Ocean Vuong

What Etta means to me...

2012-01-24T13:57:00.001-05:00

When I first immigrated to America from Vietnam, I lived for many years inside a tiny apartment in Hartford, Connecticut. There were seven of us cramped inside a one bed-room tenement. Literally fresh off the boat--or in our case, the plane--we had nothing: no radio, no TV, no furniture, nothing but a sack of clothes donated to us from the Salvation Army, a few dozen loaves of Wonder Bread and 2 or 3 jars of mayo. What we did have however, and what turned out to be the most substantial inheritance, was song.

Inside that spare living room, we used to gather around my grandmother after dinner to listen to her sing. It was as if pain could not exit the body in any other way. The songs were always old Vietnamese folk lullabies and ballads. What I found most striking was the immense sadness emanating from the way they sounded, regardless of the lyrics. In fact, sometimes, the songs would begin for 2 or 3 minutes with just an elongated crooning, which slowly crecendoed into a wail, a cry. Even before any words were sung, before any sense could be made out of it, the pain and loss embedded in the song has already seeped into our bones. Little did I know, I have been listening to these songs even before I received consciousness, inside my mother's womb. So when I heard it sung in that little apartment, it seemed so natural, to sway like that, the New England blizzard crackling on the window, the tea cups filed and re-filled as we all started to hum along.

The apartment we lived in was in a black and hispanic neighborhood. There was one other Asian family (Chinese) who we would rarely see leave their house. As the years wore on, the America I knew and started to call home, was a Black America. In fact, with no TV and a family entirely illiterate, I didn't really think there was an America outside the projects. The first English I spoke was the black vernacular, ebonics. It seemed natural to me: the cadence, the rich and intricate inflections, the diction, all of it so similar to my native tongue. I used to sleep over my friend's house and his family would take me to Baptist mass the next day. wearing his borrowed church clothes. The Baptist church--this was where I had first contact with Etta James. I remember it very clearly: half-way through the sermon, there was what's called a "praise break", where anyone from the audience would come up and simply dance. Now I don't mean just shimmy and slide, I'm talking dance--with the whole body, every cell vibrating--it looked, well, crazy and yet electrifying, it made you want to believe in something, in anything. With the encouragement of my friend's father, I joined in on a few and it was was some of the fondest memories of my childhood. Then, the organs calmed and the drums and cymbals quieted. One of the youth pastors put on a record, and there she was: Ms. Etta James coming through the church speakers. Her voice something like velvet cigarettes, if there ever was such a thing.

The song was "I'd Rather go Blind" but not that that mattered. It was the sound of it that caught me off guard, terrified me in a sharper, deeper place. The runs, the wailing, the almost unintelligible cry for "Baaaaby, baaaaaby, baaarrrghhhbaay" suddenly started to lift into what I did know: the Vietnamese folk song, that pain articulated through sound, that low groan humming into a shout. This was a universal music, this was the music of the subdued, the oppressed. It's no wonder almost all Vietnamese folk songs are sung like this: Vietnam is country tarnished with war even beyond its infamous American conflict. Ever since 200 B.C. the country lived on a history of loss and violence, until loss and violence became part of its culture, its art. And for some reason, Etta James echoed this culture, she made sense to me. But she was only the beginning.

I remember coming over my friend's house for Thanksgiving. His mother invited me over since she knew our family did not know what the holiday was about, not to mention celebrated it. After we ate a plentiful meal of candied yams, turkey, mashed potatoes, collard greens, and chitlins, his father put on a tape of Luther Vandross. I knew I was swaying because his mother laughed and asked me "What [I] knew about Mr. Vandross!" I knew nothing, and yet--I knew everything all at once. Again, that warm wailing, that cry soon replaced with Mavin Gaye's voice, Chaka Kahn's, Same Cooke's, and then, Whitney Houston's, my all time favorite even to this day. Nothing blessed my little immigrant ears like that menagerie of soul and duende.

When I heard that Etta James passed away and my facebook feed showed song after song, I sat and listened to one after another. I swayed and cried, not necessarily for her passing, I didn't know her personally. I wept for being blessed with knowing her gift of music and passion, which helped me find pride in who I was and who I have become: a poet who, like the great soul singers who defined my America, only seeks to hammer this pain into joy, into song.

Thank you Etta James.

Interview at The Collagist

2012-01-12T21:36:00.000-05:00

I have an interview at The Collagist where I talk a bit about my poem, "Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome," in the December issue. Please take a look.

Thank you for supporting my work and for reading!

-Ocean

Happy New Year!

2012-01-06T10:31:00.001-05:00

So after staring at a blank piece of paper for a very long time and no poem to show for it, this happens....

Upcoming Readings

2011-12-25T19:00:00.004-05:00

Inspired Word New Year Reading
(w/ Patricia Smith, Regie Cabico, and Eliel Lucero)
Friday Jan 6th--6:30PM

116 Bar
116 McDougal Street
Manhattan, NYC
Phone: (212)-254-9996

Take A B C D E F to Washington Square

NYC Encyclopedia Show

(w/ Saeed Jones, Corrina Bain, Jon Sands, and Angel Nafis)

January 22nd Time: TBD

The Wild Project

196 E 3rd St

New York, NY 10009

Phone: (212)-228-1195

Caits Meissner Book Launch Reading
(w/ Elana Bell)
Tues, January 31st @ 7:00PM

Housing Works Book Store
126 Crosby St
New York, NY

Williams Carlos Williams Collective

(w/ Jee Leong Koh)

Wednesday, Feb 1st @ 7:00PM

The Williams Center

1 Williams Plaza

Rutherford, NJ 07070

(reading will be held on the second floor indoor terrace)

Queer Apple: LGBT Life in Poetry

(w/ Aimee Herman and Samantha Barrow)

Wednesday Feb 8th--6:30PM-10:00PM

116 Bar

116 McDougal Street

Manhattan, NYC

Phone: (212)-254-9996

Take A B C D E F to Washington Square

Why I Write...

2011-12-11T00:31:00.002-05:00

I recently received a message from a reader regarding my chapbook. I am always uncertain what "success" as a poet really means, but I think getting messages like this, for me, is pretty much it. To know my work is having such an effect on others means the world to me, and if I were to not write another poem again, I will be content with what I've done.

Dear Ocean Vuong,

I recently shared your website and poems with a dear friend of mine. We’re both old guys in our sixties. Thus, my friend has vision problems and types email in all caps. This is the note he sent and said it would be okay to share with you and Bryan Borland.

“DEAR R,

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE CONNECTION TO OCEAN VUONG AND HIS WORK A VERY GIFTED AND PROFOUND FINE YOUNG POET I PASSED THE LINK TO MY FRIEND AUDE .... VERY FRENCH.... VERY SENSITIVE WHEN WE SAW EACH OTHER AT COFFEE WE HAD BOTH EXPERIENCED THE SAME RESPONSE READING 'KISSING IN VIETNAMESE' WAS A COMPLETE AND OVERWHELMING EXPERIENCE EACH OF US HAD STOPPED WITH THAT POEM AND SAVED OTHERS FOR ANOTHER DAY SHE SAID THERE WERE TEARS STREAMING DOWN HER FACE BUT SHE WAS NOT CRYING SIMPLY, COMPLETELY, AND TOTALLY MOVED

AS OUR SOCIETY SLIPS INTO THE ABYSS IT HELPS ME TO BREATHE A BIT OF HOPE KNOWING SOME MEANINGFUL ART IS BEING CREATED AND A FEW ARE AWED AND TRANSFIXED”

Ocean, thank you for being here. Thank you for your poetry.

Best regards,

the Collagist

2011-11-15T07:18:00.000-05:00

I have a new poem up at the November issue of the Collagist--one of my favorite online journals and I'm very happy to be part of it. The entire issue is quite stellar!

Saigon America, a photo essay series on Vietnamese American life

2011-11-10T11:28:00.002-05:00

For the past two years I have been taking photos of various scenes in Vietnamese American life and I thought I'd share them with you on my blog. This specific series is titled " Happy Nails", a selection of shots taken at a nail salon. As you might already know, the nail salon is the unofficial hub of all Vietnamese culture in America. I remember when I was younger, my family would go on road trips, and being illiterate and not able to speak English, we always looked for nail salons whenever we were lost. The little shops, often garishly decorated with charmingly simply names like "Top Nails", "Paris Nails" and "#1 Beauty Nails", are the life line of Vietnamese life in America, often in more ways than one.

If you feel compelled to, please feel free to share this essay with others, on your blogs, tumblrs, facebook, etc... It would mean a lot to me and I appreciate it very much.

I will add to this series as more photos accumulate.

love and light,

-Ocean

"pick you color!"

hot, cold, and nails

morning offerings

in luck we trust...

getting ready to work

matriarch

bad news from the home country

so much depends upon the sound of money being counted

ready to work

Nicky, age 13

Tanh and Sarah (baby), not related

Hong and Sarah (aunt and niece)

Sarah and Sen (mother and daughter)

a slow afternoon

don't mess up!

seventeen

the view from here

genuflections

pedicure

beautiful

Monthly Poem: Ilya Kaminsky

2011-11-09T10:37:00.000-05:00

This month's poem is from Ilya Kaminksy's first book Dancing in Odessa. I am attracted to Kaminsky's poems mostly because their engagement in the narrative of displacement, specially that of the immigrant in America.

Author's Prayer

If I speak for the dead, I must leave

the animal of my body,

I must write the same poem over and over,

for an empty page is the white flag of their surrender.

If I speak for them, I must walk on the edge

of myself, I must live as a blind man

who runs through rooms without

touching the furniture.

Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking "what time is it"?

I can dance in my sleep and laugh

in front of the mirror.

Even sleep is prayer, Lord,

I will praise your madness, and

in a language not mine, speak

of music that wakes us, music

in which we move. For whatever I say

is a kind of petition, and the darkest

days must I praise.

featured at Verse Daily

2011-11-06T18:26:00.000-05:00

I have a poem from my chapbook Burnings featured at Verse Daily. As a frequent reader, it was such a nice surprise to check it today to see my very own poem on the site! I am honored and I thank the kind folks at VD for selecting the piece--you are skateboarding in my heart!

I know I've been slacking on my blog--but I have many adventures to tell you about, so stay tuned!

Also, one of my poems was accepted in The Collagist (stoked).

Publications...

2011-11-02T22:39:00.002-04:00

I have a new poem titled "Self-Fellatio as Prayer" featured at the Nervous Breakdown. Many thanks to Wendy Chin-Tanner for taking it!

Also, I deactivated my facebook, and I must say--it is quite liberating. I find myself accidentally going to facebook then realizing I don't have one and then go on to do more productive things. It's really wonderful!

Impromptu Reading by Starlight

2011-10-18T22:56:00.002-04:00

Last weekend I was on my way to the Occupy Wall Street Poetry readings when the trains got jammed and I was stuck on 42nd street. Having no money for a cab and in no mood to walk the 60 + blocks to Wall st, I walked east and decided to take a stroll by the East River. I felt awfully wistful as I imagined my talented and wonderful friends reading their poems and having their words echoed by hundreds of people huddled together in a bond of art and resistance. But the east river was surprisingly pleasant. The night was clear and calm and a the bright Alpha Centauri hung like a small jewel in the sky, the only star visible in the midst of Manhattan's bright lights. I sat down by a bench and decided to have a brief meditation session before heading home for the night. As I was sitting, an old lady sat down beside me.

"Diamonds"

"What?"I wasn't even sure she said anything.

"Diamonds--the water, the lights on the water, it's like diamonds boiling on every crest. Beautiful isn't it?"

"Yeah, it sure is."

"You should see it at 10 in the morning. The sun shines just right and the whole river burns with diamonds. I call it the 10 o'clock diamonds. Simple water as if plastered with sheets of gold and diamonds, you can grow rich with it."

"That's quite a way to look at it for sure. Are you a poet by any chance?" I was going off on a limb but was nonetheless intrigued.

She told me she wasn't a poet but she did write a poem once when she locked herself in the bathroom to block out the "noise" and get away from her husband. She told me she was a fiction writer, however, and she's been writing the same novel for nearly 15 years. A historical fiction story based on the colonizing of Native American land in upstate New York. She said it took so long because she had to transfer her manuscript from the typewriter onto the computer, which was plagued with viruses. I sat and listened as the river lapped its brief waves against the docks a she told me story after story of her life and her love of words. When she was finished she turned and asked : "So, are you a poet?". "I write poems" I said, "but I don't know if I can do it much longer." I was surprised to see her completely understand: "One can only burn at both ends for so long. I'm just glad my candle burns a bit slower than others." I asked if she would like to hear a poem and she was delighted to be my lone and therefore special audience. I read a poem from my chapbook. The wind picked up and the traffic on 42nd street hummed, straining her ability to hear, so I knelt down beside her and spoke each line into her ear as if placing them carefully one by one. By the end of the poem I was so close to her, I could smell the faint perfume in her hair. She said she did not understand everything but could tell I was "genuine." She thanked me and offered to buy the book but I decided to give it to her. She was grateful for our encounter, but what she did not know was how equally appreciative I was for the opportunity to read to a stranger, to allow my words to awaken me in a place I had forgotten.

Three New Poems

2011-10-16T19:43:00.000-04:00

I have three new poems up at PANK Magazine, with audio!

Love and light,

-Ocean

Monthly Poem: Jack Gilbert

2011-10-10T12:07:00.004-04:00

Another poem from my notebook. I always think of this poem during the fall season--yes, leaves + falling = death, death, grief, etc...But alas, the cliche never tires, at least for me. Written after the death of his wife, Jack Gilbert takes grief head on here. The poem's most arresting in it's ability to be immediate, something Gilbert tends to master through his simple language and sharp images. I always love a poem that can pack a punch in so few lines. "A smokestack making the sky more visible." This is such the perfect mantra for, well, anything. Enjoy!

Michiko Nogami

Is she more apparent because she is not
anymore forever? Is her whiteness more white
because she was the color of pale honey?
A smokestack making the sky more visible.
A dead woman filling the whole world. Michiko
said, "The roses you gave me kept me awake
with the sound of their petals falling."

New Heights

2011-09-24T14:49:00.000-04:00

Last weekend I had the luxury of hiking Breakneck Ridge, a ridge at the edge of the Appalachian trail about a two-hour car drive north of New York City into upstate New York. I first heard of the ridge from my first creative writing teacher who kept inviting me to climb it with him. I never got the chance as I was far too busy at the time but promised myself I would see it in the future. The professor has since retired and moved away so I went with my friend, Peter, who is a fellow travel and nature buff. The ridge is apparently a popular destination as many cars were see lining the base. Despite the not-so-auspicious name, there were people of all ages climbing it, from grandparents to children as young as 10. The climb was indeed arduous, even for an active person like myself.

The ridge is hugged by the Hudson's steady flow which added the most pleasant sound track throughout the hike. We were also blessed with the air, newly crisped with the incipient fall season. There is just something about fall that invigorates me both physically and spiritually. I tend to do most of my writing during this season and the pilgrimage to the ridge was perfectly conducive to reflection. Although there were many people on the trail, we found ourselves isolated for most of the hike since the trail is over 10 miles long and takes an average of 3-5 hours to complete. Save for the lone train humming and hooting in the near distance, the trail was thick with an incredible quiet. The air and trees so still at times, I had the urge to sing to break it. But after a while, I found the silence very inviting for deep meditation and thought. But being me, I could not help but sing anyway, and so we sung our favorite songs with brief periods of Tibetan chanting of peace and healing.

We were greeted at the top with the most extraordinary view of the Hudson Valley and its clusters of small towns. I won't deny it: one always has the urge to weep at such an immensity of light, color, and life. Further up, at the ridge's pinnacle, the trees gave way and the bright and blue September sky poured in, the sun clean and golden on its perch. We even saw two bald eagles circling the peak, probably eying the scraps of food strewn about the trail by other hikers. Being in Brooklyn for so long, I forgot how clean the air could be and I inhaled lungfuls at the top with great pleasure. We had a pic-nic of hummus and rice crackers along with fresh strawberries and hot tea from the thermos. It was surely a splendid way to greet the new season. I will most definitely be returning. If you're in or near NYC and want to join me for a hike, just let me know! We can climb to the top and read poems! (ocean_vuong [at] yahoo [dot] com)

P.S. My manuscript We, the Ashes was a semi-finalist for the Crab Orchard Series First Book Award. Such news could not have come at a better time as I was plagued by a long bout of doubt. doubt, doubt--that familiar foe (and friend).

A candid picture of me after the hike. Needless to say, I slept very well that night.

Monthly Poem: Jericho Brown

2011-08-23T12:34:00.005-04:00

I keep a notebook in which I copy down some of my favorite poems--poems that influence me the most. Every month I post one poem from my notebook.

Heart Condition

I don't want to hurt a man, but I like to hear one beg. 

Two people touch twice a month in ten hotels, and

We call it long distance. He holds down one coast. 

I wander the other like any African American, Africa 

With its condition and America with its condition

And black folk born in this nation content to carry 

Half of each. I shoulder my share. My man flies 

To touch me. Sky on our side. Sky above his world 

I wish to write. Which is where I go wrong. Words 

Are a sense of sound. I get smart. My mother shakes 

Her head. My grandmother sighs: He ain't got no 

Sense. My grandmother is dead. She lives with me. 

I hear my mother shake her head over the phone. 

Somebody cut the cord. We have a long distance 

Relationship. I lost half of her to a stroke. God 

Gives to each a body. God gives every body its pains. 

When pain mounts in my body, I try thinking of my 

White forefathers who hurt their black bastards quite 

Legally. I hate to say it, but one pain can ease another. 

Doctors rather I take pills. My man wants me to see 

A doctor. What are you when you leave your man 

Wanting? What am I now that I think so fondly 

Of airplanes? What's my name, whose is it, while we 

Make love. My lover leaves me with words I wish

To write. Flies from one side of a nation to the outside 

Of our world. I don't want the world. I only want 

African sense of American sound. Him. Touching. 

This body. Aware of its pains. Greetings, Earthlings. 

My name is Slow And Stumbling. I come from planet 

Trouble. I am here to leave you uncomfortable.

I am featured at The Nervous Breakdown

2011-08-08T01:58:00.004-04:00

Here is an excerpt of my interview at the wonderful literary and culture website
The Nervous Breakdown:

Many reviewers have noted your age in their reviews of your chapbook Burnings. Can you discuss the paradox between your stage in life and how it affects your work?

Many people have held my younger age as something admirable when regarding my work, saying things like “despite being only 22...” or “It's so refreshing to see such restraint in a younger voice...”, etc. I appreciate these comments and they give me much needed confidence in my work and my development as a poet, but I am not sure if they are exactly true. I mean, behind the poems, I feel am still too young to successfully handle the creative process. I have come to learn that the muse is a terrible and exciting creature that when treated too carelessly can prove quite devastating. My poems might show a sense of maturity, but what they don't show is the psychological difficulties in making them. I am too often obsessed with my work, mulling them over in my mind when I really should be focusing on the task at hand, like being a better friend, lover, son, and human being. It sounds absurd, but I can't do these things very well when constantly living inside my poems, being haunted by them even in my sleep. I think older poets would know, through experience, a better way to manage a state of balance between their work and their domestic lives. I really commend writers who are able to teach, work a 9 to 5 job, and at the same time raise a few children while writing between the gaps. As I grow older I hope to one day be able to establish a working method for myself.

The Story Behind the Picture...

2011-07-20T11:23:00.004-04:00

Since the publication of my chapbook last November, many reviewers and readers have pointed to the cover's stark and almost macabre face. It is a face of utter agony and despair, a face or burning. Nearly everyone has compared it to Edward Munch's infamous 1893 painting "The Scream". I can definitely see the resemblance: the fiery background framing the screamer's despair surging towards the viewer, the face, pale in it's shock and fear.

The painting for the cover could very well pass as a contemporary version of Munch's classic. However, this is not the case, at least not in the artist's original intent. The painting is by a young artist named Ashley Blazawski and was inspired by AP photographer Nick Ut's Pulitzer Prize-winning photo of "the "Napalm Girl", or Kim Phuc.

The photo was taken in June 1972 shortly after an American napalm raid that erroneously hit a civilian village where young Phuc lived. As you can see, the face depicted in the painting is the boy running in the frame's left field. The boy has not been identified to this day, which makes the painting's focus on his pain even more important to me. It puts a human face to the lost suffering of marginalized peoples throughout history, a history that is too often erased and dismissed in American textbooks.

Here is a short video of the bombing. WARNING: GRAPHIC

Photographer Nick Ut recounts the moment:

"As soon as she saw me, she said: "I want some water, I'm too hot, too hot," - in Vietnamese, "Nong qua, nong qua!" And she wanted something to drink. I got her some water. She drank it and I told her I would help her. I picked up Kim and took her to my car. I ran up about 10 miles to Cu Chi hospital, to try to save her life. At the hospital, there were so many Vietnamese people - soldiers were dying there. They didn't care about the children. Then I told them: "I am a media reporter, please help her, I don't want her to die." And the people helped her right away."

But what about that boy? And the countless others forgotten in that war? Those questions race through my mind each time I come across that photo. So when I was giving a reading at the community college I used to attend and saw that face glaring out from the small gallery showcasing student work, I knew exactly where it came from. As a Vietnamese American who grew up struggling to make sense of the war that indirectly resulted in my birth, I am familiar with many of the photographs of that era as well as the faces that peer out of them. I promptly contacted the artist via a Facebook search and discovered we went to the same high school together. It just made so much sense to collaborate. I knew that this piece of art will be the cover of my first book. I just didn't realize it would be so soon. I first laid eyes on the painting in June 2010 and by October was already proofing the first galleys for my chapbook published by Sibling Rivalry Press. I am a firm believer in beautiful cover art that has a strong connection to the work in encases. As someone who will probably never own a kindle or any other e-reader, the ability to feel and touch and sit with a book from cover to splendid cover is very rewarding for me and I can only hope my chapbook would do the same for others.

You can check out Ashley's work here or buy a copy of Burnings here.

"Scarred" by Ashley Blazawski (2009)

A new Review of Burnings

2011-07-17T09:54:00.000-04:00

Burnings is reviewed by Stephen Sohn, poet, critic, and professor of Asian-American studies at Stamford University. Read the review here

Monthly Poem--Yusef Komunyakaa

2011-07-13T10:52:00.002-04:00

Each month I post a poem from a notebook filled with poems that are most important to me. Here is another poem that profoundly influenced my writing. I love how this poem creates the awkward intimacy between enemies. The portrayal of the invading soldier is almost erotic; he is suddenly more human than we expect him to be. What struck me most is the sense of fraternity that is depicted in the poem's last two lines, a fraternity that blooms not from nationalistic values, but rather from simply being men, at war and suffering.

Sappers by Yusef Komunyakaa

Opium, horse, nothing
sends anybody through concertina
this way. What is it in the brain
that so totally propels a man?
Caught with women in our heads
three hours before daybreak,
we fire full automatic
but they keep coming,
slinging satchel charges
at our bunkers. They fall
and rise again like torchbearers,
with their naked bodies greased
so moon-light dances
off their skin. They run
with explosives strapped
around their waists,
and try to fling themselves
into our arms.

Back-Home Blues

2011-07-06T13:09:00.001-04:00

For the past two weeks I have been visiting family in Connecticut. It is always a strange experience coming back to the neighborhood I grew up in. I feel more and more estranged with each visit. My family lives in HUB Housing (government assisted housing) near Hartford, CT. The locals call it “the Village” or the “ghetto part” of town. Here, I see the same faces in different seasons. Like me, most of the kids I grew up with have no fathers. They desperately seek forms of manhood through violence, drugs, and misogyny. There is such a heavy stagnancy in the air as I walk these streets. People don't really “get out” of here, and when they do, they don't talk about it. There's no victory celebration. They simply move on and let this part of their lives fade and hopefully be forgotten. The truth is, I am wary of seeing these folks. I am ashamed and embarrassed of my art and my way of life. I have so little in common with them now and I feel, how could I put it, guilty? Yes, I am one of those people who “made it out”, who is “doing something”. Yes, I worked hard for my scholarship, and by the kindness of friends, I manage to live in New York City on very little income. Yet here, I am slowly starting to feel like an outsider. I don't tell anyone I am a poet here (what would that even mean to them?). How can I speak of poetry when everyone is struggling and perpetually stuck in a quagmire of failures, some from no fault of their own? It would be easier if I were a recluse when I lived here. That I was a bookworm and a closeted A student. That wasn't the case. I was here and I was part of this culture.

So why do I feel so foreign in a community that welcomed my “otherness” as an Asian immigrant, that opened their arms: those various shades of brown that held and warmed me?

Still, when I stop on the street to talk to an old friend or acquaintance, the vernacular suddenly blooms back like instinct and fills my mouth with its comforting music. We share a laugh and talk of those who left and those who stayed with a wistful and melancholic nostalgia. In these moments I feel legitimate, but only partially. My personal goal is to be a poet. But my immediate duty is to be a son and brother, which, in a Vietnamese household, means buying a house for my parents to live in. This is the American dream they had in mind when they left their homeland and sacrificed everything for their children's future. My method of giving them this dream is through my writing and scholarship, and hopefully, a career in teaching. But the irony is bittersweet as the people who I will support with my words cannot enjoy them as my readers can. Some of the people in this neighborhood have never read a book in their life, some, like my mother, father, and aunts, are illiterate. So what I am doing here? I poet, I liar, artist and trickster with my myriad masks and tall tales. Do I return here to sing their broken dreams into the world and call it my own? Do I force myself to fabricate something beautiful from these ruins despite knowing the truth is never as romantic as poetry makes it?

So many questions and the answers don't seem to assemble into anything coherent. So, I will do the best thing I know how at this point: I will keep writing. I will continue to make poems in hopes of justifying their lives, all the while keeping in mind that my work will always be, to some extent, in vain.

A photo I took of my neighborhood in 2007

tid-bits

2011-06-27T22:57:00.002-04:00

Yesterday I had the pleasure of reading in Philadelphia with poet Paul Siegell at the Ryerss Museum. I never heard Paul read before so it was a great treat to hear his eclectic poems rich in musical texture and alliterations. The place is an old house that belonged to a wealthy family that has been acquired by the city and turned into a historic center/museum. The crowd was enthusiastic and very attentive. I was surprised to see a few people I met a year or so ago when I was giving another reading in Philly. It was nice to see familiar faces since I often get nervous during readings, but this one was pleasantly calm. A woman even commented on how soothing and confidant my voice was. I was surprised but very pleased and smiled a lot when she said that. I always want the listening experience for an audience to be rich and moving. I try to read slow, as if writing the words with my mouth (does that make any sense?) I find it to be such a drag when a poet reads as if mumbling or chanting his/her poems, especially when they are especially strong poems.

After the reading, Peter and I went and took a stroll around 12th street or the "Chelsea" of Philly, as some locals put it. We stopped by Giovanni's Room, the legendary queer bookstore in the neighborhood. It was a small but robust store with everything from graphic novels, to erotica (of course), and, to everyone's delight, poetry. And guess whose book was there? Drum roll..........

My chapbook! Right next to C. Dale Young's brand new collection Torn! Needless to say, I was scared and proud at the same time. It was the first time I saw my book inside an actual bookstore. Like really there, real, palpable, not imagined. But to see it next to a poet I admire was almost too much. I picked up my own book, flipped through it, read the back, and said "wow, what an amazing voice! I think I'll buy the entire stock!" (^.^)

I was also feeling like a trickster and I went up to ask the clerk: "Excuse me, do you have a book called Burnings by Ocean Vuong? I think it's poetry." The clerk knitted his brow and said: "You know, when you came in, I almost thought you were him. Ha!" Then I said "I am! My name is Ocean. I was just kidding with you!" It blew my mind that he knew who I was, and after some chatting I discovered that we are actually facebook friends! Small world indeed! We laughed and gave each other hugs.

*

I have been working on my full-length manuscript more intensely lately and I find myself perpetually depleted. My OCD is at its worst when working on poems and I am simply staying up way too late every night. I try to sleep, and then a line emerges from the murky waters of sleep and I jump out of bed, turn on the computer and take care of it: a line, a line break, a clause, even a petty dash for goodness sakes! I feel like there should be an easier way to let go. I guess I am a poor Buddhist when it comes to writing. It's not a creative problem. I am not a regular sufferer of writer's block (thank goodness), I just obsess. I can't leave things alone. I keep thinking: what if what if what if. Many of my friends find it absurd that I write only 5-6 poems a year, yet spend so much time thinking/talking about poems. The thing is, when I actually put pen to paper, the poem has been composing itself in my head for months ahead of time. Ah, I surely hope the process gets easier as I get older. Oh, Doubt, sweet Doubt, tell me--are you friend or foe?

Pictures from Ireland!

2011-06-20T12:07:00.001-04:00

Here are some pictures from my visit to Ireland. It was my first trip to the Emerald Isle and I must say I was absolutely enamored of the landscape and its cheery, hearty people. My friend and I took a small car around the island and visited many places both modern and ancient. For such a small area of land, the country offered a wealth of geographic as well as cultural diversity. I will be certain to visit again in the near future. If there is anyone from Ireland, let me know. I would love to have a tea with you during my next visit! Enjoy the pics (^.^)

Checking out a 4,000 B.C. tomb. Apparently you're not supposed to touch it but I obviously didn't see the little sign that said so. They were right to put up a sign since it wobbled when I shook it.

This is supposedly Dublin Castle. But I didn't think it was much of a "castle". It was very nice nonetheless.

Yeat's Tower at Thor Ballylee. Usually there would be a tour available to see inside the tower but unfortunately, due to recent flooding, the tower was closed to the public.

This magnificent view is called the "Maiden's View". According to legend, three maidens traveling on the road nearly fainted from the beauty of this very location. Unfortunately for me, I was born in a modern, sensationalist era and my nerves are far too fried to have fainted, but the vantage point is one one of the finest I've ever seen. The picture does not justify its splendor.

Rice cakes are very handy for traveling.

The legendary Cliffs of Moher. I am literally 8 feet away from a 200 (plus) feet drop. The site has been known for its suicide attempts. The path where I am walking is actually closed to the public with a very large sign stating so, but I've never been very good at acknowledging of rules.

The Cliff's of Moher.

Hanging out with the great Oscar Wilde in Dublin.

The Rock of Cashel, which is really an old castle, now in ruins.

There was a church in Cobh that had Holy Water on tap! Being the opportunist that I am, I commenced my ablutions right away.

The hostel we stayed in at Dingle overbooked. Fortunately, the owner also had a bed and breakfast next door which she put us in for the night. As you can see, I took full advantage of the world's fluffiest blanket.

The Burren. I large patch of deserted, rocky, and infertile land. The gloomy atmosphere was eerie and melancholic.

Hey, bathrooms cost money in Ireland!

Sudden fatigue.

Monthly Poem: Patrick Phillips

2011-06-11T06:59:00.000-04:00

Another poem that influenced me in a profound way.

Everything
by Patrick Phillips

This is for everything left out in the rain.
For all the rusts in the dew.

For the light of the long-extinct star and hole
in everything, everywhere it shines through.

This is for the splint and the chuck and the shim
always offering their wings, their faint prayer.

For the bucket of limbs at Shiloh. For the boy
clutching a wound in the air.

This is for whatever, foredoomed and forsaken,
makes and then fails to make do.

For my child's stick-figure-filled heaven.
For the heaven we believed in once too.

This is for everything, everywhere turning to nothing.
For the sun, and for me, and for you.

A brief review of Burnings

2011-06-09T07:09:00.000-04:00

Poet Linda Lerner wrote a brief review of Burnings for Small Press Review. The extended review is said to be published in the Chiron Review in the fall. I am still very shocked at how much attention this little chapbook is getting. When Burnings was published last November I was at a crossroads with myself as a writer. I really began to question whether the sacrifices I made for my writing was worth it. I used to stay up for 2-3 nights out of the week just to have enough time to write. I got weary, cranky, and degenerated into a very poor Buddhist. But the work I produced did satisfy me. Having this book simply being read tells me it was all worth it and I wouldn't have done it any other way. Writing is fucking hard, and honestly, if I could go back to my mother's womb and take out the "poet seed", I would in a heartbeat. No, no. I wouldn't, but some days, I reaaaaaaly wish I could.

Gratitude

2011-06-06T16:13:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I returned from my trip to Ireland and was greeted with a very warm welcome: a reader created a graphic for my poem, "Kissing in Vietnamese" and posted it on their blog.

I am so grateful to see my work inspire others to contribute to it. A poem is truly never finished. It will always invite the reader's input, conclusions, and in this case, creativity. I think adding art to art is a brilliant way to build a community and to communicate creatively with one another. I would like to invite anyone, if they have the urge, to take my work and make whatever they wish from it, and make it better. That would make me very happy.

These little gifts are cherished reminders of why I write, why I choose a little bit of madness just to make something beautiful.

Allez-y!

2011-05-26T10:04:00.001-04:00

I am off to Ireland today and will not be back until June 7th. A friend and I are taking a car around the island. I promise to take many pictures and share with you all the tidbits of my forays.

In peace and poetry,

-Ocean

a free e-chapbook coming soon!

2011-05-24T13:08:00.001-04:00

I am planning to release a free e-chapbook titled "SelfPortrait as Jeffrey Dahmer" coming out August.

The poems will be new and not included in my chapbook Burnings from Sibling Rivalry Press.

There will even be a promotional video and will most likely have nothing to do with the poems or poetry.

You can preview the book here with two poems: CLICK

PANK Interview

2011-05-22T17:52:00.000-04:00

Ocean Vuong’s intense poems grace the June issue and he talks to us about sound and rhythm, the influence of sexuality, and great pickup lines.

1. I listened to your reading of your poems. How important is the sound and rhythm to you when writing your work?
Very important. For me, poetry is more than the art of craft and conceit, but also the art of song. Having Vietnamese as my native tongue contributes a great deal to the rhythm in my work. Vietnamese is a very musical language that dances in the mouth. The words are monosyllabic and their inflections must be pronounced with precision or else they can have an entirely different meaning. Because of this, I tend to be very sensitive to the texture of a word as well as the personality of its sound.

2. How has sexuality influenced your writing? How does it clash with your culture?
Sex for me, is a vehicle towards liberation, both literal and metaphorical. I find the tension between sexual urges and social piety to be quite symbolic to many aspects of life as a whole: the constant battle between moral and impulsive consciousness. In Vietnamese culture, sexuality is something one keeps private. More so, queer identity is often looked upon as illegitimate or even worse, taboo. Consequently, I make it one of my purposes, both as an artist and as a Vietnamese, to challenge the way our people look at sexuality, or at the very least, question the conservative Confucian beliefs so deeply rooted in our culture.

Overall, sex is beautiful. The body and all its secretions holy, and because desire is never satiated, we are always hungry, which for better or for worse, keeps us human.

3. Who are your influences?
I never had a proper introduction to poetry, as far as the high school or even collegiate classroom is concerned. The first poet I ever read was the French symbolist, Arthur Rimbaud, who was suggested to me by a friend. I read him and immediately thought: damn, this is the real shit. And because I never read the more reserved American canon such as Frost, Carlos Williams, or Dickinson, Rimbaud’s graphic and absurd depictions of reality was a standard that satisfied me. I knew that this is the poetry that will both confront and question the rigidity of our American society, which is what I wanted to do. I am not sure if I am succeeding, but reading Rimbaud gave me the ultimate permission to try.

4. Give us a mixtape of songs you would recommend us listening to while reading your work.
Ah! Brahms, Mozart, or Pascal Rose. How funny, and how fitting that would be: semen and blood spraying about to the vigorous crescendos of the 9th Symphony. Beautiful!

5. What would be a pickup line that would work for you?
I am not sure; it probably would have nothing to do with poetry. I have had moments on dates when a guy would say something like: “I really like your image in that one poem about the ribbons of sperm laced in the speaker’s hair.” Which would then be followed by: “oh–..thank you” and then a long awkward silence. In short, I am not a fan of pick up lines, probably because I never have the intention of “picking” anyone up. I prefer to get to know someone both spontaneously and gradually. But if I like someone, I would simply say so right then and there, and maybe give them a kiss on the forehead.

a new review of Burnings

2011-05-20T17:34:00.002-04:00

Burnings is reviewed by George Seaton here

Monthly Poem

2011-05-18T20:04:00.001-04:00

Here is another poem that has been a great influence to me. Reading Rimbaud gave me the ultimate permission to be a poet. I am sure you can see why ;)
Hope you enjoy.
Hugs, kisses, and almond butter!

Our Assholes Are Different--Arthur Rimbaud

Our assholes are different from theirs. I used to watch
young men let down their pants behind some tree,
and in those happy floods that youth set free
I watched the architecture of the crotch.

Quite firm, in many cases pale, it owes
its form to musicians, and a wickerwork
of hairs; for girls, the most enchanting lurk
in a dark crack where tufted satin grows.

The touching and wonderful innocence
of painted cherubs on a Baroque shrine
is recalled on that cheek a dimple indents...

Oh! If only we were naked now, and free
to watch our protruding parts align;
to whisper--both of us-- in ecstasy!

Bike Riding

2011-05-15T13:47:00.002-04:00

Riding my bike is one of my top 10 most favorite things to do.

Another one of my top 10 fav thing to do is looking at full moons.

This week, I was fortunate enough to go bike riding with my friend, Peter. We discovered a bike trail on long island and had a splendid time. The weather was warm and the air fragrant. I felt bad for Peter because he has allergies.

Ocean and Peter (in the back)

My bike is completely custom made, by me. A friend was throwing out his childhood bike and I offered to take it off his hands. I went home and totally souped it up. I gave it a fresh coat of paint, a neat basket for carrying books and cookies, a new seat, and brand new handle bars. I am very proud of it and find the pleasure of riding it the closest I have come to enlightenment.

If I ever lost my legs I would probably become a very poor Buddhist and a bitter person. Which is why I try very hard to generate good karma. I just wish there were enough people with broken legs I can help out! (Just kidding, I would never wish that).

I know as a Buddhist, I am not to be afraid of my karma but not being able to ride my bike is my limit. I would prefer dyslexia over that.

If you live in New York and would like to go bike riding with me, let me know. Prospect park in Brooklyn is one of my favorite places to do so. We can also have a vegan picnic!

There are water bottles and a bag of cookies in my basket (*.*)

New Poem

2011-05-04T10:05:00.001-04:00

I have a new poem titled "Self-Portrait as Jeffrey Dahmer" up in the latest issue of Vinyl Poetry. A splendid new journal if I say so myself.

You can read it here.

A new review of Burnings

2011-04-27T21:10:00.002-04:00

The reviewer sent me an e-mail notifying me of his review. His blog appears to be anonymous but he signed his e-mail as Andrew. I must say, it is one of the most illuminating reviews I have read of my book and am truly honored to have such an insightful reader. No poet should have concrete "intentions" with his or her work, but I felt this reviewer's reading of the book was closest to my writing it. This is not to say his response is more meritorious than others, but it is nice to see a response that had me saying to myself: "Yes! I did something right. Somebody understands!'. Understand what exactly? I am not certain. But that is the beauty of poetry: it is a flawed and fleeting translation.

You can read the review here

Yours, in peace and poetry,

-Ocean

Monthly Poem

2011-04-09T15:26:00.006-04:00

Each month I post a poem from my notebook of poems that are important to me. Here is another by Lisel Mueller. I find Lisel to be one of the most under-rated poets of our time. In fact, I never even heard of her until I stumbled upon her book in a pile of garbage in Park Slope, Brooklyn. This poem here is basically the Ars Poetica of my life. Enjoy.

THE BLIND LEADING THE BLIND by Lisel Mueller

Take my hand. There are two of us in this cave.
The sound you hear is water; you will hear it forever.
The ground you walk on is rock. I have been here before.
People come here to be born, to discover, to kiss,
to dream, and to dig and to kill. Watch for the mud.
Summer blows in with scent of horses and roses;
fall with the sound os sound breaking, winter shoves
its empty sleeve down the dark of your throat.
You will learn toads from diamonds, the fist from the palm,
love from the sweat of love, falling from flying.
There are a thousand turnoffs. I have been here before.
Once I fell off a precipice. Once I found gold.
Once I stumbled on murder, the thin parts of a girl.
Walk on, keep walking, there axes above us.
Watch for the occasional bits and bubbles of light--
birthdays for you, recognitions: "yourself, another".
Watch for mud. Listen for bells, for beggars.
Something with wings went crazy against my chest once.
There two of us here. Touch me.

Spring Readings

2011-04-02T18:24:00.001-04:00

A list of upcoming readings this spring. Hope to see you there!

4/6/11

White Swallow Reading Series

(with Alex Dimitrov, Jameson Fitzpatrick,

Steven Cordova, Matthew Hittinger, and Timothy Liu)
Cornelia Street Cafe

29 Cornelia St

New York, NY 10014

(212) 989-9319

6:00PM

4/14/11

Poem in Your Pocket Day

The Bryant Park Reading Room

(take F train to Bryant Park)

11:00AM-2:00PM

4/17/11

Kundiman Reading series

Verlaine

110 Rivington St.

(Ludlow & Essex Sts.)

F train to Delancey or

V train to 2nd Ave

5:00PM

5/1/11

Tea Lounge Reading

(with Jee Leong Koh)

JujoMukti Tea Lounge

211 East 4th St

New York, NY

6:00PM

6/26/11

Fox Chase Reading Series

Ryerss Museum & Library

7370 Central Ave

Burholme Park

Philadelphia, PA

2:00PM

Four new poems up at Diode

2011-03-27T10:21:00.001-04:00

I have four new poems up at the spring issue of Diode.

You can read them by clicking here.

yay!

I am interviewed at PANK Magazine

2011-03-23T09:45:00.001-04:00

Q: In the first section of your book Burnings, the majority of the poems center around Vietnam along with maternal relationships with both your mother and grandmother. How much personal narrative is at play here and how much is history being retold through generations?

A: I was raised by women. I was saved by women.  When we first arrived in the U.S. in 1990, my family (seven of us) lived in a one-room apartment in Hartford, Connecticut. We had no TV, no radio, and no one knew how to read, in any language. So we told stories. After dinner, we would all gather around my grandmother. She would close her eyes and the words would come slow, but within minutes, every wall would melt into fantastical landscapes of sheer beauty and terror. While snow dusted the streets and the winds rattled the windows outside, we sat singing and weeping deep into the night, the tea pot emptied and filled a dozen times over.

When I started to write poems, I wanted to honor these memories. And when my grandmother died, this pledge was even stronger. Because I am the only literate person in my family—the war interrupted everyone’s education—, I write their history as a way of keeping these stories alive. But I do take some liberties as a poet. My Vietnam is transgressive, it is not concerned with specifics or accuracy. It is the Vietnam that rears its hideous head again and again throughout our human history; it is the Vietnam of the Middle East, the one in our streets, our homes, and our hearts.

Q: ‘The Photo’ is written “after the infamous 1968 photo of a Viet Cong guerilla being executed by South Vietnam’s national police chief”. Can you tell me what makes it important in 2011?

A: When I saw the Pulitzer Prize-winning photo, I was utterly arrested. To me it is the ultimate allegory for all human failures and I wanted to capture that in the poetic form. Photos, as much as they are revealing, are also obscure. Their focus is limited by the lens, the light, the shaking hand. Nonetheless, that photo is even more relevant now than ever, perhaps because these scenes still happen. Whether we like it or not, someone is always being executed, someone is always being forced to kill another human being, often times against their own will.

When I was in high school, I would always get excited to learn about the Vietnam War, to know my history. I remember bookmarking the section months ahead of time. And every year I would find disappointment. Where we would spend an entire month on the American Revolution, nearly an entire chapter on Gorge Washington alone, only a few pages would cover the entire ten-year war in Vietnam, sometimes with only sparse paragraphs. The text was brief and often obscure: bad things happened, people died, no one seemed to know why, America left, there’s a wall in Washington D.C. In the course of reeducating myself, I was baffled by the lies the books told. So I guess a part of my aim as poet is to do what the media and textbooks failed to: to explore the truths that we would rather forget, but cannot afford to.

Q: One of the things I love about your work, such as in ‘The Masturbation of Men’, is the way you demonstrate the human failings and tenderness of men. How have you yourself struggled with the idea of men needing to be strong and masculine versus imperfect and emotional beings?

A: Being raised by strong women, I was able to witness the strength, ferocity, bravery, and diligence of womanhood. However, I also know how often they fail, how wounds can become catalysts for some of the uglier things in a person. In other words, growing up, women were more human to me than men. They were available, exposed in all their beauty and flaws. The only men I knew were in movies and music videos. On top of this, I lived in a black neighborhood where all my friends and neighbors share the same fatherless existence. We salivated and idolized drug dealers with tricked-out cars and wads of money stuffed into their jeans. They were not only heroes, they were nearly gods and everyone wanted to be one.  So yes, I did and do struggle with the idea of masculinity and I guess I try to explore its dynamics in my poetry, that sometimes the masculinity we see is more a product of society rather than an innate propensity. That men are really women who yearn to be touched, to be liked, and to be happy and peaceful. I believe that with all my heart.

Q: I first found your work through a poem published in Muzzle Magazine titled ‘Song of the Subway’. As a daily commuter, I am always grateful for anything that breaks the monotony. This poem sincerely captures how NYC’s underground musicians manage to burst through the harried exhaustion long enough to remind us there are more beautiful things to consider than our watches. Can you tell me some other beautiful things you have experienced or witnessed here in New York City?

A: I have a difficult relationship with New York City. It terrifies me. I have a very severe case of anxiety-induced Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It’s been an issue since childhood but only until I came to New York has it become debilitating. I can barely make it two blocks down Times Square nowadays without running into the subway or calling a taxi. When riding trains, it is imperative that I get a window seat. The enclosure makes me feel calm and safe. I can’t stand loud noises and I panic when people stand too close to me which make New York a very difficult landscape to navigate. However, this is why those slices of calm are so wonderful and outstanding. I think it was Jack Gilbert who said that smokestacks make the sky even bluer. And I guess it’s the same with this city: in the midst of so much chaos and anxiety, a brief moment of respite and beauty can bring you nearly to your knees.

Q: In your poems ‘Revelation’ and ‘Paramour’ you talk about the early recognition of your sexuality, your attraction to men as a beautiful discovery, whereas in ‘Echo’, you allude to an internal struggle with that discovery. Which one is more of a reflection of your personal experience and why?

A: Sexuality is difficult. I am still very new at it and am quite ignorant of most queer cultures and terminologies. I tend to be a recluse and do not have many queer friends who I talk about these things with. I often feel stupid when I hear people talk about “cruising” or “Muscle Marys” and then have to go home and google-search it. But then again, I am not too interested in those things.

Sexuality is an important part of who I am but it is not all I am. For me, sex and its discovery is wonderful—the pure and reckless pleasure of it. I love its ability to pull one into such a fierce and total present. But the grappling of one’s identity as a gay person is a lot more intricate. It is less instinctual and more cerebral. There is so much at stake when realizing you are what the world despises. You risk sacrificing those you love and cherish in the hopes of freeing yourself just a little bit.  And yet, nothing can be more empowering than allowing yourself to be loved and loving in return. Sexuality, like all identities, is not always one-dimensional and almost never easy. Nonetheless, it is so necessary to live with compassion for yourself and others. I think all people are good; they are just ignorant and misguided. If we educate ourselves we will be better equipped to love one another more fully and dutifully—the way we were meant to be.

Q: When you read your work on stage, do you ever feel anxious sharing so many details of your personal history and self? If so, what makes you continue to do so? Also, since (as you mention it in your thank you notes) there may be many “poets buried deep inside lost and angry boys”, what advice would you give them as an adult and writer?

A: I am naturally an anxious person. Even after so many readings, I still get nervous. I’m just terrible at saying smart and funny things in between poems, so I just read one poem after another, keeping the notes as brief as possible. But as far as the content, I am actually less anxious when reading the poems themselves. When I read, I allow myself to reinvestigate the work, to go through the lines with the readers and almost live them again for the first time (does that make sense?).  Reading the poem aloud is like a rebirth. I am no longer myself but am rather a manifestation of the poem. So I am not too shy about personal history being revealed during the process. But again, not all poems derive from personal history. I take a lot of different roles in my work and I contradict myself often.

As for younger writers, well I guess I can be considered one myself, and indeed, I am still learning. I would encourage younger writers to read, read, and read. You just can’t poop without eating. It’s a lovely and necessary cycle. I would also advise them to not always listen to teachers. They are smart and often understanding, but they are also human and flawed. And for god’s sakes, don’t write every day. That’s the worst advice I’ve been given. What a terrible thing to advise a poet. To write every day is to pry apart, on a daily basis, the mind’s most terrible crevices. You can trick yourself into believing it is a herculean act, nearly crusade-like. But one can only burn at both ends for so long. Save the poems, let them grow inside you, like a pregnancy, and when the water breaks, nothing can stop it.  Also, there’s no such thing as writer’s block—don’t sell yourself short with such an excuse. If you have nothing to say, put down the pen, go outside, and fling yourself into the world. It’s waiting for you.

–Interviewed by Amanda Mathews 

Amanda Mathews resides in Astoria, NY where she writes poetry in between molding clay, painting curvy women and illustrating books for fellow writers.

Confused

2011-03-20T22:52:00.003-04:00

The other day I was walking down the hall at the university and a fellow classmate was walking toward me . He then raised his hands kind of like when people make the "Y" in the YMCA song and goes: "Ocean Vuong!" His voice was quite sonorous and I was a bit shaken. I didn't reply because I was also a bit confused. I just stopped and looked at him. I said, "What?". Then he goes, "huh?" and gives me a weird look. Then he says, "Nothing, man, just wanted to say--what's up". I said "oh" and looked away and walked as fast as I could to my next class.

I don't understand--why would he shout out my name if he wanted to say "hello"? Isn't that what Hello is for? This happened a couple times already this semester and I alway tell myself: I will just say "Hey, how are you?" once someone shouts my name, but I always get surprised when it happens and forget what to say. It's also nerve-wracking when trying to fill the silence after someone calls your name, or any other conversation, rather. So next time, I think I will just say that person's name right back and see where it goes. All the other interactions so far have ended miserably. Ahh, but what if I don't remember the person's name? This is why I avoid small-talk as much as possible.

Peace and love,

-Ocean

Weekly Journal Entry

2011-03-15T19:20:00.001-04:00

I will be posting a sequence of short briefs describing with as much detail as possible, my usual day in hopes of sharing with others the difficulties of my anxiety. I hope someone will be able to relate to this, even if it's just a little bit.

I used to live in Brooklyn but now I live at my ex-partner's parents' house on Long Island. The family has been very kind and even offered me my very own room, rent free.

Every morning at 6:45AM Peter (my ex) wakes me up to go to school. He says “Ooooceaaan, Ocooceaan, wake uuuuup.”. I am utterly terrible at waking up in the morning. I don't know how some people can just jump out of bed and into their clothes. I would open one eye and say something like “Please, please come back in five minutes. I'll be up by then. I promise.” Of course he comes back in 5 or 6 minutes and I'm still in bed. Sometimes I actually go to sleep in this small interval of time and have very elaborate dreams (except my dreams are always nightmares). Then Peter would come back again and I again would say come back in five minutes. This usually happens until 7:15AM when I somehow force myself to spring out of bed. I have to always throw the blanket far away because sometimes I sit up and the warmth of the blanket lures me back to sleep.

The truth is, I really want to be a "morning person". My poet friends always talk about how they wake up at 5 or 4 in the morning and how wonderful and exhilarating it is. I feel awful and think I am such a lazy poet so I try to wake up at like 5 AM and the room is completely dark and the blanket is so warm I just lie there wrapped in the warmth and immediately fall back to sleep. It's terrible.

I also feel really bad that Peter has to wake me up and that I am such a burden on him as he keeps going in and out of the room while prepping for his day. I don't even stay up late. I sleep at around 11:30PM every night (well, I get into bed at 11 but really sleep at 12:00AM after I pray (I am Buddhist)). Sometimes he even tries to coax me out of bed with a steaming cup of green tea infused with peppermint (my favorite). Since I am staying there for free and really want to be a good person, all I want to do is wake up earlier than him, show my appreciation by making him a simple breakfast with orange juice and help him prepare his suits for work (he works in law).

So one day I set my alarm clock at 6:30AM. I strategically placed the alarm all the way on the other side of the room so I HAVE to get up and shut it off. It worked well and the next morning I was up at 6:30AM, standing in the dark. I tried to go to the kitchen to make breakfast when I hear his parents already awake and moving about in the kitchen. I don't know why but I usually feel very awkward around them. Since I live there for free, I feel like I have to say funny or nice things when I am around them but I can never think of anything to say that's not repetitive. I can't just say “How was work” every time I see them. Also, I get super nervous as I always fear I'm going to drop a plate or a cup in front of them and get kicked out. But anyway, I was able to tip-toe down the hallway until I saw his mother's back preparing her oatmeal by the stove and chickened out. I tip-toe ran back to my room, jumped into the still-warm blankets and waited for Peter to wake up. EPIC FAIL.

So I usually get out of bed at about 7:15AM. I manage to dress by 7:18 AM. But I sit at my desk and wait until everyone has finished using the bathroom before brushing my teeth and peeing. I try to avoid those instances where two people run into one another without touching. The one where you just stagger back and forth in front of each other for a horrifying 2 seconds. So I would just sit and stare at the slit under my door until I see the bathroom light go off. Then I go in to pee and brush my teeth. I am usually ready to leave by 7:45AM.

Peter and I then drive (well, Peter drives us) to the train station where the train into Penn Station comes at 8:07AM.

Right now I 'm a little tired so I will continue this post later this week.

Monthly Poem

2011-02-27T11:11:00.001-05:00

I keep a notebook in which I copy down some of my favorite poems--poems that influence me the most. Every month I will post one poem from my notebook in hope that it will be of service to you as well.

Here, we have Li-Young Lee's beautiful poem....

I ASK MY MOTHER TO SING

She begins, and my grandmother joins her.
Mother and daughter sing like young girls.
If my father were alive, he would play
his accordian and sway like a boat.

I've never been in Peking, or the Summer Palace,
nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch
the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the pic-nickers
running away in the grass.

But I love to hear it sung:
how the waterlillies fill with rain until
they overturn, spilling water into water,
then rock back and fill with more.

Both have begun to cry,
but neither stops her song.

I Love My Editor

2011-02-16T10:00:00.005-05:00

Besides being an incredible poet in his own right, my editor, Bryan Borland, is also just plain awesome. Not only does he invest so much confidence in those he chooses to publish, he is also a tireless promoter of his press and its writers. Here, why not let the man speak for himself:

Upcoming Readings

2011-02-10T14:03:00.003-05:00

Just a few readings that will take me into the spring when I will be off to Ireland! Hope to see all your poetic faces at one or more of these readings!

2/11/11
Mouth to Mouth Feature with Kelly Tsai
The Asian American Writers' Workshop
110-112 West 27th Street, 6th Floor
Between 6th and 7th Avenues
Buzzer 600
8:00PM

2/23/11
Perfect Sense Reading
Featuring Ocean Vuong
29 Cornelia St
New York, NY 10014
(212) 989-9319
6:00PM

2/27/11
Phoenix Reading Series
Bengal Curry
65 West Broadway
New York, NY
Between Murray and Warren
6:30PM

3/22/11
Poets & Writers Magazine Reading
The Asian American Writers' Workshop
110-112 West 27th Street, 6th Floor
Between 6th and 7th Avenues
Buzzer 600
6:30PM

3/26/11
Rainbow Book Fair
LGBTQ Community Center
208, West 13th
New York, NY
11:00AM-5:00PM

4/1/11
Book Celebration for BURNINGS
Featuring Ocean Vuong
29 Cornelia St
New York, NY 10014
(212) 989-9319
6:00PM

4/14/11
Poem in Your Pocket Day
The Bryant Park Reading Room
(take F train to Bryant Park)
11:00AM-2:00PM

4/17/11
Kundiman Reading series
Verlaine
110 Rivington St.
(Ludlow & Essex Sts.)
F train to Delancey or
V train to 2nd Ave
5:00PM

My New Typewriter!

2011-02-01T12:16:00.001-05:00

This weekend I got my first typewriter. It's a very neat looking 1970 Royal Fleetwood. It was such a bargain I couldn't resist. I have been wanting a typewriter for quite sometime now and I simply fell in love as soon as I laid eyes on it. I wanted a typewriter mostly for meditative purposes. Since I compose my poems only by hand, I am using the typewriter as a way of typing up poems for paper submissions. I like the idea of sending editors a piece of myself. There is a closeness to it that just doesn't come through with a xerox machine or mass printer; they seem way too mechanical. I want the poem to be perpetually conscious to me throughout the submissions process. It feels good to have the ink placed on the paper, key by key. This also helps keep my mind focus on the mundane yet slightly tedious task of typing. Unlike word processors, typewriters allow no room for error and this is useful as tool for keeping me present and in the moment. Each key and letter must be fully erected in the mind before it hits the page. i think editors would care less whether my poems are printed or typewritten. Nonetheless, this method makes me feel closer to my poems and that is always important.

I also typed my very first poem!

Sometimes Silence is a note we can sing...

2011-01-16T12:29:00.001-05:00

Today, I am taking my vow of silence. When I first started practicing meditation at age 17, I would take these vows nearly three times a week. I was enthusiastic and even naive.: I thought enlightenment was only a matter of time, that I had all the hours in the world to be holy. Then, college happened--and even more so, poetry happened. What I discovered, however, was that my practice of silence enabled me to write stronger poems. Well, not my writing per se, but rather, my perception. I took the tools I learned while vigorously practicing silence and applied it to how I translated experience and memory into poems.
I also learned that speaking distracts us so much from ourselves as well as the people and objects around us. When in silence, one is able to observe more closely the deeper sensation of emotions. Because we are denied the ability to speak or "talk it out", the entire body must face itself, it must negotiate each movement, tensions, and feeling, and bring it into full realization. What follows is a clearer perception of our surroundings and of ourselves.

As a human being, I always had the urge to speak, and being in silence, this urge did not really go away. Instead, I was forced to find different means of communication. When I was in silence, I discovered that I was the only person I could communicate with. I therefore began to dive deeper into the present moment as a way of "speaking" to each object within my gaze. With my eyes, I opened new conversations with mundane objects: I began to notice each and every dimension on the rocks I placed on my desk, their every striations and sediments. The sunlight diffracted through the venetian blinds were suddenly curious, suddenly beautiful. Even the people I encountered: my family, lovers, friends--I was able to feel them more fully. I would stand there and look at them without the fluff of small talk, and they were so much more alive to me than before, so much closer.

I always believed that one must write with their entire body, to let the poem flow from a deeper core and then filtered through the mind and hand. This is why I only compose in long hand. I just never realized that such a perception came from my vows of silence as a teen. So now, I am going back to these roots. They have played a vital role in making me who I am both as a poet and also as a loving and caring person. Sometimes, I have doubts about the latter, which is why the resuming of this practice is so imperative for me and I suggest you try it as well. Maybe you can start by doing it only in the evenings when you are off from work or school. It will be quite arresting when you realize how much love you have for the things you see and live with, and you will see how absolutely stunning the most simplest things are. You might not want to go back :)

I highly suggest this practice for poets who I know have very chatty and busy minds. This practice would help hone those voices into the sharpest, most precise song. After all, isn't the making of poems done in silence? And yet, from that silence, the most wonderful notes are sung.

Yours, in peace and poetry,

-Ocean

Plato's Allegory of the Cave

2011-01-13T09:55:00.000-05:00

Three years ago during my freshmen year of college in an introductory to Philosophy class, I read Plato's Allegory of the Cave. I was taken back by the stark and melancholic tone but did not really consider it any more than an assignment that I was to read, answer some questions to, and then quickly extract from memory. I was also not yet a poet...or writer of poems. Coming back to the work now, I realize it is perhaps the most brilliant and poignant Ars Poetica ever written, an artistic manifesto that strikes the very core of human experience. How can anyone ever write the "wrong" poem when each person's experience is so obsolete, so limited to his own "shadow on the wall"? I guess that is the wonder and beauty of this art: it is merely a translation of poetry in life. I believe that words are only a means to an end and that poetry does not exist on the page or in the book, but in the mind as presented or hinted through literature. In the end, we are artists attempting to capture the "poetry" in our experience. I am only a poet because the medium of words suits me. But the truth is, my words are no different than the sculptor's clay, the painter's brush. Without the vision, these things are simply tools, both fragile and ephemeral.

Check out this great claymation video of Plato's Allegory:

Bi-Weekly Poems

2011-01-06T12:54:00.004-05:00

Whenever I see a great poem, I usually write it longhand into a notebook I bought specifically for keeping favorite poems. I got the idea when reading the biography of the revolutionist Che Guevara who would keep poems and quotes in his journal during his motorcycle trip along the length of South America. He also happens to have one of the greatest quotes in my notebook: "At the risk of sounding ridiculous, I say that a true revolutionary must have a profound ability to love".

I thought I'd share with you all some of the poems that really affected me as a writer, poems that forced me put the book down and just let the words manifest inside me. One of them even had me bawling on the train one day and I had to get off at the next stop and sit on a bench for half-hour to recover. I don't intend for these poems to bring you to such a state but I am sure you will enjoy them nonetheless. I will be posting a poem every two weeks. Here is the first one by one of my favorite poets, Federico Garcia Lorca.

THE GUITAR

The weeping of the guitar
begins.
The Goblets of dawn
are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
Useless
to silence it.
impossible
to silence it.
it weeps monotonously
as water weeps
as wind weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible to silence it.
It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrows without target,
evening without morning
and the first dead bird on the branch.
Ai! Guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords!

Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca

Cool Things

2011-01-05T14:28:00.002-05:00

There is a new review of my book Burnings by Robert Jones Jr at his popular blog, Son of Baldwin.

I am also featured in an article at the Brooklyn College website

Happy New Year!

2011-01-02T10:43:00.001-05:00

Sorry I have not been updating my blog lately. I have been ....well....recuperating: eating, drinking, reading, meditating, doing yoga and not writing at all. Which is nice sometimes. When I first started writing, I guess you can say, seriously, I was a bit insecure about my voice as a poet. I would write and write thinking I had to be at my desk, poring over lines, staying up late to PROVE I was a poet, that I could only be a poet when writing, making the actual poem. What I came to discover, however, is that I will always be a poet, 24/7. In fact, sometimes, there is no escape from! I find myself making lines even in my dreams! I have learned to embrace this transformation and it feels good. I don't write everyday but I think and create and live my poems all the time. For me, the act of putting pen to paper is merely a fraction in the process of making poems. It sounds simple, maybe even common sense, but it took me a while to understand this. And I am glad I did.

I'd like to take a moment to wish you a happy new year. I hope this year will bring you all bountiful peace, prosperity, and happiness. May you never be short of love or poetry.

Speaking of poetry ;) Burnings has just been reviewed by Kevin Minh Allen at the Lantern Review and you can read it here.

We are poets, artists, and people of love all the time, regardless of the year. So please, be good to yourself. I promise to do the same.

Yours, in peace and poetry,

-Ocean

Updates

2010-12-14T16:16:00.002-05:00

I will be doing a live reading and interview via The Blood-Jet Writing Hour this Wednesday at 1PM Eastern time. It's a live broadcast and you can tune in at here for free! If you can't tune in tomorrow, you can listen to the archived segment after it airs here.

Also, this is one of the best written songs I've heard in a while. Enjoy and be good to yourself!

Burnings is reviewed by Eric Nguyen!

2010-12-13T11:31:00.002-05:00

Woke up this morning and saw a review of Burnings by Eric Nguyen.

You can read it here

Reflections on a workshop I conducted...

2010-12-09T22:31:00.001-05:00

A few weeks ago I conducted a workshop for the Acentos Writer's Workshop Series. The workshop focused on Zen philosophy in writing. We dealt specifically with clichés and canned phrases like “deep blue eyes”, “rolling hills” etc... I was nervous because I never did this workshop before and am actually still trying to figure out how much Zen philosophy affects my writing. I was weary of coming off muddled with this rather abstract concept and thus leaving my work-shoppers bored or confused. Fortunately, that was not the case. The students were so eager to dissect their vantage points and question their methods of perception. They immediately realized the problem of “instinctualizing” certain ways of describing objects and really wanted to know how to break away from that, and I was glad to lend a hand.

I still don't know how I feel about teaching poetry, so I chose not to focus on craft but rather how to live as a poet, as a body that must wake up in the morning, brush its teeth, take the train, walk for long distances, that sees, that stares at windows, out of windows. I wanted to focus on how poetry, as an abstract feeling, is translated to the page, how language aids and fails us at the same time. I had the students write a short poem, roughly 15 lines. The trick was to document a small increment of time as deeply and elaborately as possible. The poem must try, also, to document something mundane like the simple act of eating a peach, drying dishes, tying your shoes, a child's shoe, combing your hair. The point of the exercise was to exemplify the Zen concept of living fully in a moment in oder to capture its true and pure essence. Because poetry, after all, does not exist in life itself, but rather, how life is filtered through human experience. If there was no Whitman to see the grass, the grass will also be grass and nothing else.

I found the enthusiasm in the students' face so refreshing. They had so many questions and I tried to answer as best as I could but some questions I just have not lived enough to answer properly—which was a great learning experience for me as well. What was most surprising, however, was how much I enjoyed teaching. I was having a rather blue day and was stressed from many things, but once I started talking about poetry, everything outside of the room ceased to exist. My body was charged and my heart rate increased drastically. I suddenly had a job to do and it felt great to not only do it, but do it as well as I could. I was very glad to know the workshop was appreciated. It makes me feel really nice inside to see people exhilarated by the act of writing and learning and creating art. Everyone was so exuberant by the end of the lecture and a lot of people came up to me with some really tender personal messages afterwards, including this sketch done of me during the lecture. Not too shabby :)

Be good to yourself.

In peace and poetry,

-Ocean

A Review of Burnings from the writer, xTx!

2010-12-06T21:34:00.006-05:00

Check it out at Third Face HERE

Also, there's a page on GoodReads

Yours, in peace and poetry,

-Ocean

The Book is OUT!

2010-11-17T22:24:00.001-05:00

Burnings is now available from Sibling Rivalry Press! Order Here

At last, the book is out. I can now relax. A big THANK YOU to everyone for helping me make this book possible. From the lone reader who kept my poems in her purse and read them in Wal-Mart parking lots, to the the dearest friends who made life a little easier when it's toughest.

Even the smallest gestures have gone a long way.

Yes, it's only a chapbook but you know what, I am darn proud of it.

Let's drink to that, to life, love, and poetry. Always poetry.

Cheers,

Ocean

I Will be Running a Workshop

2010-11-09T21:48:00.002-05:00

This Sunday I will be conducting a workshop and lecture as part of the Acentos Writer's Workshop series at Hostos Community College in the Bronx. This is truly an honor and I very much look forward to it. I do, however, still find it a bit surreal that I will be a facilitator, mostly because only a year ago I was a student at one of these workshops, in which Martin Espada led a brilliant session on writing through the voices of the dead.

The program has been around since 2003 and has invited a plethora of amazing poets like Jericho Brown, Major Jackson, Jeffery McDaniel, Cornelius Eady, Lorna Dee Cervantes, Rachel McGibbons and many others.

With such a great roster of writers preceding me, I admit, I am a bit nervous. However, whenever I am nervous about something, I remind myself of the Dalai Lama's wisdom: that to ease one's nerves, it is crucial to remember the compassion behind our actions and motives. According to his Holiness, it is a shame to be scared when doing something good, with a pure heart. This little mindset has never failed for me, and I still use it before readings and lectures when I get the butterflies (which is often). I tell my self: Ocean, you are giving poetry, you are teaching from your heart, with compassion and devotion. Being nervous will only hinder your effort at such a wonderful task. And with that, I usually do okay.

Speaking of Buddhism, the workshop I am planning will focus on the Zen Philosophy of Perception in regards to writing poetry. We will use this understanding to investigate cliches and “canned phrases”--how they occur and how we can prevent them by changing the way we look at the world around us. We will also read and dissect works from J.D. Salinger, Jane Hirshfield, Li-Young Lee, and Henri Cole. It should be a fun and exciting workshop and I would love to see you there!

Here are the deets from their website:

Sunday November 14th 12:30 PM

Please arrive at 12pm sharp. Make sure you have Identification!!!!!!*** Seriously

Eugenio María de Hostos Community College & Grand Concourse

ROOM A-329***Bronx, New York 10451

Phone: 917-755-2055

Directions to Hostos Community College-

Hostos Community College is located at a safe and busy intersection just steps from the subway station and bus stop

Take the 2,4,5 IRT trains to 149th Street (Eugenio María de Hostos Boulevard) and the Grand Concourse.By bus: take the Bx1 or cross-town Bx19 to 149th Street (Eugenio María de Hostos Boulevard) and the Grand Concourse.

*********THE ACENTOS WRITERS' WORKSHOP was established with the purpose of nurturing various voices of poets in the Bronx and beyond. With writers/facilitators from across several genres donating their time, the workshop encourages newer writers to hone their craft, establish community, and perform their work in front of supportive audiences.

The Acentos Writers' Workshop offers opportunities for growing writers through contact with professional writers, poets, mentors, and teachers. The workshop accepts writers of all backgrounds and skill levels to foster growth and maximize their full potential as writers;

The Acentos Fellowship workshops are a key component in reaching the next level up from the Acentos Writers workshop. These classes are not open to the public but will serve as a spring board for the upcoming Acentos teaching artist workshop that launches in the spring of 2010. Upon completion of the intensive workshops, the participants will carry the well earned title of Acentos Fellow. They will be able to present and further cement the expertise and knowledge in well crafted work that the Acentos Foundation holds near and dear to their heart. As part of the Acentos Foundation and the louderARTS project, the workshops serve a multitude of generations, ethnicities and backgrounds. Through our association with Hostos Community College in the Bronx, the workshop honors this rich cultural diversity.

A Video About My Book!

2010-11-05T18:55:00.002-04:00

You can pre-order a copy HERE

I am Interviewed by Dark Sky Magazine

2010-11-02T13:17:00.001-04:00

Check it out here!

My Chapbook is Coming Soon!

2010-10-20T22:25:00.012-04:00

Sibling Rivalry Press (43pp.) Available 11/15/10

In less than one month's time, my first official chapbook will be released by Sibling Rivalry Press. The book is 43 pages, which is hefty for a chapbook but I'm very happy with the length. Anything shorter would simply not suffice.

I know I am younger than most published writers out there. But I truly believe that good work comes from the amount of time we dedicate to mastering our craft—being alive for a long time just simply isn't enough. And I wish I could say it all comes easy, that I have a gift, that I could sit down and “just write”, but that's almost never the case. This slim book took over three years to finish, it took three years because so much of that time was spent on failing. I failed and failed and yearned to fail harder in order to improve. Because I have clinical OCD and mild Tourette's syndrome, I found myself obsessing over my poems. I couldn't stop thinking about them until they were finished, I constantly wrote them in my mind. I felt I had to live them, feel them leave my body thoroughly in order for them to be legitimate. More often than not they disgusted me. I would stay up deep into the night and then the morning, often sleeping only five nights a week, it was pathetic. But in the end, it was my choice. Some of you may know what I'm talking about, that when you've conquered that poem, that recalcitrant poem, the ecstasy is superior to that of sex. And sleep, it turns out, is an easy price to pay. But the truth is, I don't enjoy writing. Words, to me, are merely means to the poetry, the clay in the sculptor's vision. I settle for them because language, with all its inadequacies, is all I have.

I don't stay up nights anymore, I have fewer nervous breakdowns, I still get anxious when the subway brakes screech or when books are not stacked according their size. My OCD is still difficult but more tamed in my writing habits. In other words, I have managed to finally make peace with my work. Despite having a manuscript, I knew that only until I found this balance could any book be allowed to take shape. Thus far in my nascent journey as a poet, I've learned that it's very hard to get it right, to even know what "right" is, to constantly put pen to paper and know that “right” might never be possible. I don't know if it is, I don't know if I've even come close. But this little book, these little flames, is my attempt. And if you ever get your hands on a copy, I hope you find it to be good company.

Yours, in peace and poetry,

-Ocean

p.s. You can pre-order your copy HERE

Advanced praise for Burnings

“I was born because someone was starving…” ends one of Ocean Vuong’s poems, and in that poem, as in every other of his poems, Ocean manages to imbue the desperation of his being alive, with a savage beauty. It is not just that Ocean can render pain as a kind of loveliness, but that his poetic line will not let you forget the hurt or the garish brilliance of your triumph; will not let you look away. These poems shatter us detail by detail because Ocean leaves nothing unturned, because every lived thing in his poems demands to be fed by you; to nourish you in turn. You will not leave these poems dissatisfied. They will fill you utterly.

-Roger Bonair-Agard, two time National Slam Champion, author of Tarnish and Masquerade

Ocean Vuong is a poet of rare lyrical gifts and urgent stories to tell. “Memory,” he writes, “has not forgotten you.” No, it hasn’t forgotten the burning city or the taste of blood nor the hanging of rags or the violence of war. Vuong’s poems are testament to the enduring power of poetry and its place in this human universe.

-Hoa Nguyen, author of Hectate Lochia and Kiss A Bomb Tattoo

These are more than poems. These are prayers. And through each and every one, I saw the face of God.

-Bryan Borland, author of My Life as Adam

Upcoming Readings (Hope to see you there!)

11/19/10
Linh Dinh & Ocean Vuong
7pm
Moonstone Arts Center
110A S. 13th Street 
Philadelphia, PA 19107
215-735-9598

11/20/10
Elevens Bar
Featuring Ocean Vuong
7:30pm
140 Pleasant St
Northampton, MA 01060
(413) 586-9155

12/1/10
Versified Mics
Featuring Ocean Vuong & Corrina Bain
7pm
Le Grand Dakar
285 Grand Ave
(between Clifton Pl & Lafayette Ave)
Brooklyn, NY 11238

1/14/11
Pink Pony
Featuring Ocean Vuong
6-8pm
29 Cornelia St
New York, NY 10014
(212) 989-9319

2/23/11
Perfect Sense
Featuring Ocean Vuong
6-8pm
29 Cornelia St
New York, NY 10014
(212) 989-9319

Birthdays. What's in it for me?

2010-10-15T20:04:00.004-04:00

Yesterday I turned 22. I usually never celebrate my birthdays. As a devout Buddhist, I am constantly trying to be aware of my ego and according to Buddhist philosophy, the ego is often the culprit of suffering: this constant need to reaffirm one's worth through the magnification of the self, the I, Me, and Mine which causes higher expectations that lead to harsher disappointments. I find birthdays, or at least their function in our society, as excuses for doing something nice or in worse cases, shameless consumerism.

I know it's a celebration of life, but why should it be on the scale of a personal holiday? Why can't we do something nice for those we love just because it's Thursday or Monday or maybe simply because we love them? I keep hearing things like “I can't believe my own mother forgot my birthday”, “It's my freaking birthday and I'm stuck in traffic”, or “ My boyfriend left me on my birthday, of all days!”. Of course, I'm not saying we shouldn't be upset by these things, I'm saying they are exaggerated because of this synthetic importance we place on a certain day of the year. There's just so much unnecessary anxiety, so much unneeded expectations. We raise ourselves up only to crash harder when things go wrong. And the truth is, some things aren’t that bad--getting stuck in traffic is suddenly unfair only because it's ”my birthday”. It sounds childish but we do it all the time. At the end of the day, nothing has really changed. We were born years ago, so what? What's wrong with celebrating life right now? What's wrong with throwing a party just because we want to, eating cake because it's just damn good?

Despite this very firm belief, Peter convinced me to do something “special” just because it was "Thursday" and, reluctantly, I obliged. We had dinner at a great Indian place Peter picked out in midtown and then braved the rain to go see “It's Kind Of a Funny Movie” starring one of my favorite actors, Zach Galifianakis. I mainly stick with independent films (there's just so much more substance) and although this movie airs in mainstream theaters, it has all the richness and humanity that a lot of indie films tend to deliver. (The movie was really charming and just outright good. I highly suggest it)

The rain came down hard, By the end of the night my shoes were completely soaked but I didn’t mind. I didn’t want anything for my “birthday” so everything else was a refreshing bonus. Nonetheless, reading all the wishes on my Facebook wall from friends and acquaintances truly felt nice. And you know what? I had a splendid day, wet socks and all. Upon thinking about it, the whole experience made me shift my stance, albeit slightly, on birthdays: from now on I will acknowledge them. I have always done so for my friends since I respect their views, but I always shied away from my own, embarrassed from all the extraneous attention. I just wish we wouldn't take our birthdays as a right to be happy but simply a reminder to be happier, that we made it this far and it wasn't all that bad.

In a perfect world, everyday would be a day of celebration, for life, for love, for beauty, the whole nine yards. But since that world doesn't exist, I'll take my one day, just not too extravagant, and never too seriously ;)

Hope your day is happy, regardless of when you're born.

Yours, in peace and poetry,

-Ocean

Rejections can be good

2010-10-10T17:37:00.003-04:00

Looking back on some of the rejections I received in the past two years, I can't help but feel relieved that some of them were not published. If you're like me, you constantly believe that you have reached your "peak" concerning your writing's development, that the next poem is the finest representation of your truest artistic self. And perhaps that's true. However, it's always difficult to convince myself that my work will actually further progress until of course, they actually do. Magazines can not afford to publish poor work, and neither can writers. Good editors are truly invaluable and I'd like to take a moment to publicly say thank you to two of them, as well as the quality journals they edit.

To Roxane Gay and the editors at PANK who nominated my poem, "A Prodigal Son's Lament" for Best of the Web 2011. I submitted to PANK twice. Along with the first rejection was a personal note of encouragement which noted genuine interest in my work as well as some keen critical observations.

To Tammy Ho Lai-Ming and the editors of Asian Cha who also nominated me for Best of the Web 2011 for my poem "Paramour". I also submitted to Cha twice with an initial rejection.

I guess progress is possible after all!

In peace and poetry,

-Ocean

It Gets Better.......NOW

2010-10-05T22:52:00.017-04:00

Growing up as a gay Asian American in a black neighborhood in a white society, I have become accustomed to what W.E.B. DeBois calls “the double conscience”, except for me it was the triple, quadruple conscience. Society does influence our actions and personalities, but whether we realize it or not, the power to live a happy life is in our hands. It always was and always will.

In the inner cities where I grew up, (Detroit and Hartford) to come out is suicide in itself. In most inner city cultures, toughness is a means for survival, and to be called a “fag” or “sissy” is a near death sentence. Most of us grew up without fathers, our male role-models were "gangsta rappers" who came from the same social-economical environments we did. Even after the recent suicides of 5 gay teens across the U.S., rapper 50 Cent stated via Twitter that anyone who doesn't lust for women should "kill themselves". Despite being such a terrible statement, I don't find 50 Cent's post at all surprising. My generation has chosen to idolize these extreme representations of masculinity because they make us feel like true men. We embrace this hyper-masculinity in order to compensate for our phantom fathers. We become homophobic because, as far as we know, this is simply what strong men did.

In my neighborhood, whether it was in school, on the streets, or on the basketball court, you must exert ferocity at all costs, not to be hostile for the sake hostility, but as a means of defending (or establishing) your reputation. And in the "hood", like anywhere else, reputation is everything. If someone socks you in the face, even if they are bigger and you know you will get hurt, you had to fight. Walking away means you are marked as weak and those who witness your cowardice will exploit you in order to exert their own statement in the future.

From my experience, bullying is a very social act and often requires an audience. Deep down, the thugs and hoodlums in my childhood were merely men and boys, often scared of being jumped or robbed or shamed. Because of this, I have seen both sides of homophobia and can say that is is more often fear, not so much hate that drives these idiotic acts. But despite the ghetto being an extreme environment, it is not very different from the larger society that most of us see and live in. This false sense of masculinity is everywhere: in the office, the campus, social clubs, sports teams, entire families. In the end, our collective insecurities have pushed us to seek empowerment by hurting those society has conveniently deemed "outcast". Hate crimes are the by-products of fear and if we are to prevent this problem from killing more American youth, we must first address this very fundamental human trait.

To my queer brothers and sisters, I promise you, the power is already in your bodies, your life is in your hands. And instead of escaping out of life, why not into it? At the end of the day, suicide is a selfish act. But that does not mean we blame ourselves, and what good is it to blame our adversaries? By dwelling on ourselves, we allow our problems to become larger than life. What I am describing is nothing new but is in fact an ancient Zen Buddhist concept: forget the self and find happiness in the moment, the immediate life. By actively using your body to love and live, you are choosing to find happiness. You are empowering yourself to move and flourish. Even if it's simply taking a walk in the park, sitting and enjoying a cup of coffee with friends or even a stranger, you can live right NOW. Because the fact is, we as human beings, will find joy in giving love and having compassion. That is my promise. So please, if you are approaching that suffocating darkness, move, volunteer, call a friend, step away from yourself and back into life. Go ahead, stay with us, come to us. We already love you.

In peace and poetry,

-Ocean

P.S.

I have also posted my video on Youtube for Dan Savage's "It Gets Better Project" HERE. Sorry if I sound all over the place, I was speaking form the top of my head (and from my heart)

A Day on Roosevelt Island!

2010-10-03T19:20:00.003-04:00

Despite living in NYC for three years, I am not a very good explorer. Going to school full-time binds me to a very specific route, and when I do go out, it is usually to the same 4-5 venues for poetry readings and lectures. So when I was invited to read at the Roosevelt Island Fall for Arts Festival, I was delighted (the festival took place yesterday from 11AM-5PM). The tiny island was such a quaint beauty and a welcome reprieve from the cramped bustle of the main city. It was like it's own little city-village. If it wasn’t for the ubiquitous Manhattan skyline, I would have forgotten I was in New York City all together.

We were blessed with gorgeous weather: slightly brisk with the final hints of a summer sun. I went with Peter and we were later joined by Roger. The festival was basically a bunch of tents and food vendors scattered across the middle green of the island. There was music, dancing, face painting, clowns, arts and crafts--mostly children orientated programs that resembled the New England Fall festivals, save for the pumpkins and Boston Red Sox caps.

The reading however, was volatile. After arriving at the art gallery where the reading was to initially take place, we found a fleet of empty chairs and a lone podium. Assuming we were early, we toured the gallery and surveyed the artwork. Only after inquiring about the poetry with the lady at the desk, were we informed that the reading was actually moved to the riverfront. When we got to the river, the reading had already begun. And amidst the monstrous sound of “Monster Mash” being played by a full band merely 10 yards away, poet after poet were screaming poems into the mic, veins popping from their necks while everyone leaned closer to hear, their lips dripping with greasy food and powdered sugar. Children of all shapes and audacities raced back and forth shrieking in front of the readers, couples who came to the river to rest and be alone glared in disdain. Now, I am a fan of being outdoors and getting closer with nature and all that, but how could anyone think this was a good idea for poetry? Poetry requires a quiet place for reflection, for each word read to be heard fully and clearly. Simply out of respect for the art itself, should this be provided.

So after three poets losing their voices, I asked the director: “what's the deal?”. She looked stressed and flustered so I offered to go over and ask the band to stop for half an hour or so. She told me she doesn't have control over that since she wasn't supposed to be out here in the first place. So I suggested we return to the gallery, which we did and it turned out to be the perfect place. The room was warm, enclosed with beautiful art, and the mic worked well. Luckily, my name was lower on the program and I got to read in the gallery. I asked that we just do the entire reading over but it wasn't possible due to time constraints, which is a shame because a couple of the readers before, David Lawton and Jane Omerod, are strong poets.

Despite the loss of time, the gallery filled up and became standing room-only. The readers who did get to read were well received by a diverse and attentive crowd. It turned out quite well. I just hope curators and program directors do their homework before making impulsive decisions. There are so few people listening to poetry as it is, the least we can have is a decent place to read and be heard. However, to be fair with the director, she tried really hard to produce the program and clearly had the best intentions, in which, regardless of the outcome, I truly appreciate.

All in all, it was a great day: I got to see a wonderful little island which I never would have known without the invitation to read, I got to spend intimate and quality time with wonderful people and friends, and alas, I'd take muted poetry over no poetry at all any day.

Ocean Vuong and Evan Rogers

Finally, a blog?

2010-09-30T13:24:00.005-04:00

Greetings my dearests!

Some of you may know that I have had this "blog" up for a while now, although it is hardly a blog at all. I have been using this space mostly to display my work and to link and introduce others to poets whose work I admire. I never wanted to blog because there seems to be so much out there already, even among the literary world itself. So many conversations, arguments, alliances formed, enemies imagined--so much in fact, that much of the dialogue has become quite bland and repetitive.

I am not out to put more zest into literary blogs, in fact, I don't want to be literary at all! However, after much encouragement from friends who have often suggested my life is absurd enough to write about (and read?), I am starting the blog. Of course, I am not presumptuous enough to believe there is a cohort of people waiting to know what Ocean Vuong is up to, but more so because I feel this is a space where I can communicate with others in a way I can't do with poetry. And maybe no one will read this, but I want to speak here without the grandeur of eloquence or the restrictions of craft and form. This is not to say prose does not demand such attention, but merely to have a place where I can be frank, with myself. OR.... this is might very well be just another by-product of my ego. Who knows.

Every writer harbors a sense of self consciousness when making his/her work and I simply want to use this blog as a way of communicating without that poet mask. Speaking outside of the poem allows me to be more vulnerable, and I need to be more vulnerable. Despite winning a few awards and doing readings, even conducting workshops (which I still don't really trust myself doing), I am just a 21-year-old student, both of academics and of life. So maybe this is a way of reminding myself that deep down, I just really want to say the wrong things, I want to be politically incorrect, to talk about fucking and being fucked, literally and metaphorically. I want to use slang, have typos. But mostly, I just want to learn, not only from myself, but also from you.

Lecture at Glastonbury HIgh School

2009-04-19T21:54:00.002-04:00

Last week I conducted a reading/lecture at Glastonbury High School for Tim Sanderson's Poetry classes. To be honest, I was only prepared to give an hour and a half of a lecture to some twenty some odd students. I was, to say the least, struck when more than forty people arrived in the classroom including the principal. Overall it was a great experience and I was honored to have had the opportunity to contribute to the growing poetry curriculum there.

After reading some of my work, I got to hear those of the students as well. I was very pleased and I admit, I was surprised by the amount of talent and maturity displayed by these students and the voices they carried in their work. While many of them read, I realized I needed this experience more than I imagined. It was both an exciting and humbling experience for me all at once. I admire the students' ability to construct such provocative and insightful questions. It was really refreshing to see that they were serious about the craft of poetry and the improvement their own work.

When my reading was finished, the numerous students who came up to speak and ask further questions despite the cacophony of bells ringing about, was truly rewarding to me. I was touched by their comments and their utter enthusiasm. I have been invited back for the future and will certainly do so. Again, when I went into the school that day to teach, I did not predict that these students would be teaching me something as well. Perhaps it is the process of my own growth as both a poet and a human being.

So thank you Glastonbury High School for having me. You have all been very hospitable and I look forward to my return.

Cheers, Peace, and Love.

-Ocean