Cover Poet Tran Le Son Y traces the evolving literary spirit of Saigon, exploring poetry’s place in contemporary life and addressing what she sees as its frequent dismissal and misinterpretation (photo: RABHUU).
Poet Tran Le Son Y traces the evolving literary spirit of Saigon, exploring poetry’s place in contemporary life and addressing what she sees as its frequent dismissal and misinterpretation (photo: RABHUU).
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Poet Tran Le Son Y reflects on her journey through poetry, essays and notes, the shifting literary landscape of Saigon, the place of poetry in modern life—and her thoughts on the perceived mockery of the art.
Our conversation with Tran Le Son Y was often punctuated by laughter.
Light-hearted, mischievous, at times disarmingly pure—it felt like the laughter of someone who has walked through life with verse at her side, an ever-present companion she likens to family.
Born in 1977, Tran Le Son Y lives and works in Saigon. Her practice spans poetry, prose, and a diverse array of literary forms. Her published works include Accidental Asphyxiation (poetry, 2007), Love is Freedom (essays, 2018), Why Don't Ants Answer When I Ask? (notes, 2018), and Love a Love (essays, 2024), among others.
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Above “If poetry aged like wine, I imagine mine would make for quite an interesting drink” (photo: RABHUU)
“If poetry aged like wine, I imagine mine would make for quite an interesting drink” (photo: RABHUU)
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Nearly two decades on from the release of Accidental Asphyxiation, those who follow your published work may notice that essays and notes have since taken centre stage. Some readers still wonder—does Tran Le Son Y continue to write poetry? Is there another collection on the horizon?
Thank you for diving right in (laughs). Some don’t even ask—they simply point out that it’s been a while since the last poetry collection. Each time, I say, “soon.” I’m not quite sure what I’m waiting for. Perhaps it’s something intangible—like fruit that ripens in its own time. When it’s ready, I’ll know. Then I’ll pick it.
Do you often revisit your earlier poems?
To be honest, not really. I write—sometimes in a rush, sometimes gently, bit by bit—and then I let them rest, set them aside. If poetry aged like wine, I imagine mine would make for quite an interesting drink (laughs).
Between prose and poetry, which demands more of you?
It’s hard to draw comparisons—they rarely hold up. But with the life I lead now, slightly stubborn and free-spirited, poetry remains something I keep for myself. I treat it with a certain ease, a looseness. Poetry, to me, is like a member of the family. You’ve lived with them so long that you trust the love, the forgiveness… so you’re allowed to be messy sometimes, or late.
Prose, on the other hand, still feels like a guest. I write it more consciously, more deliberately. It’s often for something beyond myself—or someone else. So I reread, revise, think more deeply. It requires greater discipline. That doesn’t mean poetry is approached carelessly! Each form demands its own commitment, and when it’s all poured out, the sense of release is just the same (laughs).
Going to Saigon to study and then write, how do you see the current book environment changing compared to when you started writing?
To be honest, that’s quite a sweeping question—for someone as inward-facing as I am—and perhaps too broad, considering how quickly society shifts. I arrived in Saigon thirty years ago. Everything changes by the second, so what I experienced might now sound like... fairy tales. Not to mention, the way I saw things at twenty is very different from how I see them now (laughs).
Still, I can share a few thoughts from my rather limited perspective. One thing is unmistakable: the world of books today is far more expansive. There’s a greater variety of genres. Books are more beautifully produced. Printing has improved, paper quality has gone up, and there’s clearly more investment in publishing. The range of voices has also grown. Even the ways books reach readers have changed—e-commerce, audiobooks, ebooks... I can hardly keep up. Sometimes, I browse the shelves in a bookstore and genuinely admire the ways writers are exploring ideas and approaching subjects.
That said, I can’t ignore that books have become more expensive, and counterfeit publishing is a growing concern.
Back then—now this is going back a bit (laughs)—if we wanted a good book, we’d have to ask friends in Hanoi to bring it in, especially translations. We couldn’t find them here, or it took ages. And what young people lack most is patience (laughs out loud). That’s youth, isn’t it? During those days, over tea or wine, we’d talk endlessly about this book or that author… Nguyen Huy Thiep, Bao Ninh—we debated them all. It was a time of street food, pavement cafés, and conversations about... everything (laughs).
There are more books now, but I’m not sure there are more readers. Though, after the pandemic, it does seem like a quiet return to reading has taken root—a gentle wave of slowing down. That’s why writers still have their readers. But the bond between writers feels less present. Perhaps I’m being subjective—or nostalgic—but I sense writers wandering alone more often these days. The atmosphere where creatives meet, share ideas, encourage one another, find drive together... it seems to have dimmed. If not disappeared entirely, it’s certainly lost some of its fire.
You once wrote, “Poetry, disappearing is normal—like many things disappearing in life,” but then in the same poem you wondered, “Why do I keep trying to hold on to it?” So now, what place does poetry hold in your life?
As I mentioned, poetry feels like family. But since you asked about its place, I suppose it’s more like an old friend. The kind who’s been around long enough that I feel joy when they arrive, and a quiet affection when they leave. Distance, time—none of that matters. Even if we never meet again, poetry lives somewhere in me. And wherever I stand in poetry’s world, whatever place it gives me—well, that’s not such a bad position, is it? (laughs)
Above "Balance has never been easy to attain, and I doubt it ever will be—especially now, when we’re faced with inner and outer turbulence on a daily basis" (photo: RABHUU)
"Balance has never been easy to attain, and I doubt it ever will be—especially now, when we’re faced with inner and outer turbulence on a daily basis" (photo: RABHUU)
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Perhaps the word “healing” is being overused these days, but reading Tran Le Son Y’s works, one can see a need for peace, a kind of “meditation in the small kitchen”. In your opinion, through the act of writing, can we find balance in today’s life?
Balance has never been easy to attain, and I doubt it ever will be—especially now, when we’re faced with inner and outer turbulence on a daily basis. We’re drained by both the minor irritations and the major struggles. We find ourselves entangled in murky relationships—some we understand, others we don’t. People are stretched thin, uncertain about the future, weighed down by burnout and the sense that things may not turn out the way we hoped. Policies shift overnight. The stock market flickers green and red like a disco light.
As for writing—yes, it’s one of many ways to turn inward, to seek equilibrium (if such a thing exists). But I’m afraid it’s not enough on its own. Perhaps I sound too clear-headed? Still, if there’s anything worth salvaging here, it might be this: not only writing, but anything done with full attention, with care, with presence—that might be the closest we come to balance.
In contrast to your prose with its calm, intimate tone, reading your poetry, one feels a smouldering energy, a restraint, even a burning. It seems that only in poetry can you achieve absolute freedom of expression/presentation?
Thank you for the “insight”. With poetry, my approach tends to be far more unrestrained. There are moments when I’ve experimented with a kind of free-flow technique—where the hand simply writes whatever comes to mind. No logic, no self-censorship, no stopping to revise. It bypasses the usual write-and-rewrite process. I found that way of writing strangely compelling. Perhaps you’ve read one of those pieces.
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Above "I’m still very much a wanderer, someone who reads and studies" (photo: RABHUU)
"I’m still very much a wanderer, someone who reads and studies" (photo: RABHUU)
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It is known that you have studied and practised Buddhism. Writing and meditation are both activities that you have to do yourself—no one else can do them for you. So are there any similarities between meditation and writing? Is it possible to reach some kind of “enlightenment” through writing?
(Laughs) I’m still very much a wanderer, someone who reads and studies. If there’s any practice at all, it’s still at the most embryonic stage (laughs). As a beginner, I wouldn’t dare speak of things like enlightenment—I wouldn’t know where to begin (laughs).
While we’re talking, a verse by the Buddha King Tran Nhan Tong comes to mind: “Living in the world and enjoying the path, follow your fate. When hungry, eat until full; when tired, sleep immediately. There is treasure in the house, stop searching. When facing situations, be indifferent, do not ask about Zen.”
It’s the last line that suddenly surfaced. And here I am, discussing Zen. It’s not easy to unpack such a well-travelled verse, certainly not in brief, nor is it something that lends itself easily to explanation. But perhaps it helps to borrow the words of Venerable Thich Thanh Tu, who taught: “Doi canh vo tam mac van thien”—which means that if you encounter a situation without a mind attached to it, then don’t ask about Zen, because that is Zen.
Seen in that light, even the free-flow style of writing I mentioned earlier carries a Zen quality. Mindfulness, which is quite the buzzword these days, really comes down to something simple: when eating, know that you’re eating; when sleeping, be aware that you’re sleeping; when washing dishes, simply know that you’re washing dishes. That, too, is a way to steady the mind and keep it from scattering.
Above “If poetry and poets were to disappear, we would lose so many things” (photo: RABHUU)
“If poetry and poets were to disappear, we would lose so many things” (photo: RABHUU)
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We live in an environment where poetry (and poets) are easy targets for teasing and ridicule. How do you feel about this? What role do poets play in modern human life when we can “create” poetry with artificial intelligence?
I often hear jokes about poetry. The most common one goes like this: “You want to read a poem? Grab a case of beer.” That was in the past, but nowadays, a poem could set you back... $1,000 (laughs).
People from Binh Dinh and Phu Yen also enjoy a good laugh about a story like this: if you ask someone from those regions what they do in Saigon, the usual answer is that they write poetry. I used to think that everyone from Binh Dinh and Phu Yen could write poetry. It turns out the real answer is, “I came to Saigon to work” (laughs). In the dialect of Binh Dinh and Phu Yen, the sounds “uê” and “ê” are both transformed into “ơ.” As someone from Binh Dinh who also writes poetry, I often found myself caught between two worlds (laughs loudly)... When asked, “How do you feel?” I’ve heard the mockery so often that it no longer fazes me (laughs). I even make fun of myself, sometimes with a joke: “A woman who also writes poetry.”
But even in the midst of such humour, poetry still has the power to touch hearts. Even the smallest gesture can feel meaningful, because at its core, poetry is about empathy and sharing, isn’t it?
When artificial intelligence first emerged, the poems it produced were rather silly, but it learned fast. Now, AI’s poetry can be surprisingly good. Optimists argue that while AI can do a lot, poetry will likely remain human for some time—no matter how quickly AI evolves, it will always write poems like humans, not as a substitute for us. Honestly, I don’t dare to overthink it.
However, if poetry and poets were to disappear, we would lose so many things… Opportunities to laugh. Opportunities to feel sorrow. Opportunities to slow down. Opportunities to savour life’s small, beautiful, fragile moments. Perhaps, then, humanity will long for the species that can still write poems.
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Photography: RABHUU
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