Photograph taken in 1948–1949, when most of the poems in this collection were composed.

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The author looks back on memories from 1950, when his first book was published.

Long Giang Publishing House in Saigon once printed Reed Flute in the Autumn Twilight.
‍I remember the days when I traveled from Hưng Đạo Pagoda to the printing house to correct proofs before printing. We went by horse cart, called "xe thổ mộ". There were no buses in those days. We climbed onto the cart, pulled our feet up, and slipped our clogs onto a bar. Five or six people could sit together. Above us were poles, baskets, chicken cages, all piled high. The ride cost one VN Dong each way: one to go, one to return.That day I went to proofread while I was sick and feverish. I was hungry. I planned to stop at Tín Nghĩa vegetarian restaurant for a bowl of mushroom porridge. I wanted to add much pepper so the porridge would be hot and make me sweat, hoping it would help. I had five Dongs in my pocket. After my work, I thought: if the porridge costs three Dongs, I would have one left for the horse cart back to the temple. So I walked from the printing house to Tín Nghĩa restaurant.Tín Nghĩa restaurant is still in Ho Chi Minh City today. If you ever go there, you can still visit it.That day, the bowl of porridge was served hot. I felt happy just seeing the steam rise. I picked up the pepper bottle to sprinkle some on top. Bad luck! Probably the holes were clogged and the man before me could not shake any pepper out so he opened the lid to pour it instead. When he finished, he did not close the lid tight. So when my turn came, as I lifted the bottle to gently shake it, the lid fell into my bowl with half the pepper inside.With that much pepper, how could I eat it? I took my spoon and tried to scoop the pepper out, hoping to save at least two-thirds of the bowl. But my hand was shaking, and instead I stirred the pepper in deeper. So I sat there and accepted it. The whole bowl of mushroom porridge was lost.If Sister Trai Nghiêm had been there, she surely would have bought me another bowl. But she had not yet been born. And so that bowl of porridge entered legend. I left with one Dong in my pocket, just enough for the horse cart back to the pagoda.This happened around 1950, yet I feel like yesterday.Many years later [in 2008], on my recent trip back to Vietnam for the International Vesak Celebration organized by the United Nations, I found time to visit this old place. How fortunate! I found the restaurant again. Of course, the old owners were gone, but their children and grandchildren -- perhaps the third generation -- were still there. Mushroom porridge was no longer on the menu. They now served finer, more costly dishes. It seems few people eat mushroom porridge anymore.But something wonderful happened. The table I chose to sit at was the same table I had sat at long ago! I lifted the plastic tablecloth. I saw the old wooden table beneath. All the other tables had been replaced with new plastic ones. Only this one remained from the past. I sat at that very table.

The old table, 60 years later, at the vegetarian restaurant Tín Nghĩa.

So I asked the owner if I could remove the tablecloth and sit with the old table, to touch the table from sixty years ago. The owner kindly agreed. I ordered a bowl of mushroom porridge. She said they no longer made that dish, but because of the story of the past, she was happy to go into the kitchen and cook one for me. Those who went with me to Tín Nghĩa vegetarian restaurant that day, please raise your hand. She took a photo with us and refused to take any money even though our group was quite large. She offered the meal as a gift.During my first three-month Rain Retreat in Saigon, I stayed at Hưng Đạo Pagoda, founded by a monk named Bảo Đảnh. From there, I began riding the horse cart to go and correct proofs of Reed Flute in the Autumn Twilight. Brother Trí Hữu stayed there too, and we recited Tang poems together and enjoyed each other’s company. Later, when he built Ứng Quang Pagoda, not far from there, I also went to help. At that time it was called Cà Tăng Pagoda, since its walls were made of corrugated metal. Around the temple were mostly rice fields and muddy ground. Later the pagoda was renamed Ấn Quang [and became the Buddhist Institute of South Vietnam].I was the first to teach the baby novice monks there. The oldest novice was Từ Mẫn who later became the director of Lá Bối Publishing House. He was also the director of the School of Youth for Social Service. He is still alive today, one of the very first novices of Ấn Quang Temple [that all Vietnamese Buddhists know].At Giác Nguyên Temple in those days, two young poets were staying there: Trụ Vũ and Quách Thoại. Both were young and poor, yet full of poetic spirit.One day, Trụ Vũ spotted a poetry collection titled Reed Flute in the Autumn Twilight in a bookshop. He bought it and wandered into the Tao Đàn Park, lay down to read and then slipped into an afternoon nap. When he awoke, still lying face down, inspiration struck. He composed a short poem dedicated to the author of Reed Flute in the Autumn Twilight, a poet he had never met, as a gesture to bridge the worlds of Buddhism and poetry. Determined to deliver his poem, Trụ Vũ visited the publisher to track down the author’s address. Eventually, he discovered Ứng Quang Temple and personally brought the poem to the young monk Nhat Hanh.[That poem was later translated and published in Inside the Now, Parallax Press, 2015.]

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