Asian American Poetry Unbound
We took a break last week for the Thanksgiving holiday, but now we’re back — and there’s lots more going on this weekend! As usual, please feel free to suggest updates and additions to this list.
Continue reading “Friends & Neighbors: Weekend Roundup (Dec. 3-7, 2009)”
Last week, I had the privilege of attending a farewell reading for South Bend, IN based novelist, Lily Hoang. Lily received her M.F.A. from the University of Notre Dame in 2006, and has since been living in the area, teaching at St. Mary’s College, and furiously turning out new work. In 2007, her first book, Parabola, which won the Chiasmus Undoing the Novel Contest, was published, and in 2008, her novel Changing came out from Fairy Tale Review Press. She also has a chapbook (Mockery of a Cat) out with Mud Luscious and has three forthcoming full-length books in the pipeline: The Evolutionary Revolution (Les Figues Press, 2009/2010), Invisible Women (StepSister Press, 2010), and Unfinished (Jaded Ibis Press, 2012). Lily’s books are incisive, imaginative and form-bending. She plays with convention and elasticizes the boundaries of narrative and the space of the page in all sorts of ways. She’s also well-loved among the members of the Notre Dame Creative Writing community, and has served as a kind of de-facto mentor to many of the current M.F.A. students, so when she recently announced that she is moving to Canada at the end of the year, a couple of my cohorts pooled their resources to throw her a lovely goodbye reading.
Continue reading “Event Coverage: Lily Hoang’s Farewell ND Reading”
While browsing the library for new voices in Asian American poetry, I came across the book Voices From Southeast Asia: The Refugee Experience in the United States (Holmes & Meier Publishers, 1991). Though the book is not new, it provides historic context for the experiences that have shaped and seeded much of contemporary Southeast Asian American poetry. The 247-page volume is comprised of a series of oral histories, each of which features the life experience of a Lao, Hmong, Vietnamese, or Cambodian refugee to the United States. Though most of the book is written in prose, there are a few narratives in verse form. The poem below, for example, was written by a Cambodian woman after her relocation to the Bronx.
URBAN LIFE
They take us and put us in boxes to live.
Each family lives in the same kind of box […]
Our boxes are not all in the same building […]
So we talk on the telephone and imagine
what this person does and
how he lives in his box
and I tell him about life in my box.
This poem, probably one of the earliest instances of Southeast Asian American poetry, captures in simple, unsentimental, and uncomplicated terms the experience of resettlement in the United States by a faceless “they,” a “they” responsible not only for “tak[ing] us” from Cambodia, but “put[ting] us in boxes to live.” In the speaker’s sense of disconnection, her need to construct an imagined community life, and attempts to communicate across fractured lines, one begins to identify the beginnings of Southeast Asian American poetry.
The accounts in the book are, as US Senator Edward Kennedy puts it, “full of the agony of exile, the disruption of the refugee camps, [and] the challenge of starting over.” Since 1975, over a million Southeast Asians have settled in the United States, established communities across the country, and begun to shape the voice of contemporary Asian American poetry. The question for Asian American poets writing today, both those of Southeast Asian descent and other ethnicities, is how to engage the concerns of their history and to move forward.
If, in your own writing, you have struggled to engage historical material (family myth, oral narrative, historical text) in verse, please share your experiences here. What forms and methods have worked for you? What dilemmas and/or points of resistance have you encountered? We look forward to hearing your thoughts.
Note: This prompt was first introduced to me by poet and UW professor Andrew Feld, author of Citizen (Harper Collins, 2004). Because I found it so helpful to my own writing, I have decided to share it with Lantern Review.
The art of rhetoric, one of the ancient arts of discourse, is the art of persuasion and using language effectively. Rhetorical devices and figures can prove tremendously useful to the contemporary poet, in the sense that they offer one a variety of syntactical structures that force tighter form and syntax, quicker turns in language, and—at times—more rigorous thought.
In my experience, experimenting with “rhetorical poetry” can allow a poet’s language to move in unexpected ways, thus enabling them to explore territory they wouldn’t normally breach. Think of rhetoric as a tool than can be applied to language; the use of chiasmus, for example, will structure your thought in such a way that you begin with a word of idea, move to another, and then circle back to the initial one. Consider the rhetorical effect of this particular construction: the sense of venturing out, circling, and returning is created not by description or narrative, but by the language itself.
The following excerpt from one of my “rhetoric” poems is an example of how using a rhetorical device in your writing can lead to some productive experimentation with voice, tone, and syntactical structure:
Sometime in the nineties, midway through
Her Southeast Asian exile, she directed the Frenchman at the salon
To Do Anything. Thus began the cropped years.
She came home and cried. We all cried.
Here the use of epistrophe is demonstrated in the repeated use of the word “cried” at the end of the two sentences in the final line. Ending both sentences on the beat “cried” affects not only the rhythm of the language, but the manner in which the stanza shapes meaning and tone as well.
To write your own rhetoric poem, refer to this article, entitled “Shakespeare’s Grammar: Rhetorical Devices,” which is a quick glossary of some of the most common rhetorical devices. Select a few (two or three, to begin) devices from the list and incorporate them into your writing by either (1) revising a previously written poem, or (2) tackling some new material. It may be easier to begin with a poem you have already written, although starting on a completely new project may afford you a greater degree of freedom.
In short, consider the ways in which rhetoric can take pressure off you as a poet. Let syntax do the work of poetry—you may be pleased with the results! We would love to see any experimentation that results from your work with rhetoric, so please consider posting your responses on our blog.
Is counterinsurgency a humanist’s war? A few weeks ago, I was watching Obama’s War, Frontline’s most recent documentary on the American war effort in Afghanistan; one of the program’s most salient points was one that most interested observers are probably already well aware of, which is that the war in Afghanistan is not a conventional war with conventional strategies. And by conventional war, I mean a war where you enter with a lot of troops, take out key enemy positions, and then declare victory. Instead, the war effort is rooted in a counterinsurgency strategy in which victory is determined by the extent to which Americans can corral native support for the established government. So, how is the counterinsurgency effort going? Well, a lot of Frontline’s footage showed soldiers shooting at empty fields. Instead of being a straight get-the-bad-guy-in-your-scope-operation, a lot of the key work takes place during moments of relative calm as soldiers hold informal sit-downs with villagers in strategic areas. And herein lies another point made by the documentary: in wars of counterinsurgency, there are a lot of counter-intuitive realities. For example, more force does not necessarily translate into better results. If anything, more force makes natives apprehensive and provides insurgents with political ammunition to garner more support. Furthermore, very often the appropriate response to an attack is no response at all because when American soldiers strike back they often strike back with excessive force, which once again, as a symbolic act, has the potential to play into the hands of insurgents. While watching Obama’s War, I couldn’t help but see counterinsurgency, with respect to conventional warfare, as more of a humanist’s war in that, with counterinsurgency, soldiers are tasked with employing a campaign of goodwill in which they garner support among natives through reciprocal communication, temperance, and cultural understanding. An instrumental figure in this humanist’s counterinsurgency war is the military interpreter who is tasked with bridging the communication divide between American soldiers and Afghan natives. Very often, Obama’s War implied that the effectiveness of interpreters is the limiting factor to America’s counterinsurgency effort.
What is it like to be a military interpreter? I wondered. Well, I did a quick Google search and came across the book, The U.S. Army/Marine Corps Counterinsurgency Field Manual, and came across a section on interpreters that illuminated for me what it must be like for these individuals. For example, interpreters are expected “not to interject their personality, ideas, or questions” and always “[mirror] the speaker’s tone and personality.” And American military operatives are instructed to “position [the] interpreter by their side (or a step back). This keeps the subject or target audience from shifting their attention or fixating on the interpreter rather than on the leader.” Of course, this is all reasonable and for the sake of effectiveness, but at the same time, it seems lamentable that a figure with field experience among natives and among American troops would assume such a secondary position. Which brings up questions about why native interpreters choose to work with Americans in the first place. I suspect economics are involved, but perhaps there’s more. Undoubtedly, most interpreters must, at some point, deal with questions of loyalty, identity, and legitimacy. While the The U.S. Army/Marine Corps Counterinsurgency Field Manual instructs American military personnel to take care of their interpreters, there’s also a warning to be cautious around interpreters, in case their loyalties lie elsewhere. Moreover, in terms of identity, interpreters are tasked with an interesting set of objectives, in that they are expected to understand the nuances of not one, but two languages, and be cognizant of culturally specific mannerisms. And this is all in addition to being able to adopt many of the qualities and characteristics of the speakers they are interpreting. With these kinds of responsibilities, interpreters operate in a provocative nexus point between native Afghans and American forces.
Our friends at Cha: An Asian Literary Journal and Kartika Review both put up their newest issues last week. Please head on over to check them out. Here’s quick rundown of the goods in store:
Cha: An Asian Literary Journal celebrates its second anniversary with a stunning 9th Issue, guest edited by Reid Mitchell (poetry) and Jonathan Mendelsohn (prose). I especially admired the cinematic textures of “Mope,” the second of two poems by Caroline Bird, the earthy resonances of Arlene Kim’s “The Tiger-Brother,” and the deft syntactical footwork of Kate Rogers’ “Sai Ying Pun Sestina.” Also worth checking out is their Lost Teas section, which features reprinted work that has been “lost” due to the folding of its original place of publication.
Kartika Review‘s Issue 6 is also fantastic, featuring poetry, fiction, and non-fiction by a number of rising Asian American artists. One of my own poems was selected for this issue, and I am both thrilled and honored that they’ve chosen to include my work in such an exciting lineup. My personal favorites from Issue 6’s poetry section are Mary Chi-Whi Kim’s “Pyongyang Phantom Feeling, 1952,” for its sharply visceral, arresting imagery, and Lee Minh Sloca’s conversational, but incisive examination of Asian American masculinity in “Just[ice] Please.” Kartika also just announced its Pushcart nominations. In poetry, they selected Kenji Liu’s beautifully spare “Letter to Myself as a Newborn” and Ocean Vuong’s intimate elegy, “Dear Vietnam,” both from Issue 5. Congrats to both poets on this honor!
Many congratulations to both Cha and Kartika on the launch of these new issues. We admire the work that you’re doing, and look forward to reading what’s next!
First things first: a shout out to Oliver de la Paz, who unwittingly provided the impetus for this week’s prompt. Mr. de la Paz, we love what you write!
I’ve been spending a lot of time on Twitter recently in order to keep up with the LR community and last week, I happened to read one of Mr. de la Paz’s Tweets that said:
Oliver_delaPaz mustn’t put two spaces after periods anymore. Oops. Old habits die hard.
11:37 PM Nov 13th from web
The content of the Tweet registered briefly with me (I spent a lot of time this summer having to retrain myself to use one space after periods because my job involved cover copy work), but as the week wore on, I found that the rhythm of that first sentence had, in a strange way, worked itself into my head. “We mustn’t ____ anymore,” I thought as I washed the dinner dishes. “We mustn’t_____anymore,” chugged the buses rolling past my apartment on their morning routes. “We mustn’t ______anymore,” wheezed the teakettle as I brewed my afternoon cup.
Being haunted by a Tweet (okay, a variation on a phrase from a Tweet) is no easy thing. It twists itself into your every thought and action, pokes at you until your very footsteps are beating out “We mustn’t_____anymore,” and you feel you must do something with it. Hence, this week’s prompt. To Mr. de la Paz: apologies for hijacking your internet musings. No irreverence was intended. Twitter made me do it!
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This exercise takes its form from both the phrase “We mustn’t ______ anymore” and from Kenneth Koch’s classic poetry exercise for children, in which every line begins with the words “I Wish.”
Prompt:
Write a list poem composed of sentences that begin with “We mustn’t . . . ” and that end with ” . . . anymore.”
Some interesting happenings and cool things to do around the country this weekend. (To add to this list, leave a comment below).
Continue reading “Friends & Neighbors: Weekend Roundup (Nov. 20-23, 2009)”
Joseph O. Legaspi is the author of Imago (CavanKerry Press), winner of a Global Filipino Literary Award. He lives in New York City and works at Columbia University. A graduate of New York University’s Creative Writing Program, his poems appeared and/or are forthcoming in American Life in Poetry, World Literature Today, PEN International, North American Review, Callaloo, Bloomsbury Review, Poets & Writers, Gulf Coast, Gay & Lesbian Review, and the anthologies Language for a New Century (W.W. Norton) and Tilting the Continent (New Rivers Press). A recipient of a poetry fellowship from the New York Foundation for the Arts, he co-founded Kundiman (www.kundiman.org), a non-profit organization serving Asian American poets. Visit him at www.josepholegaspi.com.
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LR: So where did the idea for Kundiman come from, and what unique purpose does it have in the Asian American writing community?
JL: It really started off as kind of the infamous BBQ story. [Co-founder] Sara Gambito had invited me to an aunt’s place—the term of endearment, no blood relation—and we were sitting on hammocks, eating charred meat, amazed how this group of people was so comfortable together, like family. It just hit us. We had both struggled upon graduating from MFAs: we had tried finding communities but were both at a loss. I told her about Cave Canem, which is a home for African American writers. We thought, why not do this for ourselves, for Asian American poets?
Unlike umbrella organizations for a lot of different writing, Kundiman is more focused towards poetry. Because the Asian American umbrella is very complicated, we try to vary the retreat ethnically, by age, and stylistically: we’ve had Myung Mi Kim, who is a very experimental poet; Rick Barot, who is a formalist and narrative poet; and Staceyann Chin, who is a spoken word poet. We don’t want to shun anyone. Remember that Sarah and my initial experience was that we felt excluded. So that’s what we try to do–create a space.
Opening Nagra’s award-winning debut collection Look We Have Coming to Dover! is a poem meant to be heard, not read, starring an Indian immigrant to Britain, a newly-married, drinking, dancing workingman, brimming with energy and appetite. A more lovable version of Berryman’s Henry/Mr. Bones, he is talking to us, we are almost certain, though we don’t know who he thinks we are. With a vulgar voice uncannily reminiscent of one’s Punjabi uncle, the speaker is of a sort rarely (successfully) rendered in Indian Diaspora poetry, which has hitherto featured elegant, editorial speakers who wield the Queen”s English with ease, self-consciousness, and occasional guilt. Not told through the mediation of second or third generation children, nor the subdued hindsight of a grandfather, the poem and its speaker make of the past the present.
On one hand, Nagra does what poets do with their immigrant speakers. Things exist in pairs: his English pop culture references are mixed with Punjabi syntax, he tangos to the Pakeezah record, his wife makes him roti at home while his mate Jimmy John’s girlfriend shoves “his plate of / chicken pie and dry white / potato” at him “like Hilda Ogden”. In nearly each line, Nagra gives the speaker both the ordering force of Old English style alliteration and conversational idiosyncrasies, making him at once a bard and an enthusiastic friend. This happens right off the bat, in the memorable first stanza: “Di barman’s bell done dinging / so I phone di dimply-mississ, / Putting some gas on cookah, / bonus pay I bringin!”
Continue reading “Writing Home | A Vast Voice: The Speaker of Daljit Nagra’s “Darling and Me!””