Like any good son, I pull my father out
water, drag him by his hair
through white sand, his knuckles carving a trail
the waves rush in to erase. Because the city
beyond the shore is no
where we left it. Because the bombed
cathedral is now a cathedral
of trees. I kneel beside him to
see how far
I might sink. Do you know who I am,
Ba? But the answer never comes. The answer
the bullet hole in his back, brimming
with seawater. He is so still I think
he could be anyone's father, found
the way a
green bottle might appear
at a boy's feet containing a year
he has never touched. I touch
his ears. No use. I turn him
over. To face it.
in his sea-black eyes. The face
not mine--but one I will wear
to kiss all my lovers good-night:
the way I
seal my father's lips
with my own & begin
the faithful work of drowning.
A finger's worth of dark from daybreak, he steps
into a red dress. A flame caught
in a mirror the width of a coffin. Steel glinting
in the back of his throat. A flash, a white
how he dances. The bruise-blue wallpaper peeling
into hooks as he twirls, his horse
-head shadow thrown on the family
glass cracking beneath
its stain. He moves like any
fracture, revealing the briefest doors. The dress
petaling off him like the skin
of an apple. As if their swords
him. This horse with its human
face. This belly full of blades
& brutes. As if dancing could stop the heart
of his murderer
between his ribs. How easily a boy in a dress
red of shut eyes
beneath the sound of his own
galloping. How a horse will run until it breaks
into weather-into wind. How like
the wind, they will see him. They will see him
when the city burns.
Aubade with Burning City
South Vietnam, April 29, 1975: Armed Forces Radio played Irving Berlin's "White Christmas"
as a code to begin Operation Frequent Wind, the ultimate evacuation of American civilians
and Vietnamese refugees by helicopter during the fall of Saigon.
petals in the street
pieces of a girl's dress.
May your days be merry and bright...
He fills a teacup with champagne, brings it to her lips.
Open, he says.
Outside, a soldier spits out
his cigarette as footsteps
fill the square like stones
fallen from the sky. May
all your Christmases be white
the traffic guard unstraps his holster.
fingers running the hem
of her white dress. A single candle.
shadows: two wicks.
A military truck speeds
through the intersection, children
inside. A bicycle hurled
through a store window. When the
dust rises, a black dog
panting in the road. Its hind legs
crushed into the shine
a white Christmas.
On the bed stand, a sprig of magnolia expands like a secret heard
the first time.
The treetops glisten and children
listen, the chief of police
in a pool of Coca-Cola.
palm-sized photo of his father soaking
beside his left ear.
song moving through the city like a widow.
A white... I'm dreaming of a curtain of snow
from her shoulders.
Snow scraping against the window. Snow shredded
with gunfire. Red sky.
Snow on the tanks rolling over the city walls.
A helicopter lifting the living just
The city so white it is ready for ink.
radio saying run run run.
Milkflower petals on a black dog
pieces of a girl's dress.
May your days be merry
and bright. She is saying
something neither of
them can hear. The hotel rocks
beneath them. The bed a field of ice.
worry, he says, as the first shell flashes
faces, my brothers have won the war
lights go out.
I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming...
hear sleigh bells in the snow...
In the square below: a nun, on fire,
silently toward her god-
-from Night Sky with Exit Wounds
Poems - Prompt - Bio - Reviews - Interviews
Check out this list of figures in Greek mythology. Scroll down the page and randomly select one of the characters. Write that name at the top of a piece of paper and then
read up on them a bit. Now, as in Ocean Vuong's "Telemachus," compose a surreal, dream-like poem in which you
mythologize a mother/father figure in relation to the figure you have chosen from the list. What similarities are there
between your mother/father figure and this figure in Greek mythology? What differences are there? Where do their stories
Poems - Prompt - Bio - Reviews - Interviews
and essayist Ocean Vuong is the author of the best-selling, Night Sky with Exit Wounds, winner
of the Whiting Award, finalist for the Kate Tufts Discovery Award and was a New York Times Top 10 Book of 2016. A Ruth Lilly
fellow from the Poetry Foundation, he has received honors from the Lannan Foundation, the Civitella Ranieri Foundation,
The Elizabeth George Foundation, The Academy of American Poets, and the Pushcart Prize.
Vuong's writings have
been featured in The Atlantic, The Nation, New Republic, The New Yorker, The New York Times, The Village Voice, and American
Poetry Review, which awarded him the Stanley Kunitz Prize for Younger Poets. Selected by Foreign Policy magazine as a 2016
100 Leading Global Thinker, alongside Hillary Clinton, Ban Ki-Moon and Warsan Shire, Ocean was also named by BuzzFeed Books
as one of “32 Essential Asian American Writers” and has been featured on NPR’s “All Things Considered,”
PBS NewsHour, Teen Vogue, VICE, The Fantastic Man and The New Yorker.
Born in Saigon, Vietnam, he immigrated to the US
at the age of two as a child refugee. He lives in New York City.
Poems - Prompt - Bio - Reviews - Interviews
A Review of Ocean Vuong's Night Sky
with Exit Wounds by Eric Nguyen, first published at diaCRITICS
Night Sky With Exit
Wounds, Ocean Vuong’s much anticipated and already lauded debut collection, starts quietly. In the opening poem
(“Threshold”), the speaker watches “through the keyhole/not the man showering, but the rain/falling through
him[.]” It’s a secret moment, a taboo one perhaps, as he holds his “clutched breath” behind the
door, watching and waiting. Yet in this clandestine act, the speaker still coaxes his readers in with him to watch water
like “guitar strings snapping/over his globed shoulder.” It’s not until we turn the page that we learn
the cost of looking “was to lose/your way back” with “eyes/wide open.” The poems ends almost abruptly,
the couplets giving way to a single-lined stanza.
It’s a fitting introduction to a book that at its core is about losing
oneself in the process of observing human catastrophes. Calm and measured, the poem is a short intake of air before the
dive into deeper waters, the beginning of a longer journey. For Vuong, it’s a world uncomfortably punctuated by violence,
book-ended on one side by colonialism in Vietnam and on the other by what we see today.
In “Aubade with
Burning City,” the Fall of Saigon is juxtaposed to the warm voice of Irving Berlin’s “White Christmas.”
The result is already intense images transformed into something sinister. A dog’s “hind legs/crushed into the
shine/of a white Christmas” (emphasis in original). “The treetops glisten and children listen”
and “the chief of police” is “facedown in a pool of Coca-Cola./A palm sized photo of his father soaking/beside
his left ear.” We know the classic holiday song and the speaker’s interruption makes for an unmelodic reading,
punctuating the grim scene and the chaos already marked on the page in lines that scatter.
These poems illustrate
not only real acts of violence but the potential for it as well. In “Always & Forever,” a father’s
legacy is a “Colt .45—silent & heavy/as an amputated hand.” In “A Little Closer to the Edge,”
we are reminded of the possible violence in any object: “His faux Rolex, weeks/from shattering against her cheek, now
dims/like a miniature moon behind her hair.”
For Vuong, violence—its memory, its presence, and its
possibility—leaves a mark on the person and transforms him. The transformative power—or the disfiguring power—of
violence is perhaps most apparent in the last poem of the first section, “Self-Portrait as Exit Wounds.” Through
the course of twenty-two couplets, the speaker takes readers from “a sinking boat” to “a shack rusted
black” in a refugee camp then to the United States where “Vietnam/[is] burning on the screen” and then
back again to Vietnam, where “the sky replaced/with fire” and “the grandfather fucking/the pregnant farmgirl
in the back of his army jeep[.]” It’s a poem of a speaker looking at himself and the violent history that is
in his veins. In the last lines, Vuong writes himself into Vietnamese history:
believe I was born
to cock back this rifle,
smooth & slick, like a true
the footsteps of ghosts misted through rain
I lower myself between the sights–& pray
that nothing moves.
Though a speaker of Vuong’s generation would
have never stepped foot on the active battlefields of the Vietnam War, it is still there. In this way, Vuong speaks for
a generation of Vietnamese Americans who were born after the War but whose collective memories still haunt them. It’s
a question that comes up regularly in any discussion of the present and future states of Vietnamese American literature:
how do we address memories that are not ours? And what do these memories mean to our persons, our sense of self, and our
identities as both Vietnamese and American?
Often, Vuong observes the conundrum of having one’s existence tied
to tragedy. In these poems, the sensual body can turn ominous. “A knife on the tongue [turns]/into a tongue”
in “Homewrecker.” A human shadow is replaced “by a black wolf” in “Torso of Air.”
is this dualism between the self and history, and sensuality and violence, most present than in “Notebook Fragments,”
a five-page poem that presents itself as thoughts jotted down haphazardly and randomly. Here, the stuff of daily life rubs
uneasily against history: “My longest pubic hair is 1.2 inches,” the speaker notes frankly and irreverently
at the poem’s beginning. Later, a family member’s war memory intrudes: “Grandma said In the war
they would grab a baby, a soldier at each ankle, and pull…/Just like that” (emphasis in original). This
last line, “Just like that” is immediately re-used in a more innocent context: “It’s finally spring!
Daffodils everywhere./Just like that.” The poem shifts back and forth between the speaker’s present and his
familial past and because of this, meaning shifts, too. It’s a tense poem that is most revealing when Vuong writes:
American soldier fucked a Vietnamese farmgirl. Thus my mother exists.
Thus I exist. Thus no bombs = no family = no me.
speakers distrust the body—its origins and its weighted history: “If you are given my body,” he writes
in “To My Father/To My Future Son,” “put it down.” Despite this, Vuong places all his trust in the
body: it is a vehicle for hate but also one of sensuality and surrender. We see this in Vuong’s most sensual poems—“Ode
to Masturbation,” “Prayer for the Newly Damned,” “Because It’s Summer” and “On
Earth, We’re Briefly Gorgeous,” where he writes:
I’ll tell you how we’re wrong
enough to be forgiven. How one night, after backhanding mother, then taking a chain saw to the kitchen table, my father
went to kneel in the bathroom until we heard his muffled cries through the walls. & so I learned—that a man in
climax was the closest thing to surrender.
Reading Night Sky with Exit Wounds it
becomes obvious that Vuong has a love-hate relationship with humanity: he loves it for its tenderness, he hates it for its
violence. It’s a point of tension throughout these poems as Vuong explores his familial history, his countries’
histories, and his own life. The poems in the collection, however, do coalesce into a type of balance by its end, if
not finding a balm for hurt, then at least remaining optimistic. “The most beautiful part of your body,” he
writes, “is where it’s headed.” For all we have ruined—with wars, domestic abuse, homophobia, racism,
etc—Vuong is still hopeful; this is precisely why he’s the poet we need now more than ever. He lays bare our
brutal histories and tells us, yes, we can do better.
A review of Night Sky with Exit Wounds
at The New York Times
Poems - Prompt - Bio - Reviews - Interviews
Interview with Ocean Vuong by Kaveh Akbar, first published at Divedapper
Kaveh Akbar: The last time we talked in New York, the ARCs
of Night Sky with Exit Wounds had just come out, but most people hadn't seen it yet, so you
were just sort of anticipating the reaction. Now the book's out, and people are already pretty celebratory—you just
had a piece in The New Yorker.
Ocean Vuong: Yes. The piece in The New Yorker was nice. I worry, coming on the heels of that Calvin Trillin poem, that it looks
like a piece reacting to that debacle. But it was an isolated columnist, Daniel Wenger, who did my profile, and he asked
some really thoughtful, attentive questions, and I don’t want Trillin’s voice to cloud that sincere effort.
What these two moments do speak to, however, is that this is very much our political climate—where a respected
publication can celebrate and insult Asianess in one space—which seems to be an accurate microcosm of America as a
whole. I don’t know whether this is progress of degeneration—but it’s where we live at the moment.
I was also glad the piece spoke of my background–how
someone like me came into writing. The recognition of another life existing within these spaces is important because,
as writers of color, we don't have a solid literary foundation to build on, whereas white writers enjoy the perpetual
presence of a canon where their faces are faithfully reflected. For POC, the lineage is more tenuous, fractured, erased,
cut out, and ghosted. So it's always important for me to say, "This is where I came from,” and that my making
of this art is both an act of creation and survival at once.
KA: One of the ways people whose bodies aren't necessarily acknowledged by history can preserve
some element of themselves is through the stories they tell. And you talk about how your family was all functionally illiterate,
and that's one of the themes of the book. But then you're about to preserve their stories and therefore preserve some part
of them in this book.
OV: Yeah, it's really interesting. I think my reckoning with the written word was also the reckoning
with racism, which is sad, but also necessary and, in a way, a vital means of confronting the realities of my country,
of America. You know, I didn't know how to read well until I was eleven, but I was fluent. I grew up here. I came here when
I was two and I can speak and think clearly in English and Vietnamese. I think what I've learned is that for a lot of
the white American gaze, to be illiterate is the equivalent of being unintelligent, of lacking in imagination and critical
thinking. I’ve spent most of my life watching the way people look, with disdain, at my family when they fail to utter
the language that permits their visibility, permits them access to the most basic levels of respect. I’ve seen cashiers
literally reach their hands into my mother’s purse to count the money for her. At times it seems the crossing of
physical borders is easier than that of the linguistic ones.
But I've been around the oral tradition of poetry since I was born. Even when I was in my mother's womb poems
were spoken to me. And they were very complex, and wild, and imaginative works, replete with rich musical and associative
intricacies. Through song and speech, they made a tangible personal and historical lineage that informed the way I think
beautifully said. There are so many directions to take that but—you talk about poetry as both reckoning with the
very internal and the very external, as an act of survival. That’s a major theme for the book too, like anaphora
as coping mechanism. To me, one of the truly remarkable things about the book is the way that the poems feel so—I
mean, to say "intimate" is sort of a cliché, and maybe coded language for saying "confessional,"
or something like that. But they feel like—you know how sometimes on a really lovely jazz track, you can hear the
pianist's feet on the piano petals? It's almost as if you're intruding on these very private moments. These poems feel as
though they are written for you. There's that Shelley quote, "A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings
to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds." And I think of that when I read these poems.
OV: Certainly, certainly.
I think the Shelley quote is poignant. I do think of the poem as an act of self-preservation, but that is only the beginning,
that's the genesis of the impulse. Personally, I want to quickly get beyond that if I can. The way I see it,
to extend Shelley's metaphor, is that we're all in this dark forest and we can't see one another.
And we're all these nightingales singing and the song is all that we hear of one another, all that we know, so that song
needs to move beyond itself, it has to be your own private ark for language. We're singing of solitude, but we're singing
it to each other. The poem is for self-preservation, but it is also written in the hopes of speaking to these private
fears and joys that we all share, but that we don't get to talk about in public spheres. In that sense, it is also communication
between people in order to build a space where we can recognize one another. I think that's what I love about poetry—it
can be this and that. It privileges possibilities in action and in form, but also in how these potentialities are received.
KA: Absolutely. In
the past you've said, "To love a poem is to love a part of myself revealed to me by another person." And I think
that that's so spot-on. To really immerse yourself in poetry is to find these bits of conversation that reveal points of
entry into a more positive relationship with yourself, or a more positive understanding of your own humanity.
In some of your poems, there are extremely private details. I'm thinking of, "My Father Writes From Prison,"
that begins with the opening in Vietnamese, and there's no glossary, and there's no italicized translation. I did get my
sister-in-law to translate it for me.
OV: Is she Vietnamese?
KA: Yeah, she is.
OV: Oh, beautiful.
KA: Yeah, she's a sociologist who studies
Vietnamese immigration specifically.
So the poem opens with, "Dear Lily, how are you? Where are you now?
I miss you and our child a lot," written in Vietnamese. But there's no guiding text to help break that down. It's
the same way with the next poem, "Head First," where there's the parable at the beginning with no translation.
These are gestures that tell the reader that this is an extremely personal moment, and that you're not necessarily serving
the Vietnamese as an accouterment to the English. You're not privileging one language over the other. But then the poems
open up in ways that are immensely accessible, in that there are opportunities for the reader to see themselves in the
OV: Right. To talk about language is to talk about identity. And
I don't see my work as a privileging of one identity over another because I think life is so much more complex than language
allows. I mean, what does it mean to be Vietnamese? What does it mean to be a New Yorker? What does it mean to be Queer?
To be a brother? A son? A lover of dogs? All of that is—and is not—contained in syntax. I see identity more
as a thread being pushed through a piece of fabric as it's being woven, and that all of our identities are fibers woven
in that thread. To write is to push all of oneself through that moment, through that space on the page.
Of course, no matter what I do or say, I will always be an Asian-American,
Vietnamese, Queer, etc, including all the identities that I don’t even have the language for yet. Whenever I write
in Vietnamese I just think, "Okay, it looks like this is my way into the poem." I don’t want to amputate
my voice just to satisfy a limited projection of what a reader should look or be like. To translate is to assume an English
speaking reader only, and I don't want to ignore all the other I’s. And so the Vietnamese comes in when it's needed
and then it comes out. I think this is also true as an enactment of how we experience language in the world, particularly
language that is not our mother tongue. If I were to walk down a street here in New York, I would hear Spanish, Portuguese,
Mandarin, Greek—untranslated. And it would look and sound just like it does in a text. Not understanding the words
does not make the felt experience of them any less true.
KA: Yeah, that's beautiful. That's so perfectly said. It reminds me of The
New Yorker piece, where Daniel Wenger writes that reading you is like "watching a fish move," that you
move through the "currents of English with muscled intuition." There's a deftness to the way that you pivot, to
the way that the pivots work in your poems, that feels so much like an actual enactment of thinking. Like in "Notebook
Fragments," the title tells us a little about how to read the poem, how to move from element to element in the poem,
but there's still a real momentum that's built in those pivots. It doesn't feel arbitrary, even though the conceit might
lead us to that assumption.
OV: Right. Yes, that's the tension, that suggestion of arbitrariness. I think that's where, for
me, the lines of verisimilitude and craft come into play. How much of life is created and how much meaning can we see in
seemingly arbitrary spaces? In this sense, I'd like to think of it as an extension of the tradition and discovery that
Ashbery works in. But also in the ancient Chinese poets, Du Fu and Li Po, who also create very mundane moments charged
through various leaps and juxtapositions that might not at first appear to have any hypotactic tissue.
KA: And the act of imagining then becomes all the more
potent because of what you're enacting, because of what the poem is performing. In the poem "A Little Closer to the
Edge," the speaker is imagining his conception, and it's the experience of imagining something, of opening it up,
or making it real enough to be discovered again. And it has that fantastic line, "teach me / how to hold a man the
way thirst / holds water". And imagining the speaker's birth, and the moments leading up to it, is sort of a charged
interest of the book. "Immigrant Haibun" has that moment from the speaker's mother, "the ship rocked you
as you swelled inside me: love's echo hardening into a boy. Sometimes I feel like an ampersand." It seems like there's
this prolonged concern with birth, especially in that section of the book.
OV: There's always, for me,
an obsession of witnessing: what it costs, and how the images are carried, rendered. And I think of Milton's Paradise
Lost, when he has Lucifer, disguised as a cormorant, spy on Adam and Eve. There's this sense of voyeurism that
exists only in its re-telling so that the gaze is at once a witnessing as well as a preservation. But I’m also interested
in the voyeurism of the “damned” viewer. Which is, you know —what does it look like to be the child of
war? A product of war? What does it look like to be a queer child from a very traditional Confucian family? How does one
feel to pay homage to a family but to also, in a way, betray those familial values?
There's also, in both of those poems, and throughout
the book, the idea of hunger and what it means to satiate nourishment when that nourishment propels a body towards more
destruction? What does it mean to feed yourself only to move towards elements that could destroy you? I feel that that
is a very human tension, it's a part of the lizard brain that the poems try to navigate because it at once makes no sense,
and yet we are geared, I think, to privilege survival above all else—and that's what we do again and again regardless
of our idiosyncratic experiences. Our common ground, as animals, is our will to live—despite the fact.
KA: Yeah. The concern of what it means
to be a child of war and how do you maneuver in that space. Like, there's that really intense moment in "Notebook
Fragments," "An American soldier fucked a Vietnamese farmgirl. Thus my mother exists. / Thus I exist. Thus no
bombs = no family = no me." And it's like—how do you reconcile being alive with that, you know? You could spend
your life writing about that one thing and not scratch the surface of it. It's just such a big question, and that the
book manages to hold that as well as all the other questions is a testament to its capaciousness, its great breadth. I'm
sort of just saying things I admire instead of asking useful questions.
I do like in "Immigrant Haibun,"
the moment where the pregnant mother says, "Sometimes I feel like an ampersand," because I've always thought
an ampersand kind of looks like the Pieta, like the mother holding the son, the shape of it. And I like the way that she
says, "Sometimes I feel like an ampersand," which corresponds literally, in how she actually looks like an ampersand,
and also in terms of the more esoteric and associative meanings of an ampersand.
OV: Right. I insist on the
ampersand in my writing because, to me, it is a symbol that feels truer to the word "and" than the word "and"
KA: How do you
OV: In a way, it enacts the plus sign. It performs the figure holding two words together. So
the ampersand feels more like itself than its worded rendition. And, also, it is something that illiterate people, like
the mother figure in that poem, could recognize. It's a symbol. It's a tangible moment. And I think my insistence on it
in my writing is a nod to the tangibility of language and how it has possibilities to be more than itself outside of the
alphabet—like, say, in the body.
Oh, I like that very much. And interestingly, I think that the ampersand symbol came to us through the Latin word
"et," and the Romans, or whomever, just transcribed the 'e' over the 't,' and created what would become the
ampersand. And so even the ampersand was a process of our language becoming more accessible and more visual, which is what
we see happening with cellphone chatty technology. And people lament it and say, "Oh, what a tragedy it is that our
language is eroding." But what it’s actually doing is becoming more democratic and more accessible.
Yes, absolutely! I think that's happening all the time. I'm very interested in the moment where language collapses,
because it always collapses. The idea of a standardized "pure English" is a delusion. If you want to speak in
standardized English, or "the original English," we would all be speaking Middle English.
And if you look at how Middle English was developed since Chaucer, it was dependent on whoever was able to write at the
time. Those early writers sounded the words out for themselves, each catalogue of spelling unique to its author. They
sort of winged it. And so the idea of a holy grail of English is false in its very conception. David Foster Wallace wrote
a brilliant essay called “Authority and American Usage” on the arbitrary ways in which English is standardized,
and particularly how standardization is an act of political exclusion of poor and brown bodies.
But anyways, I'm very interested in where language collapses. What happens,
for example, to "LOL" when it no longer signifies "laughing out loud?" It's very interesting now, because
the LOL is almost a period, or rather, a signal in which to say, "I'm not angry at you, I'm just okay." Right?
Like, "Oh, where are you?" "I'm outside lol." So it's losing its original purpose, but it's changing
into something else. And I'm really interested in that shifting of meaning and usage because it feels innately Queer to
me—how language, like people, can be perpetually in flux. That words are, in a sense, bodies moving from one space
to another. Our very cells, too, are always moving. They are just overflowing, and dying, and being reborn. What is seemingly
so static is actually constantly in motion.
OV: And then how that language gets shifted. In "Notebook Fragments," you see that
there are many phrases that are charged differently as the poem progresses because of what happened in-between them. For
example, the word "Yikes." On the second occurrence, it starts to gain different calibers, volumes, and tones
based on what had happened in-between. And I'm excited when I can push a single word through a poem and have it completely
change at the end depending on the contextual pressures that occur. Nothing stands completely by itself. It is all interconnected.
If anything, language is standard or true only in the sense that it mirrors that impermanent nature of our lives, our
I love that whole movement of thought. And I think it's so true to the experience of the book too, both with the way that
you employ words in individual poems, and with the way you employ themes throughout the book. Like what Vietnam is in one
poem, isn't necessarily the historical, by the books, experience of what was literally happening in Vietnam in any given
year. But the place that you're writing about still feels very true; it's just not necessarily bound to some historical
On a technical level, the book negotiates obsession, which was something I was worried about with it. But I was
happy to see how poet and critic Christopher Soto, AKA Loma, wrote about it in Lambda. They
understood my hope of employing the same words/images through the book to see if the friction of juxtapositions would change
their meanings. And it's risky in that, in a very workshoppy way, we're trained to look at the repetition of words as
a lack of creativity, or as a sign of a limited vocabulary: "Oh, you're repeating yourself here," "This
is a crutch," etc. But what I did discover, which surprised me, was that one could look at a single object again and
again in each poem, and the “landscape” of that poem could inform how an image could be seen differently.
A word possesses multiple discoveries depending on
the various manipulations of its world. In this sense, it resists a sort of capitalistic gaze of being used and then disposed
of, depleted. When we say, "You're using too much of this. You’re wearing this idea or phrase out,” I
hear echoes of the market anxiety for newness, for “fresh new products.” So I wanted, in a way, to remove the
words from their definitions, or identities, as products, and make them energies that could be charged differently according
to what's around them, to recycle them towards a multiplicity of uses. I don’t know if I succeeded. But the experiment
was exciting enough to try.
Totally. You articulate very well what I think any reader will sort of just naturally feel moving through the
book. Like, in the poem, "Aubaude with Burning City," there's the repetition of the images and of the phrases,
but each time they're repeated they've got a new context, like, "Milkflower petals on the street," and "Open,
he says. / She opens." Those appear at different places in the poem, but they mean totally different things with each
encounter, and they're charged and potentiated by the reader having previously encountered them.
Night Sky with
Exit Wounds is a book that's going to get a lot of attention and rightfully so. I think that it deserves all the
praise that it receives, and more. Is there something in the book that feels really important to you that people might
not have picked up on yet?
OV: No. It feels weird to say, but I think the biggest gift that I can give myself as an artist
is the permission to turn my back on a body of work. To turn my back on my book is
to know that I gave it everything I had. I gave it all my care and attention to the best of my ability. And I see it as
a raft that I get to send down a beautiful river, but I can't be on that raft because I can't create there anymore. There's
no material on the raft to fashion new work without destroying it. So I see myself standing by the shore and sending my
little book off. And wherever it picks itself up, whoever finds it, I'm okay with that. To me, it's a great gift to know
I can turn away from what I love to build something else worth loving. It's a very liberating act.
Vuong discusses his poetry on the PBS News Hour
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