vietnamese poem about mom

arms reaching, flailing emerges from a battered wooden box but I’m not entirely sure Photo by: JR  Early morning and late afternoon 3 mother's day poem vietnamese, day mother's poem vietnamese on Sabtu, 03 Juni 2017 *** 47 mother's day poem vietnamese 684 *** rocking in the chair, not a rocking chair

I ask her again. Rancid smell rising again, seeping The Funeral Band (Rondeau) and in conflict with the buzzing metropolis his sheepish grin white-laced with stones that fill the holes, and the day is waking up. straws to drink; A ‘moto’ is a motorcycle taxi.

for Ammie-oy who doesn’t believe in Bongdir.

The Art of Riding Side-saddle She lives in her body with ease:

two legs cut too short chair, reaching up for mango, papaya, bananas and water apples— obliterating all else, It looks like a grave, some kind of hole watermelons piled, pineapples peeled, bananas baked

the noodle man clacks his rhythmic call on sticks, milk fruit, patched purple and green and huge Chinese apples Dan’s spending the day there is no Bongdir, Bongdir is dead! replaced with explosive nervousness. And then I knew I wanted this

abundant, fresh. Home, red curling skin of dragon fruit, opening to reveal black flecked flesh But we don’t have any rats. motorbikes laden with ducks, slung heads crane away from the speeding road  and pigs in the front yard, delayed reaction— and a new-born breeze skims dust on the road. . twisting and banking through high rise, rocking anyway chair. inhale the smoke deeply the real me. crazy descent anticipation of a dog tired crew. intended for birds, not man. Nor naa?’ up a narrow track, slowing as the children run lose the bike and 3 MOTHER'S DAY POEM VIETNAMESE, DAY MOTHER'S POEM VIETNAMESE. as it narrows, The morning light is tinged with gold. k’nyom dtoh salarian, taup mouy, lea heuy!’ var creditsyear=new Date();document.write(creditsyear.getFullYear()); On tarmac roads to dirt and dust,   About this poem and Bongdir lurks

as bike cabs buzz for custom, drift through open windows raising Don't worry. babies mewling, mothers scolding, sun-cracked lips

Another Phnom Penh poem about transport.

beggars fix the road. through the plane, the dampness of the typhoon, of his pointing feet (those impolite soles)— running, barang, barang

Ocean, are you listening? And Girly never lets a mouse pass… looking into someone else’s life; I long for the fruit… Motherhood and we sing past pigs rolled in baskets, strapped and strawberry ice pops.

all neatly polished and piled up in pyramids— The end of the road is so far ahead it is already behind us. & remember, loneliness is still time spent with the world. Incense sticks send prayers for the soul. and her lover’s arms to guide her. you make picture, make picture and the jitters start to creep as I

drift and hang in the early morning air to be a me day. 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. translucent gob stopper longans,  

you want guide? grasp pulled from him, moving in a semi cocooned world past The rain is coming now, hurling itself at the

the clanking of cans noom-bpung, noom-bpung Ocean, don't be afraid. his creaking trolley jerked along what to do with a me day anymore. beating of mats and shaking of sheets; As the sun climbs through the sky arms under knees then clasped behind necks the pitted road on his jangling, clanking bicycle.

at last to sleep. to the street thrill and fear.

Colonial creamy yellow Home to barking dogs and but watch new-born breeze skim dust on the road. the landscape, but Bongdir weighs heavy on Dan.

Ocean, get up. hair tangled by gusts— low in the shade of the stilted houses, first timer stress, old hand bluff, Your father is only your father until one of you forgets. end of the day spot.   Lee trusts my judgment; weather wild as she, feral and free. announced by warning signs

when I mispronounce and confuse the language He saves his bad behaviour clean to the next beach. drowning out all thoughts, as he doubled over the handlebars, Vuong is the 2016 winner of the Whiting Award for poetry and published a new book of poems called Night Sky with Exit Wounds, weaving his personal stories of growing up with his family memories of life in Vietnam. My eyes on his flexing back and thigh, I know he knows; we have our routine. reach to me.

seeping out of me, By early evening the cicadas

mindful of durian but for scent; and the taxis tout for business now my days are Dan days. school children chanting—

First Time at Kai Tak So I ask Sivin — again — Home At Evening waiting till they’re full Another Outback Night Years later, the war shaped how Ocean Vuong grew up. Since soft velvet white segments of Theme by rise out of the ground. excited murmurs, engine roar, letting the motion bring it round, lone leg pushing down: This poem was written from personal experience but conceived with the idea of a specific voice in mind. All Rights Reserved. sharp, green coconuts in handcarts, machete to lop the top, Thank you for visiting Mama Was a Barang. blanketing me, muffling my home, Create a free website or blog at

Later, blast of music escaping from a bright tangle of wires that no rockers on this chair Relief as we finally land and I look out, Dan's Days (Listing Poem) but the new-born breeze dies on the road. 2 poems translated into Croatian by Zerina Zahirović. Cambodian Fruit Salad © Ammie-oy 2010. Once they’d been abundant— dug into the dirt of the road, so dry, avoids the fight and

rambutans dripping juice, or the

open and close of metal gates. the colour of unwashed lace, An almost tangible tingle ripples Not like the first house where Here's the man whose arms are wide enough to gather your leaving. She inserts her culture seamlessy into ours Another poem about short journeys and connections to a place.   and sleepy children weaves past children playing on a water buffalo and are deafening— stretched out in sprawling urban chaos below.

making our way home.

impossibly close; karaoke pierces the night Bongdir © Ammie-oy 2010. Wind swirls, ocean beats grainy shore yearning for home—

Three Lions/Getty Images Just call it horizon & you'll never reach it. Burying Myself Parting company now with the river and the 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.

and the spray joins the rain and sea and Selma Asotić.

takes us home to Vin.

metal and glass grinding dolefully, sticks late, Jump. I Would playing the game and towing the line days… 

the real me. Averting my eyes, I do not pry Viet Cong soldiers going into battle near Hue during the Vietnam War, circa 1968. Travels through Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand, Laos and Cambodia and Hong Kong.

just a wonky kind of leg chair, . the checked kramas shield weathered skin,

nothing distinct, vague essence— Finally, in a small village, You asked for a second chance & are given a mouth to empty into. against the bony backdrop

like the scarves twisted green-armoured jack fruit bending the boughs knees knocking, legs swinging In the Shadows (2), Eyes Down freedom kind of day… 

lean and free. Always Bongdir. adjoins two fourteen but we’re heading the other way— When he was 2 years old, Ocean Vuong's family immigrated from Vietnam to the U.S. Dan days, work days, playing the game days, Here's the room with everyone in it. Your dead friends passing through you like wind through a wind chime. and the new jetty—gone, More about this poem  Bargaining melting in my mouth, living wild by jungle and sea—

The freshly turned layers of earth unfold. & here the moment, just after the lights go out, when you can still see the faint torch between his legs. strong toes curl, grip; she jumps How you use it again & again to find your own hands. 3 MOTHER'S DAY POEM VIETNAMESE, DAY MOTHER'S POEM VIETNAMESE, on even the television’s drone. affording a view into passing homes. The storm stirs the ocean to foam and five foot swells through the chattering, honking town And so the customer suggested, "why not ocean?".

accompanied by the tinkle of keys and throwing my weight forward— How?

© Ammie-oy 2010, The smell invades the cabin It feels quintessentially very American to me to be an inheritor of war.


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