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Lydia Jul 16
this morning I’ve already done the thing where my brain attacks itself and starts to wish things upon myself that would keep me from having to be a human,
or I start to pine to just be a snail,
a slimy, low to the ground, nothing to do,
snail,
I’d be green and I would take my time, scooting along munching on a leaf as I passed it by,
being spineless may feel weightless, I bet my back wouldn’t hurt,
maybe I would take a nap in the sun and then die and not even know
Michael R Burch Dec 2022
** Xuan Huong (1772-1882) was a risqué Vietnamese poetess. Her verse — replete with nods, winks, double entendres and ****** innuendo — was shocking to many readers of her day and will doubtless remain so to some of ours. Huong has been described as "the candid voice of a liberal female in a male-dominated society." Her output has been called "coy, often ***** lyrics." More information about the poet follows these English translations of her poems.

Ốc Nhồi ("The Snail")
by ** Xuan Huong (1772-1882)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My parents produced a snail,
Night and day it slithers through slimy grass.
If you love me, remove my shell,
But please don't jiggle my little hole!



The Breadfruit or Jackfruit
by ** Xuan Huong (1772-1882)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My body's like a breadfruit ripening on a tree:
My skin coarse, my pulp thick.
My lord, if you want me, pierce me with your stick,
But don't squeeze or the sap will sully your hands!



Bánh trôi nước ("Floating Sweet Dumpling")
by ** Xuan Huong (1772-1882)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My powdered body is white and round.
Now I bob. Now I sink.
The hand that kneads me may be rough,
But my heart at the center remains untouched.

Most of Huong's poems were written in Nôm script, a complex Vietnamese adaptation of Chinese characters employed from the 15th to 19th centuries. Through her Nôm poems, Huong helped elevate the status of Vietnamese poetry. A century later, she was called "the Queen of Nôm poetry" by Xuan Dieu, one of Vietnam’s greatest poets.

** Xuan Huong was apparently born in the Quynh Luu district of the north-central province of Nghe An. Xuan Huong means "Spring Fragrance" or "Scent of Springtime." Her father, a scholar named ** Phi Dien, died young. Her mother remarried, as a concubine. Huong grew up near Thang Long (modern Ha Noi), in a male-dominated society in which polygamy was permitted and men were more privileged than women. Huong may or may not have been a concubine herself. Very little is known with any certainty about her life. In 1962, Nguyễn Đức Bính admitted, "I don't know anything about the poetess Hồ Xuân Hương and other people don't know any more than I do." And yet legends do take on lives of their own ...

Keywords/Tags: ** Xuan Huong, Vietnamese, English translations, snail, grass, shell, hole, breadfruit, jackfruit, tree, skin, hands, sap, stain, dumpling, body, powder, powdered, sink, bob, swim, pond, heart, center, red, nom script, spring fragrance, spring essence, concubine
** Xuan Huong, Vietnamese, English translations, snail, grass, shell, hole, breadfruit, jackfruit,
Martin Mikelberg Jan 2020
hermit crab
never at home
for long
Isssa- Snail, always at home
S I N Dec 2019
The snail so slowly climbs a
Mountain, past thickets and brushes and
Branches; climbing the ***** up to the
Apex, past the fountain and din of the
Fallen water; inexorably leaving its slimy
Wake behind it; greasy yellow hue of the
Sun reflecting in the spilled oil
Katatsumuri
sorosoro nobore
Fuji no yama
The uniVerse Jun 2019
I'm sorry Mr. snail for stepping on your home
it wasn't intentional I'm just accident prone
in my defence, it was really dark
and you had stopped short on the path
but really that's not an excuse
for gods, green earth is for everyone's use
so please accept this humble poem
as way of apology for destroying your home.
So difficult to see the poor little snails in the dark after its rained.
Blois Oct 2017
Today I feel like a snail
who took forty years
to cross a road to find
that the other side was
the same.  And you don't
want to deal with the rage
of a tired snail.
It is sad to find yours is
such an unglamorous totem.

Tomorrow I will feel
like an old philosopher.
I might even go as far
as to offer advise
(tiresome and languid),
and will talk about my
great and epic drift
through the great gray dessert.
And you will say,
here's a wise man,
without knowing that
everything was a mistake.
That it still is.

I warn you, I can change
expressions, seamlessly.
Remember this, cats can't
smile, they can laugh or
destroy it's world,
with the furious sorrow
and as slowly
as a tired mollusk.
And they will try.
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