Long Nguyen Poems
Long Nguyen Poems. Below are the most popular long Nguyen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nguyen poems by poem length and keyword.
By Phan Tan Hai
At midnight I trace the ancient pages,
golden dust of centuries settling thick—
hearing echoes of brushes, swords, and ink
returning to rattle open a full-moon festival.
Summoning old spirits drifting in the wind,
the Master searches, translating page by page;
comparing characters, the long night shortens,
copying lines of poetry vast as the sea.
I hear the old zither strings break into tears,
soldiers urging horses, their cries ringing out.
The Master records the soul of ink and paper,
his beard and hair dyed white by a thousand clouds.
---- Respectfully dedicated to Professor Nguyen Van Sam
I am a lowly servant, fearing the Lord,
Holding His commands deep in my heart.
You may drown me in doubt and scorn,
But like a rock, my obedience stands firm.
Does my praise for God's love unsettle you?
Does my song of faith disrupt your day?
You may cast harsh words upon me,
But like a rock, my trust in Him remains unshaken.
Does my joyful face trouble your soul?
Does my broken English make you turn away?
You may ignore my presence,
But like the gentle wind, I embrace you still.
Does my smile disturb your hardened heart?
Do my prayers for enemies seem strange to you?
You may strike me with hatred,
But like incense, my love for you rises ever higher.
For a man of grace and innocence
Once bore whips, thorns, and pain,
Crucified and suffering for all—
In my heart, the cross stands strong.
Temptation may try to shake me,
Hatred may pour upon my path,
Yet God’s love is greater than all things,
And His will guides me in love.
Like a rock, my hope, my dream, my destiny is in serving.
Like a rock, my faith in Him will never waver.
Deacon Joe Hung Nguyen
I need you, O my Sweet Lord God
Like parched land thirsting for fresh rain,
Like dark dull nights need kisses of moon light,
Like the earth needs the warm touch of sunshine,
Like rolling wind embracing floating clouds,
And like Autumn painting withered leaves in golden hue
O Lord, I need you days and nights,
In my dreams, in my wishes and desires,
In my deeds, and in ev'ry breath I take.
And in each second of my earthly life.
My soul lives in your spirit light,
In my heart I hold your dead
Your graces manifested in me
(Through your glorious Resurrection)
Your venerable human sacrifice blesses me true Divine love,
O healing Lord God, heal my soul and my body,
For my life's longing for your love,
The love that never grows weary,
The love that douses my heart, endlessly
In your love my life takes refuge, peacefully,
In your love my joy never declines
For, I live and die with you, sincerely.
I need you, O Lord God, I need you, wholeheartedly,
Dwell in me, though I am not worthy,
You are the vine and I am a branch
You are the source of my life, eternity.
How can I exist without you,
You are in ev'rything I ever do
My life's completely complete in your spirit truth.
I need you, O Lord God, I need you
Joe Hung Nguyen
(03/2018)
Beyond the lines of your poems—
the ones you once wrote,
the summers you spread across the page, blazing with noon sunlight;
the Saigon alleyways you walked, canopied with flame-red blossoms;
the tender first love that chilled every rainy afternoon;
the startled wings of birds flying against the wind;
the fragrance you pressed into words, learning to draw charms like the ancients.
.
Beyond the lines of your poems—
the ones you once wrote,
the paths you walked between letters of dream and truth;
your footsteps carrying the whisper of Nha Trang’s restless waves;
the nights behind the curtain where you met Princess My Nuong laughing in the rain;
the verses still echoing four thousand years of legends;
the deep sadness, the pipa’s tremor of the Dragon King remembering Au Co.
Beyond the lines of your poems—
the ones you once wrote,
the days you stood in parched fields reading verses to summon rain;
the days you copied children’s rhymes across endless new pages;
the ink still heavy with sorrow from a season-strayed wind;
the l?c bát spells you wrote to invite the apricot blossoms to bloom;
and I still stand beside the stone horses of the Ly and Tran dynasties,
my legs weary from an ancient race.
Beyond the lines of your poems—
is Minh the sun,
is minh the day,
so that ink and paper shimmer between dream and real?
Beyond the lines of your poems—
is Minh the moon,
is minh the crescent light,
so a half-moon glows forever in your poetry?
Beyond the lines of your poems,
beyond the lines of your poems.
--- Phan Tan Hai. Dedicated to poet Nguyen Thi Khanh Minh
In reprimand of Donald Anus Trump
(the Grand Old Party's best and choicest loser,
who sleazed and promised us he'll “drain the swamp”),
you live up to your name for there's none cruder
than you. And you behave like a male hussy
(who'd lay your daughter because she's a blonde peach),
and chirpily urge Bush to “grab [women] by
the pussy” (on video) in no figure of speech.
How to laud you our Commander-in-Chief;
when all you do is lie, distort, and threaten
your way out of the charge that you're a thief
(and fraud with whom Lord God has yet to reckon)?
And God help those children all at the border,
now dying by your executive order!
© 2019 Ngoc M. Nguyen...All Rights Reserved.
Like Frankenstein, I, too, am loathed to death;
I walk this earth devoid of friend and hearth,
devoid of joy from the time of my birth
and from the first draw of my infant's breath.
An outcast and a pariah among
the friended, I exist without the mirth
and bliss of those born of more ample worth,
esteem, and prize,—O would that I belong!
Still, I am loved of my dear family
and most scarce friends, my books, and by my God,
and my most oft-read, soothing Poetry.
These things I treasure, honor, and so laud
with gratitude and thanks abundantly,
and so am glad like worms in blesséd sod.
**Nota Bene! Revised version immediately below of above sonnet:
Like an outcast despised, I flee the heath;
devoid of friend and mirth, I trek this earth
and dwell alone from the time of my birth
almost from my first draw of infant's breath.
Unloved, without the world's shared shibboleth,
I am the face of tragedy, when hearth
and friendship's company withhold their worth,
closeness, esteem, and trust until my death.
But I still am loved by dear family,
and by my Rose, a blesséd gift from God;
whom, along with my oft-read poetry,
I treasure, honor, and so highly laud.
Though forever estranged in this country,
I still thus am glad like a frail seed in sod.
© Ngoc M. Nguyen. All rights reserved. Updated 23 April 2023
By Phan Tan Hai
Last night I listened to the Dharma on the hill;
today I descend the mountain, chanting ancient sutras.
If someone asks, I simply say
I studied—and forgot it all, as if I’d never learned a thing.
Luckily a few words remain in my poems,
their fragrance carried by ink along the shores of birth and death;
speaking, laughing, walking like a sutra—
you and I appearing only as reflections in a mirror.
Last night I sat in the Dharma hall,
hearing storm winds and river rain across the long miles;
if someone asks, I point only to mist and smoke—
treatises and scriptures leave no trace upon me.
Seeing the mind neither coming nor going,
both shores dissolving, far from sorrow;
a muddy buffalo crossing waves—where does it go?
leaving no footprints, even the bridge drifts away.
Last night the moon rose over the hill;
I saw the mind silent—no self, no other.
If someone asks, I lift a single flower;
whatever is seen, whatever is known, is distant by ten thousand realms.
Joy arises as I copy impermanence,
Dharma words blending with the night’s poetry;
the written lines fall away beyond the eaves—
only the wordless sutra remains to teach meditation.
Last night dew soaked my shoulders;
I sat releasing past, present, and future.
If someone asks, I offer only the sound of a bell—
who holds it, who hears it, all like a dream.
Tomorrow I will carry the Dharma across the shore,
transmitting the moon-mind—who waits, who goes?
empty and open like the evening sunlight,
nothing to hold, nothing to release.
---- Respectfully dedicated to the esteemed Do Hong Ngoc, Tran Tuan Man, Nguyen Can, and Venerable Minh Dieu Nguyen The Dang.
By Phan Tan Hai
Mother walks to the ends of heaven and earth,
her two hands raised—thin, trembling;
her children not yet home this twelfth month,
her tears swelling into a tidal sea.
Mother wakes before the rooster cries,
waiting through many rounds of summer sun.
The Noble Truth of Suffering is what is seen;
the Noble Truth of Suffering is what is heard.
She hears a cry across the sky,
remembers her children lost like vanished birds;
the long miles ache with their hardship,
the distant sea brims with her tears.
Mother runs through rising winds,
thinking she hears her children call from the ferry shore.
The Noble Truth of Suffering is what is remembered;
the Noble Truth of Suffering is what is longed for.
Mother sings verses of pain,
watching her children scattered to ten directions;
the wind stirs with the early rain,
and she imagines them rafting across the river.
She hears death’s thunderous roar:
when this arises, that arises;
when this ceases, that ceases—
and she weeps, calling upon the spirits.
Mother sits remembering her children, singing;
standing, sitting, she walks inside a dream;
her children turn into cranes,
wandering far from Mother Au Co.
She cries for the storming rains,
praying the new year will come quickly;
with compassion she prays the rain will quench all fires,
that love will open the ancestral festival.
Mother steps into the village and dances,
invoking the Hung Kings of a thousand years;
bronze drums roar across ten directions,
as she lifts her face toward the parted seas.
Mother hides her spring of tears,
her two hands raised—thin, trembling;
her children return as H?ng birds, L?c birds,
while her hair has faded in the evening sun.
Echoing her chant like a mantra,
my body becomes the rushing rain,
Mother becomes the drifting clouds—
the far shore silent, wordless, still.
--- Dedicated to the poet Nguyen Quoc Thai, inspired by his poem "Returning Home to Wish Mother a Long Life".
She loved her child through rivers and mountains,
copied sutras with trembling hands,
offered them at dawn, noon, dusk, and night—
each tear a stream flowing in silence.
She loved her child across endless miles,
chanting through tears like mountain rain.
The wind carried her voice to distant woods,
cold rain soaking into her soul.
Then Mother became mist, fading in midday sun.
Then Mother became fragrance, drifting through dreams.
Then Mother became cloud, white hair at heaven’s edge.
Then Mother became sunlight, a shadow behind the hill.
At midnight, I turn in a distant town,
reading the last line of her sutra.
Her words overflow with longing—
transcribing the Buddha’s teaching across the river.
O love! A forest of white hair
flies back to cover birth and death.
A bird cries from the farthest sky—
I lift my head, and hear the sound of the Unborn.
--- By Nguyen Giac Phan Tan Hai
By Phan Tan Hai
Writing poems endlessly—my hands grow tired,
so I sit down to rest my feet.
White clouds return to the doorway;
we remember each other, a few tender bonds.
Dust settles upon the page,
blurring last night’s ink.
Lifting the pen, I want to weep—
the homeland’s story lies far away.
Seeing clearly the shore of birth and death,
one day I suddenly wish to lie down;
seeing, hearing the joy of stillness—
Being and Non-being both are mind.
Split open the poet’s heart—
in the Lý–Tr?n age, flowers rained from the sky.
This realm feels strangely distant,
mountains and rivers cold along the far road.
— For the birthday of poet Nguyen Luong Vy