FOREWORD FOR THE POEM “TƠ VƯƠNG ÁO DÀI”

There are presences that pass through one’s life without leaving footprints, yet they leave behind deep vibrations within the soul. No noise, no name is called—only a fleeting touch upon a fragile moment of the heart—and then they remain, like a fragrance that never fades from memory.

“Tơ Vương Áo Dài” was born from such moments. In it, the áo dài is not merely a symbol of gentle beauty, but a delicate streak of light within the rushing flow of life. A passing figure, as light as the wind, yet enough to stir an entire stillness within the heart.

The poem does not tell a complete story, but instead preserves scattered fragments of emotion—of gazes, of distance, of unspoken feelings that have already turned into lingering attachment before ever being named. Between reality and dream, between closeness and distance, one sometimes can only stand still, quietly watching a figure dissolve into the mist of time.

If poetry is the place where the unholdable is preserved, then “Tơ Vương Áo Dài” is a gentle attempt to hold onto a beautiful moment—even if only in imagination, even if only within memory.

And perhaps, it is precisely this incompleteness that creates the most enduring beauty of human emotion: beautiful because it was once felt, and forever lingering because it once touched the heart.

ENTANGLED IN AO DAI

Thi Lan Anh Tran (Aschaffenburg, Germany) & Musharraf Hussain (Assam, India)

© Copyright by Thi Lan Anh Tran & Musharraf Hussain

Ao Dai drifts softly through the lane,
and leaves my soul in twilight rain.
Your eyes—like evening light so clear,
just touch my heart and linger here.

The wind plays gently with your hair,
like drifting clouds suspended there.
You smile—an open sky so wide,
and scatter stars deep in my mind.

I am a leaf adrift in time,
carried by winds of fleeting rhyme.
I wish to follow, soft and still,
yet stand unmoving by your will.

Perhaps our fate is silent, small,
or love blooms in a misted call.
I stand alone, yet not alone,
your voice still calls me like a tone.

If one day you should pass my way,
please let me call your name that day.
Even within a dream’s soft gleam,
just let me hold your fading dream.

I gather all my broken vows,
and stitch them where the memory flows.
Your Ao Dai still moves like grace—
while I am lost in endless space…

TƠ VƯƠNG ÁO DÀI

Thị Lan Anh Tran (Aschaffenburg, Germany) & Musharraf Hussain (Assam, India)

© Bản quyền thuộc về Thị Lan Anh Tran & Musharraf Hussain

Áo dài ai nhẹ qua đường
Để hồn tôi lạc giữa sương khói chiều
Mắt em như ánh ban chiều
Chạm vào một thoáng đã nhiều vấn vương

Gió nghiêng sợi tóc ven đường
Ngỡ như mây trắng nửa vương nửa rời
Em cười nghiêng cả bầu trời
Rơi trong mắt biếc rối bời tim tôi

Tôi như chiếc lá giữa đời
Theo cơn gió nhẹ rã rời tháng năm
Muốn theo em suốt âm thầm
Mà chân đứng lại trong tầm mắt em

Phải chăng duyên khẽ lặng im
Hay tình chỉ nở tim mền khói mơ
Để tôi đứng mãi ngẩn ngơ
Nghe tim gõ nhịp dại khờ gọi em

Nếu mai em bước qua thềm
Xin cho tôi gọi tên em một lần
Dẫu là trong giấc phù vân
Cũng xin giữ lại bóng thân em về

Để tôi gom cả lời thề
Khâu vào nỗi nhớ bốn bề mênh mang
Áo dài em vẫn dịu dàng
Còn tôi mắc lại giữa ngàn tơ vương…

LỜI TỰA CHO BÀI THƠ “TƠ VƯƠNG ÁO DÀI”

Có những hiện diện đi ngang qua đời người mà không để lại dấu chân, nhưng lại lưu lại những rung động sâu xa trong tâm hồn. Không ồn ào, không một lời gọi tên — chỉ là một thoáng chạm khẽ vào khoảnh khắc mong manh của trái tim — rồi từ đó ở lại, như một hương thơm không bao giờ phai trong ký ức.

“Tơ Vương Áo Dài” được sinh ra từ những khoảnh khắc như thế. Trong bài thơ, tà áo dài không chỉ là biểu tượng của vẻ đẹp dịu dàng, mà còn là một vệt sáng mong manh giữa dòng đời hối hả. Một bóng hình thoáng qua, nhẹ như gió, nhưng đủ làm lay động cả một khoảng lặng trong tim.

Bài thơ không kể một câu chuyện trọn vẹn, mà lưu giữ những mảnh cảm xúc rời rạc — của ánh nhìn, của khoảng cách, của những điều chưa từng được thổ lộ nhưng đã kịp hóa thành nỗi vương vấn. Giữa thực và mộng, giữa gần và xa, có khi con người chỉ biết đứng lặng, lặng lẽ nhìn một bóng hình tan dần vào màn sương của thời gian.

Nếu thơ ca là nơi lưu giữ những điều không thể nắm giữ, thì “Tơ Vương Áo Dài” là một nỗ lực dịu dàng để níu lại một khoảnh khắc đẹp — dù chỉ trong tưởng tượng, dù chỉ còn trong ký ức.

Và có lẽ, chính sự dang dở ấy lại tạo nên vẻ đẹp bền lâu nhất của cảm xúc con người: đẹp vì đã từng được cảm nhận, và mãi còn vương vấn vì đã từng chạm đến trái tim.

Wheat of Words

Rain draws up
houses in the clouds,
chairs made of light.
Angels plow the night
of happiness.
They plant songs in
the brass threshing-floors,
beating the wheat of words.

On the House’s Hip

We write on the house’s hip:
We are here.
We chew on the street’s loneliness
’til the alley turns
into a moon on the soul’s shoulder.
The wind’s wound…
you tell it like a secret.
Lightning drinks its glass,
and we drink down the question.
Sparrows soften the bitter cold.
What’s the point of staying…?
The olive tree left it to the windows
to tell what’s left
of the shouting inside us,
tossing it in the grinder.

Tightness

No sound strips me bare

but time’s handkerchiefs

wiping themselves,

and ruin is born

blooming tight little dreams.

Mohammed Al Gaddafi Masoud was born in 1978 in Gharyan, Libya, holds a theater diploma from Tripoli’s Jamal Al-Din Al-Miladi Institute (2000) and is the author of several collections, including lyrical poetry (We Woke Up to Joy, 2006) and journalistic dialogues (My Dialogues with Them, 2008). Widely published across the Arab world, his work has been translated into numerous languages—English, Chinese, Spanish, Polish, French, Italian, and Albanian—and appeared in international print and online journals from Spain to Argentina. In 2024, he was selected as one of 72 global poets for an Italian-language anthology curated by Angela Costa, reflecting his broadening transnational literary presence.

_____________________________________________________

Translation Dr. Salwa Goda

Untitled

How much of these

hills have they besmirched

by the savage onslaught of 

time?

I go to them only

when colour fades

and they erase all time’s

beginnings from my mind

these hills are not only history

but riverine enters them

and they are soaked by rains

a tapestry which when sundered

will eclipse time’s denudations

I watch everyday, a fantasy

a myth spelling out of dreams

and a quiescence which is

unbearable, I go there

sit, watch and narrate stories

It will rain soon and the muddied

earth will enter the hills

flailing arms, composing 

night songs and bringing 

unease to this quietude

of rainbow coloured dreams

Do you still feel that we should live here?

hands clasped praying for every day to end?

a subversive act of loving

but not knowing what to do 

among dark shadow lines

intersecting these hills into 

cut wounds of sorrow

as night comes to escape from

realities.

Sometimes I’ve wanted to be a star.

Sometimes I’ve wanted to be a sun.

Sometimes I’ve thought of placing roses on the autumn leaves along the path.

Denying the existence of autumn.

“Oh, where is that garden of compassion, full of flowers?”

These are feelings I’ve sometimes had.

Life is like a river, with two banks.

I once wanted to live on that coast.

Sometimes I want to distance myself from those unfulfilled desires.

Sometimes, the leaves bear witness to my sorrow.

Given that it is difficult to survive without hope,

I once wanted to dedicate my soul to happiness.

In nature, God is the only helper.

This is the existence of humanity, the existence of humanity.

Where will the ship of destiny sail?

Sometimes I want to look back on my tomorrow.

*****************************

Poem by Nurbek Norchayev. He is from Kashkadarya Region of the Republic of Uzbekistan and is currently a fourth-year student at the Shahrisabz State Pedagogical Institute.

Translation: O. Latipjov (Translation Service)

有时我曾想成为一颗星星

有时我曾想成为一颗太阳

有时我曾想把玫瑰花放在小径上的秋叶上，

否认秋天的存在。

”哦，那充满鲜花的慈悲花园在哪里”,-

这些是有时我曾这么感觉。

人生就像一条河，有两岸-

我曾想住在那片海岸边。

有时我想远离那些未实现的愿望,

有时，树叶见证了我的悲伤。

鉴于没有希望就很难生存，

我曾想把我的灵魂奉献给幸福。

在自然界中，上帝是唯一的帮助者

这就是人类的存在，人类的存在

命运之舟驶向何方？

有时我想回顾一下我的明天。

*****************************

诗歌作者：努尔别克·诺尔恰耶夫    Nurbek Norchayev。他来自乌兹别克斯坦共和国卡什卡达里亚州，目前是沙赫里萨布兹国立师范学院四年级学生。

翻译：O. Latipjov（翻译服务）

Prom Night

Merci didn’t know what to do next. A cute jock had asked her out. Parker wasn’t just Highmount High School’s best soccer player, but one of the state’s top wrestlers as well. Merci could just feel Parker’s strong arms around her now. She smiled.

Parker had asked her to go to prom, which was tonight. What should she do? How should she behave? What would be expected of Merci in the wee hours after prom was over? Had she been asked at the last minute because she wasn’t cute enough, feminine enough to have been asked by others first? Merci had just learned that Parker had broken up with another girl. Was Merci only an afterthought? The thought troubled her. After all, no one else had invited her, and now to have the reputed “love machine” invite her was a little overwhelming. Maybe Parker’s rep was just that, a rep. Merci decided to put her misgivings aside and just enjoy the evening.

Actually, Merci had been asked to prom by one boy, but when she politely declined, he got sore and told her he only asked her because no one else word. It was a pity invite, he’d snarked at her.

Now it was prom night. Merci stood before her cheval mirror, inherited from her grandmother, and looked at her reflection. She had chosen an A-line dress, in a pastel shade of blue. She hoped it would go alright with her date’s sequined black tuxedo. Merci’s father had told her that it made her look older, more adult-like, and she had beamed at the compliment. She fleetingly longed for her mother to have lived to see her attend prom.

“Merci,” shouted Dad from downstairs. “Your prom date is here.”

Merci drew a deep breath, released it and eased nervously down the staircase, careful not to trip. At the foot of the stairs she observed Parker, resplendent in tuxedo and vest and bow tie. As the two came together and held hands, Merci’s father said, “You take care of my girl, now, Parker.”

“I will,” she promised, and the two slipped through the door and to the car, where Parker drove them to Highmount’s first-ever LGBTQ prom.

Robbing a Song

A green Bird sang beside my windowsill—

‎its soothing voice still lingers and twitters;

‎the birdsong makes light of heavy hills.

‎yet the Hunter came, ready for the kill.

‎

‎The gentle Wind is good for my soul:

‎it foretells the coming of the sweet Bird;

‎whose music lightens and puts me at ease.

‎only, the evening tides disturb this calm.

‎

‎Trees rustle; yet ignore the Wind’s strides,

‎the Storms made them lie low and murmur,

‎they cheer the warmth of evening tides.

‎if only they knew; the Wood-cutter draws near.

‎

‎A quiet Stream flowed by my house,

‎it splashes when the morning wakes,

‎little creatures stream through its water.

‎who is to dissuade the Fisher that lurks?

Oh, the Storms raged a while ago;

‎they crashed and flashed— hell let loose.

‎the water in my house was ever quiet,

‎hushing the fearful waves without.

A fateful morning, Lightning split the sky,

‎it was terrible— ah, my frightened soul!

‎my heart clenched; forbidding a howl,

‎still the thunder roars, like a lion enthroned.

‎‘Keep your soul at peace,’ Mother says,

‎‘allay hunger, build a house that is warm;

‎the taller, the better— yet make it firm.

‎water and air, the lands you walk are mine’.

‎

‎‘Let us ascend the mountains’ said a friend,

‎he felt misplaced amid the city’s clamor.

‎what if I tire, what if I stumble and fall?

‎it matters not; I only seek the Height of all.

‎

‎Life has a song— paired with a dance:

‎She says delight, yet sends forth Storms;

‎She bids us ascend, then return to Dust.

‎She says all change endures but for awhile.

Life took away the breath She gave!

‎‘nay, never bewail my sweet child’ She says,

‎‘splendid the miracles of every morning,

greater still is that wonder whispering ‘Revive’’.

‎

‎Here Life, All-Mother, reigns— comely as a Queen,

‎to condemn, to bless; at a fleeting whim,

‎‘should you ever slumber yet never wake,

‎surely rest on beneath the mortal Dust’.

‎

‎The Bird still sings— sonorous as before,

‎unaware the Fall is near— trees cheer on,

‎the wandering Wind whooshes along,

‎the morning still stirs creatures awake.

‎

‎Storms be quiet, Life commends the steadfast;

‎what I longed for: mastery over the sky,

‎the house I built basks in this same light,

‎in the mountains— I was lifted to Height.

‎

‎Ascent or Dust, the short-lived bids no joy;

‎this knowledge conceived even more toil.

‎Wanderer I was, I am, may this remain;

‎I was here, I am here, I hope I never fade.