Một bài thơ

Whenever you’re called on to make up your mind And you’re hampered by not having any, The best way to solve the dilemma, you’ll find, Is simply by flipping a penny. No, not so that chance shall decide the affair While you’re passively standing there moping; But the moment the penny is up in the air You suddenly know what you’re hoping. --- this poem was written by a polymath for when we cannot decide. B.

ở Saigon 24, bởi Mai Hà

https://maihabiham.wordpress.com/2017/03/24/o-saigon-24/

bài thơ này từng mang mình qua rất nhiều đoạn khó.

H

Out of every hundred people those who always know better: fifty-two. Unsure of every step: almost all the rest. Ready to help, if it doesn't take long: forty-nine. Always good, because they cannot be otherwise: four—well, maybe five. Able to admire without envy: eighteen. Led to error by youth (which passes): sixty, plus or minus. Those not to be messed with: forty and four. Living in constant fear of someone or something: seventy-seven. Capable of happiness: twenty-some-odd at most. Harmless alone, turning savage in crowds: more than half, for sure. Cruel when forced by circumstances: it's better not to know, not even approximately. Wise in hindsight: not many more than wise in foresight. Getting nothing out of life except things: thirty (though I would like to be wrong). Doubled over in pain and without a flashlight in the dark: eighty-three, sooner or later. Those who are just: quite a few at thirty-five. But if it takes effort to understand: three. Worthy of empathy: ninety-nine. Mortal: one hundred out of one hundred— a figure that has never varied yet.

On the Train, a Man Snatches My Book, Reads by Paige Lewis On the train, a man snatches my book, reads the last line, and saysI completely get you, you're not that complex.He could be right--lately all mywhat ifsare about breath: what if a glass-blower inhales at the wrong moment? What if I'm drifting on a sailboat and the wind stops? If he'd ask me how I'm feeling, I'd give him the long version--I feel as if I'm on the moon listening to the air hiss out of my spacesuit, and I can't find the rip. I'm the vice president of panic and the president is missing. Most nights, I calm myself by listing animals still on theleastconcernend of the extinction spectrum: aardvarks and blackbirds are fine. Minnows thrive--though this brings me no relief--they can swim through sludge if they have to. I don't think I've ever written the worddoom, but nothing else fits. Every experience seems both urgent and unnatural--like right now, this train is approaching the station where my lover is waiting to take me to the orchard so we can pay for the memory of having once, at dusk, plucked real apples from real trees.

Iasked the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of
thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though
I was trying to fool with them
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along
the Desplaines river
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with
their women and children and a keg of beer and an
accordion.

First Fig by Edna St. Vincent Millay My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends⎯ It gives a lovely light!