Poet Hoang Trung Thong (1925-1993) also had other pseudonyms such as Dac Cong, But Cham, hometown Quynh Doi commune, Quynh Luu district, Nghe An province, former member of Vietnam Writers Association, director of the Institute Vietnamese literature). Hoang Trung Thong participated in the revolution before 1945 in the Viet Minh movement, used to hold the following positions: cultural officer of the Interzone IV Party Committee, member of Nghe An Provincial Party Committee, member of the Central Committee of Culture and Arts. ; secretary of the editorial office of the magazine Culture of the Vietnam Association of Arts and Letters; editor-in-chief of Van Nghe and New Works newspapers of the Vietnam Writers Association; Director of Literature Publishing House, Director of the Department of Arts and Propaganda of the Central Committee; Director of the Institute of Literature (1976-1985). We would like to introduce his beautiful poems.
- Poem
- Poem: Sea breeze
- Poem: Afternoon to Binh Ca
- Poems: Reading Uncle Ho’s poetry
- Poem
- Poem: Sails
- Poem: On Ba Be Lake
- Poem: When will I come back?
- Poem
- Poem: Flute
Poem
If I die
If I die Don’t have anyone Cry for nothing That’s it
Don’t let anyone know
Lying in the grave I’m embarrassed Just remember the love songIf I diePut up my graveAnd you or I will write
Keep your heart for a lifetime
More than sixty years old I just laugh, Do Phu once said
Happy birthday
I live many years older than you. Still dreaming I write too little
Then you have to go
That’s the debt of life. Borrowed, I have to pay it. Finished my life
Think about it and say yes
If I Die Someone Bring the Wreath to the Grave
Then don’t be sorry.
By: Kim Dong Publishing House
Poem
Poem: Sea breeze
Seabreeze
The salty wind calls me back to the sea Like spring calls the swallows to fly back. The waves are lapping. Chaos flutter!
I stood in the wind on all sides.
Wind wind! The sun is full of red, The sail is full of breasts, and the sea is full of waves
Blood throbbing in the middle of my heart
For a long time, dust covered the small room. Take the ceiling fan as the wind. Now the sea blows the wind
The boat staggered like it was about to burst.
After a long time, reflecting on the beautiful lake surface, the ripples are also creepy Now the eight directions of the sky are rolling
Like rolling people into satellites
I bathe in the wind, bathe in the sky, bathe in the waves. The sea! Windy cage My skin is soaked with salty wind
Like a brown sail soaked in the warm wind.
1960
Source: The way we go, Literature Publishing House, 1960
Poem: Sea breeze
Poem: Afternoon to Binh Ca
Afternoon to Binh Ca
Afternoon to Binh – singing without singing Only heard the rattling sound of the Lo River. The river flowed through the sky. A ferry to the shore. Was it the ferry driver last year? Translation,Now is full of wheelchair tractors.I stood by the river in the cold wind.I thought I was still standing to call a boat at night.High mountains looked up at the white clouds. The rafters went down, the boat went up. Could it be that the guy who drove the ferry last year waited all night long? car link…
4 – 1961
Poem: Afternoon to Binh Ca
Poems: Reading Uncle Ho’s poetry
Read Uncle Ho’s poetry
The dungeon, the more burning heart, The chain can’t lock the lyrics of the song Hundred rivers and thousands of mountains, feet do not fall, patriotic, love people who love flowers and plants. Reading Uncle’s poems, Uncle’s soul A mirror without dust The shadow of a great tree covered with green and wide Wings like flying birds freedom.Freedom! No sword can stop the sea, the river is long, the will is high, the body is in prison, the heart is in the country. Flying around the soul, dreaming with golden stars. When the forest birds sing in the mountains, When looking at the banana clumps, the moonlight shines, Still keeping the heart relaxed. I read hundreds of articles with hundreds of beautiful ideas. Light shines on green hair. Uncle’s poems, steel verse. But still immense and full of love. May 1960.
Source: The way we go, Literature Publishing House, 1960
Poems: Reading Uncle Ho’s poetry
Poem
Ground breaking song
We have a group of cloth shirts. Live the life of the forest and mountains. We lack land for plowing in the green fields. Listen to the forest and come here with the forest. We contribute together.
Cultivate each bed of soil and hoe each tree.
The long way we come here On the hill, the trees are thirsty for the sun. Between two empty streams
Our team is happy to plow.
Working hands We sow life On each dry land. Industrious hands. Even though the sun burns, Potatoes are planted in the fields. Rice is planted in the forest. When we run out of potatoes, we sow sesame.
Do not let the earth rest, do not stop my hand.
Streams flow around us The sound of streams hummerging with the mountain wind We dig ditches to open streams Our age is the age of struggle Even though the soldiers’ clothes are silver
There is still broken soil to plant green mountain pass.
Birds chirping in the leaves. The rock is craggy. We are a class of the poor. In the middle of the afternoon, the sun and the wind. Dig trees and hoe grass.
Pruning beans for planting potatoes.
The day is still long, the strength is still young. The hoe is stronger. The easier it is to plow deeply. Sing up! Let’s make a quick bet. Quickly, I hoe, I dig up the ground. My hands do it all
Man’s strength stones into the rice.
I enjoy the fragrant rice season. I celebrate the ripening of the fruit. Sending to the frontline
Destroy the enemy, lie on the ground in dew.
Whose blood dyed the golden star.
My sweat poured down the fresh vegetables.
The forest is green and full of human blood.
And the good color of the rice is still fresh and indigo.
1948
This poem excerpt has been used in reading textbooks for many years.
Poem: Sails
The sails
Father and son walking on the sand Bright sun and blue sea Long shadow of father
The ball is round and stocky,
After the pouring rain at night, the finer the sand, the clearer the sea. Father lead me under the pink morning light
Listen to your child’s steps, please feel free.
I suddenly shook my father’s hand and asked softly: “Father, why do you only see water in the distance, see the sky?
Can’t see the house, don’t see the tree, don’t see the people there?”
The father smiled and patted the child’s head: “Follow the sails to far away, There will be trees, there will be doors, there will be houses Still our country.
There he never went.”
Father took me again to walk on the fine sand, The sun filled my shoulder, I looked thoughtfully at the end of the horizon, I pointed to the distant sail and asked softly: “Can you lend me the white sail, please?
Let me go!”
Your words, or the whisper of the waves, Or the voice of my father’s heart from a distant time For the first time in front of the endless sea
I see you again in the voice of my dreams.
Poem: Sails
Poem: On Ba Be Lake
On Ba Be Lake
Giving to Nong Quoc Chan My boat slowly entered the Ba Be Mountains, the mountains were steep, the lake was silent. The leaves of the forest with the wind soaked in the seine will paint my heart with the sound of birds. My boat glides smoothly on Ba Be Above the clouds in the sky on the blue mountains. White clouds float quietly. The oars swayed the mountain’s shadow.My boat circled forever on BabeThe tree ran after the boat and waved away.We had to go beyond the world.To the middle of the world, to the middle of the world, the middle of the magic.I heard that there was a god Babe because the people were angry and killed the cowHalf Thunderstorms make the stormy night Immerse the happy village to the bottom of the lake. Our boat glides on Ba Be. The old story fades away like smoke. We push the oars away quietly Shining the water surface with the sun. Beautiful star guerrillas of Ba Be Lake strong and fought west, turning rocks, rowing clouds with light steps, slashing the enemy like cutting a tree. Our boat circled around Ba Be Red, orange orchards, cornfields Bustling with buffalo returning, echoing young voices. wait for me Birds sing above my head listen Once came, O BabeWant to stay here, I don’t want to go back.
Pac Ngoi, January 1, 1961
Poem: On Ba Be Lake
Poem: When will you come back?
When will you come back?
You went that day was a long time ago, my village still remembers you guys, when you come back, my village boys and girls are still waiting for my village to be poor, small by the river, cold wind, blowing on the roofs of my village, poor winds and rain, boys and girls in the village, working hard up and down, boys and girls on the roof. Warm and happy home Singing jokes, bustling small village, brothers returning jubilantly in front of the alley, juniors happily following behind, old mother in brown clothes, happy young children coming back from the deep forest, from the back of the pass, the blind mountain slopes, the brothers came back, stirring up my small village, the house was simple, but the heart Wide open Half-cooked rice cooker Bowl of green tea Drinks happily talking about each other’s heart Citizens are on fire Even though the mountains are windy and foggy
Compared to him, his blood dyed the battlefield
Counting the time when you go, Mother often reminds me: know when to come back? Green rice to cut your feet. You go to keep your hometown Banyan tree, water wharf, communal yard Oath to remember the meeting on the road Fragrant areca flowers
You go to keep the love abundant
You guys go When you come back My village Boys and girls are still waiting Waiting for a successful campaign The corpses are piled up on the red river with the red flag You go nine wait ten wait
Tin usually wins the battle, when about you?
This excerpt from the poem has been used in primary school reading textbooks for many years.
When Will You Come Back – The Best Poetry Of Poet Hoang Trung Thong
Poem
Homeowner
The afternoon sun flickers over the bamboo tops The immense waves of rice roll in. You and I walk on the small dike. Brown and faded clothes fly with the wind. You raise your hand to paint in the green fields. Paint tomorrow as a picture Behold the canal flowing across the bridge in the north. The brick kiln is high, the road is straight. Here is the barn, the farmer’s house, the money is done with the land, and the feet are still walking and talking
Open your heart like the wind blows
He has been the homeowner for three yearsThree years of struggling with difficultiesThere was a dry season when the rice fields burned and dried up. Ten steps of water to climb up to the dry fields.There was a season of ripe rice flooding and flooding Again having to tilt the fields to throw water out.Many people, few fields, few cows and cows,Running back and forth, running around in chaos Thirty-year-old blood is boiling, Refusing to cross his arms and look at the sky, Rotating seasons, changing crops, increasing productivity Lack of land to the forest, broken hands and soil, Many old habits and habits, Hundreds of mouths, hundreds of people, hundreds of gays. End of the village, the end of the field, stop going back Mouth speaks, hands do, ears listen. With so many comrades, he goes first Standing with his nose facing the head of the wind, having a night of lying down to think of anchoring scenes Weak wife, many children, not yet poor But then clearly see the way Coming to the water, I was worried that I could not stand it Again, I got into a drunken heart. It’s early in the afternoon and it rains again “Oh my old man! Homeowner”Lots of dear words, words of gratitude His hand holds the hand of the cooperative member
Shake the whole movement forward
He and I walked on the small dike Silver brown shirt flying with the wind My eyes embrace all the green fields
His whole figure turned into a picture
April 1962
Poem: Flute
Flute sound
A baby on a buffalo Sitting playing a reed flute The flute sounds far away
The buffaloes walk slowly, bowing their heads…
The herd of buffaloes munching on green grass Birds dancing on the branches The sun on the bamboo bank sparkles with dew
The sound of your flute wakes up the whole dawn.
The song of the flute: the song called the baby flute: the song called the baby, the song that called for the baby, to follow in her mother’s footsteps
The sound of the flute: the breath of the country.
I want to exchange the days of daydreaming For a minute you sit and play the flute on your buffalo, The sweat on your forehead is black and shiny
I can’t see a drop of sweat.
In the morning wind, the sound of your flute is long, Like a stork’s wings on a green field, the waves crashing, Your forehead has drops of sweat
The sound of the flute led the buffalo to the lawn.
1962
Poem: Flute
Among the Vietnamese poets of the 20th century, Hoang Trung Thong is a man of erudition. His poetry helps people live a better life, a cleaner soul, awakens love for people, strives to fight for humanitarian ideals and human progress. Hoang Trung Thong’s poetry strongly influenced and affected the lives of many generations. Researcher – Professor Phan Ngoc once wrote about him: “In the heart, you are a small person, of small people. In poetry, he is just a poet of little people” and “There is only a small Hoang Trung Thong, not satisfied with himself. That is the great thing of Hoang Trung Thong”.
Posted by: Hang Anh
Keywords: 10 beautiful poems of poet Hoang Trung Thong
