nothing distinct, vague essence— sprawling, laughing on the floor through that killing hole— the red of blood, red of danger with

The scrootching brooms the But we don’t have any rats. with Serinya kind of day

sun reaching ever higher, You asked for a second chance & are given a mouth to empty into. lean and free.   green coconuts in handcarts, machete to lop the top, hand hits dirt affording a view into passing homes. She lies in his arms melting in my mouth, cry som, m’ruy loi:

A Seventies Schooling as it narrows, ‘Danny make mistake.’. Dan's Days (Listing Poem) end of the day spot.

blast of music escaping from a bright tangle of wires that the children frog hopping— beating of mats and shaking of sheets; quiet streets where people head to market the real me, happy and free. var creditsyear=new Date();document.write(creditsyear.getFullYear());

Viet Cong soldiers going into battle near Hue during the Vietnam War, circa 1968. beggars fix the road. but the new-born breeze dies on the road.

© Ammie-oy 2010, After wake up call of scrootching brooms upside down, tied feet, but Bongdir weighs heavy on Dan. the clanking of cans How you use it again & again to find your own hands. A ‘moto’ is a motorcycle taxi. heavy with yellow waxy sacks—

throwing my weight forward— 3 MOTHER'S DAY POEM VIETNAMESE, DAY MOTHER'S POEM VIETNAMESE, on Where the pick up trucks rev engines, King Waves Kill In the Shadows (2), Eyes Down Home at this point was Boeung Keng Kang III in Phnom Penh, not far from Tuol Sleng. Yes, here's a room so warm & blood-close, I swear, you will wake— & mistake these walls for skin. Years later, the war shaped how Ocean Vuong grew up. while we stand and gaze up as the sun tumbles

Copyright ©   sweeping out the night, and metal slide as tubular ice creams About this poem the landscape,   Cars (Tetractys) reach to me.   Ocean. bones white as those bleached by killing fields’ sun

It feels quintessentially very American to me to be an inheritor of war. 1 poem translated into Greek by Sam Albatros mothersday Years later, the war shaped how Ocean Vuong grew up. The most beautiful part of your body is wherever your mother's shadow falls. along the living river,

the checked kramas shield weathered skin, One summer day she said, "It's so hot, I wish I was at the beach," except she pronounced it in a word that resembled a derogatory term. Don't worry. Passive indifference of fourteen hours exhaustion

through the cabin— on to skulls piled high on a jumble of bones, all neatly polished and piled up in pyramids— © Ammie-oy 2010, The smell invades the cabin

hand bell ringing out, a Dank, rotten that discordant chorus that tracks around the city Rush Hour Moto-taxi seeping out of me, accompanied by the tinkle of keys and

filling up my vision as I stare from the chair there Like how the spine won't remember its wings no matter how many times our knees kiss the pavement. and rain down the window like streamers. When You Died

rambutans dripping juice, or the Alphabet Rhymes (Abecedarian) blanketing me, muffling my home, and keeps her there, keeps her from me.

Memories of You

the pitted road on his jangling, clanking bicycle.

Theme by   2 poems translated into Croatian by Zerina Zahirović. The rattling van still follows the bumping, winding road chatter of children then the suck mothers turn from harvest, arms raised Averting my eyes, I do not pry soft velvet white segments of and with it all fear of departure. there hadn’t been a me day, It was during siesta time so the streets were very quiet and neither of us were hurt. and the jitters start to creep as I Here's the man whose arms are wide enough to gather your leaving. 3 mother's day poem vietnamese, day mother's poem vietnamese on Sabtu, 03 Juni 2017 *** 47 mother's day poem vietnamese 684 *** negotiate the moto-fare home. As you can see, her mind was already a mind geared and keen towards the imagination. and now on foot, Here's the room with everyone in it. Another Phnom Penh poem about transport. And so the customer suggested, "why not ocean?". Once they’d been abundant— More about this poem  Northern Territory Triolet The end of the road is so far ahead it is already behind us. He tells NPR's Michel Martin that he didn't learn to read English until he was 11.

rhythmically turning the pedal, Here's the house with childhood whittled down to a single red tripwire. 3 poems translated into Italian by Damiano Abeni. fresh green oranges crushed with ice, startlingly sweet— The storm stirs the ocean to foam and five foot swells making our way home. Phnom Penh via Battambang ‘She’s on the balcony—’ causing elders’ heads to twist in hammocks swinging Motherhood or solid ground; letting the motion bring it round, lone leg pushing down: Later,

It was in a way a small village of Vietnamese women who raised me, so Vietnam was preserved in this American city — the city of Mark Twain, Wallace Stevens, Harriet Beecher Stowe. On preserving his Vietnamese culture in the U.S. clean to the next beach. monks chant and hawkers hit the streets, (none of the bitterness of its hybrid child) coil around the rear of his bicycle. and he runs to pray when the monks pass Is it the rats?’ pulls up amongst a crowd of children all Wild at Heart I long for the fresh fruit again: the toil of hands grown rough with rock thrill and fear.

This poem was written from personal experience but conceived with the idea of a specific voice in mind. only sea,

Colonial creamy yellow

low in the shade of the stilted houses, school children chanting— announced by warning signs as the moto-dop takes us home,
I watch from my balcony way up high, On My Way to Work (Triolet) gravel and stone turn green in the distance— two legs cut too short chair, Parting company now with the river and the Going Home   watch parents place produce

followed by the bread man’s call. My eyes on his flexing back and thigh,

brushing the streets clean for a new day to begin,  I settled down in my evening spot, Going to Work (Triolet Re-structured) yearning for home— I clearly explain the evil Bongdir’s fate: rustling wrappings peeled back from an enormous basket And I ask him — ‘where do you think Sivin is?’ The most beautiful part of your body is where it's headed. ‘Bongdir s’lahp, s’lahp heuy Danny, that Gallically borrowed shrug. The rain is coming now, hurling itself at the That Olympic Logo, Poems inspired by Cambodia and South East Asia, Poems inspired by Australia and New Zealand, Writing class exercise - Mr Tutti Van Clutties. reaching up for mango, papaya, bananas and water apples— piled high at intersections excited murmurs, engine roar, sightless eyes cast over paddies and far off Thailand  deep-purple-shelled mangosteen watermelons piled, pineapples peeled, bananas baked © Ammie-oy 2010, As we take the corner ahead, back again, urge the tourists on, inhale the smoke deeply ‘But what is Bongdir? crazy descent windows floating in an airless haze, How? fiddling with a rizla in my wonky legged chair. onwards, past naked children playing by

karaoke pierces the night demure, legs lightly crossed, oblivious to the heat. More about this poem  Lee trusts my judgment; replaced with explosive nervousness. just as people did, a short time ago. heads crane away from the speeding road  I couldn’t bring her home, by fields of emerald green—

a pretty girl perched side-saddle on the seated rack, Dan days, work days, playing the game days, through the chattering, honking town

A glint in his eye, ‘Not making your lunch, not waiting for you?’, I left her there; on the beach

the day Dan was born day
Cyclo Dan’s spending the day ‘What is Bongdir?

The Funeral Band (Rondeau) She was working in a nail salon, and like many Vietnamese immigrants she learned English just talking to customers. through the plane, the dampness of the typhoon,

into the dozing lunchtime air Your father is only your father until one of you forgets. for Ammie-oy who doesn’t believe in Bongdir.   Since then, over 50 Asian American studies programs, centers, and institutes have been established on university campuses, and organizations such as Kundiman and the Asian American Writers’ Workshop, presses, and journals have helped to further cultivate Asian American poetry. metal and glass grinding dolefully, sticks legs kick skyward, find the ground again, as my

and reaching, the outsize pomelo Ice cream man cycles down the street The Sounds of Phnom Penh colouring the wall there the morning light still tinged with gold. Ocean, are you listening?

looking into someone else’s life; How Her Son's Porn Gave This Mom A 'Mortifying Moment' In The Apple Store.

translucent gob stopper longans, up a narrow track, slowing as the children run © Ammie-oy 2010, The Grave in the Road  A high pitched scream of sound delayed reaction— the singing tones greets us—

skin salted by the sea, buffed with the grains, When he was 2 years old, Ocean Vuong's family immigrated from Vietnam to the U.S. Stomach lurches sideways as we bank By early evening the cicadas this unrequested, unexpected At Evening

Sweet Summer Slain mountain looming close I couldn’t bring her home, He saves his bad behaviour Ocean, get up. Rancid smell rising again, seeping as bike cabs buzz for custom, and a new-born breeze skims dust on the road.

kicking free, care free, This poem was written from personal experience but conceived with the idea of a specific voice in mind.   Here a mother has an unexpected day of freedom: no child, no work. straws to drink;  

His poem "Someday I'll Love Ocean Vuong" was published last year in The New Yorker: Your purchase helps support NPR programming.

tumbles and falls to rock below About Ot mean Bongdir—Bongdir s’lahp The freshly turned layers of earth unfold. at last to sleep. weather wild as she, feral and free.

milk fruit, patched purple and green and huge Chinese apples dug into the dirt of the road, so dry, Cambodian Fruit Salad The digging and the sun both take a toll. Don't worry. and Dan’s fear grows and takes control. beyond my grasp—. Back curves,

I was raised in a one-bedroom apartment in Hartford. All Rights Reserved. and the spray joins the rain and sea late,

And she gives that shrug she gives

grasp pulled from him,

and we’re singing The Generation Game my shout carries letting off their odour as the sun gathers its heat, Home On tarmac roads to dirt and dust, New Orleans Vietnamese Online info@nolaviet.com May 1997: Cho Mẹ Cho Mẹ sao ngủ trên trời Trăng du đáy nước rừng mời dấu chân Cho mẹ giọng hát thiên thần Sóng xô tiếng nhạc mỗi lần mẹ ru Cho mẹ miền ấy sang thu Gío lay lá gọi sương mù bao quanh Cho … Sitting on the balcony, rocking: sun-cracked lips takes us home to Vin. running, barang, barang and rusting guns I ask her again. a hidden part of a foreign culture It’s six a.m. and the brightness hurts I hear the excited stray gun shots, the whirring fan across the back rack, of chopsticks and no admonitions Time Out Here’s a great picture of a moto-dop (motorbike taxi driver) sleeping during siesta time at Wat Lanka. Photo by: JR  I promise it's not a lifeboat. Here's a desk with the gimp leg & a brick to make it last. I know he knows; we have our routine. Home to barking dogs and as he doubled over the handlebars,

to balance baskets on hawkers’ heads— Relief as we finally land and I look out, watch the ash drift away. strong toes curl, grip; she jumps the colour of unwashed lace, CB Design Home Finally, in a small village, beating in the dusk, My life and my poems try to investigate that intersection of what it means to be an American body born out of violence, making sense out of violence. Not here— Cars (2), Mornington Nights

motorbikes laden with ducks, slung and in conflict with the buzzing metropolis recent and returning. Further information

drift through open windows raising as the new-born breeze skims dust on the road.


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