1

We are the Trees.  
  Our dark and leafy glade  
Bands the bright earth with softer mysteries.  
Beneath us changed and tamed the seasons run:  
In burning zones, we build against the sun         
  Long centuries of shade.  
  
2

We are the Trees,  
  Who grow for man’s desire,  
Heat in our faithful hearts, and fruits that please.  
Dwelling beneath our tents, he lightly gains         
The few sufficiencies his life attains—  
  Shelter, and food, and fire.  
  
3

We are the Trees  
  That by great waters stand,  
By rills that murmur to our murmuring bees.         
And where, in tracts all desolate and waste,  
The palm-foot stays, man follows on, to taste  
  Springs in the desert sand.  
  
4

We are the Trees  
  Who travel where he goes         20 
Over the vast, inhuman, wandering seas.  
His tutors we, in that adventure brave—  
He launched with us upon the untried wave,  
  And now its mastery knows.  
  
5

We are the Trees         25 
  Who bear him company  
In life and death. His happy sylvan ease  
He wins through us; through us, his cities spread  
That like a forest guard his unfenced head  
  ’Gainst storm and bitter sky.         30 
  
6

We are the Trees.  
  On us the dying rest  
Their strange, sad eyes, in farewell messages.  
And we, his comrades still, since earth began,  
Wave mournful boughs above the grave of man,          
  And coffin his cold breast.

Over the screech of the morning 
traffic of Eagle Rock Boulevard
I thought I heard the rooster 
from my parents’ backyard,
calling. They lived close enough,
it could have been. I’d been
awake for hours but was still 
in bed looking out the window
where a flock of red-crowned parrots
skated through the blue. 
The Echo Park Parrots. 
The Pasadena Parrots. The Silver-
lake Parrots. Everyone wants 
to own the birds, yet
here they were this morning,
serenading me. 
They come and go, they came
and went. In my dreams, I’m sometimes
a chicken. I fly from one man
to the next, hoping their arms
are strong like guava branches,
strong enough to roost 
in for the night, ripe with seeds. 
I’m malnourished in my dreams
because there are no trees, just birds
in nonstop flight and song.

I wandered lonely as a Cloud
   That floats on high o’er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
   A host of golden Daffodils;
Beside the Lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
   And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
   Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
   Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:—
A Poet could not but be gay
   In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
   In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
   Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

^{translated from the Vietnamese by Phương Anh}

^{Bundoora, February 05, 2016, one afternoon full of birds’ sound}

the afternoon has seeped in well under the roof
you hear
bitterly inundates the sunset’s shatter
the wing-clouds.lost in thoughts
the rocky banks.ease at heart
the roaring waves bathe the sunset melancholia

let’s go home, dear
the evening breaks the shadow under the rain
trees & leaves
whistle green 
mountains & forests
so magnificent.tomorrow

the closing afternoon closes my eyes
drops of birds’ coo.amber pearls overflow
lonesome soul.pensive wind as still as still-life.

let’s 
go home.dear
the yin-yang song has mossed the roof!

Chiều tĩnh vật,

^{Bundoora 05 tháng hai 2016, một chiều rộn tiếng chim …}

chiều đã ngấm sâu dưới mái
cm nghe không
ngập đắng tiếng hoàng hôn giập vỡ
những cánh mây.lơ lãng
những kè đá.cam lòng
những sóng gào tầm tã nỗi tà dương …

về thôi.em
đêm gẫy bóng dưới mưa
cây & lá
hồi còi lam lục diệp
núi & rừng
đẹp tha thiết quá.ngày mai

chiều đã khép nâu trong mắt
giọt chim gù. Hổ phách ngước tràn ly
hồn mông quạnh.gió trầm tư tĩnh vật …

về 
thôi.em
khúc âm dương đã rêu mờ mái ngói!

^{translated from the Vietnamese by Phương Anh}

^{with Lê Khắc Cầm in DaLat, 1968}

i wade through the night.shadow stained
i pick up in the night.my falling sound
i hide in the night.a frozen heart
i see in the night.the stranger that is me!

night tilts.the shadows.retain
the woeful roads.separate
the rivers.flow back to the deepest
of human lives.quietly leaving …

i lay down.the forest where raindrops linger
the hills.laminate my dream
the leaves’ somniloquy.echoes of green
i return to the sky.poem.too incomplete!

poems after poems.thousand lives left hanging
souls in pain.sink inside tombs before the boundlessness
arbors of clouds.white the hearts bidding farewell 
karma confines me in isolation.a scar of madness?

i wade through the night.shadows push shadows
i howl in the night.i call out to myself
i carve into the night.heart of the blowing wind
i write in the night.words lost for words!

Đêm ở rừng,

^{cùng Lê Khắc Cầm ở DaLat, 1968.}

tôi lội trong đêm.nhem nhọ bóng
tôi nhặt trong đêm.tiếng tôi rơi
tôi giấu trong đêm.tim giá lạnh
tôi gặp trong đêm.tôi lạ mặt tôi!

đêm nghiêng.những bóng hình.lưu giữ
những con đường ưu lự.phân ly
những dòng sông.về nơi quá thẳm
những kiếp người.lắng lặng ra đi …

tôi nằm xuống.nhánh rừng đọng hạt
núi đồi lên.giát mỏng cơn mơ
chùm lá mớ.âm vang lục diệp
tôi về trời.dang dở quá.bài thơ!

những bài thơ.nghìn đời dang dở
những hồn đau.đắm mộ trước vô biên
những giàn mây.trắng lòng lưu biệt
kiếp nghiệp nào cô xiết.vết cuồng điên?

tôi lội trong đêm.bóng xô bóng
tôi hú trong đêm.tôi réo gọi tôi
tôi khắc trong đêm.tim gió lộng
tôi viết trong đêm.chữ nghẹn lời!

Crinkly-thin, the perfect marriage of algae and fungi, 
furbelowed and curled.


                                               venerable ancestors: strange as vellum, 
                                               an onion poultice, leather jerkin

                                                
Johann Dillen’s portraits of 1741: 
the ‘Strange Charactered Lichen, Black Dotted Wrinkled Lichen,
Leprous Black Nobb’d Lichen,
Crawfish Eye-like Lichen.’

                                                the youngest occupy a wicker couch, 
                                                eavesdrop on the aunties’ tales, wonder 
                                                why so aged-looking, their skin?

‘Wanderflechten’—those who traveled
on deer’s hooves, birds’ feet, hot air balloon baskets over arid land.


                                                travel’s allure, the turquoise ring, scarab bracelet

                                                
Those who embraced the seductions of moths’ wings, 
gave their bodies to the hungers  
of the ‘Brussels Lace Moths, Beautiful Hook-Tips, the Dingy Footman.’

                                                when can we stay out past dawn?

                                                
Lichens who gave sustenance, grew thin,
flailed against famine, 
lichen packed in the bodies of mummies.

                                                these have an aura, a blue-mauve cloud
                                                we can’t imagine the ribs’ furrows

                                                
Erik Acharius, 1808, the “father of lichenology,”  
fastens samples onto herbarium sheets,
lichens’ filaments and flakes suspended.

                                               nice—but not our father, who is spores and fragments

A thin cord anchors lichens to rock,
small bits chip off, wear of paw pad and fur,
take hold elsewhere.

                                               we hear the wind caressing bark

                                                
Lichens swept up by grazing reindeer,
hot breath devouring, rub of meaty tongues,
meat toxic to herders— 
radioactive fallout the lichens never meant to harbor.

                                               ghostly stalks of trees, an ashy forest 
                                               we can barely look

A single spruce hosts a rare green and red-lobed lichen.

                                                the odd one out, the one no one ever set eyes on

Lichens in the armpits of marble statues
differentiated from lichens on the thighs, 
eaten by snails on moonless nights.

                                               moonglow, 
                                               something we don’t know here, no one’s talking

                                                
A hummingbird’s nest, its outer layer  
shingled gray-green with lichen flakes, a point of pride, see—

                                               how beautiful they were, and useful.

A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,
And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim.

The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould,
Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold

Among the wild rice in the still lagoon,
In monotone the lizard shrills his tune.

The wild goose, homing, seeks a sheltering,
Where rushes grow, and oozing lichens cling.

Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight,
Sail up the silence with the nearing night.

And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil,
Steals twilight and its shadows o’er the swale.

Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapours creep,
Thick, grey and humid, while the marshes sleep.

^{an oratorio for vanishing voices, collapsing universes, and a falling tree.
                          —Lena Herzog, “Last Whispers”}

1.

in the days before urban sprawl this town
remained no more than cow pastures
logs skidding down to the harbor
gulls riding them like surfboards
a green belt embraced the one road north
a hundred years they say until the lease expired
in those days trees lining each side threw shade over
hippies and geese bound to the same direction
this was the rainforest and we took
for granted the trees that sheltered the sun
in shimmering light the music of wind
and leaves that left air breathable 
we thought the developers would never come
that Eden would last forever

2.

if I remember well the first to go
was the old growth Ponderosa near the school
     what a racket all that sawing and sawing
     no sapling that one stubborn tough
     from thick outer ring to the core
on overhead wires larks crows and common wrens 
lined up like jurors surveying a crime scene
chortling and cackling a chorus of what’s
      this what’s this come see come see
     every so often one broke rank
     and swooped toward the cantilevered trunk
as if they could bring back to life those limbs
where each night they had fought to gain purchase 
     circling as if remembering the canopy 
     before the thieving ravens evicted them
     swirling in all directions birds
leaves one and the same into a vortex until
the tree shivered one last time and fell
      still I listen for the rustle of leaves
      sweeping clean the air

3. 

among the shadows of WWII bombers crashed
on test flights old growth forests thrive
in the deep waters of Lake Washington
know that the ghosts of forests reside in every city

now and again a crack in the pavement
yields to a sprig with one leaf unfurling
to what might have been the lush undergrowth
of rainforest or village green

stumps of roots fingering toward the sky
remnants knuckled in a path
stubborn as the gnarled toes of an old man
struggling across the road 

bark tough as leather peeled and frayed
the banyan the elm the oak and spruce
the cypress the pine the redwood and willow
a sigh a whisper a breath of fresh air

4.

one morning on the sun-drenched asphalt
a blue feather lay as if fallen by magic
from some child’s dream of angels
was there ever a bird so blue so
cobalt perfect from downy barbs to vanes
to fall undamaged by progress 
among the squalor of high-rises and noise 
of backhoes awakening each morning 
was this an omen an augury a straw in the wind
to land here where few trees thrive
you look up at the birdless sky think:
this is a city   this a mountain
this a remnant of the rainforest

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Let every leaf caught in currents
Speak simultaneous accords
Iterated by the wind.

Unafraid, let them speak
Revelations to the universe.
After all, we expect revelations

Inside this hothouse Earth.
Instead, we have the trees,
Those crowned interpreters

That heft branching limbs,
Splayed from root-tip to leaf-lip.
It is on their lips—listen.

Their tongues pierce infinity’s
Faces. They speak into places
Tight enough to trap the sun.

Though they endure the shadows
Hemming the hollows from the ridges,
They know it is best to kiss

No shadow. They interpret
The gaining winds
Throughout dusk’s catastrophes:

It is best to fear no shadow.
Their stirring tongues translate light into life.
It is on their whispered lips. Let them interpret.

Naked carp swim upstream    and spawn in fresh water,
then fry return     to this 3,260-meter-high saline lake—

we stroll past black sheep      chained by their necks; 
later, our Yi host invites us    to join him at a low table:

boiled mutton, intestines, potatoes,     and red chile 
powder are set in red-swirling,     black lacquer bowls.

Closing my eyes,     I see wind turbines along a ridge, 
transmission lines     that arc from tower to tower 

across green hills;     a herder opens a gate, and black 
yaks slip through—when I walk    to a stream 

that feeds the lake, I follow     a path lined with red
and orange marigolds in pots,     wonder

who surrenders to reach     a higher plane of existence?
At a temple built and rebuilt     since 307 CE, 

I see a persimmon tree     alongside a cypress,
where lovers,     whetted by prayer, leave plaques

with dangling red strings.     Boating on this lake,
we make an oval track     on the surface; and, gazing 

at rapeseed     flowering yellow along the shore, 
we suspend but do not dissipate     the anguish of this world.