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My Own Ash

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Spring 2019


My Own Ash


http://www.tinvan.limo/2019/03/au-thoi.html



There was no body of water in this dream
but it must have been my ash in the urn
my lover was holding and trembling.
My mother was beside him in a neat coat
and stylish eyeglasses and high heels
that brought her head to the height of his chin.
I couldn’t remember having this wish
or telling my lover to cremate me
—I thought we used to be grave-lovers.
I had always wanted after death
for my relatives to visit me.
It was a ritual in my mother’s life
to take me to her own mother’s grave
even though I had never met her
though my mother strongly claimed otherwise:
she had died a few years after my birth.
The ash wasn’t plentiful, the wind not strong
to buoy my many pieces across the patch
of grassland I was being flung unto.
My mother looked like someone who would rather
have been somewhere else and why was my lover
taking so long to shake off the urn’s content?
Perhaps waiting for the slightest of winds.
It was an expensive-…

“Boris Pasternak”

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“Boris Pasternak” Born Anna Gorenko to a wealthy family in Odessa in 1889, Akhmatova was made to adopt a pen name by her father, who cautioned her against shaming the family name... Born Anna Gorenko to a wealthy family in Odessa in 1889, Akhmatova was made to adopt a pen name by her father, who cautioned her against shaming the family name by becoming a “decadent poetess”. Yet her first two collections of poetry, Evening (1912) and Rosary (1914), won her instant critical acclaim and popularity. Along with the poets Nikolay Gumilev (Akhmatova’s first husband), Osip Mandelstam and Sergey Gorodetsky, Akhmatova founded the Acmeist school of writing, which emphasized concreteness and craft over the vague, more ephemeral concerns of the Symbolist movement. But after Gumilev was executed by the Bolsheviks in 1921, Akhmatova encountered strong resistance to publishing her work; an unofficial ban on her verse remained in place from 1925 to 1940. In spite of censorship and haras…

Nắng nghịch mùa

Nắng nghịch mùa
Truyện ngắn Nguyễn Ngọc Tư “Trời cứ xanh hoài, thiệt hết ham” Bà già kêu lên, khi vịn tay ở đầu rào, ngửa mặt ngó thinh không. Lội ngồi góc sân cạnh đám cháy tàn, nhìn ra cổng. Không thấy được con đường mà vừa nãy vợ anh đi. Bà mẹ che hết rồi, bóng bà đang ngược sáng. Cái lưng còng khiến thế đứng bà già như kền kền, giống loài lâu rồi không ghé qua xứ Nước Trong. Ở đây giờ khó kiếm mồi. Gần nửa năm nay không khí cứ tươm mật, nền trời xanh ngắt, nếu mưa cũng là mớ nước rây ra từ vài đám mây nhã nhặn, vừa đủ cho cỏ cây ra lá non. Sau mưa nền trời càng xanh nắng càng lanh lảnh, như tráng một lớp thủy tinh. Nhưng quang cảnh không khiến bà già vừa bụng chút nào. Cái giọng đầy bất mãn. Chắc là chưa quên cơn bẽ bàng sớm nay, bà chống gậy đi tìm bạn uống trà, nửa đường nhớ ra bạn đâu còn đằng đó chờ mình. Bạn qua đời rằm trước. Bữa đó trăng đặc tới mức để lại vệt gợn sau mỗi chuyển động của con mèo. Tính lẩn thẩn sẵn, những ngày trong v…

Năm của spaghetti

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All kinds of murderers

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