HALF OF POET LIFE

Nguyen Ban

Dear guitar! You have broken my heart so much!

But why I still got bewitched ever by you all the day around the year?

( song before war)

Accidentally I met him. It was drizzling. Light drizzle in late autumn made people easily soft hearted. I was riding my motorbike on Ngo Quyen Street. Wearing a thin unbuttoned mantle, he was walking leisurely on the sidewalk. He saw me first, then called me so loudly that some driving people had to look back. He gladly ran towards me:

“God! It must five years ago. Have a place to talk then.”

Ignoring that I did agree or not, he jumped up on the back seat of my motorbike. I asked him:

“Coffee?”

“No, to Hoa ma beefsteak, but it was too noisy. Phu Dong restaurant is better.”

I was startled by my old conditioned reflex:

“No, just only coffee.”

He tapped my shoulder laughing, and took out from his pocket a pile of cash, waving it before me:

“Don’t worry. Moreover, at there, one couldn’t eat or drink on credit.”

Indeed, two times, he invited me to drink beer and take meal, it turned out taking on credit. I became blushed, but there was not enough  money in my pocket, so I had to slope off letting him deal with boss. Many times I had blamed him that one should not have indulged oneself in such  untidy life, and thought it was artist life. But once again, I fell on his trap. I had been on precaution asking him: “again on credit?” He tap on his wallet in his back trousers pocket. Fortunately, this time, I took money along. Indeed, he also had, but not enough for his part.

The first time, I met him at Ngo Dao’s, after that, I would be familiar with him. Ngo Dao was intending to introduce me with him, when he interrupted.

“Mr Nguyen Cao, author of “Idle moon light”, I had known him.

After a short time, he became inspired: “By the way, we have Mr. Nguyen Cao, I invited you to go to take beer. Beer would sublimate talk”

“Nguyen Cao only. I don’t go” Ngo Dao told him indifferently.

“That would be unpleasant…..” He sighed. “Or, I will buy and bring it home, then we would drink right here.”

“So , all right.” Ngo Dao replied briefly. He went out in a hurry. A short time after, he brought home three bottles of Chinese beer and a bag of ice pieces. He drew the cork, filled up three glasses, then with a solemn voice:

“Welcome our meeting, my two brothers. On the second turn, he hesitantly suggested: “Now, allow me read my new poem….” Ngo Dao interrupted him rudely:

“No poem-poet at all. I am feverish on it now. Last night, my youngest daughter just showed off: Dad, grandmother make also poem, then she even hums it for me to listen. Even hum it, is that frightened?”

Hearing it, he was dumb founded. The beer glass was shaking along his trembling hand. He was stunned, but the demon of poem did not release him. Some minutes after, he insisted:

“Then, I read a stanza with four lines only.”

“Not only a single line. “ Ngo Dao , with his tone less rude, but more persistent.

Perhaps, I was also boring with listening poem but rude and unmerciful like Ngo Dao, I could not. Then, I told him:

“He doesn’t want to listen, well, a moment after we take a walk, then you read it to me.”

Ngo Dao agreed at once.

“All right. I invite him to eat chicken soup, then you will have enough time to read five to seven pieces, never mind.”

We want to go to the park. He did not read five or seven pieces, but two that he liked the best. Indeed, his poems were not bad in comparison to others’ who had got reputation. But poem and fate were two different things. Science sometimes had a fate, much less poem.

Later, sometimes,  I met him at certain magazine office. He was having conversation with someone, and he did not forget to give a light nod greeting me. A moment later, he stood up together some others to get out pleasantly. Afterwards, he also had some poems appeared in certain magazines. But at this time, he began to be in tatters. He drank coffee on credit, he invited others taking beer on credit, and also took inn meal on credit. He left his little daughter to his mother. His wife left him and went back to her family to live in separation. Separation? So be it. No need at all. He had poems and female poet friends instead. Separation? Well, he would take romance. But someone was going to become his girlfriend the other lifted her by then, because this one had money, the other had fame, as for him, fame, he had not yet, and money , for god sake, his elder brother and sister had always to clear his on credit terms. They were now on the rank of the richest of the street with their haughty shops, agencies of different computers, fridges……. Each time he was failed in asking them for money, he often rolled his eyes indignantly:

“Who made fortune for you? Who dropped the high school for the apprentice’s school in order to let you continue your study? Who brought home the bacon to buy these houses?”

He was vexed and requested to divide their family property. His mother said that it should be solved when she would be going to die.

He made a gesture with his hand:

“Oh, God! Then, how many years for waiting? By then, I had also popped off already. And popped out with a “nought” number, without love, without money, without renown?”

He needed money for his own demand, for love, for the publishing of his collection of poems…….And love fee was the most expensive. However, he could hold back from love. But poem, he could not, definitely not. It is time he had to appear on the poetry tribune. Being man, one had to be successful in one’s career at thirty. Now he was already forty. He needed three millions V.N.D for the publishing of his collection of poems. Had he to wait for his mother died to have his collection published? No, impossible. He told me”

“I will sell the T.V set.”

Three times, he told me that, and then this time he really sold it. His daughter would cry. She would not watch again the program “The little flower”. He did not care. To watch it anywhere was the matter of his mother. He said that God created grandmother is to wipe tears for nieces. Poems wiped tears for life.

Finally a thin book “Meditation flow” of more thirty poems also came into the world, with legal deposit in first quarter of 1994, and one thousand copies printed off. He rode a borrowed old Simson motorbike to my house, and offered me one book with dedication: “To Nguyen Cao, dearly”. Ah, he began to be pretentious then. I told him with a severe critical tone:

“Rewrite that!”

“But why?” he was stunned.

I knocked on the words Nguyen Cao with my finger as teacher told pupil:

“Add Mr. here.”

He replied defensively:

“But we are the same: poet”

“But not the same age, not the same rank”

It was not that I was self-esteemed and that I disregarded him by the age, and renown, but I only want to hinder him from pretension. He reluctantly pulled out his pen, clumsily wrote down Mr. before Nguyen Cao.

To prevent him from losing face, I praised his colored picture on the back cover:

“Only this good appearance of the poet is enough to convince the readers.”

“Really?”

“Very handsome. But what account is for the love fee?”

He smiled broadly with satisfaction.

But afterwards he is harder-up. However, hearing that I got a motorbike accident, he came to visit me and offered me ten thousand V.N.D (about two daily-wages). Knowing that he was being destitute, I refused. He took it wrongly so he explained it away:

“I know it was worthless, but……”

“You are wrong”. “I interrupted him in a hurry, and put it in my pocket. Why would I not know that if he was in an easy life, he would offer me a hundred thousand VND. Being too destitute, he had to work for wages for his elder brother, selling electrical and mechanical appliances, giving instructions to customers…., the work too easy for him, but too difficult for the reputation of a poet who was always conscious about the complex of a hired worker, therefore he often picked quarrel with his brother. Quarrel, it doesn’t matter, as his elder brother, he might give in. But leave off some days for poem matter; the wage had to be docked. So, he was still destitute. He comforted himself that most true writers were poor. Poor but honored. That was the honor of poetry. Realizing it, at first it was only to comfort himself, but day by day, he got conceited about the honor of the poor. He widened his relation with writers, poets, singers, especially female artists. He showed off that he had drunk with such poets…..had taken coffee with singer Q, singer M, he called all by their bare first name in a insolent manner, as his dedication for me before. His poems also began with this way: To Che(*) To Han (*), with Essenin(*)

For more a year, I did not meet him, Suddenly, that late night, it was half past ten p.m. I was already in bed, someone knocked at the door. I opened it. I turned out him. That time, I was lodging in the rest house of a trade union. It was in Autumn. Moon beams turned his long face paler. I asked:

“Why coming lately? Is there anything?”

“By the way, only drop in on you.”

Then he asked to take along him a walk. I told him, it was too late; we should go to the park of the rest house for a while. Then I asked him:
”What’s about your wife?”

“She had flown to Germany.”

I dropped a hint:

“Then, Miss had gone to the west (Title of Nguyen Cong Hoan writer’s story?”

“Not definitely that. She said she goes first, then after to get money, she would return to take me and my daughter there.”

“Well, that’s fine”.

“Yes, that’s fine. But it’s all right if that isn’t fine.”

After a while he added:

“Could it mean because of me?”

I also asked him: “Could it mean because of her?”

He almost roared “Cause of God. God is dark and fussy.”

A moment later he softened his voice telling me: “Please, listen some lines”.

Despite that I wanted or did not want to listen, he recited at once:

The dim soul

In bright and dark color

Under the blue deep sky

My dream is stranded on a sand bank

Finicky is the human ship

Our future is leaving opened

Our heart is on two directions

Verses and beloved

The two edges echoing the salvation prayers…….

I interrupted him, tapping his shoulder:

“If she read these lines, she would leave Germany at once.” He replied me bitterly : “ But before dropping tears, she would send a cable: then have you left already the verse direction?”
Then he went back to reality:

“I’ll spend the night together with you”

All startled, I interrupted him in a hurry:

“Impossible! I could only sleep together woman. As for man, despite he is very familiar, I would be sleepless all the night.”

He was stunned, without expecting that his suggestion was meet with a sharp rebuff. He sighed:

“Then I spend the night in the bench”.

I was more stupefied: “Much more impossible. First there were mosquitoes. Second, what do you say with the guards on patrol? There will be devil to pay.”

“I would say that I was your friend. You snored too loudly, I had to sleep here.”

“Impossible. You mustn’t lead such a depraved way. Go home now.”

“But it’s too late, my sister in law would grumble all the night, may be three days after running.”

“But you must go home, in spite of her grumble.” I was saying and drawing him to stand up. I knew I was unrelentful, but could not do otherwise, because I was very afraid of being sleepless , so that all the year, I did not drink alcohol, but I still had a brandy bottle nearby bed, if I felt a sleepless sign, I would take a small cup of brandy instead of a sleeping pill. He unwillingly stood up, and went along me to the gate.

I know that he was fear to go on foot for more three kilometers, and the grumble of his sister-in law was a true story, but I did not have a bicycle, as for my motorbike, I could not to let him borrow it.

I did not know this night, whether he went home, or found another’s or to spent the night anywhere. So, I became thoughtful, and was also sleepless. For several years ago, he still rode a red brand new DD Honda motorbike, the best of the street, now a bicycle; he even didn’t have because of poem or because of him? I did not know, but only felt regretful that be sleepless anyway, it would have been better to let him to spend the night together.

Since this night, I did not meet him and assumed that he had gone to Germany. Who know this day I met him walking on foot as usual.

We had gone to Phu Dong Street, seeing so many motorbikes and cars, moreover the restaurant was so magnificent, almost customers were stylish ones, I drove off. He clung on to my shoulder:

“Why get off?”

“Too crowded. Better to go to a calm place.”

I drove him to a fairly elegant coffee house in a quiet street, and with pleasant price. Fortunately, there were no other customers. Only two of us. We could have a talk at will. I offered two cup of coffee.  Cigarettes, I had already in my pocket, moreover he did not smoke.

I asked him about livelihood first. He said that he still was a hired sales-clerk for his sister in law. Then I asked him about his wife. He said that the recent year, she went back to make the legitimate divorce procedure in order to remarry with a German. She suggested that while the divorce procedure was performing, they would live together as their last souvenir. He thanked her and said that here is Vietnam, not Germany, this thing seemed nauseate. She delivered to him a thousand of USD to pay insurance life for their daughter, but he answered that though  he was poor but his mother had owned three houses in the city, it was enough to feed her niece and for her study.

I asked him whether he still made poem, he said he still did, but now he was studying LaoZi philosophy and he would make metaphysical verses. He said that my verses were on sub astrophysical trend. I had to restrain myself to prevent from burst out of laughter and asked him:

“Would you publish another collection?”

“Certainly”

“But this time, what do you sell to get money for it?”

“I would sell nothing, moreover, there is nothing to sell, but there is a new poet, accountant chief of a construction company, he would bankroll the publishing.

Ah, same story of Nguyen Cong Hoan: “ I was  an editor, you’re an  editor, he will be  an editor”, and now: “ I was a poet, you worship  a poem, and he breathes.  Only for half of poet life, he was going to turn out to be a poet-elf. Now it was possibly it turn that he disliked listening to other’s verse though it was only one line. Oh, poetry, how much marvelous are you so that you bewitch many people like that? I suddenly remembered a story from a magazine office, we asked one another: “Nowadays, why so many people make verse?” Hoai Trinh, a woman poet- engineer in one, cheerfully told a story.

One day, she went back to her native village, her cousin, a retired deputy inspector of the district, feeding duck flock on the paddy field after harvest season, asked her that he wanted to publish his own collection of poems, how much it cost? How many ducks are there in your flock, she asked. About two hundred, he replied. She said that was enough if you would sell all. Her cousin thought for a while, then sighed: Then, what about livelihood? She answered: Then, you would live for your poems and for wild ducks.

All of us burst out of laughter. She also laughed. One of us said:

“My friend just returned from France told me that in France, a poet dared to print about fifty copies to offer others.”

“As in Sweden, according to the book of Mr. Huu Ngoc, there is only five people can live on poems.”

The other added:

“It is certainly that our people are the best dreamers of the world, and are ready to sacrifice all for poems.

One get inspired, made a spoonerism on the famous Tang poem Hoang Hac Lau (Yellow Crane Mansion): The poet had ridden the wild duck , flying away. But the old tent of duck is still all by itself.

Hoai Trinh, the poet- engineer in one, suddenly appeared more sorrowful, perhaps she thought of herself, well-educated, talented, was still single in the forty, her mates at the same course, the one had become executive chief, the other, whose children was going to pass the University exam,…….bitterly commented.

“Still be all by itself? Sacrifice? No, I will marry anyone to get a child. The most talented poet like Xuan Huong, had to be third concubine of an old canton chief, Mr Toad, much less me…..”

I was startled, while remembering this story, because he asked me:

“What do you think about?”

“About wild ducks.” I answered for done with it, then I called for paying- He asked for to pay. I brushed it aside for it was only stuff, and told him, the sum instead for Phu Dong restaurant, should be buying a set of lottery tickets……

“One and half of a billion for the first prize, who know…..”

He laughed:
”Who know that it doesn’t win?”

I answered:

“If it wins, you will be richard, it doesn’t win, it will be verse, all is the motion of transformism.”

                                                                                                                   Birthday 5-7-2000.