"After My Dinner with the Blue Star" by Maung Chaw Nwe

Portrait of Maung Chaw Nwe by K. Wong

Eleven years after his death, Burmese poet Maung Chaw Nwe continues to haunt the curbside teashops and bookstalls where the country's literati congregates to swap rhymes and sip tea. In fact, he seems to be enjoying a Renaissance, fueled in part by Facebook fan pages dedicated to him and his work.

Bones Will Crow (edited by Ko Ko Thett and James Byrne, Arc Publications), an anthology of Burmese poems published in English, introduced Chaw Nwe's works to the western audience. During the book tour, Zeyar Lynn, a Burmese poet in his own right and a contemporary of Chaw Nwe, captivated the London audience with recitals of his late friend Chaw Nwe's works. Zeyar Lynn said, "A lot of people consider [Chaw Nwe] the founding father of modern Burmese poetry."

Ko Ko Thett, the translator responsible for a large part of Chaw Nwe's poetic repertoire available in English, described him as "a flamboyant, troubadour-like poet." He remembered that Chaw Nwe once proudly stated, “I’ve never thought of living life in moderation." 

I like Chaw Nwe's poetry because I can spot his hopefulness and unabashed sentimentality between his melancholy lines. "After My Dinner with the Blue Star" appears to be his heartfelt confession, written to comfort his own battered soul in one of the lowest moments. I searched around for an English translation of the piece, but couldn't find one. So, with some trepidation, I took upon myself the responsibility of recasting his dinner with the Blue Star in English. 

 

"After My Dinner with the Blue Star" in Burmese.

"After My Dinner with the Blue Star" in English translation.

The little voice in the distance
That has just entered puberty

Has no home to go back to, Mother.

The earth

Flourishes in flowers of misery—

Young buds spawn fresh shoots—

They’re tempting, Mother.

The chorus of death and rebirth

Drowns my cricket chirp.

Sometimes, Mother,

My life became

An evening that rose from the land’s breath.

Your son

Envies the fig tree

That bows under the weight of its own fruits—

Happily

Nature’s porter

Shoulders its own burden.

Mother,

The harsher the wind blows

The sadder your son grows.

The rain comes early—

That’s my life’s rhythm.

The downpour is heavy

On the nights I have no shelter.

Drenched in darkness,

Dripping with rain,

I have lost my voice, Mother.

Does my life rest in pieces

On the mountain of misfortune

Among the grim leaves of loss?

I refuse to believe so, Mother.

Don’t you know?

You son is a poet,

Dear Mother.

Actually, Mother,

A poet is

A rope knotted in pain.

Dear Mother,

Is it a sin

To be a poet

In this world?

I’m not even sure

If anybody will wage war

If I drown the world in my love.

Since

I use a voice that no one has seen

As my pillow

I am rewarded with indifference.

Don’t you know, Mother,

That people’s smiles

Come with commodity prices?

I bitterly hate

Humanity’s face

That only graces those who can keep

A tidy living room and a neat shirt.

Dear Mother,

For everyone else,

Everything is

Within arm’s reach.

For your son,

Everything seems

A million miles away—

I cannot seem to get

Even a watered-down evening.

My little tire

Is so worn out that

A single hair on the road

Might pop it, Mother.

Everyday I leap

Into a ring of fire.

My nights are unpaid and thick.

Mother,

My game was over before the match began.

Where did I go wrong?

My lungs are kitchens choking in soot—

With every cough I feel

The flames rising inside me.

I am a patient in the ICU, Mother.

But

I dangle from an old wooden bus,

Along with Vladimir Mayakovsky—

He’s my comrade,

The very one everyone shuns.

How frightful is that?

When will the gods smile on me?

I ask, one by one.

Suddenly, in a flicker,

Mercury’s rivers dried up.

When I squeeze my life

I see that the orange

Still has some nectar left.

Dear Mother,

How I wish my heart would blossom

Into a field of flowers!

The winters that beg a coat,

An oven without flame,

A blade of grass that drinks itself to death in snow,

A smile that dare not fully

Face the Moon,

An awkward water stand,

An unrepentant passion for poetry,

The blue star in my heart

That’s often betrayed

By the people it trusts,

A happiness that

Dances with the constellations,

A life that flutters
In the tight clutch of my fist—
They are all that I possess, Mother.

Mother, I want to eat honest rice,

Sleep in a bed that smells like home,

Warm my feet by the fire,

And take Burmese herbal pills.

I crave the brightness

Of your eyes—

The ones that always understand

The misguided son who’s come home.

Dear Mother,

Your son’s ship

Hasn’t sailed into your harbor

For so long.

I was sincere—

That’s the only echo I left behind.

--Maung Chaw Nwe (translated by Kenneth Wong)  

The portrait of Maung Chaw Nwe above was digitally painted in Autodesk SketchBook Pro for iPad by Kenneth Wong.

Ko Ko Thett's biography of Maung Chaw Nwe at Poetry International's site.
Facebook fan page dedicated to Maung Chaw Nwe.

Facebook fan page dubbed "Maung Chaw Nwe is the Greatest Burmese Poet of the 20th Century."
YouTube clip of Zeyar Lynn reciting "An Unpopular Chap" by Maung Chaw Nwe.
A New York Times' article featuring a video report by my journalist friend Catherine Traywick on the poets of Burma. (Zeyar Lynn provided some commentaries on camera for Cathrine's piece.)