chẳng cn l người ng, người cha, hay người chồng nữa

m chỉ l một thằng b đứng ở mp rừng
Lắng nghe tiếng h xa xa của những con ch si,

tiếng của những con ch hoang,
tiếng đập cnh của loi th thuở hồng hoang,
xo xạc trn đỉnh cy




My father in the night shuffling from room to room
on an obscure mission through the hallway.

Help me, spirits, to penetrate his dream
and ease his restless passage.

Lay back the darkness for a salesman
who could charm everything but the shadows,

an immigrant who stands on the threshold

of a vast night

without his walker or his cane

and cannot remember what he meant to say,

though his right arm is raised, as if in prophecy,
while his left shakes uselessly in warning.

My father in the night shuffling from room to room
is no longer a father or a husband or a son,

but a boy standing on the edge of a forest
listening to the distant cry of wolves,

to wild dogs,
to primitive wingbeats shuddering in the treetops