Vi rút trong không khí, co thắt lưng-MICHAEL LEE JOHSON, KHẾ IÊM chuyển ngữ

Có một loại vi-rút trong không khí, nhưng tôi
không thể nhìn thấy nó.
Mọi người đang chết xung quanh,
nhưng tôi không thể cứu họ.
Có những chiếc gai đâm vào lưng tôi,
co thắt, nhưng tôi không thể chạm vào chúng.
Nhịp tim, nhịp đập địa ngục, cơ bắp lưng,
Tôi thèm muốn trong lời cầu nguyện.
Tôi quay phải sang trái, trên giường,
rồi cứ thế nằm nghiêng.
Móng tay bị đâm, chảy máu hàng giờ,
Chúa Giêsu trên thập tự giá.
Bây giờ 73 tuổi, em gái cùng cha khác mẹ 92,
đã nói với tôi rằng, “già đi không phải vì
ẻo lả yếu đuối.”
Tôi không tin cô ấy –
cho đến khi những từ nhai lại đầu tiên
“Kipper” thoát ra từ miệng con vẹt đuôi dài,
đậu trong lồng một mình
“Cha ơi, không dễ gì cả tin đâu.”


There’s a virus in the air, but I can’t see it.
People are dying around me, but I can’t save them.
There are spikes pierced in my back,
spasms, but I can’t touch them.
Heartbeats, hell pulsating, my back muscles,
I covet in my prayers.
I turn right to the left, in my bed, then hang still.
Nails impaled, I bleed hourly,
Jesus on that cross.
Now 73 years of age, my half-sister 92,
told me, “getting old isn’t for sissies.”
I didn’t believe her –
until the first mimic words
out of “Kipper” my new parakeet’s mouth,
sitting in his cage alone were
“Daddy, it’s not easy being green.”





Michael Lee Johnson, nhà thơ mang hai quốc tịch Mỹ-Canada, đã xuất bản hơn 1072 ấn phẩm thơ, các bài thơ của ông đã xuất hiện ở 38 quốc gia.
Mời đọc thêm vài bài thơ của ông:

Dance of Tears, Chief Nobody

I’m old Indian chief story
plastered on white scattered sheets,
Caucasian paper blowing in yesterday’s winds.

I feel white man’s presence
in my blindness-
cross over my ego my borders
urinates over my pride, my boundaries-
I cooperated with him until
death, my blindness.

I’m Blackfoot proud, mountain Chief.

I roam southern Alberta,
toenails stretch to Montana,
born on Old Man River−
prairie horse’s leftover
buffalo meat in my dreams.
Eighty-seven I lived in a cardboard shack.
My native dress lost, autistic babbling.
I pile up worthless treaties, paper burn
white man.

Now 94, I prepare myself an ancient pilgrimage,
back to papoose, landscapes turned over.

I walk through this death baby steps,
no rush, no fire, nor wind, hair tangled−
earth possessions strapped to my back rawhide−
sun going down, moon going up,
witch hour moonlight.

I’m old man slow dying, Chief nobody.

An empty bottle of fire-water whiskey
lies on homespun rug,
cut excess from life,
partially smoked homemade cigar-
barely burning,
that dance of tears.



Missing Feeding of the Birds

Keeping my daily journal diary short
these sweet bird sounds lost-
reviews January through March.
Joy a dig deep snow on top of my sorrows.
Skinny naked bones sparrows these doves
beneath my balcony window,
lie lifeless without tweet
no melody lost their sounds.

These few survivors huddle in scruffy bushes.
Gone that plastic outdoor kitchen bowl that held the seeds.

I drink dated milk, distraught rehearse nightmares of childhood.
Sip Mogen David Concord Wine with diet 7Up.
Down sweet molasses and pancake butter.
I miss the feeding of the birds, these condominiums regulations,
callous neighbors below me, Polish complaints.
Their parties, foul language, Polish songs late at night,
these Vodka mornings-no one likes my feeding of birds.

I feel weak and Jesus poor, starving, I can’t feed the birds.
I dry thoughts merge day with night, ZzzQuil, seldom sleep.

Guilt I cover my thoughts of empty shell spotted snow
these fragments, bone parts and my prayers-
Jesus dwelling in my brain cells, dead birds outside.
I miss feeding of the birds.



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