On The Hoi An Bridge Poem by Ulas Basar Gezgin

On the Hoi An Bridge, thinking:
Are you a bridge, connecting cultures? And then where am I?
Are you connecting geographies?
Connecting clouds?
Are you as simple as a wooden bridge? Vulnerable, but practical?
Are you as firm as an iron one? Artificial somehow, but long-lasting?
Are you as magnificent as a designer bridge with all the decorations of art, of honor?
She also asked: "How bridges come to existence? "
So, how did you?

At a Hoi An heritage house, thinking:
Whose heritage are you? Who left you to me?
A thousand years ago when sailors hop on and off the old harbor,
A million years ago when birds
Were the true kingmakers of vast territories,
What hopes did they have in you
(Those sailors and birds) that
They left in you to the next generations,
To me.
Are you a vintage wine to be opened by me?
Are you Aladdin's lamp lost in translation or Pandora's box in the wrong address?

At the Hoi An Cemetery, thinking:
When all those young people, old people left this world
To liberate the country - like uncle, the eagle of the free mountains-
Was it you, who they missed for, what they fought for?
Are you "independence, freedom and happiness"
Inscribed on primary school report cards of Vietnamese children?
Are you so indispensable, yet so invisible? Like air, like water, like life?
The schoolgirl who told us the story of Uncle Ho
Tells your story in reality, story of millions, who knows?

On a hammock in Hoi An, thinking:
Neighbor to uncles, aunts, grandpas, thinking:
Thinking about those birdsongs, industrial songs dooming Hoi An,
Engines on the sea, on the land, on the sky, even inside us.
I am not a good translator honey, neither am I a good translation of a good or bad translator.
If I could just know how to translate birdsongs
I would be able to get their flight instructions.
In contrast to the common view, they don't use their wings, I guess, to fly, but to cry,
They use their mind power for departures, transfers and arrivals.
That means birdsongs are the ones which can open the gates to our minds,
To our collective unconscious, my greetings to Uncle Jung.
Never mention ‘Angry Birds' honey, birds are never as angry as people, don't you see?

At Hoi An, that UNESCO Heritage town, thinking:
Thinking? Contra Descartes, not sure about my existence,
Not sure about thinking. Even if it exists,
Not sure about who thinks, whose thinking it is...
Maybe Pacha Mama of Latin America,
Po Nagar of Asia maybe.
They call her ‘Mother Nature' in other continents.
What a nature is our mother,
You got the illusion that I am writing this.
Indeed she is using my fingers to write for you,
As all poets are the prophets of Mother Nature
And that is why all poems are sacred.

Writing in Hoi An, this fairy town, writing about
A pilgrimage site of poets that are spreading the message
Of ‘Mother Nature', that means you honey, my greetings to Uncle Spinoza.





27.05.2012, Hoi An, Vietnam