Title: Thuy, Flower, Star, Light

By: David Kute, August 10th, 2024

For: Do Thuy

About: A love poem for Do Thuy

Style: Cowleyan Ode, irregular, narrative at the middle

Once upon a time

A red flower rose up

Pure, sensitive, and sweet

This beauty lived in the east

Her name was Thuy

Receptive and warm

Others saw her with envy

They tried to punish her

By taking away her comfort

Banished to Hanoi’s depths

She lived weary of others

Such a beautiful soul 

All types of things tried

To corrupt her insides

But firm she was

Her heart was full of love

The efforts never crushed her core

She was red, she was blue

She tried to live happily anew

Despite bad luck and

Animosity all around 

Her persistence won

She succeeded again and again 

Challenges defeated and

All obstacles conquered

Sometimes in a red dress 

Other times in blue garments 

She alternated because 

She was pure, a white rose

Thuy, the star that shined

Despite the darkness and the cold

Avoiding all bothersome fights 

Her heart was goodness and bold

One day, this beauty, 

The blue flower, left Hanoi

Soft, powerful, and strong

She went to places far off

European cities

East Asian resorts and spas

Mykonos was a big stop

While she cooed 

Sweet aah, Little Venice aah

Like a Vietnamese girl

The birds and cats

The insects and plants 

Laughed with joy 

Her passion for life was raw

She charmed the trees of Rome,

In beautiful chapels she walked

None knew of her, she wasn’t famous

Not a human soul knew her at Saint Peter’s 

She saw the pope, but he was unaware

However, she was seen, by a special audience 

The birds sang of her delightful mood

She was cheerful and playful 

Chasing joy and happiness 

Gentle, soft, and light

The grass admired her greatly 

Statues watched her fondly

Thuy, a secret, a treasure that few knew of

* * *

I was in Rome. I saw her.

I knew her pure intent. I witnessed her graceful walk. 

I was the only man who knew. Not a single Roman saw the blue flower from Hanoi. 

* * *

I observed her at the Colosseum at noon. 

She was pure, a white seashell on the sand. Crowds dispersed around her as she jaunted Rome’s cobbled streets. Her manna was too much for Rome’s restless tourists. 

I sat on a bench and as a group of Americans separated in her presence at my fore, her eyes met mine.

Oak diamonds gazed softly into my deepest center. 

I laughed, as one might respond to eye to eye contact. “Aha-ha,” I chuckled. I was caught by her gentleness.

The Hanoi flower took initiative. Her smooth face contracted and her lips opened, into a big grin. 

Her lips were as blissful as the salmon-pink and emerald glow of Trevi Fountain at sunset in midsummer.

I stopped in my tracks, helpless at her charm. 

The sweet innocent looked up, paused ever so briefly, and continued on her way, one footstep after the next.

I saw her cerulean dress for the last time amongst the multi-colored hues of the crowds that walked by my teak bench.

The smile stayed with me. 

I liked her smile. It was simple, and drew me within. To the blue and the red. Remember, these were the colors she always wore. Blue, like the Aegean sea. Red, the color of a carnelian. But more importantly, her grace had touched me. The same as the most rare luminosity. Thuy, flower, star, light. 

The red flower moved about, happily. She ambled from one historic site to the next, cheerful and pleasant. I sat at my bench, thinking of her. I couldn’t see her now. I wasn’t bothered. Thoughts were enough. I had clear memories of her, wonderful images that my senses provided. The light scent of her sweet perfume. Her ivory skin, dark hair, and turquoise blue dress. The clanking sound of her silver high heels on the pavement. The way pieces of soft fabric on her dress frolicked in Auster’s itsy-bitsy push. The south wind was dominant in his early April breezes, moreso than Rome’s north, east, and west winds.

Rome was nothing without the flower of Hanoi, its beauty stripped of all essence and depth. She was a polarity, a contrast. Red and blue, her purity, innocence, and frank heart met the eternal city. The red flower brought beauty to the most beautiful city in the world. Thuy, the star that shined.

I saw, under imperial Rome’s skies

A sweet and gentle flower

Pure, sensitive, and unique

This beauty came from the east