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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required By Phan Tan Hai Let me tell you about a book—not yet finished, though surely the middle is done, and the ending still unwritten. Here, here—my hands are tapping out words, inviting the ten directions of the world to read each page of my life, my life… Here, here—I am breathing, slow then fast, hearing the wind of life blowing cold through my bones; each word, each line, each poem, each page still appearing, blazing before my eyes, still resounding, echoing in my ears, still distant, whispering behind me… Here, here—this book of my life is not done; a few pages for you, a few pages for our child, a few pages for the world. My hands tap out words, my eyes still wandering, glancing into the Buddha’s sutras, grabbing handfuls of words, scattering them into my life, burying them freely… Here, here—this page is poetry, this page is news. Here, here—I carry stacks of paper to sit in the middle of the marketplace, mumbling to sell them—pages sometimes full, sometimes empty, sometimes sad, sometimes joyful. Here, here—these tears, do you see? These are tears, spreading across each page. Please turn them gently, lest my words fall; please hold them carefully, lest the letters cry out in pain… Here, here—do you remember the time we walked together to Seal Beach, the time we invited each other for a drink, the time I drank myself breathless, hearing the night wheeze before my face. Here, here—do you remember the trumpet in the bar, the faint purple lipstick of the Latina singer under dim lights, the time when our young hair searched for each other amid the raging pages of life, in days of stormy seas. There are pages I want to tear out, to hide away, to throw far, far into the corner of the sky— a time before you were in my life, a time when I raged and went mad with all the world’s delusions… And there are pages I am still waiting for— pages of a Hanoi street corner, pages of Saigon’s rows of trees, pages of the days I will bring you back to the lampposts beneath the roof of Xá L?i Pagoda, where I once sat with books, studying for exams… Please be gentle—this page is still dark with night, still scented with wine, still echoing a few notes of music… Once, once, once— Now my hands tap out words, the pages filled with white hair, each page cold with emptiness. Now my hands tap out words, searching for peace for you, for our child, for the world. Page by page, I gently, so gently, so gently— so the paper does not cry.
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