Nguyen Tien Dat "still here in love"

That is the name of a poem by Nguyen Tien Dat published with 10 poets of Quang Tri 32 years ago. “The old days are still here/After the end of the war, there are still a few friends/You are the place where I need to entrust my humble body/Before returning to bow to my mother in the middle of the deserted hills”. Time passes, there are people who have passed away but their shadows still remain, silently clinging to us as if they had never left.

Some poetry collections by journalist Nguyen Tien Dat - Photo: NK

Many people know about poet and journalist Nguyen Tien Dat because before leaving this "temporary world", he had left behind a rather full "legacy" of poetry, short stories and journalistic works. As for me, since I was a literature student, in the late afternoons of Hue , I often went to bookstores near Trang Tien Bridge, on the banks of the Perfume River to read his poems published in the monthly magazine Today's Knowledge: "Dear, come back to the river/The river has dreamy, clear eyes/I am the old fisherman/Let the afternoon rise to the immense..." (Talking to an ex-lover).

Then the next times I visited home, I often met his family on the Mai Xa ferry going back and forth to Dong Ha because his house and mine were only a field apart. After graduating, I met him again in the "common house" of Quang Tri Newspaper. The reason why Dat loved and respected me was because he and I had an old mother in the countryside that we always looked forward to returning to.

Therefore, throughout his poems is the poor countryside of Lam Xuan where there is an old mother and a few village girls: "We were born by the rivers, by the rivers/ Snuggled up in your body looking for shrimps and prawns" (The River of Life); "Poor countryside! Yes, mother/My heart is filled with longing" (Gio Linh) and he always admits: "Although I love roses, kiss violets/ Read Pushkin's poems and hold the hands of beauties/ I am still the mugic of my village/ Where the rice grains of the winter season open the sun's wings" (Mugic). Because it is in that countryside that Dat always finds his mother and sister: "I thought your tears/ Were drops of dew from the sky/ I am like a cricket/ Always thirsty for dew" (Ten Years)

When talking about my old mother, my brother and I often talked about sacrifice. He said: “When I was studying in Hue, every time my mother saw me coming home after noon, she would rush out to apply some makeup, look at my fat and skinny face, then carry a straw to cut some poplar wood, split it into 5 or 7 pieces to dry in the sun, and bring it to Hom market to sell for money so I could go home. Usually, I would come home for a few days, but one time I had to go home early for an exam, the poplar wood was not dry yet, and I couldn’t make any money, my mother gave me a bag of rice, pushed me out the door, and looked back to see her tears streaming down her face.”

I told her, “My mother sells iced tea. Some nights she has to stay up until 1-2am waiting for the village boys who are out flirting with girls to come and eat all the tea. Because if she doesn’t sell all the sugar water and beans, she can feed her children tomorrow, but if the ice water melts, she will lose her money tomorrow. Some mornings I wake up and see my mother’s eyes are red and swollen.” My brother and I looked at each other and exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, it’s so hard!”

Gio Mai village landscape - Photo: TL

When it comes to hardship and rusticity, Dat and I have a lot in common. Even though he is a famous journalist, he still maintains his honest and simple personality, especially his love of drinking on the bamboo mat in the corner of my porch. I remember when I was building a house, every afternoon he would come, park his bike outside the gate, smoke a Jet cigarette, and whisper to me: "Try to build a wide porch so you have a place to drink. Try to make it impressive to everyone, if you need money I will lend you."

I followed his wishes to have a porch just big enough to spread out a square mat for 4 people to sit on. With a lot of debt, I asked to borrow money several times, he scratched his head. So peaceful! But one afternoon, he rushed back, his face beaming.

“I have the money, you and your wife can come to me tonight to get it.” It turned out he had just won a journalism award and earned a few million dong, which he gave to his wife to lend me to build a house. He was always honest, the type of man who always took money lightly.

“You come back and sell gon mats/The gon mats are finished weaving for Tet/I don’t take a penny/In the cold season I sit and light the fire” (Talking to my ex-lover). Is there any model of a man more beautiful, is there any wife happier than “owning” a husband who is caring, hardworking, and at ease with life. Taking money lightly and avoiding the hustle and bustle of everyday life, Dat is always confident that: “As long as there is a salary and royalties, I still despise debt/Chi chi will live until her hair turns white” (Reminding myself). And he always laughs proudly: “Chi chi is also a human being/Money, money, and the world jostle for space/Food, clothes, fame, and fortune/Up and down, this guy is still the same” (Laughing proudly at the age of thirty).

Back then, the square mat and the corner of my porch became the “fun place” that Dat often visited every day. Gradually, I got used to it, and if he hadn’t come home in the afternoon, I felt empty. There were no delicacies, just a whole jar of medicinal wine poured into a bottle, and some dried fish as bait, sometimes when he was in a pinch, he would reach out and pick some green mangoes from the neighbor’s garden and dip them in salt. He wasn’t fussy as long as he had a “playground” to sit and gossip. I must admit that he had a talent for making up stories that made us believe them, but alas, that was when he was “telling stories over wine” and it wasn’t the village folk of Lam Xuan telling them. Many times his fabrications were exposed, Dat had to laugh and confess that it was just to entertain us.

But fate had arranged it, my square house could not keep him. At that time, he said: "This time, I will also expand the porch, add a few more bricks to make it brighter for the guys to come and drink wine." He did it and I went to see it, but alas, before I could drink wine with him in that square house, an unexpected accident pulled him back to the Lam Xuan fields. When I brought him out, his mother collapsed, I was able to help her up, and help her follow the heart-wrenching pain. "What can I do, what can I do differently/What can I hope for! Tell my mother a little peace of mind/Suddenly this afternoon, standing alone by the river/Turning back to my hometown, calling for the deserted ferry/Startled-my mother- against the sky and clouds..." (The River of Mother's Life).

The poems were his way of apologizing to his parents for not fulfilling his filial duties, but for Nguyen Tien Dat, they seem not to have been lost but "still here in memory" of his relatives and friends.

Ho Nguyen Kha

Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/nguyen-tien-dat-van-con-day-thuong-nho-194401.htm