The Song of Kieu: A New Lament by Nguyen Du

Author:Nguyen Du
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Poetry, Asian, General, epic, Fiction, Classics
Publisher: Penguin UK
Published: 2019-04-25T05:07:24+00:00

BỐN

* * *

bon: to hurry

bôn: bolshy (shortened form of Bolshevik)

bợn: flaw

bồn: washbasin or flower-bed

bòn: to save every scrap, even the tiniest amount

bón: dung

bọn: a gang

bốn: four

4

One day, a handsome merchant – young Mr Thúc –

visits their green pavilion.

Hailing from Wuxi,26 in the province of Jiangsu,

he has come to Linzi to assist his father –

Mr Thúc senior – in opening a trading post.

He has heard many stories about Kiều’s beauty.

He writes to her on pink paper,

inviting himself to her perfumed bedroom.

And now, behind the tasselled drapes, he views her.

He savours every petal of her flower.

The camellia shivers on its stem,

growing more lovely with each spring shower.

Flower and moon, moon and flower:

a passionate embrace on a spring night.

Nothing can sever

the knot that binds two lovers together.

Kiều and Thúc feed each other peaches by day

and plums by night.

Beginning as wind and moonlight,

their love deepens to stone and gold.

Thúc senior has to go back to Jiangsu,

leaving his son in charge of the trading post.

Young Thúc cannot believe his luck.

He loses all sense of time,

spending each day with his lover.

In the cool breeze of a balcony

or in a moonlit garden,

they sip the finest wines

and invent poetry.

They sit side by side

and breathe the smells of dawn,

or the gentle aromas

of green tea at noon.

They play a game of Go

or make duets on their lutes.

They can think of nothing else

except being in love.

Her beauty is a tidal wave

that topples city walls.

Young Thúc would spend two fortunes

on a single smile.

And Mrs Tú begins to smooth Kiều’s hair

and to bring her the finest soap.

The madam has an excellent nose

for the delicate smell of money.

And the cuckoos’ two-note song

welcomes the summer moon,

while against a corner wall,

pomegranates catch fire.

And one quiet evening

in her private room

he watches her

as she lets the towel fall

to take a perfumed bath

in a soft pool of orchids,

and her body

is jade and ivory,

and while she is naked

she is the finest work

that heaven has created.

And he gazes,

O, he gazes,

and he swoons with delight,

and he sings with love

till he makes a Đường-style poem.

‘I like to hear your poems,’ she says.

‘Each word is hard, like a pearl

or a piece of polished jade.

Each line is a perfect tapestry.

‘I wish I could match you,

but my heart is too full

of my homeland.

I have no poems tonight.’

‘That’s a strange thing to say,’ says Thúc.

‘I thought here was your home.

And I thought you belonged

to the redoubtable Mrs Tú.’

Her eyes lose their sparkle.

She thinks of her harsh destiny:

‘I am a blossom that has fallen from its tree,

and you are a butterfly.

‘I’m sure a prince of spring like you

has a princess at home somewhere.

And all these pretty words we say

are nothing but conversation.’

‘Since the moment I first saw you,’ he says,

‘I have felt only love for you:

the kind of love that a man will swear

so that mountains and rivers can hear.

‘But you’re right. If I want to love you

for a hundred years, then you and I

must follow my stream

back to its source.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ she says.

‘But I see some problems.

You looked for me in a green pavilion,

which means you love me for my looks alone.

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