Monthly Archives: February 2017

bóc cam

hôm nay ốm
tôi ngồi
bóc quả cam

bên kia đường
có toà nhà
cầu thang bọc kính
trên tường gắn
chiếc đèn
màu cam

những đêm không ngủ
tôi ngồi ngắm
một nửa chiếc đèn
tôi tưởng
là trăng

phòng tôi cũng có
chiếc đèn màu cam
trên trần nhà
tròn như lòng đỏ
trứng gà
tôi nhìn trời
qua cửa kính
cũng tưởng
là trăng

năm giờ chiều
trời xanh nức nở
nhưng hôm nay
tôi chỉ thấy vàng

những ô cửa
ấm sực ánh đèn vàng
mọi hôm tôi đâu thấy
hôm nay
chỉ tại miếng cam

tôi phơi vỏ cam
trên lò sưởi
những mảnh trăng trôi
cam chữa lành tôi
nhưng tôi lại xé nát
nước cam
ước đẫm ngón tay
nhỏ từng giọt
lên sàn
tôi rạch miếng vỏ
để tinh dầu
nhuộm không khí
thành cam

hai màu cơ bản
hôm nay
tôi chọn màu vàng.



February is a blue romance

February | noun

the second month of the year, in the northern hemisphere usually considered the last month of winter.

ORIGIN: Middle English feverer, from Old French feverier, based on Latin februarius, from februa, the name of a purification feast held in this month.

I was born in February, therefore, I’ve always felt a vague but strong connection with this month. If I’d been born in June or November, I wouldn’t have identified with it as much as I do with February.

Today the weather is terribly cold. The humid air completely numbs my senses, turning me into a congealed fish. As I notice the clouds eating half of the tallest building in the city, I recall that February is coming. My February, my month, my winter. My season drown in mist.

I want to read something, so I search for poetry about February. But all they talk about is the month of Saint Valentine, of roses and broken hearts. That’s unexpected to me as I’ve never thought of February that way and I never will. My month doesn’t have the figure of romance, but of serene solitude. And if there should be a love story, then it would be a quiet and inconspicuous romance with a suspended ending. Of too much desire, in too much repression.

I learn from the dictionary that February is the month of purification. In other words, as my friend – my dear February friend from childhood – said, “we are saints”. I smile at the idea that we were born to save humans from themselves. I don’t really know what it means, but it sounds appropriate.

So February is coming and I’m freezing to death like a congealed fish. Maybe they were right about the Valentine thing. February might be an intimate season, but not for those who were born in it.