I’m honored to be interviewed by the brilliant Jenny Xie, author of Eye Level, for The Margins, over at Asian American Writers Workshop. In this interview, we discuss “the gaze,” visibility, and what it means to rewrite a narrative.
Very excited to announce that The New York Times T Magazine has commissioned a painter to interpret pg 76 of OCULUS, the poem “Anna May Wong Dreams of Wong Kar-Wai.” Painting is by Scott Reader.
Happy New Year — year of the pig! I have a new essay up at NYLON on Anna May Wong’s trip to Shanghai in 1936, her sartorial choices in the time of Chinese Exclusion Acts, and the political possibilities of the Chinese-American qipao. It also highlights some of my recent experience in 2018 going to Shanghai, spontaneously acquiring qipao, and how complicated this can be for Chinese Americans.
This was the launch event for OCULUS in Manhattan!
If you missed it, you can still listen to my conversation with incredible poet Jenny Xie on the New York Public Library Library Talks podcast!
The January 21, 2019 issue of the New Yorker features a review of OCULUS by Dan Chiasson! It also features an illustration by Ping Zhu. Link on the image.
I have a new poem, "Aubade with Gravel and Gold," up at Split This Rock's The Quarry. The link to the full poem is below.
This is my first published piece of longer-form fiction, "Beasts of the Chase." I wrote it in the months following last year's November election, drawing upon myths, allegories, history, and foxes.
Here's a new interview with Thora Siemsen at the Creative Independent. This is a beautiful website full of interviews with some of my favorite creatives working today, including Hilton Als, Mitski, Ocean Vuong, Morgan Parker, and more. I am honored to talk about buoyancy, traveling, and poems.
I am pleased to announce that my second book of poetry, OCULUS, is forthcoming from Graywolf Press in early 2019. I cannot begin to describe what joining this list means to me — this press and its visionary editors Jeff Shotts and Fiona McCrae have always published my favorite poets. Cheers!
I have a Pokemon poem, "Lavender Town", up in The Asian American Writers Workshop's The Margins, along with "Anna May Wong goes home with Bruce Lee" and "After Nam June Paik." Thanks to Emily Jungmin Yoon, the lovely editor, for this platform.
I am deeply grateful to The Missouri Review for publishing a set of Anna May Wong poems back in Spring 2015. One of them, "Anna May Wong blows out sixteen candles", has just won the Pushcart Prize! It will be reprinted in Pushcart Prize XLI: Best of the Small Presses!
Thank you, Pushcart, and thank you Missouri Review!
One of my favourite places on the Internet, Rookie Magazine, asked me to list my favourite places on the Internet (so meta!), and here you have it, complete with a lovely illustration by Elly Malone: my Deep Web feature, with my favourite places on the Internet! I discuss Prince, Rihanna, combating Internet haters, and Samurai Champloo!
Happy vernal equinox, and World Poetry Day!
Here are three new poems in BOMB Magazine.
Join me in my second rendition of Bad Bitch Poetics, a poetry workshop to summon your inner Diva/Queen/Bad Bitch/Goddess. Yes, I'll have my Rihanna powerpoint. Singapore Arts House, Jan 9th. Sign up sign up!
My new poem in The Literary Review's Street Cred issue, "Portable Cities", is after artist Yin Xiuzhen, b. 1963 in Beijing. She creates mesmeric sculptures of cities inside suitcases -- cities made of cloth.
When asked about the future, she once said: "The future is a black hole."
Sometimes that's how I feel. You can read "Portable Cities" below.
Last month, in September, I traveled to Thailand and Myanmar alone. I learned how to ride a baby motorbike (electronic bicycle) and climbed to the top of an empty temple with a cut on the bottom of my foot I got from stepping on glass in Orange County, California.
The day after I returned, the Academy of American Poets put up my poem, "Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles", as part of their Poem-a-day. A coincidence? That after returning from riding alone for thousands of miles, there my poem was, looking back at me, looking back at the world.
The poem comes from another long journey, one that actually included Singapore, back in 2012. You can read it in the below link. Thank you, Academy of American Poets.
I am the new international writer-in-residence at the Singapore Creative Writing Residency, a partnership between NUS-University Scholars Program and the Singapore Arts House. This residency goes until the end of January 2016.
My first feature will be in the Singapore Arts House on September 16th, at 7:30PM, with the poet Cyril Wong, who blew me away with his reading last week. Those of you who happen to reside in Singapore, please drop by.
Three weeks ago, I arrived at the Changi airport, drowsy from thirty hours of travel, woozy and ecstatic to start my six months. I remember the butterfly gardens from three years ago; I remember going to Chinatown and seeing the Marina Bay Sands from the other shore. When I first came to Singapore for two days in 2012, I was a tourist at the tail end of a long journey. I didn't see much. This time, there were some noticeable differences--in 2012, the U-town campus that I now reside in didn't exist or it had just been built, brand new. This last month, it was Singapore's 50th anniversary and the signs of SG50 in the red dot are ubiquitous -- on the buses, the taxis, projected onto the buildings, all the billboards, the signs. I hear songs declaring that this place is home. To many of the students, Singapore is unquestionably home. I admire and envy this -- to have a fixed place to always return to, to have home so embodied in this concrete reality, not this nebulous, hazy vision.
Just over a year ago, when I had multiple jobs in New York, I couldn't have imagined being here, or arriving at these shores. I had watched a romantic comedy starring Zhang Ziyi and Wong Leehom, called My Lucky Star. Ziyi plays lovelorn Sophie, a comic book artist with a day job, who finds herself winning a vacation package to Singapore. When she arrives at the Marina Bay Sands, she meets a secret agent with a mission and then she goes on an Ultimate Adventure, wide-eyed and in disbelief the whole time. It received really bad reviews, but for the most part, I was charmed. I felt like I knew that feeling -- of discovering adventure and finding comfort in the unknown, the unpredictable, of surrendering yourself to wonder. In a sense, the movie was about leaving home and how ultimately those are the times you are most transformed, and the meaning of home changes -- you return home with more courage, or more recklessness.
My workshop's theme is going to be: What does home look like to you? Is your home a dream, or a place you can touch, or somewhere in between?
For now, my home appears to be here, in my little dining table with the view of the tropical plants and the sky, where I could read and write, or gain the courage to. For now, I find home in things like being able to eat noodles every day, constant noodles, endless delicious noodles. Sluurrrrrrrrpppppp.
I'm very honored to have this new poem up at Harvard Review Online. "Provenance: A Vivisection" discusses the Bodies Exhibition, an utterly ubiquitous exhibition of plastinated bodies whose origins are not determined. Years ago there was a controversy about where these bodies came from, including allegations that they came from corpse plants in Dalian, China.
I've been thinking a lot about our responsibilities as poets and artists, about poetry as a vehicle for reclaiming voices and social critique, especially in the national critical conversations on Ferguson and Baltimore, and how we've started a whole movement in #BlackPoetsSpeakOut. I recently went to a reading with Patricia Smith, and I was moved by her poem written in the voice of grieving mothers. Certain bodies are always invisible, unless they can be turned spectacular, unless they can become spectacles.
In a culture where racialized bodies have always been displayed as spectacles in a Western context and the white body remains pure, contrasting, and whole, how can poetry allow us to speak on behalf of the missing? Are our bodies our own?